Redemption At Hawk's Landing. Rita Herron
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drunkenness, disorderly conduct and driving under the influence when she lived at home. And she’d had to bail him out.
But she’d cut off contact when she’d left town and told Sheriff Dunar not to bother calling her when he locked her father up again.
The phone buzzed again. Jared frowned. “Aren’t you going to answer that?”
Honey shook her head. She didn’t give a damn if her father was in trouble. He had shamed her enough in high school. She’d moved away years ago to escape the stigma.
She refused to let him taint her newfound life here in Austin.
The phone settled, and she and Jared walked through the rest of the house. She pointed out her plans—a new window here, French doors off the living room to open up to the patio they were resurfacing, removal of all the popcorn ceiling, bathroom remodel.
Her phone buzzed again just as they finished. The same number.
Damn.
“What’s wrong, Honey?” Jared asked.
She bit the inside of her cheek. “Nothing.” She snatched up the phone. “I guess I’d better take this.” She’d tell Sheriff Dunar to lose her number and never bother her again.
Her lungs tightened as she hurried outside to the backyard for air. Just the thought of her father made her feel dirty.
Ready to get the call over with, she pressed Connect. “Hello.”
A heartbeat of silence passed. “Is this Honey Granger?”
Honey heaved a breath. It didn’t sound like Sheriff Dunar. “Yes, who is this?”
“Harrison Hawk... I’m sheriff now.”
Honey swallowed hard. Harrison Hawk was sheriff of Tumbleweed?
Good God. She’d had such a crush on him when she was younger. But then his little sister went missing, and her hellish life became a real nightmare when her father became a suspect.
“Harrison?” Honey rubbed her damp forehead, wiping at the perspiration. “How did you get my number? Why—”
“Just listen, Honey. It’s important.”
She leaned her back against a sawtooth tree and waited, but her gaze homed in on the sagging porch and rotting awning of her renovation project.
“I have bad news,” he said in a gruff voice. “It’s about your father.”
Was there any other kind of news where he was concerned? “What has he done now?”
Another tense moment passed, then Harrison cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Honey. I hate to have to tell you this, but he’s dead.”
Honey’s legs buckled, and she felt herself sliding to the ground just like the rotting exterior of her latest project.
* * *
SEVERAL TENSE SECONDS passed as Harrison gave Honey time to absorb the news.
A rescue team and the medical examiner sped up the winding road to the clearing at the top of the hill and screeched to a halt.
“Honey, are you still there?”
The rescue team climbed from their vehicle, followed by the ME. Harrison waved them over to the ridge and pointed out the body.
“Honey?”
“I’m here,” she said in a strained voice.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I just thought you’d want to know.” Or maybe not. She hadn’t returned to Tumbleweed in years. He didn’t know if she’d spoken to her father recently or if they’d communicated at all since she’d left.
“How? His drinking?”
“I can’t say for sure until the autopsy.”
Another strained silence. She was obviously in shock.
“I’ll transport the body to the morgue,” he said, hating to sound callous but he didn’t know what else to say. Better to just stick to business. “I didn’t know if you wanted to come back and make arrangements—”
A heavy sigh. “I’ll let you know when I get there.”
“All right.” He watched as the rescue team anchored a harness so they could climb down and bring up the body. “If there’s anything I can do, just let me know.”
Honey murmured, “Okay.” A second later the phone went silent, leaving him wondering if she’d been alone or with someone. He should have asked before he dropped the bomb.
But he and Honey hadn’t exactly been friends when she lived in Tumbleweed. Worse, his sister’s disappearance had cast a dark cloud over both their families.
The rescue workers’ voices jerked him from his thoughts, a reminder he needed to focus on the job. He strode to the edge of the bluff and looked down.
One of the workers was kneeling by Granger’s body.
Harrison used his camera phone to take pictures before the men moved it. The ME stepped up beside him.
“What happened?” Dr. Weinberger asked.
Harrison shrugged. “Don’t know. Looks like he fell. A couple of kids called it in. I took their statements and let them go home. They were pretty shaken.”
The ME glanced around the area. “They see anyone else up here?”
Harrison shook his head. “No. They were throwing rocks off the ridge when they saw vultures circling over Granger’s body. See that blood on the back of his head?”
Harrison nodded. Granger lay facedown, arms at odd angles. “Looks like he broke his arms trying to brace his fall.”
“Yes, it does,” the ME said. “He fell face forward. So how did he get the gash on the back of his head?”
The air around Harrison stirred, bringing the scent of impending rain and the whisper of the ghosts the locals gossiped about. Some said it was the miners screaming when the mine had collapsed on top of them.
Others justified the eerie whistle of the wind as just that—the wind rolling off the mountain ridge.
The ME’s words echoed in Harrison’s ears. Granger fell face forward. The back of his head was one bloody mess.
His gaze met the doctor’s as he realized the implication. “Damn. He didn’t just fall, did he? He was murdered.”
Honey ignored the grief stabbing at her the rest of the day as she finalized plans for the house renovation. She left the project in her partner’s hands, trusting him with implementing her design, then drove back to the small Craftsman-style bungalow she’d bought two years ago.
This was home sweet home. Her happy place.
Here she was safe from her past. From the rumors and gossip and the nastiness that had been her life.
She had no idea how long she’d be in Tumbleweed. Only as long as it took to address her father’s will and handle his burial. She definitely would not give him a memorial service.
It wasn’t like anyone would attend if she did.
Her father hadn’t been a popular man in Tumbleweed when she lived there. She couldn’t imagine he’d made friends since.
She took a deep breath as she entered her home, savoring the cozy interior she’d personally designed to her taste. She liked the farmhouse, shabby-chic look, but avoided anything reminiscent of her childhood home.
Memories bombarded her—sleeping in a room with no heat, with raggedy quilts piled so thickly