Sage Creek (29 page)

There was a texture, a depth, a realness to her. She
cared.

And . . . he cared about her. More than he’d even known—up until this very minute.

We need to be together,
he thought, his hands tightening on the steering wheel.
Me, Sophie, and Ivy. A family,
he realized.

Suddenly he felt as if he’d just climbed out of a mine shaft into sunlight.

The pieces were all there. They’d been there for a while now. The laughter. The closeness.
The love.

She’d mentioned moving into that cabin—he knew she was thinking that would give them more privacy, without having to worry about when Diana McPhee and Hartigan might be around, or when Ivy was coming home.

But he hated that idea. He had a much better one. Now he just had to find the right time and place to tell her. He needed to pray real hard that he was right, and she’d want the same thing he did.

It was becoming difficult to remember what he’d done with his life before Sophie came back into it. Now he thought about her every night when he went to sleep—when she was with him, and when he was alone. He thought about her when he opened his eyes in the morning, when he was out in the corral working with his horses or meeting with a potential buyer or broker.

He thought about her scent, softer than flowers on the prairie. And that way she had of tilting her head when she smiled. Even the calm, cool sound of her voice when she was waiting on someone in the bakery turned him on.

Rafe was stunned to realize he’d only been going through the motions of his life all this time—until Sophie came back to town.
Had he ever once told her that?

No. Not yet. But it suddenly occurred to him as he took the turn on Lonesome Gulch, and caught sight of the two-story brick high school building ahead in the distance, as he heard the raucous music pounding from the grounds and through the open window of his truck, that he needed to.

He needed to tell her everything and make sure she believed him.

Chapter Twenty-five

“Hoot McPhee was banging my mama. You didn’t know that, did you? There’s a shitload of crap you didn’t know about your old man.”

Sophie felt the blood drain from her face. “He . . . I . . .” She gritted her teeth as Buck Crenshaw laughed, deriving an ugly pleasure from her confusion.

“Who was your mother?” she demanded more strongly.

“She was the one you never met. Probably never even heard of.” His voice was low now, shaking with anger. “She wasn’t from this damned town. We lived outside of Billings and we weren’t rich and we didn’t own any fancy property. But he used to visit us a lot. Well,
her
, anyway. She used to lock me in my room when he came calling. Said he didn’t want to see me. But I saw him out the window every damn time he showed up—and when he left. I saw how she got herself all gussied up when he was coming. How she always had money to buy steak and whiskey and cigarettes and nice perfume after he’d been there. He was the only thing in this world other than booze that made her happy. Until he didn’t.”

I need to get away from here.
Sophie felt sick. Her mind was reeling from the revelation that there had been yet another woman she, her mother, and most likely Wes knew nothing of.

What’s one more?
a bitter voice inside her mocked.

But it made her stomach twist like a washing machine, just as finding out about all the other women her father had cheated with had.

And there was something else. She didn’t like that look in Crenshaw’s eyes. The anger dead in the center of them hardened when he talked about Hoot and his mother.

She had to fight him, get away. Hurt him if she could, do whatever she had to.

She stomped down on his instep with all of her strength and broke free for one frantic instant as he grunted in pain. But he recovered too quickly, his hand clamping into her arm, yanking her backward against the Blazer. He used his body to trap her, his fingers tightening cruelly until she cried out.

“I thought you wanted to hear how I know your father? There’s more to the story. A lot more.”

“I . . . get the picture. I do. Let go. You’re . . . hurting me.” The band had finished one song and, over the thunder of applause, had rolled right into another. The grounds of the fund-raiser, the people who cared about her, felt miles away.

“Too bad. You’re going to hear about your precious Hoot. You’re going to hear all about how that bastard killed my mother.”

Killed?
Sophie shook her head without even realizing it.

Her father had been a demanding son of a bitch, but he was no killer. He’d been judgmental, set in his ways, and certain he was always right. He’d cheated on her mother with countless women, including the mayor’s wife, but she knew he’d loved his family in his own rigid, hardheaded way. He’d never laid a hand on anyone that she knew of and he’d certainly never killed anyone.

Crenshaw was lying.

And she told him so.

But the anger flashing in his eyes only darkened. Deepened. She felt the rage vibrating off him, like heat off summer pavement. It seemed to pulse, to burn even through the grip of his fingers.

“Hoot killed her all right. Same as if he put a gun to her head. Only he didn’t do it that smooth and clean. Oh, no, he just broke it off with her. Told her he was tired of her. Done with her. Told her he wasn’t ever coming back.” He yanked Sophie closer, right up to his face.

“My mama took it bad. Kept crying, saying she loved him, that he was the only good thing in her life. Guess
I
didn’t count.” Crenshaw’s voice was like glass shards scraping over her skin.

“A week went by,” he continued, ignoring her gasp of pain. “And she was always late to work. Cried and drank the cheap stuff all night long, so no wonder she couldn’t drag herself outta bed. Then you wanna know what happened next?”

“I
want
you to let me go. Now!”

“I found her on the floor in the morning.” Crenshaw’s voice trembled with rage. “I thought at first she’d just passed out. But she wasn’t breathing. You hear that?
She wasn’t breathing.
She’d taken a fistful of sleeping pills, washed ’em down with a pint of whiskey. She went to sleep and she never woke up. All because of Hoot McPhee.”

“Oh God, no.
No
.” Horror engulfed Sophie. She shook her head feebly. But even as she tried to deny it, she knew it was true. The truth glittered in Crenshaw’s eyes. In the hatred she saw in them. And in what she already knew of her father.

The truth shivered in her heart.

“You know what happened to me, after she died? After that bastard killed her? I got sent away to my uncle’s house in Missoula. They didn’t want me there much, ’cept to work around the place every minute I wasn’t in school. My uncle liked to beat on me whenever anything didn’t go his way. And things didn’t go his way a lot of the time. You know what I mean, Miss Filthy Rich Spoiled Rotten Sophie McPhee?
Do you?
” His voice rose to an enraged roar, dulled only by the throb of the music.

“Guess that’s a dumb question, huh? How would you know?” he shouted, with a derisive snort. “You grew up on that big ranch, had everything handed to you on a solid-gold platter. I reckon no one ever screamed at you, much less smacked you around. But I spent five years getting the shit beat out of me because of what your daddy did to my mama. You don’t think ol’ Hoot deserves a little payback for that?”

“Slitting my tires—that’s how you’re paying him back? Smashing my car’s windows . . . gouging my Blazer? That’s crazy. He’s dead and I never did one thing to you.”

“Well, Hoot ain’t here, is he, so you’re the next best thing. And you know what? He’s probably rolling in his damned grave because I’m messing with his precious little girl. The one who grew up at that big important ranch, who got to have anything her little heart wanted. Hoot’s probably madder’n fire that I’m getting back at
you
and there ain’t a damned thing he can do about it! And if you’re smart, you won’t tell anyone about any of this—”

A man’s voice, breathless, shouted from behind her, and she heard pounding footsteps over the hammering of her heart. They got louder as Crenshaw stared past her in sudden alarm.

“Help me!”
she yelled at the top of her lungs, and then gasped as Crenshaw shoved her aside and took off running. She caught herself against the side of the Blazer in time to keep from falling, and managed to straighten just as Doug Hartigan skidded to a stop beside her.

At the same moment, she heard brakes screech from somewhere nearby.

“Sophie! Are you all right? Your mother sent me to look for you—” Doug Hartigan was breathing hard, his face flushed in the bright September sunlight.

“He . . . didn’t hurt me. But we need to call Sheriff Hodge right now—he broke my phone—”

Hartigan was no longer listening. He was bolting after Crenshaw, his boots slamming against the pavement.

Suddenly Sophie realized that Hartigan wasn’t the only one giving chase.

Rafe’s truck was at a standstill twenty yards away, the engine still running, the driver’s door wide open. Rafe was barreling toward Crenshaw with fast, powerful strides, closing the gap and heading him off as he dodged between cars.

Hartigan ran to the right, Rafe slightly left, and Crenshaw was cornered between the two. With a desperate burst of speed, Crenshaw tried to make a break for his rig, but Rafe hurtled toward him like a torpedo. He dove at him in a flying tackle perfected at football practice at Lonesome Way High and knocked him to the ground with a sickening
thwack
.

Crenshaw groaned and tried to roll free. Rafe slammed a fist into his jaw, then hit him again, this time in the eye. Crenshaw’s head lolled to the side just as Hartigan reached them.

“Rafe, don’t. Stop!” Sophie had been rushing toward them, but she faltered to a standstill as she saw Buck Crenshaw sprawled on the pavement. Out cold.

“Calling . . . the sheriff,” Hartigan panted, quickly punching buttons on his phone.

Scrambling off Crenshaw, Rafe ran to Sophie and pulled her close. “Are you all right?”

He held her as if she were made of fragile china, his handsome face pale beneath his tan. “Did he hurt you?”

“N-no. I’m not hurt. I’m—” She buried her face in his chest, struck by the huskiness of his tone, but mostly thankful to have his arms around her. “I caught him keying my car with a pocketknife . . . and he told me why.” She leaned back, looked up at him with dismay. “Rafe, it’s horrible.”

His arms tightened around her and she rested her head against his chest, so hard and solid and comforting. She was dimly aware of Hartigan on his cell phone a few yards away and knew she’d have to thank him later for coming to her aid. She owed him that much. Probably more.
Perhaps even an apology,
she thought, as something that might have been forgiveness opened like a flower in her heart and pushed the old weeds of anger away.

She looked straight at Rafe.

“It was my father,” she said quietly. “Rafe, it was all because of my father.”

Diana hovered over her, looking worried, but Sophie continued setting out brownies and cinnamon buns.

“Are you
sure
you’re all right?” her mother asked. “You must be in shock or something.”

“I think you should sit down and take a break,” Gran suggested, watching her with concern.

Martha and Dorothy bobbed their heads in—for once—silent agreement.

“Not a bad idea,” Doug Hartigan put in mildly, but Sophie shook her head.

“I’m fine.”

They were back at the bakery tables, and she was dealing with what had happened in the only way she knew how—by throwing herself into work. Teddy Hodge’s deputy had handcuffed Crenshaw in a police cruiser while the sheriff had taken Sophie’s and Doug’s initial statements, then the wrangler had been hauled off to lockup.