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His mother truly seemed torn. “Why did you hurt that girl?” she asked sadly.
He’d told her once. He wouldn’t say it again.
But Cathleen didn’t have the same scruples. “In your heart, Rose, you have to know Dylan didn’t harm Jilly. He could never do such a thing.”
Hearing Cathleen defend him, Dylan felt a weird, fluttering sensation in his gut. She sounded so sincere, so heartfelt. Did she really trust him that much?
Rose’s mouth trembled. “You forget that Max was present that day. He saw it all. Out of respect for me, he didn’t tell the RCMP. But he saw Dylan shoot that girl—”
“He did not!” The dirty lying bastard… Dylan shot up from his chair, spilling some of his tea. Rose cowered, as if she expected him to strike her. But why? Unless she’d become conditioned to react that way to an angry man.
“Max wouldn’t lie to me,” Rose said softly.
Dylan held his hands close to his body and spoke gently. “I’m not the one who hits you, Mom. And I’m not the one lying to you. One day, I hope you believe me.”
DYLAN DIDN’T TALK on the way back to the B and B and Cathleen understood. She drove with the window down, her elbow propped on the ledge. Sometimes a brisk cleansing wind was the most you could ask for in a day.
At Larch Lodge, Poppy had lunch waiting. Cathleen didn’t have the heart to admit she had no appetite. Since the table was set for three, Dylan sat, too.
Cathleen pressed her fork into the quiche, then tried her first bite, aware that Poppy was eyeing her anxiously. The crust was buttery and light; the chopped carrots, onions, potatoes and celery, moist and curry flavored.
“Perfect,” Cathleen said, and Dylan concurred.
Poppy smiled. She sat and watched them eat for almost a minute, without taking a taste. Finally, she sighed.
“You say it’s good, but you don’t seem to be enjoying it.”
“It’s not the food, Poppy.” Cathleen laid down her fork. “It’s Dylan’s mother. Our visit didn’t go well.”
“Oh?”
“She’s obviously not healthy. She’s way too thin and…high-strung.”
“But she was pleased to see her son?”
Dylan, too, set down his fork. Murmuring an apology, he stalked off to the porch.
Cathleen raised her eyebrows at Poppy.
“I guess that answers my question. How sad. Family belong together.”
“Not always,” Cathleen replied, thinking of her no-account father. “In this case, though, I agree. Rose could use her son’s support, but Max has poisoned her mind against him. He’s convinced her that Dylan shot Jilly.”
“I see.” Poppy’s forehead collapsed into wrinkles, a sign, Cathleen had learned, of warring emotions. The older woman shook her head, then came to a conclusion.
“Kelly called this morning,” she said. “When she heard you were out with Dylan she became very perturbed, and I must admit she convinced me that you need to be very careful. Are you certain you can discount Rose’s opinion of Dylan so easily? While I’d be the first to admit that mothers don’t always know their children as well as they think they do, they usually have a fundamental understanding of their character. If she thinks Dylan could have shot Jilly…”
“Only because of her husband. Max Strongman is very domineering.” After today, she was almost positive he was abusive, as well. He’d been physical with Dylan, she knew, back in the early days when the two had lived under one roof. But she’d never guessed he might be hurting his own wife.
“Well, Kelly seems to think—”
“Poppy—” Cathleen held up her hand “—I love my sister dearly, but she’s a worrier. What does she think is going to happen? That Dylan will murder me in the middle of the night?”
Poor Poppy quaked a little at that comment. “Oh dear, I hope not. Perhaps locks on the bedroom door wouldn’t be a bad idea. But truly, I think her main concern is for your…for your heart.”
She’d spoken her last words tentatively, as if she sensed that Cathleen might object to this, most of all. Which only proved how well Poppy was getting to know her.
“Poppy, do I look like a fool? My heart is perfectly safe.”
“He’s a good-looking man. And a charismatic one.”
“On the surface, yes,” Cathleen agreed. “But my mother taught me that it’s what men do, not say, that counts. My father is the perfect example. He always said he loved my mother, but every time she had a baby he ran out on her, only to return several months later. Two times Mom let him get away with this. Then, finally, when she was pregnant with Kelly, she told him that if he took off again, he shouldn’t bother coming back.”
“And he left?”
“You bet.”
“That must have been very hard for your mother.”
“Her mistake was not kicking him out the first time.”
Back came those wrinkles. “You and Kelly wouldn’t have been born, then.”
Cathleen had to concede that point. “I guess we were lucky our mother had a soft streak. With apologies to any unborn children out there, I don’t agree.”
“Isn’t that a little harsh? People make mistakes. It’s part of the human condition.”
“Depends what you call a mistake. Coming home late, forgetting a birthday—those are mistakes. Running out on a mother and her newborn baby…” Not showing up for your own wedding… “Well, that seems like more than a mistake to me.”
The hesitation in Poppy’s smile told Cathleen she hadn’t quite convinced the older woman of her philosophy.
“Listen, Poppy. I’m going to see how Dylan’s doing. Will you leave the dishes for me to do later?”
Cathleen pushed through the screen door and found Dylan in one of her willow chairs, Kip at his feet. Slouched back, with his hat covering his face, he made the perfect picture of ease, but she knew better. Briefly, she rested a hand on his good shoulder, and found the muscles as tense as she’d expected. She went to the stairs and sat with her back against the railing, facing him.
All morning she’d been fighting the way the man drew her in. Each time their glances connected, her chest tightened in an oh-so-familiar—and oh-so-dangerous—way. The emotion—the intensity and hopelessness of it—reminded her of her high school years. Dylan was three years her senior and hadn’t deigned to notice her until she’d turned eighteen. When he’d finally woken up and taken stock of the middle Shannon girl all the boys were talking about, they’d quickly become friends. She’d been too young for their relationship to be more than that, and he’d understood.
She’d enjoyed dating boys her own age, playing the field. Her mother had warned all three of her daughters not to make the mistake of marrying too young. And Dylan had been content to wait.
On her twenty-sixth birthday, everything had changed. Dylan didn’t want to wait anymore, and neither did she. All along, she’d known he was the one. And at last the time was right.
That was when their relationship had taken on such passionate intensity that she’d realized just how inconsequential all her previous romantic entanglements had been. Two years later they’d become engaged.
Inseparable.
Until he took off the morning of their wedding.
Slowly, Dylan’s right hand rose. He lifted his hat and settled it back on his head, then gazed off toward the mountains that dominated the southern boundary of her property. The peaks were old friends to Cathleen, and she knew they offered the same sense of timeless serenity to him.
Dylan took a chest-expanding breath. “He’s hitting her.”
The stark, simple statement pierced the afternoon quiet. “I know. I saw some bruises on her leg when her housecoat shifted.” They’d been the multicolored kind, ugly and raw-looking. At the time, Cathleen hadn’t been sure what could have caused such an injury. Now she was.
“I wanted to pick her up and carry her out of that house,” Dylan said.
“That wouldn’t work. Rose has to want to leave.”
“I know.”
“When did the abuse start, do you think?”
Dylan frowned. “I was sixteen when they married and I left home at eighteen. During those years I was so busy fighting with Max I didn’t pay much attention to how he was getting along with my mother. She always backed him whenever we had a disagreement, so I guess I assumed she was happy in her marriage. I’m almost positive he wasn’t hurting her then.”
Dylan had told her about those days before, but he’d glossed over the bad parts. “Why do you think Max disliked you so much?”
“I used to ask myself that question all the time. He’d criticize everything about me, from the way I rode a horse to the way I fed the cattle… Finally, I realized there was just no winning with him. Once I gave up caring, it didn’t seem to matter so much anymore.
“And that’s when I started feeling more sorry for James than I did for myself. Max didn’t fight with his own son the way he did me, but he was always belittling and caustic, which in a way must’ve been worse. Especially since James tried so hard to please the son of a gun.”
Cathleen knew the situation had been bad enough that after grade twelve graduation, Dylan had been more than ready to move out and rent a place of his own. At first his plan had been to keep working at the Thunder Bar M, but the fighting between him and Max had made that impossible. Eventually he’d been forced to accept a foreman position on a property about fifty kilometers closer to Calgary.
“Max has always been domineering,” Cathleen said, remembering the few social occasions when she and Dylan had been invited to dine at the ranch. “But your mother seemed to take his demanding ways in stride.”
“I guess she was used to having a strong husband. She and Dad had a traditional marriage. When it came to ranch business, his word was law in our house. But he really loved her, and at heart had a real gentleness. Max, unfortunately, hasn’t got a soft side. At least not that I’ve ever seen.”
“He’s been a controversial mayor, but he has his loyal supporters.”
“Yeah, I bet he does. People with an eye on profits rather than the future of the land.” Dylan planted the heels of his cowboy boots into the planks of the porch and started his chair rocking. “But you raise a good point. With Max’s stature in this town, I’m going to have a hell of a time convincing the law that he was responsible for Jilly’s death.”
“I know you hate him, and I know you have your reasons. But how can you be so sure that he was the one who shot her?”
Dylan laughed bitterly. “I’ve had two years to mull this over. Ask yourself two questions. Who benefited when that demonstration broke up? And who had the most to gain by framing me for the crime?”
“I know Max had his motives. And I admit he’s a bully capable of violence. But would he really stoop to murder? I think we need to find out more about him. His past, before he married your mother.”
“Darlin’, I couldn’t agree more.”
Cathleen thought a moment. “Maureen might be able to help.” Her elder sister, recently widowed, was going through a bad patch right now, but as a lawyer she’d have the kind of connections they’d need.
Dylan stopped rocking. He leaned forward, his arms on his thighs. “You figure she’d talk to me if I phoned her?”
Maureen, like Kelly, could be very protective. And strong willed. Hanging up on Dylan wouldn’t be beyond her. “Maybe I should call her first.”
“And would you come to Calgary with me?”
Oh Lord. She’d virtually trapped herself into saying yes. “You’ve got to understand this is all about proving what really happened to Jilly.”
“In other words, you’re not just looking for excuses to spend time with me.”
“You wish.”
“Damn right I do.” Dylan’s gray eyes lost their twinkle. “But for now, it’s all about that night in Thunder Valley.”
If only he’d thought this way two years ago! But it was too late now for regrets. “Who else was there, Dylan? You and your cousin Jake. And, of course, Max and his son, and Jilly and her father. Do I know any of the others?”
“You do. Hang on a minute. They published a list in the Leader. I have it in my pack.”
Dylan went into the house and came back with two coffees as well as a sheet of folded paper. “I already added cream,” he said, passing her one of the mugs and then half sitting on the white railing next to her.
“Thanks.” For a disorienting moment, she remembered what it had felt like to be part of a couple who’d been together long enough to be aware of each other’s tastes and preferences. She knew, for instance, that Dylan’s coffee was black. Without checking, she could’ve identified the label on his jeans, his shirt, his cowboy hat…
“I could read you the names, but you might as well look this over yourself.” He handed her the fragile, yellowed paper. She unfolded it once, twice, then ran an eye down the typed names. Heading the list was Max Strongman, followed by his son, James.
“Max was entertaining some of the oil company officials that afternoon, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, at a big Western-style barbecue. Conrad Beckett and his daughter were there, as well as several other executives from Beckett Oil and Gas.” Dylan pointed to their names, then trailed his finger down the list. “A couple of bankers and a representative from an accounting firm in Calgary.”
“Where was your mother?” Cathleen wondered, not seeing any mention of Rose.
“Inside the kitchen, helping the caterer make salads, stuff like that. When our group showed up, she came outside briefly, but Max ordered her back into the house.”
Cathleen could well imagine. “And the group you’d gotten together…?”
“An ad hoc thing, as you know. Jake was with me, of course, along with a few of his buddies who care pretty deeply about protecting the wildlife corridor along the Bow River. I also had some ranchers organized….”
She knew, or had heard of, most of these people. One name stood out. “Mick Mizzoni was there, too?”
“Yeah. I thought he might give us some favorable coverage in the Leader. Little did I guess just how big the story was going to be.”
Cathleen counted. Thirty-one people. “If only just one of them had been watching the right person at the right time…”
“‘If only’ can be a dangerous game to play. It can make a man crazy, if he lets it.”
She twisted to see his eyes more clearly. Over the years she’d learned to read the moods implicit in their almost infinite shades of gray. She’d seen them twinkle like polished silver when he was happy, or turn as cloudy as nearby Lac des Arc during spring runoff when he was sad. Now their dark hue told her he was serious.
“I suppose you regret going out to the ranch that night.”
“I regret a hell of a lot more than that.” He focused on her. “I shouldn’t have left the way I did, Cathleen. I never wrote, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t think about you. I did. Every day. Almost every second, it felt like sometimes.”
“You apologized last night,” she reminded him, lowering her head to catch a perfect view of the floorboards she’d stained by hand two years ago. She counted the knots rather than focus on how deeply felt Dylan’s words sounded.
“Yeah, but I made a mess of it. I was nervous.”
“You?” Never had she known a man with Dylan’s confidence.
“Hard to imagine, huh?” He stretched out his legs till his boots touched the bottom rung of the stairs. “But it happens to be true. Want to know something else that’s true?”
She shook her head, but he answered, anyway. “I still love you, darlin’. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed.”
