Convictions (33 page)

"Did you have any trouble getting away?" Olivia asked. "No," he replied, not elaborating. Turning a bit to face him, she asked, "What did you learn?"

So she was going to play it that way. No time for casual chitchat. No comments about the last time they'd been alone at night. No touching allowed.

Stifling his disappointment, he replied, "I know of six men besides Buck who've worked for your father for over eight years. It puts them in proximity of all the murders."

"What about motives?"

"Buck's divorced. Twice. From what I heard, he can't seem to settle on one. Then there's Blanchard. He likes to shove women around. He's been arrested twice, but both times the charges were dropped."

He went on to repeat what he'd learned of the other men. Olivia listened but kept silent. Once he was done, he waited in the increasingly uncomfortable quiet.

"So what do you think?" Hank asked when he couldn't stand the suspense any longer.

Olivia shook her head. "That would explain the women's murders, but not Mantle's."

"Unless Mantle saw one of them murder Melinda," he said stubbornly.

"Then why did he wait so long to confront the murderer?" She rested her chin in her hand. "The murders smack of a serial killer—three victims that we know of killed in the same way. Melinda wasn't raped, but forensics couldn't determine if Sandra Hubbard had been, and Mantle didn't have any marks on him besides the ones on his neck."

Impatience flared in Hank. "So where does that leave us?"

"Searching for a motive. What did all three of the victims have in common?"

"Nothing."

"There has to be something."

Hank let out a frustrated sigh but tried to come up with an answer. "The women's bodies were buried, but Mantle's wasn't."

"Why?"

"Maybe he buries his female victims, but not the male ones," Hank threw out.

"Or maybe something interrupted him with Mantle."

Hank suddenly recalled what Barton had told him about having an alibi that night. "Dawn and Barton were in here the night Mantle was killed. What if they were walking past the barn when the killer was in there?"

Olivia's face lit up. "They might have scared him off before he could take the body away."

The air rushed from Hank's lungs. When he could get a breath, he said, "Dawn was that close to the murderer."

Olivia grasped his arm. "It's okay. Barton was with her. She was safe. She
is
safe."

"For now. But what about the next time?"

"We have to make sure there isn't a next time," she said, conviction ringing in her tone.

Unable to sit still, Hank jumped to his feet and paced. "And how do we do that? We're no closer to the killer than we were a week ago."

"That's not true. We know it's probably someone on the ranch, someone who's been here for at least eight years."

"So why did he kill them?" Hank shoved a hand through his hair in frustration.

"That's the big question. Once we answer it, we can stop him from killing again."

Hank abruptly sat down beside Olivia. "Do serial killers actually have a reason for what they do?"

Olivia nodded. "I've read some case files. They aren't all like Dahmer or Gacy. In fact, there are probably more out there than we realize. It's just that the crimes haven't been connected."

Hank plopped an elbow on his knee and rested his chin in his hand. "You really think we have a chance of figuring this out?"

"Yeah, I do," she said, with a trace of surprise. She turned toward him. "Sheriff Jordan called me this evening."

There was a warning note in her voice that made him tense. "Why?"

Olivia threaded her fingers together and stared down at her joined hands. "He's been directed to make an arrest for Mantle's murder."

It took Hank only a second to determine who would be arrested. He sprang to his feet, his hands fisted at his sides. "Goddammit." The curse came out as a bare whisper as anguish threatened to choke him.

Olivia stood and grabbed his arms to halt his frenzied motions. He hardly noticed her. His mind filled with the prospect of his remaining years spent in the hell he'd hoped to leave behind.

"Hank, listen to me. Please." She laid her warm palm against his cheek. "Look at me. Come on, Hank."

Slowly, his fury abated, leaving him trembling. He gazed down into her moisture-filled eyes, and her sorrow pierced him. "I'm sorry, Liv."

"You didn't do anything to be sorry for," she said, her eyes now glimmering with anger. "Damn it, Hank, we're going to fight this together."

He stared down at her, at her firm but soft lips, at the determination in her expression and the concern in her eyes. Framing her face between his palms, he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her tenderly. He felt the brush of moisture on his nose and drew away to see a tear rolling down her cheek. Thumbing it away, he dropped a featherlight kiss on each eyelid. "Please don't cry, Liv. I'm not worth it."

Anger returned, bringing a dark flush to her cheeks and sparks to her silvery eyes. "Don't you dare say that, Hank. You
are
worth it. Just because the system screwed you once doesn't mean it's going to happen again. This time you've got Dad and me in your corner."

The last time he'd been accused of a crime, he'd had no one on his side but a thirteen-year-old sister. Even his court-appointed lawyer hadn't believed him. But the stakes were higher this time around. This time it wasn't accessory to a felony; this time it was murder. If he went down for this, there'd be no chance of reclaiming the life he'd been denied.

"Please, Hank. Don't do anything stupid. Sheriff Jordan told me he doesn't think you're guilty. But he's bound by the law to take you in. And if you run, it's going to make you look guilty," Olivia said, her face so close her breath warmed his jaw. Her expression intensified. "Trust me."

Trust.
That was the bottom line. He'd given up on trust when he'd been thrown in prison six years ago. It had been waylaid by betrayal and bitterness. Studying her pale face, he realized Olivia had lost her trust the night she was assaulted. Yet here she was asking him to trust her. But there remained one question.

"Do you trust me?" he asked in a husky voice.

Her gaze never wavered. "Yes."

The simplicity of her answer convinced him, and the bands around his chest disappeared. He swooped her up in his arms and carried her to where some broken bales were thrown. Setting her gently on the loose hay, he knelt beside her and kissed her as he removed her jacket, then unbuttoned her blouse. He spread them on the hay behind Olivia, then took off his own shirt and added it to the pile. Easing her back to lie on the makeshift bed, Hank immediately found her mouth with his again and swept his tongue between her open lips.

Her breathing grew labored, and he forced himself to draw back so she could fill her lungs. But she grabbed his arms and pulled him back over her. "Love me," she whispered in a passion-laden voice.

And Hank did with long, wet kisses from her head to her toes until he entered her with a gentleness he didn't even realize he possessed. He rocked within her welcoming cradle, prolonging the sweet loving until neither he nor Olivia could deny the inevitable ascent. Her completion dragged him over the precipice.

After regaining his breath, Hank eased out of Olivia and disposed of the condom. He settled by her side and tried to memorize her passion-sated features.

Olivia lifted her hand and brushed his hair back from his face. "I won't let you go back there, Hank," she vowed.

He managed a shaky smile. "I know you'll do your best, Liv, but don't make promises you can't keep."

She closed her eyes to hide the truth from him. But he knew all too well that sometimes the good guys didn't win.

Reluctantly, he rose and offered her a hand. He pulled her to her feet, then into his arms. Skin against skin made his groin stir with renewed interest, but he stifled the temptation.

"You should get some sleep, Liv," he said tenderly. "You need to be with your father tomorrow."

Her face showed indecision. "And you need me when they come to arrest you."

"I'll just tell them I won't say anything without my lawyer present," he said, injecting lightness into his tone.

Although she wasn't completely reassured, Olivia nodded, turned away, and began to dress. Hank gathered his clothing and did the same, keeping his gaze averted from the smooth curves of her moonlit skin. When they were clothed again, they simply gazed at one another. Hank thought he should say something, but what was there to say?

He took her hand and led her out of the shed. The yard seemed almost bright after the shed's darkness. Hank was fairly certain no one else was awake, so he didn't bother to keep to the shadows as he walked Olivia to the house.

As he guided her up the porch steps, a frisson of unease slid down his spine. Surreptitiously, he looked around, expecting to find someone watching them. But there was no one to see. Unless the person was intentionally concealing himself.

Hank stifled a shiver; He was probably imagining things.

"What time will Sheriff Jordan be here?" he asked. "He didn't say. I'd guess it'd be close to nine or ten, though."

I have less than ten hours of freedom.

Ice water slid through his veins, freezing his heart in a spasm of pain. But he couldn't let Olivia to see his desperate fear.

"Okay." Hank caressed Olivia's smooth face, then kissed her, barely brushing her lips. "I'll see you in the morning."

"You will," she promised, then turned to unlock the door.

Hank shouldn't have been surprised that she'd thought of Dawn alone in the house.

"Lock the door as soon as you're inside," Hank reminded.

"I will." She paused in the doorway. "Good night."

"Good night."

He stood on the porch long enough to hear the deadbolt click into place, then headed toward the prisoners' barracks. Halfway across the yard, he froze.

What if Olivia was wrong? What if justice kicked him in the ass again? Terror iced his veins at the thought of returning to prison.

His mind filled with the image of the penned stallion. At this moment he was as free as he'd ever be. Mexico wasn't far away. He could make it down there in a day.

Hank ran.

Chapter Twenty-three

Olivia tossed and turned in her bed. It was nearly six a.m., but since her tryst with Hank, what little sleep she'd managed left her restless and headachy. It might have been better if she hadn't slept at all.

Giving up, she rose and tugged on her robe. She curled her toes on the chilly floor and slid her feet into her fleece-lined moccasins. Limping into the kitchen, she opted to leave the lights off and leaned against the sink to stare outside. Despite the coral tint of dawn, she could see stars flickering high in the heavens, creating a canopy where the mountains met the sky.

It looked quiet and peaceful, in stark contrast to the brutality evidenced in the barn two mornings ago. A tremble skated along her nerves. In a short time Sheriff Jordan would arrive and take Hank to jail in handcuffs. Her eyes filled with tears, imagining Hank's stoic expression. But she'd come to know him too well. She'd see the hurt in his eyes and in the set of his shoulders.

Angry with herself for her pessimism, she grabbed a pad of paper and pen out of the nearby junk drawer. There was enough light to jot down some notes, things to ask Sheriff Jordan and the FBI agents.

Glancing up from the paper, she spotted Ted entering the barn. Although Hank had related to her what the farrier had told him, she had some questions she'd like to ask him herself.

She quickly changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, and pulled a comb through her bed-tousled hair. Squaring her shoulders, she walked to the barn.

Once by the door, she froze. This was where Mantle had been murdered. But big, gentle Ted was in there to protect her. Forcing herself to move, she pulled open the door and found the farrier in a stall with one of the mares.

He looked up and smiled. "Morning, Ms. Kincaid. You're up early."

She shrugged, feeling safe with the friendly man. "I had a hard time sleeping."

He shook his head sympathetically. "You're worried about your father."

"Yes. And other things." She approached the stall and noticed that Ted held a tube in his hand. "What're you doing?"

"Putting some medicine on the mare's sores."

"What happened?" Olivia asked, peering over the stall at the horse.

"Cinch burns. The idiot riding her a few days ago didn't loosen the cinch the whole time she was saddled." Anger vibrated in his bass voice.

Matching indignation spread through Olivia. "Everyone knows better than that. Or at least I thought they did. Who was it?"

Ted smoothed ointment over the horse's healing wounds with soothing motions. "Mantle."

Olivia frowned. "He must've done that the day before he was killed."

Ted nodded. "He deserved to die." He continued massaging in the ointment, speaking in low, comforting tones to the mare.

Olivia stared at him and dread curled in her belly as suspicion flared. She thought about Melinda and how she'd struck the stallion. "What about Melinda? Did she deserve it?"

"She hit the stallion."

Self-preservation instincts told her to run, but she wasn't certain. She had to learn the truth. Willing herself to remain calm, she said, "People who hurt horses should be punished."

Ted straightened and capped the ointment tube. "You understand."

"Understand what?"

The farrier moved closer, and only the wooden stall door stood between them. "That someone has to protect them."

"How do you protect them?" Olivia's heart pounded. He shrugged. "By making sure those people won't hurt them again."

"People like Mantle, Melinda, and Sandra Hubbard?" She could barely speak past the lump in her throat.

Ted slipped the tube in the pocket of his leather apron. "Them and others."

Ted's the killer.

Terror iced her insides. She and Hank hadn't even considered the gentle giant, yet he'd had the opportunity and the means. It was only his motivation they'd lacked.