Convictions (6 page)

He joined her. "More solitaire?"

"Spider solitaire," she corrected. "More challenging."

His sigh was soft, but Olivia heard it. "How many hours have you been at this tonight?"

Irritation cut through her as she glanced at the anniversary clock on the bookshelf: 10:45. She'd come in to check her e-mail at 7:30. She covered her shock quickly. "Two, maybe three hours."

"Try closer to three and a half."

"Why did you ask if you already knew?" Olivia asked peevishly.

"This won't help you step back into the world, Liv." Knowing he was right but not wanting to admit it, she started the computer shut down sequence.

"I came in to remind you I'll be leaving for Denver early in the morning," he said. "I have a nine o'clock meeting. Was there anything you wanted me to pick up for you? Maybe some more books?"

Olivia shook her head. "I just ordered three online last week. I wish you didn't have to go." As soon as the words left her mouth, she, wanted to snatch them back.

His smile disappeared. "I'll cancel if you want me to."

Self-contempt rolled through her at how relieved she was by his offer. "No. I'll be fine," she said firmly, more to convince herself than her father. "I'll give Connie a hand."

"She told me yesterday that she appreciates your help. She's never complained, but she's not getting any younger, either."

The Hispanic cook had been working at the ranch for so long that Olivia couldn't remember a time when she hadn't been there. Instead of being gratified by Connie's thanks, Olivia felt guilty for not helping her more.

"I don't do that much, but I do peel a mean potato," Olivia said, forcing a teasing grin.

"You do more than that, according to Connie." He glanced at the clock. "It's late. You should go to bed, Liv. I'll be home in time for dinner tomorrow night." He kissed her forehead. "If you have any trouble, go to Connie."

He didn't specify what kind of trouble, but they both knew. If she felt an anxiety attack coming on, she would seek out Connie. "I'll be okay."

He nodded, but she could tell he wasn't completely assured. "Good night, Liv."

She watched him go, feeling the leaden weight of fear drag her down again. Savagely, she reminded herself this wasn't the first time since she'd run back home with her tail tucked between her legs that he'd left the ranch for a day.

But it is the first time since the convicts arrived.

Olivia reassured herself with the knowledge that she could get to the gun in her father's room from any place in the house in fifty-seven seconds or less.

Hank threaded the leather strap through his fingers, examining it closely for wears and flaws. The bridle was an old one, but it had been well cared for. Not finding any part that needed mending, he pulled the strap between an oil-soaked cloth. When he returned the bridle to its nail, it gleamed.

He didn't mind working alone in the tack room. No one bothered him here, and he could relax his guard. The scent of leather reminded him of his father teaching him how to care for the saddlery. Sometimes the images of his father were so clear, Hank almost forgot he wasn't here by choice. Then Rollie or Mantle or one of the other men would come by and remind him of the stark reality.

As he replaced a latigo strap on a saddle, he heard muffled voices arguing outside the tack room. He listened closely but couldn't make out the words. He warily moved to the door that led into the main part of the barn.

Although it was dim, Hank could make out Mantle and Barton not more than twenty feet away. Barton was holding his hands up, as if warding off Mantle.

"No."

Barton's single word told Hank all he needed to know. There was no doubt as to what Mantle wanted from the good-looking kid. The son of a bitch had been eyeing Barton like a vulture readying to feast on fresh carrion ever since they arrived at the ranch. Barton could probably handle himself in a fair fight, but Mantle knew too many dirty tricks.

Hank strode over to the two men. "Something going on here?" he asked with deceptive blandness.

"Butt out, Elliott. This is between me and the kid," Mantle said.

Hank looked at Barton, although he kept tabs on Mantle out of the corner of his eye. "Is that right, Barton? Do you want some time alone with Mantle here?"

Barton's hands clenched into fists at his sides, and his eyes were wide, filled with panic and humiliation. "No. I just came in here to get a halter, and Mantle followed me."

"Bullshit. You wanted me to follow you," Mantle accused the younger man.

Barton's face paled. "No, I never..."

For a moment, Barton's features blurred, becoming another young man, one Hank had tried to help. He reburied that jagged memory. "Aren't you supposed to be mucking out the stalls in the other barn, Mantle?"

"Fuck you, Elliott," Mantle said.

"I thought that was
your
specialty." Hank smiled coldly. "Keep your filthy hands to yourself."

Mantle matched Hank's hard smile. "Don't get in my way again, Elliott, or you'll be sorry." He swaggered out of the barn.

"Thanks," Barton said, his voice sounding even younger than his years.

"Mantle's a mean bastard. Sleep with one eye open, kid," Hank said gruffly. "Don't forget what you came in here for."

Barton followed him into the tack room, and Hank plucked a halter off a peg. "Here."

Barton nodded his thanks and left.

Shaking his head, Hank sat back down to continue working. Why did he even bother? Barton wasn't his responsibility, just like Lenny hadn't been. But then, Lenny wasn't anyone's responsibility anymore.

Dead men didn't need protection.

Hank looked up to see the foreman enter.

"Need you to run into town, Elliott," Buck said without preamble.

"Why?" he asked warily. He hadn't expected the opportunity to drive off the ranch by himself.

"Christ, I'm not setting you up, if you're worried about that," Buck replied impatiently.

Hank scowled, remembering the setup that had landed him in prison. "Can't be too damned careful."

"Leroy was supposed to make the run this morning, but the damned fool got drunk last night and sprained his ankle getting off his barstool. Everyone else is out working. I'd go, but we have a buyer coming in for some stock, and since the boss isn't here, I've gotta take him out to look at the beeves."

Hank met the foreman's gaze. "You trust me?"

"Not especially, but the boss does. Don't make a liar out of him."

Hank respected the foreman's honesty. He owed the judge, but more importantly, he wasn't going to screw up his chance at freedom—legal freedom. "Where do I need to go?"

"Grocery store. Back up to the delivery door. They'll have everything ready. You just gotta load it up and sign for it."

"Which truck?"

Buck tossed him a set of keys. "Dark green Ford pickup. And don't let Sheriff Jordan catch you speeding."

Hank jangled the keys in his palm, savoring the thrill of them in his hand. He froze, remembering one tiny detail. "I don't have a driver's license."

"You don't know how to drive?"

Hank scowled. "My license expired while I was in prison."

Buck waved a hand. "Don't worry about it. As long as you drive the speed limit and don't do anything stupid, the sheriff doesn't care. He knows the judge has cons working for him."

Hank was surprised but didn't show it. "Yes, sir."

"Get outta here, Elliott. I'll expect you to be back and have the supplies unloaded before lunch."

Sorely tempted to run to the truck, Hank forced himself to walk casually, as if he were entrusted to drive every day.

The ten-year-old pickup wasn't locked, and Hank jumped in like a kid taking his first driving lesson. He stuck the key in the ignition but didn't turn it. Instead he caressed the steering wheel, the knobs on the dashboard, and the stick shift on the floor. The acrid scents of gas and oil were as sweet as perfume.

Funny how he used to take driving for granted before he went to prison. He pressed the clutch with his left foot and turned the key. The Ford roared to life, and Hank shifted into gear. An unexpected jolt jerked his head back, but as he crawled through the ranch yard to the driveway, his driving skills returned.

Just like making love.

And damned near as good.

By the time Olivia finished eating breakfast and showering, it was nine thirty. Connie probably had the men's lunch under way, but there would still be tasks Olivia could do.

As she stepped outside, she noticed the green truck tooling down the driveway at a speed only a gray-haired grandmother could appreciate. She wondered who was behind the wheel since most of the hired men tended to drive like NASCAR wannabes.

The yard was quiet, and Olivia enjoyed the birdsongs and light rustle of the wind. The sky was pure blue with none of the afternoon clouds creeping in over the mountain peaks yet. If not for her limp and the residual touch of apprehension, she could almost believe she was merely home for a vacation.

A horse snorted from one of the corrals, and she noticed the farrier was working alone today. Hank must have been assigned a task out on the ranch someplace, which meant she wouldn't be seeing him. She should be relieved, but instead felt... abandoned.

The dining hall door was open to let in the cooler air. Tantalizing smells of baking bread and bubbling tomato sauce filled Olivia's nose. When she entered the cafeteria-type room, she spotted Connie sitting by one of the four long tables.

"Hoa,"
Connie said with a gap-toothed smile on her broad face.

"Good morning. Sorry I'm late," Olivia said.

Connie waved her hand that was holding a paring knife. "You're just in time to help me peel these apples. I thought I'd give the men a treat tonight—apple crisp."

Olivia's mouth watered. She'd have to snitch some for her and her father when it came out of the oven.

She plucked a knife from a drawer and joined Connie beside two pails of green apples. They spoke little, only commenting on the weather and the judge's trip to Denver.

Olivia picked out the last apple from the pail, but before she could begin paring it, she heard a vehicle backing up to the door.

"Looks like the men will eat tonight after all," Connie said, winking at Olivia.

"Like you would ever let them go hungry," Olivia teased.

She followed Connie outside. The driver had his back to them as he opened the truck's tailgate. Olivia recognized the shoulders, slim hips, and fine-looking butt at the same moment she recognized the shirt and jeans. Looking around, she couldn't see one of the regular hired men with Elliott, which meant he'd gone alone. She wanted to ask him how he'd finagled a solo trip into town, but her mouth was too dry and her senses too busy cataloguing his presence.

"Did you get everything?" Connie asked him. "I think so, ma'am," Hank replied. "Bring it in."

"Yes, ma'am." Hank turned, and his eyes widened, clearly not expecting to see Olivia. "Shouldn't you be off that leg?"

She found her voice. "It's fine." She reached for a box in the truck bed.

"You shouldn't be doing that."

"I don't need a babysitter."

Hank's lips pressed into a firm line. "You obviously know what's best, Ms. Kincaid." He strode past her into the cookhouse.

Connie raised her eyebrows, but Olivia ignored the unspoken question.

After four trips carrying groceries inside, Olivia recognized her knee's limit. Although she wanted to feel useful, she didn't dare risk injuring her knee permanently.

She settled into a chair and stretched out her bad leg, then absently massaged the scarred flesh. From her position, she had a clear view of Hank carrying in the supplies.

A few minutes after she sat down, Hank strode in without his shirt. His biceps flexed as he piled two boxes on a table, and his rippled abdomen gleamed with a layer of sweat. This show was almost as good as the Chippendales performance she and Suse had gone to in Chicago two years ago.

Then Olivia reminded herself how Hank had attained that hard body—not by honest labor, but by working out in a prison gym.

"That's everything, ma'am," Hank said to Connie. "Would you like some help putting it away?"

"Opening the boxes would be good," Connie said. "Then Olivia and I can put things in their place. Do you mind helping,
chica"?"

Olivia stood but kept her distance from Hank's smooth-as-glass chest. "Not at all."

Just as they got started, muted music sounded, and Connie reached into her apron pocket to draw out her cell phone. As she answered it, she moved outside to boost the signal.

"Everyone must have one nowadays," Hank said, shaking his head, but whether it was in disgust or amazement, Olivia couldn't tell.

Olivia tried to keep her gaze on his face, not the well-developed pectorals or the sparse arrow of hair above his waistband. "Cell phones? Yes, I suppose so."

"There were a few around before, but they were a lot bigger."

"How about computers?"

"They've changed a lot, too. There was a computer lab in Wilson. I spent a lot of time there."

"Doing what?"

He shrugged. "Took some classes. Read the local newspapers. Stuff like that."

"What kind of classes?"

Hank handed her two extra-large bags of frozen vegetables, and she placed them in one of the freezers.

"Biology grad courses," he answered.

"You have a degree?"

His eyes narrowed, and his nostrils flared slightly. "Does that shock you?"

"Not many convicted criminals do."

Hank clenched his teeth and continued unpacking. Obviously, she'd touched a nerve with her assumption that most criminals were high school dropouts.

"I didn't mean anything," Olivia said. "I just assumed—"

"That's right. Most of your kind do."

"'My kind'?"

He glared at her. "Prosecutors. You all
assume
we're guilty."

"You usually are," she shot back.

Hank laughed, but it wasn't a nice sound. "Or we wouldn't have been arrested in the first place, right?"