Night of Shadows (6 page)

"Pssst!"

Startled, Melinda peered down to
try and trace the source of that sound. She spotted a man half-hidden in the
shadow of a juniper tree just below her. She bent her head and leaned over the
railing to get a better look. Finally, she decided it was the same young man
who had waved at her earlier. He must have dropped the saddle and sneaked over
after spotting her.

"No, Miss Bailey. Don't be
looking at me. You'll attract attention. I heard you was here. I had to talk to
you real quick like. So just listen."

Obediently, she stared straight
ahead and pretended to admire the scenery. Nevertheless, she felt a little
silly. And suddenly very conspicuous.

"My name's Sammy," he
said in a lowered voice. "I knew your sister real well."

"How well?" Knowing her
sister's reputation, Melinda was unable to keep the sharp edge out of her
voice.

"Not that well. I mean, not
like that. Not from her part of it anyway. Good gravy, we were just
friends."

"All right, Sammy. I'm sorry. What
is it you wanted to say?"

"I can't be discussing it
right now. You'll understand why later. Anyway, when I heard you was here, I
knew I had to look you up. Joan told me something. Something — private. I just
know it'll be okay to pass it on to you. It'll make
me
feel a darned
sight better just to get it off my chest."

Melinda wrapped her fists around
the railing, and willed herself to keep looking straight ahead. "If it's
that important, why haven't you taken this information to the McClures? Or the
sheriff?"

"I can't, Miss Bailey. I can't
because — there's something awful peculiar going on around here. And it might
involve
them
. All of them. The sheriff. Everybody. The McClures are
mighty powerful around here. Understand? Meet me, would you? Tonight? I'll set up
a ladder here, climb up your terrace and we can talk. How about midnight? That
way it'll be good and dark. I'll have something to show you, too."

"Well — I — guess so. Sure."
Melinda privately asked herself just what business she had inviting this seemingly
harmless stranger up to her room, alone. For all she knew, he could be Joan's
kidnapper — perhaps, even, her murderer.

At that moment, two events happened
simultaneously. Melinda thought she saw movement from a shoulder of someone
concealed just around the corner of the house. And Preston stepped up behind
her on the terrace. Sammy walked hastily away, as though he were bound for some
chore.

"Hi, Melinda," Preston
said. His voice sounded almost too casual. "I thought I heard you talking
to someone."

"Did you?" Melinda
flushed. "It was probably just to myself. I do that all the time."

Preston's eyes narrowed as he
watched Sammy's thin figure disappear into a barn. Then, he brightened and
turned back to Melinda.

"Sorry to barge in like this. I
tapped on your door. Nobody answered. I was worried, so I came on in. Anyway, I
brought you some breakfast."

She followed him back into the
bedroom, where she saw the tray he had placed on a small table by the bed. The
rays of the sun blazing through the window caught Preston's face then,
revealing the tiny lines around his eyes and mouth. Stress lines.

"I took the breakfast tray
away from Harriet," Preston said. "I wanted an excuse to look in on
you this morning. I'll just leave now and give you a chance to eat."

"Wait — don't go." Melinda
gestured at the chair by the window. "Please sit down."

Preston seemed reluctant, but he
pulled out the chair and obliged.

"You're looking much
better," he said lightly. "It must be because Harriet is looking after
you. Mac is a good nurse only when it comes to a horse or a steer. And his
cooking isn't the greatest, either. I know. I've had to eat it before."

"I have to admit I don't
remember much about it," Melinda said. "We didn't have too many
choices. And food was the last thing on my mind."

An uncomfortable silence drowned
the conversation. Preston let his head droop, as his forehead wrinkled in
thought.

"Well," he spoke at last.
"I've been wanting to meet you. I'm just sorry it had to be under these
circumstances."

With this opening, Melinda was
ready to launch a barrage of questions. But he cut her off by gesturing at the
food.

"Go on. Sit on the bed by the
tray there. Eat something. That's the way. I just wanted you to know we sent
some of the boys out to get your truck. They'll tow it back here. I'm not sure
they'll be able to find any of your belongings, but they've been ordered to
look."

"Don't bother with that. I
just hope there's some way to salvage that truck. It doesn't belong to me. I
rented it."

"Maybe it was insured. I'll
make arrangements for the owner to come out and pick it up. We'll work
something out. Don't worry about it, okay?"

Melinda nodded and swallowed a bite
of food. "It's Joan I'm most concerned about."

"Of course you are. We all are.
I'm just thankful you came out of this mess in one piece. I don't think I could
have taken any more bad news." Preston dropped his head into his hands,
which became buried in his tousled dark hair. "It's nice to have you here,
Melinda. I can use the moral support."

His words sounded sincere enough,
and Melinda desperately wanted to believe him. But, somehow, she sensed that
her presence here troubled more than comforted him. If only he would look at
her instead of the floor.

"Preston, I have a feeling
there's a lot more you might be able to tell me about Joan. And you. About your
marriage. I know you've been avoiding it so far. Why not level with me
now?"

He looked miserable, downtrodden,
as he looked up and shrugged. "You and Joan might not resemble each other,
but you're alike in one way. You're both stubborn. You don't quit until you get
what you want, do you?"

Preston rubbed his already
bloodshot eyes. Exhaustion caused him to slump down into the chair. When he at
last spoke, his voice was hoarse and tired.

"When Joan and I met last
summer, I hadn't been out of the military very long. I was real lonely, you see.
I had spent most of my time with the special services in Afghanistan. Before
that, it was Iraq. I was sent to all the hot spots. You can guess what that
life was like."

"Not really." Melinda
tried to sound sympathetic. "But I'm sorry you had to go through
that."

 "Yeah. Well. It was what it
was." Preston shifted his weight in the chair. "Mac was irritated
with me for joining up in the first place — for not coming back here and using
my veterinary degree from the very beginning. But — I don't know what got into
me. I wanted to see the world first, have some adventure. That sort of thing."

"Sounds like Joan."

"Yeah. Exactly. Heck, I never
really knew what I wanted. Neither did she. Mac was lucky. He always knew what
was right for him. He knew he wanted to stay right here with the ranch. He
loves this ranch. As for me — I don't think Mac has ever tried to understand me.
He wasn't very happy with me, even when I did come back. I was…"

Preston shook his head, as if to
clear his thoughts. "I was confused, and Joan was so — pretty. But it
turned out, after we were married, that she wasn't exactly — what I thought she
was."

He glanced up at Melinda, watching
closely for her reaction. She tried to appear unruffled. It was the best
strategy to keep him talking.

"You said you wanted the whole
story," he added, somewhat defensively.

"I'm still listening." But
Melinda reassured herself that it was only his side of the story.

"From the first time we met,
she seemed to think I was wonderful. I thought she was pretty terrific, too. Getting
married right away seemed to be the thing to do. At the time."

Melinda's fears last summer that
Joan had acted too hastily apparently were justified. Her heart twisted as she
recalled Joan's letters over the past year. They had been filled with light
chatter, and — Melinda realized — contrived happiness. Poor Joan. She had been
too proud to admit she had made a mistake. Joan had made so many mistakes.

"When did the honeymoon
end?" Melinda asked gently.

Preston flashed a cynical smile. "A
few months later. Oh, it didn't happen all at once. It started when Joan got
involved with playing the horses. She was hooked. Obsessed. Finally, it got to
the point that every time we went to the races, she was always after me for
more money to wager. Then she started going to the casinos. After the summer
racing season was over, she was always nagging me to take her to 'Vegas. She
couldn't stop herself. It was awful."

As he spoke, he avoided looking at
Melinda. And did she imagine that he seemed to choke on the words? Melinda
smothered a hot retort in Joan's defense.

"Then what happened?" she
prodded.

"Mac was furious with us both.
He refused to let me withdraw anything from our business account without his
approval. So I hired a lawyer to fight him."

"You hired a lawyer to fight
your own brother?" Melinda was unable to hide her shock.

"Well. Yeah. I love Joannie,
you see. She was threatening to leave me unless I supplied her with more
gambling money. Half of this ranch belongs to me, you know, even though our
father left Mac in charge when he died. I shouldn't have to ask my brother for
money. Not when this spread is as much mine as it is his. Mac was always
chewing on me. Joan was on my back. Our lawyers got into the picture. I hated
it!"

"So you led Mac to believe
that what was happening was Joannie's fault," Melinda said coldly.

"But it was!" Preston's
eyes blazed resentment, and this time he looked fully into Melinda's face. "I
know she's your sister. But you've got to believe me."

This information painted Joan in
such an ugly light that Melinda's heart was breaking. She wished her sister
could be here, to tell her version — to explain, while pleading with those
plaintive blue eyes of hers, that she might have made a few mistakes. But they
weren't that bad. And she didn't really mean to do it, whatever it was.

But Melinda was thinking of Joannie
the child, not a sister who by now should have grown up.
Oh, Joan.

Preston grimaced. His voice
trembled as he went on. "But I still care for her — a lot. I swear to you,
Melinda. I don't know where she is. I don't know why this happened. I'm all out
of ideas. Now I'm asking you. Do you have any?"

He watched Melinda, as if imploring
her for an answer. She didn't know what to say. Truthfully, she expected the
answers to come from him, from this place.

Suddenly, she had no appetite and
she pushed the breakfast tray aside. Based on Preston's story, the person with
the most motive for wanting Joan out of the way so far was Mac.

But what did she really know about
Preston?

She examined him more closely. Melinda
could understand Joan's attraction for this tall, handsome, and seemingly rich
young rancher. Preston represented any young girl's image of ideal romantic
love.

In reality, though, Joan probably knew
very little about him even after she married him.

"Tell me the truth, Preston. Had
you two been fighting before she disappeared?"

It would be so like Joan to leave
in a mad fit, if spurred by harsh words. But Melinda couldn't believe her
sister would stay away this long without at least contacting someone. Joan was
never one to hold a grudge.

"Preston?"

"Yes," he finally
admitted. "We were pretty — nasty — to each other that day."

That's not what he had told her
over the phone. Maybe it was just a little fib, but Melinda wasn't going to
forget he was capable of deception.

"You have to understand,"
Preston continued. "We always were arguing about — that."

"About what?"

"Her gambling."

Melinda fidgeted with a corner of
the bedspread. She wanted so badly to believe that this, too, was a lie. But
even Joan's letters to some extent backed up his story. They always centered on
racing and the track, as though that particular form of excitement was her only
outlet in life.

Preston stood abruptly. "That's
enough for now. Your breakfast is getting cold. I'll be back later to take you
downstairs and show you around."

Melinda obediently toyed with the
food until Preston was out of sight. Then, again shoving the tray aside,
Melinda stood and donned the clothes Harriet had laid out for her.

The housekeeper had done her best to
clean and mend them. But the stained travel suit was hardly appropriate to wear
here. Melinda knew that her sister's regular clothes would be far too small for
her to even try on. These would have to do until she had the opportunity to buy
more.

Melinda stood before a full-length
mirror as she pulled a brush through the stubborn tangles of her long hair. She
noticed gratefully that the worst injury, the swelling in her bruised eye, was
almost gone.