Convictions (2 page)

Men just like the one who'd murdered her mother.

As the prison van jolted down the country road, Hank Elliott soaked up the sights and sounds of freedom. Three months ago the concept of freedom had been an abstract one. With another year to go until he was eligible for parole, Hank had been taking one day at a time, keeping his nose out of trouble and his ass intact, just as he'd done the previous six years. Six long, bitter years.

A rough nudge startled him back to reality, and he glared at the man across the aisle. "Keep your hands to yourself, Mantle."

The convict raised his cuffed hands and widened his eyes. "Ooooh, you're scaring me."

"Fuck you," Hank retorted. He deliberately cast his gaze back to the window and the undulating landscape of tans and browns.

Mantle was a coldhearted, sneaky bastard and was known among the other prisoners as someone to steer clear of, especially the younger men, barely out of boyhood. But he was also adept at showing those in charge what they wanted to see. He'd bullshitted his way into the work release program, and Hank vowed to keep an eye on him, to ensure he didn't do anything to endanger Hank's chance at an early release.

The road curved sharply, and ranch buildings came into view. Hank sat up straighter, anxious to see where he'd be spending the next three months of his life. Twelve weeks that would either free him or damn him back to prison. Hank had no intention of returning to the correctional facility.

"You think we'll each get a room to ourselves?" Barton, the youngest prisoner on the van, asked.

"You scared for your virtue, kid?" Mantle asked, lifting his eyebrows suggestively at the twenty-one-year-old.

"Leave him alone," Lopez, a swarthy Mexican convicted of assault, warned. A puckered scar down the Mexican's left cheek gave him a menacing appearance that had aided him in keeping alive in prison. However, Hank had found Lopez to be a decent man who'd done a stupid thing in a moment of passion, which had led to his imprisonment.

Mantle narrowed his ferrety eyes and leaned toward Lopez. "Or what?"

"Or you'll go back to the pen and rot for another ten years," the corrections officer interjected. Armstrong rested his hand on the heavy stick in his utility belt.

Mantle sat up straight and affected an air of remorse. "Yes, sir. Sorry."

Hank rolled his eyes as Armstrong accepted Mantle's apology at face value. Disgusted, he turned his attention to the window and watched the ranch take shape as they neared it. Although he wanted to whistle at the impressive corrals and horses that populated them, he kept his expression bland. A heavy-duty pickup was parked in the yard, and a two-ton truck was backed up to a large shed. A black Dodge Ram with a white trailer that had Ted Shandler, Farrier in bold black letters on the side was pulled up next to one of the two barns. A green tractor with four huge tires pulling a loaded hay wagon was moving away from the yard, probably off to feed cattle in one of the pastures.

Hank's family's ranch wasn't nearly this big or this neat. Of course, it wasn't the Elliott ranch anymore, either. Sold to pay off debts and lawyer fees, the ranch had been gobbled up by a sprawling corporation.

The familiar acidic bitterness burned his gut. He'd lost everything: his home; his dreams; and his sister, the only family he'd had left.

The van stopped, snapping him back to the present.

Armstrong stood and faced them. "All right, everyone out."

Hank donned his prison-issued black ball cap but remained in his seat, allowing his four fellow prisoners to exit the stuffy vehicle before him. He grabbed his bag, which held toiletries, underwear, another pair of blue jeans, and two more chambray shirts with Wilson Correctional Facility printed on the front pocket. Standing, he had to keep his neck bowed so he wouldn't hit the van's roof. He stepped out into the relative warmth of the late May sun.

Hank tipped his head back and gazed at a blue sky unbroken by clouds and iron bars. For a moment, he felt the sting of tears but quickly shoved the emotion deep inside. The weak were always the victims, and Hank had sworn his first day in lockup that he wouldn't be a victim ever again.

"C'mon, Elliott, get in line," Armstrong ordered impatiently, motioning with his stick toward the other convicts.

With his bag clutched in his cuffed hands, Hank swaggered to Mantle's side. He kept his body still, but his gaze roamed over everything. They stood facing an impressive house with a wide front porch and spectacular windows that currently had dark sheers drawn across them. Not even during its best days had Hank's home looked like this. Of course, he hadn't expected Judge Kincaid's house to be anything but imposing. Still, Hank couldn't hate the man; Kincaid had requested him personally for this work program.

The front door with its frosted oval window set in an oak frame opened, and a man wearing jeans and a wide-brimmed hat stepped outside. It took a moment for Hank to recognize him as the judge. He'd only seen the man in a suit before today. But seeing Kincaid in his own domain and wearing the clothes to match, Hank was even more impressed by the man's authoritative air.

"Welcome to the Kincaid Ranch, gentlemen," the judge said as he descended the porch stairs.

Hank and the other convicts nodded in acknowledgment of the greeting.

Kincaid moved to stand in front of them, his hands in his pants pockets. He eyed each man, his gaze coming to rest on Hank last. Although it was difficult, Hank held his probing look. When Kincaid blinked first, Hank felt a small measure of satisfaction.

"Remove their cuffs," the judge ordered Armstrong.

The CO opened his mouth as if to argue, but Kincaid didn't give him a chance. "Handcuffs make it damned hard for them to do any work," he said with the barest twinkle in his eyes.

Armstrong clamped his lips together and nodded shortly. After digging the key out of his pocket, he unlocked each of the prisoner's cuffs.

Once Hank's bracelets were gone, he rubbed his wrists. The CO who'd snapped the handcuffs on him at the prison had taken cruel pleasure in tightening them so they pinched the skin. But Hank hadn't complained. There were too many sadistic guards at the prison on the wrong side of the bars, and if a prisoner spoke up against them, the corrections officers would give the stoolie "special attention." It was simply another fact of prison life Hank had learned early on.

"I've spoken with each of you men personally," Judge Kincaid began once the convicts were no longer shackled. "You know what's expected of you. You also know that if you screw up, you will be returned to the correctional facility immediately, and the rest of your term will be served without possibility of early parole or being included in another work program."

Standing behind Kincaid, Armstrong crossed his beefy arms and smiled with brutal malice. Hank hadn't had a run-in with Armstrong, but he'd seen the CO beat the crap out of more than one prisoner without provocation. It wasn't like the prisoners were real human beings, after all.

Hank swallowed his resentment and stared straight ahead.

"As long as you do your job and obey the rules, you'll be treated like any other working man on my ranch," Kincaid said.

"Does that mean we get weekends off?" Reger asked curiously.

Kincaid smiled slightly. "It means you can rest and relax one day of the weekend if you've earned it, just like the hired men." His smile faded. "But you will not be allowed to go in to town until you've proven yourself, and that will only be to pick up supplies."

"So are we going to be locked in overnight, sir?" Mantle asked with exaggerated courteousness.

"That depends."

"On what?"

"On you." Kincaid stared at Mantle until the convict dropped his gaze.

Hank frowned, trying to decipher what the judge meant. Would they be locked in until they proved themselves? Or would they have the illusion of freedom, but there'd be a guard outside their door?

It didn't matter. Hank had no intention of fucking up his chance to get an early out from hell.

"You'll be fed well, better than the prison food you've been getting, but then you'll be working much harder than you did in there, too," Kincaid went on. "Breakfast is at six thirty, lunch at noon, and dinner at six thirty."

Hank's stomach growled, reminding him he'd eaten little for breakfast. He'd been too anxious to leave the harsh prison behind.

Kincaid glanced at Hank, and a smile lifted his thin lips. "Sounds like you haven't had lunch."

"No, sir," Hank said automatically, and then clamped his mouth shut.

With his head bowed to hide his expression from the judge, Mantle sniggered beside him. Hank fisted his hands, willing them to stay by his side.

"I'll have Connie fix something, and after you've all eaten, I'll take you around and get you started," Kincaid said. He turned and pointed to a long wooden building with a porch, set between two larger structures. "The middle building will be your home for the next three months. The bunkhouse for the hired men is next to it. On the other side of your new home is the kitchen and dining hall. You don't show up when the meal is served, you're out of luck until the next one." He held up his forefinger. "One word of warning. Don't tick off the cook."

Hank couldn't help but smile slightly. He remembered his father giving him the same advice when he was a kid, only it was his mother who'd been their cook. Abruptly, he crushed the trip down memory lane.

"Any questions?" Kincaid asked.

Nobody moved.

"This isn't prison, and you don't have to be afraid to speak out."

Not a twitch.

Kincaid took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "All right, if there aren't any questions, go ahead and pick out a bunk, then meet in the dining hall for some lunch."

For a moment, Hank was afraid to move, afraid that this was all some cruel joke, and Armstrong would cuff him and lead him back into the van. He mentally shook himself. It was going to take some time to get used to not being surrounded by bars.

He started toward their assigned building, following Mantle.

A horse squealed, and Hank spun around. Inside one of the smaller corrals, he spotted a stallion snubbed to a post and a burly man with a leather apron standing beside him. The frenzied horse tried to rear up, but the rope prevented him from doing so. However, as Hank watched, the rope snapped, and the stallion's front hooves dropped dangerously close to the blacksmith, who was trapped between the fence and the angry horse.

Hank dropped his bag and raced across the yard, vaulting over the corral fence.

Once inside the enclosure, he tried to gain the stallion's attention to give the blacksmith a chance to escape. He waved his arms at the horse and shouted, "Over here!"

The enraged animal spun around to face the new threat, and Hank slowly retreated. With any luck, he could roll under the fence before the horse could crush him beneath his hooves. Although he kept his attention on the pawing stallion, he saw out of his peripheral vision the farrier scramble over the fence with more dexterity than it seemed his bulk would allow.

The stallion suddenly charged, and Hank hit the ground rolling. He felt the brush of air as the horse galloped past him and around the inside of the pen.

"Are you okay, Elliott?" Kincaid asked as he offered him a hand.

Hank stared at the hand, for a moment wondering if there was a shiv in the other one. Realizing again that he wasn't in prison, he accepted the judge's help to get to his feet. But he released the man's hand as soon as he was standing.

"Fine," Hank replied tersely.

Behind Kincaid, Reger and Mantle exchanged money, and Hank wondered who'd bet on him getting smashed to a pulp.

Then he spotted the brawny farrier striding toward him and tensed, expecting... he didn't know what.

"Thanks, mister," the big man said, smiling widely and extending a meaty hand.

Hank fought back his learned aversion to a simple handshake and found his hand swallowed up by the farrier's ham-sized one. As soon as he could, he pulled his hand free. "It was nothing," he said awkwardly.

"It was more than that," Kincaid said. He introduced the farrier as Ted Shandler. "We owe you a debt, Elliott."

Hank merely glanced down and shook his head. He didn't want to be singled out. Survival depended on anonymity.

"You've worked around horses before," Shandler said, his arms crossed and his biceps bulging beneath his T-shirt sleeves.

Hank shrugged. "Some."

"If the judge agrees, I wouldn't mind having you give me a hand when I'm working with some of the surlier horses."

"Elliott's proven himself," Kincaid said, his eyes too knowing.

Hank looked from his new boss to Shandler's friendly face and felt something akin to a smile tug at his lips. "Sure."

Kincaid clapped his hands together. "Good. After you eat, give Ted a hand with that stallion and the other horses. All of the working stock have to be reshod."

With the excitement past, Hank headed toward his temporary home. He paused to pick up his bag and noticed a movement in one of the main house's windows. He narrowed his eyes and managed to pick out a woman's face framed by blond hair.

The curtain fell back into place, but not before Hank saw her mouth twist into an ugly scowl.

Chapter Two

Olivia tried to concentrate on her book, an Oprah pick from a few years ago, but she'd reread the same page three times and still had no idea what was going on. She grimaced, dog-eared the page to mark her place, and tossed the book on the window seat beside her.

Pressing aside the gauzy sheers, she gazed out at the activity in the ranch yard. Men were milling about, getting their day's orders from Buck, the foreman. Despite her aversion to the convicts, she couldn't help but search for them among the legitimate hired men. They were fairly easy to spot with their black caps—most everyone else wore a wide-brimmed hat.

Buck directed the Hispanic and the youngest prisoner toward the farthest barn. By their expressions, they weren't pleased with their assignment. Olivia figured they'd been given the task of shoveling manure. She wrinkled her nose, not envying them but not sympathetic either. The shifty convict, who reminded Olivia of a fat-cheeked gopher, and the prisoner who looked like a wrestler were sent with a group of men into the back of a big truck. It appeared they'd drawn fence-mending duty.