Convictions (4 page)

"Where are they going?" she asked, motioning toward the departing pickup and trailer.

"Antler Creek. Some cattle are getting out in that area. They're going to gather up the strays, then find the break in the fence."

"I'm surprised you let Elliott go with them. Aren't you afraid he'll keep riding?"

"No. He won't chance ruining the possibility of getting out a few months early. Besides, he's already proven himself. Right after he got here."

"When he saved the farrier?"

"You saw that?"

"I was looking out the window," she admitted.

"Then you know he put himself in danger to help a stranger. In my book, that's not the act of your typical convict."

"Maybe he only did it to gain your trust." Olivia wasn't about to let Hank Elliott off the hook that easily.

Her father shrugged. "It's possible, but it seemed more instinctive than calculated."

Olivia pressed her lips together, not accepting the prisoner's supposedly selfless motives as quickly as her father. She had yet to meet a convict who didn't have an agenda, an angle. She'd discover Elliott's, one way or another.

"Break's over. Back to work."

Hank stifled a groan and pushed away from his comfortable lean against a cottonwood. After being in the saddle for four hours, it had felt damned good to be standing on his own two feet.

Keeping his discomfort and thoughts hidden, he tightened his saddle cinch and mounted. His thigh muscles protested, but he ignored them.

"Ready to return to your comfy cell, Elliott?"

Hank schooled his face into a blank mask and turned to his persecutor. Rollie. No surprise there. Rollie had been riding his ass ever since Hank started working at the ranch. The man was a bully with a gut that hung over his belt and mean snake eyes.

"Why don't you crawl back into the hole you came from?" Hank asked conversationally.

Rollie's eyes narrowed as he smiled coldly. "You think you got it made with the boss, but I wouldn't bet on it. Once a con, always a con. Something happens, and you're gonna be the first person everyone turns on."

"You threatening me?"

"That ain't a threat. Just a friendly warning."

"Knock it off, ladies. We've got work to do," Buck said, riding up behind them.

Hank nodded at the foreman, glad for the interruption. He nudged his horse away from Rollie. Hank had allowed his prison-learned defenses to slip. Being away from the palpable violence and hopelessness behind the walls, Hank could almost imagine he was back in the world he'd grown up in. But Rollie had reminded him it was only an illusion.

Kincaid's daughter was also a reminder of his less-than-human status. He hadn't seen a woman like her in over six years, and his body wasn't shy about reminding him how long it'd been since he'd been laid. Those snug blue jeans hugging her pert ass and the blouse that did little to hide her firm, high breasts had him as hard as an iron bar in record time.

But the disgust in her eyes told Hank she didn't share her father's sense of fairness, and that it'd be a cold day in hell before she shared her bed with someone like him. Not that he blamed her. Like Rollie said, once a con, always a con.

Still, Hank couldn't dismiss Olivia Kincaid that easily from his thoughts. In addition to disgust, he'd recognized fear in her eyes. Fear and pain. Someone had hurt her. Badly. A swell of protectiveness cracked through his bitter wall.

A cow burst out of some brush, and Hank was grateful for the distraction.

He didn't want to feel anything for Olivia Kincaid... or anyone else.

Chapter Three

Olivia limped into the kitchen minus her cane and was greeted with the radio announcer's, "Welcome to
Swap Shop.
Our first caller on the line this morning has canning jars and lids for sale." She smiled at the small-town radio show she'd often listened to as a child.

The coffeepot was nearly empty, a testament to her father's caffeine habit. Although it wasn't good for his health, she knew she'd have more success convincing a suspect to confess to murder than convincing her father to cut back. She poured the remainder into a cup and put on another pot, then joined her father in the breakfast nook.

"Are you looking for anything in particular?" she asked.

Her father glanced up from the newspaper, his brow furrowed in puzzlement. "What?"

"You're listening to
Swap Shop."

It took another moment before his expression registered that he understood her reference. His lips curled in amusement. "Oh, no. I listened to the local news and forgot to turn it off."

He reached over, and the caller trying to find a rear bumper for his 1971 Ford truck was cut off in midsentence. "How did you sleep?" he asked.

Olivia smiled. "Actually, better than I have in weeks. I only woke up twice and didn't have any trouble falling back to sleep."

He nodded, obviously pleased by her progress. "Getting outside every day helps." He folded the newspaper and set it aside. "I know it's been difficult for you since the prisoners got here, and I'm proud of your progress."

Olivia's cheeks heated, but she held his gaze. "I still don't like having them here. They're dangerous men, Dad."

He leaned forward, his forearm resting on the table. "I've always been careful, taking only prisoners I believe are nonviolent and who deserve the chance to prove themselves. The rewards substantially outweigh the minor risks."

Olivia shuddered. "That's
your
opinion."

Her father sighed and dragged a hand across his face, but his gaze was determined and his voice resolute when he spoke. "I helped establish this program, and I'm not about to abandon it."

She took a deep breath, struggling to contain her impatience with his stubbornness. Although she respected and admired her father, she hated this blind spot he possessed. "Fine. We agree to disagree."

His disappointment made Olivia cringe inwardly, but she wouldn't—couldn't—agree.

She carried their empty cups to the sink, rinsed them, and set them by the coffeepot. Leaning against the counter, she watched out the window at the men gathered in the yard, waiting for their day's assignments.

She'd learned the convicts' names from her father and sought out each one now, to ensure they were all accounted for. Lopez, the Hispanic, and the youngest con, Barton, were standing beside one of the corrals smoking cigarettes. Reger, a husky, nondescript man with brown hair and washed-out features, was hunkered on his haunches a few feet away drawing in the dirt with a twig. Mantle, the furtive, gopher-cheeked man, was talking it up with Rollie, one of the hired men.

Her gaze automatically sought Hank Elliott's lean figure. With his arms crossed, he leaned his shoulder against a corral post. His cap was tugged low over his eyes, but Olivia suspected he was observing and taking mental notes of every person around him. His face had lost its prison pallor and gained a deep golden tan, enhancing his good looks. His hands and forearms, too, had been darkened by the sun. If anything, her unexplainable reaction to him had grown stronger, which only increased her wariness.

The appearance of an unfamiliar car wending its way up the long driveway stole her attention from Hank.

"Are you expecting someone, Dad?"

"No. Why?"

"There's a white car coming in."

He joined her by the sink and swore under his breath.

"Who is it?" Olivia asked, puzzled by his reaction.

"Melinda Curry Holcomb." He growled out the name.

Olivia flashed back to a bouncy brunette in a cheerleader outfit demanding Olivia fork over her homework so she could copy it. The memory wasn't a pleasant one. "I went to high school with her."

"She reminded me of that when I ran into her about a month ago," her father said dryly.

"What does she want?"

"She writes a gossip column for the county paper. When I saw her, she said she wanted to come out and interview you. I told her you weren't feeling well."

Olivia's mouth grew cottony. It was bad enough that her father and coworkers knew of her near breakdown. "I don't want to talk to her."

Her father patted her shoulder. "You stay here. I'll get rid of her." He strode out of the kitchen.

Olivia curled her fingers around the edge of the counter as she watched her father step off the porch. Her attention shifted to Melinda, who was getting out of the sedan. Al- though it had been twelve years since high school graduation, Olivia had no trouble recognizing her former classmate. Melinda's former shoulder-length dark hair was now cut in a short, sassy style, and she wore a fire engine red halter top, skintight white capris, and heeled sandals that matched her blouse.

The conversation between her father and Melinda was punctuated by hand waving and stiff body language. It didn't look like she would take no for an answer.

Irritated with both Melinda and herself for allowing her father to fight her battles, Olivia squared her shoulders and limped outside onto the porch.

Melinda spotted her immediately and dodged around Olivia's father. The woman's staccato heels echoed on the wooden porch.

"It's been a long time, Olivia," Melinda said, her voice as brassy as her clothing.

Not long enough.

"Yes, it has been." Olivia crossed her arms, hoping she looked more composed than she felt. "What do you want?"

"An interview. I've already talked to the Chicago police and the district attorney's office about your attack. I could write my story with what I have, but I thought it might be good to hear it from you."

"Olivia?" her father asked, clearly wondering how she was handling Melinda's prying.

Olivia didn't like it, but if she didn't talk to her, Melinda would put her own spin on the story.

"It's okay, Dad. I'll answer her questions."

He seemed relieved. "I'll leave you two alone then."

Olivia was oddly relieved he wouldn't remain and be party to her half-truths. He gave Olivia a nod of encouragement, then strode toward the barn.

"Why don't we sit down?" Olivia asked, pointing to one of the wicker chairs on the porch.

Melinda sank into one. "So how did you hurt your leg?"

She'd obviously noticed Olivia's limp when she'd come out of the house.

"You should know," Olivia replied. "You talked to the police."

Melinda had the grace to glance down, but her penitence didn't last long. She met Olivia's gaze with her own haughty one. "I only received the official version. I'd like yours." She tugged a small notebook and pen out of her purse.

Olivia gritted her teeth and looked beyond the porch to the men milling about. Many of them were watching her and Melinda with unabashed curiosity. She quickly glanced down, fighting the urge to flee into the house, and cleared her throat. "My kneecap was smashed, but the doctors did an excellent reconstruction job."

"So why are you still here? Surely you've recovered enough to go back to work."

Olivia wasn't about to explain her personal demons to this woman and have them splashed across the front page of the county paper. "I'm still on medical leave. As soon as I've healed completely, I'll return to my job."

"I was under the assumption you were seeing a psychologist."

Olivia's face heated with both anger and humiliation. The only people who knew she had gone to a counselor were her fellow prosecutors in the DA's office. Who disliked her so much that he or she would divulge the confidentiality?

"I visited one twice while still in Chicago," she answered curtly. "But not here?"

Olivia shook her head, afraid to trust her voice.

"Why did Peter Larsen attack you?" Melinda asked, not pulling any punches.

Although the jagged memories came fast and furious, Olivia managed to keep her face and voice cool. "I had tried to indict him for stalking and assaulting two women, but there wasn't enough evidence. I didn't succeed. He made me his next victim. End of story."

"Surely there's more to it than that."

Olivia clasped her hands and rested them in her lap to hide the trembling. "Those are the facts."

"But how did you feel during the attack? Were you frightened?"

Fragments of that night strobed through Olivia's mind: Larsen swinging the bat at her knee, his leer as he slapped her, his hand on her breast. She choked back the bile rising in her throat and struggled for a calm that wasn't there. "Only a fool wouldn't have been frightened, Melinda, and I'm no fool. I'm only trying to put it behind me now."

Melinda leaned forward, looking like a shark going in for the kill. "So you
are
having trouble dealing with it."

Irritation cut through the lingering fear. "It isn't something a person recovers from overnight, but I'm handling it."

"Are you? No one has seen you since you returned."

"I visit my physical therapist twice a week in Walden." Olivia stood. "If there's nothing else...?"

Melinda reluctantly returned her notebook and pen to her purse, then rose. "I think you've answered my questions."

Olivia didn't like her tone. It implied Melinda had read more into her censored answers.

The highly strung stallion neighed from its corral, drawing Olivia's attention. Her father had bought him a few months ago for breeding. Only the more experienced ranch hands could get near him. It was no surprise the farrier was still having trouble with him.

"What a beautiful animal. I'd like to take a closer look," Melinda said, her gaze on the corral.

The woman didn't strike Olivia as the type to be interested in a horse. Did she suspect Olivia was frightened of leaving the house and wanted to have her theory proven correct? Though she had gone outside every day since she'd seen Misty and her foals, and had even started helping Connie prepare lunch and dinner for the men, she only went out after the yard was empty. Now, there were a handful of hired men still standing around, including the convicts. Her father was by the barn, talking to Buck.

Olivia steeled her shaky resolve. She wouldn't let Melinda see her fear, or it would be broadcast around the entire county in the next edition of the
Jackson County Sentinel.