Convictions (8 page)

Instead of dwelling on Ms. Kincaid, he ought to be figuring out a way to find his sister. In the three weeks since he'd been on the ranch, he'd been unable to find out anything about her.

His mood surly, Hank steeled himself and entered the sleeping quarters. His four roommates glanced up, but only Barton gave him a slight smile and nod of greeting. Mantle had his nose buried in a skin magazine that he must have gotten from one of the hired men. Hank shook his head in disgust and turned away.

"Elliott, you seen the article on the boss's daughter?" Reger asked from where he reclined in his bunk.

Hank stopped to send Reger a glare. "What article?"

"Hey, don't shoot the messenger." Reger held out a newspaper, and Hank stepped closer to look at the headline. "Olivia Kincaid Returns Home to Heal."

"Says she was attacked by some bastard in Chicago where she was a district attorney," Reger said. "No man ought to treat a woman like that."

Hank snatched the newspaper from him.

"Help yourself," Reger said sarcastically, crossing his arms.

Hank dropped onto the edge of his own bed and skimmed the story. The details of the attack on Olivia were painfully eloquent, with descriptive words like "brutal," "ruthless," "vicious," and "atrocious." The reporter hinted at more than simple assault but never went so far as to say Olivia had been raped.

The article explained a hell of a lot about Ms. Kincaid's attitude. It was no wonder the woman kept her distance.

Sickness climbed up his throat as rage boiled. He thrust the paper back at Reger and shot to his feet. Frustrated rage tied his gut into a knot. Wanting to hit something—or somebody—Hank didn't trust himself to be around his fellow prisoners. He strode outside and grasped the porch rail, bracing himself against it as adrenaline coursed through him. His fingernails dug into the wood.

Long minutes passed until sanity seeped back into Hank, and he eased his iron grip on the rail. He flexed his cramped fingers as he tried to make sense of his reaction. Why did the thought of some man abusing a woman he hardly knew bring out these murderous impulses? Why did he care that she had been injured in some city a thousand miles away?

Why the hell did he care that Olivia Kincaid might never be able to trust again?

Olivia jerked awake, her heart pounding in her breast. Her frantic gaze searched the brightly lit room until her memory kicked in. She lay on the living room sofa, and the dazzling artificial smile of a local newscaster glowed on the television screen.

What woke her?

"Olivia?" her father called.

She sighed in relief and swept back her tangled hair as she sat up. "In here, Dad."

Her father entered the room with his suit coat over his arm and his loosened tie askew. "I thought you'd be in bed."

"I was trying to stay awake until you got home." She smiled wryly. "Didn't quite make it."

His expression turned somber, and he lowered himself to the couch beside her. "Did something happen?"

Olivia laughed, but there was no humor in it. Ever since she was a child, he had ESP when it came to his daughter. "You could say that. Connie's mother is in the hospital in New Mexico. I asked Connie to call us when she knew anything." She slumped into the cushions. "She left right before lunch."

Her father shook his head. "That's a shame. I got the impression Connie and her mother are pretty close."

Connie had worked for the Kincaids since Olivia was ten. At one time Olivia had suspected her father and Connie of being more than friends, but if they were, they'd hidden it well. Now all Olivia could see between them was a comfortable relationship born of long years of acquaintance.

"So how did the men get fed?"

His question startled Olivia out of her musings. "Connie had lunch made already, and Hank, uh, Mr. Elliott helped me. I muddled through dinner, and so far none of the men have collapsed from food poisoning."

He smiled, relaxing visibly. "So
Mr. Elliott
gave you a hand?"

The way her father enunciated Hank's name told her he hadn't missed her gaffe. "Yes."

"Did Connie have any idea when she might return?"

"No."

He sighed. "That leaves us in somewhat of a pickle."

Whatever cobwebs remained in Olivia's head disappeared. "You know most of the people around the area. Can you think of someone who can cook and could use the extra money?" she asked, trying not to sound desperate.

"A lot of folks could use extra money, but there aren't many who can cook for a crew like we have here." He turned his head to meet her gaze squarely. "It sounds like you could do the job."

Olivia's heart skipped a beat, and she shook her head vehemently. "No. No way, Dad. I can't."

"You've already proved you can."

Her insides knotted into a hard fist. She pushed herself to her feet and flinched at the stiffness in her bad leg, but her anxiety made the discomfort negligible.

"I only did it because I didn't have a choice. No one else could do it," she said, her words coming out too fast.

Her father shrugged nonchalantly, but Olivia spied the shrewdness in his eyes. "You could've asked Buck to find someone to take care of the meals. I'm sure one of the men could've thrown something together for dinner, even if it was just soup and sandwiches."

"Buck offered to find someone," she admitted. "But I know how shorthanded you are already."

"I see."

Although there was no sarcasm in his voice, she recognized that tone. It was the same tone he used when chastising an overeager lawyer in his courtroom. She wasn't certain she liked the analogy.

He laid his coat on the arm of the sofa and clasped her arms. "You didn't have to cook, yet you did. Personally, I think that's a good sign. It means you're ready to take another step forward."

Her insides quaked, and her skin felt clammy. "I don't think—"

"I do," her father interrupted smoothly. "You can do it, if you put your mind to it." He released her and added gently, "But I'm going to leave the decision up to you, Liv."

Despite Olivia's misgivings, she
had
succeeded in feeding the men. A quiet thrill of satisfaction washed through her. It was a feeling she hadn't experienced since... since before the attack.

Could she accept the responsibility until Connie returned? Or would she crumble like she'd done over and over the past few months?

Cooking three meals a day didn't come close to facing a judge and jury in a courtroom, but it would be a step in the right direction. If she could conquer her fear of dealing with the ranch hands and, more importantly, the convicts, she would move closer to regaining her former life. The only life she'd ever wanted.

"All right." She cleared her throat. "I'll do it. But I'd like an assistant, another woman. And when Connie returns, she can stay on and help her until the fall when there won't be so many men to cook for."

He frowned. "And where do you expect this assistant to stay, in the bunkhouse with the men?"

"Of course not," Olivia replied impatiently, her mind racing for a solution. "How about the spare bedroom?"

"You wouldn't mind a stranger living in the house?"

"Not if it's a woman."

He appeared deep in thought for a long moment. "You make a good argument. It might work."

Olivia tilted her head and crossed her arms. "Well, Your Honor, will you grant the defendant her request?"

"You drive a hard bargain, ADA Kincaid." His face relaxed, and he smiled. "I'll run into town tomorrow and see who I can come up with."

Although she'd won, Olivia found it a Pyrrhic victory. She wouldn't have to work so closely with Hank Elliott, but she wouldn't have any walls protecting her from the convicts, either. She'd see them, but more dangerously, they'd see her. What if one of them was as ruthless as the man who'd attacked her after watching her for weeks?

She shuddered inwardly and took a shaky breath. No, no longer could she let what-ifs control her life. Besides, this was her father's ranch, her home. If she couldn't regain a sense of safety here, where could she?

Her father reached for his jacket and pulled a folded newspaper from the pocket. He handed it to Olivia. "Melinda Holcomb's story is in this week's paper."

Olivia stared at the newspaper. With a shaking hand, she reached for it but didn't attempt to unroll it. "How bad is it?" she asked hoarsely, her gaze aimed at the paper.

"Read it." Picking up his suit coat, he said, "It's been a long day. I'm going to lock up, then go to bed." He kissed her brow. "Good night, Liv."

"Night," she replied. Faintly aware of her father's leaving, Olivia lowered herself to the sofa. Light-headed with trepidation, she unfolded the newspaper, and the headline on the front page leapt out at her.

Olivia sank back into the cushion. Her mouth was bone dry, but morbid curiosity kept her from going into the kitchen to get a glass of water. The article taunted her with the same gory fascination as a traffic accident.

As Olivia perused the cold, hard facts, she separated herself from the woman described in Melinda's story. The litany of her injuries could've been a grocery list, and the charges against the assailant only brought to mind the customary sentences for each crime. Olivia had read countless reports about victims like this one as an assistant district attorney.

Only this victim was herself.

Olivia crushed the paper between her hands and threw her head back against the couch. Closing her eyes, she tried to erase the words from her mind, but the final sentence refused to be obliterated.

"Ms. Kincaid is currently in seclusion at her father's ranch, and hoping to someday overcome the horrors of that tragic night to return to a normal life."

Melinda basically stated that Olivia was a nutcase. But then, hadn't Olivia called herself that a thousand times since the "tragic night"? However, she hadn't announced it to the world. She'd hidden from it instead. She'd gone into "seclusion."

Melinda had laid out the black-and-white facts, but the way she'd spun them together left too many shades of gray. People would add their own hues and tints to the unanswered questions and come up with their own Technicolor version. Perhaps if Olivia had been more forthright with Melinda concerning the details, there'd be less for folks to speculate about. Or not.

People tended to believe what they wanted to believe, and anything more Olivia might have added would've only further fueled their imaginations. Besides, Melinda would've put a spin on those other details, too.

Damn the woman for turning her into Jackson County's most pitiful victim.

I silently come up behind her, looping the leather around her neck and twisting. I can smell her terror and cheap perfume and foul muskiness. Leaning closer, I close my eyes, breathing in the purity of leather. I hold on for another minute, ensuring she is gone. The innocent are now safe from her evil.

Chapter Six

The following morning, Olivia, with her father's and Hank's assistance, served the men a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage, and toast. Hank was stiffly polite, and she was grateful her father was there to act as a buffer between them.

After the men went to work, the sound of a vehicle coming up the driveway drew Olivia out of the dining hall. She shaded her eyes against the morning sun and recognized the county sheriff's SUV. Limping to the house, she arrived there at the same time as the sheriff. Her father came out of the house to join Olivia.

Sheriff Caleb Jordan stepped out of the four-by-four and strode over to greet them. He had stopped by the house a month ago to visit, and Olivia wasn't surprised the county sheriff she remembered from several years ago had long since retired. Sheriff Jordan didn't have a potbelly hanging over his belt like old Sheriff Mitchell had, and he appeared to be only in his early to midthirties.

"Judge Kincaid," he said, extending his hand. He removed his wide-brimmed hat, revealing a head full of dark hair that curled over his ears and down to his collar. His blue-green eyes met Olivia's. "Good morning, Ms. Kincaid."

"Hello, Sheriff," she said with a smile. Despite his formal manner, the lawman made her feel comfortable and safe.

"Come on inside and have some coffee," her father said. "Join us, Olivia?"

She nodded, glad to be included, and led the men into the kitchen. After they all had cups of coffee, her father asked the sheriff, "So what brings you all the way out here?"

"Do you know Melinda Curry Holcomb?" Sheriff Jordan asked without preamble.

Olivia glanced at her father, who seemed as puzzled as her.

"Yes, we both do," he replied.

"Melinda and I went to school together," Olivia added. "She was here about two weeks ago." She shifted uncomfortably. "Interviewing me for a story for the county paper."

Jordan nodded but didn't display any reaction. "Did she mention anything about going out of town?"

"Not to me."

The judge lifted his hands and shook his head.

Jordan took a deep breath and sighed. "She's missing. Her mother went over to see why she hadn't returned her calls from the day before, and it looked like Ms. Holcomb hadn't been home for a few days. No one has seen her, and her car is missing."

"Maybe she took off for a week or two. She's done it before," the judge said wryly.

The sheriff shrugged. "That was my guess, too. Some folks I talked to said she was planning a trip to Las Vegas, but her mother insists she would've told her if she was going out of town."

Her father grimaced. "I think Melinda doesn't tell her mother everything she does."

Olivia didn't know Melinda very well but suspected she was still the type who'd do
what
she wanted
when
she wanted. However, Olivia's experience as an ADA wouldn't allow her to totally dismiss her former classmate's disappearance as a lark. There was always the possibility, no matter how remote, that Melinda hadn't left of her own free will.

Sheriff Jordan traced his cup handle with his forefinger and thumb. "I've talked to nearly everybody in this county, and no one's seen her. I'll put an APB out on her car and check her credit cards to see if she's charged anything lately."