Convictions (9 page)

"I'm sure she'll turn up eventually," her father said. He frowned. "What else is bothering you, Caleb?"

She had noticed the weary lines in the sheriff's face, too, and wondered if Melinda's case had put them there.

The lawman rubbed his eyes. "Two days ago the remains of a woman were found just over the state line in Wyoming. The state crime unit said she was murdered seven or eight years ago. They'll have a better idea of time after the autopsy."

"That's not your jurisdiction," Olivia said.

Sheriff Jordan glanced at her. "No, but since the body was found so close to the Jackson County line, our office has been enlisted to help with the investigation."

"Have they identified the body yet?" the judge asked.

"Not yet, but they're hoping to by the end of the week."

Olivia shivered. Who was the victim? Was she somebody from the rural area, somebody whose picture was on a missing person's poster? Or was it someone nobody had missed?

Sheriff Jordan finished his coffee and stood. Olivia rose so she wouldn't get a crick in her neck from looking up at him. She followed the two men out the front door.

"How's that boy of yours, Caleb?" her father asked, his grim expression giving way to a genial grin.

The sheriff's smile transformed his stoic features into breathtakingly handsome. And Olivia couldn't help but wonder why she was attracted to a convict like Hank Elliott, rather than this lawman.

"He turned five last week," the sheriff replied, his eyes glowing with pride. "It's hard to imagine it's been that long since—" He broke off and glanced away.

The judge clapped his shoulder. "He's a fine boy, Caleb. You have a right to be proud of him."

When Jordan turned back to the judge, he'd regained his composure, but there was a hint of melancholy in his eyes. "I am, Judge. He's the one thing Jeannie gave me that I'm grateful for."

The two men shook hands, then Sheriff Jordan nodded to Olivia. "Good-bye, Ms. Kincaid."

"How did the sheriff end up back here?" Olivia asked her father as Jordan drove away. "I thought he joined the army after high school."

"He did. He married a gal he met while he was in the service. Six months after he got out and moved back here, she took off with another man. Last Caleb heard, she was living in Omaha with her third husband. Not once has she come back to see her son." Her father shook his head in disgust. He glanced at his watch. "I need to drive into Walden and look for a cook's assistant."

"Good luck, Dad," she said fervently.

Lunch passed uneventfully, with Hank coming to the dining room fifteen minutes early to help her get the food on the tables. She was startled by how much pleasure she felt when he arrived.

This time she remained close to the kitchen doorway, watching the men eat. Although she was somewhat nervous being the only woman in the roomful of men, the irrational fear was absent. Buoyed by her progress, she ate the hamburger casserole she'd made as she studied the men.

Nobody paid her undue interest, and her gaze settled on the end of one of the tables, where the prisoners sat together. The youngest one, Barton, was talking with Lopez, a Hispanic with a scar on his left cheek. On first glance, Lopez appeared to be a dangerous man, but his quiet laughter dispelled that impression. The brown-haired prisoner with washed-out features was shaking his head at Hank, but there was a hint of a smile on his face. Olivia wondered if maybe she'd judged the convicts too harshly, that her father could be right about them. They were only men who'd made a bad choice but who were basically decent human beings.

But then Mantle caught her eye, and the wink he gave her made her skin crawl. She gave her attention to her food, although her appetite deserted her. There was something about Mantle that reminded her of a rat leaving a sinking ship.

Restless, she pushed her plate back and rose. Ignoring the men and her cane, she went out the back door and leaned against the wall.

A warm breeze mixed with the scents of sage, horse, and grass flowed gently against her face. She closed her eyes and breathed in the familiar fragrance. Muted voices and the occasional laugh drifted to her, and that, too, was familiar—achingly so.

Childhood memories, innocent and carefree, contrasted sharply with the adult Olivia's dark thoughts. For a minute, she wallowed in those childhood reminiscences. Even chores she'd disliked as a child—shoveling manure and hauling hay bales as big as her into the barn—brought a dull pain of longing for the past. Things were simpler then. What did a young girl know about perverts and stalkers who liked to hurt women?

"Hello, Ms. Kincaid."

Olivia jerked and turned to see one of the convicts standing about ten feet away. Instinctively, she tried to take a step back, but she was literally against the wall. However, the prisoner, Reger, wasn't lunging toward her, and his hands were in his pockets.

Her heart racing and her palms sweating, she managed a stiff nod of greeting.

"Lunch was real good, ma'am. My mom used to make something like it when I was a kid," he said.

"I-I'm glad you liked it." Olivia slid her gaze to the cookhouse door and estimated how long it would take to get inside and lock the door behind her.

Reger studied her, and Olivia used every ounce of willpower to stay in place. She didn't see any sign of arrogance or cruelty in his expression, and she breathed deeply to allay the hysteria she courted so closely.

"I saw the article. I'm sorry for what happened to you," he said.

Olivia's mind blanked for a moment before she determined what he was referring to. "You saw it?"

"Yes, ma'am. We all did."

So they all knew she was a victim. Her throat, as well as her stomach, convulsed, and she was glad she hadn't eaten much. She raised her chin and spoke with a dry mouth. "As you can see, I'm perfectly fine except for my leg. And that'll heal in time."

"I'm glad to hear that, Ms. Kincaid." He touched the brim of his ball cap and dipped his head, then walked away.

Hysterical laughter bubbled up, but she forced it back down. The moment she'd talked to Melinda, she'd known her life would be in the spotlight. So why did the knowledge that Reger and the other convicts knew of her attack disturb her? Once a victim, always a victim? Would she forever carry this fear inside her?

And what about Hank? Was his recent reticence related to the newspaper story? Did he pity her?

Nausea washed through her. She wasn't some helpless creature to be pitied, yet that's how Melinda had painted her. And isn't that how Olivia had been acting, like some damned victim afraid of her own shadow?

She slipped back into the kitchen, and for the next few hours, she focused on her tasks so she didn't have to think about fear or pity or being a helpless victim. If she did, she was afraid she'd fly into a million pieces.

It was midafternoon when she heard the return of her father's truck. She limped onto the porch and used her hand to shade her eyes against the bright sun to watch her father park in front of the cookhouse.

"Mission accomplished," he said as he stepped out of the truck.

Olivia shifted her gaze to his passenger, who got out and looked around curiously. The young woman appeared to be only nineteen or twenty, with long brown hair caught in a ponytail that hung halfway down her back.

Olivia leaned toward her father and said in a low voice, "She's awfully young."

He shrugged. "She was the only one I found who was interested." He turned to the new employee. "Dawn, come over and meet my daughter."

Olivia smiled slightly as the girl slid her hands in her pockets and gave her a measuring look.

"Olivia, this is your new assistant, Dawn Williams," her father introduced.

Olivia stuck out her hand, and Dawn stared at it a moment before slowly withdrawing her right hand from her jeans pocket and shaking Olivia's. "Nice to meet you, Ms. Kincaid."

"Call me Olivia." She turned to her father, who was looking more than a little pleased with himself.

"I happened to run into Dawn at the post office, and we started talking. She said she needed a job, and I said I needed a cook's assistant." He smiled at the girl. "Worked out for both of us."

Dawn shrugged. "I just finished my first year of college and was looking for a summer job. Like Mr. Kincaid said, it was sheer luck that put him in my path."

"Lucky on our part," Olivia amended. "Would you like to see where you'll be staying?"

She shrugged. "Sure. I'll get my bags."

Dawn had only two bags. She carried one, and Olivia's father carried the larger suitcase into the house. Olivia led them past her own bedroom to a smaller room at the end of the hallway. It had a double bed, dresser, desk, and bookshelf.

Dawn walked around the room, touching the furniture and running a hand across the quilt on the bed. There was little expression on the girl's face, and she remained silent during her examination.

Olivia frowned and glanced at her father, who appeared as puzzled as her by the girl's behavior.

"I know it isn't much, but—" Olivia began.

"No, it's fine," Dawn reassured. She glanced down, but not before Olivia thought she spotted moisture in her eyes. "It's just that I've lived in foster homes around Denver since I was thirteen, so I'm not used to having a room of my own. I've always had to share with other girls."

Sympathy filled Olivia. "I'm sorry."

Dawn shrugged, and there was no sign of tears in her eyes when she raised her head. Instead, her chin tilted pugnaciously. "Don't be. I'm used to it." She set her bag on the bed. "Your father said I'd probably be starting work right away. I'm ready."

Dawn marched out the door and down the hallway.

Olivia leaned close to her father. "She doesn't seem to be a slacker."

He shook his head. "No, I don't think that'll be a problem."

"But something else might be?"

"She told me about the foster homes but didn't mention any family. I have a feeling she might have a chip on her shoulder."

"But you hired her anyway?"

"She was desperate, and my instincts were telling me to trust her."

Olivia hoped her father's instincts were right.

"You'd better get out there before she takes over your kitchen," her father teased.

"She does know how to cook, right?"

He furrowed his brow. "Well, I didn't exactly ask her flat out if she could."

Olivia laughed. "If she doesn't, she will soon." She noticed as her father rubbed his left shoulder and grimaced slightly. "Something wrong, Dad?"

"Nothing some Ben-Gay won't cure. I keep forgetting I'm not as young as I used to be."

Olivia patted his arm. "None of us are."

She followed in the wake of her new helper and found Dawn looking around the cookhouse.

"So what do I do?" she asked when Olivia entered.

"There's a pail of potatoes in the pantry. You can peel them while I get the meat ready for the oven," Olivia said.

Dawn wrinkled her nose but didn't comment.

Olivia smiled to herself as she unwrapped the huge package of pork chops and began to line the first of four flat oven pans with them.

"How did you like your first year of college?" Olivia asked.

Dawn kept paring a potato. "It was okay."

"What kind of degree are you going for?"

She finished one and picked up another. "I'm not sure yet. Biology's kind of interesting."

"Maybe something in medicine?"

"Maybe."

Awkward silence grew between them.

"You said you spent time in foster homes?" Olivia asked gingerly.

Dawn nodded.

"What happened to your family?"

The girl glanced away. "My parents died in a car accident."

Olivia suddenly wished she'd kept her curiosity in check and her mouth shut.

"What happened to your leg?" Dawn suddenly asked.

Tit for tat.
Not that Olivia blamed her. "A man hit it with a baseball bat."

Dawn's eyes widened, and she paused in her task. "On purpose?"

Olivia turned away and set the first pan filled with pork chops on the counter. "Yes."

"That sucks."

Olivia chuckled, relieved by her response. "Yeah, it sucks all right. But I'm pretty lucky the limp isn't permanent."

"Yeah, lucky." Dawn didn't sound convinced.

All in all, Olivia was pleased with her father's choice of an assistant. It was only Dawn's age and prettiness that made her uneasy. She could be a temptation the hired hands, especially the convicts, might not resist. She would just have to ensure Dawn wasn't put in direct contact with them.

By the time the men were returning from their day's work, Dawn had the tables set. While the ranch hands were cleaning the day's grime off, the girl put out the food.

Hank Elliott entered the dining hall first. His gaze caught sight of the new employee, and he froze, his eyes wide. "Dawn?"

Olivia hardly recognized the hoarse voice as Hank's.

The girl froze and pivoted slowly. Her eyes flashed, and her lips pressed into a thin line. "Hello, big brother."

Chapter Seven

Hank's vision tunneled in on his little sister, and all he could hear was the virulence in her voice lingering in the air. Although he hadn't seen her in two years, he recognized her immediately. Those same hazel eyes met his each morning in the mirror. Her chin, raised pugnaciously, was a smaller version of his, though the cleft was less noticeable. Her dark brown hair, too, matched his, but her thick hair was wavy while his was too short to be anything but straight.

He took one step closer but no more. "What're you doing here?"

"I work here," she replied flatly. She motioned to his shirt. "I see nothing's changed—you're still a jailbird."

Hank glanced down at the words Wilson Correctional Facility stenciled above the left breast pocket. He'd become so accustomed to it, he rarely thought about the label that branded him a prisoner. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to rip the damned shirt off, but instead crushed the ball cap he held between his hands. "Only for another few months."