CHAPTER ONE

“Yuck. This is like sloshing around in mud with pigs!”
Abby McMillan’s frustrated cry bounced off the trees and slid away into the brush. Not even an echo kept her company as she trudged down the muddy track. Her lemon-of-a-rental-car sat miles back on this rutted drive that was supposed to lead to the Lazy Bee Ranch.
“I drove five miles then walked another five. Who in their right mind lives this far off the beaten track?” she mumbled. “Maybe this Bradford guy isn't safe. I like my solitude, but this is nuts.”
She stopped and dug a copy of his ad from the purse slung over her shoulder. It was a bit late to check directions, but better now than after she walked another five miles in the wrong direction . . . in the rain.
On the back of the sheet, she’d written:
Turn off a short distance after seeing the sign “Welcome to Canadian, Texas.” Road has sign pointing to Lazy Bee Ranch.

Abby grinned. The town was the real reason she applied for this job. Sure, she needed money and a home for her horse, but it had to be some kind of omen - a Canadian Dressage rider working on a horse ranch in Canadian, Texas?
She had turned where Mr. Bradford said, so it was the right road - if you could call twin tracks, deep in mud, running through trees like an endless tunnel, a road.
She flipped the page to read the ad pasted on the other side.
Require teacher, cook, and housekeeper for eight-year old girl and uncle on remote horse ranch in Canadian, Texas.

The remainder of the piece listed the money offered and the telephone number she called to make arrangements for today’s interview.
As big fat rain drops splatted on the paper making the words bleed, she shoved the note back in her purse. She would not consider the rain an omen. Her omens were only good. Since she needed a job and she’d already walked forever down this track, there’d be no going back. The job would be hers, the last stop before she headed home for Olympic trials.
Of course, there was the small matter of a green card to deal with first - the one she didn’t have.

CHAPTER ONE

Okay, lay it on me.
Rafe Matthews refused to look cowed and stared into the eyes of the judge, a man with weathered skin and bed head. The guy looked more like a farmer than a judge in the criminal courts of Boston.
“Mr. Matthews, beyond rescinding your driver’s license for a period of six months, you will complete two hundred hours of community service.” The judge dropped his gavel with a sharp bang. “And don’t look at me like that. I’m letting you off easy because you have no record. The time is nothing compared to what you’ll find yourself doing if you ignore the order of this court.”
Rafe eyed the judge in disbelief. Not because of the sentence, he was still reeling from the guilty verdict. He should have been prepared. His lawyer warned him they wouldn’t win, but there’d been a small part of him expecting the judge to do the right thing. He was innocent in all the ways that counted. Sure, the blood tests said he’d been driving while high on barbiturates but he never did drugs, seldom took so much as an aspirin. All he’d had the day of the accident was coffee. He’d been so busy there hadn’t been time to stop for lunch.
The court should have believed him because of his record, his word, and his prominence in the community. He knew people with a history of driving drunk. They never seemed to get more than a fine and a slap on the hand. It wouldn’t hurt for people like that to lose their license and do at bit of community service. So much for the integrity of the American justice system.
His mind got pulled back into the courtroom when the prosecuting attorney began to speak. She stepped out between the desks and moved toward the judge.
From behind her, Rafe admired the view. The woman’s shapely little back side took him momentarily out of his dilemma, until he noticed the ring on her finger. Off limits. When her words began to sink in, he stood up straighter.
Maybe, if it hadn’t been for what she was saying, he would have found her voice as enchanting as her bum. Its musical lilt began to hypnotize him until she hit the words, “There’s a severe shortage of volunteers in the Big Brother program.”
“And you think the defendant fits the criteria of a Big Brother?” The judge shook his mane of lion-colored hair and Rafe saw the animal, waiting to pounce. “I don’t think so.”
The diatribe between judge and prosecutor continued.
“Maybe not with the usual boy, sir, but the child I have in mind will teach Mr. Matthews a thing or two. Of course, I’d have to check with his mother first.” Ms. D’Amico turned her head to glance at Rafe.
The judge studied the pages in front of him. Finally he said, “Well, Counselor, this is his first offense. If the mother of the child in question is willing to have him befriend her son, I’ll leave it to you to arrange things.”
He turned to Rafe. “Mr. Matthews, do you have anything to say to Counsel’s suggestion?”
“I don’t know anything about kids. What am I supposed to do with a kid for two hundred hours?”
“I’m sure, if you ask nicely, Ms. D’Amico will tutor you,” the judge replied with great sarcasm. “But with your history of women and partying, I have a warning first. Take any of your women near this boy, show up drunk or high, or drink or take drugs when you’re around the child—”
“I don’t do drugs,” Rafe insisted.
“That’s what they all say. Don’t interrupt me again, Mr. Matthews, unless you want to be charged with Contempt of Court. With that I can throw your sorry ass in jail right now.”
“Sorry, your honor,” he muttered quickly. He couldn’t handle jail, especially when this all started over a crime he hadn’t committed.
The judge stared at him, cleared his throat, and continued. “As I was saying -- if you have anything to do with alcohol, women, or drugs while in the presence of the child, you will go to jail, Mr. Matthews. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir, I understand.”
“Then you may sit down.”
God, there weren’t enough hours in his day already. Now he had to play nursemaid to some kid. How long did it take to work off two hundred hours? Sounded like a life sentence.
“Ms. D’Amico,” Rafe heard the judge announce, “I want a report from you on how this endeavor proceeds. Let’s say, two weeks from today. If it’s not working prior to that, let me know immediately.” He looked at Rafe and then back to the lawyer. “If I have to, I’ll find something else to keep Mr. Matthews out of trouble.”
The old fart made it sound like he’d been in trouble his whole life. Guess it only took one incident for some people.
Sure, there’d been stupid behavior when he was a kid, but nothing to bring him to court. He’d always confessed to his wrong-doings. Of course, it had to be easier to say you did something when you actually had.
He rubbed his brow to ease the headache beginning to throb. This was different. The whole thing stunk and he hadn’t yet figured out how he’d been caught in it, or why.
His arm gave him a jolt. In an attempt to ease it, he rubbed over the sling and cast, the only remaining symbols of the car crash that had instigated today’s court appearance.
He thought about that day for the hundredth time. They said he had drugs in his system. Since there was no reason for anyone to falsify test results, it had to be true. If he hadn’t taken anything, which he hadn’t, it meant someone in his company had put the drug in his coffee before he left the office.
What other explanation could there be? But how did he prove it? He knew who handed him the coffee, but not if the same person had poured it or if it had been set down where another person could have tampered with it.
Who in his company wanted him dead? There could be no other reason to drug him and then send him off in his car. Someone wanted him gone for good.
Now the problem became how to find the responsible party. He couldn’t openly ask questions without showing his hand. If he found the reason someone was trying to get him, it should point to the person or persons involved.
To him, his prime concern right now should be searching for discrepancies within his company records, not entertaining a kid. With this sentence, he had to make time for both. Neither one could take second place. He’d already made the decision to clear his name or die trying. What was a man without honor? And if he really was an honorable man, he had to do the best possible job with the sentence he’d been handed.
So today it was about the kid. He’d find out whatever he needed to know and get working on it. Surely, finding things for a kid to do couldn’t be too hard. He’d been a kid once. With his arm in a cast, he couldn’t do his normal job at work right now anyway. So the time saved there could be spent trying to track down the person with murder on his mind.
Vaguely, Rafe heard the bang of the gavel. His lawyer grabbed the good arm and dragged him to his feet on the bailiff’s order to rise.
With one last look of contempt toward Rafe, the judge marched from the room and the knot in Rafe’s gut twisted.
“Well, Buddy, that’s as good as we could hope for.” His lawyer and college friend, John McIntosh, turned to him, pulling him from his brooding thoughts. “Judge would have gone easier if you’d admitted guilt.”
“And I told you, I will never say I’m guilty of something I didn’t do, no matter the consequences.”
“The evidence—”
“To hell with the evidence, John! I told you what must have happened. And you know me. You’ve known me long enough to understand why I will never do drugs. You of all people should believe me when I say there shouldn’t have been anything in my system that day – illegal or otherwise.”
Rafe gave an exasperated sigh and raised his hand before the lawyer could respond. “No, don’t say any more. You’ve said it all before. Without proof, I didn’t have a chance in hell of beating the charge. It’s not you or the court I’m mad at, but I’ll get even with the guy who set me up. When I remember the missing bits from that day and then figure out what’s going on, I’ll let you know. Now, what do I have to do?”
His lawyer didn’t need to answer as Ms. D’Amico, was standing at his shoulder and interrupted.

CHAPTER ONE

Dani Donaldson marched up the drive. It might be unseasonably warm for April, with a bright and cloudless sky, but anyone who knew this redhead would recognize the storm brewing.
Anger shot sparks of lightening in her blue eyes and seemed ready to torch whatever, or whoever, stepped in her path. No doubt about it, Dani was on the warpath.
As owner of the soon to open Garden Delights Greenhouse and Gift Shop, Dani counted on sales to the landscaping section of Bannington’s Trucking and Landscaping to help her fledgling company get established. If she could make a deal to sell Bannington’s all their landscape plants, her garden center would be out of the red that much faster. She knew she had to keep her temper today even though their locked and apparently empty office, and the missing potting soil they were supposed to deliver last Friday, precipitated this march down the rutted and uneven drive toward the single roof peak she could see above the treetops. She prayed someone would know what had happened to her soil or she’d have to get it from Smithville, twice as expensive and more than thirty miles away.
It’s Monday and it’s not just the non-delivery of the soil causing Dani problems. No one answered Bannington’s phone. Nor had they responded to the dozen messages she’d left over the weekend. She needed to know what was going on before she made other plans. All this threatened the scheduled opening of Garden Delights.
Rivertown was a small community. If Bannington’s had closed his doors, she would have heard by now, wouldn’t she?
“God help the man when I find him,” she muttered as she walked. “If this is the way Bannington runs the place, it shouldn’t surprise me if he has gone out of business.” She cursed in anticipation of that event.
A large yellow dog came galloping down the drive toward her and Dani’s anger ran for cover.
His tail wagged, and he wasn’t barking. That’s a good thing, right? Sure as the sun comes up, she couldn’t outrun the beast. Better to make friends.
So she held out a hand and tentatively offered, “Hi there. You’re a pretty fella. Where’s your master?” The tail continued to wag as the dog approached, sniffed her hand, and gave it a sloppy lick. Dani froze while she prayed the lick wasn’t precursor to a bite. She breathed a sigh of relief when the dog leaned against her leg in search of attention.
“I’m glad you’re a nice fellow, but I’ve got more important things to do today than make friends with you.” She rubbed his ears. “I hope you’ll pardon me for saying this, but you really aren’t much of a watch dog. Weren’t you supposed to bark at me?” The tail continued to wag. “No? Well, come on. I have to find someone who knows what happened to my soil.”
As she neared the end of the path, she smelled the familiar odor of oil and diesel fuel, and discovered that the roof she’d seen from the parking lot belonged to a large garage. A loud clanging crash sent her scrambling down the rest of the drive and around to the other side of the building.
“Bloody hell! Damn, lousy, cow flippin, mother loving, mangy, flea-bitten, son of a . . .”
Dani smiled. She’d worked in her father’s construction business from the time she was a teen. Even when she was just a kid, those weren’t the words the construction men used, and this was definitely a man’s voice.
As she cleared the end of the building, a large dump truck blocked her way. Various bits and pieces of its innards lay strewn across the grass. She couldn’t see anyone, but could hear a hissing from somewhere beneath the truck.
“Are you all right? Do you need help?” she called out.
Without hesitation, the same deep voice boomed, “No! Damn it! How can I be all right? I’m two days behind in deliveries, one of my driver’s is on vacation, the other in the hospital, Jamie’s pregnant and not worth a wooden nickel as far as work goes, and now I’ve gone and sliced my hand open. How the hell am I supposed to be all right?”
Dani raised her eyebrows, surprised at such a recitation to a stranger. She was sorry she’d asked the question. His tirade made her problems seem insignificant, but she still needed to find out what had happened to her soil. Although, maybe she already knew.
Following the sound of his voice around the truck, she found a pair of well-worn boots and the frayed cuffs of a pair of jean protruding from under the front bumper. Bending over to direct her voice under the truck so she didn’t have to yell, she asked, “What I meant was do you need help? Can you get out of there? Maybe you need me to pull you out, or should I call 9-1-1?”
Slowly the feet began to inch their way from beneath the truck. Dani watched as long legs encased in soft, worn jeans came into view. A rip from the hem to just above the left knee exposed a length of muscled, hairy calf. Firm thighs, narrow hips, and a washboard stomach covered in a grease-smeared T-shirt, joined the legs. As the solid chest made an appearance, Dani wondered if the ground had shifted under her feet. She dismissed it as being caused by her sudden movement when she straightened. It must have drained the blood from her head too fast . . . or something. No man made her dizzy – definitely not one this dirty and one she’d yet to meet.
Broad shoulders and a curly head of black hair emerged, and Dani let out the breath she’d been holding in a gasp. Even covered with grease and sweat, this guy was something else. Right now her frazzled brain couldn’t seem to find the right label to describe what that “something” was. When he turned slate gray eyes on her, she sucked in much needed air.
Now out from beneath the truck, he rose on an elbow and slowly examined Dani from toes to head. As his eyes traveled up, the sun hit his face. He squinted then grinned.
While he checked her out, Dani regretted not changing her clothes before she’d headed over here, but to his credit he paused only briefly at the mud smeared breast level across her shirt. When he reached her face, the smile changed and he became businesslike.
“Sorry for the cursing, miss. I didn’t know there was anyone here. This area isn’t open to the public.” He frowned when he looked at his dog leaning against Dani’s leg while she fondled his ears. Then his eyes went back to Dani’s face, and he grinned broadly before declaring, “Cute stripe. Does it mean something?”
“Pardon me?” Surely he wasn’t rude enough to make such a comment about the dirt on her shirt. Involuntarily her hands crossed over her breasts.
“On your cheek,” he laughed.
Dani felt her face flame with embarrassment as her hands flew to rub the gritty texture of mud from one cheek.
“A little more. There, you got it.”
Annoyed, she couldn’t resist expressing her own observation. “If you could see your own face, you wouldn’t think mine was so bad.”
He jerked upright to run a rag over his face, but the gruesome smear of blood he added to the dirt and stubble of beard, made her cringe. It was obvious the rag was wrapped around the hand he’d just cut. It wasn’t doing much to stop the bleeding as red oozed from under the dirty fabric and dripped to the ground even as Dani watched.
She swallowed hard managing, “You’re hurt.” She pointed at the hand.
He shook his head in obvious annoyance, and re-wrapped the rag. “I’m fine,” he shot at her.
The terseness of his words reminded Dani she was supposed to be angry. Without further hesitation she began, “Okay, then I’ll get to the point. I’m Dani Donaldson from the new garden center. I’ve come in search of my potting soil, the stuff you were supposed to deliver on Friday. I knew this wasn’t a public area, but since there’s no one in your office—”
“Damn it!” he interrupted. “Jamie not in yet?” He didn’t wait for a response. “Well, Ms. Donaldson, I promise you’ll be at the top of our list tomorrow. How’s that?”
He grinned broadly, his teeth sparkling against the backdrop of dirt and blood. Dani figured the grin had gotten him out of lots of trouble in the past, and vowed not to let it influence her now.
“I’m sorry about your problems, but I need the soil today. If you can’t deliver it, I’ll have to find someone who can.” She tried to make the words as icy as possible. She didn’t like this guy. “I’ve already given you two days grace.” Was he even listening?
“I’m aware we promised the soil for Friday, but things happen. Frank’s appendix ruptured Thursday night, so I’m a driver short – two actually, but Steve will be back tomorrow. Sometimes we have to adjust. All I can do is fix this beast so we can get caught up in the next couple of days. The longer the truck is down, the further behind we get. Surely a few hours won’t cause you too many problems.”
His dismissal of her was obvious as he flopped down and started back under the truck. While she struggled to hold her temper, furious at being dealt with as if her concerns were insignificant, he pulled back and propped the elbow under him again.
“If you know anyone who can drive that truck,” he hitched a thumb in the direction of a second dump truck parked behind the first, “you can have your soil today. Otherwise, my time has to be spent fixing this one so we can catch up as quickly as possible.”
“I have to have the soil today if I’m to be open by next week, and I have to be open by next week. The ads have all gone out already. I will be open next week.” She repeated the phrase like a mantra.
Dani hadn’t told anyone about the line of work she’d grown up doing in hopes people wouldn’t connect her to her miserable father. Even though the small town of Rivertown, Ohio, was only a short distance from her father’s construction company in White River, driving one of the Bannington trucks would be like hanging an advertising banner across the I-90. She shrugged. It was already too late to change her name. If she delivered her own dirt, she’d get what she came for and give Bannington a hand at the same time.
Decision made, she announced, “I can drive the truck and the front-end loader needed to fill it. Show me where to go.”
He sat up straight. “How do I know you can drive anything? You could kill yourself and destroy my equipment in the process just because you’re in an all-fired hurry for your damned mud!”
The temper in his voice surprised Dani. Did he want the stuff delivered, or didn’t he?
Pushing down her annoyance, and the lump that seemed to rise at the mere thought of what she was about to tell him, she offered, “My license is out front in my truck. I’ve worked for both my father, and Andersen’s Trucking for the past ten years. There’s no machine I can’t run.”
His face lit up. “At last, a piece of good news!” he said and let out his breath. “I don’t suppose you’ve got the rest of the day free?”
“Look, are you Bannington?”
“Right. Sorry. Eric Bannington.” He finally pulled himself to his feet, to tower over Dani’s five-toot ten frame. When he stepped forward and raised his hand, more blood dripped. Quickly he pulled the rag tighter, although it couldn’t help much. The rag was almost soaked through.
He laughed. “I’m a bit dirty so I guess it’s better if I don’t shake your hand.”
Dani made a face. “I’m not one to find dirt a problem.” She put her hand to the side of her face with a smile, “but I think your hand needs attention.”
“Yeah. When I’m done here, Ms. Donaldson.”
She shrugged. “It’s your hand. And it’s Dani. I just want my soil. I have enough of my own work waiting for me at home.”
“Well, Dani, I’ll make you a deal—”
“Look.” It was her turn to interrupt. “I’m not here to make a deal.” She sucked in a breath. “All I want is the top soil you were supposed to deliver days ago. You said if I knew someone who could drive your truck, I could have it. I’m sorry, but my business has to be my only concern right now.”
“I need lots of plants for my landscaping business, right? Well, I’ll buy them from you, exclusively, if you give me a hand today.”
He’d walked right over her words, the swine. She’d love to tell him what he could do with his bloody soil, but if she had to call to Smithville for it, she’d be waiting another week and paying more than her budget allowed. The problem was that he knew that as well. It was most likely why he wasn’t at all concerned with either her threat, or the problems his delay had caused her. She might as well rein in her temper and listen to his pitch. After all, she did want exclusive rights to his business.
Whether she was willing to listen or not didn’t matter. It seemed he was about to tell her anyway.
“I’ve got a big landscaping job coming up over in Southampton - the new city center. Then two new houses lined up to do before the end of next month. It would be worth your while to give me hand.”
Dani gave a bitter laugh. “It’s only reasonable for you to buy from Garden Delights anyway, since I’m a block away and my prices will be lower than any place over in White River or Smithville. Doesn’t sound like such a deal to me.”
When he didn’t say any more, she sighed. “What do you need me to do? I’m not saying I’ll do it, mind you, but . . .” she looked down and kicked the gravel at her feet, already knowing where she was going. She didn’t have time for this, but still she said, “If I do it for you, it’s not for free, Bannington. You can give me credit for future purchases if you can’t afford to pay me.”
“Eric. The name is Eric.” He didn’t pause long enough for her to respond listing the jobs he needed done, and finishing with, “Then your soil. The rest can wait for Steve to do tomorrow.”
“Do I have to load the truck myself?”
“You said you could.”
Annoyance, sharp and tight, made his words vibrate. Dani wondered why he seemed angry all of a sudden. If she was offering to help, shouldn’t he be a little more . . . well, kind at least?
As if on the same wavelength, he sighed and added, “I suppose I can do it, but I’ll need you to spread the gravel. Not with the grader, just as much as you can when you dump it. Do you know how to do that?”
With as much sarcasm as she could muster, she offered, “Maybe you want to come with me on the first run, just to make sure I’m safe with your precious truck, and people aren’t going to sue you because I buried their poodle in the driveway.”
He grimaced. “Anybody ever do that?”
“Oh, yeah, but not me. Believe me; I’m safe, licensed, and insured. I’ll do your three jobs, but that’s it. Let me get my purse. I need my license, and boots would be good.” She looked down at her sandal-clad feet and without another word turned her back to head down the drive to her truck. The dog trotted happily beside her.
***

CHAPTER ONE

The winding road demanded her attention as the darkness reached out and sucked her in. Jackie imagined it would be like this if she’d been swallowed by a whale. She laughed at her fanciful thought.
A jagged flash of lightening allowed her to see beyond the narrow strip of asphalt in front of the car. There hadn’t been another vehicle in hours and she couldn’t say how long it had been since she’d seen any kind of building.
Where in blazes was she? Maybe she’d driven right out of Kentucky - like maybe crossed into the Twilight Zone? She shivered and laughed again. Jonah and the Twilight Zone were not preferred traveling companions.
Her stomach intruded with a growl, reminding her that dinnertime had long passed. It was after midnight. She wasn’t about to die from lack of food, but if she didn’t find a bathroom soon she’d have to brave the bushes.
She glanced to the side of the road. “Have you any idea what could be in those bushes, Jackie? Snakes, bears, poison ivy, muggers.” Another laugh. “You’re not going to find a mugger in those bushes. Wake up, girl! You’re not in New York. You haven’t seen a soul in hours.”
Even more pressing than a bathroom was the gas gauge, hovering on empty for the last half hour. Her nerves grew tighter as miles rolled by with no sign of life. To break the monotony of the swish, swish of the wipers, or so she told herself, she talked to herself - out loud.
“Golly, it’s dark.” She tugged on her long blond hair and wrapped a strand around a finger. “Jackie Marshall, you didn’t really say ‘golly’, did you? Get a grip! Jeff would call you a country bumpkin?”
She sputtered. “Stop that! Jeff is not here. Besides, his opinion isn’t worth squat. Get over it. You’re fine without him. In fact, you’re better than fine. So you’re a bit nervous. This trek across country isn’t to get away from Jeff, and you are not crazy because you left a great paying job and set off on your own – no matter what some people might think.”
She jumped at the next flash of lightening, shivered as the ensuing rumble seemed to crawl down her spine like a snake.
Squinting through the windshield at the black and rainy night, she yanked the hand from her hair and slapped it hard on the wheel. “Girl, this is not a road to drive one-handed, even if you knew where it went. You haven’t got a clue.” She sucked in a deep breath to settle her nerves. “Maybe I have lost my mind. Why else would I be out here in the middle of God-knows-where, in this kind of weather, on the darkest night in history?”
Peering through the windshield, she strained to see something beyond the shiny black path of road as it snaked its way around the hillside. Or to think of something other than the bushes and trees along the edge that seemed to reach their bony fingers to grab at her as she passed. Was the road getting narrower?
“Just a light. All I need is a light. Any kind of man-made light will do.”
The night was blacker than any she could remember, but she’d spent the last five years in New York City. What did she remember about dark nights? How would she manage if she had car trouble? She glanced at the gas gauge.
“And then there’s that gas thing. If the cell phone’s not working I can’t even call the auto club. And then, what would I tell them if I could? How can you give directions when you don’t know where you are?”
When she couldn’t answer her questions, she changed tactics and hummed a little tune for the next mile. She had to quit that when she could no longer stand the noise. Singing was one of the things she didn’t do well. She’d always known she had the singing voice of a sick frog.
“You’ll come across something soon, Jackie,” she assured herself.
Here she was, two weeks after leaving a great job in the city and already she had her life screwed up. She was lost, miles from any place she’d ever been, and not a soul knew where she was.
“Including me,” she giggled. “Well, girl, if you don’t stop now, you’ll end up killing yourself. You’re just going to have to brave the bushes and sleep in the car. Come on, you can handle it.”
Decision made, she started looking for a safe place to pull over. Once she rounded the next curve that was no longer necessary. Blinking at her from the bottom of the hill was a sign. OPEN ALL NIGHT flashed at her in all its neon glory.
She let out a huge sigh. “Thank you, God! They’ll have a bathroom, gas . . . and food. If she was real lucky, there’s be a motel nearby.” She maneuvered the remaining curves in the road and pulled up to gas pumps.
**

CHAPTER ONE

“You fuckin’ reporters are all the same. Bunch of bloody vultures. Go screw yourself and leave self-respecting people alone.” The door slammed in his face.
Paul took a deep breath, ran a hand through his already messed up hair, and considered his options. This was not the first time he’d had words like those directed at him. When he was new at the job, they’d caused sleepless nights. Though he’d grown thicker skin over the years, it still hit deep.
Before he could make the decision to leave and try again tomorrow, he heard a little voice call out from behind him, “See what I got, Mister?”
Paul turned to see a dark haired child of about four running full tilt up the sidewalk toward him. A fast step forward let him catch the little guy before he did a face-plant on the sidewalk.
“Easy, fella.” He set the young man back on his feet and crouched beside him. “What have you got there?”
The boy held a plastic figure so close to Paul’s nose he couldn’t focus well enough to tell what it was. Some kind of dinosaur, he thought as he grasped the child’s hand and moved it far enough to focus.
“Wow! Tyrannosaurus Rex.”
“See, Mommy. I was right.” The child looked with glee to the woman coming up the walk.
Here was the person Paul had come to see - the reason he’d just had the door slammed in his face. Theresa Binnelli was dressed in buttercup yellow, hardly widow’s weeds.
The supposed-to-be grieving widow stood three steps behind her son, a Madonna-like smile on her face. The expression as she gazed lovingly at her child was a long way from mourning.
Paul shouldn’t blame her. Few would find reason to mourn the passing of the now infamous Matthew Binnelli. He shouldn’t be surprised, but after the father’s outburst he’d expected more from this woman. After all, Matthew Binnelli was her husband and the father of her child. At least the dress could have been a less celebratory color.
Paul’s mind sizzled as Theresa Binnelli’s smile shifted from the child to him. He froze as his insides started doing the Mexican-jumping-bean cha-cha.
Damn! No one had told him Theresa Binnelli was beautiful. Perhaps she wasn’t, in the classic sense, he decided as he stood staring at her. He was sure his mouth was hanging open.
Beautiful or not, Theresa Binnelli’s looks were more than enough to have Paul’s blood pumping double time. He made sure to close his mouth while he monitored his racing system, doing his best to shut it down. What he didn’t need at the beginning of a new investigation was interest in another dark-haired beauty, especially so soon after getting rid of the last one.
Theresa Binnelli had long dark hair pulled back from an oval face with skin so smooth Paul almost reached out to touch it. A generous mouth turned up at the corners until she caught him staring. Then she turned those luscious lips into a scowl. Even the scowl made the word ‘kissable’ flashing through his brain.
Bad thought! Very bad thought, considering the things he’d heard about the Binnelli family. He shoved away speculation and rumor. There was no place for it in an investigation.
As Paul hurried to get control over his thoughts, his eyes explored the widow’s face. When their eyes met, the warm chocolate of hers made him melt even as he recognized a hint of sadness in their depths. He wasn’t prepared when she verbally sucker-punched him.
“You have to be a reporter. No one else would be such a vulture and thrust himself on people in pain. Surely, you could have waited until after the funeral. Matthew was their son for God’s sake. In spite of what he’d become, they still loved him. Go away.” Her voice dropped. “Please, just go away.”
She turned toward the house but not before he caught that pleasant smile again as she turned to calm her child’s concern. The love in that smile said more for this woman than rumors did. It also brought Paul’s thoughts back to her lips.
He yanked himself back to the situation at hand. He needed to talk to someone in the family today. He told himself her words hadn’t struck any deeper than her father-in-law’s, but they had. He told himself she was protecting her family. When she knew why he was here, she’d change her mind.
Paul’s reasoning didn’t calm the interest he felt in her as a woman. That still danced through his head . . . and elsewhere. Yet even with his mind in places it shouldn’t be, he recognized a serenity in this woman that said she was comfortable with herself, inside and out.
The yellow dress was one thing, but how could a new widow, now on her own with a young child, be that comfortable? How many of those rumors were true? A cold-hearted bitch, some had called her. One man insisted Theresa was the reason Matthew had become what he was.
Paul managed to dig up a feeling of irritation for this woman, not because he believed the rumors but because he had a need to send his mind in that direction. If he could make himself think she was in any way responsible for what had happened, he stood a chance of keeping his mind on the job.
After all, the story he was after wasn’t about Theresa Binnelli’s grief or lack of it. It was all about finding reason and truth concerning the Binnelli crimes.
Paul pulled himself from his stupor, rose from where he still crouched beside the child, and stepped in front of the widow to block her retreat.
She spoke before he could. “I suppose you want me to apologize for my father-in-law’s outburst? I won’t. I can’t. He doesn’t need you in his face right now. Surely even a hardened reporter, such as you, should be able to understand that.”
“Of course I understand it,” he offered. “It’s not the first time someone has sworn at me and we both know it won’t be the last.” He grinned. She didn’t. “But you and your father-in-law don’t know what I want. It’s a common misconception that all a reporter wants is the dirt. That bothers me too.” He found himself working hard to get this woman to relax but she wasn’t having any part of it.
“Look, there’s no need for anyone to apologize, including me. I’m just doing a job.” He cleared his throat. “If I’m to write anything more about Matthew, it has to be done now, not after the funeral. I want to know if there’s anything the family want to say, something you want remembered . . . beyond what’s already been reported. People are more comfortable when they understand how it happened. Even if there is to be no understanding, maybe we can tell them where it went wrong and keep someone else from traveling the same path.”
Paul nodded toward the little boy at his knee. “I’d like the chance to make Matthew a little more human, maybe tell people what he was like as a child, like your son.”
As Paul’s eyes met the child’s, the boy raised the dinosaur to him again. He pretended to examine it before passing it back with, “He’s pretty special but you better watch it or he’ll eat you for breakfast.” He made chewing noises as he held it against the child’s neck. The boy giggled joyfully.
Paul smiled but didn’t let his small act derail the conversation. “Everyone already knows the bad stuff about Matt, but for the sake of his family, his son, I’d like to find something good to say.”
He shrugged when the widow didn’t appear influenced by his plea. Pulling his card from a pocket, he passed it to her and said, “I’ll leave now but please take this. If you decide you can speak with me in the next day or two, please call. I’ll come back, any time, day or night.”
He smiled again. “I can’t promise we won’t print the bad stuff. I don’t have that much control over what the paper does with my writing. Besides, it is what caused Matthew to become news. However, I will promise to include what you want said about him. Maybe he was a good father, son, or husband.”
Theresa took his card, her eyes never leaving Paul’s. “I’m not sure any of those things could be said, Mr.–” Now she dropped her head and scanned the card. “Foster.” Her eyebrows rose. “I’ve read your books, Mr. Foster, and my father-in-law follows your column in the Tribune religiously. We enjoy your writing very much.”
Her eyes clouded over. “Matt was a sick man - a very smart, very sick man. No one seemed able to stop him. I’m sure people are saying we should have tried harder, but even if we’d thought Matt capable of doing something like this, there wasn’t another thing we could have done. There was no avenue left to explore.” She shrugged. “Somehow, we have to accept that before we can move on.” She shook her head and Paul got the feeling there was something else she wanted to say. He didn’t wait long to find out what.
Her voice not much more than a whisper, as if talking more to herself than him, she said, “There’s a part of me that can’t believe he did it.”She looked into Paul’s eyes. “His crimes were always centered on what Matt could get out of it, what financial gain he could reap. I never saw him physically violent, not with Adam and not with his parents. We can’t imagine how he could suddenly become so twisted as to hurt people like they say his did.” She shook her head as if trying to dislodge the image of what her husband had done from her brain.
“Matt had nothing to gain by murder. Those women couldn’t have had anything worth stealing and that was Matt’s only concern. The police even said there was nothing taken from those homes. I can’t imagine Matt even thinking there would be. Look at his record, Mr. Foster. It tells everything. Violence, especially that kind of violence, was out of character.”
“You don’t think he was capable of murder?”
Theresa looked to see where her son was. Fortunately, he was kneeling in the grass some distance behind her, playing with the dinosaur and thankfully paying no attention to the adult conversation.
She shook her head. “I was afraid of what he might do if someone caught him breaking in. You know, if they walked in on him when he was in the middle of taking their things. He never considered the consequences of his actions. It was like he couldn’t reason that far ahead. So yes, in order to get away, he might have killed someone. The whole thing is that they wouldn’t have interested him because they had nothing. All except the last one were single mothers living off the state. Only the last woman even had a job. It’s possible he thought she had something worthwhile, but the others . . .”
She shook her head harder. “Matt would have checked the social and economic status of any household he targeted. He was smart. He wouldn’t have considered any of those places.” Theresa turned to watch her son.
“The last woman had some family money as well as the job. She had some nice things.”
“And that’s where they found him.” She turned back to Paul. “He didn’t have anything on him, not even the murder weapon. He was dead at the back door with nine stab wounds in his back. The woman and child were dead in their beds. Am I the only one who can’t make sense of this?” She brushed the tears from her face with a hasty look toward her son before she added, “My doubts aren’t because I don’t want to believe Matt did these things.”
Theresa stopped speaking and moved her hand to run the forefinger between her eyebrows as if soothing a headache.
“How do I tell Adam about his father, when he’s old enough to ask? If all this is true, what do I say to him?”
She almost whispered the words before pulling herself up tall and taking a deep breath. Not waiting for Paul to answer, she turned toward the front door.
“I’ll call you tomorrow, Mr. Foster,” she said. “My father-in-law will understand once I talk to him and tell him who you are. There’s not much good we can tell you about Matt, but you’re right, if there’s something that will help others, we should tell it.”
Theresa gave him a rye smile. “If you’ll excuse me now.” She called her son and slid past Paul to put a key in the door. The pair disappeared without another word.

CHAPTER ONE

Okay, so where do I fit in?
I read an article the other day about birth order. You know the kind of thing I mean. If you’re the first-born, you tend to mother. If you’re the youngest, you either rebel or want to be taken care of. Then the middle one feels put upon, neither worthy of being first nor cute and cuddly like the youngest.
Well, in my family there are five girls, no boys. Had there been a boy, there most likely wouldn’t be five girls so I guess none of us should complain. I’m just wondering where in this birth order thing I really fit.
I’m second but it’s not just any plain old second. There are six years between my older sister and me and six more before daughter number three. According to some psychologists, that makes me an only child. But it could also put me in the middle or the oldest. No wonder I’m confused.
Anyone from a family with more than two children knows that one of five definitely isn't anything like being an only child no matter what the order or how far apart they are. On top of that, my parents actually wanted their first child to be a girl. I always felt like I was the first disappointment, although no one ever suggested that.
Then my older sister got married when I was thirteen so I became the big sister, the one who beat the rest of them up and dragged them around with me just so I could get out of the house. In most ways, I guess I am like the first born.
True, I never had to wear hand-me-downs, at least not that I can remember. Of course, part of that is because when I hit puberty I was a head taller than my older sister and half as big around. Even if I’d wanted to wear her clothes, it wasn’t going to happen when she left to marry.
Now if you think I’m looking for sympathy, I’m not. No, really, I’m not. I love my sisters and even if I came close to killing each one at some time during our growing up years, I’m glad there are five of us now. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
So why did I bring it up? I just wondered if there was something to my birth order that would explain why I’m not married. In fact, why there haven’t been a greater number of serious relationships in my life. I may not be gorgeous or glamorous but I’m not a dog. Honest.
Of course, there is that height thing I mentioned. Did I tell you I’m over six feet tall? No, I’m sure I didn’t. It’s not something I often mention, although you can hardly miss it. I’ve been this tall since age thirteen when the boys were still four foot two. Horrible teen-age years! If some well-intentioned good fairy came along and promised to send me back to that age, I’d jump off the nearest bridge before she finished waving her magic wand. No way would I go through it again!
That’s where my problem with the boys started and it hasn’t gotten much better over the years. It seems to me that men like little women - short, cute, and cuddly – preferably with big boobs, which I have only in my dreams. On top of that, I always figured they wanted us to be helpless as dirt, or maybe they just want to be needed. But we all need someone, so maybe that isn't it after all.
I don’t do dumb as dirt intentionally. Not for anyone. And we women know there’s not one of us truly helpless, so why haven’t men figured it out yet?
You think maybe it makes a guy feel more big and manly if he feels like he can protect his woman? Why are they so sure they’re taking care of us and not the other way around? Go figure.
Even at the end of the first decade of this new millennium, half the men on earth would starve to death or eat fast food and go around in last weeks dirty clothes if it weren’t for the women in their lives, but I digress.
**
Few of the men I’ve met are exactly ecstatic about tall women. If I’m going to be honest here, I’m not very enamored with the idea of dating a midget either, so that’s where the standoff is.
That midget comment sounded unkind and I don’t mean it to be. Some of my best friends, men and women, are short. I mean really short. I consider most of the world to be short because they’re not as tall as me, but I’m talking about having friends who are shorter than the norm. It must be something about that ‘opposites attract’ thing. Well, that’s okay for friends but not for a significant other. I like my men tall!
Personally, I think the only men interested in very tall women are the severely height challenged - the shortest of the short. Since I live in a horse racing town, it’s jockey’s for the most part.
You’d think a six foot tall guy could handle a woman an inch or two taller than him, wouldn’t you? There must be one or two who can but I haven’t met either one of them. What I have met are lots of those four foot two guys who think they can handle me with an arm tied behind their back. Like maybe it’s a challenge to them.
You know, there was one who had the nerve to say, “Don’t worry about how much taller you are, sweetie. Lying down, we’ll be the same height.” I’d just met the creep. Sheesh!
Look around the next time you go out. The taller the man, the shorter the woman will be. It’s like it’s some kind of rule or something. What’s a girl supposed to do?

Well, just before I turned thirty I joined one of those clubs you hear about for tall people. Now, I met a lot of really nice people there, don’t get me wrong. Both the men and women were great. The problem is that most of the men taller than me brought their wives with them. Their short wives.
When I wrote that last sentence, I realized for the first time how lucky for me that they did bring their wives. Just think if I’d finally found that special someone only to discover he had a wife. That’s worse than staying single.
Married men are out as far as I’m concerned and for more reasons than the obvious moral one. If a man runs around on his wife, what makes you think it will be any different if you happen to land him and become wife number two . . . or three? Believe me, it won’t. ‘Once a runner, always a runner.’ I steer clear of them.
So anyway, the thing with the tall club didn’t last. I’m not looking for a social club. I’m looking for a man, preferably a husband. Um . . . after my earlier ranting, I better reword that – I’m looking for a man to become my husband or significant other.

I had a summer job in a factory, during college, where I worked totally with men. They were either very short, married, or of an age when they were looking for sex, not marriage. I didn’t see anything wrong with it then. I wasn’t looking for a husband.
Although there is much to say for younger men and sex, sex for the sake of sex is also not something I’m seeking. And dating men you work with can be a problem anyway. What happens if things don’t work out between you and the split isn't pleasant? In a predominantly male environment, the woman would quickly learn to regret the relationship had ever started, if she didn’t already.
So that eliminated the men I worked with. Ditto for the men in church and I tried more than one denomination just to make sure. Men go to church either with their wives and families, which is good, or with their mothers which is . . . Well, I could say a great deal about men who still live with their mothers long after the age of twenty-one, but I’ll be kind and shut my mouth.

All this left me wondering where in the world women are supposed to go in order to meet husband material, or at the very least lengthy commitment material. At my age, if he doesn’t want to get married, I can live with that.
“Okay,” I hear you say, “Why don’t you try those single vacations?”
Did that once and it was once too often. The price is always for two in a room so I went with a friend who had the same goal. Of course, she’s a good six inches shorter than me and much less picky as to who she’ll date, so her selection of men seemed unlimited.
The problem for me was that she brought them back to our room. After I spent two nights sleeping in a deck chair, we had words and our friendship has never been the same. Fortunately, after the first man she snagged, the other two had their own rooms. Turns out the first guy was sharing a room with his wife. That’s really low, to be cheating on your wife when you’re on vacation with her.
There are all kinds of men out there. That type is the worst of the worst, the dregs.
Even with three men to choose from, well two actually, my friend still didn’t find herself a husband.

So then, I start to wonder if it’s the old, “When you can get the cow for free, why marry it?” So I quit sleeping with the guys I dated.
Now I’ve never been one to just fall into bed with a guy because he’s hot. It just doesn’t work like that for me. There has to be more. And since I don’t consider myself to be what my grandmother used to call “shop worn” in the first place, that shouldn’t have been the cause of my problem. At this point, though, I’m ready to try anything.
I mean it’s not like I’m up-tight about a physical relationship. Sex is good, sometimes great. I just don’t hop into bed with a guy I just met, and now, I wasn’t hopping into bed at all, at least not if there was anyone else in that bed.
It didn’t help me find a husband any faster than all the other things I tried. If the guy couldn’t get on base by the third date, I was history. I dated a lot that year.
So maybe it’s my personality. I know what I like, I’ve taken care of myself for many years, and I seldom take any bullshit. Oops, excuse me, garbage. I seldom take any garbage from a guy . . . or from anyone else for that matter.
Bingo! Men don’t like women with an opinion. What? Do they think we’re all stupid? Don’t answer that. I already said they’d like us to be stupid, until they marry one who actually is. When they have to make every decision for her, I imagine they might change their minds, or maybe that’s what creates those “runners”. Who knows?
Why can’t a man handle a “what you see is what you get” kind of gal? I can cook and sew. I own and take care of my own house. Do all the painting and yard work and still look like a woman when I clean up for a date. I get along well with people of both sexes. So tell me, what’s my problem? Yeah, you’re right. I don’t have a man, a husband, a significant other. That is my problem!
**
I’m at the point of trying to convince myself I don’t need a man. Almost. I might tell myself I don’t need one but I keep looking, so I don’t really believe me, do I?
And if I’ve been looking for a significant other for the best part of twenty years, why haven’t I become less picky? I’ll tell you why. If I can’t find a nice guy who shares some common interests, who’s clean and holds down a job, and is at least close to my height, I’ll stay single. It’s that simple.
So maybe I’m trying too hard. Maybe I really should quit looking. If it’s supposed to happen, it will.