recognize faced the bar, away from her. She spotted Laney Longhorse behind the counter, her long braid now graying, her skin leathery from the sun. Violet had always been fascinated with the woman. Maybe because she ignored the difference in social status between people instead of dividing them into classes the way the more prominent citizens did. In fact, Violet had felt more at home with the kids from the reservation than she did the white children in town. Except for Darlene.
She slid into a corner booth and studied the menu, surprised to see the same items Laney had always carried. Thankfully, some things never changed. A fair-haired man in his thirties smiled at her from the booth across from her. She forced a tight smile, then averted her gaze.
The older woman ambled over to her, her long skirt swishing against her thin legs. “Hi!” Laney said in her Cherokee accent. “Your order, miss?”
Good. Laney didn’t recognize her. “Coffee. And I’ll have your country breakfast.”
“Comin’ right up.” Laney studied Violet for a moment, shook her head as if she was trying to place her but couldn’t. Then she sauntered off to get the coffee.
Violet dialed the nursing home on her cell phone. The nurse assured her that her grandmother had arrived safely, but was in physical therapy. Her sister, Neesie, was there, waiting to visit.
Determined to avoid eye contact with any of the locals, especially the man who kept watching her, she informed the nurse she’d call again later, then studied the back of the menu. A small inscription described the history of the town’s name. Crow’s Landing had been named after an old Cherokee myth.
Although eagles were the revered, treasured bird of the Cherokee legends, their feathers used in religious ceremonies, one myth described an Indian boy’s battle with a wicked gambler who could change forms. When put to the test, the boy, Thunder, beat the gambler, who had turned himself to brass. The boy planted the brass in the river and hung crows on each side of a pole to ward off the beavers, so they wouldn’t chip away the brass and free the gambler.
Violet was pondering the legend when the woman returned. Interesting folklore. The crows were actually protecting the town, not haunting it or looking on, ready to prey.
Laney placed the coffee and food in front of Violet, her squinty eyes assessing. Violet offered nothing. Not yet—she wasn’t ready. But she wondered if the woman would know the Native American expression from Violet’s vision.
She thanked Laney and sipped her coffee, then took a few bites of her eggs. A tall man with a shoulder-length, black ponytail bustled in from the back. Joseph Longhorse? All grown up?
He had always been quiet, moody, angry. But she’d felt a kinship with him. Not a psychic one like she’d shared with Darlene, but they had connected. She’d been called white trash, while Joseph had suffered the cruel prejudices harbored by a few small-minded people in the town. The Barley boys had been especially ruthless, turning Joseph’s Native American name, Strong Legs, into a joke because Joseph had been the shortest kid in the class. Not anymore. Now he was six feet tall, strong and tough. She bet they didn’t mess with him now.
Laney returned to her table with fresh butter. “You are not an asgi’na, a ghost, are you? No, you are the little Baker girl come back, heh?”
Violet nodded, aware that a few of the other patrons pivoted to check her out. And some still tensed when Laney used Cherokee words.
“Yes, ma’am. I came back to bury my father.”
“Oh, my.” Laney flattened a weathered hand on her cheek. “I’m so sorry. I hadn’t heard of your edata’s passing.”
The man with the fair hair smiled. Violet leaned toward Laney. “Who is that man, Laney?”
She cast a look over her shoulder, then grinned. “The new doctor. Dr. Gardener. Handsome, huh?”
Violet shrugged, wondering why he was staring at her.
“The young women in town, they are all over him. But he seems to have eyes for you.”
“I’m not going to be here long enough to get to know anyone,” Violet said, hoping it was true.
A robust man at the bar swiveled on his stool, then dragged his bulk off and stalked toward her. Violet crouched back in her seat at the sight of his face. She would recognize his beady, unforgiving eyes anywhere.
Darlene’s father.
“How dare you show yourself in this town again!” His sharp voice rose, echoing off the tile floors, then he slammed his fist on the table in front of her, rattling the dishes. “Did you know your daddy killed my baby girl?”
GRADY HAD BEEN SURPRISED at the number of photos Baker had of his daughter. He’d also been startled at his own reaction of seeing the homely little girl emerge into a shy teenager. Judging from the smile on her face, she hadn’t recognized her own beauty.
There had been no pictures of boyfriends, though, prompting his curiosity about Violet’s personal past. An area he shouldn’t be concerned with at all.
Unfortunately, he and Logan hadn’t turned up anything that would implicate Baker in Darlene’s murder.
What had he expected? That Baker would have kept a souvenir all these years? Or a hidden file somewhere describing the secrets he shared with Grady’s father?
Grady glanced in the small bathroom one last time and frowned. The edge of the faded bath mat had shifted, probably caught on one of their boots. Underneath, the flooring was discolored, an unnatural shade lighter than the rest of the linoleum. He squatted down, peeled back the rug and examined it. It looked as if it had been scrubbed with bleach. Nothing else in the house appeared to have been cleaned in ages. Why here?
He remembered the knot on Baker’s head. He could have gotten it from a fall anywhere. Maybe even here. Grady leaned closer, studying the area for bloodstains.
The nagging doubts wouldn’t let go, so he retrieved some Luminol from the car and sprayed the flooring. His hunch was right. Traces of blood shone through. He took a couple of samples, hoping he was wrong about the source. Hoping there would be no traces of his father’s DNA in the mix.
But the argument between his dad and Baker echoed in his head. “Some reporter’s been asking about Violet,” Baker had said. Who was that reporter and why would he want to speak with Violet? And why had Baker been afraid of him?
Logan finished, then left for the station. Knowing he wouldn’t rest without answers, Grady decided to confront his father one more time. With Baker’s body in the morgue and Violet in town claiming her father’s innocence, it was time Walt Monroe started talking.
A JOLT OF FEAR BOLTED through Violet at the malevolence in Mr. Monroe’s eyes.
“Did you know your daddy killed my baby girl?” the man bellowed.
Violet shook her head.
“Then get the hell out of town.”
Violet chanced a look at the other patrons, who all sat gawking at the scene, either too stunned by the confrontation to move or too intimidated by Monroe.
All except Joseph Longhorse.
The
