HAD ALREADY thrown open the front door. She looked at the older version of herself with seething hatred. “What do you want here?” she demanded hotly.
The woman, tall and dignified, her blond hair sprinkled with gray but neatly combed, wearing a dark pantsuit, blinked as if the assault was unexpected. She frowned. “Winona?” she asked.
Winnie turned and stormed back into the living room.
Boone’s eyes narrowed. “If you’re here looking for money,” he began in a cold tone.
“I have a good job,” she replied, puzzled. “Why would I want money from you?”
He hesitated, but only for a moment. He stood aside, stone-faced, and let her in the door. She was carrying a briefcase. She looked around, as if she didn’t recognize her surroundings. It had been a very long time since she’d lived here.
She turned to Boone, very businesslike and solemn. “I have some things for you. They belonged to your father, but your uncle took them with him when he … when he and I,” she corrected, forcing the words out through her teeth, “left here.”
“What sort of things?” Boone asked.
“Heirlooms,” she replied.
“Why didn’t our uncle come with you?”
Her eyebrows arched. “He’s been dead for a month. Didn’t anyone tell you?”
“Sorry,” he said stiffly. “It must be sad for you.”
“I divorced your uncle twelve years ago,” she said flatly. “He’s been living with a woman who makes her living as a low-level drug dealer, selling meth on the streets. She’s an addict herself.” She indicated the briefcase. “I told her these things belonged to her boyfriend’s family and that legal proceedings might ensue if she didn’t hand them over.” Her expression was determined. “They belong here.”
He motioned her into the living room. Winnie was sitting stiffly in an armchair, as welcoming as a cobra.
The older woman sat down gracefully on the sofa, her eyes going to the mantel, over which hung a painting of Boone and Winnie and Clark’s late father. Her gaze lingered on it sadly, but only for seconds. She put the briefcase on the coffee table and opened it. She drew out several items, some made of gold, including pieces of jewelry that were worth a king’s ransom.
“These belonged to your great-grandmother,” she told the other occupants of the room. “She was a high-born Spanish lady from Andalusia who came here with her father to sell a rancher a prize stallion. Your great-grandfather was a ranch foreman who worked for the owner. He had very little money, but grand dreams, and he was a hard worker. She fell in love with him and married him. It was her inheritance that bought this land and built the house that originally sat on it.” She smiled. “They said she could outride any of the cowboys, and that she once actually fought a bull that had gored her husband, using her mantilla as a cape. Saved his life.”
“There’s a painting of her in the upstairs guest bedroom,” Boone said quietly, lifting one of the brooches in his strong, dark hands.
“Why did you bother to bring them back?” Winnie asked coldly.
“They’d have been sold to buy drugs,” she replied simply. “I felt responsible for them. Bruce took them when we left.” Her face hardened. “He felt that he was deliberately left out of your grandfather’s will. He was furious when your father inherited the ranch. He wanted to get even.”
“So he corrupted you and forced you to run away with him,” Winnie said with an icy smile.
“I wasn’t forced,” the older woman said kindly. “I was naive and stupid. And I don’t expect to be welcomed back into the family because I returned a few heirlooms.” She picked up her briefcase and stood up. Her eyes went from her son to her daughter. “Is Clark here?”
Boone shook his head. “On a date.”
She smiled sadly. “I would like to have seen him. It’s been so long.”
“Your choice, wasn’t it?” Winnie demanded. She stood up, too, dark eyes blazing. “Dad hated you for leaving, and I look like you, don’t I? I paid for his pain. Paid for it every miserable day he was alive.”
“I’m sorry,” the older woman said haltingly.
“Sorry. Sorry!” Winnie jerked up her blouse and turned around. “Want to see how sorry you should really be?”
Boone caught his breath at the marks on her back. There were scars. Two of them. They ran across her spine in white trails. “You never told me he did that!” Boone accused, furious.
“He said that if I told, you and Clark would have similar souvenirs,” she bit off, pulling her blouse down.
The older woman winced. So did Boone.
“I’ve wanted to see you for years,” Winnie said, reddening. “I wanted to tell you how much I hated you for running off and leaving us!”
She only nodded. “I don’t blame you, Winona,” she said in a steady, calm voice. “I did a terrible thing, to all of you.” She drew in a long breath and smiled sadly. “You won’t believe it, but there was a price that I had to pay, too.”
“Good,” Winnie bit off. “I’m glad! Now please leave. And don’t come back.”
She whirled and ran up the staircase.
Boone walked his mother to the door and opened it for her. His expression was unrelenting. But his eyes were curious, especially when he saw that she had a passenger in her car. It wasn’t a new car, but it was well kept. He noted her clothing. Not from upscale stores, but serviceable and not cheap. Her shoes were thick soled and laced up. She was immaculately clean, even her fingernails. He wondered what she did for a living. She seemed a sensible woman.
“Thank you for bringing the heirlooms home,” he said after a minute.
Gail Rogers Sinclair looked up at him with quiet pride. “You look like your father, as he did when we were first married.” She frowned. “Didn’t I read that you married this year?”
“Yes. Her name is Keely. She works for a local vet.”
She nodded. “Her mother was killed.”
He blinked. “Yes.”
“At least that crime was quickly solved,” she replied. “This new murder in Jacobsville is getting a lot of attention from the Feds. I don’t think it’s going to be as easy to catch the perpetrator.” She searched his eyes. “There may be a tie from the case to your uncle,” she said calmly. “I’m not sure yet, but it could mean some bad publicity for all three of you. I’ll try to keep it quiet, but these things have a way of getting out. There’s always some resourceful reporter with a reputation to build.”
“That’s true.” He was curious about her familiarity with the case. “How are you involved?” He wanted to know.
“That’s need to know, and you don’t,” she said, gentling the words with
