He knew that Joan, too, had her own emotions to deal with.
The surprise he’d seen in her eyes that had quickly transformed into stunned incredulity was understandable. A logical reaction to someone suddenly appearing without warning from one’s past.
Hart narrowed his eyes. More was going on with her, though. As a cop he knew all about body language. Joan’s had been stiff, defensive. Serious stress, he thought. And he’d seen something more than mere surprise and stunned incredulity in those whiskey-dark eyes. Panic. Glints of panic.
Why, he wondered? They’d had no contact for a decade. What the hell did she have to feel panic about?
“‘Texas’?”
The curious lilt in Bonnie Brannigan’s voice had Hart switching his mental focus to the Lone Star’s general manager. “What?”
“You called her Texas.” Bonnie’s blue eyes glittered with a meaningful look. “Obviously, you and Joan know each other.”
“We ran into each other the summer I worked here.”
“That’s right.” Bonnie waved a slim hand that sent the small gold charms clattering on the thick-linked bracelet circling her left wrist. “Flynt Carson—this year’s club president—mentioned you’d been a groundskeeper here years ago.”
Hart didn’t know Flynt Carson personally, but anyone who spent any time in Mission Creek knew of the Carsons. The Wainwrights, too, for that matter. The families controlled two of the largest ranching empires in Texas. From what Hart remembered, sometime in the twenties Carson and Wainwright ancestors had deeded a thousand acres each of adjoining land to create the Lone Star Country Club. After that, a vicious feud split what most had considered an unbreakable bond between the families. As recently as ten years ago that feud still festered.
Bonnie nodded. “Flynt said you worked here the same summer as Spence. Imagine that. He’s now the district attorney and you’re a police officer. A bomb expert.”
“Mrs. Brannigan—”
“Bonnie.”
“Bonnie, I learned a long time ago that it’s best to clear the air with people. I left my job here because the man who was that year’s club president accused me of stealing money from the golf shop’s till. If you were around here then, you maybe heard about it.”
“I was a member then—my late husband played golf every day.” Bonnie tilted her head as if to gain a new perspective. “If he had heard about money stolen from the golf shop, he’d have mentioned it. So would a lot of other people. I never heard a thing about it.”
Hart stood silent while his anger built. He knew he hadn’t stolen money, but back then he’d been too young and green to realize Zane Cooper had lied about that to chase him out of town. Until this moment he hadn’t realized there had probably never been money missing from the golf shop’s till.
Bonnie pursed her mouth, painted the same traffic-stopping red as her suit. “So, if there actually was money stolen, did you take it, Sergeant O’Brien?”
“Hart. No. I’ve never taken anything that didn’t belong to me.” He slicked his gaze toward the elevator in which Joan had disappeared. Except her, he conceded. She had never been his. Never intended to be his, past that one night.
“Well, Hart, I’ve got a real fondness for men who don’t beat around the bush. You’re obviously one of ’em.” Bonnie shifted her stance to give ample room to a bellman wheeling a brass cart piled with luggage. “I appreciate you getting that out in the open. Since you’ve worked here before, you probably know that old secrets have a long life around this place. If you don’t clear the air, you’re liable to find yourself knee-deep in some awkward situation before you realize it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Hart’s thoughts flashed back to the scene that had played out between himself and Joan’s father. Awkward wasn’t the half of it. “That’s why I told you.”
“Now that you have, let’s put it to rest. What’s important is the reason you’re back in Mission Creek.”
“I agree,” Hart said, banking down any emotion. He had come here, intending to keep his mind on business. Now that he knew it wasn’t just memories of Joan he would have to deal with—but the woman herself—he was even more determined to control his thoughts. Since there was no more serious business than a bomb, he doubted he would have a problem. “I’d like to look at the crime scene now.”
“I thought you would,” Bonnie said, her eyes going somber. “That’s one reason I wanted to know when you arrived. I told the desk clerk to have your bags sent up to your suite. I also contacted Captain Ingram and asked him to join us at the site.”
“Captain Ingram?” Hart asked while Bonnie led the way across the lobby.
“Yance Ingram. He’s a retired Mission Creek PD captain.” As she spoke, Bonnie escorted Hart beneath a graceful arched entry into a wide hallway, its floor a long sweep of the same cool pink granite as in the lobby. “Yance now runs the club’s security operation. All the police officers report to him.”
“You have commissioned cops instead of civilians working security?”
“Yes. Our whole force is off-duty Mission Creek police officers.”
Hart’s thoughts went to the vague mention Spence had made about two MCPD cops who’d kidnapped a little boy who had survived the bombing. One of those cops had died during apprehension, the other committed suicide. In another case, two cops were charged with attempted murder. Hart planned to get the details about those incidents when he and Spence met that night.
Hart gave Bonnie a sideways glance as they made their way down the long hallway. “Does having all those cops around make you feel safe?”
“Before that bomb exploded it did.” She paused before a makeshift wall of plywood that stretched along the remaining length of the corridor. Nearby was a plywood door, secured by bright silver hinges, a hasp and padlock. “I’d feel a whole lot safer if one of ’em figured out who set the bomb,” she added, sliding a key from the pocket of her jacket. “It’s been over two months, and everybody around here is feeling more and more unsettled. Knowing that the bomber is still free has cost a lot of people to lose sleep. Including me.”
“I’ve tracked down my share of bombers. I’ll do all I can to find this one.”
She patted his arm. “You don’t know what a relief it is to have someone with your expertise here. When Spence called and asked me to book your room, he said you might need to spend a lot of time at this scene.” As she spoke, she handed the key to Hart. “Keep this for as long as you need it.”
“Thanks.” He glanced at the padlock. “Who else has access to this site?”
“Captain Ingram and I are the only Lone Star staff members. Yance mentioned that all the officers on the bombing task force also have a key.”
Hart slid the key into the padlock, twisted it, then pulled open the plywood door. The smell of doused ash, sour and acrid, instantly swept into the hallway.
“Oh, that smell.” Cringing backward, Bonnie rubbed a hand across her throat, tears brimming
