hometown and, no doubt, their destination.
She smiled thinly. It seemed appropriate that she should wind up in a place whose name described her life so perfectly.
The real, physical Heartbreak didn’t seem a much better place to spend her time than the intangible, emotional heartbreak where she’d spent much of her life. The businesses were on the shabby side, the houses nothing special, the town dusty and worn. They passed one grocery store, two gas stations and three restaurants, one hardware store, one five-and-dime, and a handful of other businesses before Reese turned off the main street into a tree-lined neighborhood.
Maybe the houses weren’t big or fancy, she amended, but some of them, at least, had a certain charm. The trees in these yards were decades old, unlike her own neighborhood where every house had the same variety of very young saplings planted in the same location in the identical handkerchief-size yards. Additionally, there was nothing cookie-cutter about the houses—no identical plans for every fourth or fifth house, no homeowners association decreeing what to plant, when to mow and what colors to paint. There was a sidewalk on either side of the street for skating and playing jacks, front porches attached to every house for watching life pass by and mailboxes ranging from the purely functional to the eccentric to the just plain silly.
They were more like homes than her house could ever be.
After a half dozen blocks, the street ended in a driveway that ran long and straight through a stand of trees to a house some distance back. There were pastures on all four sides, a large yard in need of mowing and a barn out back that looked about a hundred years old with what must surely be its original paint. In contrast, the house gave every appearance of being brand-new. Its log walls, sandstone foundation and brick-red tin roof hadn’t even collected a thorough coating of Oklahoma dust yet.
The garage was on the north end of the house. Reese pulled inside next to a black-and-white Blazer that said Sheriff on the driver’s door beneath the department seal. Was that a general proclamation that all the sheriff’s department vehicles carried, or did it signify that this particular truck belonged to the sheriff? Neely wondered, but she wasn’t about to ask. He’d made it uncomfortably clear that he had no desire to talk to her, and she intended to make it easy for him to ignore her.
The door from the garage opened into a utility room. Straight ahead was the kitchen, and down a short hall to the right was a bedroom. She followed him through the kitchen and dining room and along another short hall to a bedroom diagonally opposite the first.
“You can use this room,” he said brusquely. “Bathroom’s next door.” Then he pivoted and returned the way they’d come.
Neely hesitantly entered the room and set her suitcase on the bed. To say the room was decorated would be overly generous. There were no pictures on the walls, no knickknacks scattered across the furniture, no pretty pillows piled on the bed. At best, it was functional. The walls were pale green, the trim white, the carpet a serviceable hunter-green. There were only blinds, no curtains, at the windows. The furniture was antique oak—a bed, dresser, two night tables and an armoire, probably handed down through generations of the Barnett family.
The only antiques she had were handed down, too—just not from her own family. She doubted that a Madison had existed before her and her sisters who could afford or appreciate such treasures.
She didn’t bother unpacking—why, when she would be leaving the next day?—but went to the bathroom next door, then headed back to the kitchen. She’d had only a doughnut and coffee for breakfast and had missed lunch completely. Though it wasn’t long until dinnertime, she needed something to settle the queasiness in her stomach or she would have one more woe to add to her long list.
Reese was already in the kitchen, washing up at the sink. She stopped abruptly and considered sneaking back to the bedroom, then rejected the idea. She wasn’t going to behave like a prisoner. She’d been willing to go back to Kansas City, or to strike out on her own, but no, they’d brought her here. If Reese hated having her there so much, he could damn well stay in the bedroom and go hungry himself.
Sparing her only the briefest of glances, he dried his hands, then took sandwich makings from the refrigerator. While she washed her own hands, he sliced a tomato, removed bread and chips from one cabinet, plates from another. He made his sandwich, emptied a ton of chips on the plate, then carried both the plate and a cold beer from the refrigerator to the corner table.
Neely made her own sandwich, filled a glass with water from the tap and settled for eating at the counter and staring at the horses in the pasture out back. When she was a kid, she’d wished every night for a horse to talk to, feed treats and ride a time or two. When she’d met Reese, she’d often wished for the chance to see where he’d come from, where he’d been shaped into the man he’d become, and at odd moments in the past nine years, she’d wished desperately, hopelessly, to see him just one more time.
Funny how wishes could come true in ways you most certainly didn’t wish for.
From across the room came the sound of a glass bottle tapping against wood, followed by a hostile question. “What did you do to piss off this guy who’s supposedly trying to kill you?”
Supposedly. Her smile was bitter. Last night someone had fired fifty shots or more into the bedroom where she was sleeping, but Reese had no problem turning the incident into an allegation that might not have even happened. What kind of proof did he need before he could believe her? Seeing her get shot, falling to the ground, bleeding and in great pain? No, wait. Been there, done that…and he’d still walked away. Maybe if she died this time, he would believe her. Maybe then he could forgive her.
Her appetite gone, she dropped the rest of her sandwich onto the plate, then turned to face him. “I did my job,” she said coolly. “A lot of people out there have a problem with attorneys who do what they’re tasked to do under the law.”
“And a lot of people have a problem with attorneys who use the law to let murderers, thieves and other criminals go free.”
It was an old argument, one they’d had a hundred times, one that he’d refused to see from any viewpoint but his own. She wasn’t going to be drawn into it again.
Pushing away from the counter, she walked to the broad doorway that led directly into the living room. It was more rustic than the other rooms, with log-and-stone walls, a big fireplace, wood plank floors and leather furniture. Rough cedar beams laid on the diagonal covered the peaked ceiling, and another beam served as mantel above the fireplace, supporting a collection of pottery. An entertainment system filled the corner on one side of the fireplace, and a computer and desk occupied the other. Great—TV, movies and Internet access. What more did she need?
“Nice house.” Her glance in his direction was too brief to bring him into focus, but just enough to confirm that he was still there. “Small-town life suits you.”
She could actually feel the sharpening of his glare as her mildly offered barb struck home. Small towns, small minds, he used to say about Thomasville. He’d gone there from Kansas City for the same reason she had—to make a start. Influenced by Jace, he’d been looking for an entrée into the law enforcement community. He’d planned to stay a year or two, get some experience, then start moving up into positions of more authority in larger departments.
She’d been fresh from passing the bar and had wanted a place where she could carefully build her practice. She’d had dreams back then of making a name for herself as a defender of the downtrodden, as the woman who would make good on that pledge she’d said every day through thirteen years of public school—and justice for all. Especially for the poor, the minorities,
