touched her mother’s carved name, too, and then whispered a prayer for both of them. Grasping the bucket, she stood and, still uneasy, looked around again. Seeing no one, she turned her steps toward her father’s grave, which was some distance away.
I won’t have that murderer near my family! Gram had declared.
He wouldn’t be here at all but for Lacey’s insistence. When he died in prison, she arranged to have his remains returned to Silver River and had with her own money purchased the plot and the marker. She chose an especially pleasant spot, with a nearby fountain shaded by several maple trees. But unlike her grandfather and her mother, who’d both been mourned in public services, only Lacey—and the grave digger—were present to witness Richard Mark Morgan’s burial.
As she knelt to place flowers in the vase, she saw purple-and-white pansies, the same flowers that were in her grandfather’s and her mother’s vases. Apparently, the same person had visited all three graves. Who? Someone who believed in Rick’s innocence, as she did?
Lacey added her flowers to the vase, whispering, “I still believe in you, Dad. And maybe someone else does, too.”
Before leaving the cemetery, Lacey pulled into a viewpoint overlooking the town. From here she could see Main Street, busy as usual, with vehicles and pedestrians. Beyond the business district were blocks of homes, and then the river, sparkling in the sunlight.
Sadness filled her. Silver River was a pleasant and peaceful town. She’d been happy living here until that fateful day ten years ago. Now she lived in exile. Not that she didn’t like Boise. She did. And she liked her job with the historical society. But Boise could never replace Silver River and the happiness she had known here.
* * *
RORY DROVE ALONG the highway connecting Silver River with Milton. Not that he was going all the way there. He’d turn around soon and head for Dalton Properties, where he worked most afternoons. He’d taken this long drive today to check out the overhaul he’d given the ’58 Dodge, one of his classic car acquisitions bought from a man in Fork City, who’d kept it hidden away in an old shed like buried treasure.
Rory tuned his ear to the engine, but his mind wandered to last night’s party and Lacey Morgan. They’d actually talked to each other. Their conversation had been awkward, but what did he expect?
Their encounter didn’t mean anything, though. Probably wouldn’t happen again.
Thinking of her reminded him that the turnoff to the old Whitfield farm was up ahead. The house still sat there, empty and in disrepair, a constant reminder of the tragedy. Usually, as he passed by, he gritted his teeth and stepped on the gas, eager to put the place behind him.
But today, as the turnoff approached, he found himself slowing down, and in the next moment swung the Dodge off the highway and onto the dirt road leading to the farm. He bumped along, jerking the wheel to avoid potholes and overgrowth pushing through the barbed wire bordering the road. Reaching the house, he put on the brake and gazed out the window at the two-story structure. Paint had peeled off the siding and holes dotted the roof. Ragged curtains hung in a few of the windows.
Memories flooded his mind: bringing Lacey home from school. Doing homework at the kitchen table while sampling her grandmother’s cookies. Hiking down to the river where they lazed in the sunshine or splashed around in inner tubes.
He stepped from the car and walked around to the back of the house. Beyond a stretch of overgrown grass and weeds sat a garage with the door off its hinges, a barn missing part of the roof, a couple of weathered sheds and a chicken coop. And farther yet, past a row of willow trees, a trail led to the river.
He looked up at the house’s second story, focusing on one of the windows. The window where Lacey’s father had stood when he pointed his shotgun at Rory’s father and pulled the trigger. Rory swung his gaze back around to the ground, picking out the spot where his father had died. He shuddered and felt sick to his stomach. He stood there, clenching and unclenching his fists, until he got a grip on himself. Then he marched back to his car, climbed in, slammed the door and drove off.
That house should not still be standing there, he thought, while rumbling back down the dirt road toward the highway. It should have been torn down long ago so that he didn’t have to look at it and be reminded of what had happened there. Ten years ago. Ten long years. High time he did something about that house.
* * *
BACK IN TOWN twenty minutes later, Rory parked in his reserved slot behind the Scott Building on Main Street. He sat there a moment, his mind spinning with his new plan.
A knock on the window interrupted his musings. He looked up to see Stuart MacKenzie, one of his grandfather’s employees.
Rory rolled down the window. “Hey, Stuart. Where are you off to?”
Stuart smoothed the lapels of his lightweight sports jacket. “The Cooper ranch. Old man Cooper is ready to talk business.”
Rory opened the door and stepped from the car. “Good for you. Hope you land the deal.”
Stuart grinned. “Thanks, buddy. But I’m not doing anything you can’t do—if you’d forget about your cars and tend to business here.” He nodded at the Dodge. “That is a great-looking car, though.”
Rory pocketed the keys and ran his hand along the car’s engine-warm hood. “Yeah, well, I guess restoring old cars does for me what owning land does for my grandfather. To each his own.”
“Ri-i-ght. Try telling that to A.J. When you gonna take your rightful place around here as the ‘heir apparent’?”
Rory shook his head. “Don’t hold your breath.”
Stuart laughed. “If I were a betting man, I’d bet on A.J. But I don’t want to get involved in your family feud. I’m not taking sides, either.”
Stuart headed for his car, and Rory entered the building. The smell of wax and varnish from the first floor’s furniture store drifted along the hallway. He took the back stairs to the second floor where the offices of Dalton Properties were located. His grandfather’s middle-aged administrative assistant, Sheila Cobb, sat at her desk.
“Morning, Sheila.”
“Glad you’re here, Rory. He’s been wondering.” She tipped her head toward the door to A.J.’s office just as it opened and his grandfather stepped out.
At seventy, Alfred James Dalton was as fit and trim as he’d been in his younger years, thanks in part to heredity, but also to regular rounds of golf and visits to the local gym.
A.J. spread his feet apart and propped his hands on his hips. “About time you got here.”
Rory glanced at his wristwatch. “I know, I’m a little late, but with good reason—”
“Never mind. Sheila put some new proposals on your desk. Look ’em over, and then we’ll talk.”
“I’d just as soon talk now—about something else.”
A.J. raised his eyebrows. “Hmm, all right. I’ve got half an hour until my two o’clock arrives. Come on in.”
Once in his office, A.J. pointed to a straight chair. “Have a seat.”
