I was drugged, something in my thermos.” She turned panicked eyes on Owen. “It dropped out of my van. If we can find it...”
Reed stared at Ella, eyes shifting in thought. Candy’s mouth twisted. “Spare me the lies. You’ll fry,” she spat at Ella. “I’ll see to it that you die for what you did to my nephew or I will kill you myself.”
Ella turned her face to Owen’s chest and clung to his shirt, barely able to stand.
“I didn’t kill him...” she sobbed. “I didn’t.”
He caged her in a fierce embrace. “It’s going to be okay,” he said helplessly.
She pulled away, eyes bright with tears, shaking hands flat against his chest. “Owen, tell me you believe me.”
He stared at her naked grief, the unadulterated terror. He saw in her face the little girl she had been, freckled, pesky, fun loving, now a woman, beautiful, desperate, vulnerable.
But there was the overwhelming evidence against her, her van, her farrier’s rasp, the alcohol...
Trust was a dangerous thing, he knew, both from his work with horses and his time in the marines. It could blind you, cripple you, make you weak...but sometimes it could save your life.
He held her close, seeing his own reflection in the tear-streaked green of her eyes. “Yes,” he said. “I do believe you.”
She cried harder then and looked in panic toward the house. “Please...”
He knew what she was asking. “I’ll take care of Betsy and I’m gonna get you out of this.”
Silverton was crying on Bruce Reed’s shoulder, loud, gasping sobs. For a split second, Reed met Owen’s eyes and he saw the sly, twisted gleam. Evil, he thought.
Owen glared full-on at the man and sent the message loud and clear. You and I are enemies now.
Larraby stepped forward, twisted Ella’s hands behind her back and snapped on the handcuffs.
“You have the right to remain silent,” he began.
* * *
In her cell, Ella squeezed herself into a ball. The shapeless tunic, pants and fabric slippers felt strange on her skin. Again, she started to check the time on her old trusty Timex and found it missing, taken by the police when she’d been booked.
The hours after the arrest and arraignment had blurred, and she could not quite believe it was her second day of incarceration. Every humiliating detail seemed like something from a nightmare; the strip search, the mug shot that left her dazed and finally the arraignment when she’d been marched into a crowded room and heard the charges against her.
Murder. The murder of Luke Baker, her friend.
An image of him bloodied and stuffed into her van surfaced before she could stop it, tears pricking her eyes. Then her memory shifted back to the moment when a court-appointed lawyer stood next to her as she made her plea.
Not guilty. She wanted to shout it, scream the words, stand in the chair and holler, “I am not a murderer. I am being framed,” to anyone who would listen. But there were no friendly faces to appeal to, only people who saw her as a felon, guilty, going through the motions before she was tried and packed off to prison where she belonged.
And then the judge pronounced the bail at fifty thousand dollars. It might as well have been a million. There was no way she could come up with the required 10 percent to bond herself out of jail. Her bank account hovered just below two hundred dollars, since the doctor had changed Betsy’s medicine to a more expensive variety that sucked up money faster than she could earn it.
Betsy. What was she thinking right now? She knew Owen would keep his word and find someone to take care of her, but her sister knew no other life except their quiet existence in Gold Bar. Who would cut up her toast into squares? Massage the muscles along her shoulders that tightened up? Turn on her favorite game show every night at seven thirty sharp? Who would pray with Betsy? All the things which had once seemed like chores were now precious connections that brought her closer to her sister than she’d ever thought possible.
Ella’s throat constricted, but there were no more tears left. The other woman sharing her cell had not spoken a word, only turned her face to the wall and pulled the thin blanket up to cover her head.
“I don’t belong here,” she wanted to tell her cellmate. They’d taken a blood sample, but it might be too late to prove that she had not been drinking. Could it show that there was a drug in her system? If she could just find the thermos maybe there would be fingerprints on it.
The door clanged and she jumped. An officer stood there, beckoning. “Your bail’s been posted.”
“By whom?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Just come with me please, ma’am.”
Her heart leapt. “So... I don’t have to stay here?”
His eyebrows drew together. “You’re out until you go to trial, or do something to violate your bail.”
She heard the hardness in his tone. “Until they prove me guilty of murder, you mean?”
He shrugged, but she could tell that was exactly what he’d meant.
Enjoy the time before you’re behind bars forever.
She padded after him and collected her meager belongings, though the police insisted on keeping her clothing and shoes. She was surprised to find a pair of worn jeans, her patched sweatshirt and her sneakers with the holes in them. Meekly, she pulled them on.
“Exit’s that way, ma’am,” the officer said, ushering her toward a door.
“But who posted my bail?”
“Guy named Owen Thorn,” was the answer from the duty clerk.
Her stomach shrank into an aching knot. Humiliation complete, she was ushered through the exit door.
* * *
Owen saw her emerge, small and hunched as if she was expecting a blow. It twanged something inside him. He figured her release would be sometime that day so he’d camped out, waiting, asking his mom to go through Ella’s house to find her some clean clothes, since he didn’t feel it was right for him to go through her personal things. He rolled down the truck window, shoved back his cowboy hat with a thumb, and called to her.
She jerked, hesitating, and he thought she might ignore him, but then she walked over, head down, eyes on the ground.
“Let me give you a ride home.”
She considered, still not looking at him.
“Come on,” he prompted, getting out and opening the passenger door for her.
Finally she climbed in, hands twisted together in her lap.
He was not sure what to say. What were the right words after someone had been accused of murder and arrested? Words were not his strong suit at the best of times. “Betsy’s okay,” he
