Tami Hoag - Dark Paradise

“That’s the plan.”

The lawyer raised his eyebrows and his scotch.

Bryce narrowed his gaze at the subtle challenge. “You don’t think I can pull it off?”

“I didn’t say that. I learned long ago not to underestimate you, friend.” Lucas stretched lazily and crossed his Cole-Haan loafers. “I plan to enjoy the show.”

“It will be dazzling,” Bryce said with a grin that faded quickly. “Provided Samantha turns up to participate.”

“Maybe she and Sharon ran away together,” Lucas suggested, biting on a smile. “A new twist on the old triangle.”

Bryce scowled at him. “That isn’t even remotely funny. Sharon has become a loose cannon of late. A situation I won’t allow much longer. If I find out she’s laid a finger on Samantha, I’ll kill her.”

The lawyer smiled an evil smile at the prospect. “Can I watch?” he asked sardonically as a doorbell sounded in a distant part of the house.

“I could probably sell tickets,” Bryce muttered. “My dear cousin has made enough enemies to fill a stadium.”

The housekeeper trundled in, wringing her hands in her apron, her face pinched with concern. “Mr. Bryce-”

“I told you I’m not seeing guests, Reisa,” Bryce snapped. “I’m very busy.”

“I believe you’ll see us, Mr. Bryce,” Sheriff Quinn said, stepping into the room behind the housekeeper. He towered over her. His shoulders filled nearly half the archway into the room. The rest of the space was taken up by the men on either side of him. “I’m Sheriff Dan Quinn. This here’s Agent Paul Lamm, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, and Agent Bob Ware, wildlife agent for the state of Montana. And these,” he said, holding up a fistful of papers, “are warrants.”

“Warrants?” Ben Lucas unfolded himself from the sofa, rising with his drink still in hand.

“Search warrants, arrest warrants, like that,” Quinn explained nonchalantly. Inside his uniform he was sweating like a horse. He was arresting one of the most powerful men in the state, a man who, according to the evidence unearthed by Marilee Jennings, was guilty of a whole lot of sins. “Mr. Evan Bryce,” he said as he moved purposefully into the room with the two wildlife agents. “You are under arrest for suspected violations of the Lacey Act and a whole bunch of other state and federal wildlife regulations. You are also under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder as related to the death of Miz Lucy MacAdam.”

Bryce gaped at him as the bottom dropped out of his stomach. “This is outrageous!”

Quinn tipped his head and scratched his yellow hair. “No sir, it’s a fact. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney-”

“I’m his attorney,” Lucas interjected.

“Well then,” Quinn said, nodding, “let’s cut to the chase and take a ride downtown.”

J.D. walked down the hall of the New Eden Community Hospital with his hat in his hands. His boot heels rang on the hard polished floor, and he scowled at the prospect of drawing attention to himself. He hated this place, the smell of it, the look of it, the air of weakness and despair. It all closed in on him like a blanket drawn over his head until he felt he was smothering. Stopping outside the door to Room 102, he deliberately filled his lungs with air, then pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Mary Lee had her bed tilted up. An IV dripped clear liquid into her veins. The bag of blood that had hung in tandem with the IV solution the last time he had stopped in had since been taken away. She wasn’t hooked up to any bleeping, blinking machines, a memory that still haunted him from his mother’s last days. Her color was sallow except for the vibrant purple smudges beneath her eyes, but she was managing a weary smile for Nora Davis, who sat on a stool beside her. They were watching a soap opera on the television that stuck out from the wall on a black metal arm. Nora stopped talking in mid-sentence as J.D. made his entrance.

“I’ll come back later, honey,” she said, patting Mari’s leg through the thin white sheet as she slipped down off the stool. “See if I can’t sneak you in a piece of chocolate pecan pie.”

“Thanks, Nora,” Mari murmured.

Nora scooted around the foot of the bed, turning off the TV as she passed by. “J.D.,” she said.

He nodded to her, but his eyes were locked on Mari. She blinked at him sleepily.

“Hey, cowboy, how’s tricks?”

“Came to see how you’re doing.”

“So come in and see. Stab wounds aren’t contagious.”

He moved from the door to the foot of the bed and stood there, staring at her from under his straight, somber brows. He looked drawn and tired beneath his tan. The broad shoulders sloped down as if they bore the weight of the world. And he seemed wary, as if he fully expected her to add to the burden. Not exactly the way she had dreamed of seeing him.

In the half-light of dawn she had floated between memory and wishes and narcotic-induced melancholy, picturing him bent over her, cradling her against him, sheltering her from the rain and stroking her hair. She had imagined tender words and knew she was dreaming, because Rafferty was not a man of tender words.

You sure know how to pick ’em, Marilee.

“How’s Samantha doing?” she asked.

“She’s pretty rattled. It’s gonna take her a while to come out of it, I expect. Doc says her face will scar, but the cut didn’t go deep enough to sever any nerves, so I guess that’s a blessing. It’ll all heal in time.”

Except the scars no one could see, Mari thought, hurting for the girl. “Is Will with her?”

“Yeah. He’s pretty shaken himself. This put the fear of God in him. He’s sworn off drinking and women and honky-tonks and gambling.”

“Will he hold to it?”

J.D. thought about that for a minute, thought about the conversation he had shared with Will before the fateful arrival of Orvis Slokum. “I think maybe this time he will.”

“I hope so.”

Neither of them spoke for several moments as that phantom promise of a clean start hung in the air between them, tempting but unable to penetrate the dense layer of their brief past.

J.D. broke the silence first. “How are you feeling, Mary Lee?”

She found him a wry smile. “Like I been rode hard and put away wet.”

“Doc Larimer says you’ll be all right,” he said quietly.

“Yeah. I won’t be throwing the javelin anytime soon, but it’s just a flesh wound, as they say in the movies. Larimer is a piece of work. I think you could be hit by a bus and he’d tell you to stop whining and walk it off.” She sobered, the gravity of the situation tugging down on the corners of her mouth. “I was very, very lucky. I’d be dead if it weren’t for Del.”

“He’s a hell of a shot.”

“I’d be dead if it weren’t for you,” she said. Just as she expected, he shrugged off his own role in the drama, looking uncomfortable at the prospect of her gratitude. She sighed and let it go for the moment. “Is Del all right?”

Rafferty looked out the window, the muscles in his jaw flexing. “No, he’s not. He hasn’t been all right in thirty years. I should have faced that a long time ago.”

“What will you do?”

“I don’t know.”

The strain in his voice brought tears to her eyes. She knew how deeply he cared for his uncle. She knew how strong his sense of responsibility was, how he prided himself on taking care of what was his. He thought he had failed. The struggle to deal with the self-recriminations was visible in his face. She wanted to offer him some comfort, but she knew he wouldn’t want it, and that hurt.

She also wished there were something she could do for Del. He deserved a medal for fighting past his own fears and mental demons to help her. He deserved a whole box full of medals. She caught a fleeting glimpse of just such a box in her memory, but she was tired and couldn’t concentrate on anything more than the moment at hand.