He told himself he was doing the right thing. That he had an obligation to help. He wasn’t sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong. He was the law, goddamn it. And just because he didn’t have the kind of evidence to take to court didn’t mean he didn’t know that the evidence was out there. Know that he had to somehow, someway, convince Joanne to talk to him.
As soon as he hit the town proper, he slowed down, maneuvering through the streets lined with houses accented by lovely, shaded lawns. He headed farther north until he reached the area just outside of old town. Here, the houses had just as much potential as those within the tourist circle, but most of the owners had neither the time nor the money to fulfill the hidden potential.
He ended up on Houston Street, then slowed as he approached the Alvarez house. Tidy, but rundown. A lot of the fading beauty of that house could easily be fixed if Hector Alvarez got off his ass and did some work instead of guzzling beer at Murphy’s Pub and then heading home to guzzle some more.
He parked the cruiser, then got out and started walking up the sidewalk toward the front door, but the sound of voices from the back caused him to shift direction. He cut across the lawn, then started up the crepe myrtle-lined driveway.
“I’m sorry, Hector. I guess I opened my door too fast. I didn’t mean to—”
“Dammit, Jo!” They were standing between Joanne’s piece of shit Oldsmobile and Hector’s polished and babied—and now scratched—Buick. As Dillon approached, Hector lashed out, slapping Joanne hard across her cheek even as Dillon shouted for him to stop.
“It’s all good, Sheriff,” Hector said, stepping back and raising his hands in supplication as Dillon pulled his weapon and kept it on Hector.
Joanne had buried her face in her hands. She was looking at the ground. Not at him. Not at Hector.
Her shoulders were shaking, and right then Dillon wanted two things. To comfort her. And to blow the head off the fuckwad standing in front of him.
Right then, he couldn’t do either.
“Hands behind your head, asshole.”
“Sure thing, Sheriff.” Hector moved slowly, all polite sugar now. “This here’s just a misunderstanding.”
“Misunderstanding? I don’t think so. I think it’s assault. And I’m pretty sure that hospital records are going to show a pattern. You’re a good-looking man, Hector. I think you’ll be very popular in prison.”
Hector didn’t say a word, but Dillon saw both fear and hate in the other man’s eyes.
“Please.” That one soft word came from Joanne. “Please, Sheriff. Just leave it be. Please.”
Shit.
“Joanne. This has to stop.”
She lifted her head, finally looking at him. “It’s not what you think. And it’s not your business. It’s not.”
“The hell it’s not. I’m the sheriff here,” he said, even though what he wanted to say was that he loved her. That when Hector hit her, he’d felt it as violently as a blow to his gut. But that wasn’t the point. Or maybe it was, but he knew enough not to tell her that. Not yet.
“You can’t arrest him, Sheriff. You just can’t.” Her pretty face was flustered. Maybe a little bit scared. But because of him or Hector, Dillon wasn’t sure.
Dillon shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he considered his options. He ought to cuff Hector. Take him to the courthouse and toss him in jail. But Joanne was so fragile he feared she’d shrivel up when the gossip started to flow.
That option was risky, too. He’d seen Hector hit her, and hospital records should prove a pattern of abuse. But in truth he wasn’t as confident of the outcome as he’d pretended just now. Dillon had no control over the jury, the sentence, or the term of incarceration. Hector could end up on probation, and wouldn’t that be a pisser?
If Dillon walked away right now with a warning, Hector would rein himself in for a day or two, but after that the gloves would come off again. That’s the way it was with serial abusers. And next time it would be more than a slap on the face or a sprained wrist.
That meant Dillon needed to go with door number three. Joanne wouldn’t like it, but she didn’t have to know. And the truth was, it was Dillon’s job to protect the people in his jurisdiction. Even if they didn’t want protecting.
And even if his methods crossed over into the gray side of the law.
Chapter Eleven
It rained on the day of Jacob Salt’s funeral. The kind of wild Texas thunderstorm where the clouds roll in like gray balls of cotton pushed across the sky by an angry wind. The trees swayed. Old newspapers blew across streets. The sky turned eerily green, and once the rain began to fall, a curtain of steam rose from the sunbaked asphalt.
Inside the Lutheran Church, there was a different kind of storm. An emotional battering as Pastor Douglas spoke to the packed pews about the destruction of youth and the shattering of dreams. “Jacob Salt lived a full life in the time that he had. He had family and friends who he loved. He was a calming presence in the center of a town that has seen its share of storms. And while we mourn his passing, we are grateful for the time that he had, and our lives are enriched in having known him. We go forth knowing that he is with us, a piece of Jacob goes on in memories, in family, in love.”
Pastor Douglas looked at Ginny as he spoke the last, and she met his eyes, calmly accepting the truth of his words. She and Marisol had decided that they would remain quiet about the pregnancy for at least a few more weeks, but that didn’t change the fact that most everyone in Storm already knew. By the time they were willing to talk about it openly, they probably wouldn’t have to tell anyone.
As the pastor wrapped up the service, telling the mourners that Jacob’s parents would be going across the street to the square to scatter Jacob’s ashes under the Storm Oak that he loved so much, Ginny glanced around the standing-room-only crowd. Everyone from town was there. Some she’d known her whole life, and some she just recognized in passing. Surely they all had secrets, too. Lies they’d told. Quiet guilt that they held close, because to reveal it would cause an even bigger hurt.
Because it would. She was certain of it.
And, yes, she’d finally made up her mind.
Across the aisle, Ginny saw Dakota Alvarez standing near Senator Rush, and she hugged herself tight. She was so over Senator Rush it wasn’t even funny. Ginny didn’t care who the biological father might be; in her heart, her baby’s daddy was Jacob. And that’s just the way it was going to be.
Marisol and Luis were on either side of Ginny, keeping her steady. And even though Ginny wasn’t even interested in looking the senator’s way, she appreciated the small smile of solidarity from Jeffry Rush and his mother, Payton. Ginny’s best friend, Brit, was there, too, having arrived back home in Storm less than an hour before the service began. Her eyes shone with tears, but she held Ginny’s gaze for a moment, giving her silent strength.
Travis and Celeste were in the pew in front of her, clutching each other’s hands in support. They were flanked by Lacey and Sara Jane, and although they’d invited Ginny to sit with them, she’d turned them down. She would be part of their family soon enough. Today she was content to look at them. At this gift of family that Jacob had left her. One more small miracle carved out of the most horrible tragedy.
The Salts started to file out of the pew and down the aisle, but Celeste paused beside Ginny, then held out her hand so Ginny could join them. They walked together out into the storm, which was miraculously letting up and had actually stopped by the time they reached Storm Oak.
Travis kept his arm around Celeste’s waist, giving her his support until the rest who were joining them beneath the tree arrived. As it turned out, that was everyone.
And then, with the crowd gathered around, Travis released his wife. She kept her hand pressed against his back as he opened the bronze urn and scattered their son’s ashes beneath the ancient oak tree.
“We love you, son,” Travis said. “And we miss you.”
It wasn’t profo
und. It wasn’t religious. It was simple and heartfelt, and not one person who’d heard those words had a dry eye.
Slowly, the crowd broke up. Some remained, huddled together to chat. Others headed on to Murphy’s Pub, where the local restaurants were offering up a potluck for mourners and where Aiden Murphy was supplying free beer.
Ginny went to Celeste and Travis. “I wanted to say thank you. And—if you still want me—then I do want to move in. This is Jacob’s baby as much as mine,” she added, determined to make the words as true as they could be. “And we want to be with family.”
“Oh, sweetheart!”
Celeste pulled her into an enthusiastic hug. And Travis’s, though more subdued, was no less genuine.
“We need to get you settled.” She frowned. “But we need to go to Murphy’s. After?”
Ginny nodded, content to follow Celeste’s lead. Travis held up his phone. “Just got a text. I need to pop into the pharmacy for about half an hour.” He pulled them each close, then kissed each of their foreheads.
Then as he walked one way and they walked the other, Ginny paused and looked back at the tree. As she did, the sun peeked out from behind the remaining clouds and wide beams of sunlight burst down through the tree’s thick canopy, illuminating Jacob’s ashes and lighting the way to a new beginning.
Chapter Twelve
Travis Salt walked as fast as seemed prudent across Pecan Street to his store, Prost Pharmacy. The closed sign was still in the window, the shade on the front door pulled down. Everything was just as he’d left it when he’d closed up that morning and then made the short walk to the church to meet Celeste and the girls.
He knew Celeste had been frustrated that he’d gone to work that morning, but as the town’s only pharmacist with the exception of Thom, who worked full time at the hospital, there were things he had to do.
Which was true, but also a crock of shit. He’d needed to be alone. He’d needed time to breathe.
Now, though, alone wasn’t what he wanted at all.
His hand shook as he put his key in the lock. Such a simple task and he could hardly manage it. Could hardly manage his own goddamn life anymore.
Jacob was dead. His son was dead.
He felt numb. He felt lost.
Once inside, he closed the door behind him, saw that the alarm had already been disengaged, and reset it. If anyone came through that door, he damn sure wanted to know about it.
The lights were off except for the row of fluorescents he kept illuminated, so that everything was in full view through the big display window that fronted the square. Passersby could see the merchandise in the front of the store, as well as the old-fashioned soda fountain that ran parallel with the left wall.
He knew the shelves were tidy, full of everything from over-the-counter meds to basic office supplies to candy and cards.
He knew the soda fountain’s red Formica bar top gleamed and the chrome trim on the bar and stools sparkled.
Today, he didn’t care about any of that. Instead, he hurried to the back. To the pharmacy proper.
He lifted that hinged section of counter, walked past the cash register, then the shelves of pharmaceuticals, then past his workstation, which was hidden from customers’ view.
Finally, he reached his private office, a small room with a tiny window that overlooked the pharmacy and the shop beyond. The window had blinds, and right now they were shut tight.
As a rule, he left the office locked. He tried the door, then smiled when the knob turned easily.
He pushed open the door, stepped inside, and felt the weight of the world slip away when he saw her sitting on his small sofa. Kristin Douglas stood, then walked to him, her red hair practically crackling with the force of the emotion he saw on her face and in her sad blue eyes.
“I’ve missed you,” she whispered as she slid into his arms, and that was all it took to break him.
The sobs he’d been holding in burst free and he clung to her, his body wracked with grief. “I haven’t—I couldn’t—” He sputtered the words, wanting her to understand. Knowing that she already did. “I’ve had to be so strong. But I’m not strong. Oh, God, Kristin. How can he be gone?”
“Shh. It’s okay, sweetheart. And you are strong, and the death of a child would destroy anyone. But you stayed steady. You helped them, and that’s good, but let me help you now.”
He nodded, clinging to her, letting the sobs fade, knowing that she was there for him. His secret strength.
Finally he pulled back, then searched her eyes. “God, but I’ve missed you. I need you, Kristin. You know that I need you. What would I do if I didn’t have you to come to?”
He saw pleasure flicker in her eyes, shining past the grief. “You’ll never have to find out,” she said.
And then, because they both needed it, he drew her close, then kissed her hard, letting himself forget everything but this woman, this moment. Letting the passion between them grow wilder and more frenzied until clothes were coming off and skin was touching skin. Until he couldn’t wait any longer to have her, and they both lost themselves in each other, and they left the horror and pain of the last few days far, far behind.
* * * *
Dillon wasn’t surprised that Hector wasn’t at Jacob Salt’s funeral. More than that, he considered it a perk.
It let Dillon enjoy the luxury of watching Joanne, her eyes misty as she listened to Pastor Douglas and then, by the tree, to Travis.
But he didn’t talk to her. Not today. Not when he was about to do what he was about to do.
When the crowd on the square scattered—most heading to Murphy’s Pub for shared grief and beer—Dillon got back in his cruiser. No one would question his absence. As sheriff, he often missed out on town gatherings. That was part of the job, after all. Being out there in the world protecting and serving.
Right now, he intended to do a little of both.
He got in his cruiser and headed to the Alvarez house, hoping that Hector was still there. If he’d decided to come back to the square for the drinking part of the afternoon, this was going to be a very short trip.
But no, his car was still there. And he saw as he walked down the driveway to the backyard that the paint scratch that had bent Hector so out of shape had already been buffed out and polished.
And just that one small thing—that Hector obviously cared more about his Buick than his wife—added extra fire to Dillon’s determination.
He moved quietly up the back steps, then entered the house, not surprised to find it unlocked. Hector wasn’t the kind of man who worried. Today, he should have.
Dillon found him in the living room, and after staring at him for a second, Hector leapt to his feet.
“Get the hell out of my house, Sheriff.”
“No, Hector. You’re the one getting out of your house. So go pack whatever shit you can’t live without, get in that car you love so much, and get the fuck out of Storm.”
Hector barked out a laugh. He took a step toward Dillon. “Fuck. You.”
“Fair enough,” Dillon said, then hauled back and punched the asshole right in the face.
As he’d expected, Hector cried out, recovered quickly, and then delivered a return punch that rattled Dillon’s skull and had him stumbling backward.
Perfect.
Dillon drew his weapon and held it on the other man. Hector had been moving forward for another blow, but now he stopped cold, his hands in the air.
“Whoa, whoa, man.”
“You’re leaving, Hector. You’re leaving now.”
Hector shook his head, then took another step toward him. Dillon cocked the revolver. He’d brought the revolver specifically because cocking the hammer had a definite psychological impact on the person at the other end of the gun’s barrel. A nice little benefit you didn’t get with a Glock.
“You can’t shoot me. You fire your weapon, it has to be examined. Anybody who’s seen a crime show knows that.”
“You’re more clever t
han I thought. But you missed two points. First, I’m the sheriff. If anyone can manage to circumvent those rules, it’s me. And two, that applies to service weapons. This is from my own personal collection. My service pistol’s in the gun safe at home.”
Hector shook his head, and Dillon was gratified to see he looked a little nervous. He lifted a hand and rubbed his aching cheek and jaw, already swollen from Hector’s bashing. “Now go,” he said. “Go pack.”
“You can’t make me leave. Not like that.”
“No? Then how about like this: I came by to ask you a few questions about some vandalism at the square.” Apparently some middle school kids had gotten their hands on some spray paint. Not exactly the crime of the century, but it served Dillon’s purpose well enough. “You invited me in. Following me so far, Hector?”
Hector said nothing.
“Once I was inside, you jumped me. I defended myself. You came at me again. I shot you in self-defense. You fell to the ground, then died. I tried to stop the bleeding, but it was too late. As I was helping you, I discovered a bag of heroin in your jacket pocket, which explained why you’d jumped me, as a vandalism charge didn’t seem worth it. The internal investigation goes away because not only is the situation squeaky clean, but because no one bothers to look too hard. After all, you’re not a popular guy, Hector. Not anymore. And what’s one less asshole drug dealer in the world? We don’t put up with that kind of shit in Storm.”
Hector’s face had turned a sickly gray. “You motherfucker.”
Dillon just smiled, thin and determined. “Leave, Hector. Pack a bag. Toss it in your car. And leave. Do it in the next five minutes, and that story is just that—a story. Don’t, and it becomes an unpleasant reality.”
Hector left. He bitched and swore and said he loved his wife and his kids, but in the end, he loved being alive more.
He packed light, but pulled what looked to be several thousand dollars out of the very back of his bedside drawer. Dillon watched him pack—watched him like a goddamn hawk—just in case Hector had his own gun stowed away. Just in case Hector intended to use it.
But no. After five minutes, Hector was tossing his duffel in his back seat, then pulling out of the driveway.
Just to make sure, Dillon followed him out of town. And then, just to be even more sure, he followed him for another hour, all the way to San Antonio.