Sheriff’s Runaway Witness

Chapter 8

Josie had fallen silent, evidently embarrassed by her gaff. Awkwardly, searching for a new conversational opening, Rachel tore her gaze from her son’s face and said, “So…Sage is your son. Does your husband work and live here, too?”

To her dismay, Josie’s cheeks got even pinker. “Oh-no, no, I’m not married.”

Now it was Rachel’s turn to feel her foot in her mouth. She stammered an apology, but Josie smiled.

“I was married. My husband, he beat me.” She paused and her eyes shifted slightly, and Rachel knew she was looking at the bruises still visible on her own face. Josie didn’t mention them, but caught a little breath, dropped her gaze and went on in a softer voice, “Sam Malone found me walking down the road. I had my little girl-Sage’s sister, Cheyenne-she was three, then-by the hand, my purse and a diaper bag with her clothes over my shoulder, and the clothes on my back, nothing else. Sam took us in.” She paused again. “He’s a good man, and I-” She broke off, and when she continued, Rachel had the feeling it wasn’t what she’d started to say. “I owe him everything.”

Rachel didn’t care to hear about her grandfather’s “virtues,” but something the other woman had said suddenly struck her. “You said, ‘is’? Do you mean, he’s still alive? Then where is he? Why isn’t he here? Why am I here?”

Josie slapped her hands on her knees and rose abruptly. She sidled away, avoiding Rachel’s eyes. “Everything will be explained. Soon. When the others arrive, then-”

“The others? Then it’s true-there are other grandchildren? Children?” I have cousins? Aunts, uncles…

Josie hesitated, then turned. “Children, no-they all died before Sam-Mister Malone. But grandchildren…oh, yes.”

“Oh, please.” Rachel shifted her now-sleeping baby to her shoulder and tugged her shirt down over her breast, then began to rock and pat his back in a way that already seemed as natural as breathing. “I’m an only child. To think of having cousins-family-is…well, it’s just so exciting. Please-tell me about them.”

Still Josie hesitated. Then she smiled apologetically as she gave in to the invitation to gossip. “I don’t know very much about them, to be honest. We-Mr. Malone-has never met any of his grandchildren.”

“That’s…sad,” Rachel said, but her voice was hard, a reflection of the anger that was never very far from the surface where her grandfather was concerned.

“Yes, it is.” Josie sighed. “He was married three times, you know. And each of his wives gave him a child. The first, of course, was Elizabeth-your grandmother. Their son, Sean-”

“My father.”

“Yes. He died in southeast Asia-but of course you know about that. And you probably also know that Sam and Elizabeth were divorced long before.”

“I know he left her,” Rachel said flatly. “For another woman. An actress.”

Josie nodded, and gave another of those little shrugs of apology-although for the life of her Rachel didn’t see why she should hold herself responsible for her employer’s behavior.

“Well, she was…very beautiful. Her name was Barbara.” Josie sighed softly. “Anyway… They weren’t married very long, but they had a daughter. They named her Savannah, and judging from her pictures, she was as beautiful as her mother. And very talented. She was a singer-folk music, mostly. But…I don’t know, maybe growing up without a father, in that Hollywood scene…anyway, she got mixed up with the fast crowd-in those days they all hung out in Laurel Canyon, those music people. She got into drugs and-” Josie lifted her shoulders “-she died. Of an overdose-suicide, maybe, or an accident. Who knows?”

“That’s terrible,” Rachel said, her voice hoarse and cracking. “But-you said she had a child?”

“Yes. A little girl.” Josie gave another sigh and hitched her shoulders. “We don’t know very much about her, except that her name is Sunny, and she lives in New York City. We haven’t heard from her yet, but we’re hoping.”

Rachel rocked in silence for a moment. She was surprised at the emotions this news of relatives she’d never met had stirred in her: sadness at lives cut short; fresh anger at the man who had fostered so much unhappiness. She took a deep breath and prompted, “So…wife number three?”

“Yes-Katherine.” A smile flickered briefly. “From what I understand, Kate was…well, she was very different from Sam’s other wives. Different from him, too. The odd thing is, he was married to her longer than anyone, and yet it was a marriage of convenience-for both of them.”

“How so?”

“Kate was from back east-a very old family, politically connected. Like…they were close friends with the Kennedys, that kind of connected. But their family had fallen on hard times, and I guess she needed money to keep up the home and business her grandfather had founded. At that time, Sam-Mr. Malone-he wanted the social acceptance-and political influence-she and her family could give him, so they got married. And, as I said, I think they were happy for quite a long time. But then, when tragedy came-” Josie lifted her shoulders “-I guess they just didn’t have the kind of love you need to weather that kind of storm.”

“Tragedy?”

“Yes. You see, like her close friends, the Kennedys, Kate wanted their son, John Michael, to go into public service. And, like so many of the Kennedy family, he died too early because of it. He and his wife, Rebecca, died in a plane crash while they were on some sort of mercy mission in Pakistan. Thank God the twins were too young to go with their parents.”

“Twins?”

“Miranda and Yancey. They would be the youngest of Sam-Mr. Malone’s granddaughters.” Josie smiled. “We’re expecting them, too. Soon.”

“So,” J.J. said, “let me get this straight. Sam Malone has just four heirs-the twins, Miranda and Yancey, and Sunny and Rachel. That’s it?”

“Four granddaughters,” Sage corrected.

“Ah-sure,” J.J. said, nodding. “I get it. Long-time, loyal employees-I guess you and your mom would stand to come in for a share of the old man’s money, too, right?”

Sage smiled in a way that was hard for J.J. to read. “I can tell you’re a cop. You think like one-cynical.”

J.J. shrugged. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

The other man straightened up and pushed away from the fender of J.J.’s truck he’d been leaning on and made a slight hand gesture that brought the border collie to his side. He gave J.J. a long, sideways look, squinting against the sun. “Sam Malone always took good care of my mom, my sister and me. Put both of us kids through school-just like he did Rachel, you know? I know my mom will always have a home here, and me-I don’t need anything I haven’t already got. So…think what you want, Sheriff Fox.” He took a few unhurried steps, then turned back.

“Oh-feel free to use the computer in the study-we have the internet, if you need to keep tabs on…things. You don’t need a password, nothing like that. Use the pool if you want-it’s down below on the other side of the house. Let me know if you want to use the horses, or if you need anything. Just…make yourselves at home. Or, you can go back to your life, if you need to.” He jerked his head toward the house. “She and the baby, you know, they’re safe here.”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks.” J.J. stayed where he was and thoughtfully watched the man and his dog go walking off down the long curving drive between those stands of sentinel poplars and evergreens, leaving in the same unhurried and confident way they’d arrived.

Interesting guy. Although there was still something about the man he wasn’t sure he ought to trust. Definitely more going on there than met the eye. Well, time will tell, he thought. Meanwhile, he wasn’t going anywhere.

He bent down and picked up his duffel bag and the car seat/baby carrier and started up the flagstone steps. He made it about halfway to the front door before it hit him. Hit him like a fist to the belly. Hit him so hard he had to stop and set the bag and carrier down and bend over to catch his breath.

Put both of us kids through school-just like he did Rachel…

Questions hurtled dizzily through his mind: Did Sam Malone pay for Rachel’s education? If he did, why didn’t she mention it? Does she even know?

One thing he knew for sure: if Sam Malone had funded Rachel’s education, it changed everything. Rachel had said there wasn’t anything connecting her with her grandfather, Sam Malone, but that wasn’t true. Because money left a trail-a trail not of breadcrumbs, but pebbles, so easy a child could follow it.

Let alone the likes of Carlos Delacorte.

He had to tell her about this. Ask her if she knew. That’s what he told himself as he picked up the carrier and bag and fumbled his way through the front door and into the house-that he needed to talk to Rachel about this new development. But the truth was, he just felt a powerful need to see with his own eyes that she was safe, even though he knew perfectly well she was, at least for the moment.

Or maybe he just felt a need see her. And he didn’t stop, then, to ask himself why.

Inside, he found himself in a large foyer paved with Mexican terra-cotta tiles, which stretched across the width of the house to where double French doors opened onto a veranda. Beyond that he could see a sunlit courtyard filled with flowers, and hear the music from a large tiered fountain. Beyond the fountain, he could see Rachel sitting in a rocking chair, holding her baby. He couldn’t see her clearly because she was in the shade of the veranda, but his heart stumbled anyway. Breath gusted from his chest, half relief, half consternation.

What the hell was that?

Before he could come up with a reasonable answer to that question, the housekeeper-Josie-entered the foyer through open double doors on his right.

“Oh-here you are,” she exclaimed, smiling another one of her warm welcomes. “Come-I’ll show you to your room. I…you know, I thought you’d want to be right next to Rachel’s.”

He nodded but didn’t say anything, too shaken by his unanticipated response to seeing a woman he had no intimate connection to-if you didn’t count delivering her baby and saving her life-to form coherent phrases.

He did recover enough to give Josie a smile to go with the nod, then followed her through the living room-a massive room with a high-vaulted and beamed ceiling that still managed to feel cozy, thanks to warm colors and comfortable furniture arranged in small, intimate groups-and a formal Spanish-style dining room with a table roughly the size of a tennis court. Beyond that was the kitchen, which appeared capable of providing food for a decent-sized restaurant, with all the modern conveniences he could think of and some he didn’t even know the use for. All three rooms had big windows that looked out across manzanita and juniper and rock-studded hillsides to the green valley far below and the blue and purple mountains beyond. Impressive view, he thought. Not so great from a security standpoint.

He felt better, though, when Josie led him through a door off the kitchen and into what was obviously a bedroom wing. Here a wide hallway ran along the outside wall the entire length of the house. From it, doors opened into rooms which in turn opened onto the veranda and center courtyard. There were no doors in the outer wall, and the only windows were small and high. Except for the “public” wing, the house was built like a fortress.

“I hope this is okay-there are two more bedrooms on this side, and four more across the courtyard.” Josie was standing in an open doorway, smiling at him.

He moved past her and into the room-a nice room, he noted; spacious, comfortable, clean-what else would he have expected? “This is fine.” He could see Rachel through the French doors, sitting in a rocker, nursing her baby. He took a breath and felt himself relax a little. He glanced at the housekeeper. “Mind if I ask, where would Sam Malone’s quarters be?”

“Oh-Sam-Mr. Malone’s suite is down at the far end-next to the chapel.” Was it his imagination, or did her cheeks seem pinker?

“Would you like something to drink?” Josie asked, one hand on the doorknob. “Coffee?”

“That would be great,” he said absently as he set his duffel bag on the floor and walked toward the double French doors. Beyond them, he could see Rachel, her face turned away from him as she gazed at the baby nursing at her breast. Her hair hung loose over her shoulders like a shawl woven of black ink. Behind him he heard Josie’s soft affirmation, then the door closing. He hesitated for a moment, then opened the doors and stepped out onto the veranda.

She turned her face toward him without surprise or alarm. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, her smile sleepy…sexy…sweet.

It had been a long time since he’d felt the emotion that flooded him then, but not so long he had trouble recognizing it for what it was.

Happiness.

Well, hell, he thought.

Hey, you’re a cop-homicide. Tough guy. Who knew you’d be such a sucker for a broad with a baby?

Look, so you’re attracted to her. She’s drop-dead gorgeous-who wouldn’t be? Get over it. What matters is what you’re planning to do about it. Right?

Right. Which is nothing.

For all kinds of reasons. One, she just had a baby. Two, she just lost her husband. And three, she’s a potential witness to a double murder in your protective custody, and the one who’s going to save your miserable career.

So…hands off, Jethro.

“Hey,” he said, his smile safely professional, “I see you and the little guy are settling in.”

“Yes.” She glanced down at the baby, and when she lifted her eyes to him again, he saw they were misty with tears.

He ran over in his mind all the reasons he’d just given himself to stay detached and braced himself.

“Thank you, Jethro,” she said in a soft, choked voice.

He jerked back a little bit and said, “What for?”

“For bringing me here. I don’t care what happens with my grandfather. I just…I feel safe here. You don’t know how much that means to me.”

Impassively, he watched a tear quiver on the edge of her lower lashes, then spill over and run down her cheek. “Hey, I’m glad you’re happy,” he said. “Just keep this little guy happy, too.” He reached out and tweaked the blanket in the general vicinity of the baby’s feet. Then he turned and went back into his room and closed the doors, closed his eyes and let out the breath he’d been holding.

No way in hell was he going to spoil it all for her by telling her how safe she wasn’t.

From the memoirs of Sierra Sam Malone:

I never expected I’d be a father. For one thing, I never thought I’d be any good at it, given the kind of fatherhood I’d experienced firsthand growing up, and didn’t care to pass that misery along to another poor helpless mite. But Elizabeth, she had other ideas. Evidently, she saw something in me the rest of the world had missed, because one day there I was, sitting beside her and holding on to her hand while she screamed and hollered and the doctor who’d come out from Barstow helped her to bring our son, Sean, into the world.

Now, it wasn’t a common thing in those days for the prospective father to be anywhere near where the action was. Most likely he’d be sent off to boil water or pace up and down and smoke cigarettes somewhere within earshot of the blood-curdling screams of his beloved so he’d know what a lousy good-for-nothing bastard he was for getting her into that state. Which would have been fine with me. But once again, Elizabeth, she had other ideas. Flat told me if I ran out on her then, once she got back on her feet she’d hunt me down like a mangy coyote and shoot me dead. And, I had good reason to believe she would.

So, that’s why I was sitting there with her when the doc held up the squalling purple thing we’d agreed to call Sean Ronan Malone-after her father, not mine. And I have to tell you, I wasn’t too impressed with him right off the bat. But then the doc, he laid that baby on Elizabeth’s chest, all angry and wet and kicking and waving his fists like he was mad at the world. Laid him right on her…well, on her bare skin. And I have never forgotten-and I’ve had plenty of time to forget, since I’ve lived longer than I ever thought I would-never forgotten the way she looked as she gathered that baby in, the way she seemed to know just how to nestle him up against her breast, the way she looked at him, like he was all the world’s treasure right there in her arms, the way she sang to him, half laughing, half crying, making a sound like a dove makes when she calls to her mate.

I thought then, and I still think, that was one of the most beautiful sights I or any man will ever see in this world.

He sat with the pen in his hand, trying to think of something else to write. After a minute or two, he gave it up, figuring maybe there wasn’t anything else he had to say about that.

He laid the pen down on his desktop and picked up the cell phone that was lying there. He didn’t much care for the damn thing, never had really got the hang of using it, but Sage had bought it for him and made him promise to carry it with him at all times, and had programmed it so all he had to do was push two buttons-one to turn it on and the other to call Sage. He had to admit it came in handy now and again.

He pushed the two buttons now, and Sage answered on the second ring, the way he always did, even though it was the middle of the night. He told the kid what he wanted, then tucked the phone in his shirt pocket and picked up his hat and put it on. He left the room, locked the door behind him, then took the chair lift down the spiral staircase to the ground floor. He was still perfectly capable of making it up and down those stairs on his own steam, but like the cell phone he put up with it because Sage had got it for him and Sage wanted him to use it. And…to be perfectly honest, the kid had a good practical head on his shoulders, and he did have a point. Which was that the old knees-maybe the hips, too-weren’t as dependable as they used to be, and the last thing he wanted was to end his days laid up in a hospital bed or some rest home somewhere. He planned to go out swinging, if he possibly could.

Outside, the moon was bright enough for him to see his way, so he went carefully down the flagstone steps to wait in the lane for Sage. He could hear the soft clip-clop of hoof beats long before the horse and rider emerged from the shaded part of the drive, and as he watched the kid and his favorite painted horse come into the moonlight, he was thinking back to his Hollywood days. Thinking it was too bad Sage had been born too late for those old Westerns, because he’d have made one-helluva fine looking Indian.

Of course, they’d used white guys to play the Indians, back then, instead of real ones, which he’d always thought was a damn shame.

Sage pulled the paint up beside him and got off in the way he had of making it look a whole lot easier than it was. The paint whickered softly and bumped Sage with her head, and he scratched her under her jaw and slapped her on the neck, then turned to help him into the saddle-help he wasn’t too proud to accept.

“You going to tell me where you’re going?” Sage asked, once he’d got him settled.

“Thought I’d go up to the cabin for a while.”

“Aren’t you going to stick around to meet your granddaughter?” The kid’s voice wasn’t accusing, just curious.

“Naw…thought I’d wait till they all get here. Get it all over with at once.” He could see the kid turn his head to hide a grin, but didn’t call him on it. After a moment he said, “What do you make of the fellow came with her?”

“The sheriff?” Sage shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Too soon to tell, maybe. But I like the look of the man.”

He thought that over. Then he nodded. “So do I. I think he’ll do right by her and the baby.”

“Yeah,” said Sage, “that’s what I think, too.”

He picked up the reins and clicked his tongue to the paint.

Sage said, “Need a light?”

“What for? Moon’s high and bright and the horse knows the way.” He leaned forward and the paint picked up the cue and broke into an easy lope. The horse’s rhythms moved into his body and the years fell away and he was a young man again, riding with the night wind in his face and nothing but stars for company.

“I heard a horse last night,” Rachel said to Josie as the housekeeper came through the doorway with a breakfast tray.

They were being served on a small flagstone patio off the kitchen, warm and golden where the sun hit it first thing in the morning. J.J. watched the housekeeper unload the tray’s contents onto the wrought-iron tabletop-bowls full of cereal and strawberries and a big glass of milk for Rachel; black coffee for him. Josie gave him a nervous smile and waited as he picked up his steaming mug and took a sip. He nodded his approval, then turned and strolled away toward the low wall that bordered the patio, providing an inviting front-row seat for that incredible view.

It was one of those times he wouldn’t mind being a smoker, he thought. It’d give him an excuse to wander off by himself. He felt the need to do that-restless, uneasy.

He heard a faint clank as Rachel laid the baby monitor-another one of Katie’s ideas-on the table.

“It sounded like it was right outside the house.”

“Oh-that was probably Sage. Sometimes he likes to ride at night when the moon is bright.”

The woman’s words were reasonable enough, but there was something in her voice-a certain breathlessness-that made J.J.’s spine stiffen and his breathing go quiet. She’s a lousy liar, too, he thought.

“Oh,” Rachel said, stretching the word with a sigh, “it sounds wonderful.”

“You like to ride?” Now Josie’s voice was bright and eager.

“I love to ride. But it’s been a long time…”

Suddenly he wasn’t wishing he could find an excuse to leave. He made himself comfortable on the low wall, half turned so he could watch Rachel without seeming to while he sipped his coffee.

He’d already noticed the fact that she’d pulled her hair up in a high ponytail, then braided it so that it hung thick and glossy to brush the top bumps of her spine. And that she was wearing one of the outfits Katie had helped her pick out-loose-fitting top long enough to hang over the elastic waistband of the blue denim pants, for easy nursing and comfort while she was getting her figure back, according to Katie, who he figured ought to know.

Now, smiling, with pink in her cheeks and her bruises fading, Rachel looked both sweet and exotic…and a stranger to him.

He found himself flashing back to the woman he’d held in his arms not so long ago-vulnerable, sweaty and scared, not just a memory but a full sensory recall, the smell of her hair, salty with that hint of sweet flowers…the dampness of it against his cheek…the salty taste of it. The wiry strength of her body, and the way she’d trembled in spite of it. And he felt a twinge of something like sorrow…like loss. Hated himself for it, for wishing that traumatized girl back, but he couldn’t deny the fact that he missed her. Then, touching her, holding her-it had seemed so natural. Now, to take her in his arms, kiss her-even chastely on her forehead, though God knew he’d rather taste her mouth instead, and not at all chastely-seemed all but unthinkable.

What are you thinking? She’s a widow-husband hasn’t been dead six months. She’s just given birth, been beaten up, been through God only knows what kind of trauma. You’re a sick man, Jethro.

“You’re more than welcome to ride,” Josie said, propping the empty tray against one hip. “Maybe not now-when you’re ready. You just tell Sage-he’ll fix you right up.” She looked over at J.J. and smiled. “You, too-you’re both welcome to use the horses, any time.”

She went back into the house, and J.J. strolled over to the table, still sipping his coffee. He stood, casting a shadow across her sunny yellow blouse and pink cheeks, and said in a low growl, “Are you nuts? You can’t go horseback riding. You just had a baby.”

He could actually see her puff up, as if her body had suddenly grown quills all over, like a porcupine. Which didn’t surprise him. He even wondered if he was trying to pick a fight with her on purpose.

“Give me some credit for knowing my own body,” she said in a cold, clipped voice. She jerked back her head and aimed a brilliant black look at him. “I think I’ll know when I feel up to going for a ride.”

“Yeah?” He felt like a jerk, remembering belatedly that she’d been held a virtual prisoner for the past several months, so it was no surprise she wouldn’t take well to being told what to do. Throttling back to a conversational tone, he asked, “Where’d you learn how to ride? Don’t tell me Carlos keeps a stable.”

She tossed her head so the braided ponytail took on a life of its own. “No, actually, my grandmother taught me. She loved horses, loved to go riding. I started riding lessons when I was about five. In fact, I could ride before I could speak English. We used to go almost every weekend, in Griffith Park. She had friends out in-” She broke off, shaking her head, and when she picked up her glass of milk and drank, he thought he caught the sheen of tears in her eyes.

He pulled out a chair and the wrought iron made a loud screechy sound on the flagstones. He cleared his throat as he put his coffee cup down and sat. “Well,” he said, trying for a reasonable-not bossy-tone, “you can’t go alone.”

There was a long pause. Rachel set her milk glass down, licked milk from her lips and wiped the mustache that was left behind with the back of her hand. Watching her, his mouth watered as though he were beholding a banquet table.

Her eyes came up to meet his. “So,” she said, unsmiling, “come with me.”

Oh, hell. J.J. muttered something even he couldn’t make out and sat back in his chair, shaking his head.

Her eyes took on a gleam. “What, don’t tell me you don’t know how to ride.”

“I’ve ridden. Sure I have. I was on a horse-” He gave up trying to hold on to his masculine pride and let out a breath and with it a huff of laughter. “Once-when I was about six. Never again.”

“Why not? What happened?” Her head tilted, eyes bright and curious.

He shrugged. Confession of his childhood humiliations didn’t extend that far.

“You fell off? Hey, it happens. You’re just supposed to get right back on.”

His smile slipped sideways. “Ah, well…we weren’t the ridin’ kind of family, I guess.”

“I’m sorry.” She said it softly, as if he’d confessed to having some tragic illness. Then sighed and picked up her glass of milk. “Damn. There goes my John Wayne fantasy.”

He snorted, and her eyes slid toward him, hooded and unreadable. Then, lashes lowered, she murmured, “Well, that’s okay. Sage can go with me.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” Her eyes were wide open again, innocent as a babe’s.

For the life of him, he couldn’t come up with a reasonable answer. For one thing, he couldn’t very well tell her he was envisioning some wild action movie scenario wherein a helicopter hovers over the meadow where Rachel is cantering in slow-mo through the wildflowers, and black-garbed ninja-types stream down the ladders, snatch her up and fly away.

Maybe he couldn’t tell her why, but he knew he didn’t want to let her out of his sight.

He said, “If anybody goes with you, it’s going to be me.”

Now demurely nibbling a strawberry, Rachel said, “Jethro, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you sounded jealous.”

He made a growling sound deep in his throat, shoved back his chair and got up and went back in the house. High time he got out of there, he thought, because he obviously needed to get his emotions and his fantasies under control. First, because there was this crazy question that insisted on flashing through his mind: Is she flirting with me? Which he knew was ridiculous, and nothing more than some wishful thinking on his part.

Then, there was the fact that she was right-he was behaving like a jealous man. And he simply was not the jealous type. Never had been, never would be.

Except…there was this voice arguing, way down deep inside his head: Maybe you just never met a woman you thought was worth being jealous about.

He just knew he couldn’t stomach the thought of Rachel going riding with that kid, Sage. Or, the thought of the two of them galloping through the meadow full of wildflowers, matching black braids bouncing and blowing in the wind.