Exhaling in relief, Bay threw a load on her own welder. She began the bottom weld on her spear and was immediately lost in her work.

How long was it before she picked up on the change, the smell? Two minutes, three? It couldn’t have been much longer. In any case, the strong odor, wholly unnatural to their environment and so clearly wrong, prompted her to throw up her hood and sniff again.

She turned around.

Smoke was coming from Glenn’s table, so much smoke that she couldn’t see him. Nevertheless, the nauseating smell told her he was there. Swatting the hood off her head, she ran to his machine, flipped off the ignition switch and, while her reaction was fast, her movements automatic, her mind froze on one thought. Heart attack.

The horrible stench gagged her as much as the smoke did, speaking too clearly of burning clothing and worse. As horror urged retreat, she grabbed the lead to get the stringer out from beneath him, at the same time pushing against his shoulder to roll him off it. In that instant something struck her forearm.

Through tearing eyes and suffocating smoke she saw a metal rod—no, one of the Maiden’s lances.

The spear was impaled through Glenn’s back.

Also available from MIRA Books and HELEN R. MYERS

FINAL STAND

DEAD END

LOST

MORE THAN YOU KNOW

COME SUNDOWN

WHILE OTHERS SLEEP

No Sanctuary
Helen R. Myers

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For Norma L. Wilkinson

Who has also known what it takes to stand alone.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Like many, I grew up hearing the sage advice “Two things should never be discussed at the dinner table—politics and religion.” An adage, I should add, that was rarely heeded by those who taught it to me. Then my family moved south of the Mason-Dixon Line and, a few years after we were married, my husband and I settled in east Texas, a place, I have wryly concluded, where there are more churches than pine trees. As hard as I try, avoiding the subject of religion here is more difficult yet—in fact it’s virtually impossible. Salutations are typically followed by one of two questions: “What church do you belong to?” or “Who are your people?”

It is partly because of such troubling and inappropriate queries that this story evolved. My other inspiration came from actual crimes—two in particular. One to this day remains unproven, although I’m sure the U.S. Treasury Department continues to watch over it hoping for a break, and the other was brought to trial but failed to win a conviction. From there on, this is a work of fiction. To the best of my knowledge, Mission of Mercy Church does not exist in this area. But sadly, I have seen a few too many variations of it and of characters like Martin Davis and Madeleine Ridgeway. They present great fodder for a writer, but I despair for the innocent minds they abuse and corrupt.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Several people need to be thanked for sharing their stories and expertise, or for going out of their way to try to arrange interviews—Darese Cotton, Karen Kelley and Linda Broday. To those of you who write in approval of my protagonists’ “real” professional backgrounds, I hope you’ll enjoy Bay and her work. All credit for its accuracy goes to my husband, Robert, a master craftsman and shaman with metal. Any error there and elsewhere is entirely my own.

The world is governed by very different personages from what is imagined by those who are not behind the scenes.

—Benjamin Disraeli

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Epilogue

Prologue

Tyler, Texas

August, 1995

It was well past nine, hours after their usual quitting time—more if the battery-operated clock above the office door had stuck again—and yet Bay Butler reached for another welding rod. With two more ornamental lances to tack then weld into the division bars, she could call her half of the entry gate completed, and she wasn’t shutting down until done. The gate had to be installed the day after tomorrow. It couldn’t matter that every muscle and bone in her back and neck screamed from fatigue, or that her eyes had been on fire since the rest of the crew had gone home for the day. Never mind that sweat saturated her long-sleeved denim shirt and jeans, threatening to slow-cook her to death. It was August, this was Texas, and only a bankruptcy-intent fool air-conditioned a welding shop.

At least her clothes were providing some protection from the red-hot sparks shooting at her. Denim was not ideal for such work, but allowed flexibility of movement that the leather vest wisdom dictated a welder use didn’t. Those contraptions felt as weighty as a warrior’s breastplate, the arms as stiff and restrictive as the pauldrons, rerebraces and couters of any good knight’s armor. The invention was also meant to guard against worse health problems down the road; however, thanks to her creditors, there would be no “down the road” for Bay if she couldn’t work with reasonable speed and flexibility. Which was also why she replaced her wardrobe every few months; none of which, her CPA chastised repeatedly, was deductible because her shop wasn’t union and denim didn’t qualify as a uniform.

Two more lances…

It might as well be six and she had to visualize something pleasant to keep going. Once she dragged her butt home, she would fill the tub with whatever the faucet marked C offered considering this was Tyler and triple-digit heat had been the status quo for thirty-eight days straight. A tray or three of ice cubes from the freezer would help, as would the quart of cold milk from the fridge that was a few days past its expiration date. Whole milk, which was why she rarely drank it, the kind that clung to skin like a pearl’s sheen. Then she would pop the tab on a tall Miller Lite to cool off her insides, and hopefully pass out from sheer exhaustion.

“Christ Almighty, will you knock it off, already?”

She paused in lowering the Darth Vader-like hood over her face and glanced behind her to see Glenn English glaring from beneath his own raised hood. Behind him on the rolling parts table were five other ten-foot tall iron rods with the sharp arrowheads that would finish his side of the entry gate. It wasn’t like him to be so far behind her, and he knew what was at stake. But as she accepted she might have to forgo the soak, maybe even the beer, she shouted back over the motors, “Go ahead and quit if you need to. I’ll finish for you.”

She made sure her tone was matter-of-fact; after all, he had someone waiting for him. Maybe Holly had committed them to an engagement and he’d neglected to share that tidbit of information. It wouldn’t be the first time, and who could blame Holly for deciding that tonight she’d eaten one too many dinners alone, received one last-minute excuse beyond what a fiancée should endure?

“You’d like me to walk out on you, wouldn’t you? A perfect ending to the martyr image.”

Dumbfounded, Bay could only stare. She loved her work. What they were doing was hot and dirty for sure; but the opportunity it represented was a challenge, and a terrific business opportunity. Whatever his problem, she was willing to shrug it off to fatigue and the god-awful heat. Everyone in the shop had been snarling at each other on and off for weeks, thanks to the weather and the company’s money crunch.

“We only have tomorrow to finish up,” she said, drawing on the last of her own patience. “If this project doesn’t go in on Friday morning, you won’t have to worry about more overtime. We’ll have to shut those doors for good.”

It wasn’t an exaggeration since they had yet to begin the painting-finishing process. The gate would be a navy gray, two careful coats of top-grade, weather-resistant flat—a third if, upon final inspection, Bay decided it was warranted. When that was completely dry, they would begin the painstaking hammering of the yellow brass wire wrapped in three strategic points along the length of each lance. She called the design The Iron Maiden, a little tongue-in-cheek acknowledgment after one of Glenn’s remarks about her “ball-breaker” work habits and her dogged determination to keep the shop afloat. As luck would have it a few weeks ago, the grand duchess of all ball-breakers had driven by the small sidewalk-size version of the Maiden exhibited outside and stopped. On the spot, Madeleine Ridgeway had demanded a driveway size model for her new estate. Nobody turned down Mrs. Herman Ridgeway, daughter and sole heiress to Duncan Holt’s vast grocery warehousing empire.

“Friday,” Bay said to Glenn with more emphasis. “And don’t forget Mrs. R. needs access for the caterers and florists by early afternoon. That’ll create a squeeze for us no matter how smoothly things go. What if Zamora shows up in the morning with the shakes, or the paint runs, or the wire snaps too often as we’re hammering the trim?”

“Shit happens.”

“Not when she signs the check.”

“So she doesn’t get her frigging gate in time for her party. You don’t think the house is enough to keep everybody gaping?”

The answer to that was so obvious it didn’t need to be voiced. Nevertheless, Bay wanted people to see The Iron Maiden first.

As a hunch about Glenn settled deeper in her gut, she frowned. This wasn’t about their intense schedule, at least not entirely. Something else was wrong. He’d been as thrilled as she was when they’d landed this job and they’d hugged and cheered, despite it coming only a few weeks after Bay turned down his marriage proposal. She’d thought, hoped, they’d cleared the air since. He’d certainly started up with Holly fast enough. Could there now be trouble in that paradise?

Heaven spare me from love.

They had to hang on. Once their financial pressures were behind them, they could think about expansion, a future that would allow for larger projects, independence. Dreams. The end of what she privately saw as a two-year leeching of everything creative inside her. She couldn’t let him fall apart one check away from freedom and inspiration.

“I can’t and won’t do that to Mrs. Ridgeway,” Bay told him.

“You think she wouldn’t cut you loose in a heartbeat if it suited her?”

Glenn’s cynicism worked like hot salsa on her empty stomach. If this abrasive attitude was his way to complete his emotional “disconnect” from her, to assure her that he’d learned his lesson, he needed to rethink his strategy.

“Look, I’m not a mind reader, and if you have something to say, I wish you’d can the sarcasm and get to the point…only not tonight. I’m begging you, Glenn. Let’s get this job done.”

He stood for several more seconds as though he wanted to press a point, but as abruptly as he’d flared, he reached for another lance from the rolling table behind him, slid it in place and dropped his hood. Striking an arc, he began welding again.

Exhaling in relief, Bay threw a load on her own welder. She began the bottom weld on her lance and was immediately lost in her work.

How long was it before she picked up on the change…the smell? Two minutes. Three?

It couldn’t have been much longer. In any case, the strong odor, wholly unnatural to their environment and so clearly wrong prompted her to throw up her hood and sniff again.

She turned around. “Jesus.”

Smoke was coming from Glenn’s table, so much smoke that she couldn’t see him. Nevertheless, the nauseating smell told her he was there. Swatting the hood off her head, she ran to his machine, flipped off the ignition switch and scrambled over lines to reach him. While her reaction was fact, her movements automatic, her mind froze on one thought. Heart attack. The stench gagged her as much as the smoke did, speaking too clearly of burning clothing and worse. As horror urged retreat, she grabbed the lead to get the stinger out from beneath him, at the same time pushing against his shoulder to roll him off it. In that instant something struck her forearm.

Through tearing eyes and suffocating smoke, she saw a metal rod—no, one of the Maiden’s lances.

The spear was impaled through Glenn’s back.

1

Six years later

Gatesville Unit, Texas Department of Corrections

Gatesville, Texas

Wednesday, May 9, 2001

“Butler! Shut it down, you have a visitor.”

About to drop her hood to weld the rest of a handrail, Bay Butler hesitated and glanced over at Sergeant Draper scowling at her from the doorway. At first she thought she must be hearing things, then the woman squeezed into a size-sixteen prison guard uniform aimed her baton. Bay shut down the machine.

What the hell…?

She couldn’t imagine who wanted to see her. She had no family, so-called friends had abandoned her ages ago, and the most rabid reporter had long lost interest in her. Nevertheless, she knew better than to question when a prison guard gave a directive, particularly this one. Bay got along well enough with most of the staff—they left her alone, while she pretended they were part of the concrete and steel surrounding her—but Draper had made it clear from day one that she thought Bay belonged on Death Row.

Setting her hood on top of the welding machine, Bay approached the woman whose face would make a plastic surgeon think, “Windfall.” Keeping her own expression passive, she dealt with an unwelcome rush of adrenaline. Why hope? Hope, she’d learned the hard way, was for babies, brides and fools. Yet Draper knew something. Suspicion and trouble were unpleasant scents to season Bay’s memory as she struggled to remember what she might have done wrong in the last six days, never mind six years. It had to be a trick of some kind; no one on the outside cared whether she lived or rotted here and she had no assets, therefore, no need for a beneficiary to encourage her early demise. Her life had been reduced to its lowest common denominator.

Six years…in another six weeks. Any more sixes, she mused, and she was going to start wondering if the Bible-thumpers—whom she avoided as diligently as she did prison troublemakers—were right about the antichrist already being present on earth. That, too, said bad things about her state of mind.

Wary, Bay followed the surly guard’s directives down the hall. She knew better than to ask questions. As far as Draper was concerned, if you were at Gatesville, you were guilty and should serve your full term, and the guard did her best to make sure Bay understood that went doubly for her.

The cloudless Texas sky blinded Bay as she crossed the prison yard, and the packed clay tested her bones and joints as much as the concrete floors of the prison did. Gatesville was the state’s main women’s facility, located about an hour west of Waco, hard country that fooled you. Gently rolling terrain let you believe over the next slope was a lake, a stream, maybe an oasis of woods when the only break from the incessant sun was the scrub brush and rain-starved cedars. For as far as she could see the dusty, heat-scorched vegetation littered the land like storm debris. Bay never yearned for the soothing shade of the piney woods more than when she was ordered outside to fulfill state requirements for “fresh air and exercise.”

The plant-bare yard was speckled with a number of women cloistered in a corner like chickens without feed and unionizing in protest. Several called to her, whistled and blew taunting kisses. Bay had a certain reputation among the inmates, not for any unpredictability or violent tendencies, but for her refusal to make group alliances. It wasn’t a focused intent, she simply wasn’t and never had been tribal, didn’t join clubs and other variations of so-called support groups as a means of feeling secure. An only child raised in what any first-year psych student would recognize as an unorthodox manner, her social skills weren’t only untapped, they remained buried rootstock, or worse, like invisible seeds on Mars.

Unfortunately for her, Bay resembled the very people who came from various ministries to attend to the needs of her soul. Slim to the point of gaunt, having saved her sanity by plunging herself in relentless work, she was as pale as a chronic anemic. What color she did have was welding burns. Add her artist’s feverish, unblinking stare and she could pass for a seer, or someone in need of a white jacket with sleeves that tied, which explained why all but the most fearless inmates avoided her, as one would any unknown commodity. It was those predators, the ones who traveled in the strongest packs that refused to be permanently thwarted. Bay carried a few scars from them—the chronic ache of cracked ribs, a broken finger and damaged spleen.

It was her skill with metal that had kept her alive, that and the fact that the new warden, after a visit to the infirmary, had done her homework. Upon reading Bay’s file, the woman assigned her to the prison mechanic shop. Ever since, Bay worked at repaying her by methodically cutting down on the list of repairs and improvements needed at the facility, those frequently put off due to budget constraints. The move hadn’t stopped the diehards from their taunts, though. As she crossed the yard they stuttered, “B-b-b,” or called, “Hey, Baby Butt Butler!” or “Yo! Bitch Bonnie Bay.” But, as always, unless someone addressed her as “Bay” or “Butler,” she tuned them out.

After the debilitating heat it was a relief to enter the visitors building, although the air-conditioning sounded as though it was ready to go at any second. Either that or souls from previous inmates were haunting the ventilation system. Still, it was a good twenty degrees cooler than outside, almost thirty better than at the shop. But what caused Bay to shiver was the reminder that she hadn’t been in here since her first month at Gatesville and that she’d forgotten procedure. Hesitating once too often after a directive earned her Draper’s scorn.

“Hell, Butler, has inhaling those gas fumes numbed your brain?” the guard snapped as they stood outside the last set of gates. “I said pass through.”

Bay intended to…but she’d spotted whom she was being handed off to, a great hulk of flesh with a face that made Draper a beauty queen. Would he insist on a body search, too, before she was allowed to see if any of this was worth it?

Bay clenched her teeth and stepped into the cell-like corridor. Then she stood staring through the bars at the door of mystery while the WWF reject attempted to get his jollies, only to discover he was wasting his time, since she was flat going and coming.

Muttering in disappointment or disgust, he directed her to the visitation room. “Cubicle six,” he recited in a voice that Disney Studios might contract to play a drowning grouper. “Stay seated, use the phones, no passing anything over the partition. No body contact whatsoever. Any infraction and the meeting’s over. You give me any lip and the meeting’s over. You try something stupid and you go into Solitary. Clear?”

“Yes, sir.” Bay’s automatic reply hid her consternation. Sixth cubicle. Six-six-six.

Her trepidation didn’t ease once she arrived at the designated spot. Not only was the man waiting for her a total stranger, he had all of the markings of a lawyer, the successful kind. She took in the educated, pampered face, the manicured hands, the salon-styled, flaxen hair and the suit she figured cost more than her court-appointed attorney had made handling her entire case, and considered doing an about-face. What stopped her were his eyes. He resented being here as much as she did the prospect of having to speak to him.

As curiosity won out over pride, she sat down and matched him stare for stare. What helped was that he was as fine-boned as he was fair—her male counterpart. He picked up his phone, then waited for her to reach for hers. That’s when she noticed the condition of her hands—black from grease and dirt. Certain that he’d noticed, she took her time to wipe them on her thighs, further staining the already soiled orange jumpsuit.

“I’m Lyle Gessler,” he snapped as soon as she brought the receiver against her left ear. “Mrs. Ridge-way sent me.”

All reluctance and embarrassment evaporated like summer drizzle on sun-baked Texas earth. If the name Ridgeway had clout in this state, it had double that with her. One thing she believed—the widow of oil tycoon Herman Ridgeway and daughter and sole heiress of the late grocery-distributor magnate Duncan Holt was the only reason she didn’t call Death Row home. For Madeleine Ridgeway, she would listen.

“As you know, Mrs. Ridgeway has continued to protest your situation.”

Continued? “She was supportive before and during the trial. But since…I couldn’t say.”

Mrs. Ridgeway had sent a note right after her arrest saying she would be following the trial and offer herself as a character witness for the defense, but Bay had refused for fear of public opinion turning on the good woman. Later she’d learned from her lawyer, court-appointed Mary Dish, that Mrs. Ridgeway had spoken to some influential political friends who had somehow convinced the D.A. that while a conviction was likely, a Murder One charge would be risky. For that, if nothing else, Bay would always be grateful.

“Then allow me to enlighten you. After saving you from a date with the Lethal Injection Boys, she expanded her own investigation—and at no small expense. It’s a result of that, the evidence we’ve unearthed, that I’m here. Your conviction has been vacated.”

Bay struggled to figure out what the hell that meant without looking like a fresh-hatched chick. She was sensitive about her lack of formal education. Schooling she had, having gone through the whole welding school apprenticeship and being mentored by some of the best journeymen in the business. But the rest of it, the college-range curriculum had been denied her. She’d used some of her time here trying to catch up, improving her reading skills and sense of history and politics, anything to fill the endless days; however, the sense of stigma remained.

“I don’t understand,” she admitted at last.

“We convinced the D.A. to agree with your defense attorney and request that your trial be set aside.”

He might as well have announced her the winner of a jackpot lottery. “How?” she whispered, surprised she could speak at all. She’d had a full trial, the whole gamut of legalities and jury and media humiliation.

“What does it matter? The point is you’re getting out.”

As much as she wanted to believe him, Bay stared at the stranger with the feminine nose and pinched lips reading him like a Times Square billboard. Not only didn’t he believe what he was spouting at her, not only didn’t he care if she did or not, he thought coming here undeserving of his time.

“Excuse me.” She gripped the phone tighter, aware that manners counted in such moments and that she had to hang on to what was left of hers. “I don’t mean any insult, and I am…I’m in shock. What I’m trying to say is that no one listened during the trial. What’s changed?”

“Facts.” The attorney focused on the unopened file before him. “It appears new evidence finally surfaced that was unknown at the time of the initial investigation. The deceased was recently discovered to have had a gambling problem. Apparently—”

“The deceased had a name. Glenn English.”

“—Mr. English’s debts,” Lyle Gessler continued frowning at the closed folder, “had gotten so out of control that a collector was sent after him.”

“Bull.” Bay would never have stood for that kind of behavior, and Glenn had known it because her father had been a compulsive gambler. Glenn had witnessed the worst of what that meant; in fact, he’d almost been as hurt by the effects of her father’s addiction as Bay was. They’d come a cold sweat away from losing the business and Bay the pitiful roof over her head. No way would Glenn have allowed himself to become consumed by the same weakness. He’d cared, cared too much.

“Look, I don’t specialize in appellate law, but Mrs. Ridgeway found someone who does. He, in turn, found the right investigators and we ended up with the testimony from a small-time crook by the name of George ‘Catfish’ Tarpley, who knew the hit man sent to settle things with Mr. English.”

“Hit man?”

Gessler stiffened and leaning back glanced around to see how much attention she’d attracted from the other booths. Satisfied that it wasn’t much, he whispered, “Do you mind? One Raymond Basque. Razor to those who use nicknames instead of Yellow Pages advertising.”

Ignoring the snide retort, Bay shot back, “Someone with the kind of debt you’re inferring would be warned several times, even at his place of business. I never saw or heard any—”

“Do you want to know why you’re getting out or not?”

There was no arguing with that. Bay nodded.

“Like Basque, Tarpley’s from Louisiana,” Gessler continued. “But he has a record here that should have been long enough to make him a permanent resident. Several weeks ago he was stopped in Houston for a traffic violation. Police found an unregistered handgun in the car, and he was also in illegal possession of prescription drugs. Needless to say, once he understood that this time he was facing Texas’s strikeout situation, he was anxious to plea bargain.”

If it happened, no doubt; but to Bay it sounded too pat. “The D.A. and a judge wouldn’t listen to me, why should they listen to a career criminal?”

“Because he helped close the book on Basque. Basque is dead…has been for over six years. He was found at DFW Airport with a single gunshot wound to the head the morning after fulfilling the contract on your friend. As luck would have it, at the time there was no reason to connect him to your friend’s murder because the Tyler police believed they had their killer.”

The whole story was insane, and yet Bay saw the way Fate had played nemesis in her life. “How much did Glenn owe?”

“I have no idea.”

“It cost him his life, what do you mean you don’t know? Ten thousand? Fifty?”

“I’m pleased to be able to say such things aren’t in my general area of expertise.”

Unfortunately, they were in hers. “Then let me enlighten you. To be worth the trouble of killing, Glenn would have to have been so deeply in debt he would be sweating blood by day and pissing it by night.” Bay had seen her father in that condition enough to know the signs. “He would have had a few scares, maybe a slashed tire or bashed headlight on a vehicle, and then if that didn’t get the message across, he would have had the crap beaten out of him. No way Glenn could have hidden all of that from me.”

Although he turned a sickly yellow against his flashy suit, Gessler managed his own share of sarcasm. “I’m sharing confidences and insights I doubt anyone else on the case would. Your protests and censure beg the question of why I’m wasting my time talking to you. Perhaps Mrs. Ridgeway needs to be informed of that.”

Bay wanted to kick through the partition and grab the little snot by his platinum silk tie. In her dreams of justice, she’d found vindication and freedom, but not like this. Never at the cost of a dear memory, someone she’d respected and trusted. Glenn hadn’t just shared everything he knew about working with metal, he stuck around through the bad times when others quit due to one too many late paychecks. That was why she’d made him a partner, and why she’d called him a friend. What could she do to disprove these filthy lies? Nothing here. She had to temper her outrage and find the real answers outside.

“This Catfish guy,” she said, her throat aching, “he’s in custody on a commuted sentence? I can talk to him?”

“I told you, he was afraid that what he knew about Basque could be his death warrant if he went back to Huntsville, so he gave authorities various other tidbits that helped on several arrests and earned him a walk.”

She couldn’t deny the validity of that. In prison, what you knew could get you in as much trouble as speculating about what wasn’t any of your business and plenty of inmates lived in dread of returning to pay for their secrets.

“I don’t know, it still sounds as though he got the best of you guys. How do you know he didn’t?”

“We have the confirmation of a detective in Vice, one Nick Martel, who acknowledged he saw Tarpley and Basque in the exact booth at the all-night restaurant Tarpley mentioned when he described making Basque’s payoff.”

The news sucked the air out of the room until Bay felt her lungs burning. A cop…it was one thing to reject the word of a career crook and liar looking for any angle to gain a deal on his sentence, quite another to refute a cop. Sure, guys who carried badges and took oaths lied—naive she wasn’t. It would be a first for one to help someone in her kind of trouble, though.

“Would Martel talk to me?” she asked.

“To what end? He didn’t know English. He just saw what he saw.”

“Then what about Tarpley? Did they ask him who hired him to make the payoff?”

Gessler shook his head. “All of his leads dead-end because no names were used and payment was made at arranged drop-off sites for exactly those reasons.”

Bay could see she would get little from the man and had to allow that maybe that’s why he was sent. It could be that, like Tarpley, he was simply part of the conduit. For the moment it would be wise to let him believe he’d performed his role expertly. But Bay had known Glenn English. He may have cut a corner or two on projects in his time; however, his conscience always reminded him where and when, especially after becoming engaged to Holly Kirkland. And she was active in her church. The couple had been planning a modest wedding to save money for a house. It was inconceivable that he would have jeopardized her trust.

What to do…? So-called justice had already cost her six years of her life. If it took another big blunder to set things right, why not accept that as a gift? Sure as hell, she couldn’t do Glenn’s memory any good here. She also needed to get out for her sanity’s sake.

“So what’s next?” she asked, aware of a slight trembling in her legs. With her free hand she gripped her left thigh to control it.

“Sit tight for the formal paperwork to come through. You should be out by the end of the month, your record expunged.”

Incredulous, she was slow to find her voice. “That fast?”

“I told you, Mrs. Ridgeway has been working on this for some time.”

Free…and not just paroled, the sentence overturned. It was too much to take in. The only thing that saved her was the weight of her guilt. Glenn still wasn’t coming back. Her friend died because she hadn’t locked a door, wasn’t more conscious of what had been going on with him…something.

“Just don’t go doing something stupid like committing another murder before your release date,” Gessler said, breaking into her thoughts. “Mrs. Ridgeway doesn’t appreciate people who undermine her efforts.”

Bay had to wait until the throbbing behind her eyeballs eased. “I didn’t do the first one.”

As Lyle Gessler hung up the phone, she could almost hear his mind cranking away. He was doing his job. She’d gotten the same message from what’s his name, that detective who first questioned her that awful night. Despite his admitting to her that he’d believed something was fishy, he hadn’t fought too hard, either, when the D.A. twisted his words into what proved the prosecution’s strongest incriminating testimony. It was a miracle she hadn’t gotten the death penalty.

As the attorney collected his things, Bay knocked on the window. “Thank you,” she mouthed.

Gessler barely acknowledged her, but then Bay wasn’t really talking to him. She knew who deserved her thanks and she would voice them in person as soon as possible.

2

Tyler, Texas

Thursday, May 31, 2001

Things had changed. Nestled in the luxurious dove-gray leather of Madeleine Ridgeway’s white Lincoln Town Car sent to bring her home, Bay struggled to recognize landmarks as she was chauffeured around Tyler’s Loop. If it hadn’t been for the road signs, she would have sworn she wasn’t even on 323. Gone were the woods interspersed with stretches of pasture that had first given the East Texas community its charming rural appeal years ago. In their place was row after row of shopping strips, large chain stores and enough fast-food joints to keep the stomach bulging and the wallet starved. As for traffic, Bay had seen less congestion this morning as they’d passed under I-35 by Waco—the current main expressway connecting Mexico to the heartland of the U.S.A. It explained the increase of apartments, though. With everyone shopping so much, who had the money for a mortgage?

As her hymn-humming driver Elvin Capps wove his way between slower vehicles—most of them SUVs or pickups and all freshly washed—she dealt with a dizzying mixture of elation and alienation. “Is there a plan for street expansion or another loop?” she asked once the car stopped for yet another red light.

Darkly lashed hazel eyes met hers in the rearview mirror and crinkled at their corners. “My, yes. There’s always a plan. There’s a plan to adjust the latest plan, and a plan to oust the people wanting to stick with the original plan. In the meantime the traffic gets worse, accidents more frequent, insurance rates skyrocket and—” He punctuated his opinion with a shrug and sheepish smile. “I’m no expert, ask Mrs. Ridgeway. Next to her church commitments, improving the roads is her biggest interest.”

Then no doubt something would get done. Bay believed if Madeleine Ridgeway could get her out from under a murder conviction, unraveling the political and economic bird’s nest delaying a new multimillion dollar road system should be no problem.

The congestion didn’t ease up once Elvin turned south on Broadway. Before they cleared the second traffic light, she witnessed several near collisions…and the city stretched onward.

“Good grief!” Torn between a laugh and shout of warning as another impatient driver cut in front of them, she gripped the back of the front seat.

“Don’t fret none,” Elvin drawled, stopping before the intersection that featured one of the Ridgeways’ gourmet grocery stores. “You’re in good hands. Jesus watches over this car.”

As he went back to humming the latest gospel tune playing on the radio, Bay reconsidered his earlier advice that she fasten her seat belt. Back in Waco, she’d rejected the idea as too close a reminder of driving shackled in the back of a patrol car. To avoid it now she averted her eyes from the traffic to the growing city’s infrastructure.

Discount department store, super hardware store, super furniture store…American corporations were making a killing on cheap imports. Bay wondered…did she have a future in this kind of economical environment? Why would anyone pay premium prices for her one-of-a-kind creations when they could get slapped-together facsimiles for a fraction of the cost? Of course, the dream of having her own business again, let alone focusing on her sculpture was just that, a dream that would have to wait until she could manage to simply support herself. What she needed to think about was would anyone want to hire her? She’d been forewarned by the warden at Gatesville that the media knew of her release and was treating it as top-story material.

By the time Elvin steered the sedan past the electronic gates of the Ridgeway estate, some of Bay’s euphoria over being released faded under the weight of her cloudy future. When they stopped beneath the two-car-wide portico of the sprawling three-story structure, Bay, feeling less worthy than ever, got out before the cherub-faced driver could make it to her door. Elvin Capps seemed a genuine dear, comfortable in that middle-aged, barrel-chested way that probably made him a top candidate by organizations seeking volunteer Santas at Christmas. What won her approval was his unmistakable devotion to Mrs. Ridgeway.

But as Bay eyed his crisp white shirt, khaki slacks and navy blazer, she experienced renewed doubt. For all of their simplicity, Elvin’s clothes were designer quality compared to her cheap T-shirt and jeans. She might as well be back in her orange jumpsuit. How did she face Mrs. Ridgeway looking like someone even her chauffeur would find tacky?

“I don’t know about this,” she began. “Maybe I’ll come back after I get properly settled somewhere.”

“You get in there and let her enjoy the reunion.” Brusque as he pressed the doorbell, Elvin was beaming as he stepped back to make room for her. “I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

The door opened. A young Latino girl in a white uniform beckoned her inside, keeping Bay from questioning the latter half of his comment.

The maid led her across the foyer to a door on the left. Softly knocking, she opened it and gestured for Bay to enter.

On the far side of the high-ceilinged room sitting behind a huge rectangle of thick, smoky glass held up by a pair of marble elephants waited Madeleine Ridgeway. She sat framed in the mauve-ivory-and-silver decor, a sight to behold dressed in a silk tunic pantsuit that matched her platinum hair. Bay had never forgotten the elegance of the office; the woman had her gaping. Once Madeleine’s trademark had been her long, steel-gray mane coifed in a sophisticated bun at the nape, à la dancing legend Martha Graham. Today she wore it as short as a boy’s, as short as her own, and almost the same color. Bay had the oddest sensation that she was seeing herself in thirty years.

“My dear.”

Her mature alter ego rose from a gray leather chair similar to the car’s interior and swept toward her with arms wide. The women were twins in build now, too, except that Madeleine stood inches taller even without high heels. Despite her initial shock, Bay saw that time had been kind to her benefactress. Her skin was as luminescent as the six rows of pearls gracing her throat, complimenting well-defined features that held just enough secret humor in those clear blue eyes, only a shade darker than her own, to keep from looking severe. Madeleine’s smile broadened, diminishing the fine lines around lips painted a passionate burgundy. The life-size portrait on the wall behind her couldn’t compete with her flesh-and-blood radiance.

“You made it. This morning I woke in a sweat dreaming they’d kept you.”

As Madeleine drew her closer for an exuberant hug, Bay fought the impulse to reject. Displays of affection had been few and far between even before her incarceration, and that history compounded her awkwardness. But to her surprise, the harder Madeleine laughed and hugged, the deeper she felt a seeping warmth. It was a relief to finally break away before she turned into a blubbering fool.

“Mrs. Ridgeway. How do I begin to thank you?”

“Oh, don’t start.”

“I have to. I owe you everything.”

“I only did what I had to do for my own peace of mind.” Hands with rings on every manicured finger including the thumbs gripped Bay’s upper arms, while intelligent eyes held her gaze with as much concern as warmth. “How are you, my friend? You’ve cost me many a night of sleep from worry.”

Where to begin? Did she really want to know? Bay had narrowed her philosophy of life to match her social one—believe in no one and nothing save herself. This woman’s kindness worked against that, as did the bite of seawater as it washed away the germs in a deep wound. Curiously, it left her weak in an unfamiliar and uneasy way. She needed time to regain her strength, not to mention her voice.

“I’m fine now.” The recited words were from a dozen or so she’d prepared to aid her in getting through the initial days. “Great, thanks to you.”

“Huh.” After another hug, Madeleine Ridgeway pushed her to arm’s length. “You’re as substantial as a morning glory. Let me call Lulu and have her get Cook to make you a calorie-saturated omelet. Lulu is actually Lucia, but I only call her that in formal situations.”

Bay thought fleetingly of the girl who’d worked here before. What had become of her? A job with the Ridgeways undoubtedly paid better than most service jobs and would be prized. “Really, I don’t need anything.”

“After such a ride? What about coffee, tea, a lemonade? I’m leaving shortly for a luncheon. Nevertheless, you’re welcome to—”

Bay took a step back toward the door. “I won’t keep you. I only wanted to thank you…for everything. The ride, too.”

“Isn’t Elvin a treasure? He’ll take you to your new home. Any questions or needs you have just tell him.”

This was like stepping into a movie theater ten minutes into the film. “I don’t understand.” At the prison they’d returned her belongings—a wallet containing sixty-three dollars, an expired license and equally useless credit cards, keys to a car, trailer and business that no longer existed. Her new residence would be wherever her exhausted body landed once she found a job that she could start immediately.

Madeleine threw back her head and laughed. “I’m ahead of myself, aren’t I? Blame it on sheer giddiness.” Beckoning, she returned to the desk, picked up a manila envelope and offered it to Bay with both hands. “This is for you. It’s a little property west of town. The cottage isn’t much larger than a dollhouse and it’s as old as my poor bones, which should warn you that it needs substantial work beyond what Elvin’s had time to put into it. On the plus side, it’s on the airport highway and has a tin building out front close to the road that can serve as a shop.”

The envelope might as well have been a new warrant. Bay shoved her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. “I can’t afford anything like that, Mrs. Ridgeway. I’ll be lucky to find someone to hire me to wash dishes on a trial basis, let alone give me a chance to work in my own field.”

“That’s utter nonsense. Darling, surely Lyle explained it to you? Your record is cleared.”

“Then someone neglected to inform the reporters waiting outside the prison as I got out.”

“Well, the case did receive broad media attention from the first. It’s understandable the discovery of that awful Basque man being responsible would stir things back up again. But it’s died down considerably what with the other horrors going on in the state and around the world. That’s the one thing you can rely on with the press—a short attention span for anything that doesn’t provide juicy video and meaty sound bites. In any case, you have nothing to apologize for, let alone explain to anyone.

“I think you misunderstand me on another front, too,” Madeleine continued with a knowing smile. “The property described in that envelope has been deeded over to you. What’s more, you begin work tomorrow on your first contract.”

“Doing what?”

“Get that hideous animal cage monstrosity called a gate off of my property and put up The Iron Maiden.”

There had been no missing the boring wall of metal bars as Elvin drove into the estate. Whoever contracted the job did competent work, but the design lacked the imagination and flair to do the estate justice, creating instead something better suited for the entranceway to a storage rental business.

“It takes more than a building and a dream to create what you’re asking me to do,” Bay said with unabashed regret. “As much as I’d love getting the job done right for you, I can’t. Probably not for some time yet. I don’t have the credit record to obtain adequate equipment, let alone purchase the material. Then there’s a matter of personnel.”

White gold and diamonds glittered and jingled as Madeleine waved away Bay’s excuses. “Some of what you need you’ll find already there. I had Elvin look into the situation. The rest, I’ll finance you. It’s all in that envelope. You keep record of everything else and we’ll work out a payment schedule later. As for staff, I have people who work the grounds, perhaps they can help until you find experienced staff. And don’t discount Elvin. He may be all thumbs for what you need, as well, but in a clinch, he’s the strongest thing on two feet.”

This was amazing, and impossible. Convinced the past could never be buried completely, Bay held tight to her angst. “Mrs. Ridgeway, you’ll never know—this means the world to me. But how can you, as brilliant a businesswoman as you are, take this kind of risk?”

“I’m not suggesting it will be easy. First and foremost I’ll worry dreadfully about you being out there day and night by your lonesome. I’d be happier if you stayed here with me. The place is like a giant mausoleum with my dear son Duncan constantly traveling.” The instant Bay started to protest again, Madeleine held up her hand. “I know better than to ask. So I’ll chew on carrot sticks to burn up frustration and chip my nails punching in your number on my phone.”

Dazed, Bay struggled to find new words of thanks. This marvelous woman was throwing her completely off balance with her generosity. “Why are you being so good to me? Don’t you realize this might hurt your reputation socially as well as—okay, I’ll say it. What about your position in the church?”

“Ho-ho. No one there had better utter a peep, not one word. Not if they dare call themselves Christians in my presence. As for our pastor, Martin Davis has been wholly supportive of my mission since I first discussed the matter with him.” Madeleine grasped Bay’s hands. “Stop fighting me. Yes, I can see you are. This is the least I can do for someone who’s been so wronged. I’ll never forgive myself for not doing more sooner.”

“The D.A. was intent on getting me convicted. It would have been double the nightmare if he’d injured you somehow in the process.”

“Then we must all put that terrible time behind us. Oh, I know you can’t get back the years you lost, but you can rebuild your life. I know. I did it twice, remember, first when I lost my darling father and again when dear Herman passed so prematurely.”

Bay nodded remembering the story she’d shared about how each had devastated her.

“If it wasn’t for my son,” Madeleine continued, “I wouldn’t have found the strength to go on. I can be that rock for you, dear. I admire you enormously, your talent, as well as your endurance.”

“Maybe you should wait for proof there’s enough of that endurance left to be worth your while.” At the moment Bay was feeling a shadow of her former self, vulnerable and unsure.

“You need to find your footing, that’s all. This is your opportunity.”

It sounded too good to be true and Bay had firsthand experience about that unwritten law. “What about Holly? Once she learns what you’ve done—”

“She knows.”

One more shock and Bay was going to have to sit down. Holly Kirkland was aware that Madeleine Ridgeway was sponsoring her? Glenn’s former fiancée would never accept her presence in Tyler, let alone being the recipient of such benevolence at the hands of this good soul. “Mrs. Ridgeway, with all due respect, you’re way off on your perceptions about her. This is going to—I’m afraid she’ll see this as a betrayal.”

“You’ll remember that aside from being a member of our church, Holly is an employee and, as a result, she has a firsthand comprehension of what our foundation is about. Of course, if you do experience any negative behavior—by her or anyone—I want you to report it to me immediately.”

Bay couldn’t do that any more than she would have run to Sergeant Draper for help. “I’ve always handled my own problems.”

“Admirable, but no one disrespects my wishes. There, there.” Embracing her again, Madeleine ran her hand over Bay’s back in slow circles as though calming a high-strung thoroughbred. “It’ll all work out, you’ll see.

“Now in this envelope are keys, phone numbers I felt you might need, a bit of cash and a checkbook with a modest deposit to get started. It’s not charity. I know you too well. We’ll take it off what you’ll bill me for the Maiden. You’ll also find the hours for church services in there.”

Bay handed back the padded envelope. “I don’t do church.”

“You have to attend, dear. I’ve talked you up to the entire congregation, and I should tell you that our membership contains some of the most influential people in the city and beyond. Why do you think there aren’t vans from either of the local networks parked outside my property right now? Don’t you realize that as soon as you got into my car back at Gatesville, they knew where you were going? In any case, seeing your sweet face and how some things turn out for the good will provide sustenance to our congregation’s faith.”

Bay thought that was the longest stretch in any rationale Madeleine could have tried on her. “I’m sorry if this disappoints you, Mrs. Ridgeway, but I’ve never been religious.” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been to a service and guessed it was her mother’s funeral. Her father had been lucky she’d arranged for a graveside prayer for him.

“Madeleine,” her benefactress intoned. “How often am I going to have to tell you? Having witnessed your art and your courage, I consider you an equal. As for religion—”

A knock at the door stopped her. Releasing Bay, she stepped around her to greet the newcomer. “Martin. Your timing is divinely inspired. Help me assure your newest lamb that she’s as wanted as she is needed.”

Into the room stepped a short man with the merry eyes and chipmunk cheeks of a fairy-tale elf. Although his fifties-style pompadour barely reached Madeleine’s choker, he grasped her hand between both of his and bestowed a kiss to rival any gallant performance in a royal court. Before Bay could worry she was about to suffer the same greeting, he patted her hand. “Praise God for this day. Madeleine has worked tirelessly to bring you out of Satan’s den. Welcome, child. Welcome home to where you will be loved and nurtured.”

Somewhere on the south side of his fifth decade, the auburn lights in his lush hair suggested he used a stylist for more than a good cut and blow-dry. His summer-gray suit also spoke of attention to detail and complemented Madeleine’s silk suit. Accident or had they color-coordinated over the phone?

“Don’t be shy, dear,” Madeleine said. “Martin is as genuine as his smile. At our Christmas gala more children want to climb onto his lap than Santa’s.”

“Merely due to besting his girth, Maddie.”

Charming as the self-deprecation was, Pastor Davis could hardly hope to squeeze Saint Nick or the Pillsbury Doughboy out of a TV screen. He was simply, pleasantly plump.

“And you know better than to push,” he continued. To Bay he said, “We’ve always succeeded because we don’t pressure. Our message speaks for itself.”

Madeleine’s skepticism came out in a ladylike sniff. “If only I had half that success with some of the politicians in this city. The cold hard truth, Bay, dear, is that aside from the gift Martin’s sermons present, you need to understand that you’ll meet business contacts through your affiliation that wouldn’t necessarily be accessible to you elsewhere.”

Pressing a hand over his heart, Martin Davis groaned. “Maddie! How many times do I have to tell you that you’re my earthbound angel, not a networking guru?”

Bay held her breath wondering how her benefactress would take this, even gentle, scolding. Astonished, she listened to the older woman’s girlish laugh.

“You know me, Martin. I can’t just juggle two or four projects—lucky for you, too. In any case, it’s no fun if I don’t have to dodge a few bullets now and again.” To Bay she added, “You have to let me show you off. I expect you to sit beside me in the family pew, and ignore what Martin says. Modesty is his vice. He’ll be wounded if you’re not even slightly curious to hear how he’s become the rudder of the fastest-growing congregation in the Southwest.”

As Bay stood between the two, she knew she was trapped. Worse, she had no energy—correction confidence—yet to fight.

3

After a small, but awkward pause, Martin Davis cleared his throat and leaned toward Madeleine. “Do you think she needs to see us looking wounded and fearful?”

“Oh, no.” Embarrassed that they must see her as an ungrateful bitch, Bay caved in. “I’ll come. I mean, thank you…for the invitation. For everything. Really.”

With a satisfied nod, her champion directed her toward the door. Bay thanked Madeleine Ridgeway again and let the shy Lulu show her the rest of the way out.

As promised, Elvin was waiting. The process of being handed off from person to person and passing through doorways triggered another unpleasant sensation, one she quickly reasoned away. There was no comparing this to prison, especially when she eyed the sprig of mint dangling from Elvin’s mouth.

A scan of the landscape had her gaze settling on the thigh-high brick flower box on the far side of the portico. Amid the sea of red and white geraniums, she spotted lavender, parsley, dill and basil. So Madeleine didn’t waste space any more than she did time or contacts. For a second, Bay wished the sprig was a cigarette so she could bum one. From someone who’d never taken up the habit to begin with, that spoke fathoms.

His hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets, Elvin rocked back on his heels and grinned. “You’re looking like you did a few test rounds with a champ.”

Not willing to admit how right he was, Bay asked, “I guess you know where to go?”

“Spent virtually every waking hour there for the last two months.”

As he tossed away the wilting herb and headed for the driver’s side, his cheerful reply triggered a nagging something in Bay’s overtaxed, underfed brain. Then it clicked. “I only heard of the possibility of my release a few weeks ago,” she said from the back seat. She slammed shut the passenger door. “Even then I wasn’t certain it was a sure thing.”

Elvin shrugged as he keyed the engine. “So it felt shorter to you. I got through it by practicing my music. Speaking of—” he turned on the radio to another gospel station “—if you don’t mind, I need to listen. I’m trying to get these folks to consider my stuff.”

A frustrated artist, Bay mused, studying the back of his head. She noted that while his hair was similar in color to Pastor Davis’s, it lacked the neat cut and styling. At best Elvin’s shaggy mane seemed to be combed by his stubby fingers. Not great hands for a musician, Bay surmised. Nervous, too. They were always active, like his hazel eyes. “Go figure,” she murmured.

“What’s that?”

“I suppose you can’t study too much.”

With a nod, Elvin sped back to the Loop and turned left, this time passing the street that led into town and Bay’s old shop. Ignoring the pang of yearning, she watched as they continued on, until they reached the turnoff for Pounds Field. For a regional airport, the area retained its rural atmosphere, the traffic lighter than in town.

About a mile farther, past a nursery, a produce stand and a ballpark, Elvin made another left turn into a wooded property.

Bay had been browsing through the contents of the envelope and had already read that the land consisted of one-point-three acres, narrow but long, meaning limited highway frontage. As far as she was concerned, any frontage made the gift a gold mine.

Her first glimpse of the tin building that was to be her shop had her agreeing with Madeleine’s appraisal—the decrepit shack needed work, new doors to start and sturdy locks, particularly once she started buying equipment and material stock. In contrast, the house was a haven, adorable as a dollhouse, freshly painted a cheery yellow with white trim and adorned with lacy iron supports that held up the white awning. Parked under the connecting carport weighed by an opulent trumpet vine was a black Chevy truck.

“That was mine,” Elvin said. “Mrs. R. gave me one of the newer estate trucks in trade for getting the place in shape on time. But there’s plenty more miles in that sweet thing.”

Elvin’s tone warned that he still saw his slightly worn baby as a Cadillac among trucks. “I see. Well, I’ll take good care of her, thank you.” Forewarned, Bay would be prepared for impromptu under-the-hood checks and see that the ashtray and floorboard stayed as tidy as her profession allowed.

“All righty…so the phone and lights are working in there and you’ve got water. You’ll have to transfer things over in your name, of course.”

“I’ll get to it right away.”

“Mrs. R. had me stock the kitchen and whatnot. Do you need me to come in with you and show you around?”

Preoccupied with shoving papers back into the envelope, Bay belatedly met his gaze in the rearview mirror. Maybe it was the play of light or her over-taxed nerves, but in that instant she saw something in Elvin Capps’s face that had the hairs on her arms lifting.

“Earth to blondie…? Hey, you having an out-of-body experience or something? I asked—”

“No.”

“Criminy. Sue me for doing my job.”

As she felt her face heat, Bay ducked her head, wishing for once that she had long hair to hide behind. “What I mean is, you’ve done so much already. I think I can manage from here.” She scrambled out of the car convinced he must think her certifiable. It would serve her right if he rushed back to his employer to report what a bad decision she’d made.

Elvin lowered the front passenger window and leaned over to peer up at her. “You’ve got my number in that stuff. Use it. It’s my job.”

He cut a sharp three-point turn, and Bay finally relaxed as he broke into yet another song. Butler, Butler, she thought. If the harmless, starstruck Elvin Capps could spook her, how did she hope to function around everyone else?

The Town Car eased out into the road and rolled out of sight. Exhaling, Bay rubbed at the house key she’d all but imprinted into her palm and headed inside. She took her time unlocking the front door, savoring the solid feel of the dead bolt. She was less pleased with all the glass. What was the point of locks if all you had to do was chuck a rock to get in?

Her paranoia passed as she checked out the inside. True to his word, Elvin had been working hard. Though small and probably a good forty years old, the place was spotless and as appealing as it looked from the outside. The cloud nine, listen-for-angel-harps white color scheme might be too perky for her, but she could overlook that for the time being. It was a hundred times better than where she’d been.

So much room…

Wandering from the kitchen-dinette area through the rest of the house, she opened cabinets and closets, finding that while the majority of the house remained unfurnished, Elvin had made sure she had the essentials—a broom here, an extra set of sheets and a few towels there. The closet in the bedroom with the queen-size bed that took up most of the room had her staring outright. Clothes, too?

On impulse Bay reached for the top drawer on the chest beside the closet and found everything from underwear to cotton socks, unnerving even though none of it was what anyone would call provocative. Seeing it was the correct size—she checked the A-cup bras and panty hose—she told herself this had to be Madeleine’s handiwork.

She returned to the closet and noted more details—size six jeans, small T-shirts, the jogging shoes were a size seven…the powder-blue silk shift with matching three-inch pumps had her staring. Could she make it out of the house without breaking her neck, let alone navigate a church parking lot?

Although disconcerted that someone knew her body so well, the urge to rid herself of any physical link to Gatesville prompted Bay into stripping. Leaving her things where they fell, she went straight into the bathroom and took her first private shower since her arrest. The water smelled of chlorine, but the luscious peach-scented shower gel offset that. She used a quarter bottle of the fragrant goop repeatedly scrubbing her entire body until her blood hummed and her pale skin glistened.

The fluffy, white towel she wrapped herself in afterward was another first. Best not to get too fond of such luxury, she told herself. As soon as she was back to wrestling with stubborn engines and equally greasy metal, these towels would be relegated to the back of the closet and she’d be drying off in cheapo navy blue or black towels that would become shop rags soon enough.

Dry, she slipped into new panties, skipped the bra, and dragged on a bright-red T-shirt and jeans, then stood barefoot before the dresser mirror to stare at the skinny, spike-haired stranger before her. Was this what thirty-two looked like out there in the free world? Her gaze dropped to the mascara and lipstick set out on the dresser and she made a face. So she’d never been what her father and the good ol’ boy-types called “a show pony”; she couldn’t let that worry her now. Of all the things on her agenda, men and romance ranked last and off the list.

Scooping up her release clothes, Bay returned to the kitchen and dropped everything, including the loafers, into the plastic trash container by the door. Wasteful as that was, she needed to be physically separated from things that reminded her of prison. Then, to get her mind off what she had done, she started a serious inspection of cabinets and drawers, the pantry. The small four-pack of wine in the refrigerator startled her. Chardonnay.

“Your idea, Elvin?”

It would seem the church’s position on drinking was more lenient than the Baptists’ but in this instance bad judgment regardless. It would be too easy for her to fall into bad habits while in this early, vulnerable stage. About to close the door, she changed her mind, took out the carton and deposited it on top of the rejected clothing. Retracing her steps, she took a bottle of chilled vegetable juice out of the fridge and poured herself a glass.

Settling at the butcher-block dinette table, she tucked her legs into a lotus position and looked around the room and finally beyond the slats of the miniblinds, out to where the lush woods bordered the narrow yard.

Mine.

She still couldn’t believe it. As her eyes began to burn and her throat ached, she raised her glass. “Glenn…I don’t understand any of this, but if you can hear me, I haven’t forgotten, not you or the promise I made.”

The heavens didn’t smile with a rainbow of light, no chair fell over from some invisible hand. About to take a sip of her juice, the phone rang. Wincing as she clicked the glass against her teeth, Bay set it down and stared at the white wall unit by the counter as though it were a prison alarm bell. What now? Only Madeleine knew her number, and she should be in her meeting. Elvin, she decided, pushing herself off the chair. He probably forgot to explain something he thinks is critical. She didn’t want to talk to him or anyone else today; however, she figured that if the call went unanswered, Madeleine’s watchdog might be hammering at the door within minutes.

Bay snatched up the receiver on the fifth ring. “Hello?”

No one replied.

“One more chance, and then you get to talk to dead air. Hello!”

Bay heard enough background sound to tell her that someone was there; nevertheless, the caller remained silent. Frowning, she waited several more seconds, then, just as she was about to hang up, the caller did.

Somebody figured out they dialed the wrong number, she told herself. Her first call as a free woman and it’s a mistake. Grateful that at least they hadn’t tried to sell her something, she settled back in her chair.

The sun remained bright, the breeze playful as it turned the trees bordering the property into a shimmering sea of emeralds, and yet her isolation suddenly mattered. Those patches of dense shadows for instance…was something or someone moving around out there?

As her cozy oasis changed before her eyes, Bay’s imagination cranked into overdrive. What if the call hadn’t been a wrong number? People knew she was out of prison. Madeleine had said so, and had also admitted it was possible that not everyone agreed with the court’s decision just as Bay believed for her own reasons that the Tarpley story was a lie. And now that she thought about it, Bay believed it had been traffic sounds she’d heard. The caller could be on a cell phone standing in her very woods watching her.

She should have asked Madeleine more questions, found out exactly what the press knew and were saying about her, asked Elvin to stop for a paper. Considering the increased craziness going on in the world, she could be shot as she sat here, and it would be a day or more before Elvin or Madeleine found her.

With her heart beginning to pound like a full-fledged panic attack, Bay grabbed the blind’s wand to shut out the view, then she flew to the door to close that one, and to test the dead bolt. It wasn’t enough and, as she had on her first few nights at Gatesville, she withdrew to the most hidden corner of the room and curled into a tight ball in an attempt to make herself invisible.

“You’re okay. You’re okay,” she recited pressing her forehead against her raised knees. She just needed to give herself some time.

But minutes stretched into hours and darkness fell and, still, Bay couldn’t bring herself to move.

4

Opening her eyes to red numbers inches from her face was a shock. Once 4:00 registered, Bay went on to wonder how anything electronic, let alone something with a cord, had gotten into her cell. Belatedly, music drew her attention—and it wasn’t coming from the clock. In prison you learned to numb yourself to the nonstop noise, the shouting and screams, but music didn’t fit, either.

Rising up on her elbow, she saw subtle shifts of light on the door. As the thick fog dulling her senses receded, she made the connections—a door, not steel bars, sounds from a TV, not inmates and guards. This wasn’t prison.

The plush, queen-size bed must have seduced her, once she’d given up her corner in the kitchen and decided she could risk going to bed. She remembered turning on the TV for background noise and supposed an experienced burglar could have cleaned out the place while she’d slept. It was her deepest sleep in over six years, but now thirst and hunger drove her out of bed.

Moving through the house like a guest, she turned on the stove hood light in the kitchen and went next for a bottle of water from the refrigerator. She drank half before putting on water for coffee. Once she located the jar of instant and a spoon, she chose a thick mug from the two in the open cupboard and measured out a heaping serving of granules. Significant caffeine was a must regardless of where she slept or how little. She could survive not smoking and had the discipline to monitor her drinking, but Java was her weakness. She liked the flavor in ice cream and in candy. If she could find that someone had invented a coffee-scented bath gel, she could be content.

From the TV came the sound of sirens. Bay hit her knee on the side table as she grappled for the remote and flipped the channel. She had to flip often, soon discovering how much noise, bloodletting and sex was on at night. When she came upon an old, familiar Western, she left it there and returned to the kitchen to pour the boiling water. A movie buff from childhood—once she understood she was responsible for her own entertainment, as she was her education—she remembered being enthralled by the on-screen chemistry between Gregory Peck and Anne Baxter. Unfortunately, time and experience had worked like thirty-six-grit sandpaper on her romantic ideals. As she watched the passion grow between the two lead characters, she could only see the potential for problems down the road…reality making any commitment between them one long conflict.

“Nobody is going to call me to reinvent the wheel,” she said stirring her coffee.

Although she left on the set, she carried her mug to the dinette window where she peered through the blinds as she had earlier. Encouraged by how the security lights lit the property, Bay unlocked the door and settled into a plastic chair under the covered patio. Out on the highway traffic was virtually nonexistent; a freight truck rumbled by as she took her first sip of her brew, and after about a minute a car passed going in the opposite direction. Otherwise, sound effects were provided by night critters mostly from the creek that Bay guessed had to be to her right somewhere in the thickest section of woods. The thought of what went along with streams and dense vegetation had her tucking her feet beneath her. It was a nice night, though, even if city lights did obliterate star viewing.

Therein was a good message, she decided. There was nothing out here to dream over unless you invent it. Encouraged, she returned inside to find a pad and pencil and proceeded to list everything required to run a decent welding shop, and to stock it with ample supplies for the average walk-in business.

Before she knew it, the eastern sky went from indigo to fuchsia. Eager to see what Elvin had accomplished out in the shop, she washed up, slipped on sneakers and, with a third mug of coffee in hand, set off.

A foul smell greeted her as she slid open the shop’s door, the mix of humidity, old oil, dead rodents and who knew what else. But once she turned on the fluorescent lights, all Bay saw was the welding machine. It stood precisely in the position that Glenn’s machine had stood the night he was killed.

She turned away from the troubling coincidence and studied the rest of the shop. Nothing else triggered the same revulsion in her, not the bottles of argon, oxygen and acetylene that stood just inside the door, probably where the delivery truck had left them, and it was simple practicality for the leads to be on the worktable. That table stood six-by-ten feet, larger than the ones they’d used in the old shop, and the red gang box, every bit her height, was a far more modern model than she could afford before.

As she grew more relaxed, she inspected the rest of the building. On the far side in a portable rack lay a modest inventory of stainless sheet metal; beside that was another rack with pipe, a fair quantity. Bay knew it was for Madeleine’s gate.

She glanced back at the welder and decided it was an accident, that’s all. Where else would Elvin put the thing?

Energized, she opened the shop doors the rest of the way, snatching up the notepad and pencil from the scarred desk that would serve as her office and began a more serious test of her memory of the design.

It was nearing noon before she stopped working. By then she was soaked with sweat and starving, and yet she felt better than she had in years. Not only did she have the initial cuts for the gate completed, she’d had her first walk-in customer, a man desperate to repair a broken headache rack on his truck. The small job earned her a fast seventy bucks—to be immediately spent on renewing her driver’s license and buying paint for a sign, she decided. Pleased, she locked up and returned to the house.

After devouring a turkey sandwich and a glass of milk, she showered and tugged on clean jeans and a white T-shirt, this time over a bra. Then she drove into town to get her license renewed.

By the time she reached the DMV some of her anxiety returned. She fully expected them to know her on sight, but having her prison record lingering on their computers would be as bad. To her surprise and relief, though, the clerk reacted like someone who didn’t watch TV, let alone subscribe to a newspaper, and when she brought up Bay’s file on the monitor, the woman’s expression remained passive.

“Okay. Uh…it’s been over four years since you were a Texas resident, you’ll have to take the written test again. Do you want to try it now or take a book home to study?”

Bay thought that was like asking how many shots you’d like at your execution. “I’ll give it a try,” she told the young woman.

She made only one error and after the eye test, the clerk instructed her to step behind the strip of yellow tape on the floor for a photo. Done, Bay signed the computerized form, paid the fee and pocketed her temporary license.

Thanking the clerk, she turned to leave…and looked straight into the eyes of Jack Burke. Jack Burke, the detective who’d arrested her for Glenn’s murder. Jack Burke who had grilled her for hours upon hours with relentless and redundant precision. Jack Burke who, when she was sentenced, had the nerve to say, “I’m sorry.”

Ducking her head and wishing for a pair of sunglasses to hide behind, Bay cut a sharper right. Time hadn’t affected his reflexes, though, and he countered her move, knocking her off balance.

“Whoa.”

At least he had no problem keeping her from cracking her jaw on the tile floor. Six years might have taken their toll other ways, but physically he remained as she remembered him, big enough to make her feel like a dry twig on a sapling and outweighing her by a good eighty-plus pounds.

“Sorry about that.”

“No problem.” Keeping her head low, she tried to move on.

His hold tightened. “It is you.”

She could feel his recognition by the tension in his hands. Hadn’t he heard she was getting out? Not caring one way or the other, she tugged harder and scrambled for the exit.

Ignoring the “Wait a minute!” he called after her, she pushed through the double glass doors and once outside broke into a dead run. Weak-kneed and sick to her stomach, she shoved the key into the truck’s door lock.

She didn’t bother turning on the air conditioner or taking time to roll down the window. The seat belt had to wait, too. Jamming the key into the ignition, she turned over the engine and drove. The need for escape had never been stronger—and grew worse when she spotted him in the rearview mirror running after her. Afraid he was about to grab on to the tailgate, she burned rubber merging into traffic, almost hitting a Brinks armored truck.

She was free, but that was temporary. Weighed with a new gloom, she drove in a mindless, circuitous route and after a good half hour of haphazard turns she located a familiar street. In order to delay her return home a little longer, she stopped at a discount store for the paint. Another encounter was inevitable, though. Detective Jack Burke had been in the right place to obtain her new address.

It happened sooner than she expected. She hadn’t yet reached the front door when the white pickup truck pulled into her driveway.

5

Doubt and worry buzzed like deer flies in her head as Bay waited for the worst. If only Madeleine would call now. She’d phoned early on to see how Bay made it through the night and once hearing Bay’s plans to go for her license, promised to check in later. Sparing the busy woman a recap of her neurotic first hours here was easy—Bay would like to forget her foolish reaction herself—but she would feel better if Madeleine knew he had arrived, her worst analogy of a bad penny.

He stopped at the far end of the house and killed the engine, all the while watching her with the same intensity she used on him. When he climbed out, she saw he’d taken off his tan suit jacket and loosened his tie, but that just made the gun on his belt obvious. She was no less resentful of his size and how capable and trustworthy he looked. Sure, she thought, trust him to ruin your life. One thing, she had to admit time hadn’t been all that kind to Jack Burke. Thanks in part to him, though, she didn’t have enough generosity of spirit to feel sorry for him.

He still possessed the kind of face movie directors chose for a big brother, strong, the features defined without being craggy. But his probing brown eyes looked sunken and the shadows beneath them suggested whatever was ailing him had become chronic. Then there was that faint scar running down from his lower lip to his chin, which had her wondering who else he’d ticked off since he’d helped put her away.

He moved with a smooth grace like someone used to physical work that involved the whole body. Rolled-up sleeves exposed tanned and well-toned arms indicating that whatever he did to keep fit, it wasn’t at an indoor gym. That healthy quality was offset by a slight slump to his broad shoulders, and the line bisecting those dark eyebrows cut deep enough to tell her that he frowned more often than he smiled.

He stopped a spare two yards away from her, his hands loose at his sides. She couldn’t keep from folding her arms across her chest and resented him for that, too.

“You didn’t have to run.”

“Then why are you here?”

“For the moment, I guess only to make sure you’re okay.”

Right, Bay thought, and on top of her already huge generosity, Madeleine had convinced the mayor to throw a parade in her honor and give her the key to the city. At least he hadn’t driven up in one of those unmarked cars. Regardless, the guy had cop written all over him and she wished they were standing farther back from the road than they were.

“I guess it’s a bit much to hope you believe me?” he continued.

She didn’t see a reason to respond to the obvious.

“Guess not. So much for my declining skill at small talk.”

“You think that’ll make it easier to haul me in?”

His troubled frown became one of confusion and made the ridge along his straight eyebrows resemble a mountain ledge. “Why would I do that?”

“To put me back where you think I belong.”

“Then you don’t know what I think.”

“Please.” Disgusted, Bay looked away. “Stop wasting my time. If your plan is to bug me day in and day out until I leave your precious town, forget it. If it’s to make me feel guilty because a good woman believed in me and helped me, is continuing to help me,” she added extending her arms to encompass her surroundings, “you can give it your best shot. But understand this, Madeleine Ridgeway will hear about it and she has connections.”

“I’m acutely aware of your friend’s connections.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Never mind. I don’t care. Your bitterness about having a case getting turned around is your problem. You should have done a better job with the investigation to begin with.”

“You’re right there. Look, I realize you’ve had plenty of time to add to your hatred of me, but if it would give you any—”

“It won’t.”

“Bay…”

“No!” Rising anger emboldened her. “You have nothing to say that I want to hear. In fact, I was hoping never to have to see you again. Since my lucky streak seems to be short-lived, I think I should at least have a right to ask you to stay away from me.”

“I’m not going to be able to do that.”

The quiet words shook her more than an angry outburst would have. “That sounds like a threat.”

“I could try to explain if you eased up on the defensiveness a bit.”

“There’s nothing to explain. I’m out. It’s over.”

“I don’t think so…and if you’re half the woman I think you are, you don’t believe it, either.”

The truth struck so close she barely refrained from stepping backward. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-huh. And the moment you heard your partner described as a weak gambling addict who risked your friendship and trust, not to mention his relationship with the woman he was about to marry, you didn’t want to spit in the eye of the person reciting that crap to you?”

So he did know. And he was telling her that he didn’t believe the story Catfish Tarpley had to tell any more than she did. It grated that they should agree about anything, but she wasn’t going to let him know what she thought until she did some digging herself.

Instead, she played it cool and drawled, “Haven’t visited many lifers, have you? If you did, you’d know we’d do just about anything to taste freedom again.”

“Sorry, kiddo, you’re not going to convince me that you’ve grown that hard.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“It’s the way I saw you that first night—a scared, little kid—and how I still see you.”

Bay stared at the ground between them and tried not to wonder at the sadness in his voice. He couldn’t care, not then or now. This was a ploy of some kind. She simply wasn’t smart enough to figure out what and why.

“Why can’t you just go away?” she whispered in a voice that sounded too much like the child he’d described.

“Because I owe you.”

He had that much right.

“Do you know I didn’t hear about the confession until it made front page in the papers? A little odd, don’t you think? The case detective being left out of the loop?”

She shrugged. It wasn’t her problem if his fellow cops didn’t want to talk to him and that, as a result, he’d been professionally embarrassed.

“Tyler’s not a three-cop town anymore,” Jack Burke continued. “We don’t know everything the others are doing, but for a convicted murderer who once garnered national press to have her conviction reversed without the detective on record being informed, let alone assist in the new investigation, is unusual, let me tell you.”

“Maybe your superiors were trying to avoid any more PR damage than was already done.”

“A valid point. So is the unwritten rule that people don’t do favors for strangers.”

“You think my release was a favor?” She dropped her hands to her sides, but her fingers curled into fists.

“Do you know your hero, Catfish Tarpley?”

“No, so you see he wasn’t out to help me, he was resolving another murder in order to help himself. What validated his testimony was that it was confirmed by one of your own. Someone in Vice.” Seeing a look of distaste flash across his weary features, she drove her own verbal knife deeper adding, “Do you know him?”

“I know of him. Generally, I stay away from those guys and they choose their own friends, too.”

“Sounds like a chicken way of saying you don’t think much of Detective Martel.”

“It’s the diplomatic way of not drawing conclusions before I have all of the facts. Who came to the prison to give you your good news?”

“My…an attorney hired by a friend.”

“Madeleine Ridgeway. She has been quite the friend to you,” he added surveying the property.

Bay pointed her keys at him. “Don’t. Don’t you dare condescend to me again. You and your facts. You never took the time to learn them before, why should I believe anything’s changed?”

“Have you forgotten I challenged the DA’s line of questioning during your trial? You don’t remember how I said something didn’t feel right about your case?”

“I remember he made chopped meat out of you,” she sneered.

Jack Burke dropped his chin to his chest. “I didn’t have the experience to help you. And just prior to that they’d dumped a helluva caseload on me to where—” he swore under his breath “—excuses. Christ, listen to me.” He met her gaze, his own full of misery. “All I can say is that I’m sorry.”

Bay drew herself to her full five foot four. “Feel better now? Good. Now get lost.”

His left hand moved in an almost unconscious gesture of supplication. “I’m serious about what I said. What I’d like—”

“What I’d like is to move on to the rest of my life.”

“Doing what? Driving the streets Glenn English drove, reliving over and over the first instant you saw he’d been turned into a human shish kebab?”

“You son of a bitch.”

“Someone has to snap you out of this daydream where you’ve turned into Cinderella and all’s well with the world.”

“If you believe that’s what I’m doing, I’d be surprised to hear you’ve resolved any cases in your career, Detective.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “If what you’re suggesting is true, all the more reason for us to talk. Don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, Bay. You’re not up to it. You’re a ghost of your old self and that wasn’t much to begin with. Hell, they put teens in the hospital for weighing what you do.”

“You’re one to criticize.”

“Damned straight I look like crap. Know why? Because I’ve been living with what happened to you and my part in it 24/7.”

Bay stared. She didn’t want to believe him, but his voice almost shook when he spoke.

Nodding, Jack began heading back toward his truck. “I’ll give you some space. Think about what I said.”

“You think about this—I’ll never accept your apology. Never!”

He paused and said over his shoulder, “That I can live with. You ending up like your friend is a different story.”

6

Sunday, June 2, 2001

If it hadn’t been for her lingering indignation over Jack Burke’s visit and subsequent allegations, Bay might have wimped out of meeting the Ridgeways for church services. But she awakened on time that morning and despite feeling as substantial as an under-cooked soufflé, made herself shower and slip into the clothes Madeleine had purchased for her. Then with only a hefty dose of caffeine to bolster her, she headed toward the southernmost city limits of Tyler.

While summer remained weeks away, heat had established itself in the piney woods. Bay saw it compounding the waves rising from the traffic creating a blinding glare that had her wishing again for sunglasses despite the early hour. So much traffic, she thought with disbelief. The steady stream surpassed anything she’d noticed so far around the airport, almost matching rush hour on the Loop, and many of the vehicles were pulling into the turning lane where she needed to go. Of course, she already knew the church was large, but seeing it for the first time left her openmouthed.

Mission of Mercy rose above the dogwood and pines, an unbelievable mix of the gardens of Babylon and Hollywood’s rendition of Camelot. The snow-white mountain of granite glistened brighter with tall, lead windows and taller belfries interspersed with balconies adorned with planters full of red and white geraniums and assorted lush flowers. Bay estimated the whole structure took up a full city block and stood a good eight stories at its highest point.

Torn between awe and dismay, she waited for her turn to pull into the multiacre grounds, and unlike most of the traffic, chose a parking space as far away from the front doors as possible and nearest to the first street exit. “Mercy,” she said, peering through the tinted windshield for a better look at what she’d only glimpsed on TV. “No need to fly out to Disney World when it’s in your own backyard.” No one would convince her that God listened better in something like this; however, the playoff game-size crowd streaming toward the building obviously thought otherwise. Forget worrying about sitting with the Ridge-ways, she would be lucky to find them in that swarm.

Wondering about how many people the building could hold, she joined the parade; that’s when she spotted the less gaudy two-story complex behind and to the left of the church. Satellite dishes and microwave towers identified its purpose as the nerve center or communication studios from which KWRD transmitted their message for Mission of Mercy. Bay had done a little homework over the last few days watching TV so as not to disappoint or embarrass Madeleine in front of others, and had gotten an earful about services as well the church’s ministry. KWRD transmitted to much of the South and Southwest, also Mexico, several Central American countries and Colombia. Services or alternative spiritual programming were available virtually around the clock. Aside from live services, there was a talk show where Pastor Davis was joined by either his wife, the perpetually smiling Odessa, or Madeleine herself. Then there was home-shopping programming where a “faith representative” reviewed audio tapes, books, musical cassettes and CDs available for purchase. Years ago, Bay would flip by those channels thinking, “You see one of those, you’ve seen them all.” But she’d felt a strange mix of emotions as she’d watched this time because she’d met Martin Davis and knew Madeleine, who was such an important member of the church. Bitten by the celebrity bug, she thought with a cynical twist of her lips.

Her conflicted emotions blossomed into outright panic as Bay entered the sprawling vestibule and remembered from commercials how the congregation was often shown during the taped services. Bay hadn’t seen Madeleine or her son in them and hoped they sat out of camera range. The idea of finding herself in front of cameras again had her clenching her fingers tight to keep from scratching at the sudden itching along her neck.

“Praise God and welcome, sister. Do you need the assistance of a senior?”

Bay paused before the beaming man clutching a Bible. The glorious sunshine streaming in through the huge glass panes of the vestibule intensified his flushed, shining face and made it impossible to miss that his gray eyes were feverish with anticipation. “Senior what?” she asked.

“That’s our term for deacon or elder.”

A hand, as warm as the voice near her ear, cupped her elbow. Startled, Bay glanced around and experienced the double impact of Duncan Ridgeway’s dimples and amused blue eyes. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen him. He was the darling of East Texas media and she’d glimpsed numerous photos of him at the Ridgeway estate. But one-dimensional images didn’t do justice to the face best suited for color and animation, a leonine mane attractive from any angle, and intimate eyes that sparkled like a Caribbean sea as they observed the world with untiring focus. His was a face every fund-raiser yearned for, the kind of face that women would describe as romantic and men would see as competition but too friendly to resent. No wonder the ministry was doing so well, she thought with a mixture of artistic respect and cynical amusement.

“This is Mother’s very special guest, Ed,” Duncan Ridgeway said to the other man. “Thank you for looking out for her.” To Bay he said, “I’m—”

“Duncan. I recognize you from your photos.”

Even grimacing he charmed. “Of course, you’ve been to her office. She’s worse than a small-town talent agent who’s only success has been one client with a walk-on part in Cats.”

“Oh, I think she has more reason than that to be proud of you. You favor your father, though.”

Duncan touched his ringless left hand against the tie matching his pearl-gray suit. “That does my heart good. He was a lovely soul…but had just enough wickedness to make him the life of any party. I’ll tell you a few of my favorite stories sometime. Right now we’d better get inside. Mother was about to dispatch Elvin to your house.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was late.”

“You’re not. She’s chronically networking-orientated and thinks everyone else should arrive for services thirty minutes early.”

Duncan moved his hand to the small of her back as he directed her through the doorway and into the nave or what she’d heard referred to on TV as the Grand Hall. “She has her work cut out to convince me.”

Duncan chuckled as he acknowledged the wave of someone in an aisle seat. “So I heard. Don’t let her change you. Your strength is part of what she admires most.”

“She’ll probably end up labeling me stubborn.”

“Challenge keeps her young. To know Mother is to understand her middle name is Strategy.”

Bay was as conscious of Duncan’s touch as she was of the stares aimed their way. She wanted to believe that it had little to do with her, that like his mother Duncan Ridgeway possessed a charisma that drew the eye, as did their stature in the church. But there was no missing the whispering, and when her gaze locked with Holly Kirkland’s dark stare, her step faltered.

“Are you all right?” Duncan asked.

“Yes.” She wasn’t but she wouldn’t let him know.

Glenn’s fiancée had matured, advancing from girlishly pretty to striking, her lush dark hair cut stylishly short and her makeup subtle, since her dramatic coloring didn’t require more. But it was her white suit that struck Bay strongest. It would be perfect for a quiet wedding, which left her wondering if Holly had chosen it to remind her that she wasn’t the only one who had something stolen from her.

Reaching their front row seats turned out to be something of a relief after all.

“Darling.” Madeleine reached out her hand and drew Bay down onto the plush theater seat on her left. “I’m so glad you could come. Doesn’t she look enchanting, Duncan? She could be your baby sister.”

“As radiant as you look today, more like yours.”

Madeleine laughed throatily as her son lowered his lanky length into the chair on her right and she patted his long thigh affectionately. She could have been the mother of a bride in her silvery-blue silk suit, positively glowing with happiness. At the same time, the cynic in Bay couldn’t help but note that framed by the royal-blue-and-white color scheme, the three of them created almost too perfect a photo opportunity. Almost on cue, the KWRD TV cameraman swept their way and lingered.

“Oh, no.”

Although she’d whispered the protest between stiff lips, Madeleine heard and leaned toward her. “Chin up and smile, darling. Think of something else, lunch for instance. Cook is preparing the most divine lobster salad.”

Cook must not be in need of spiritual support or networking, Bay thought enviously. To Madeleine she replied, “Thank you, but I’m not sure I’ll have an appetite after this.”

Duncan leaned forward and pointed behind him with his program. “If you need to leave in a hurry, that door to our right leads to the vestibule. Don’t try the fire exits, or you’ll trigger the alarms and then you will have more attention than you want.”

“Oh, sweetheart, don’t encourage her.”

Grinning at his mother’s protest, Duncan winked at Bay before sitting back. The choir stood and began singing. Thankfully, the cameras turned to them and Bay worked at getting her heart out of her throat and back where it belonged.

“How’re y’all this blessed of all mornings?” Martin Davis said approaching the dais, once the choir finished. “I told my darling Odessa as we got in the car, no one could have gotten out of the wrong side of the bed on a day this fine. Moments later at the first traffic light, I stopped rather than drive through yellow, and the guy behind me gave me the finger.” After a pause for laughter, he continued, “It just goes to show you that everything can be perfect, you can obey every law, follow the rules…and somebody’s still gonna have that finger ready. Reminds me of what happened to the apostle Peter while…”

For the next twenty minutes, Bay rode a strange sea of emotions as Pastor Davis navigated his way through the service with the energy of a decathlon athlete and intelligent wit of Johnny Carson. Blatant, however, was how for all of his country boy charm, ambition ran like a heady wine in this minister’s veins. Bay caught glimpses of his shrewd speculation as he studied his congregation gauging how firmly he had them in his control; nevertheless, she found him more tolerable than most evangelists on TV. If she was a neophyte attending with an open mind and heart and in need of familial attention, needy in general, she could see herself succumbing to Davis’s brand of, “Trust me and the Lord will bless you” manipulation. At least he didn’t reduce her to yawns. Where did he envision himself to be in five years? As grand as this place was, somehow she didn’t think thriving, but modest little Tyler, Texas, was the end of his visionary rainbow.

“Well, now, I dare you to tell me that you weren’t inspired?” Madeleine said as they rose along with everyone else.

Bay gazed around the huge auditorium. “These are such soothing cool colors to counterbalance the pastor’s passion, did you pick them out?”

Duncan laughed and linked his mother’s arm through his. “Good for you, Bay. It’s so refreshing to meet someone who refuses to say anything she doesn’t mean. Mother, when I get you to the car, I’ll drive to the house with Bay, show her a back way so she’s not trapped in that infernal midday traffic.”

After a brief unreadable stare for her son, Madeleine gave Bay a shrug. “So you’re right, it wasn’t his best sermon. Now we’ll have to listen to Odessa worrying all through lunch that he offended the little white-haired ladies in the congregation with that finger reference.”

“See,” Duncan whispered conspiratorially to Bay, “it’s catching.”

“Keep on,” Madeleine drawled. “I’m sitting Odessa next to you. Now let’s stop to say hello to Holly, I gather that’s why she’s lingering behind, since lately she’s one of the first out of here. She’ll be at lunch,” she explained to Bay. “I want to know how she’s liking being part of the TV production team. I hated encouraging Martin to move her out of the church office, but the other ladies confided that there were simply too many mistakes being made. Lyle and Granger will complete the table.”

“Granger?”

“Patterson. Publisher of the town’s new magazine. Tyler’s answer to D Magazine and Texas Monthly.” Duncan was no longer smiling. “Mother, is that smart? Bay is still getting acclimated and you dangle her in front of a shark.”

Madeleine looked wounded. “How can you suggest that? Besides, I’ll be there to intercede if he does push her for an interview. Honestly, Duncan, it was his only open date for the next month and I have to get him to join our church before the Baptists grab hold of him. Holly,” she sang, “aren’t you looking absolutely divine. You remember Bay, of course.”

“Who could forget?”

“Hello, Holly. You are looking well.”

The unsmiling woman didn’t return the compliment; in fact, except for a brief, hard stare, she ignored her. Her manner warmed several degrees as she focused on Duncan. “If you can spare the time, I’d like to talk to you after lunch.”

“Sure.”

Nodding, Holly retreated via a side exit. Watching her, Madeleine sighed.

“I do hope I won’t have to have another talk with the girl. It troubles me that despite claiming to understand she was wrong about Bay, she behaved so coldly just now. I’ll have Lulu adjust the seating arrangements as soon as I get home and rely on you, Duncan, to make sure Holly doesn’t indulge in too much wine. Monica, Steve, how are you? Did the kids get settled in D.C. all right?”

Amazing, Bay thought, as Madeleine moved on to another couple and another subject. How did she keep everything straight and remember everyone’s names? And there was a constant stream of Monicas and Steves, all of whom fell into either an awkward silence or artificial friendliness as Madeleine introduced them to her, until Bay simply held back to stay out of her line of vision.

Once they finally reached the car, Duncan turned his mother over to Elvin, parked curbside, the engine idling in order for the air conditioner to cool the interior. In the last second, Madeleine grasped Bay’s wrist.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice what you did back there. You must be bolder, darling. Look people straight in the eye and defy them to judge you. Naturally, I abhor gossip, but the Scrantons? His brother is still doing time for annuity embezzlement.”

“Oh, Madeleine. I’m just not the psychological pugilist you are. All I want to do is to work with my metal and to take some time figuring out where I fit in.”

“Mm. I can see you need coaching.”

With a fond pat on the cheek she slid into the car. Only when Duncan touched her elbow did Bay realize she was standing there caught in the hopeless avalanche of his mother’s overpowering personality.

“She is one of a kind,” he said staying close as they stepped off the curb.

“Is it absolutely necessary that I attend this lunch? This hasn’t been my idea of a fun morning and the last thing I want to do is add to the friction between Holly and your mother.”

“The only reason Holly remains with us is due to her. We’ve all tried to help Holly get on with her life. At first I thought she was, but in the last year or two…well, you saw for yourself how she behaved.”

“Your mother hinted at an addiction problem.”

“No need to hint. If you’re around her long enough, you’ll find out for yourself. Bay, something you should know…Holly and I went out a few times.”

The news came as no surprise. Holly oozed sex appeal and while slim, had all of the curves in the right places. Bay thought her as exotic as an imported delicacy. “It’s none of my business,” she said without jealousy.

“It could be.” At her startled glance, he smiled. “So much for my ego.”

“No, I—I’m not looking for a relationship, Duncan.”

“And as my mother’s point man, I have the family business as well as the public relations for the church to oversee, which takes me out of town more than I’d like. But you intrigue me, Bay. Everything Mother’s said about you and your challenges growing up, I feel like an old friend of the family has returned home. In any case, I didn’t want you to hear rumors elsewhere and not know the truth, that I couldn’t take things to the next level with Holly due to her unpredictability. Our family and the church’s international status makes us too high profile to allow such conduct. Cold-blooded, huh?”

“Not at all. I’m hardly in your league, but I worry myself, how my record will taint my ability to attract enough lucrative accounts to establish a viable business here.”

“What record?”

His innocent tone earned him another sidelong look and Bay could only shake her head in wonder. Maybe after a while she would believe her past no longer existed, at least on paper; it would take much longer to convince herself that someone as suave and successful as Duncan Ridgeway would find her a worthy replacement to Holly when he could have any beauty he wanted. She had to be crazy to warn him off. The Ridgeways were already making things easier for her, and Duncan could make that doubly so.

“What’s that frown for?” he asked.

No way would she tell him her mercenary thought even though she was disgusted with herself for having it. “Holly. I appreciate the confidence. I always liked her and I’ll do what I can not to complicate things for your family.”

“A sweet thought,” he said with a heavy sigh. “I fear that’s no more in your control than it is in mine.”

The words haunted Bay for the rest of the trip to the Ridgeway estate.

7

It was the last chance Bay and Duncan had to talk one-on-one. Once they arrived at the house, Madeleine took over again leading Bay from one guest to the next. Contrary to Madeleine’s earlier criticism, she liked Odessa Davis best. Diminutive, eternally sunny and as plump as her husband, she exhibited a genuine affection for him even when gently chastising him about his sermon as Madeleine warned she would.

Despite having left the church first, Holly arrived shortly after the Davises and didn’t participate in any conversation unless asked a direct question, something no one seemed eager to do. Lyle Gessler appeared from somewhere else in the house and planted himself behind Madeleine like a substitute guardian angel. Bay caught him watching her several times and, while his expression remained lawyer passive, his aura of disdain for her brought a chill that made the air-conditioned room almost too cold to bear.

Granger Patterson was the last to arrive and offered no apology or explanation for delaying lunch. Tall enough to tower over Duncan, his sun-streaked blond hair also bore interesting silver highlights, a close match to his eyes. Bay guessed him to be in his mid-sixties, except that his hands and neck suggested a decade beyond that. Cosmetic surgery? From what she’d read in the news, an increasing number of men were opting to go under the knife for business reasons. Bay disliked him on sight, but not for that reason. Once they were introduced, the man simply gave her no other choice.

“Ms. Butler.” He shook her hand in a firm, but brief exchange. “Tyler’s lady of the hour.”

“Closer to a reluctant fifty-nine seconds if I’m lucky.”

“Clever soundbite, though it wouldn’t work as well in print as on TV.”

“I didn’t realize I was being interviewed.”

“Would you like to be?”

“Absolutely not.”

“All right, we can talk price.”

“That wasn’t an attempt at negotiation.”

The slight duck of his head signaled his cynicism. “I don’t put much stock in modesty. I care about the story, not politics or agenda.”

“Okay, then you know I haven’t voted in several years and my only agenda is to stay away from carnivores. If you can manage to insult me accurately, we might end up having a conversation.”

His laugh sounded like someone strangling. “I’ll have my secretary set up an appointment.”

“Not about a story.”

“It could be lucrative for you. Madeleine tells me you’re an artist as well as craftsman.”

“One who’s booked to September.”

“You’ll be old news by then.”

“Lucky me.”

Being rejected didn’t phase Patterson. At lunch he sat on Madeleine’s left and Bay on her right, and while their hostess did her best to keep his attention, he remained doggedly intent on including Bay in their dialogue. Not only was Madeleine visibly annoyed, but it kept Bay from speaking to Lyle Gessler. Intercepting sharp looks from Holly at the far end of the table beside Duncan made it all worse.

Rich food and stress took its toll and Bay excused herself before dessert could be served hoping to find aspirin in the guest bathroom to ease her throbbing head. The perfect hostess, Madeleine had several pain relievers displayed on a crystal tray for guests. Two tablets and a few moments with a cool washcloth against her forehead gave her the ability to head back to the others.

On her way past the sunroom, she spotted Holly at the wheel-cart bar. “Could we talk for a moment?” Bay asked, as the young woman poured herself what looked like vodka from a crystal decanter.

Ignoring her, Holly downed the double shot of liquor. “No need to practice your ‘Free at last, free at last’ speech on me. Unlike the very interesting Mr. Patterson, I’m not buying theatrics. I get enough at my day job.”

So much for Madeleine’s claims. How could she misread Holly this badly? “It’s true. I really want—”

“To be friends? Nice trick, considering we were never going to be that when Glenn was alive.”

“I wanted to, so why not? We both cared about him.”

Sheer hatred flared in the other woman’s eyes. “I loved him. You threw him away.”

“We were friends, Holly. It was never meant to be anything else. He understood in the end and I was so happy for him when he met you and recognized that he was really in love.”

“Ms. Butler, Holly,” Lyle Gessler said in the doorway. “You’re about to miss dessert. Mrs. Ridgeway would like you to return to the table.”

Rejecting the arm Lyle offered her, Holly did that immediately. Bay saw her opportunity and tried to delay him.

“Mr. Gessler, a moment, please. My case file,” she told the attorney as he paused. “I’d like to see it.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t have it.”

“Who does?”

He nodded toward the dining room.

“You haven’t kept a copy?”

“There was no reason to. I was the liaison. My area is corporate law, not trial law.”

“Thank you,” Bay replied despite his condescending tone. “I’ll speak with Mrs. Ridgeway then.”

She wanted to leave there and then, but somehow got through the white chocolate mousse with raspberry sauce, and the tedious wait for the other guests to depart. Finally, as Martin Davis and Odessa took their leave, she let Madeleine walk her to the door—only to be handed another rejection.

“It’s over, darling. What good is reminding yourself of the unpleasant? It’s certainly not going to help your future.”

“I’m still searching for clarity and perspective. I know Mr. Gessler gave me the abbreviated facts, but this is my life we’re talking about. I went from no future, to unlimited possibilities in a matter of minutes. I’m still coming to terms with how that happened.”

“I agree. Let her have it,” Duncan said coming up beside her.

Madeleine looked as though he’d encouraged her to burn down the house; however, she recovered admirably. “I happen to know Bay’s sensitive and artistic side and I think exposing her to any additional unpleasantness would only be detrimental to her creativity.”

“That’s complete rot, Mother. Look at her—Bay is as levelheaded as you are. She’ll be fine.”

“Well.” Madeleine clasped her hands in an inverted V. “I see I’m outnumbered. Then you get the file for me, won’t you, dear? It’s on my credenza, I believe.”

As he left with a quick arm squeeze for Bay, Madeleine’s smile grew rueful. “Promise me that you won’t spend the rest of the day on that thing?”

“I won’t.” Bay didn’t feel so much as a twinge of guilt at voicing the lie. “I’m sorry about Holly.”

Madeleine sighed. “Holly reminds me of a bird determined to fly straight into a window convinced that what it sees is continuing sky. We’ve paid for her therapy, made all sorts of compromises and adjustments so she could continue with us, but—” she shrugged “—I’m close to being out of ideas and, I fear, at the end of my patience.”

“Maybe if she could meet someone else, she could move on.”

“What’s the likelihood of that under the circumstances?”

To Bay’s relief Duncan returned, saving her from having to respond. “Thank you,” she said hoping they didn’t see the slight trembling of her hands as she accepted the folder, which somehow looked thinner than the one she’d seen Lyle Gessler page through at Gatesville.

“What’s your schedule like later in the week?” he replied.

She didn’t know what her expression looked like, and Madeleine’s wasn’t much better in that she’d now mastered her emotions. “I…well, I’ll be working, I suppose. I owe your mother the gate she’s been waiting for.”

“You can’t work around the clock and you have to eat. I’m out of town until Wednesday. How about if I call you Thursday and we’ll see about dinner? You haven’t committed me to something, have you, Mother?”

“Of course, not.” Madeleine embraced Bay. “You two work it out. I have some calls to return. Thank you for making my morning so enjoyable, my dear.”

As she retreated into her office, Bay frowned at Duncan. “She doesn’t approve.”

“She’s annoyed with me for forcing her hand and giving you the file.”

“Speaking of being upset…you don’t have to take up where she’s leaving off. I’m not in need of constant entertaining, never mind caretaking.”

“Good Lord, is that how you see this?” With a new gleam in his eye, he took hold of her upper arms. “I see I have my work cut out for me.”

A part of her, the ghost of the awkward schoolgirl, didn’t want to be having this conversation. The injured woman warmed with secret triumph and feminine curiosity.

“You’re staring at me as though I were under your microscope,” Duncan said, touching the tip of her nose. “This is where you make my day by giving me something refreshing to look forward to instead of another ghastly dinner meeting.”

“You’ll be disappointed.”

“Try me.”

8

The phone was ringing as Bay returned home and opened her front door. Not bothering to take the key out of the lock, she grabbed the receiver.

“Hello?” She placed her slim shoulder bag and the folder from the Ridgeways onto the kitchen counter. “Hello?”

Once again she heard subtle but indistinguishable background noises to assure her that someone was there.

“Not today, thanks,” she muttered hanging up.

She’d had enough, enough of people pushing her buttons, of those trying to play mind games and all of the manipulation. All she wanted to do now was slip out of what she would heretofore call her “torture slippers” and change into the loosest, skimpiest outfit she could find.

“Mercy, that air conditioner is cranking away,” she said carrying her things down the hall. At the register she found out why.

The temperature was set all the way to the coldest setting. How had she managed that? What an idiot, she thought quickly adjusting it back up to seventy-nine. She must have knocked it somehow as she was hurrying to leave and wobbling in those shoes. Dreading what this would do to her electricity bill, she continued to the bedroom…and froze in the doorway.

The window nearest the bathroom was open.

Sultry air was seeping into the room, offsetting the chill in the hall and yet goose bumps rose on her bare arms. Now that she knew she hadn’t done.

Her heart slamming against her breastbone, she retreated to the kitchen for some kind of weapon—the heavy-duty flashlight kept by the door for her left hand to deflect a blow, and a knife with the longest, sturdiest blade for her right. Once leaving Gatesville, she’d hoped she was putting this part of her life behind her. She should have known that was too good to be true.

This time Bay checked room by room, starting with the kitchen’s broom closet and the linen closet in the hallway. At the same time she looked for other signs that someone had left taunting clues of his visit. Once she got as far as the bathroom and determined she was the only one in the house, she closed the window, tested the lock and began checking drawers, her imagination in overdrive.

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