Dangerous Lies Read online

  "Foolish girl," Dixie Jo snapped. She pushed out of her chair, pacing the office. "Stubborn, pigheaded girl." A tear trickled down her cheek. "I need to be alone, Stella. I need to think where she'd go to have this baby."

  "I can help you look. Now or after my shift. Just tell me what you want me to do." I was worried about Inny too, especially now that I knew more about her situation. If her parents weren't on board with the baby, Inny would have turned her back on the idea of asking them for help long ago. No matter how desperate, she'd do this on her own. Even if it killed her.

  "I appreciate that," Dixie Jo said, grief weighing heavily on her face, "but I'm worried either way we'll be too late."

  After work I found a note under the windshield wiper of Carmina's truck. It was from Chet, and the news he had to deliver didn't lighten my mood.

  Dusty hadn't shown up for work today. Chet had been at the ranch until sundown, and hadn't played the message Dusty's boss left on his phone until late. Worse, Dusty had raided the emergency stash of money Chet kept in the house. It was gone, all of it. Chet was out looking for him, and would call me at Carmina's the minute he knew something.

  I didn't want to think bad of Dusty, but I had a hunch he was feeling desperate to get his business with Cooter started--even if it meant cheating his brother. It was hard not to draw a parallel with my mom. Only once, but still once, she stole money from me to fund her habit. The cash was in my wallet before I went to bed. She went partying with Sandy, and in the morning the money was gone. She might have stolen again, had I not learned to hide my money.

  I'd fallen asleep with the window open, tempting any trace of a breeze inside my bedroom, and the deep rumble of the Scout pulled me instantly awake. In the dark, I tugged on a pair of shorts and hurried downstairs.

  Chet climbed out of the truck, his movements heavy, his shoulders hunched and his eyes dead. He was looking at me, but he didn't seem to see me. He stood dazed and blinking, almost like he was lost. Right away I knew it was Dusty. Something horrible had happened.

  "Chet?" I slipped my feet into Carmina's garden clogs and jogged down the porch steps. The night air was thick and hot, but the look on Chet's face chilled me to the core, and I wished I'd brought something to wrap around my shoulders. "It's Dusty, isn't it?"

  He sank down on the driveway. He leaned his head back against the Scout. His face, which had always appeared strong and certain to me, reflected sheer exhaustion. "He spent it. All of it. His college savings, the money he earned this summer, our emergency fund. Nearly five thousand dollars. Gone."

  "Drugs?" I asked quietly.

  He laughed sharply, and the ice in his tone made me shiver again. "I wish he'd blown it on drugs. Drugs he could sell. Drugs would be profitable. He used the money to hire a midwife. His girlfriend was pregnant. I didn't even know he had a girlfriend."

  Now it was my turn to blink. I stared into near space, her name rolling involuntarily off my tongue. "Inny."

  "They're keeping the baby. Did you hear me? They're keeping the baby!" he shouted angrily. "Don't tell me I should be grateful he did the responsible thing. For once, I don't want him to be responsible. I want him to be selfish. Like I'm being now."

  "Have you tried talking to him?"

  "He told me they couldn't afford the hospital so they hired a midwife. He said they're keeping the baby, and the minute those words sank in, I started yelling sense at him. I told him he was putting the baby up for adoption or I'd kick him out. He hung up." Chet's breath heaved in and out, his eyes dark and blazing. "He doesn't want to listen, but he knows I'm right. If he keeps the baby, it's over. He'll never go to college. He'll stay here, plastering pools until his back gives out, and then he'll get a job on the railroad in North Platte. It's not what my parents wanted." He scrubbed his hands through his hair. "I'm not cut out for this. I failed. I let everyone down. This is why Dusty wanted to partner with Cooter Saggory--to support his girlfriend and their kid. I never saw it. I was oblivious. And now it's too late. Everything is falling down around me."

  I didn't know what to say. I took his face in my hands and tipped his forehead to mine. My hands were steady, but I felt my strength start to crumble. What Chet hadn't said, but knew as well as I did, was that if Dusty couldn't support the baby like he thought he could, Chet would step in. He was angry now, and threatening to kick Dusty out, but he wouldn't. When he calmed, he'd accept that he was Dusty's guardian, and he'd see this through--at the expense of his own future and dreams.

  "Oh, Chet," I said, feeling my heart break for him.

  "Her parents already kicked her out," he said roughly. "She doesn't have anywhere to go. If she'll give up the baby, they'll take her back."

  "She won't do that."

  His eyes found mine, and they were swimming with bewilderment. "Does she have any idea what it's like to be a parent? Dusty said he knows it won't be easy, but he has no idea what's in store. It isn't that it isn't easy. It's that it's the hardest thing he'll ever do. He isn't ready. He thinks he is, but he's a kid. He hasn't lived his own life, so how is he going to take care of someone else's?"

  I held him tighter; I didn't have answers, but the last thing he needed right now was to feel alone. I could give him that at least. My companionship and a listening ear.

  "I told Dusty she couldn't live with us," Chet said, his tone morose. "I laughed when he suggested it. I called him a fool and a few other things. I told him, 'Don't show up at the house with her or the baby, because I won't let you in.'

  "Here's true irony," he went on. "This week at work we were castrating bulls, and I'm not usually squeamish, but I took a moment to wince--feel a bit sorry for them, you know? And then this happened with Dusty, and my first thought was, Nope, castration isn't a bad thing at all. Apply it to humans."

  He was aiming to amuse me, but I couldn't bring myself to laugh.

  "I'm going to let her move in, aren't I?" he realized quietly. "I don't know if it's the right thing, or the worst idea I've ever had, but I'm scared out of my mind that I'm going to go through with it and let her and the baby live with us."

  "What would your mom have done?" While I waited for his answer, I asked myself the same question. What would my mom have done if Reed had gotten me pregnant? It didn't matter. I would have run away with him. I would have moved out, not staying long enough to see her reaction, because the reality of the situation was that she wouldn't have cared. That's what drugs did. They took away your ability to care about anything but more, more, more drugs.

  "If I don't take her in, Dusty will drop out of school and get a full-time job. He'll have to take care of rent, food, bills, all of it. His life will stop here."

  "All probably true."

  He sighed again, but this time his body relaxed, and I guessed that meant he had his answer.

  "I'm here to help, you know," I said.

  I rested my cheek against the slope of his shoulder. He smoothed my hair absently and let go a rueful sigh. "What did I ever do to deserve this?"

  "You gave Carmina hell," I said, smiling faintly. "Some might call this karma."

  He pulled back, looking at me directly. "I meant you. What did I do to deserve you, Stella? I've made mistakes. I've screwed up enough times. So how does a guy like me end up with you?" There was genuine wonder and amazement in the way he looked at me, and if I thought I'd known guilt before, I was wrong.

  When he guided my head against his chest, I drew a quiet but deep breath. I had to tell him I was leaving Thunder Basin.

  I couldn't hold off any longer.

  30

  AFTER A FEW DAYS LATER, I WAS KNEELING IN CARMINA'S rose beds, absorbing myself in the mindless task of pulling weeds while I worked up the courage to call my mom back and tell her: First, that I was going to testify, and second, that I didn't hate her anymore.

  After hanging up on her during our last call, I'd sworn I'd never speak to her again. But that was the poison talking--it wanted to stay rooted inside me and turn me black with bi
tter rage. I had to call her. This time on my terms. I had to exorcise the past and move on.

  I'd never forgiven anyone--not officially, like to a priest in a confessional--and was having a hard time figuring out how to balance what I wanted her to hear with what I wanted her to feel.

  I didn't want her walking away from our conversation feeling excused for her behavior or without guilt. I supposed I wanted her to know I wasn't going to let her hurt me anymore . . . but if she wanted to kick herself over her bad choices, so be it.

  Carmina wouldn't approve, but I had to start somewhere. Maybe down the road I'd decide to fully forgive my mom. I still didn't believe in God, but it made sense that if there was a supreme ruler of the universe, he wouldn't expect these kinds of harbored emotions to be dropped in an instant. Forgiveness took time, I decided. It was a process. Better to start slowly than not at all.

  I heard the Scout approaching down the road. Rocking back on my heels, I peeled out of my garden gloves just as Chet angled into the drive.

  "You busy?" he asked, hanging his arm out the driver's side window. His cowboy hat was tipped low, shading his eyes, which sparkled mischievously.

  "You're in a good mood."

  "Agree to come with me, and make it even better."

  "What do you have in mind?"

  "Ever been to a rodeo?"

  "Like cowboys and clowns?"

  A smile danced at his mouth. "Yeah. And bull riding, steer roping, chuck-wagon racing, and mutton busting."

  "No," I said cautiously. None of the above sounded like my thing, even if half the words were foreign.

  "Hop in." He inclined his head at the seat next to him. "You're about to get a culture lesson."

  "See, I don't think you know what the word 'culture' means. Where's Dusty?" I asked, playing for time.

  "At the house with his girlfriend and the baby. Come on. Time's a-wasting."

  Inny had moved in with Dusty and Chet over the weekend. I'd stopped by to visit and deliver a gift for the baby--a girl they'd named Beatrix--but Inny had been asleep. I was dying to talk with her and catch her up on the latest gossip from the Sundown.

  "I don't know," I hedged further. It wasn't that I didn't want to hang out with Chet. But a rodeo? Weren't rodeos consistently getting panned by animal rights activists? Plus, I had visions of fried bull testes being sold alongside churros and funnel cakes out of a dirty food truck.

  "You're overthinking this," he said, smiling at my expression, which must have appeared deeply conflicted.

  "No bull testes," I finally said. "Final offer."

  "Deal."

  "And if it rains, we seek shelter." Dark clouds cloaked the horizon, but the evening sun blazed hot overhead, and while I hadn't seen rain in the forecast, I needed to cover my bases.

  "No wet T-shirt contest today, you got it."

  "Carmina's at the store. Let me change clothes and leave a note for her."

  Inside, I zipped myself into my yellow sundress, left a note for Carmina on the kitchen counter, and snagged two chilled Cokes from the fridge.

  "Am I wearing proper rodeo attire?" I asked Chet, twirling in a circle. I'd paired the sundress with the boots Carmina had given me.

  "You look like a local."

  I tossed him a Coke and climbed in.

  "I have to drop off some rodeo gear first, but it shouldn't take long," Chet said, reversing down the drive. "Milton Swope referred me to a neighbor who has a couple saddle and bareback bronc riders competing tonight. I'm delivering their gear."

  Thirty minutes later, we pulled up behind the rodeo arena. Trucks and horse trailers clogged the dusty, rutted road looping the arena. We were opposite the stands, and I could see they were starting to fill, even though the rodeo didn't start for another half hour. As Chet drove past the loading chutes, he pointed to a string of cowboys stretching their legs.

  "Those are the bareback bronc riders warming up. Have to tie their spurs, do squats to stretch the groin, and of course chew tobacco, drink beer, and talk trash to the other riders."

  "What are the crushing in their gloves?"

  "Rosin. They rub it quickly along the rope they are going to use to ride to make it tacky."

  "They look nervous."

  "Some of that, sure, but mostly concentrating. Running through best-and worst-case scenarios in their heads. Dreaming of the purse. There's nearly a hundred grand up for grabs tonight."

  "Wow." It was more than I would have guessed from small-town entertainment.

  Next we drove past the bull pen. The gates were high, but I caught a glimpse of black hide stretched over meaty haunches, and sharp horns.

  "How does bull riding work?" I asked. "You said Sydney's boyfriend is a bull rider. Is he here?"

  "Might be. If there's one rodeo sport I wouldn't try, it's bull riding. Too risky. When I was a kid, I saw a rider's leg, right up near the groin, skewered by a bull horn. That tempered my curiosity real fast. But it's an exciting sport to watch. A ride is scored from zero to one hundred points. Anything above seventy-five is impressive. A rider has to stay mounted on the bull for eight seconds to get any points; if he falls off, the bull gets the points. If the rider touches the bull, the rope, or himself with his free hand--the hand you always see a rider holding in the air--he's disqualified."

  "I always thought riders held up a hand for balance."

  "Riders are judged on style and control, things like synchronizing their movements to the bull's, and on how the bull performs. If the bull is unusually aggressive and gives the rider a hard time, extra points are awarded. After eight seconds, a loud buzzer sounds, and the rider can jump off."

  I'd seen pictures of cowboys in chaps and boots, their bodies twisting and convulsing like a rag doll on the back of a bucking bull. I was with Chet--probably not something I wanted to try any time soon.

  Chet parked a distance from the bucking shoots and unloaded a couple of boxes from the back of the Scout.

  "Can I help?" I offered.

  "Nah, I'll be less than ten."

  After he disappeared, I propped my boots on the dash and watched the bull riders stretch in the rearview mirror. I wished I'd thought to grab the cowgirl hat Chet had given me. I could have taken a country selfie with the bull pen directly behind me.

  But since I didn't use social media anymore--the government had shut down my accounts--it wasn't like I could post the picture anywhere. And there was that whole issue of not having a phone with a camera.

  I took the pay-by-the-minute phone out of my purse and turned it over in my hands. I still didn't know exactly what I was going to say to my mom. Even once I came up with a script, I was afraid I'd abandon it in favor of yelling or, worse, crying.

  For days now I'd searched for the right words, but I was beginning to accept that this wasn't the kind of conversation you could rehearse. I was never going to settle on the perfect lines. Maybe it was time for a new approach. Dive in and have faith the words would flow when I needed them.

  I could call her now. While I waited for Chet.

  With the help of a deep breath, I dialed the number for the detox clinic. Before I could squash the butterflies in my stomach, a receptionist answered.

  "Savannah Gordon please," I said, since Carmina had told me that the DOJ had given my mom the same last name I was going by--Gordon.

  "One moment." After a pause, her voice came back on the line. "I'm sorry, Savannah Gordon is no longer with us."

  "What?"

  "She checked herself out this morning."

  "That can't be right. There must be a mistake. Check again."

  "It's right here, in her file. She voluntarily left the program."

  "Where did she go?"

  "Patients aren't required to leave that information. Miss? There's another call coming in. Would you mind holding?"

  "Yes, I'd mind," I snapped. "I need to know where Savannah went." I knew getting upset wouldn't help, but I was too shell-shocked to be polite. Had my mom only left rehab, or had
she left witness protection too? I knew WITSEC was voluntary, and she could leave at any time, but surely she wasn't stupid enough to return to her old identity.

  Was the U.S. attorney's office aware of what she'd done?

  "It isn't our policy to track patients after they leave the program," the receptionist said stiffly.

  "Gee, thanks for the help," I said, and hung up.

  I stared into near space, dazed. Why would my mom leave rehab?

  Because she needed drugs. It was the reason she always left. And if she'd returned to drugs, she'd returned to Philly.

  I couldn't believe she'd do something this dangerous. Had she given any thought to the risks? If Danny's men found her, they'd kill her. It didn't matter that she wasn't cooperating with authorities; Danny didn't know that. And he certainly didn't love her. Was chasing the next high worth her life? Had she spared a single moment to consider how her recklessness might affect me?

  It stood to reason the U.S. attorney's office had told her my new name--Stella Gordon. If Danny's men got her high, she might give me up. They could string it right out of her. I didn't want to think she'd betray me sober, but I wasn't sure. When it came to my mom, nothing was certain.

  I had to think. Now that Danny was behind bars, who would she call when she got to Philly? Sandy.

  If my mom was back in Philly, Sandy would know. My mom would want to party with her.

  I'd been warned not to contact anyone from my former life, but I wasn't going to sit back and let my mom get herself killed. And I wasn't going to let her put me at risk.

  I slowed my racing thoughts deliberately. I had to be smart about this. Danny Balando's gang could be watching Sandy, hoping my mom would eventually reach out to her. Deputy Price had told me it would be one of Danny's (and the cartel's, if they were backing him) strategies--to keep an eye on our family and close friends, waiting patiently for us to slip up and contact them. I had to be very, very careful. I couldn't raise even a hint of suspicion.

  Reed had once told me the best way to avoid having a call traced was to use a disposable prepaid phone, because they could only be tracked when turned on. I knew calling Sandy wasn't completely risk free, but I could greatly reduce my chances of being caught if I turned the phone off and trashed it immediately after using it. To find me, Danny Balando's gang would have to be monitoring Sandy's calls, they'd have to recognize my voice, and they'd have to know what phone I was calling from. The odds were on my side. Not completely in the bank, but on my side.