Page 38 of One in a Million

“You’re sure? The driver would be no trouble.” Lila was doing her best to take the initiative and to be gracious. Jasmine couldn’t fault her stepmother for that.

“Quite sure, thank you,” Madeleine said. “Now if you’ll excuse me—” She turned and strode through the swinging doors into the kitchen.

* * *

The trail up the hillside was just wide enough for the undersized four-wheeled vehicle. On the day of the burial, Jasmine had made the climb behind her father’s coffin, her sandaled feet dragging in the dust. Today she was grateful for the ride.

She sat on the back seat with her brother, while their mother drove, gunning the engine hard on the steep curves. She seemed almost too eager to get to the hilltop cemetery. But maybe that was only Jasmine’s imagination. In the time they’d been apart, she’d almost forgotten about the invisible forces that appeared to drive Madeleine Culhane.

They came up onto the leveled hilltop. Madeleine swung the vehicle around in a cloud of dust and parked outside the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the graveyard. Her children followed her lead as they stepped to the ground and entered through the gate.

Frank’s grave was a mound of dirt, the unsettled earth piled knee-high. In time, it would sink and weather to look like the nearby graves of his parents. The empty space next to it, Jasmine knew, was reserved for his wife. Which wife—his present widow or the mother of his children—remained to be seen. Maybe it would depend on who died first—a dark thought that she dismissed as the small family stood beside the grave of the man who connected them all.

The red roses that had blanketed the casket had long since dried in the heat. The last shriveled petals, caught in the light breeze, fluttered over the grave and swirled skyward.

“What about the headstone?” Madeleine demanded. “A man like Frank deserves a monument to show who he was—maybe a horse and rider in high relief on the stone, or even a statue.”

“Lila already ordered the headstone, Mamá,” Jasmine said. “Darrin and I approved the design. It’s about this big.” She indicated the modest size with her hands. “Natural, rough granite with a polished area to show his name, dates, and the names of his children.”

“The little cheapskate probably found it on eBay! Your father deserves more recognition than that. Cancel the order. I have an artist friend who’ll give me some designs and a bid. I’ll contact him as soon as we get back.”

Jasmine had been fine with the original headstone design. It was rugged and simple, like something her father might have chosen for himself. He would have hated a statue. But she wasn’t about to jump into the fray against her mother. Madeleine and Lila could fight this one out.

Madeleine stood gazing down at the grave as if she could see and speak to the man who was buried there. “I’ve come home, Frank,” she said. “I’m here for you, and I’m not leaving until your ranch is back in the hands of our family, where it belongs—with that lying bitch, Lila, burning in hell for what she did to you. I swear this oath on your grave that I will use whatever means necessary to see justice done. And your children will swear the same.”

Whatever means necessary.

The words sent chills along Jasmine’s spine. As for the oath, true, she and Darrin had made promises at the burial. But an oath was something different, something dark and binding. If Madeleine had whipped out a knife and demanded that they make cuts and mix their blood, she wouldn’t have been surprised. But so far, there was no sign that would happen—at least not yet.

She glanced at her brother. He stood a few paces behind his mother, rigid and pale. Darrin had argued for settling the ranch dispute in a court of law. But despite the weaknesses in Lila’s case, she had Frank’s legal will and was in full possession of the property. There was always the chance she would win. Madeleine was clearly unwilling to take that chance.

Did she really believe that Lila had murdered Frank? What if she was right? Would that justify using any means to avenge his death?

“Come, both of you, on either side of me. Take my hands.”

Madeleine stood like a pagan priestess, facing the grave with her arms outstretched to the side. She was capable of disinheriting a child who disobeyed her wishes—she’d made the threat before, more than once, and almost carried it out. Jasmine and her brother knew better than to resist her in her present frame of mind. They stepped forward and took her hands. Her palms were almost hot, the grip of her fingers like iron as she spoke.

“Repeat after me. I swear this oath on my father’s grave . . . to seek vengeance for his murder . . . and to recover his stolen property by any and all means possible.”

Her children uttered the words after her. Jasmine was shaking as they finished. Madeleine released their hands and turned away from the grave. “What this means,” she said, “is that if I give you an order, you’re to follow it without question. Do you understand?”

Brother and sister exchanged glances. They’d grown up with their mother and her ways. But never before had she pushed them this far. Dreading the consequences of resisting, they nodded their consent.

When Jasmine offered to drive the four-wheeler back down the hill, her mother acquiesced. She sat slumped in the front passenger seat, looking drained. But Jasmine knew she was summoning her energy, and that by the time they reached the house, Madeleine would be wearing the sparkling, charismatic face she presented to the world.

* * *

Sam hid a pang of disappointment when his dinner was delivered by the kitchen help instead of by Jasmine. But Jasmine had other priorities, he reminded himself, especially now that her mother was here. He could hardly expect her to wait on him every night.

The tasty Greek moussaka was a nice surprise. Mariah was clearly making an effort to please her former employer. He finished the last bite, as well as the accompanying salad and garlic bread, before covering the tray and setting it aside. If this kept up, he would need to start watching his weight.

Feeling pleasantly logy, he settled himself on the front porch bench to watch the stars come out. The worst of the heat had faded with the setting sun. A light breeze cooled his face.

After lunch, he’d spent most of the afternoon around the stables, talking to the staff and learning about horses—their intelligence, their strength, their fragility, and the vital roles they played in the life of the ranch. He’d watched Roper train several client horses, watched how they were wrapped and prepared for their workouts and cooled down afterward. He’d even witnessed a semen collection from a stallion in the breeding shed and visited the lab where it would be prepared for insemination at a handsome stud fee.

No one he’d talked with had added anything to the account of Frank’s death. But if his death had anything to do with what went on in the intricately structured world of the Culhane Stables, Sam needed to understand that milieu.

If he was to stay in Texas, his understanding could prove helpful in future cases. But what if he failed to find Frank Culhane’s killer? He could end up back on the streets of Chicago, any chance of a promotion gone. And so far, all he had were scattered pieces of a puzzle that refused to come together.