Confessions by JoAnn Ross

Author:JoAnn Ross
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2010-06-24T21:49:42.093000+00:00

The reading of the will was conducted in Thatcher Reardon's office. There had been a Reardon serving as Swann legal counsel since the two families had first arrived in Whiskey River over a century ago. Having never been one to buck tradition—with the exception of her love for Clint Garvey—no one was surprised that Laura had chosen Thatcher to draft her will.

Mariah could not keep her attention on the reading. So many thoughts were tumbling around in her mind that she was having trouble concentrating on any one of them.

Foremost, of course, was her reason for being here today. Although it was beginning to sink in that Laura was really, truly dead, there were fleeting instances when she'd open her mouth to say something to her sister, then belatedly realize that the image that had flickered in front of her mind's eye was no more substantial than the mirage that shimmered just out of reach on the bubbling-hot black asphalt of the interstate every summer.

Her second concern was for Maggie, who hadn't returned to the lodge until nearly midnight. When Mariah, exhausted and sick with worry, had angrily confronted the limo driver for not driving her mother directly home from the ranch after the funeral supper, a drunken Maggie had lost her temper and slapped her daughter hard. Right on her cheek.

It was the first time her mother had ever struck her and during those suspended seconds afterward, when the three of them—Mariah, Maggie and the driver—seemed frozen in place, Mariah had felt like a wounded seven-year-old.

The feeling, not pleasant, lingered this morning, along with continuing concern and not a little resentment. Maggie's life was her own, Mariah had told herself during the sleepless predawn hours. What her mother did was her own business; Mariah wasn't responsible for her behavior.

Which worked real nifty in theory. Unfortunately, although Maggie McKenna would never win the Mother Of The Year award, she was the only real family Mariah had left. And, despite Maggie's flaws, which were as bold and dramatic as the woman herself, Mariah loved her mother. Dearly.

The third problem that had kept sleep at bay and continued to nudge at her concentration this morning was Trace Callahan. Mariah had spent the past ten years in California, where people tended to tell everything about their intimate lives at the drop of a cocktail napkin. In contrast, the sheriff was an intensely private person.

Which was, Mariah mused as the lawyer droned through the usual preliminary bequeathals—two thousand dollars to the man who shoed Laura's horses, five thousand to her housekeeper, fifteen hundred to someone named Marty, who kept her driveway clear of snow in the winter—something else they had in common. If she'd been keeping track. Which she most definitely wasn't.

A buzz of excited conversation drew her attention back to the attorney and Mariah belatedly realized that everyone in the room, with the exception of Thatcher, was staring at her.

Her father's face was the color of a sun-ripened beefsteak tomato. A furious fire burned in his gaze and an angry blue vein pounded at his temple.

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