Buried Truth. Dana Mentink
saw a stain of emotion wash over Bill’s face before it was hidden behind his stoic mask. “Never mind that now. You should not have left without telling your uncle. He’s probably worried about you. Come back to the house and I’ll call him.”
Tina rose and Tank trotted at her heels as they returned to the cabin. Heather was unsure if she should tag along or not until Bill called over his shoulder, “Thanks for taking care of her.”
Heather took it as an invitation and scurried to catch up with him. “No problem. We need to talk, Bill.”
“No, we don’t.”
She bit back an impatient retort. Their past aside, she needed to confirm her terrible suspicion. “Yes, we do. I know what’s going on.”
He ignored her and quickened his pace. Heather was practically running by the time they reached his cabin. Tina scrambled inside after Tank, and Bill stopped abruptly on the porch. “Appreciate your help. I’ll handle things from here.”
She reached ahead of him and pulled the door closed. He turned on her, the muscles of his jaw twitching. She’d seen that intensity in him before and it made her shiver.
“I’ve got to take care of Tina now,” he said.
“No, you need to talk to me.”
He folded his arms and glowered at her. “We have nothing to discuss.”
She kept her voice low. “I think we do. I remember when you were hunting Oscar Birch after he murdered his wife.”
Bill stared at her, but didn’t answer.
She forced her way through the awkward silence. “Oscar killed Hazel and he was on the run.”
His jaw clenched, but he still did not speak.
“He was still at large when I … left.” She added softly, “And then he killed your partner.”
“Correct. That’s old news.” His eyes wandered over her face. “A lot of things have changed since you went away.”
She swallowed. “You helped capture Oscar’s son, who died on the way to prison.”
That comment elicited a blink from Bill. She pressed on. “I also found out that Oscar Birch recently escaped custody.”
He folded his arms. “You’re good at finding out facts. Must be an occupational hazard.”
“Here’s a fact that wasn’t in the research. Oscar’s the one who messed up your house, isn’t he?”
“Could be.”
She thought suddenly about the note on her mailbox, the strange phone call. A shiver of fear coursed through her body, leaving her cold. “Bill, I need the truth.”
“That’s something, isn’t it?” His eyes blazed. “You didn’t need anything from me a while back. Didn’t even need to return my messages. Now you come here needing the truth.”
She wanted to scream. “I’m not talking about you and me or what happened. I’m talking about right here and right now.” She stepped closer to him, trying to capture his gaze with hers. “Oscar blames you for the death of his son. Has he returned to Rockvale to kill you?”
Bill looked steadily at her this time, eyes black bright and glittering with an intense emotion. “I certainly hope so. Oscar hasn’t learned his lesson.”
Heather’s mouth fell open. “Bill … you’ve got to tell the police. You’ve got to get out of here.”
After a moment he turned abruptly and went into the house. She followed in a daze, watching while he poured two glasses of water and handed one to her. “Cops know. They’re after him. Local guys and the Feds.”
She took the water and gulped some down. “That’s good, then. They’ll catch him, surely.”
Bill drained his glass and set it on the table. “Could be.”
She gaped. “You think they’ll catch him, don’t you?”
He took the glass from her hand. “I think that you and Tina need to stay away from here, from me, until this is all sorted out. I fixed your Jeep. Take Tina home and don’t come back here. I’ll tell Charlie you’re on your way. I’ll bring your motorcycle back soon.”
“Bill …” She put a hand on his arm, but he pulled away. A flash of some emotion rippled across his face. Maybe it was the lingering hurt at the way she’d shut him out after the arrest. Perhaps it was the disappointment of having let his guard down with a woman who turned out to be an alcoholic.
Her eyes wandered over the tile counter, to a red-checkered cookbook, the same one she had jokingly given him before her disgrace.
You need to learn to cook, she’d said with a laugh.
Now that I’ve got someone to cook for besides the dog, maybe I will.
She remembered his laugh, the sparkle in his eyes. The sight of that cookbook brought back all the shameful choices she’d made, the ways she’d tried to hide her addiction from him.
She wanted to tell him about the phone call she’d received. About the note. But she saw the coldness in his eyes and the ferocious desire to avenge his partner’s death. Bill was right. She should stay out of his life.
She would go to the police and let them handle it.
“Tina,” she called to the girl, who was busily twining a thread around Tank’s collar. “Let’s go home. We can ride in my Jeep.”
Tina looked up. “I liked riding the motorcycle.”
“Me, too, but the Jeep will have to do this time. Come on. Uncle Bill wants us to go.”
Heather felt Bill’s eyes on her as she walked Tina outside, but she did not look back.
Once was enough.
Bill called Charlie and explained things.
“I told her she was to stay inside,” Charlie sputtered.
“She’s a kid. She made a mistake.”
Charlie hung up, leaving Bill to hope the little girl wouldn’t be punished too severely. This time he agreed with Charlie. With Oscar on the loose, it was better for everyone to stay away from him, including Tina.
And Heather.
He was surprised that seeing her brought up such a mess of feelings for him. He’d thought after losing Leanne, her and then Johnny, he didn’t have feelings left. He was wrong. His gut was a jumble of anger and longing. He pictured her brown eyes, remembered the feel of her hand on his arm.
Let go of that, Bill. Remember the anger. Feed it. And find Oscar.
He went outside and rolled Heather’s motorcycle into the back of his truck. The sooner he delivered it and severed all connection with her again, the better. His phone rang as he closed the tailgate.
The voice of Tribal Ranger Al Crow was heavy with excitement. “Bill? That you?”
“What’s up, Al?”
“I knew you’d want to be in on it. We got him.”
Bill’s gut tightened. “What?”
“Oscar. Got a tip he was holing up in an old camper by Swallow Cliffs. Moving in on him now. Want in?”
“Oh, yes,” Bill said. “I want in.”
Swallow Cliffs was the local nickname for acres of prairie grassland nestled up to a dry streambed that cut along the bottom of a cliff face. Spring rains would transform the area into a vigorous river, which provided plenty of bugs and fresh water for the hordes of swallows that nested in the cliff walls. Now, as Bill and the three other men watched through binoculars from behind a screen of shrubs,