“I’ll admit I have concerns, too,” Mama said, turning to check the fall of the dress in the full-length mirror on the inside of the closet door. “There’s something about that accident that never seemed right. I think there’s more to it than what we’ve been told.”
“Like what?”
After fluffing her hair back into shape, her mother turned and faced Raney. “Jim Bob had been stopped more than once for drunkenness and speeding. Yet the commissioner always got him off, when what he should have done was take away that fancy sports car and put the boy in rehab. But I hear the commissioner’s a drinker, too, so go figure.” Mama shook her head at the utter idiocy of it. “I’m sure he’s regretting that now. Which might be why he pushed so hard to have Dalton receive the maximum sentence. Guilt. Pure and simple.”
Despite putting away her fair share of wine on occasion, Mama had a low tolerance for drunkenness. Daddy was the hard-liquor drinker. “Cowboys don’t squat to pee and they don’t drink wine,” he’d said many a time. After he died, Mama had cleared out the liquor cabinet. But as a concession to cowboys and non-wine drinkers, she always kept a stock of Lone Star longnecks in a cabinet refrigerator on the veranda. She thought since neither beer nor wine had enough alcohol to be dangerous, there would be fewer tendencies to overimbibe.
Poor Mama. If she only knew.
“And from what I hear,” her mother continued, voice rising in agitation, “it was just a matter of time before Jim Bob killed himself or someone else. Everybody says so. If Dalton hadn’t foolishly waived a trial, he’d never have gone to prison.”
“So why did he confess? Take a deal rather than go to trial.”
Mama brushed that off, still a little worked up from her rant. “I asked him that. He said he’d pulled onto the road without looking, so it was his fault.”
“Technically, I suppose that’s true.”
“I don’t think so. I think there’s more to it. In fact . . .” Her mother pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes in that speculative way that always put Raney on guard. “I think I’ll ask Clovis about it at the good-bye dinner the auxiliary is hosting for her this evening. Maybe she can explain it.”
Alarmed, Raney rose and put a hand on her mother’s shoulder. “Mama, don’t. The poor woman’s been through enough. She’s probably leaving town just to get away from all the talk.” Mama could stir up trouble faster than a teased snake.
“Well . . .”
“It’s done. Over. Let’s just let it go.”
“Really?” Mama gave her a bright smile. The kind of gotcha smile that told Raney she’d just fallen into her web. Again. “I totally agree with you, darling. Let’s drop it and move on. For everybody’s sakes.”
Outmaneuvered again. Taking her hand from her mother’s shoulder, she crossed toward the door. “You played me.”
“Don’t be silly.” Picking up her purse, Mama smoothed her hair one more time, then followed Raney into the hall. “Remind Maria that I won’t be here for supper tonight, but Dalton and Hicks and Alejandro will, so she’ll still need three places, plus yours. Have fun and I’ll see you later.”
A waggle of her freshly manicured fingers and she was gone. Mother of the year. Champion of ex-convicts. Master manipulator.
Raney only wished she could be more like her.
CHAPTER 5
Raney took extra care with her appearance that evening—curling iron, makeup, blouse instead of a plaid shirt, even perfume—but she kept it casual with boots and jeans. Granted, the boots were custom handmade by R.L. Boyce and the jeans cost over a hundred on sale, but she felt like dressing up. Especially after some of the “lumberjack” comments her sisters had made at their little family reunion last month, and yesterday, when she’d dashed out of the house with her shirt on inside out. It was a matter of pride. Nothing more. She wasn’t a slob.
Like a herd seeking safety in numbers, the men arrived at the kitchen door in a group. “Welcome,” she said, motioning them inside. Since the bugs weren’t busy yet, and because Mama wasn’t there to overrule her, Raney had made the daring decision to have dinner on the veranda—which was no more than a covered porch, but sounded more elegant when called a veranda. Mama’s decision, of course.
“I thought we could eat on the veranda.”
Smiles of relief all around.
Several months ago, Mama had decided they would take Saturday dinner and Sunday luncheon in the dining room, complete with linen tablecloth, silver, bone china, and crystal goblets. Probably influenced by Downton Abbey, her favorite TV show of all time. Raney thought it was a bit pretentious and doubtless uncomfortable for the ranch hands who were obligated to join them. She guessed it was Mama’s way of showing that the Whitcombs weren’t complete rednecks, despite the boots and jeans and living on a ranch. Raney didn’t care one way or the other. But then, she hadn’t grown up on a hardscrabble farm like Mama had.
“I have wine,” she told the men as they filed past. “Or if you prefer, there’s beer in the reefer out back. Alejandro, show Dalton where.”
Being manly cowboys, they preferred beer.
Raney saw that Alejandro had duded himself out in a starched shirt, pressed jeans, and a flashy silver belt buckle with mother-of-pearl inlays—a gift from the Whitcomb girls last Christmas. He obviously had plans for later. Hicks looked the same as he usually did—plaid shirt, jeans, boots.
But Dalton Cardwell had cleaned up, too. Both the shirt and jeans were new. She could tell because the shirt manufacturer’s fold creases were still noticeable, and the jeans were stiff as cardboard. His boots were worn but free of
