As he approached the building, a woman pushed through the glass doors of the main entrance. She wasn’t tall, barely standing over five feet, but she held her shoulders back and her clear green eyes cut. Not more than thirty, she had gently tanned smooth skin that accentuated a high slash of cheekbones. She wore her light brown hair in a braid that brushed slender shoulders, a white Bonneville Vineyards T-shirt billowing over full breasts and tucked into faded work jeans hugging gently rounded hips. Her boots were dusty, well-worn. “Can I help you?”
Her voice had a rusty, whiskey quality giving this wholesome farm girl a seductiveness enjoyed by older more sophisticated women.
Elizabeth Templeton.
She was a far cry from the girl in the old image or the pictures Rory had taken. The last dozen years had leaned out her frame and face adding maturity and an appealing naturalness. But Rory’s picture images had gotten her all wrong. What he’d taken for as anger and bitterness in the photos, in person, appeared to be a fascinating intensity. He suspected this woman did no job halfway.
“I’m with the Texas Rangers.”
Elizabeth cocked her head, studying him close, as if sensing this place wasn’t his kind of place. However, even as her gaze catalogued his large frame and the scar on his face she showed no fear. “How can I help you?”
He managed a smile. “You Elizabeth Templeton?”
Mention of her name triggered waves of tension that straightened her spine and narrowed her eyes. Hesitation flickered as if she seemed to toy with a lie. “That’s right. But I go by my middle name now. Greer.”
Elizabeth Greer Templeton. Greer. The woman who’d offered his boy a job. “Sergeant Tec Bragg.”
**********
He studied her expression closely. “I investigated a murder bordering your land yesterday.” A hint of remorse darkened her gaze. “I heard about that. Some fellow hanged himself.” And then as if to head off his next question, “A cruiser came by yesterday and spoke to my farm manager while I was in town. I’m supposed to call him back but haven’t gotten to it."
“You hear anything else?”
“No. I don’t have time for gossip and news. So if you’re here to ask me about the dead person I’m afraid I can’t do much for you. I spend most of my days here working. I don’t venture out much.”
And yet you’d made your way into town yesterday to talk to my boy. “I think you might know the victim.”
“Could be, but I only know a handful of people in the area.”
He studied her face closely. “The victim’s name was Rory Edwards.”
Irritation gave way to surprise. Pursing her lips she drew in a deep breath, letting it out so slowly he barely saw her move. “Is this some kind of trick? Are you trying to prod information out of me because I hired your nephew?”
“No trick. The medical examiner confirmed the identity of the body yesterday.”
She folded her arms over her chest. “I’ve not seen Rory in a long time. At least twelve years.”
“You’ve had no contact with him in this time?”
Her lips pursed. “I had a message on my voice mail a week ago. The caller said he was coming to see me. He was an old friend. I did not return the call.”
“Why not?”
Green eyes clouded before sharpening. “Some matters are better left in the past.”
“I get the impression he still cared about you after all this time.”
She shook her head. “I have no idea.”
“I searched his room last night. He had a box full of recent pictures of you.”
Her face paled. “I don’t know about that.”
“Can I ask how you two met?”
The grip on her biceps tightened. “I get the sense you already know.”
Apprehension rolled off her and all but slammed into Bragg. Rory Edwards and her past were sore subjects. “Answer the question.”
She glanced around as if making sure no one was around. “We met when we were teenagers. We were both in a clinic for troubled teens.”
“You both tried to kill yourself.”
The lines in her forehead deepened. “I’m not proud of that time, but what does it have to do with Rory’s death? Like I said, I haven’t seen him in a dozen years.”
Bragg unclipped his phone and scrolled to the picture he’d taken of the photo found at the crime scene. He held out the phone, coaxing her closer toward him. “You remember this picture?”
She didn’t approach right away but then moved closer. The soft scent of soap rose up around her. No flowery perfumes or exotic scents but simply clean soap. His body tightened, unmindful of logic or reason.
For a long moment she didn’t say a word and then she cleared her voice. “It was taken the last night we were both at the camp. Rory left the next morning.”
“How’d he end up with the picture if he left?”
“I sent him a copy from camp. I didn’t want him to forget me.”
“His brother said you wrote to him several times a week but Rory’s father threw out the letters.”
Her jaw tensed, and he suspected an old wound opened. “I guess one letter made it through.”
“Rory never forgot you.”
She stepped back. “I wish he had.”
“Why’s that?”
“Really, do you have to ask? It was a painful time, and I’ve done my best over the last twelve years to forget about it.”
He locked his phone and tucked it back in its cradle. “Were you really able to forget?”
She cleared her throat. “Rory’s family did us a favor by keeping us apart. But the rest? No, I have not forgotten that I wrecked a car and killed my brother and his girlfriend. I ruined so many lives. I carry that with me every day.”
“That why you tried to kill yourself?”
© 2013 Mary Burton YOU’RE NOT SAFE
