If only she could find some proof of his innocence. But little chance of that, especially now that ten years had passed.
She reached the turnoff to Restlawn and followed a narrow, winding road to the iron gates marking the entrance. Spotting the tall oak tree that shaded her grandfather’s and her mother’s graves, she pulled to the side of the road and parked. Bucket of flowers in hand, she trudged over the freshly mowed grass, breathing in the pine-scented air and listening to the twittering birds. Cemeteries always seemed so peaceful, and Restlawn was no exception.
She stopped in front of the headstones, her grandfather’s on the left, her mother’s to the right. On her grandfather’s other side, an empty plot waited for Remy.
When Lacey knelt to place the flowers in the embedded vase on her mother’s grave, she saw that the holder already contained pansies. A glance at her grandfather’s vase revealed his, too, held the delicate blossoms. They were wilted, as though they’d been there for several days.
Who had brought the flowers? Gram used to visit, but not since she’d broken her hip and been confined to her wheelchair.
A sudden unease gripped Lacey, and she glanced over her shoulder. No one was nearby, and no other cars were on the road. Still, she had a creepy feeling someone was watching her.
Lacey turned back to the graves. She thought about removing the wilted flowers but then decided to leave them. Pouring fresh water from the bucket into the vases, she added a few of the flowers she’d brought to each of the embedded vases.
She ran her fingers over her grandfather’s engraved name on the marker, Jason Carl Whitfield, remembering him as a happy man who took pride in his work as a carpenter and who doted on his wife and daughter. Lacey’s mom was spoiled and self-centered, as might be expected of one who’d been the center of her parents’ universe.
On the whole, she’d been a good mother to Lacey, though. Lacey especially remembered the bedtime stories and poetry they shared.
Lacey touched her mother’s carved name, too, and then whispered a prayer for both of them. Grasping the bucket, she stood and, still uneasy, looked around again. Seeing no one, she turned her steps toward her father’s grave, which was some distance away.
I won’t have that murderer near my family! Gram had declared.
He wouldn’t be here at all but for Lacey’s insistence. When he died in prison, she arranged to have his remains returned to Silver River and had with her own money purchased the plot and the marker. She chose an especially pleasant spot, with a nearby fountain shaded by several maple trees. But unlike her grandfather and her mother, who’d both been mourned in public services, only Lacey—and the grave digger—were present to witness Richard Mark Morgan’s burial.
As she knelt to place flowers in the vase, she saw purple-and-white pansies, the same flowers that were in her grandfather’s and her mother’s vases. Apparently, the same person had visited all three graves. Who? Someone who believed in Rick’s innocence, as she did?
Lacey added her flowers to the vase, whispering, “I still believe in you, Dad. And maybe someone else does, too.”
Before leaving the cemetery, Lacey pulled into a viewpoint overlooking the town. From here she could see Main Street, busy as usual, with vehicles and pedestrians. Beyond the business district were blocks of homes, and then the river, sparkling in the sunlight.
Sadness filled her. Silver River was a pleasant and peaceful town. She’d been happy living here until that fateful day ten years ago. Now she lived in exile. Not that she didn’t like Boise. She did. And she liked her job with the historical society. But Boise could never replace Silver River and the happiness she had known here.
* * *
RORY DROVE ALONG the highway connecting Silver River with Milton. Not that he was going all the way there. He’d turn around soon and head for Dalton Properties, where he worked most afternoons. He’d taken this long drive today to check out the overhaul he’d given the ’58 Dodge, one of his classic car acquisitions bought from a man in Fork City, who’d kept it hidden away in an old shed like buried treasure.
Rory tuned his ear to the engine, but his mind wandered to last night’s party and Lacey Morgan. They’d actually talked to each other. Their conversation had been awkward, but what did he expect?
Their encounter didn’t mean anything, though. Probably wouldn’t happen again.
Thinking of her reminded him that the turnoff to the old Whitfield farm was up ahead. The house still sat there, empty and in disrepair, a constant reminder of the tragedy. Usually, as he passed by, he gritted his teeth and stepped on the gas, eager to put the place behind him.
But today, as the turnoff approached, he found himself slowing down, and in the next moment swung the Dodge off the highway and onto the dirt road leading to the farm. He bumped along, jerking the wheel to avoid potholes and overgrowth pushing through the barbed wire bordering the road. Reaching the house, he put on the brake and gazed out the window at the two-story structure. Paint had peeled off the siding and holes dotted the roof. Ragged curtains hung in a few of the windows.
Memories flooded his mind: bringing Lacey home from school. Doing homework at the kitchen table while sampling her grandmother’s cookies. Hiking down to the river where they lazed in the sunshine or splashed around in inner tubes.
He stepped from the car and walked around to the back of the house. Beyond a stretch of overgrown grass and weeds sat a garage with the door off its hinges, a barn missing part of the roof, a couple of weathered sheds and a chicken coop. And farther yet, past a row of willow trees, a trail led to the river.
He looked up at the house’s second story, focusing on one of the windows. The window where Lacey’s father had stood when he pointed his shotgun at Rory’s father and pulled the trigger. Rory swung his gaze back around to the ground, picking out the spot where his father had died. He shuddered and felt sick to his stomach. He stood there, clenching and unclenching his fists, until he got a grip on himself. Then he marched back to his car, climbed in, slammed the door and drove off.
That house should not still be standing there, he thought, while rumbling back down the dirt road toward the highway. It should have been torn down long ago so that he didn’t have to look at it and be reminded of what had happened there. Ten years ago. Ten long years. High time he did something about that house.
* * *
BACK IN TOWN twenty minutes later, Rory parked in his reserved slot behind the Scott Building on Main Street. He sat there a moment, his mind spinning with his new plan.
A knock on the window interrupted his musings. He looked up to see Stuart MacKenzie, one of his grandfather’s employees.
Rory rolled down the window. “Hey, Stuart. Where are you off to?”
Stuart smoothed the lapels of his lightweight sports jacket. “The Cooper ranch. Old man Cooper is ready to talk business.”
Rory opened the door and stepped from the car. “Good for you. Hope you land the deal.”
Stuart grinned. “Thanks, buddy. But I’m not doing anything you can’t do—if you’d forget about your cars and tend to business here.” He nodded at the Dodge. “That is a great-looking car, though.”
Rory pocketed the keys and ran his hand along the car’s engine-warm hood. “Yeah, well, I guess restoring old cars does for me what owning land does for my grandfather. To each his own.”
“Ri-i-ght. Try telling that to A.J. When you gonna take your rightful place around here as the ‘heir apparent’?”
Rory shook his head. “Don’t hold