Bickham hadn’t wasted any time in sounding the alarm.
They were greeted at the top of the drive by Gloria Pritchard, a woman whose beauty had been starkly diminished by years of starvation, alcohol and cosmetic surgery. The result was the exact opposite of what she had intended, her skin stretched so tautly over her sharp bones that she looked much older than her fifty-one years.
Callie only knew her actual age because Gloria and her mother had been best friends in high school. Not that this mattered much. Gloria visibly stiffened at the sight of Callie as they climbed out of the SUV.
Neither of them offered any pleasantries.
“So what has my little darling done now?” Gloria asked. The little darling being her wayward daughter Meg.
“Is she here?”
“I haven’t seen her in a good six months.”
“Then what makes you think that’s what this is about?”
Gloria smiled humorlessly. “Experience,” she said. “I don’t need to tell you what a handful that girl has been since the day she was born.”
To put it mildly, Callie thought. Megan Pritchard was the devil incarnate as far as she was concerned. But without the brains. Even her own mother had stopped trying to cover for her.
Not that Gloria was the model of a loving parent. Twice divorced and always shopping for a replacement, she paid about as much attention to her own daughter as she might a pet hamster.
Meg’s grandfather Jonah, on the other hand, would do just about anything for his girl—whether Gloria liked it or not.
“What about your father?”
Gloria seemed to grow even more tense. “What about him?”
“Has he seen her? Recently, I mean. Like the last twelve or so hours.”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know,” she said. “This is a big house, and Jonah and I tend to avoid each other as much as possible.”
One thing you could say about Gloria was that, despite her family’s money and the Hollywood housewife exterior, she was always brutally frank and open about her feelings, even when it meant exposing the truth about their not-so-happy family.
Maybe it was the years of AA meetings.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” she said. “What’s Meg done now?”
Harlan apparently took this as his cue to step forward, reaching into his inner coat pocket as he did.
“Ma’am, I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Harlan Cole. I’d like you to take a look at this, if you don’t mind.”
He brought out one of the surveillance photographs and handed it to her.
“Is this your daughter?”
Gloria took a long moment to study the image, then said, “I think so, yes.”
Harlan nodded. “You say you haven’t seen her in six months, but when’s the last time you spoke to her?”
Gloria returned the photograph. “She called me a few days ago. Just to remind me how much she despises me.”
“She happen to mention she was headed your way?”
“No,” Gloria said.
“Well, we have reason to believe she was, and after last night, she’s in the company of at least one wanted fugitive and may well have participated in a bank robbery and a murder.” He paused, glancing at Callie as if seeking some kind of approval. She wasn’t sure why. He seemed content with running the show. “In light of this,” he said to Gloria, “I’d like your permission to search the premises.”
Before Gloria could answer, a stern baritone boomed. “I’m afraid you’re out of luck, Marshal.”
They all turned to find Jonah Pritchard standing in the doorway, a tall man in blue jeans and a dark flannel shirt. He was close to Nana Jean’s age, but with none of the frailty. In fact, he was as solid as a twenty-year-old and didn’t look even remotely under the weather.
Callie knew she should probably feel something. After all, he was her grandfather, too. But feelings are reserved for those you care about, and she’d have to reach down pretty deep to find anything that resembled an emotional attachment to this man.
“I own this house,” he said to Harlan, “and permission is definitely not granted.”
Harlan stepped toward him now, once again flashing the badge on his hip. “Then I guess you’d be Jonah Pritchard.”
“That’s right,” the old man said.
“Well, I was only asking to be polite, sir, so if you’ll move to one side, we’d like to get started.”
Callie threw him a look.
Say what?
Jonah shook his head. “Without a warrant? If you want to come in, you’ll need a judge’s signature.”
Harlan cocked a brow at him, then turned to Callie and Rusty. “Did you two hear that?”
Callie frowned, not sure what he was getting at. “What?”
“He just asked me if I want to come in. Sounded like an invitation to me.”
Uh-oh, Callie thought. So Harlan was one of those. She was a strong believer in procedure and didn’t appreciate the cowboys who ignored it in hopes of getting a pass from the courts. She should’ve realized he was a “Wyatt Earp” the minute he jumped out of her SUV to confront Landry.
But before she could tell him that neither she nor Rusty were about to play along, Jonah stepped aside, moving out onto the wide front porch. Not to invite them in, but to make room for a couple of burly ranch hands who emerged from the doorway behind him.
He looked pointedly at Harlan. “You take one more step in this direction, I’m within my rights to stop you.”
Callie watched as Harlan studied the two ranch hands. They weren’t carrying weapons, but then they didn’t need to.
Harlan said, “Not like this, you aren’t. The law doesn’t look too kindly on assault against peace officers.”
Jonah shrugged. “It isn’t too thrilled about illegal search and seizure, either. And it won’t keep these boys from putting you three in the hospital.” He gestured to his daughter. “Gloria, get in the house. No reason for you to be here for this.”
In other words, get lost.
Callie could see the resentment in Gloria’s eyes. Resentment that went back many years. But Gloria did as she was told. And without protest.
When she was gone, Jonah said, “There’s no need for this to get ugly, Marshal.”
Now Callie spoke up. “Tell that to Megan, Mr. Pritchard. And to Jim Farber’s family. She and her friends left him in quite a state.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
He gave her a look that said he was offended by the remark, but she sensed he was feigning it. Nothing she said could offend him. The old guy was bulletproof.
“Meg decided a long time ago that she wasn’t interested in associating with this family,” he said. “Not that that’s any of your business.”
Callie knew that his words were meant to cut much deeper than they did, but after thirty-four years she was immune to him. She’d long been aware that Jonah despised her. By his skewed logic, his son wouldn’t be dead if it weren’t for her whore of a mother.
The thought of this suddenly brought to surface another part of her life—her years with Harlan—and she wondered for