Spence mused.
With a sigh, he began hitting the familiar keys on the keypad.
“So you’ve got everything you’ll need?”
Rose stopped folding a blouse she knew she couldn’t wear much longer and turned around. Her father was standing in the doorway of her bedroom.
A tall, still athletically built man, Archy Wainwright looked a little lost for a moment, despite his stately stature. For a second she entertained a flash-back. When she was a little girl she’d always thought of her father as being a giant of a man.
Too bad childhood didn’t last longer, she thought sadly.
He’d shrunk a little in her eyes these past few months. Not because of any affliction of age, but because she knew how adamant her father was about the feud, a feud that had begun years before he was born and pitted their family against the Carsons on things that were only hearsay. The feud that was responsible for separating her from the man she loved.
If things had been different…
But they weren’t, she told herself sternly, and she was strong enough to deal with that.
She hoped.
Rose dropped the blouse into the open suitcase. It was one of three spread out on top of her queen-size bed in various stages of being packed.
“Yes, I have everything.”
Her voice was cold, Archy thought. He wasn’t used to that. Not from Rose. He cleared his throat. “When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow,” she said crisply, as if they weren’t discussing her exile but some short vacation from which she’d be back before her bed was cold. She paused, then added more softly, “I thought I’d go into Mission Creek and have a last look around when I’m finished.”
Archy nodded. He wasn’t a sentimental man, but he understood the need for it. “Need me to drive you?”
She didn’t think that being with her father in close quarters for any length of time was wise right now. Besides, she wanted to be alone with her thoughts. Thoughts that involved Matt and the places they’d secretly met over the past few months. Months she intended to cherish despite the outcome of their affair.
“No. I can still drive.”
Archy began to retreat, common sense telling him that it was best not to say anything else. But common sense gave way to filial passion. He wanted to make sense out of all this, and he couldn’t.
“What were you thinking, girl? Didn’t we enter into this at all for you?”
She straightened her shoulders, feeling under attack. “No,” she replied simply. “You didn’t. You don’t govern my every waking moment, Dad. Just like I don’t govern yours.”
Archy’s anger stirred. There was no comparing the two of them. “You’re a child, I’m an adult.”
In years gone by, just the hint of anger across her father’s brow was enough to send her scurrying away. But she wasn’t six anymore.
“Wrong, we’re both adults and free to do what we choose.” She raised her chin proudly, knowing she was doing the right thing. “And free to bear up to the consequences of those choices.”
Archy resorted to an age-old defense. “You’re breaking your mother’s heart.”
It took effort not to laugh at that. How could he throw her mother up to her, after what he’d done himself? Her mother had divorced him and moved out years ago because of his transgression and had only recently returned to care for her ailing mother. Kate Wainwright now spent part of her time living on the vast ranch in a small cabin her father had built for her.
“I suspect you took care of that long before I did.” She saw her father’s face turn red and knew he was struggling with choice words he didn’t want to say to her. “See, I can play the guilt game, too, Dad. And it doesn’t do either one of us a bit of good.”
Like fire flashing in a pan only to be smothered by a lid, his anger dissipated, replaced by memories he didn’t feel equipped to deal with at this time. He wasn’t a man who liked to get sloppy. Archy took his firstborn daughter into his arms. “If you need anything…”
She understood what he was trying to tell her. Rose nodded, her soft hair brushing against his broad chest as she returned his embrace.
“I’ll know who to call.”
Afraid emotion would get the better of him, Archy left the room before either one of them could say another thing.
The bartender straightened the name tag on her blouse that proclaimed to anyone who passed through the doors of the Lone Star Country Club that she was Daisy. Daisy Parker was the name she’d taken to keep her own identity a secret until she could safely reveal who she really was. Those who mattered would be surprised to discover that beneath the dyed blond hair and the slightly altered appearance—thanks to a plastic surgeon in London—was a woman who had grown up among them as Haley Mercado. The same Haley Mercado whose family had ties to the Texas mob. The mob that was now after her.
Turning around, she went to take the order of the customer she’d heard come in. A woman, by the sound of the heels clicking on the Spanish tile.
Haley put on her brightest smile and walked up to the woman she recognized as Rose Wainwright.
“Why the long face, honey?” she asked in the deep Texas twang she’d affected.
Rose slid onto the stool and looked around the almost-empty room. “Just taking a last look around.”
Haley cocked her head, hair that had once been a midnight-black but was now a golden blond brushing against her shoulder. “You going somewhere?”
Rose nodded and took a deep breath before saying, “New York.”
She didn’t sound very happy about it, Haley thought. “Business or pleasure?”
“A little bit of both.” She laughed softly to herself. “A little of neither.”
Haley saw her boss pass by the entrance to the lounge and nodded in his direction. Not twenty minutes ago he’d unwittingly enabled her to gather more information by asking her to tend bar for a big private party on Thursday night. The more she unobtrusively circulated, the more information the wire she wore would pick up. With any luck, the ordeal she was enduring would be over soon.
Haley felt rather bad that Rose’s privacy was being invaded this way, but it couldn’t be helped. The young woman did look as if she needed to talk. “So, what’s your pleasure? The usual?”
Rose shook her head. “No. I’ll just have a ginger ale.”
The last two times she’d seen Rose, the older Wainwright daughter had ordered a white wine. Haley’s brow arched. “That’s even tamer than usual. Sure you don’t want any wine?”
Rose shook her head. “I need a clear head.”
Haley reached behind her on the bar, extracting a bottle of ginger ale. Twisting off the top, she poured the contents into a glass. “I’ve never seen you imbibe too much.”
“Well, I’ve turned over a new leaf,” Rose replied.
Haley set down the near-empty bottle. “New York and ginger ale. Any other new things?”
Rose pressed her lips together, seeming to be deep in thought.
“No, that’s it for now.” Rose wrapped her hand around the chunky glass that Daisy had placed in front of her on the counter.
“You don’t look very happy about going.”
She waved a hand. “I just have a lot on my mind.”
This wasn’t the kind of thing the FBI was hoping for when they wired Haley. None of what this unhappy young woman had