Redemption At Hawk's Landing

Rumors had spread that Chrissy had come to see Honey the night she went missing, and that Honey’s father had done something to her. Honey had hated her father, but she didn’t think he would have hurt Chrissy.

But this ribbon... What if her father had done something to Chrissy?

If so, why would he have kept the ribbon?

She’d never seen it before, and she’d used her jewelry box plenty of times after Chrissy went missing.

Maybe her father had hidden it, then after Honey moved out, he stashed it in the jewelry box, thinking that if anyone searched the premises and found it, they’d think it belonged to Honey.

Her hand trembled, the ribbon dangling between her fingers. If her father or Chrissy’s abductor/killer had taken this ribbon, their fingerprints might be on it.

And she’d just contaminated it with her own.

Indecision warred in her mind. What should she do? She’d spent her childhood hiding her family’s dirty little secrets. She could just stuff the ribbon back in the jewelry box and no one would ever know about it.

If she showed it to Harrison, he and everyone in town would assume, even believe, that her father was guilty of...murdering Chrissy.

Her stomach roiled. But could she keep quiet?

The Hawk family had been tormented for years, wondering what had happened to their little girl. They’d probably imagined a hundred different awful scenarios.

Although Mrs. Hawk hadn’t liked Honey, Honey still had compassion for the woman and her family.

This ribbon might help them find the truth.

They deserved to have closure, didn’t they?

* * *

HARRISON DREADED THE conversation with his family. Their dinners were meant to keep the family close, although Chrissy’s disappearance had thrown a permanent kink in their relationships.

No dinner, holiday or amount of alcohol could smooth over the awkward tension between the brothers and their mother.

Still, he had to tell his family about Granger’s death. Warn them that even if he didn’t ask questions, others would.

Warn them that even though they might not have liked the man, it was Harrison’s job to investigate his murder.

His phone buzzed just as he climbed inside his SUV. He checked the number. Honey Granger.

What did she want? Answers about her father’s death?

Or maybe news about his body and what to do next?

The phone buzzed again, and he pressed Connect. “Sheriff Hawk.”

Breathing rattled over the line. “Hello?”

“Harrison, it’s me. Honey.”

Her voice sounded shaky. Uncertain.

“Yes?”

“I...have to show you something. I don’t know what it means or if it means anything, but, well, can you come out to my house? I mean, my father’s house.”

Harrison gritted his teeth. He had to deal with her, find her father’s killer. But seeing her was difficult. It resurrected memories he’d tried to forget. And another kind of guilt—he should have stood up for Honey when his mother had judged her.

“Can you come?” Honey asked again.

“I’ll be right there.” Harrison’s pulse clamored as he started the engine and drove toward the Granger’s house. He phoned his deputy and asked him to do rounds around town.

Harrison had to be at his mother’s house for dinner and drop the bombshell about Granger before she and his brothers heard the news from the local grapevine.

In a small town like Tumbleweed, word spread as quickly as butter melting on hot Texas pavement.

Night shadows hovered along the streets as he drove, the gray sky dark and desolate as he veered onto the road to Lower Tumbleweed. The yards were overgrown with weeds, the houses deserted, dilapidated and in need of repairs.

The neighborhood certainly didn’t look welcoming or inviting to an outsider. The place probably held bad memories for Honey. An image of Honey, thin and wearing hand-me-downs two sizes too big for her, haunted him. She’d looked tiny and lost and lonely. She’d also been smart enough to understand the whispers and stares from the other kids.

No wonder she’d left town and never looked back.

He winced at the rotting porch with the brick for a makeshift step, then parked in the drive behind her van. Admiration for her for owning her own business mushroomed inside him. He didn’t know how she’d done it, but he was proud of her for overcoming the obstacles her family had put in front of her. She’d made a success of herself in spite of adversity, an admirable accomplishment in his book.

He glanced around the unkempt yard and at the peeling paint on the weathered house and wondered what Honey planned to do with the place. Sell it as it was or fix it up then sell? Judging from the lack of curb appeal and run-down condition of the homes, the comps would be low.

Curiosity over Honey’s call nagged at him as he walked up to the front door. He raised his fist and knocked. A second later, she opened the door. Anxiety and some other emotion he couldn’t quite define streaked her face.

Alarm bells clanged in his head. “Honey, is everything all right?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know, Harrison. I...honestly don’t know.”

He forced his expression to remain professional. “Let me come in and then you can explain.”

She chewed on her bottom lip, then stepped aside and motioned for him to enter. He scanned the living area. A mess. Granger had let everything go. Judging from the number of empty liquor and beer bottles, drinking had been his priority just as it had been when Honey lived here.

When she reached the sofa, she picked up what looked like a child’s jewelry box, and ran her fingers over the rosewood design.

“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly.

She took a deep breath, then gestured toward the jewelry box. “This... I was looking through things after I got home, trying to sort out my father’s stuff and what was left of mine. I have to decide what to do with it all.”

He nodded. “And?”

Misery darkened her eyes. “I found this.” She pushed the jewelry box into his hands.

He narrowed his eyes, confused.

“Open it,” she said tightly.

An uneasy feeling rolled through him. Whatever she’d found had upset her.

“Go ahead,” she said. “I’m not sure what it means, but I had to show it to you.”

He frowned, but slowly lifted the lid to the jewelry box. A slip of bright yellow caught his eyes.

A yellow ribbon. Just like the one his sister was wearing the night she disappeared.

“It was hers, wasn’t it?” Honey asked in a choked voice.

He lifted his gaze to meet hers. The turmoil in her eyes mirrored how he felt at the moment. “It looks like Chrissy’s. My brother said she was wearing yellow ones the night she disappeared.”

“I know.” Honey bit down on her lower lip.

“Did she come to your house that night?” Harrison asked.

Honey’s hand trembled as she rubbed her temple. “If she did, I didn’t see her,” she said in a raw whisper.

“Don’t lie to me, Honey. I know you wouldn’t have hurt Chrissy, but if you know something about your father...”

Tension escalated between them. “I don’t. And if I did, I’d tell you. I want to know what happened to Chrissy, too.”

The agony in her voice tore at him.

Of course the questions over Chrissy’s disappearance had ripped her life inside and out, too.

“You really want the truth?” he asked gruffly.

She nodded. “We all deserve closure,” she said softly.

That was one thing they agreed on.

“I’m sorry, but my fingerprints are on the ribbon,” she said. “I wasn’t thinking at first. But I’m sure you want to analyze it. If my dad’s are there...”

Then that would mean that her father had touched the ribbon. That he’d either found it or taken it after he’d killed her.

He’d send it to the lab ASAP.

Two scenarios entered Harrison’s mind. The first—Granger killed Chrissy and hid her body at the bluff. Then he’d returned to visit her.

But where had he hidden her? And why revisit her body now after all these years?

And if he had, who had killed him? Someone who’d discovered what he’d done?

Scenario two—Granger had been at the bluff and either stumbled on Chrissy’s body or he stumbled on the killer, and the killer murdered him to keep him quiet.

* * *

HONEY COULD BARELY look at Harrison.

“Thank you for calling me, Honey,” he said quietly. “I appreciate your honesty.”

Honesty?

More guilt bombarded her. She hadn’t mentioned that she’d been at the bluff that night, too. That if she’d been home, she’d know if Chrissy had come by. And she’d know if her father had done something to Chrissy or if he’d been passed out all evening.

His jaw tightened. “What if I find out that your father killed Chrissy?”

Honey sucked in a sharp breath. She and her father hadn’t been close, but shame engulfed her. “Then we’ll know.”

The darkness in his eyes, a darkness filled with anger and pain, was a reminder that he and his family blamed her for his sister’s disappearance.

If her father had killed Chrissy, he had a right to blame her.

Harrison shrugged. “The search parties never found anything belonging to my sister. Not her backpack or the pink jacket she was wearing or any clothing.”

Honey thought back to the gossip after that night. “Some people thought that was a good sign. They thought she ran away and—”

“She didn’t run away,” Harrison said. “Chrissy may have argued with me and my brothers but she was afraid of the dark and wouldn’t have gone out that night if Brayden hadn’t convinced her to sneak out.” He swallowed hard. “She was also attached to a stuffed doll that she won at a rodeo with my parents. She couldn’t sleep without that rag doll.” He paused, pain riddling his face. “If she was going to run away, she would have taken the doll.”

Now that he mentioned it, Honey remembered the rag doll with the big blue painted eyes and red braided pigtails.

Honey had envied that doll because Chrissy had something Honey didn’t—the innocence of childhood, which allowed her to play with dolls like a normal little girl.

Only Chrissy had lost her innocence—and maybe her life—that night.

“If you find any of those things, let me know.”

“Of course,” Honey said.

“Do you mind if I search the house?” Harrison asked.

Honey stiffened. “Go ahead. I’m not hiding anything.”

His stormy gaze met hers, then he carried the ribbon to his SUV and returned with a flashlight.

Honey’s phone buzzed just as he stepped back inside.

Her business partner, Jared.

She couldn’t stand to watch Harrison comb through her father’s house and her own personal childhood belongings, so she stepped outside to answer the phone.

“I have to take this,” she said as he started to search her father’s dresser drawers. She said a prayer he wouldn’t find anything else belonging to Chrissy as she rushed outside to the front porch.

“How are things?” Jared asked.

“Not good.” Honey bowed her head and fought the panic setting in.

“What happened?”

She hadn’t shared her past with Jared, and she didn’t want to now. “I just don’t like being in my father’s house.”

He murmured that he understood. “When will you be back?”

A heaviness weighed on her. She’d felt trapped here as a teenager. She felt trapped now.

She couldn’t leave until she had answers, until she knew who’d murdered her father.

Until she knew if he was a killer.

Chapter Five

An hour later Harrison met Honey on the porch. “I’d like to come back during the day and look around the property.”

Honey paled. “You think my father killed Chrissy and buried her here?”

Harrison shrugged. “I don’t know what to think, Honey. But considering you found one of her ribbons, it’s possible.”

Honey clenched her hands together. She couldn’t argue that point. “All right. Just let me know what time.”

“I will.” He studied her for another moment. He wanted to comfort her, but he had to do his job and it involved investigating her father. That was reality.

Just as reality meant that he had to talk to his family. Tonight.

For both their sakes, he hoped her father hadn’t buried Chrissy on the Grangers’ property.

He climbed into his SUV and cranked up the air as he drove toward the county lab. He dropped the ribbon off with instructions to send the results to his office ASAP.

Dark had set in as he drove through the entrance to Hawk’s Landing. His father had first been drawn to the land because of the birds of prey that flocked to the south end. He claimed it was a sign that this land was meant to belong to him and that he was meant to build a family ranch on the property. He had insisted they keep a section as a natural habitat and sanctuary for the birds.

When he was a kid and needed time alone, Harrison used to ride his horse out to the corner of the property and watch the hawks soar. After Chrissy’s disappearance, he’d found himself out there a lot.

His father had a huge wooden sign carved with the emblem of a hawk and had hung it over the gate to the ranch as a reminder of the birds.

Harrison checked his watch as he parked in the drive to his mother’s Georgian home. He was half an hour late. His mother wouldn’t be happy.

He wasn’t happy, either.

Memories of playing on the property drifted back—fishing in the creek out back with his brothers, building the tree house with his father, playing horseshoes and baseball in the backyard.

So long ago.

All those fun times had ended abruptly when Chrissy disappeared. The house hadn’t felt like a home but a tomb. The quiet had resounded with fear and grief. His mother had become a zombie. His father, angry all the time.

He’d shut down and his brothers had each retreated into their own rooms, silent and worried and alone.

Their vehicles were here now, though. When their father left, they’d formed an unspoken bond, knowing it was their job to take care of their mother. It hadn’t been easy, but they’d survived.

Surviving was a long way from being whole, though.

Flowers filled the beds in front of the house, the roses climbing the trellis on the side a reminder that his mother loved gardening. It had become her therapy and filled her time.

He walked up the stone path to the door, his nerves on edge as he buzzed the doorbell. He didn’t bother to wait for his mother to answer, though. He pushed open the door, slipped inside and removed his Stetson.

Voices sounded from the dining room, and he crossed the foyer, passed the living room and stepped into the dining room.

Lucas, Dexter and Brayden had gathered at the highboy, each with a drink in hand. Lucas had joined the FBI, Dexter had opened his own detective agency and Brayden was a lawyer.

He might need their help on the case. Maybe he could explain before he talked to their mother.

She bustled in a second later, her arms laden with food, and gave him a pointed look. “It’s about time you got here.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “it’s been a busy day.”

She set a plate of roast on the table, then mashed potatoes and gravy, and wiped her hands on her apron. “I guess it has. I heard you found Waylon Granger dead at the bluff.”

Surprise made him stiffen. He glanced at his brothers but they looked at him stoically.

“Where did you hear that?” he asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” his mother said. “I’m just glad that man is dead.”

* * *

THE QUESTIONS AND worry needling Honey made her feel restless and on edge. She stared at her father’s house with a knot in her stomach.

Even exhausted, there was no way she could sleep right now.

She dug into the cabinet, grabbed some garbage bags and dived into cleaning out the closets. She started in her room and made two piles—one for trash and the other for donations to the local church.

There were very few toys, except for a few stuffed animals and a couple of dolls, so she dusted them off and placed them in the donation bag. The clothes she’d worn as a teenager were plain but someone might be able to use the jeans and flannel shirts. Everything else was either ragged or so frayed that she put them in the trash.

She stripped the gingham bedspread and sheets, then the ratty curtains, and stuffed them into the donation bag. Washed, they could be reused. But if she did anything with this house, she would gut it and stage it with new things to make it look more appealing.

When her room was bare, she moved to her father’s room and did the same. His clothing was old and worn and reeked of smoke. Unable to salvage anything, she shoved everything into trash bags. Work boots, overalls, jeans, socks, underwear, shirts, belts—she didn’t bother to even look at them. No one would want the outdated, threadbare items.

The faded chenille bedspread was marked with cigarette burns and stains, as were his sheets. She rolled the items up and added them to the trash.

She collected all the soda cans, liquor bottles and other trash and carried it to the garbage can outside. The refrigerator reeked of soured milk and several containers of molded food. She cleaned everything out, including the condiments, which had probably been in the fridge for ages.

Thankfully she found a bottle of cleaner beneath the sink so she wiped out the refrigerator and counters, then scrubbed the Formica table.

The small bathroom came next. Shaving cream, used soap and other toiletries went into the trash, along with the nasty shower curtain. If she sold the place, the bathroom would be gutted, too.

But if she was going to stay here until her father’s murder was settled, she had to make the place livable. Even though the bathroom tiles and flooring were outdated, she scrubbed the toilet, sink, tub and walls until they smelled like cleaner.

Her shoulders and muscles ached as she piled the donation bags into her van. She pushed the garbage can to the curb for pickup, then piled the other trash bags beside it.

Tired but needing to get rid of the donation bags, she grabbed her purse and drove to town. She dropped the bags off first, then stopped by the discount store and stocked up on more cleaning supplies, a cheap shower curtain, sheets and a pillow for her bed. She added some scented candles to help alleviate the smoky smell, picked up a case of bottled water, coffee, cereal and milk for breakfast, then headed to the café for dinner.

An older couple had owned it when she lived here, but now it was named Cora’s Café so it had changed owners. Did her former friend Cora own it now?

She was surprised to see that the place had been renovated. It still sported a Western theme, but the oak tables looked new, as did the sky blue curtains. Bar stools jutted up to a counter for extra seating, and country music echoed through the room, a backdrop to the chatter and laughter. A chalkboard showcased a handwritten menu with the specials for the day.

Customers filled the booths and tables, evidenced by the number of cars outside. The scent of fried chicken and apple pie made her stomach growl.

A woman about her age with auburn hair in a pixie cut greeted her. “Honey, I heard you were back in town. I’m sorry about your father.”

She smiled, grateful to see her old friend “Hi, Cora. I was thinking about you today. So you own the café now?”

Cora handed her a menu. “I bought it a couple of years ago and did a makeover. Guess cooking for the family all those years paid off.”

“It looks good.”

“Thanks.” Cora blushed, and Honey smiled, grateful she seemed happy.

She noticed a booth to the far right and started toward it. Suddenly the room grew quiet, though, and an uneasy feeling prickled her spine.

She glanced around and noted several people looking at her.

She’d forgotten what it was like to live in a small town. Everyone knew everyone else. When a stranger visited, everyone knew that, too.

She offered them a tentative smile, but memories of being the hub of gossip made her want to run.

* * *

HARRISON GRITTED HIS teeth at the questioning looks from his brothers and his mother. Maybe he should have called and given them a heads-up.

“You didn’t think to tell us before everyone in town knew?” Dexter asked.

Harrison took a deep breath before he responded. “I came here as soon as I could. I don’t know how word leaked. It shouldn’t have.”

“Well, it did.” His mother pushed her bangs off her forehead with a smile. The fact that the hair found at the crime scene was short and brown didn’t escape him. His mother’s hair was short and brown.

Lucas lifted his drink glass in a gesture of offering. “Fix you one and then we’ll toast.”

“What are we toasting?” Harrison asked gruffly.

“That Waylon Granger is dead,” his mother said. “Tumbleweed is better off without him.”

Harrison’s patience was wearing thin. It had been a long damn day. “How can you say that, Mother? Granger was a crappy father, but we don’t have proof he did anything else.” Honey’s face flashed in his mind. She didn’t deserve any of this.

His mother patted his shoulder. “You always were the diplomat, Harrison. But we know, at least I know, that that damned man hurt our Chrissy.”

Harrison glanced at his brothers to see if they were in agreement. Lucas sipped his drink, his expression neutral. Dexter slipped an arm around their mother as if to offer support. Brayden poured himself another drink, then fixed Harrison one and offered it to him.

Harrison took it, struggling to think of a way to defuse the situation. And how to subtly ask his family when they’d last seen Granger.

He sipped the whiskey, grateful for the warmth sliding down his throat. “Do any of you have evidence to prove that Granger did something to our sister?”

“Not yet,” Lucas said.

Dexter cleared his throat. “I talked to Waylon’s neighbors but no one remembered seeing Chrissy that night. They couldn’t say he was at home all night, either.”

“When did you talk to them?” Harrison asked.

“As soon as I got my PI license. But three of the families who lived in that neighborhood had already moved.”

Brayden’s look turned dark. “Have you found anything to incriminate him?”

Harrison bit his tongue. He didn’t want to reveal what he’d found or learned; not yet. People would convict Granger—and he wanted the truth, not a vigilante situation.

But his family deserved answers.

“Let’s sit down and eat before dinner gets cold.” His mother ushered them to their usual chairs and for a few minutes, the discussion was put on hold as they served themselves from the platters of roast beef, potatoes and gravy and green beans.

Although Harrison wanted to gulp down his whiskey, he forced himself to eat instead. He still had work to do.

“How did Granger die?” Dexter asked as he forked up a bite of roast.

Harrison studied his family, searching for any sign that one of them already knew the truth. Emotions strained everyone’s faces, as if just mentioning Granger’s name stirred up the horrid memories of the night Chrissy disappeared.

His mother had been near hysterical when she and his father arrived home from their party and discovered Brayden and Chrissy weren’t home.

Harrison had felt sick to his stomach—it was his fault they’d sneaked out. His fault they’d been at the bluff because they’d followed him.

Brayden had raced in on his bike with his ankle swollen, ready to fuss at Chrissy for not sending help, then realized she hadn’t made it back to their house. Fear had ignited tempers, and a lot of screaming and yelling had ensued.

His parents had frantically called Chrissy’s best friends but both of them had been home in bed and hadn’t seen or talked to Chrissy.

His mother dropped her fork with a clatter. “What aren’t you telling us, Harrison?”