Chapter Four
Four
Unfortunately for the Rawls clan, their luck had peaked a century ago.
Like so many ranching families, they had been pummeled in recent decades.
A combination of drought, business consolidation, and fluctuating cattle prices had left them struggling to get by.
The worst luck of all was that, unlike some of their neighbors up near Midland, the Rawls family’s swath of land had missed out on the petroleum reserves that had enabled other operations to stay afloat and, in some cases, make an obscene profit.
After the most recent drought, the Triple R had sold off half its herd.
The land had come next, and now the original twenty thousand acres at the foothills of the Davis Mountains had been whittled down to less than half that.
Still, it was beautiful.
The late-day sun painted the cliffs rose gold as Leanne followed the curved dirt road to the sprawling hacienda.
Flanked by live oaks and perched on a hill overlooking a garden of yucca and agave, the house could have been a poster for the mythical ranching culture of West Texas.
Four generations had once occupied the home.
But since the family had begun taking hunting leases for out-of-towners, the hacienda had been converted to a swank guest lodge outfitted with top-of-the-line smokers and big-screen TVs.
Leanne hadn’t seen the renovated interior firsthand, but like everyone else in town, she’d looked up the website.
Leanne curved around the lodge and pulled up to a more modest wooden structure that had once been a bunkhouse.
She parked beside the black Jeep Wrangler belonging to Trish Rawls.
Rocky’s silver pickup was nowhere in sight, and Leanne figured the dusty white dually either belonged to Jake Rawls or one of the ranch hands.
She slid from her pickup and wiped her palms on her freshly washed jeans before smoothing her blouse. She’d gone home and dressed up for this, like she would for any visit with a bereaved family. Sixteen years had passed, but the parents of Hannah Rawls were caught in a grief without end.
Leanne glanced around as she approached the house.
She’d been here once before, maybe age six or seven?
It was back in the heyday when the Rawls family had thrown lavish Fourth of July picnics.
At this particular party, they’d had a mariachi band, homemade ice cream, and big silver horse troughs filled with cold beer and soft drinks, free for the taking.
Leanne remembered the overflowing picnic tables and trays of mini sausages with American-flag toothpicks sticking up from each one.
Those were the days when her dad had been moving up the ranks in county politics, possibly with an eye toward running for sheriff. Her dad was well-known in law enforcement circles, and back then Rocky Rawls had been an ally of her father, maybe even a friend.
But Hannah’s death had turned everything on its head.
The slats creaked under Leanne’s ankle boots as she mounted the stairs to the wraparound porch. A wooden swing swayed in the cold breeze. A pair of plastic clogs caked with something—cow manure, from the smell of it—sat abandoned by the welcome mat.
In the center of the door was a heavy knocker made from a horseshoe, and beside the door was a Google doorbell. Leanne eyed them both, debating, and then opted for technology. Within seconds of her ringing the bell, the door swung open.
A young girl stared up at her. She wore purple glasses and a pink leotard with a glittery star on the front. With her blond ringlets and doe eyes, she looked amazingly like Hannah Rawls as a child.
She had to be Jake’s daughter. Emily? Amanda?
“You must be Amelia,” Leanne said.
She looked patiently up at her visitor. “Yes?”
“I’m here to see your grandmother. Is she in?”
Amelia nudged the glasses up the bridge of her nose. “She’s in the greenhouse. You can go around back if you want.”
“Thank you.” Leanne smiled and turned to go. She felt the girl’s gaze follow her as she tromped down the steps and around the house.
Leanne passed a tangle of pipes and irrigation tubes on her way to the glass door.
The greenhouse was a serious operation, and Trish sold her peppers and heirloom tomatoes to grocery stores throughout the area.
Delivering produce was one of the few errands that kept her in touch with townspeople.
The family’s lavish barbecues—like so many other traditions—had come to an abrupt end the summer Hannah was killed.
Leanne knocked lightly before walking in. In contrast to the chilly outdoors, the greenhouse felt like a balmy seventy degrees. Across the rows of leafy plants, she spotted Trish Rawls. She wore a plaid flannel shirt over black leggings, and her once-brown hair was streaked with gray.
Trish looked up, a pair of shears in her gloved hand. She wiped her brow with her sleeve.
“I was wondering when y’all would show up.”
Leanne approached her and gave a nod. “Mrs. Rawls.”
She fisted her hand on her hip. “Don’t know why I expected Jim. That man never did have any balls.”
Leanne stopped in front of her. “So…I take it you heard about Sean Moriarty?”
She flinched at the name—just slightly, but Leanne caught it.
“I did.”
She turned her back on Leanne and walked toward a big metal sink at the end of the row. Leanne followed and stood there as Trish rinsed her shears.
“I’m sure it must have been a shock,” Leanne said to her back. “We wanted to see if there was anything we could do for you or your family.”
She whirled around, her blue eyes flashing. “Like what? Reopen the case?”
Leanne groped for something to say. She’d known this conversation wouldn’t go well, and she wished she’d had more time to prepare.
“He got his conviction thrown out,” Trish said. “He had to have something.” She tossed her shears into a bucket beside the sink. “Something more than a fancy lawyer.”
Leanne resisted the urge to shift on her feet. “I don’t know all the details yet. But despite this development, the chief believes the core case against Moriarty is airtight.”
Trish glared. Leanne remained still. Tension crackled between them, and Leanne found herself in a staring contest.
“Grandma?”
They turned to see Amelia standing at the side door.
“What is it, hon?”
The girl cast a wary look from Leanne to her grandmother. “Can I have my iPad now?”
“No, you may not. There’s a jug of tea in the kitchen. Take it out to your daddy and Grandpop. Then you may have your iPad.”
Amelia slipped out, letting the door slap shut behind her.
Leanne turned to Trish again. Her cheeks were gaunt, and her sunbrowned skin was wrinkled well beyond her fifty-nine years.
“You know.” She tugged off her gloves, one finger at a time. “My husband has sources. Rocky knows every last thing there is to know about the case.” She dropped the gloves into the bucket with the shears. “He read every report.”
Leanne watched her eyes. The implication was that Trish had not. And Leanne didn’t blame her. She had never read the Hannah Rawls case file, but she had heard enough to know that the paperwork—particularly the autopsy report—would have been horrific.
Leanne cleared her throat. “On behalf of the department, I would like you to know that if there is anything we can do for your family—”
“I hear he’s coming back,” Trish cut in.
Who? Leanne almost said.
“Where did you hear that?” she asked instead.
“I have sources, too.” Trish looked out the window and sighed quietly. “I haven’t told Rocky and Jake that, though.”
The anger seemed to have left her, and she looked deflated now, staring through the glass at the dusty landscape.
Leanne watched her, unsure what to say. She was pretty sure Madrone, Texas, was the very last place Sean Moriarty would come within hours of gaining his freedom. But she didn’t want to make phony reassurances.
Trish turned to Leanne, her expression sharp again. “I appreciate the house call, but tell Jim he can save his sympathy. We don’t want it.”
“I understand.”
Trish lifted an eyebrow, and Leanne turned to go. She’d known this visit would be a waste of time.
“There is one thing you can do for me.”
She turned around, and Trish folded her arms over her chest.
“When you see Sean Moriarty, you tell him to steer clear of my husband if he values his life.”
Leanne shook her head. “A threat like that…is not something you should say in front of a police officer.”
“That’s not a threat. It’s a fact,” Trish said. “If Rocky sees that man, he’ll break his neck.”