hanging from the broken safety glass still in the window. She looked closer, squinted. Not fiber. Hair. Dark, curly hair. Faye’s hair. Tara gulped and stepped back, bumping into Dylan, turning toward him. “It’s Faye’s hair,” she gasped. “It’s caught in the passenger window. She wasn’t driving. There’s the proof.” Her stomach churned and she tasted bile. She refused to throw up again. “Think I’ll take that walk. Get pictures.” She stumbled off, blindly weaving among the broken vehicles stacked and scattered throughout the salvage yard, taking deep breaths, forcing her stomach to settle down.
Tara had walked a long way before she felt normal again. When she returned, Tony was rolling out from under the car. He handed up Dylan’s camera, then got to his feet.
“Brake lines look okay,” he said, wiping his hands on a red rag. “Oil pan’s dented from striking the railing, I would guess.”
“Can you tell if the brakes were slammed?” Tara asked. “There were no skid marks on the highway near the rail.”
“No way to tell. Discs are smooth, pads fine. The mechanism’s functional. Hang on.” He looked in the driver’s side. “Emergency brake’s on. There should have been skid marks.”
She hadn’t noticed the emergency brake. Thank God Tony was here.
“So the emergency brake didn’t hold?” Dylan asked.
“The parts look fine. Something overrode the brakes. The accelerator might have jammed. Some circuitry went haywire.”
“Or they got hit from behind,” Tara said. “Could that explain it?”
“Don’t know the physics on that. I could check the circuitry in my shop. Do more with the engine, too. Be good to check for any recalls on the car.”
“We’ll get it towed to your place,” she said. “Would that work?”
“It should.” Tony nodded, then left them to gather his tools.
“You were right about Tony. He’s good,” she said to Dylan. “We’re finally getting somewhere. We can talk it over tonight. Want to grab supper?”
“Sorry. I’ve got a meeting, Tara.”
“Oh, sure.”
“I need to convince the town council to annex more land on the outskirts of town. It’ll mean taxes to fund utilities. I’ve got the votes even without the mayor, but the more support the better off we’ll be.”
“You don’t have to explain it to me. I know you’re busy.” She was surprised at how disappointed she was.
Dylan frowned. “I’m busy, yeah. Maybe too busy. What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Not much. Getting the car towed. Visiting Faye. Making calls for Mom’s charity banquet. Some client work. Waiting for Joseph to hire me.”
“Sounds like a busy morning. Could you free up the afternoon? I’ve got an idea. I’ll pick you up at one. Wear jeans and athletic shoes.”
“What are we doing?” Her heart lifted with delight.
“Trust me.”
“I almost do.”
Sadness shadowed Dylan’s smile. Trust between them was a fragile thing. Maybe it always would be.
CHAPTER TWELVE
DYLAN PRESSED THE call button on the Wharton gate. Tara had sounded so bereft when he couldn’t have dinner with her that he’d taken off a half day to make it up to her. He hadn’t realized how much of his free time had been tied up in meetings. He deserved a life, too, he realized.
He looked up at the house. Impressive, if out of place in the desert. Mount Vernon, Arizona, was what Tara used to call it.
“What?” The voice from the speaker was Judith’s, the Wharton’s gruff housekeeper.
“Dylan Ryland for Tara.”
The gate swung open and he drove through. He had to ring the doorbell twice before someone answered the door. It was Tara, a toothbrush in her hand, foam on her lips. “Sorry,” she said. “Judith, for God’s sake, why didn’t you get the door?”
“I’m busy here,” Judith grumbled, passing by with a laundry basket.
“Just need to spit and run a brush through my hair.” She dashed for the stairs, taking them two at a time. He couldn’t help but watch her butt. The jeans were criminally tight.
“Ahem.” Judith jabbed a thumb toward the sitting room. He went there, a chastised teenager again. He’d been waiting a few minutes when someone came around the corner. He expected Tara, but it was her mother. “Dylan Ryland. What brings you here?”
“He came for me,” Tara said, popping into the room. “Am I dressed right?” She wore a gray jersey shirt that hung slightly off her shoulders, jeans and lightweight hiking shoes. With her hair pulled back, her face free of makeup, she looked great. “Perfect.”
“For a homeless woman,” her mother said. “But that makes you a matched set.” She looked him over in his worn jeans, faded Wharton