Confessing to the Cowboy - By Carla Cassidy Page 0,44
precious Bobby back.
As he pulled up he was surprised to see Kevin Naperson, the young man who had initially been a suspect in the murders, coming out of the barn with a shovel in his hand.
He froze at the sight of Cameron’s official car, his breath visible in frosty puffs in the frigid morning air. He didn’t move as Cameron parked and got out of the car.
“I’m not doing anything wrong. Your dad hired me as a handyman around the place,” Kevin said before Cameron could say a word. Kevin raised his chin slightly, as if anticipating trouble.
Cameron had been all over Kevin’s ass when his girlfriend, Candy, had been found murdered, but with each subsequent murder and now with the information he’d gained from Mary he had little reason to believe Kevin had anything to do with any of the crimes.
“I’m sure Dad could use some extra help around here,” Cameron replied and then headed toward the front door, aware of Kevin staring after him.
As he stepped inside the house he was greeted by the scent of freshly baked biscuits and fried sausage mingling with lemon polish and lavender. It was a familiar scent, but he didn’t feel at ease. He walked through the living room that had once smelled like home, but that had been before Bobby’s death.
He entered the kitchen to find his father at the round oak table, a plate of biscuits and gravy before him. His mother hovered nearby, her face wreathing into a gentle smile as she saw Cameron.
She wiped her hands on the checkered apron she’d worn for breakfast-making for as long as Cameron could remember. “I knew there was a reason I made extra sausage gravy this morning. Sit.” She gestured him to an empty chair at the table. “You know how much you love my sausage gravy.”
Cameron sat at the table and smiled even though it had been Bobby who’d always loved their mother’s gravy. “Thanks,” he said as his mother put a cup of coffee at his elbow.
“Saw Kevin Naperson outside,” he said to his father, who hadn’t looked up from his plate since Cameron came into the kitchen.
“Things were getting away from me. Without Bobby around it was way past time that I hired on somebody to help with the chores and livestock around here.” Jim Evans finally looked up at his son, his weathered features expressionless.
“I can’t depend on you being around here to help out at all considering what’s going on in town. It sounds to me like you got your hands full with your own problems.” He focused back on his plate.
“Those poor women,” Edna exclaimed as she placed a plate of biscuits covered in steaming gravy in front of Cameron. “Do you have any clues?”
“Not many,” Cameron admitted.
“Sounds to me like you’re no better at sheriffing than you were at ranching,” Jim replied.
The arrow of pain that shot through Cameron wasn’t quite unexpected. He was finally becoming accustomed to his father’s hurtful quips...almost but not quite.
“I’m doing the best I can and that’s all I can do,” Cameron replied. The rest of the breakfast was filled with conversation between Cameron and his mother, who told him about everything that had happened with the neighbors, her best friend’s newest grandchild and how the forecast called for snow in the next week.
Halfway through the conversation Jim finished his breakfast and left the room without a parting word. A few minutes later Cameron heard the slam of the front door and knew that his father had left the house.
Edna sank down next to Cameron and covered his hand with hers. “Try not to let him bother you too much,” she said softly. “He’s a bitter old man and he talks mean to almost everyone these days. Bobby’s death broke something inside him and I don’t think he’s ever going to get fixed.”
“I know. It’s all right,” Cameron replied, but his mother’s words didn’t take away the fact that Bobby’s loss had forever transformed Cameron’s tenuous relationship with his father into something much worse.
After finishing his breakfast Cameron left his parents’ house and headed toward the Cowboy Café. It was late enough now that Mary would be open and he had important issues to discuss with her.
The café offered up warmth and savory scents, and as usual George Wilton sat at the counter, a cup of coffee between his wrinkled hands and a frown on his grizzly features.
“I’m telling you, Mary, the coffee is too weak. You need to