Summer Days (Fool's Gold #7)(9)

“…make that seven visitors for him.”

May looked uneasy. “I assure you, I’m not here on any romantic mission. I wanted to make sure Glen, ah, Mr. Simpson, was all right.” She leaned toward the officer and lowered her voice. “My son’s the one who put him in jail.”

“Way to be supportive, Mom.”

“We could have worked things out.”

“Not if you planned to get your money back.”

May’s expression tightened, a sure sign she was getting her stubborn on. He held up both hands. “You’re right. We’ll check on him. It’s the right thing to do.”

He resisted glancing at his watch, confident they would be back at the hotel long before the bar closed.

Officer Rodriguez led them down a long, brightly lit hallway, then through a set of double doors. The delicious smells grew more intense, reminding Rafe he hadn’t had lunch and it was closing in on dinner time.

“Here we are,” the officer said, pulling open another door and motioning for them to enter. “Glen, you have more visitors.”

Rafe’s only experience with jail came from what he’d seen on TV and in the movies. So he wasn’t sure where Fool’s Gold stood on the “grim” spectrum. But nothing had prepared him for Glen’s current living conditions.

The old man lay stretched out in his cell. There was the requisite cot, although this one was covered with a beautiful quilt, and there were at least a dozen pillows propped up on the bed. A brightly colored rug covered most of the floor. Flowers spilled from vases, and TV trays served as tables.

Just outside the barred front, a large, flat-screen TV sat on a stand. The sound of an action movie spilled into the space. A long shelf to the side of the television served as a kind of buffet. Nearly a dozen covered dishes and Crock-Pots stood waiting to serve. There were pies, cakes and cookies.

“You!”

Rafe turned and saw the police chief marching toward him. “Ma’am?”

“Don’t you ‘ma’am’ me,” she growled, grabbing his arm in a steely grip and dragging him back into the hallway.

“This is your fault,” she snapped, when they were alone. “Don’t think you’re not in trouble.”

Police Chief Barns might only come up to his shoulder, but there was something about her stance that warned him she wasn’t going to take any lip.

“What are you talking about?”

“That man.” She pointed back at the door leading to the jail cells.

“If he’s a problem,” he began, only to have her glare at him. It was a good glare—better than his assistant’s.

“Oh, there’s a problem, but it’s not coming from him. It’s those women. Do you know how many have visited here?”

“Six?” he asked, remembering there had been seven according to Officer Rodriguez, and he assumed his mother was in that count.

“Six,” the police chief confirmed. “They’re showing up here with their food and blankets. One brought that damn television. Another dragged in a foam mattress cover. We wouldn’t want our detainees to feel uncomfortable while they sleep, would we?”

“I’m not sure how this is my fault.”

“You made me arrest him.” She poked him in the chest. “Make it go away, or I swear I’ll make your life a living hell.”

“We’re going to court in the morning.”

“Good. The last thing I want is a bunch of civilians treating my jail like a church social. When the judge asks if you mind if Glen is released on his own recognizance, you better say no. You hear me?”

Rafe thought about pointing out that she was breaking more than a few laws with this conversation. That he had the right to request Glen be held until trial. But where was the win? Until the situation was resolved, he was stuck in town. His mother wanted to make her home here, on that damned ranch. Having the police chief as an enemy wouldn’t help either of their causes.

“I’ll have a word with my attorney,” he told her.

“That’s all I ask.” She drew in a breath, then released it slowly. “I swear, if someone else shows up with a Crock-Pot, there’s going to be blood.”

CHAPTER THREE

HEIDI SAT UNEASILY in the courtroom, Glen’s friend Harvey next to her. She’d never been to court before—had never even received a parking ticket. She found herself wanting to fidget or run. The judge, a tall, thin woman draped in black robes, intimidated her more than she wanted to admit. The bailiff was equally authoritarian in her uniform. There was an air of hushed expectation, with excited murmurs from those watching.

Her gaze slid from where Glen and Trisha Wynn were having a quiet conversation to the other table. Rafe Stryker sat next to an equally powerful-looking man. They were both dressed in navy suits, with white shirts and red ties, but the similarities ended there. Rafe was all dark—dark hair, dark eyes and a dark scowl. He surveyed the room unhappily, as if annoyed he had to be bothered with something as insignificant as this. Although, according to Glen’s lawyer, May Stryker had “bought” the ranch with her son, which meant Rafe was an equal party in the complaint.

The other man had blond hair and killer blue eyes. He was pretty enough to make even Heidi notice, despite her distraction over the proceedings. When she looked at Rafe, she felt a clenching in the pit of her stomach—something that didn’t happen when she glanced at his lawyer.