I Promise Read online

  Delia was surprised by the lump of feeling in her throat.

  I don’t care. I won’t cry for her. I hate her.

  Her nose stung, and her eyes burned. She gave a ragged cry of exasperation.

  “I hate you, Mother. I hate you.”

  That was followed by a wail of grief that echoed off her high-ceilinged chambers. Delia grabbed her mouth with both hands to muffle the sob that erupted and realized with dismay that her legs would no longer support her. She hurried to the closest chair and collapsed into it. Tears squeezed from her closed eyelids. She clenched her teeth to still her quivering chin and tried swallowing over the awful thickness in her throat.

  “Noooo.” The hoarse, growling sound came from deep in her throat. “Noooo.”

  Tension knotted her arms and shoulders as she fought the powerful emotions shuddering through her. Her heart thudded loudly. She took a hitching breath that caught in her constricted chest. It shouldn’t hurt like this. She didn’t want to grieve the woman who had borne her . . . and betrayed her.

  Delia had no idea how much time had passed when the phone sounded shrilly on her desk. She wouldn’t have answered it, except she knew Janet wouldn’t have put the call through unless it was important. Delia tried to reach the phone from where she was but couldn’t get to it. Two swift kicks got rid of her heels before she made her way stocking-footed across the Navajo rug, dropped into the swivel chair with one leg folded under her, and picked up the receiver.

  “Judge Carson.” Her voice sounded surprisingly calm to her ears.

  “Delia? It’s me.”

  She could tell her sister had been crying. “Hello, Rachel.”

  “Delia . . .”

  “I know,” Delia said, her voice suddenly choked. “I’ll be catching the first plane to San Antonio. I’ll take care of everything, the arrangements, I mean.”

  “As far as I know, everything’s been taken care of for the moment.”

  Delia frowned. “Even the funeral arrangements?”

  “What? Why would we need—Good Lord!” Rachel exclaimed. “You mean Cliff didn’t call you back? I was on the phone to the hospital, and I asked him to call you again and—He said as soon as he finished—” She cut herself off with an irritated, aggravated sound in her throat. “Mom’s not dead, Delia!”

  Delia felt the hair prickle on her arms. “Not dead?”

  “The Fire Rescue folks managed to resuscitate her a few minutes after the housekeeper called to tell me she was dead. That was after I spoke with your secretary the first time. Cliff was supposed to call you back.

  “Mom’s in Memorial Hospital in intensive care. They want to do bypass surgery as soon as she’s stabilized. That’s why I called, to see if you can be with her. I can’t get away right now.”

  Delia was still trying to wrap her mind around the fact her mother was alive. “Don’t worry, Rachel. I’ll be there.”

  “I’d go myself except there’s a political fund-raising banquet tonight in Dallas and Cliff . . . My husband needs me.”

  Delia made a moue of disgust. The day U.S. Congressman Clifford McKinley from the great Lone Star State of Texas needed anyone but himself was the day she would eat her snakeskin cowboy boots. But Rachel loved the man, and he had given her sister an adorable son, so he couldn’t be all bad. “Put your mind at rest,” she said. “Get there when you can.”

  “Thanks, Delia. I’ll be on the first flight out of Dallas tomorrow morning.”

  “Do you want me to pick you up in San Antonio?”

  “I’ll rent a car and drive the rest of the way to the Circle Crown myself.”

  “Are you bringing Scott?” Delia asked.

  “I think a six-year-old would be in the way.”

  “I’d love to see him,” Delia coaxed. “Mother’s housekeeper could take care of him while we’re at the hospital.”

  “I . . . I can’t,” Rachel said. “Cliff doesn’t like it when—”

  “Forget what Cliff would like,” Delia interrupted brusquely. “What would you like?” Delia felt Rachel’s uncertainty on the other end of the line.

  “I’ll ask Cliff if Scott can come,” Rachel said at last.

  “I’ll see the two of you tomorrow,” Delia replied firmly.

  “I’m sorry to leave all of this in your lap,” Rachel said. “Especially since . . .”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Delia said. “I can handle it.”

  “Can you, Delia? Really?”

  Delia heard the concern in her sister’s voice. They had seen each other rarely over the past twenty years, the visits occurring either at Rachel and Cliff’s home in Dallas, their place in Alexandria, Virginia, or her stomping grounds in New York. The moments of connection had been few and far between—Rachel’s wedding, Scott’s christening, Christmas every few years, and most recently the day Delia had been sworn in by the mayor as a judge.

  But your sister was your sister forever, no matter how much or how little you saw of her. She and Rachel had shared a great deal. There were memories that tied them even tighter than blood.

  “I should have gone home to the Circle Crown a long time ago,” Delia admitted. “It’s time things were settled between Mother and me.”

  She had been given a second chance to resolve matters between them. She was going to take advantage of it. Before it was too late.

  “Delia . . . Marsh is home.”

  Delia’s heart gave an extra thump. “What’s he doing in Texas?”

  “He moved back to his dad’s ranch about four months ago with his sixteen-year-old daughter,” Rachel said. “His ex-wife was killed in a car wreck six months ago, and the girl had nowhere to go. Marsh has taken a leave of absence from The Chronicle to get his daughter through high school. I thought you should know.”

  Delia gave a long, silent sigh. She had tried so desperately to escape the past, but here it was again, back to haunt her. She had unfinished business with Marshall North. The Pulitzer prize–winning reporter was one of the two figures under that majestic live oak she had been remembering just this morning. She was the other.

  They had grown up as neighbors and become far more than that. He had rescued her from disaster, and she had repaid him by running away and never coming back. It was the sort of thing Hattie Carson might have done. It was the sort of thing her colleagues in Brooklyn would never have believed of her. In some ways Delia was more her mother’s daughter than she wanted to admit.

  “Delia? Are you still there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “It’s been a long time since you’ve been home, Delia. You won’t recognize Uvalde. There’s a McDonald’s, and a Taco Bell, and a new high school. Remember that huge old live oak they took all the trouble to pave around when they built the H.E.B. grocery on Highway 90? It just withered up and died. Not enough water, I guess.”

  “That’s too bad.” When the roads in Uvalde were first paved in the 1920s, the mayor had refused to cut down any trees. In the neighborhoods, live oaks grew in the middle of the street and people drove around them. That was the kind of town Uvalde was.

  “The ranch hasn’t changed at all. Except maybe to age along with all of us. Your room is exactly as you left it. Or it was the last time I was home. I think Mom always hoped you’d come back. At least you’ll get to see her again before . . . before . . .” Rachel sobbed.

  “Don’t cry, Rachel,” Delia crooned. The words were hauntingly familiar. She’d had cause to say them before.

  Delia felt the tears burning her eyes and nose. Twenty years wasn’t long enough. The memories were indelibly etched in her mind and soul. If it were up to her, she would never go back. There were too many ghosts at the Circle Crown.

  A knock at Delia’s door provided a welcome interruption. “There’s someone at the door, Rachel. I have to go.”

  “Tomorrow,” Rachel said.

  “Tomorrow.” Delia grabbed a Kleenex from the box inside her right-hand desk drawer and dabbed at the tear-smudged makeup at t
he corners of her eyes while the insistent knocking continued.

  “Come in,” she said, dropping the Kleenex into the wastebasket. Then she realized she was barefoot and scrambled to get her heels back on.

  Whoever was there tried the door and found it locked. “It’s locked,” a male voice said.

  “Just a minute.” Delia slipped into the second high heel, crossed quickly to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it open. She stiffened when she saw who was there. She should have recognized his voice, but she hadn’t been expecting him. Not so soon.

  “May I come in?”

  Delia stepped back and let Sam Dietrich in. She endured the DA’s scrutiny, hoping her eyes didn’t look as red-rimmed as they felt.

  “Janet told me about your mother. I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Condolences are premature,” Delia said coolly. “It appears reports of her death were greatly exaggerated.”

  Sam raised a brow.

  “My mother isn’t dead after all,” she explained. “She was resuscitated by the paramedics.”

  “Oh.”

  The district attorney was clearly uncomfortable, but Delia had no desire to help him out. Lately, he had been a constant burr under her saddle. Sam was balding, but doing it gracefully. His sandy hair was trimmed neatly over his ears and above his collar. His pale blue eyes were focused sharply on her from behind trendy, wire-rimmed glasses. A hawkish nose, full lips, and heavy brows gave him a nonspecific ethnic look that was certain to be helpful to Sam’s grand political aspirations to become governor.

  Sam looked more like a Manhattan corporate attorney than an official of the state in his exquisitely tailored gray wool blend suit and Armani tie. His white-on-white shirt was starched so crisply it could have stood on its own, and his black wing-tipped shoes were polished to a mirror sheen. It was definitely a power suit, and Delia was grateful for the black robe that gave her even greater power.

  “I don’t have much time, Mr. Dietrich. I have to catch the first flight to San Antonio.”

  She crossed behind her desk and sat to give herself the position of greater authority. It was unlikely Sam had come on a friendly visit. “What can I do for you?”

  Sam turned and checked the hallway before carefully closing her door and locking it.

  She raised a questioning brow as expressive as Sam’s, but he didn’t explain himself, simply turned to her, stuck his hands in his pants pockets, and said, “I got your message.”

  “I see. And what dirty job have you come to do, Mr. Dietrich?”

  The DA’s lips flattened. His icy blue eyes narrowed. “I want you to accept the Lincoln plea bargain.”

  “Five years probation for murder one?” Delia shook her head. “I don’t think so, Mr. Dietrich.”

  “The kid is only eighteen. Two months ago Lincoln would have been a juvenile. He can make a good argument for self-defense,” Dietrich said. “The public defender has witnesses who’ll testify the victim had a gun on him.”

  “Then why wasn’t Lincoln charged with manslaughter in the first place? The grand jury must have based their decision to go with murder one on something.”

  Dietrich pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the sweat beaded on his upper lip. “Look, Judge Carson, I’m asking you to do this for me.”

  Delia’s brow furrowed. She leaned forward and said, “What’s going on here, Sam? If I didn’t know better, I’d think the kid paid you off.”

  The DA’s eyes flashed with irritation before he lowered his head to stare at his polished toe tips. When he glanced up at her again, his gaze was completely neutral. “It’s nothing as nefarious as that. The truth is, I’m doing a favor for a cop friend of mine who screwed up the evidence on this thing. We couldn’t get a conviction now if we tried. Frankly, I need a favor.”

  Delia shook her head. “I’m sorry, Sam. I don’t do that kind of favor. Come back with a different charge if you want a different plea bargain.”

  “But—”

  “Is that all, Mr. Dietrich?” she said, cutting him off.

  The DA’s eyes narrowed to angry slits, and Delia saw from the way his pants were stretched that his hands had balled into fists in his pockets.

  “I won’t forget this,” he said.

  “I won’t either,” Delia assured him.

  She could see Sam wanted to say more, but he resisted the impulse. He turned on his heel and let himself out, leaving the door open behind him.

  Janet appeared a moment later in the doorway. “I made reservations for you on the next flight to San Antonio out of La Guardia.”

  “Thanks, Janet. I appreciate your help. For the record, my mother isn’t dead, after all. The paramedics revived her.”

  “Oh, Judge Carson, that’s wonderful!”

  Delia bit her tongue to keep from contradicting her secretary.

  “I’ll let you know as soon as the car arrives,” Janet said. “The driver will wait while you pack and then take you on to the airport.” Janet backed out and closed the door behind her.

  Delia propped her elbows on her desk and dropped her head into her hands. Oh, God, she didn’t want to do this! If only there were some way she could avoid going back.

  But perhaps it was time—past time—to confront the secrets that had been buried two decades ago. Delia raised her head and threaded her fingers to stop their trembling. Oh, such very messy secrets. She would exhume them and examine them one last time before she buried them again, neatly, once and for all.

  Maybe then she could get on with her life.

  Chapter Two

  Marshall North’s notoriety in Uvalde, Texas, had little to do with being a Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist. Quite simply, the bad boy was back in town.

  Marsh had tried to blend into the Texas crowd since his return, which wasn’t hard when he mostly wore a chambray shirt and jeans and cowboy boots these days. His hair was a little long beneath a new felt Stetson, and he usually needed a shave, but that shouldn’t have caused the kind of stares he’d been getting on the street since he’d returned home.

  They were all remembering what had happened twenty years ago. The past had definitely not been forgotten.

  It seemed far away right now. He had a new role in life, one that had him as uncertain of where he was going as a pony with his bridle off. He was picking his way, slow and careful, knowing from his years of experience as a foreign correspondent that sometimes it didn’t matter how careful you were. Things had a way of happening. And not always for the best.

  But South American rebel forces aside, being a parent was about the most uncertain thing Marsh had ever confronted. He and his sixteen-year-old daughter had been two-stepping around each other for the past six months but couldn’t seem to get in sync. Either he landed on her toes, or she landed on his. He had no choice but to keep trying, unless he wanted to give up entirely.

  Marsh had stopped running from trouble a long time ago. As far as he was concerned there was no way to go but forward. Even if he made mistakes, even if he did things wrong, he was determined to learn how to be a good father to Billie Jo. Certainly a better father than his father had been to him. Which was why he spent most of his time these days as jumpy as a bit-up old bull at fly time.

  “Billie Jo, damn it, get up!” Marsh yelled down the hall from the kitchen doorway. “The bus’ll be at the end of the drive in ten minutes! Your eggs are getting cold.”

  A sullen-eyed, slump-shouldered teenage girl appeared at the other end of the hall wearing one of Marsh’s best white tailored shirts, arms folded up to the elbows and tails hanging over a pair of ragged, kneeless jeans. The jeans were tucked into a pair of worn black-and-red cowboy boots.

  “That’s my shirt, Billie Jo,” he pointed out.

  Her chin—the same stubborn chin possessed by generations of Norths—jutted pugnaciously. “Nothing of mine is clean.”

  “Comb your hair and get in here,” Marsh ordered, gripping the doorjamb in lieu of his daughter’s slender
neck.

  Billie Jo shoved a hand through tousled ash-blond curls that were turning dark at the roots and clomped down the hall toward him. “It is combed.”

  Marsh stood where he was and watched her edge along the water-stained, rose-papered wall as she passed by him. Not that he had raised so much as a pinkie to her in the six months they had been living together, but she must have noticed he was running out of patience. He brushed a knuckle against the curling paper. His grandmother had loved it. He wasn’t looking forward to stripping it down and putting up new.

  But the house was barely fit for habitation. It had been empty during the two years since his father had died, and it hadn’t been in good shape even then. He had hired a man to take care of the livestock since his father’s death, but the ranch house had been neglected. A storm must have torn some shingles loose, because the roof leaked when it rained. Too bad about the wallpaper.

  Too bad his grandmother wasn’t here to help him with Billie Jo, but she had died when he was ten. Grandma Dennison had a way of soothing pain, a way of easing trouble that he wished he had inherited from her.

  The best he could do was sympathize with his daughter’s need to rebel against authority. He had been wild as a boy himself, quick to anger and rash to a fault. But he had learned in the years since to control his anger and his impulses. The sooner his daughter learned that he expected her to obey him, the easier it would be for both of them. But there was nothing easy about any of this.

  He remembered how euphoric he had been the first time he’d held his daughter in his arms. She was so tiny and helpless, needing him the way no one had ever needed him before. He had felt a swell of emotion inside that made him want to cry. He’d been worried because she hadn’t had a lick of hair. His wife had laughed at him and promised it would grow.

  By the time Billie Jo had a few curls, he and Ginny were already arguing about his long and frequent absences overseas. Before those curls reached Billie Jo’s shoulders, he and Ginny were arguing all the time. They had stayed married for ten long years. It got so he came home only to see Billie Jo, and the arguments with Ginny forced him out of the house sooner than he wanted to leave his daughter.