The Trophy Hunter (33 page)

Diana nods in agreement, holding up her hand
to shield her eyes against the sun’s glare as she looks at Winston.
“They’re in better shape than I expected, considering.” Her voice
trails off as she imagines the day when she’ll have to face
Rogart’s children. How will they view her? That day is inevitable
because of what she has decided to do.

“Joe’s giving it all he’s got,” says Winston.
“It’s hard to change your ways when you’re past fifty.”

Now, contemplation of another sort puts a
twinkle in Diana’s eye. “Are you speaking of Joe…or yourself?” she
asks.

In answer, he places a large hand over hers.
“That’s for me to know.”

A smile flickers over her face as she wonders
if Winston returns the feelings that she’s been aware of for some
time. She changes the subject. “Rena’s in remission. Did you notice
her hair? It’s grown back jet black. Not a thread of gray in
it.”

“Give her a few years of parenting
grandkids,” replies Winston. “It’ll turn gray again.”

Diana’s face sobers. “You think?”

“It’s quite a responsibility, Diana.”

She knows that he is not talking about Rena
and Joe now. He refers to her pending adoption of Fawn Rogart,
Trisha’s baby. “Yes, I realize that. You said you’d help.”

In this most important step of her life, she
doesn’t completely trust herself to get it right. She has no idea
how a court will view a person who has killed the biological father
of the child she seeks to adopt. Even though the record clearly
shows she could have taken no other action. How will she deal with
Fawn’s eventual questions? And in the nearer future, how will she
integrate Fawn with Keith and Lori? According to Joe and Rena,
Rogart’s older children yearn for their baby sister. Only an
unfeeling person would deny them that comfort.

Winston draws a sheaf of papers from his suit
jacket, pulling her attention back to the present. “The first
hearing on your petition is next week. We’ll need to go over a few
things.” He hands the papers to Diana. “It’s not a slam-dunk, but
things look pretty good.”

Impulsively she leans forward and kisses him
on the cheek. He doesn’t pull away, but Diana sees a ruddier tinge
glowing through his brown complexion.

He clears his throat and turns serious. “You
know there could be a downside to this. You could be in for more
than a few gray hairs.”

“Right. My mother won’t let me forget the
downside. She called again this morning to offer some reference
books on the hereditary nature of psychopathy.”

Winston takes both of her hands in his and
looks into her eyes. “I hate to say it, but your mom has a
point.”

“Fawn has to have a chance for a normal life.
I think I’m the one to give it to her.”

“And your dad? What does he think? You never
talk about him.”

Diana withdraws her hands slowly from
Winston’s. Should she tell him what she’s never even told Jess?

“He’s been the pattern for most of my bad
choices,” she begins. “But, on the other hand, he may have saved my
life by giving me the knowledge and the anger…when I needed
them.”

“To shoot Rogart?” asks Winston. “That came
from anger at your father?” His brow wrinkles. “I’ve never seen
that side of you. Never dreamed it existed.” He shakes his head.
Without looking at her, he begins, “Did he… None of my
business.”

“No,” she replies. “It’s not what you think.
There are many kinds of abuse. I’d like to tell you.”

He nods, but looks as if he were about to
swallow a bitter pill. She wonders if she’s making a mistake, if
she’s about to eradicate any chance for more than a friendship
between them. But the story is part of who she is. He needs to
know, no matter what the consequences. She doesn’t need another
Greg who can’t deal with strong emotion.

“With no siblings, I was his captive pupil
for firearms instruction. He tried to make a hunter out of me,
dragged me through the woods of Illinois and Michigan until I got
too big to drag.”

Winston looks puzzled. “Firearms instruction
isn’t a bad thing. The museum trustees are talking about having
firearm safety classes for young people next year.”

“It wasn’t the instruction that I minded. I
dry-fired until my arms went numb. It was the killing I couldn’t
do. It’s why I can’t eat red meat to this day.”

“He made you kill something?”

She shakes her head as tears make their way
down her cheeks. “I missed on purpose every time. Until he figured
it out. Then he shot a doe and made me gut her. He…he took my hand,
put the knife in it and shoved it into her stomach. I threw up on
him and myself. He went someplace and cleaned himself up, but he
made me stay in my puked-on clothes for the rest of the day.”

A look of pain crosses Winston’s face. She
wants to assure him that she’s not an emotional cripple, hopes he
already knows this. “It had an up side,” she continues with a
wistful smile. “He never mentioned guns or hunting to me
again.”

As they watch caterers bringing food to a
central table, Winston blinks several times. “I have the feeling
you’re not in the mood to picnic. How about driving back to Denver,
catching a show and a later dinner?”

Diana smiles. “You read my mind,” she
says.

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