TRACE EVIDENCE (22 page)

As he moved on top of her, poised between her thighs, love for him exploded inside her. She loved him with all her heart, all her soul. She loved the man he was and the man she knew he would become as years passed and wisdom grew.

She gasped his name as he entered her and her emotions rode so high tears sprang to her eyes. They were tears of joy mingling with tears of sorrow … sorrow that he could not be her future.

It didn't take long for the sorrow to diminish, overwhelmed by the joy of his deep thrusts inside her, his hungry kisses and his fiery touch. She gave herself to the joy, refusing to think of anything else but this moment with this man.

Afterward they lay in each other's arms, sated and waiting for sleep to come. "How come you teach the old legends?" he asked in a soft, half-sleepy voice. "I mean, why not just teach the history of the Cherokees?"

"I do teach a lot of history, but the legends are also a big part of our history. The legends tell about what kind of people we are … fun-loving and gentle and reverent of all life. The legends also teach morality and a variety of life lessons that are important."

"At the moment it seems one of your legends have only served to screw up your life," he said as his hand caressed her hair in a lulling rhythm.

"The legend didn't vandalize my classroom or my house. Somebody sick did that," she countered. "And that legend is one of the more important ones I teach. It's so important to remember the nature of all beasts and know that people and animals alike can't fight their nature."

She realized he'd fallen asleep, his hand had stopped moving in her hair and his breathing was deep and regular. The sorrow that had momentarily gripped her as they'd begun to make love returned. She closed her eyes against the tears that burned as she realized once again how much she loved the man who slept next to her.

He would never share her love for their heritage, he would never share her Cherokee pride. He would never carve her a courting flute or marry her in a traditional Cherokee wedding ceremony. They would never have children together and teach them to love and respect their Cherokee roots.

She squeezed her eyes more tightly closed to staunch the tears that tried to escape. There was only one thing more painful than not being loved at all, and that was loving a man who was absolutely, positively wrong for you.

Chapter 14

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I
t had been another long day made longer by the fact that they were no closer to identifying the serial killer than they had been when the first body had been discovered.

But it wasn't thoughts of murder that played on Clay's mind as he drove toward home the next evening. It was thoughts of Tamara.

He was in love with her. He'd tried fighting it, tried ignoring it, but he couldn't any longer. Somehow, someway over the course of the last week, he'd fallen in love with her.

He didn't love her because of the fact that she cooked dinner for him each evening; he could easily hire somebody to do that. He loved sitting across from her at the table sharing tidbits of conversation as they ate whatever she had cooked.

He wasn't in love with her because they had great sex together. He could have picked up the phone and called half a dozen women who would have been more than willing to accommodate him on that score.

Maybe it was the way she tilted her head just slightly when she listened to him, or perhaps it was that smile that started in her eyes before taking full possession of her lips.

It was all the things that made her who she washer pride, her inner serenity, her eye for beauty and strength. She'd told him she was like the hummingbird, seeking sweet nectar and the goodness of life. So, what had drawn her to him?

He was like an artificial flower, perhaps bright enough on the outside to draw a hummingbird, but holding no nectar, nothing that she could need or want.

He pulled up in front of his house, shut off his lights and engine, but remained in the car. What to do about Tamara? He knew she had feelings for him. It was in her eyes when she looked at him, in her touch and, like the song had said, definitely in her kiss.

It shouldn't be too long and Jeb would be letting her know that her cottage was once again habitable. There had been little time to work on the vandalism case so they still didn't know who was responsible and what kind of danger she still might be in. He knew she would insist on moving back to the cottage the moment it was ready.

One thing was certain. They couldn't go on the way they had been going. He didn't care how strong the temptation, he would not make love to her again. He couldn't. Eventually she would expect more and even though he might wish things could be different, he knew he had nothing more to give.

The front door opened and she stepped out on the porch. The hot night breeze plastered her sundress against her body, outlining each and every feature. He sighed. Catching a serial killer might be far easier than resisting the temptation of Tamara.

He got out of the car and ambled slowly toward the porch, unable to stop the slight catch of his heart as he approached her.

"You're earlier again tonight," she said. It was just before seven. "Did you eat?"

He nodded. He'd called her earlier in the day to tell her not to cook, that he was just going to grab a sandwich at work.

"I've got something to show you." With the guilelessness of a child, she took his hand in hers and led him through the living room and into the kitchen.

Papers lined the kitchen table in neat stacks. He saw the file on his mother's case there as well. "You've been busy," he said.

She flashed a quick smile. "I worked on this all day. I went through all the copies of invoices you'd received from the landscaping and quarries and made a list of people in and around Sycamore Ridge who have at one time or another ordered the Dalmatian blend of rocks." She held up a sheet of paper that appeared to have about ten names on it. "I think you'll find a surprise there."

He took the paper from her and quickly scanned the list. He sank into one of the chairs, for a moment speechless with shock. He looked up at Tamara. "Glen Cleberg? Are you sure about this?"

She nodded. "Three years ago he ordered a
truckful
of Dalmatian rock. The invoice shows it was delivered to his home address."

Clay felt as if he'd been kicked in the gut by a wild mustang. He stared down at the name once again. Chief Cleberg? "There was always a bit of bad blood between Glen and my father, but I can't imagine that Glen would have had anything to do with what happened out at my parents' house that night." He shot her a wry, humorless smile. "It's just not in his nature." Although, Clay intended to speak to Glen about it.

"All right, then what about the other names. Do any of them ring a bell?"

He scanned the list again. "Most of them are familiar, but none of them were friends or more than nodding acquaintances with my parents. No red flags that I can see here."

Tamara sighed with obvious disappointment. "I was hoping to help."

"You did help," he assured her. "You saved me hours of work by doing this."

"I did think of something else." She opened the file folder that held the photos of his parents' house. Some of the photos were quite grim … the ones of the chair where his father had been sitting when he'd been attacked, the blood spatter evidence that had arced on the walls from the blow Thomas had received to the back of his head.

She shuffled through these and came to a photo of his parents' bedroom. "The bedspread." She said the two words as if they, should mean something to him as she shoved the picture in front of him.

"Yeah, what about it?"

"Look at it, Clay. It looks like it's the same color as those threads you found."

"How did I miss something so obvious?" His question was directed more to himself than to her.

"Maybe because it was so obvious and because you've probably seen that spread a hundred times in your life." She sat in the chair next to his. "I know it doesn't get you any closer to finding your mom, but at least it maybe solves the mystery of those threads. Maybe your mom caught it on the striker plate the last time she took it from the bedroom into the laundry room."

"Maybe." He frowned thoughtfully. "But I can't imagine her getting it caught then pulling hard enough to tear it. She loved that spread … loves that spread." It horrified him that it was beginning to get easier and easier to think about and talk about his mother in the past tense.

"It just doesn't quite feel right to me." He stood. "Maybe I'll take a drive over to the house and get the spread, check and see if I can find where the threads have been torn."

She stood as well. "Do you mind if I come with you? I've been cooped up here for a little over a week. I wouldn't mind a little fresh air."

He hadn't thought about what it must be like for her, stuck in this house all day and all night long. "Sure, take the ride with me."

Within minutes they were in the car and headed toward Clay's parents' farmhouse. Although the evening was quite warm, Tamara insisted she preferred the windows open to the air conditioner.

"I'm sorry, I hadn't thought about how difficult it was for you to spend hours and hours in the house without a break away," he said.

She smiled and waved her hand as if to forget the whole subject. "It hasn't been a big deal. I just felt like some fresh air tonight."

They drove in silence, the comfortable quiet of two people in sync with one another. She was the first woman he'd ever spent any time with who didn't seem to be intimidated or worried about silence. Certainly his mother and his sisters had never met a silence they didn't want to break.

"Thanks for all the work you did today," he finally said.

"I didn't mind. I'd do anything I could to help you find her. She is somebody special to me, too."

She seemed to have no problem referring to his mother in the present tense and for that he was grateful. It didn't take them long to reach the ranch house.

He parked out front and steeled himself for seeing Uncle Sammy again. He hadn't seen him since the night he'd discovered his uncle had pawned his mother's jewelry. His anger had faded away with time … time to reflect that he shouldn't have been so surprised. After all, he knew his uncle's true nature and the act of pawning the jewelry had simply been a behavior of Sammy's nature.

"Have you ever met my father?" he asked as he shut off the engine.

"Yes, a couple of times at the cultural center."

"Why don't you come in with me and say hello. It would be good for Dad to see a familiar face that isn't family."

"All right," she agreed.

Together they walked up to the house where Clay knocked twice on the door then pushed it open and ushered Tamara inside. Sammy sat in a chair in front of the television and Thomas was on the sofa. Both men rose as Clay and Tamara entered.

Clay introduced Tamara to his uncle, then she and his father hugged. "I'll put some coffee on," Sammy said.

"No, that's all right. We aren't staying," Clay said. He turned to his father, who had sank back down on the sofa. "Dad, I'd like to take your bedspread back to my place."

Thomas frowned at him in bewilderment. "Why would you want to take the spread?"

"Let's just say I want to satisfy my curiosity about something," Clay replied. "It's probably no big deal, but it's something that's bugging me."

Thomas held his son's gaze for a moment, then waved a hand and sighed with the weariness of a man who had lost all hope. "Take whatever you want."

Clay wished there was something he could say to his father to ease the hopelessness, take away the grief that clung to his father like a shroud. But there was nothing short of returning his mother alive and well that would transform Thomas back into the man he had been.

It took him only a moment to go into the bedroom and pull the spread off the bed. He awkwardly folded it as best he could, and then carried it back into the living room beneath his arm.

"Thanks, Dad. I'll have it back to you in a day or so."

They murmured goodbyes, then Clay took Tamara by the elbow and pulled her out the front door, out of the house that oozed only the grief and despair of a man who'd lost his soul mate.

* * *

Tamara took the spread from Clay and held it in her lap as they pulled away from the ranch house. She ran her hand lightly over the slightly slick, blue-flowered material. "It must be so difficult for you to see your father that way … so beaten down and defeated."

"Yeah … it is hard. He's always been bigger than life, loud and passionate about everything and everyone. But without Mom he's become just a shell. And with each day that passes with no break in the case, he withdraws further and further into himself."

Again she stroked a hand over the bedspread. "Is this a new spread?" she asked.

He cast her a quick glance. "Not real new … maybe seven or eight months old. Why?"

"It doesn't feel like it's ever been washed."

"What do you mean?"

"It feels like it still has the sizing or whatever it is that they have when they haven't been washed," she explained.