Field of Danger. Ramona Richards

      Daniel shook his head. “I can’t. I need to be—”

      “No. You can’t be a part of this, Rivers. You know that.”

      “Ray—”

      The sheriff’s voice dropped in tone again as he interrupted. “Daniel, listen to me. You cannot be here. You need to call your family, take care of arrangements. Let us do our jobs. This is a time for you to be his son, not a cop. You stick to the details, all the things that have to be done. They’ll get you through it.”

      Daniel started to protest again, but the expression on Ray’s face told him that his widowed boss spoke from personal experience and wouldn’t budge on this point. Finally he nodded and rubbed a hand over a face swollen by grief. “I don’t even know where to start.”

      “The calls. Make one to Beck’s Funeral Home. They’ll walk you through it.”

      Daniel pushed away from the car and reached for the driver’s door. “But you’ll keep me updated, right?”

      “Like we would any family. I promise.”

      Daniel got in the car and backed it out of the driveway, aware that Ray kept his eyes on him until the car was out of sight. He knew Ray didn’t quite trust him to just give up and go home to sit with the phone.

      Ray knew him well.

      A hundred yards from the field path, the corn ran right up to the road, with only a few feet separating the stalks from the pavement. Daniel pulled off into the dirt there, out of sight, and cut the engine of the cruiser. Gripping the wheel with both hands, he squeezed as hard as he could, straining every muscle in his arms and body, desperate to drive the numbness away, to find the anger again.

      His father. Levon. Dad. A low growl grew from deep in his gut, expanding into a rage-filled roar that filled the car, which rocked as he shook the wheel furiously. Daniel’s eyes burned and his throat turned raw as the wrath slowly passed, leaving him feeling empty again, as if part of his soul had been ripped away.

      Daniel breathed deeply as dozens of images flashed through his mind, in rapid succession. His father on his tractor, in the backyard garden, stretched out in his recliner with the television remote slipping from his hands as he fell asleep. Levon in church, his face beaming whenever Daniel sang a solo from the choir loft.

      Levon Rivers, born in North Carolina to a Native American mother and white father, had one of the most expressive faces Daniel had ever seen, and all his emotions shone through. Anguish over his wife’s death, joy over a good baseball game, melancholy over memories, serenity over the comfort he took in his faith. The thought of his father cold, still and silent seemed so wrong.

      Levon always spoke his mind. So did Daniel, which had led to legendary fights between father and son. The disappointment over Daniel’s decision to become a cop instead of a farmer had echoed between them, fueling arguments for years. Although Levon had finally grown proud of his son’s work, their relationship had felt the strain. Daniel knew he and his father hadn’t been as close as they could have been—as close as Levon had wanted them to be.

      Levon adored his family, took pride in his town, cherished his friends. His annual weekend-long barbecue emphasized all of that. Levon loved having people over, and at the last barbecue, he had seemed intent on introducing April Presley to everyone in Caralinda.

      April. She’d been here almost a year, but had kept mostly to herself. They’d talked, usually at Levon’s, but he didn’t really know her. Gage had said she’d witnessed the shooting, then been chased and threatened by the gunman, but he hadn’t said if she was hurt.

      And physical injury aside, Daniel knew April had to be traumatized. Levon had been a good friend to her and no one should have to watch a friend die like that. Daniel knew that firsthand. Jeff Gage’s youth could work against an interrogation if April had a traumatic memory block of some kind. He had only been a cop for a few years. Without experience, Gage could push her in the wrong direction, make her so frightened of her memories that she’d blank them out permanently.

      “But I could help.” Daniel had been with a number of witnesses to horrible crimes who could barely remember their own names at first. In Iraq. On the streets of Nashville. He should talk to her. Calm her down. Show her how to deal with her fear and pain. Make her feel safe again.

      Daniel shook his head. No. Ray would have his hide if he talked to the primary witness.

      But April was more than just a witness. And he couldn’t stand the thought of abandoning her when he might be able to help her through her pain.

      With that thought, the drive to see April strengthened. Giving in, Daniel reached for the keys. He’d help April deal with what she’d seen. And then, freed from fear, her memory would come back, allowing Daniel to catch his father’s killer. She had to know more then she thought she did.

      She had to.

      Aunt Suke pushed a bowl full of fresh mint leaves toward April. “Have some. It’ll help.”

      April reached for a leaf and twisted it several times, releasing the sweet scent and gentle oil, before dropping it into her iced-tea glass. “How did you know? I mean, what was happening in the field.”

      “I heard the shotgun blast when he killed Levon—that was what brought me to the window. And then I saw him chasing you, firing that gun.” She waved her hand idly toward the kitchen’s ceiling. “We have four floors here, counting the cellar. Sixteen-foot ceilings. And the house is on top of a rise in the ground. From the top, I can see all the way to Robertson County. I called 911, and then went to get you.”

      She paused, glancing with annoyance at a splintered hole in the floor near the stove. “Can’t believe that wretched buzzard blew a hole in my floor.”

      “Just be glad it wasn’t us.” April frowned. “Why did you hide us downstairs?”

      Aunt Suke cleared her throat. “He had to have known that I’d called the police, and that his time was running out. Folks in a hurry usually see only the obvious.”

      “The stairs.”

      “Right. That’s why I sent Polly upstairs to make noise.”

      April glanced at the complacent dog lying on the floor beside the table. “Wouldn’t that put her in danger?”

      “Trust me. The shooter was in a lot more danger than Polly.”

      April shuddered. “He called my name.”

      “Hmm.” Aunt Suke watched her a few more moments, then asked softly, “How close were you?”

      April shook her head. “Not close. Like I told the officer, I couldn’t see who shot Levon. He had his back to me. But I could see Levon, see the—” Her voice broke. “I can’t.” Her gaze focused on the wooden table that had been polished to a silky finish by years of use.

      Aunt Suke sipped her tea. “The sheriff will be back here shortly to take us both to the station for our complete statements. They’ve started clearing the scene. You need to get ready to talk to them. Ray Taylor is a good man, but it’ll be all business.”

      April frowned. “You sound like you’ve been through this before.”

      Aunt Suke pushed a long strand of white hair behind one ear. She usually let her hair hang freely, and April had often seen her working in the garden, the wind swirling her hair around her head like a cloud. Only on Sundays did she neatly contain it with a thick barrette clasped just below her neckline. “I may not get out much these days, but there still isn’t much I don’t know about how this town runs.”

      April smiled, and Aunt Suke joined her, reaching across the table to grasp one of April’s hands. “That’s better. You can’t let this shake you to the core.”

      April heard the plaintiveness in her own voice. “I saw a man get killed!”

      Aunt Suke tightened her grasp. “I