Page 67 of Whispers

“Never,” she said with a finality that killed all his hope. “Oh, Jesus, Kane, he’s gone.”

“Gone?” But he knew before she said the damning words, he knew. Jack Songbird, cocky hellion, an arrogant son of a bitch whom Kane thought of as his only friend, was dead. Anger coursed through his blood, and his stomach clenched in disbelief. Tears burned the back of his eyes, and his fists curled. He wanted to hit, to scream, to flail at fate. But he couldn’t. Not now, not with Crystal falling apart in his arms.

As gently as possible, he guided her back up the unpainted steps and through the front door. Jack’s father Hank stood near the fireplace, dry-eyed, his face lined with an unspeakable sorrow, his fingers working nervously.

Ruby rocked in a chair near the cold grate, her eyes fixed on the braided carpet, staring, as she witnessed visions only she could see. She chanted softly under her breath in a smooth cadence and a language Kane couldn’t understand. An aunt, Lucy Something-Or-Other, pried Crystal from his arms.

“The boy brought this on himself,” his father said, stoical as ever.

“Jack wouldn’t fall.” Crystal’s voice, though trembling, was filled with conviction. “He was as surefooted as an antelope. He’d been on that ridge a million times.”

“He was drunk.” Hank’s tone brooked no argument.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Ruby closed her eyes, and she spoke sharply, the words that passed through her lips hard and foreign in the language of her elders. When her eyelids raised, she looked directly at Kane. “A curse,” she explained dry-eyed, lips quivering, chin wobbling. “A curse upon the man who killed my boy.”

Hank snorted. “Then you’ve cursed our own son’s soul, Ruby.” He stared at his wife with searching black eyes, but he didn’t touch her, didn’t offer her so much as a moment’s consolation. These two people suffered alone. “Jack-the-fool killed Jack-our-boy. There is nothing more to it.”

With a final grunt, Weston collapsed, sweating, the image of Miranda planted firmly in his mind as he placed a final wet kiss on Kendall’s passionless lips. No wonder Harley hadn’t been interested in her. She made love like a rag doll, just lying there, nearly frowning as he’d done all the work. But Weston didn’t care. He needed time to clear his head, to think. His life, he felt, was slipping out of his control, and he’d begun to act rashly without thinking things through, and he couldn’t afford to foul up now.

He was screwing Kendall, Tessa, and Crystal, a juggling act that was surprisingly less than satisfying, and he was still concerned that his old man had another family tucked away, or at least a son who was poised ready to come forward and demand part of the Taggert estate, and then there was the other thing . . . a darker, more sinister part of him that had come to the surface just last night . . . His blood ran alternately hot and cold thinking of it.

“Get off me.” Kendall pushed on his shoulder.

“You know, you could help out with this,” he teased, slapping her on her skinny rump as he rolled to the side of the bed.

She cringed. “It’s so disgusting.”

“What?” he said with a grin as he reached for his crumpled pack of cigarettes, “Oh, Kendall, I’m wounded.” He spread one hand over his chest, above his heart as he shook out a Marlboro with the other. “Deeply wounded.”

“Save it for someone who believes it.” She snagged a beach cover-up from the chair near the bed and flung it over her head.

“You could have fun, if you let yourself.” He reached for his lighter.

“Let’s get this straight, Weston, this is not fun.” She cinched the tie around her slim waist and walked to the windows, where the shades were drawn. “I just hope it works.”

“It will. Given time.”

She shuddered.

“Is it that bad?” Clicking the lighter, he watched the flame catch on the end of his cigarette.

“You don’t get it, do you? I love Harley. He’s the only boy I’ve ever made it with . . . well, until now, but this is different.” Her chin quivered a little, but she had too much steel in her backbone to break

down. “I’m just doing this for the baby.”

Cigarette bobbing in the corner of his mouth, Weston reached for his slacks and slid his legs into the wrinkled khakis. “But you want to keep on, right?”

“Until I’m sure. Yes.” Arms wrapped protectively around her middle, she added, “I thought you were seeing Tessa Holland.”

“Bad news travels fast.”

“So you really are,” she said, disgust in her voice.

Slowly, he fastened his buckle. “Yeah, so what?”

“You really are an alley cat, aren’t you?” she asked, peering through the blinds to the night outside. “If you’re involved with Tessa, why did you call out Miranda’s name when you were with me?”