Charlotte put her hand on Tara's wrist, pulled back as if afraid she'd hurt her, then realized it wasn't the one that was bandaged. Tara shook her off. Instead of trying to stop her, Charlotte followed.

"Tara, there are no secrets between a husband and wife. Jobs are things that last for a while and then you go on, but trust and friendship between two people who are married is forever. I just don't understand why you're upset."

Tara laughed, a short harsh sound, and called over her shoulder.

"Charlotte, you sound like one of those commercials for marriage counseling videos.

This is so weird. First Woodrow makes all this harder than it should be and now he sends you to convince me that I'm the one who's being unreasonable?

Or is it dishonorable? This is so rich, Charlotte, I can't tell you how it makes me feel that you and Woodrow have decided to be so supportive.

I'm glad you've had a chance to discuss your strategy in detail. It's a d.a.m.n sight more courtesy than your husband has shown me. He gave me two minutes in a coffee shop before he decided to hang me out to dry."

"Stop it. He did no such thing." They were in the living room now and Charlotte looked odd in the half light, too thin, too pale, too tight. But she softened quickly, so effectively that Tara wondered if she was the rigid one, taking out her anger and frustration over Donna on everyone.

"Woodrow is very concerned about the decision he made regarding your client. And I think that you shouldn't be so inflexible. There's a lot at stake here, Tara, and it's not just Woodrow's standing in the polls.

There's the safety of the community to consider.

You don't seem to think about that at all. You interpret Woodrow's stand as purely political when it seems only right to bring a man like this to trial."

"I'm not going to discuss the individual versus the community at large. What I will point out is that you are acting as if my client is guilty of this crime."

"But he confessed to it. That's what you told Woodrow."

"And, may I remind you, that was a confidence I had been given permission to share with Woodrow. Besides, he hasn't been proven sane enough to stand trial," Tara stated.

"Charlotte, after all these years of living with an attorney you should understand a lawyer's obligation to his client. I won't consider Woodrow's career needs, I won't discuss your concerns or criticisms of my actions.

I will listen to my conscience. If you and Woodrow bend the rules, then you live with that. Any behavior can be justified. I could even justify murder in a court of law. But I'm not going to do that. I'm going to help my client."

"Very nice, Tara, but hardly the real world."

"In the real world the finger is pointed your way when you don't do what someone wants. I'm selfish, I'm jealous, I'm endangering the public wellbeing. I've heard it all now, Charlotte, and the one thing you forget is that there is no evidence against this man. No one has seen him. No one has examined him. No one can de him to anything that happened at the Circle K. This is a witch hunt and I am not going to be the next one to speak in tongues." Tara grabbed her jacket and put it on.

"And you're forgetting that he admitted killing that woman*unless you're lying about that."

"To what purpose?" Tara challenged.

Charlotte shrugged.

"I wouldn't know. That was a stupid thing to say."

"Thank you for that anyway." She b.u.t.toned up, ready to go.

"But think of how you could help your client if you worked with Woodrow instead of against him.

The longer you leave this man hanging, the greater the chance he'll hurt someone else."

Tara searched for her purse.

"Did Woodrow give you a script? I have to tell you, the more you talk, the more determined I am to honor my client's wishes. I'm glad he came to me. If he'd turned himself in, he would have been lynched by now."

Tara took a deep, raiding breath and glared at the other woman.

"Charlotte, I can't stay in this room one more minute. I don't blame you at all for trying to change my mind. But I have been pummeled and knocked around today by people I love and respect and I've had it up to here." She swiped a hand across her forehead.

"I'll call you when I cool off.

Just do me a favor. Don't put your nose in dlis one."

"Hi, you two." Tara whirled toward the door as Woodrow pulled it open.

"Something smells good."

He stopped as if physically restrained by the angry charge in the room.

"I would have been here sooner if I'd known you were coming for dinner, Tara." He smiled hesitantly.

"Don't worry, Woodrow. I'm not staying for dinner," she said.

"Tara, please .. ." Charlotte made an effort to stop her but it wasn't a very heartfelt one.

"Bye, Woodrow. Call me. I think we better talk."

Tara pa.s.sed him fast, pivoted, and came right back.

"You know, Woodrow, you're not batting a thousand these days. If anyone should be helping anyone, it should be you. My dad lent his name to your campaigns and so have I. We've given money.

I've done everything I can when we are on different sides of the courtroom to conduct myself professionally so that we don't have problems like this.

I respected you and I trusted you, Woodrow. But I don't anymore.

"From here on, until this situation is taken care of, we're going to do this the right way. No more unrecorded meetings. No more handshakes. No more social engagements. No more fund raisers.

I'll memo you on your promise to pet.i.tion if I supply a psychological profile. I'm going to get you that profile. Then we'll go back to the way things used to be."

Tara walked out of the Weber house. Charlotte came to Woodrow's side and together they watched Tara until she got into her Jeep and drove off. It was cold but both of them stood in the open doorway awhile longer.

"I'm sorry, Woodrow," Charlotte said.

"I thought if I asked her woman-to-woman, she'd come to see things your way."

"I wish you'd talked to me, Charlotte, before you talked to her," Woodrow said. He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her neck.

"I think I've just lost her support for the campaign."

"You can win without her."

"You think so?"

"I know it," Charlotte said and turned toward the kitchen.

"Dinner in five," she called over her shoulder, taking out a cigarette to calm her nerves as she went. Woodrow would just have to understand.

It was only one*in the house*after all.

Woodrow closed the door and went to wash up.

Looking in the mirror he decided Charlotte was right. The Limey name was old and respected, and looked good on fund-raising programs, but times had changed. It wasn't the draw it once was. The only thing Tara Limey really had that he wanted for his campaign was the Circle K killer.

Twelve.

She'd walked through the kitchen, exchanging a polite but restrained greeting with Donna. Bill sat at the table. He gave her a "hey-little-lady" and Tara thought she would burst. Clothes changed, she went outside and saddled Shinin'. There had been a moment when she reached for the bridle that had given her pause, but Tara was just angry enough to let it pa.s.s. At this point a pitchfork through her heart might be enough to put her out of her misery. She cinched the girth with a vengeance, apologized to Shinin', and swung herself into the saddle a minute later, only to be stopped by a call from the dark.

"Tara?" Bill Hamilton stood in front of the gate to the corral. Shinin' danced, anxious to leave yet wary of the human being in his way.

"Not now, Bill," she said, angry he'd followed her out. She glanced quickly at the house. Donna was in the window, shadowed and still.

"You better go back in. You've caused enough trouble for a lifetime."

"Heard you and Donna had words. I'm sorry *bout that. d.a.m.n shame, if you ask me. I never wanted that to happen." He took a step forward, then another. Shinin' was shying but Tara held the reins tight.

"You don't feel bad at all, Bill. Maybe you're in your playful mode, having a little joke at my expense.

I think you like this, me and Donna at odds.

Exactly what kind of kick do you get from it?"

"None. I swear." He held a hand to his chest.

He was close now and she could see him clearly in the night. He wore a denim shirt, open almost to the waist, and an expression closed to her. His eyes glittered but she couldn't see them clearly.

That was a blessing.

"Did she ask you about our business?"

"Yep. But I couldn't tell her. I care for that woman too much. I don't want her to wonder, don't want her to ever wake up in the night and think I'm gonna do her wrong, understand?"

"She already thinks so. She thinks you want to get in my pants, Bill.

What do you think about that?"

"Nice to know she figures I have good taste." He laughed.

"She thinks the same about you, Tara."

"I know. Donna gives herself too much credit."

"That's harsh, Tara. And too bad," Bill was so close he stood just under Shinin's jaw. The horse threw his head. Bill put up a hand, calmly, casually, as if he could will the creature away.

"You are a pretty lady. Not delicate like her. A little handful, that's what Donna is. And a bird in the hand ..."

Bill leaned into her, his chin almost on her knee.

"You know what they say about the bush?"

"I know. Bill," Tara said quietly "Good. So you know I'm sincere about her. Real sincere. Same as about you getting' me help."

"Can't do it, Bill. Not without your cooperation."

Tara looked into the night, talking as if he wasn't even there.

"The DA wants a psychological workup. You've got to cooperate on that one, and until you do, we're in a standoff. Simple as that."

"Nothin's that simple, babe. You know what I am.

You tell him. We don't play games, you and me.

Find me the right doctor and I'll sure think *bout doin' a couple of tests. Trouble is, I might flunk."

He looked sorrowfully at her.

"Then I'm out on a limb. I'm on the run. I'm with Donna forever." He was whispering now and Tara felt his face as he lay it against her thigh. He nuzzled there, spreading his arms cross-like over Shinin's flank, reaching all the way to the horse's neck as he pressed against her leg and the gold-colored animal. The contact was so surprising, so electrifying, Tara bolted beneath it.

Without thinking, frantic, she dug into Shinin', letting loose of the reins, allowing him to tear through the gate and into the night without concern for the man she left behind.

Tara sped through the darkness, across her land and beyond to the fields that no longer belonged to her. She rode until she saw the lights of home, civilization she had no desire to confront. With a cry she wheeled and headed back again, only to do the same before she reached her house. The cold night was cut by her cries of frustration and those same cries urged Shinin' on until he breathed as hard and deep as she. Beneath her thighs the animal moved with a surety and might that excited her.

Tara leaned into him, commanding him with a flick of her wrist, a tug at the rein, a press of her knees into him. And he responded: right, left, right again, and a full head. On his back Tara pressed into the saddle, erasing thoughts and replacing them with a physical pleasure that erupted inside a part of her so private no one had ever touched it. Until tonight.

It wasn't just the horse, or the ride in the black night; it wasn't the cold or the feel of her own body responding to the pleasure she felt. It was Bill. He had touched her. He had laid his head on her body and pressed himself into the horse, becoming a part of both of them. G.o.d forgive her, she had felt what Donna must feel. She had felt desire so swift and intense as to leave her mindless. What was in him had pa.s.sed to her and she felt the madness like a gift.

That was what she wanted to rid herself of. Instead she used it, matching it with her own anger and frustration. And when she was done, when the horse stood panting in the middle of the field in the middle of the night, with his exhausted rider lying over his back and stroking his mane, something came into Tara's head. A glimmer of an idea, just a seed of a thought. Perhaps this was what he'd wanted in the first place. Perhaps it wasn't Donna at risk at all. In some way, somehow, Bill Hamilton's next victim was her.

Tara walked Shinin' back across the fields, staying close to the river as she went. The extravagant sensations, the unbridled inference she had imagined alone in the dark, had been tamed. There was no conspiracy here to victimize her. Bill needed Tara too much. Donna was in no danger.

A meal ticket seldom was. Her home was still there and standing, glowing golden through windows where a light had been left on. By design or mistake she didn't care. What had been up was down, those who had loved her loved themselves more, and an oath taken when she had pa.s.sed the bar so many years ago seemed suddenly a tremendous burden. All she wanted now was food, rest, and in the morning she would step closer to the middle of the road on this thing. Surely she and Woodrow could work out something that would be acceptable to Bill.

Slipping from Shinin', she bedded him down with a pat on the neck before peeling off her gloves as she glanced toward the guest house. It was dark, Bill and Donna sleeping tangled in one another's arms, she imagined. She didn't speculate on what they dreamed, but strode on, pushing open the door to the main house, equally hungry and tired. Hunger overrode exhaustion. The kitchen was the next stop.

Flipping on the light, Tara blinked in the brightness, thinking that soup would warm her. As her eyes adjusted, she stopped thinking about food, and looked around to see if anything was out of place.