Fury's Love. Tess MathewsЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Travis entered the parlor, carrying his hat in his hand. His heart clenched when his eyes met the lone figure sitting across the room. Except for her black dress, most people would not know she was grieving. Travis studied her, a habit born from being a lawman. Mrs. Alston was not a large woman nor was she frail, her silver hair gathered into a tight bun. Her eyes were similar in color to Belle's but not as violet. He observed the stiff way she held her body, the proud way she held her head high, but he also noticed the glimmer of tears in her eyes and how she clutched her hands together to keep them from trembling. Even in her grief, she maintained an image of controlled elegance. Travis knew he needed to remain professional. He would keep his own emotions in check and not tell Mrs. Alston he knew Belle.

      "Please sit down, Ranger Parker," Mrs. Alston said as she pointed to the floral sofa across from where she sat.

      "Thank you, ma'am."

      Travis dusted the back of his jeans with his hands, hoping not to get the fine furniture dirty.

      "I am sorry for your loss, Mrs. Alston, thank you for meeting with me today. I will try to be as brief as possible."

      "Thank you; now how can I help you?"

      "I am here to ask you questions about your granddaughter. Sometimes background information helps us find missing persons."

      "What kind of information?"

      "Well, to start with, tell me about your granddaughter, what kind of girl she is, what are her likes and dislikes, who are her friends, anything you think might help us get a better picture of who she is."

      Mrs. Alston sat quietly for a moment that seemed an eternity to Travis. She reached for a stack of papers on the table next to her and handed one to Travis. Travis stared at the picture of the young girl. Her grandmother, desperate to find her, had printed the handbills with Belle's picture and a caption, Have You Seen This Girl?

      Grief girded Travis' chest as he gazed at the image of Belle. "She is a special young girl, isn't she?" His voice tightened.

      "Yes, very special."

      "Tell me about her."

      "How do I describe Belle? Her name is Belle. Belle is the kindest, gentlest person you could ever meet. I have never heard her say a harsh word about anyone, always is concerned with the wellbeing of others. Anytime someone was sick, Belle would make them soup and homemade bread and take it to their home. She is a good daughter, never gave her parents trouble. Well, she does have a bit of a temper. But Belle is a good girl."

      Travis scribbled on a pad of paper. All right, Travis, ask the routine questions, even though you know the answer you still have to ask.

      "Mrs. Alston, could you give me a detailed description of Belle—how tall is she? What color is her hair—anything like that?"

      "Belle is not a tall girl, but not short, either. I guess you would say average height. She has a small frame; some might say delicate but not sickly. She is ethereal in her movements and soft in her touch. Her hair is long, chestnut brown, with streaks of reddish gold when she spends too much time in the sun. Her eyes are violet-blue."

      Travis wrote on his pad. Average height. Small build. Brown hair and violet-blue eyes. Ethereal. (whatever the heck that means—look that one up)

      "Does she have any identifying marks, like a scar or birthmark?"

      "Yes, she does, a bell-shaped birthmark on her right forearm; it is how she got her name."

      Travis smiled and added the birthmark's description to his list.

      "And don't forget her eyes."

      "Her eyes?" Travis asked.

      "Why, yes, they are quite remarkable, don't you think?" Mrs. Alston pointed to a portrait that hung over her fireplace.

      Travis looked up at the painting. A younger, maybe from two or three years ago, Belle stood in the painting. She wore a white dress with a violet sash. He thought she looked like an angel.

      Travis, how in the world did you miss that painting? Some ranger you are. You didn't even notice a portrait of Belle. Travis shook his head. And her grandmother is right. Who could miss those eyes?

      "Ranger, Ranger Parker?"

      Travis roused from his daydream. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs. Alston. How about friends? Is there anyone she would go to if she were in trouble?"

      "Well, there is Darcy Pendergrass; her father manages the Faulkner bank. They live outside of town, not too far from my son's home. Belle has other friends, but they would be the ones she would go to for help. But that is doubtful, Ranger Parker. Mr. Pendergrass would go straight to the sheriff if Belle showed up at his home."

      "Even if Belle did not go to them, her friends may still be some help. Thank you, Mrs. Alston."

      Travis stood up and turned to leave.

      "I will see you to the door, Ranger."

      "Thank you, Mrs. Alston."

      Travis reached for the doorknob and turned the knob.

      "Wait! I just thought of another person she might go to."

      "Who?" asked Travis, his hand resting on the doorknob.

      "Hank Black Hawk. He and my son were the best of friends. Hank and his family live in a cabin on a piece of land my son gave him. Belle could have gone to him for protection, especially since he would be the closest person for her to go to. Give me your pad, and I will draw you a map."

      Travis took his pad out of his vest pocket and handed it to Mrs. Alston. She sketched a map to Hank's cabin and handed the