Even in this outfit, though, she was uncomfortably hot. Portland had clocked in at 62 degrees that morning.

“Where’s Aunt Kayleigh?”

“She’s getting ready to sing a show. The one we’re going to on Friday.”

Maybe. Her sister hadn’t actually invited her to the concert.

“Good. I like it when she sings.”

With a blare of a horn and a flashing orange light, the baggage belt started to move.

“See, you wouldn’t have had time to get off.”

“Yes, I could. And then I could ride around and see what’s behind that curtain.”

“They wouldn’t like that.”

“Who?”

Suellyn was not going to talk about TSA and terrorists.

“They,” she repeated firmly and Mary-Gordon forgot about the question as she spotted the first suitcase and gleefully charged toward it, her white Keds squeaking on the linoleum, her pink dress, accented with a red bow, fluttering around her.

The luggage was retrieved and they both walked away from the belt and the crowds and paused in front of one of the doors.

Her mobile rang. She glanced down. “Hey, Daddy.”

“You’re in,” the man growled.

And hello and nice day to you too.

“Ritchie’s on his way to pick you up.”

Or you could’ve come to collect your daughter and granddaughter in person. Bishop Towne didn’t drive but he had plenty in his crew to play chauffeur—if he’d wanted to come.

Suellyn found a bogus smile on her face as often happened when she was talking to her father, even though he was miles away. Bishop Towne intimidated Suellyn less than he did his younger daughter but it was still plenty.

“I can take a cab.”

“No, you won’t. You got in early. Ritchie’ll be there.”

Then as if he remembered he should be saying something—or possibly had been prodded by Wife Number Four Sheri—he asked, “How’s Mary-Gordon?”

“She can’t wait to see you,” Suellyn told him.

Is that passive-aggressive? A little.

“Me too.” And he disconnected.

I’m taking a damn cab, she thought. I’m not hanging around. “Do you need to use the girls’ room?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? It’ll be a while before we get to Aunt Kayleigh’s house.”

“No. Can I get some Jelly Bears?”

“There’ll be treats at your aunt’s house.”

“Okay.”

“Excuse me, Suellyn?”

She turned to see Bishop’s minion, Ritchie, a young man looking every inch the member of a country musician’s entourage. “I’m your chauffeur. Nice to meet you.” He shook her hand and smiled toward Mary-Gordon. “Hello.”

“Hello,” she said.

“Welcome to Fresno. You’re Mary-Gordon, I’ll bet.”

“He said my name right.” She beamed.

Hers wasn’t Mary with Gordon as a middle name. It was a good, double-barreled Southern name and the girl wasn’t shy about correcting anyone who got it wrong.

“Let me get those for you,” he said and took both suitcases.

Mary-Gordon yielded up the bag without protest to the Man Who Knew Her Name.

“Get ready for the heat, a lot different from Oregon. You going to your father’s or Kayleigh’s?”