Blue Ridge Hideaway

by Cynthia Thomason

  His eyelids slid down over those blue eyes. He was tired. Standing at the kitchen door, Dorie ached for him. What if he was telling the truth? What if his brother’s reputation had carried over to him? She remembered Bret telling her she was naive. Maybe she was, but Jack was in prison for associating with bad people. Maybe deep down, this boy, this Leroy Shelton, could be saved.

  She paused at the door for another minute before coming back into the kitchen. “I’ll fix you a ham sandwich,” she said. “Maybe the sheriff will let you eat it.”

  “That’d be real nice of you, lady,” he said.

  She finished making the sandwich and wrapped it carefully in waxed paper.

  “It looks good,” he said.

  “It will stay fresh.”

  She slid the sandwich across the table at the same time a booming voice said, “What’s going on in here? Have we started a take-out business for vandals?”

  Dorie turned to stare into blazing brown eyes. Bret strode into the kitchen, picked up the sandwich and dropped it back to the table. “Why don’t you add a pickle and some pudding for dessert?” he said. “I’m sure Leroy has a sweet tooth. Never mind that he just about burned down a property a half mile from here.”

  Dorie reined in her temper. “The boy’s got to eat,” she shot back. “He looks like he hasn’t had a meal in days.”

  Bret’s voice kept the sharp edge. “And that’s your problem because...?”

  “Because he’s just a boy and he’s hungry. He should be everybody’s problem.”

  Bret stared hard at the boy. “How old are you, Leroy?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Too old to coddle,” Bret said.

  Dorie didn’t trust herself to speak. Making one sandwich wasn’t exactly coddling a criminal. While she waited for what else Bret would say to chastise her, anger built inside her looking for a way out.

  When Bret spoke again, his voice was low. She strained to hear him. “Let it go, Dorie,” he said. “The sheriff is on his way. He’ll take care of Leroy. It’s not our responsibility.”

  “Fine.” She left the kitchen without another word. The only sound she heard was Leroy’s voice. “Thanks for the sandwich, lady.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE SHERIFF CAME and picked up Leroy. Before leaving, he told Bret that Dabney had not been caught yet, so all the residents of The Crooked Spruce should keep watch for him. For the rest of Sunday the lodge was quiet. Dorie roasted a chicken, though her efforts were rewarded with very little enthusiasm. After dinner, she sat on the porch alone while Bret helped Luke with his homework. It seemed the promise of more meetings on the porch swing had been forgotten.

  Monday Luke returned to school and Dorie stayed busy building a database of contacts for The Crooked Spruce. Bret worked outside and Clancy helped him between naps. King slept at Dorie’s feet under the computer with his head on his paws.

  At nine o’clock Monday evening, Dorie went out on the porch, settled on the swing and waited. For what, she couldn’t say for certain, but the anticipation was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. Would Bret come out to be with her? She didn’t know what to expect, They’d had the argument over Leroy, but Dorie now realized that she probably shouldn’t have interfered to the extent she had. Now her heart hoped Bret would come to the porch.

  With only four more days left at the outpost, her thoughts tumbled to a variety of topics, each one important in its own way. How was Jack holding up? Could she possibly extend her stay and see what developed between her and Bret? Did Bret even want her to after she’d been kind to Leroy? She felt consumed with so many new and unexplored feelings, all based on one kiss. One in a million, but still, only one.

  When the door to the lodge opened, her gaze fixed on the person coming outside. Bret wore a plaid shirt and low-slung, well-worn jeans. Her heart lurched in her chest. She’d seen him a dozen times today and still, when he came onto this porch in the nighttime, with the soft light burnishing copper streaks in his hair, he was utterly and completely the most handsome man she’d ever known. She forgot she’d ever been angry with him.

  Four days left at The Crooked Spruce. She was in such trouble. Four years, forty years wouldn’t be enough.

  He approached the swing.

  She said, “I’m sorry.”

  Not missing a beat, he answered, “Me, too. It was a stupid argument. You were just being compassionate.” He smiled. “It’s not like I didn’t know that about you.”

  She smiled back. “But this is your home, and you used to be a cop. I should have checked with you before interfering.”

  He sat next to her, crossed one leg over his knee and folded his hands on top. “So, that’s out of the way. I don’t want to spend one minute of the next few days arguing about anything.”

  “That sounds good to me.” Still, it was comforting to know they could have an argument and come out of it unscathed.

  “And here we are,” he said.

  “Yes, again.”

  “How are you feeling tonight, out here, just the two of us?”

  “Curious. A little scared. Mostly anxious. The usual girl-boy middle-school stuff.”

  “I hear ya.”

  “Luke in bed?” she asked.

  “He’s reading, but yeah. Pop’s watching a game inside.”

  She’d thought she heard a sports reporter’s voice, hoped someone had just left the TV on. But no. Clancy was just a few feet away on the other side of the wall.

  “Makes a serious discussion a bit difficult,” she said.

  “Yep. Makes most everything difficult.” He turned toward her. One hand came up to cup her nape. He pulled her to him and kissed her softly. A low moan from his throat indicated it had been too soft. And too short. “But not impossible,” he said when he drew back.

  “Where should we start with our talk?” she asked.

  “I think we should start by making a pact not to mention anybody else for at least a half hour. Not Luke, Pop. Not your brother, Jack. This is about us.”

  “That sounds wonderful, but don’t you think there is one person we absolutely must talk about?”

  His brow furrowed just a bit. “Who’s that?”

  “You know that Julie told me about Miranda and how she died,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

  Bret’s eyes shuttered. “I don’t like to talk about that time,” he said.

  “Any of it? I can understand not wanting to relive the day it happened. I don’t blame you, but the rest of it... You loved her. I want to know about her. If you don’t want to tell me, there’s always going to be a hole in our history too big to fill with chatter.”

  He pinched his lips together and considered her words. “Okay. What do you want to know?”

  “Tell me about her. What was she like?”

  He sighed. “She was beautiful.”

  Dorie waited for him to say more. “That’s a start,” she said. “At least we got the man-stuff out of the way.”

  He smiled, and she relaxed against the back of the swing. “Now more.”

  She knew words didn’t come easy to him so she accepted that a little might be all she’d ever get.

  He raised his hands, forming a ball with his fingertips together. “She was like this core of energy,” he said, rolling his hands. “Always doing something, always thinking, planning, reacting to the world around her. I never knew from one minute to the next what she would say or do.”

  “Must have made for an interesting life,” Dorie said.

  “Oh, yeah. She didn’t seem to have any boundaries, at least for herself. There wasn’t anything she wouldn’t try. She’d taste the most awful foods just to experience them.” He laughed softly. “I think part of it was her upbringing. She came from a rich Argentinean family. She wasn
’t denied much when she was growing up. And she wasn’t willing to give up much when she was an adult, even when she decided to marry a policeman with a modest salary. She savored life, both spiritually and materialistically.”

  Dorie remembered the details Julie had given her of the wave runner incident. Bret hadn’t wanted his wife to get the machine, but Miranda’s desires had won out, and she’d let her father buy it for her. That had to have been a slap in the face for a man like Bret, a man who obviously wasn’t a taker, a man who worked to provide for his family.

  “We had some fights in our ten years of marriage,” he said. “Some real doozies. The sad thing is, we would have had another one the day she died. I was itching for a fight.” He glanced at Dorie. “I guess I’m glad Julie told you about the accident.”

  “It must have been horrible.”

  “Did she tell you that Miranda’s father gave her the watercraft when I refused to go along with the purchase?”

  “Yes.”

  “I paced along the shore while she took that machine out. I was worried for her, and I was mad. She had ignored my wishes, and I wondered if I’d ever forgive her for it. The seas were rough, but that only seemed to inflame her determination. It was a weekend, and there were so many people trying to get in a morning of thrills before the weather got too bad. I kept repeating in my mind the words I would say to her when she got back to shore.”

  “And you never got to say them,” Dorie added.

  “No. They weren’t kind words. It’s hard for me to live with the knowledge that the last thoughts I had for Miranda were ones of anger and hurt pride. And guilt for not stopping her.”

  “Could you have stopped her?” Dorie asked.

  “I’m bigger and stronger, so yeah, I could have bullied her into staying on shore. I could have kept her with me if I’d used more than just stupid words. I could have dynamited that blasted Sea-Doo into a hundred pieces, but I didn’t.” He expelled a long breath. “Though if I had, I don’t think the argument would have been any less explosive that night. We were pretty well matched when we argued. She shouted in half English, half Spanish. I placated with my own brand of commonsense mumbo jumbo.” He chuckled. “Must have been a sight, the two of us.”

  She expected him to say something about how they made up after the fights. He didn’t, and she was relieved.

  “There is one thing I will always be grateful for,” he said after a while. “She listened to me when I said she couldn’t take Luke on the back of the craft. If she had done that... No, I would have stopped her. I’m certain of it.”

  She covered his hand with hers. “And now, when you think back on your time with Miranda?”

  “Now the arguments seem silly, a waste of time mostly. Nearly every argument is like that, when two people love each other.” He stared off into space a moment before concentrating on Dorie again. “But you asked me what she was like. I think now you know. She was a woman who did as she liked, and she had the misfortune to marry a man who wanted to protect her from everything. She was like a fire, always bright and burning with intensity. And I ran around beside her with a garden hose, frustrated as heck most of the time.”

  She left her hand covering his and let his image sink in. “You know,” she began, after the silence had stretched into minutes, “I think we can learn something even from life’s biggest tragedies.”

  His mouth curled up at the edges. “Yeah, like follow your instincts and don’t let people you love do something stupid.”

  “Ah, no, I don’t think that’s it. You see, if that’s all you learned, then you’ll go on forever blaming yourself for what happened. And, Bret, you just can’t do that.”

  He turned his hand up, entwined his fingers with hers. “Then, please, tell me, what should I have learned?” His voice was earnest, almost pleading.

  “Well, I’m not the smartest person in the world, but I’d say you should have learned that you can’t make other people’s decisions for them. You can’t force them to do what you think is right. Miranda made her decision that day. You need to let it go.”

  He squeezed her hand. In the low light she watched moisture gather in his eyes. “I don’t know...” he said before his voice hitched.

  “You can’t protect the people you love from everything in life,” she said. “There’s just too much out there. Too many influences, too many bad people, too many stubborn ones.”

  He rubbed his thigh with his free hand. “The night I was shot...I couldn’t even protect myself, and I was in the business of keeping people safe.”

  “And I tried to be a mother and protect Jack, and I failed at that too many times.”

  He twisted around until he could see clearly into her eyes. “And now I have Luke, and I’m sure I’m not half the parent I need to be. Sometimes I think I’m smothering him. Truth is, I don’t know how to back off.”

  “That’s understandable,” she said. “There are different rules for kids. You have to protect them until they are old enough and wise enough to recognize the pitfalls for themselves. And, Bret, you’re doing a great job. He’s a happy, well-adjusted boy. Sure, he’s known sadness but he’s come back, and he has only you to thank for that.” She smiled. “You shouldn’t sell yourself short. You know what it is to be a parent. Thank-yous from kids are rare and special, and Luke may not say it to you in so many words.”

  “It’s okay. I get all the thanks I need when I see his steps to normalcy again. When he complains about homework and bedtime and doing chores. When he starts making friends. Those things are my thanks.”

  He rubbed the tips of her knuckles with the rough callous of his thumb. She felt a tingling energy go all the way to her shoulder. Instinctively, she pressed her body closer to his.

  “Now you,” he said, smiling down at her.

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. I’ve talked a blue streak. It’s your turn.”

  “There’s not much to say. I’ve pretty well detailed the past few months of my life. You know where I’ve been, what I’ve been doing.”

  “True but stuff must have happened in your life before you got messed up with Clancy. I want to know about your business, your house, your dreams and goals, your friends.”

  “Wow, that’s a tall order,” she said.

  “Okay, let’s start with something easy. Mostly I want to know if you have a boyfriend.”

  She chuckled. “I’m temporarily unencumbered.”

  “Good. I don’t think any guy is worthy of you.”

  “So that’s the most important question you wanted to ask?”

  “Yeah. None of the rest of it matters so much. I say we table all discussion for a while. We don’t want this swing time to go to waste.”

  He reached out and hit the switch to the light, put his arm around her and gathered her close. He might not think he’s a worthy protector, Dorie thought, but she had never felt so sheltered in her life.

  He kissed her while he set the swing in motion. She snuggled her head against his shoulder and let him press gentle kisses along her temple, her cheek.

  “What are we going to do when this week is over?” he said, breaking the magical spell of the silence and darkness that surrounded them.

  She looked up into his eyes. “We don’t have to think about that now, do we?”

  He kissed her lips and said, “No, not tonight.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “WORK IS A PRIVILEGE. Don’t abuse it. Work is a privilege...” The warden’s words kept repeating in Jack’s brain. He supposed in a way it was true. Being on a grounds-maintenance work detail at Broad Creek, meant a prisoner could get outside, breathe fresh air, without having to interact with cellmates the way he would if he were assigned to the laundry or cafeteria.

  He picked up a rock and tossed it into a wheelbarrow before resu
ming his raking duties. He’d cleared his section of fence, making it possible for the mowers to cut a clean sweep all the way to the cement blocks holding the heavy-gauge chain link. The fencing and concrete went several feet underground, prohibiting inmates from tunneling under the barrier. At the top of the fence, ten feet up, razor wire discouraged prisoners from attempting to climb over. The yard at Broad Creek was like every prison Jack had ever imagined—stark, bleak and impenetrable. He’d just never imagined living in one.

  The guard walked by on his leisurely stroll. “How are you doing, kid?” he asked.

  “No problem.” Jack would have said he was doing okay even if he’d been bitten by a rattler. Being in the yard was so much better than being inside. Especially since he was basically on his own.

  “This is a sweet-cake assignment,” the guard said. “You must know somebody high up.”

  “Don’t know anybody,” Jack said, resting on the rake handle. That wasn’t exactly true. Eric Henderson had pulled a couple of strings. Jack was now in a different cell block. His roomie, Barry, was a twenty-four-year-old man who’d been convicted of doping horses at a track in Charlotte. Barry was bitter and determined to get out. He wasn’t interested in striking up any kind of friendship with Jack, but at least he wasn’t violent.

  The guard wandered off and Jack got back to work.

  He was beginning to resign himself to the possibility that he’d never get out of Broad Creek. His sister was doing all she could, but she couldn’t change the facts. She couldn’t work miracles. He was going to trial, and the prospects of getting off were grim. Maybe he’d have to accept a plea deal, admit to a lesser charge. He looked up at the sky, so blue and clear. At least if he copped to manslaughter, a big “if,” maybe he could see the sky from the other side of this fence someday.

  He heard the rumble of a large vehicle, one of those big dump trucks, no doubt, loaded with stone and concrete scraps to be used as fill. The sound of a big engine was not unusual on the dusty, unpaved road that ran along the back of the prison. Some sort of project was under construction a half mile or so down the road. He’d heard a do-gooder organization was building a state supported housing facility for families suffering financial troubles.