Home with You

by Shirlee McCoy

  Things weren’t okay.

  She was certain of that, but the kids were always around and she wasn’t going to push for answers when they might hear.

  So, yeah, she was worried, and it was keeping her awake.

  She could lie in bed waiting for morning like she had the previous night, or she could go for a walk and clear her head. Sullivan had gone to bed an hour ago, the kids had been asleep for at least two. There hadn’t been a peep from anyone since she’d turned off her light and climbed in bed. If she was quiet, if she was careful, she could get down the stairs and out the door without anyone knowing.

  Fresh air. Quiet. Darkness. Those were things she craved like other people craved chocolate. She’d spent too many years of her life hiding in the corner of her mother’s living room, listening to the pounding pulse of too-loud music, the bright lights and raucous sound of another party keeping her awake. As an adult, she preferred lights out at a certain time. No late-night parties that stretched into the wee hours of the morning for her, no loud music. No drugs or heavy drinking or mornings spent wondering what she’d done or who she’d been with.

  She’d made her mistakes as a teen.

  She’d lived through them, and she’d learned from them. Thank God, because the last thing she’d ever wanted to be was like her mother.

  “Enough,” she muttered, shoving aside the covers and getting out of bed, the old wood floor cold under her feet. She grabbed her coat from a hook near the door and walked out onto the landing, listening for any sign that one of the kids had heard.

  Nothing. Not even a whisper of sound.

  She hurried down the stairs, careful to bypass steps that creaked and groaned. Her heart beat rapidly, her hands trembling a little as she buttoned her coat. She felt like the kid she’d once been, sneaking out without permission. Which was silly, because she was an adult and had every right to go outside at two in the morning.

  Her boots were in the mudroom, and she shoved her feet into them, the faux fur trim brushing her calves as she unlocked the back door, grabbed the spare keys from the little cubby near the door, and stepped outside, late winter air seeping through her coat and flannel pajamas. It was cold, but she’d warm up after she walked for a while.

  She headed across the yard and into the field. The river was a half mile dead ahead. She’d been there with the kids several times, talking to them about water safety as they’d navigated the rocky bank.

  She decided to head in the opposite direction, moving toward the eastern edge of the property. There was a small house there—a rancher that the kids said had once been occupied. It was empty now, and she knew where the key was, knew that the electricity and water were still on.

  Maybe after she walked for a while, she’d go there, grab one of the old books off a shelf, and read until she was tired enough to sleep.

  Whatever she decided, this was so much better than lying in bed and listening to the house settle and her thoughts race.

  “Tomorrow will be better,” she murmured as she reached a narrow access road that separated one field from another.

  She followed it for a few hundred yards, then stepped into what had once been an orchard. Now the trees were bare, their limbs gnarled and twisted, their branches growing together to form a canopy that showered her with dead leaves as she walked beneath it. Like the rest of the property, she’d explored this with the kids, discovering old ladders leaning against trees and empty bushel barrels stacked in a small shed. From what she’d heard from people who’d dropped off meals or waylaid her at the school or the grocery store, Pleasant Valley Organic Farm was a raging success and testimony to Matt Bradshaw’s work ethic and organizational skills. A fine businessman, an outstanding father, a pillar of the community.

  Maybe he had been.

  Probably he had been, but Rumer had spent a lot of time at the homestead. She’d learned about farming from Lu, Minnie, and the seasonal workers who came in to plant and tend the fields. Mostly, they grew alfalfa, but there were a few fruit trees and a ten-acre parcel for corn. Things had to be done right, and right wasn’t letting orchards become tangled skeletons of trees or allowing fence posts to rot in the ground. Right was keeping up on the work no matter the season. Maybe things were different, because Pleasant Valley was organic. It was possible they were rotating fields and letting certain sections go fallow. Still, there had to be a certain level of upkeep, and she wasn’t seeing it.

  She made her way through the orchard and stepped out into an expanse of overgrown grass. From here, there was nothing but a yard, a chicken coop, the rancher, and a one-acre garden plot that looked like it had been harvested in the summer.

  She and the kids had found a few onions and potatoes there. She’d spotted watermelon and pumpkin seeds and the shriveled remains of a few cucumbers and tomatoes. Whoever had planted it had created neat rows free of weeds. It was a garden Minnie and Lu would have been proud of. Which said a heck of a lot about its quality.

  Rumer crossed the grassy yard, stepping onto a gravel driveway that curved around the back of the house. According to the kids, their grandparents had lived there years and years and years ago. More recently, it had been rented by two couples. The women were nice. The men were lazy.

  Or, so Heavenly had said.

  Of the two women, the one named Clementine had been the favorite. She’d babysat for them on a few occasions, and she’d always smelled like gingersnaps and soap.

  The last part had been Milo’s observation.

  Not surprising that he’d noticed. He loved to eat. Especially sweets, and he’d most definitely have noticed anything or anyone who smelled like a cookie.

  Rumer smiled as she stepped onto the back porch, feeling better than she had all day. This was what she’d needed—the cold air and the quiet, the tangy scent of old grass mixed with the sweeter smell of new growth. She reached into the potted plant that hung from the porch eaves, feeling under the fake plant, expecting to find the keys.

  She found a few crumbs of dirt and a dead leaf but no key.

  Surprised, she lifted the planter and set it on a dust-coated Formica table that stood in the center of the porch. She lifted out the fake plant that someone had shoved into the planter, dumped the rest of the contents onto the table. A quarter cup of soil, a few pebbles, and two fake leaves. That was it.

  She plopped the plant back into the empty planter and ran her hands over the pile of dirt.

  Still no key.

  She doubted that checking for it again and again and again was going to change anything. It was missing. Since there were no holes in the pot and no way for a key to jump out and lose itself, she had to assume someone had taken it.

  Not the kids.

  She’d been keeping a close eye on them, making sure they weren’t plotting a trip to the hospital. Since Rumer and Sullivan refused to take them, they could be trying to find another way to get there.

  Hitchhiking. Uber. Begging a free ride from some random stranger in a grocery store.

  She shuddered. Parenting was scary. She hadn’t realized how much so until she’d started watching the Bradshaws. No wonder Lu’s hair had turned pure white two years after Rumer had moved in. She’d been more trouble than all six of Sunday’s kids combined.

  She walked to the sliding glass door and gave it a tug. To her surprise, it opened. She was certain she’d locked it before she and the kids had left.

  Heart pounding, pulse racing, she eased it closed again.

  No way in heck was she walking into the house.

  She’d watched enough horror movies to know that was the first step to dying.

  Actually, the second.

  The first was wandering around in the dark in some godforsaken place in the middle of nowhere. Or, traipsing around before dawn on the edge of a tiny little town that sat almost in the middle of nowhere. That described Benevolence to a T, and there she was, wandering around in the darkest hours of the morning just asking for a crazed lunatic to come after her.<
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  She stepped away from the door, her focus never leaving the shimmering glass. She expected it to fly open and some creature from her worst nightmare to rush out. She stepped off the porch with her back to the field and the velvety darkness. She was prepared to be attacked from the front. She wasn’t expecting anyone to come at her from behind.

  That was her fatal error, and she should have known it.

  In horror movies, the monsters never jumped out from expected places. No. They snuck up on their hapless victims and pounced when they were least expected.

  A twig snapped as she took another step backward.

  She froze.

  Grass crunched beneath someone’s feet.

  She started to swing around, but something slammed into her lower spine, the hard edge of it jabbing through her coat.

  “Don’t move,” a woman growled.

  The thing poking into her back felt enough like the barrel of a gun for Rumer to do what she was told.

  She froze, body stiff with fear, heart hammering against her ribs.

  “The police are on their way,” she lied.

  “Good.”

  “They’re not going to appreciate the fact that you have a gun aimed at my back.”

  “They’re not going to appreciate trespassers trying to break into my house, either. So, how about you explain who you are and what you’re doing wandering around my property?” the woman replied.

  “Your property? Unless you’re Sunday Bradshaw it’s about as much yours as it is mine.”

  “Sunday is in the hospital. I’m taking care of the place while she’s there,” the woman said, the weapon still jabbing into Rumer’s lower back.

  Only it didn’t feel as much like the barrel of a gun as it had before. Now it felt more like . . .

  A broom handle?

  She swung around, batting the thing to the ground and coming face-to-face with a woman who looked about as intimidating as a two-day-old puppy. Waist-length curly hair, dark eyes, thick-framed glasses, and a terry-cloth robe that brushed the ground when she took a step back.

  “Sunday’s brothers-in-law are taking care of the property,” she said, her fear melting away as she looked into the woman’s pale face. She didn’t look like a monster, a serial killer or a trespasser.

  “They’re taking care of the house and the kids. I’m taking care of the land,” the woman responded, eyeing Rumer with a mixture of curiosity and irritation. “And, just so you know, I called the police, and they really are on the way. You’d probably be smart to go back to wherever you came from.”

  “I came from the Bradshaws’ house.” Rumer lifted the thing that she’d batted out of the woman’s hand. A broom. For sure. The old-fashioned straw kind. Handmade from the looks of it.

  “You’re a girlfriend or wife to one of the brothers?” the woman asked.

  “The housekeeper. Rumer Truehart.”

  “Rumer, huh? Nice name. Sucky job. I’m pretty damn sure you’re doing a lot more than cleaning house.”

  “The job is multifaceted.”

  The woman laughed, a quick light sound that reminded Rumer of summer rain. “I figured it wouldn’t be long before the men hired one. The house is huge and the kids are a handful. Sunday was in over her head, too. She was just never willing to admit it.” She ran her hand over her long hair, smoothing down some of the wild curls. “I’m Clementine, by the way. Warren.”

  “Clementine?” As in the woman the kids had been talking about? The one who smelled like soap and gingersnaps? Rumer resisted the urge to step closer and take a whiff of cold night air. She couldn’t stop staring, though, taking in the woman’s wild hair and pale face and glasses. Her voluptuous figure beneath her threadbare robe. “You used to rent this house, right? The kids told me about you.”

  “Yes, and just so you know, it’s not polite to stare.” Clementine tugged at the belt of her robe.

  “It’s not polite to poke someone in the back with a broomstick and pretend it’s a rifle, either.”

  “It is when they’re wandering around your house in the middle of the night.”

  “Two in the morning,” Rumer corrected, and Clementine offered a half smile.

  “Either way, we’d both be better off sleeping.”

  “Insomnia sucks.”

  “Here’s an idea for you, Rumer,” Clementine said, the sound of sirens filtering through the early morning silence. “Instead of wandering around outside when you have insomnia, pick up an old book. I suggest The Life of Samuel Johnson. James Boswell’s writing might bore you to tears, but it’s probably not going to kill you.”

  “Walking around at two in the morning usually isn’t going to, either.”

  “That depends on who you run into.” Clementine took a step closer to the road, moving outside the sphere of the light.

  Rumer stayed where she was.

  She was still staring. She knew that. She didn’t care. She’d never been all that keen on following social norms. She sure as heck hadn’t had them demonstrated to her by her mother, her grandmother, or her aunt. They were an eclectic group of individualists, and Rumer thought she might be looking at someone who was the same. Someone who collected old books and planted gardens in beautiful straight rows, who rented property on an organic farm and babysat a wild group of kids almost had to be one.

  A squad car raced into view, lights flashing and sirens blaring. It turned onto the driveway, bouncing over a few ruts and coming to a stop a hundred yards away. The lights cut off, the sirens stopped and a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out.

  Rumer recognized him immediately.

  Sheriff Kane Rainier had the same laid-back vibe he’d given off at the hospital. No rush. No hurry.

  He walked toward them, speaking into his radio as he approached.

  “Ladies,” he acknowledged, nodding in their direction. “Pretty morning, but an odd time to be out enjoying it.”

  “I agree,” Clementine said, striding toward him and offering a hand. “Thanks for coming so quickly, Kane. I’m afraid it was a false alarm.”

  “No problem,” he responded, glancing in Rumer’s direction. “Out for an early morning stroll, Rumer?”

  “That was the plan. I got a little . . . sidetracked.”

  “I apologize for getting everyone riled up,” Clementine said. “I heard someone walking around outside and decided law enforcement might be a good thing to have around.”

  “It’s always better to be safe than sorry,” the sheriff said. “But, I’m thinking this might have been avoided, if you’d let people know you were back in town.”

  “I arrived two hours ago. It didn’t seem prudent to stop by the house.”

  “You didn’t think to call ahead of time?” Kane asked.

  “Call who? Sunday is in the hospital. Matt is dead.”

  “You know I’m not talking about either of them,” Kane said calmly. “Matt’s brothers are running things while Sunday recovers. It would have been wise to check with them before you decided to move back in.”

  “I have nearly two years left of a three-year lease on this property. Sunday and Matt insisted on honoring it. Despite the fact that . . .” She glanced at Rumer. “They insisted on honoring it. I’ve been paying rent on the place, because I didn’t want to leave them in a lurch.”

  “It still would have been prudent to contact Matt’s brothers.”

  “It would have been prudent for me to do a lot of things that I didn’t do.” She shrugged, lifting her hair, rolling it into a loose bun and securing it with a hairband she pulled from her wrist. “I can’t go back and change things, Kane. Even if I could, I probably wouldn’t.”

  “Good to know,” he said without any inflection in his voice.

  There was something between them.

  That was for sure.

  Whatever it was, Clementine wasn’t apologizing for it.

  “One way or another,” she continued. “I have a lease on this property. I don’t need permission from anyon
e to live here.”

  “No, but I’d sure as hell like to know why you suddenly decided to return,” Kane said.

  “I promised Sunday I’d get the farm back on its feet. I’m going to do that.”

  “Promised her when?”

  “Before I left.”

  “Then, why didn’t you stay?”

  “You know why, Kane. There were too many reporters hanging around, and it was making your job more difficult.”

  Reporters? Rumer hadn’t heard anything about that from the kids, and she hadn’t spent enough time in town to hear about it from anyone else. Every minute of the last five days had been spent with one or more of the Bradshaws.

  “That’s an interesting story,” he finally said.

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe you were afraid my office would decide to press charges.”

  “If that were the case, I wouldn’t be back, would I?”

  “Why are you?”

  “I heard about the accident. I realized leaving Sunday in a lurch hadn’t been the greatest thing a friend could do, so I came back. Hopefully, Sunday will survive, and when she comes home, the farm will be everything she’s been hoping for.” Her voice broke on the last words, and Kane frowned.

  “You’re still going to have to discuss this with Matt’s brothers. If they want you out—”

  “Why would they?” She glanced at Rumer as if she might have an answer.

  “They hired me to help,” Rumer offered. “I don’t think they’d turn up their noses to an extra set of hands. Especially a set that isn’t going to cost them anything.”

  Not her business, but of course, she’d been standing there listening as if it was.

  The wind had picked up, the air icy with the beginning of winter. She was so cold her teeth were chattering, and she’d have been smart to head back to the farmhouse.

  Apparently, she wasn’t smart, because she kept standing right where she was.

  “The Bradshaws will have the final say on that,” Kane said, glancing at his watch. “Hopefully, they won’t complain and you can go on with your plans. Otherwise, I’ll be back to help sort things out.”