Lone Tree

by O'Keefe, Bobbie

  The terrain was uneven, wooded and brushy, plenty of deadwood lying about, and Lainie seemed determined to trip over every bit of it. At the top of a short incline, she lost her footing and tumbled down the slope.

  “You okay?” He followed, pulled her to her feet, and chuckled as he helped brush off dry leaves and twigs that clung to her shirt and jeans. “Good thing we’re almost there. Don’t know how much more of this you could take.”

  A short while later he helped her climb a hillock then turned her toward the sun and nestled his head next to hers. “There,” he said. They stood atop a knoll where the terrain dropped into a small valley before it crested again, allowing a view above the tops of the trees.

  “Oh,” she breathed, and his arm around her waist squeezed her closer as they watched the sun descending behind the next hill. The sky had turned from blue to glorious golden-red. Brilliant gold and orange rays spread atop the canopy of trees, making them appear to be on fire.

  “Not the same as watching it sink into the ocean, I’m sure,” Reed whispered. “But still beautiful.”

  “Oh.”

  “I take it that’s affirmative?”

  When she turned her face to his, his lips brushed hers, then her cheek, then he pressed her head into his shoulder. His breath stirred her hair. “If you have as much trouble getting back as you did getting here, we’d best start back right away.”

  She made a noncommittal sound, then followed his lead when he turned away. Being clumsy wasn’t part of her nature, but she had an inkling of the reason for today’s mishaps. She figured she might have something in common with Randy Jones; she felt so self-conscious she bordered on shy.

  Once the thought occurred, she recognized its validity—and its absurdness. She’d shared a bed with Reed for two months. Yet here she was, as shy and wondering and full of anticipation as a virginal bride on her wedding night. It didn’t make sense, yet there it was.

  She’d been aware, since she’d first met Reed Smith, of his strong effect on her. He didn’t even have to touch her. All he had to do was look at her and she melted. She’d thought she’d been in love with Jason, but he’d not had an effect on her as profound as Reed’s. When with Reed, the outside world ceased to exist.

  As she kept pace with him now she was acutely conscious of him. With every step she took, his nearness loomed. Became essential. Warning bells, produced by her own sixth sense, chimed in the distance, but the nature and sensuality that surrounded her drowned them out.

  Twilight was with them when they arrived at camp. Shadows turned vague, lacking form. Horses neighed, welcoming them back. Reed knelt to tend to the fire and she continued on to the sleeping bags. As he stirred the embers, one hand fooled with the buttons on his shirt, then he pulled it free from his belt. She sat to remove her boots and then pulled her jeans off.

  He reached to the side for a log and laid it on the smoldering embers. He watched the fire stir into life and she watched him. Her shirt and bra joined the rest of her folded clothing. The night air was cool but not uncomfortable.

  She rose to her feet, aware of the firelight flickering across her skin. He reached for another log. Apparently satisfied with the campfire, he stood and turned, his hands unbuckling his belt.

  He froze, said nothing for a long moment. Then he whispered, voice husky, “No boots.”

  With her smile, she felt her shyness edging off.

  “You’re beautiful, Lainie Sue. Beautiful. You steal my breath every time I look at you.”

  He crossed the clearing. Slowly his fingers traced her torso to her waist, and took what breath she had left away from her. He shrugged out of his shirt as their bodies lowered to the sleeping bag, then he twisted around to pull boots off and remove his jeans. She trailed her fingers across his back. His shoulders were sinewy, muscles stretching as he moved. His skin prickled at her touch. When he turned to her, he was already breathing fast, and hungrily he pressed his mouth to hers. His body forced hers back and down. Her arms grew tighter around him; she felt like she couldn’t get close enough.

  Though they tried to take it slow, savor each other and the night, the romance of the evening had served to put them halfway there before they got started. Ready, but not wanting to rush it, she pulled her mouth away from his. Her teeth played at his shoulder. He kissed her neck, then his lips trailed lower and found her breast. She gasped and arched, her fingers digging into him. She was so sensitive it almost hurt.

  Reed had either read her mind or was just as ready as she was—probably both. He shifted to cover her body with his. As he slid into her, their need threatened to explode. Matching each other’s rhythm they moved as one. Her climax came strong and fast and his an instant later.

  When they became still, much of his weight remained on her. His breathing was heavy, but he wasn’t. She didn’t want him to move; she liked him right where he was. Her hands moved lazily over his back. He made a sound of pleasure deep in his throat, stirred, and gently kissed the hollow between her neck and shoulder.

  Then, finally, Lainie thought to look at the sky.

  The moon was just rising above the treetops. It had another day or two before it would become full, but it shed plenty of light, as did the stars. Reed, and this night together, were so special that her eyes grew moist. Her arms tightened around him, and she felt him stir in response as she pressed closer to him.

  She simply couldn’t get close enough.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Carl Henry had made his plans. This was his last night of gainful, legal employment. He’d gotten his last paycheck, full of all those pennies, and he wouldn’t be wanting or needing another one, thank you very much.

  Located on the same block with his fleabag hotel was a rundown café that was open until the early morning hours. The waitress locked up and left alone, and the cook-owner, a sour old man with one foot in the grave, followed about twenty minutes later.

  The waitress had to be close to forty, older than Carl, but she’d caught his eye nonetheless. Her figure wasn’t bad; she was about the same size as Jackie and had the same kind of red-gold in her hair. Maybe that was it. Jackie Lyn was the only woman he’d ever looked at more than once.

  This one’s name was Millicent. He liked that; it had a nice, regal sound. No nickname or cute double name for her. But Millicent had a face too lined and hard to be pretty. She’d seen some rough years. Neither did she have Jackie’s little girl innocence. But then neither did Jackie Lyn, anymore. He was looking forward to seeing her again. He had some questions about faithfulness to put to her.

  He was a regular at the café, stopping for coffee and a sandwich every night, and he always managed to exchange a few words with Millicent. If he showed up while she was on her way to her car she shouldn’t be alarmed, and then he’d have her and transportation. He needed wheels to get out of here and wanted to get started tomorrow. Or the next day, depending upon Millicent.

  Because Jackie was the guiltiest party, Carl had decided she’d be last and Mr. Businessman would be first. Which gave Carl an excellent opportunity to use the camera that’d been left as a gift for him in the lunchroom: before and after pictures of the boyfriend. He’d make Jackie put them up on her computer so she could see firsthand exactly what she was responsible for.

  While he took his time with a fried egg sandwich and coffee that night, he watched Millicent collect sugar dispensers onto a tray, then fill them at the inside counter with her back to him. He caught the outline of her bra strap through the thin pink cotton uniform. He twisted on the stool seat, eyes on that barely perceptible line.

  When she turned and caught his eye, she stood stock-still for a second or two, as if she’d gotten inside his mind and didn’t like what she saw there. And then she collected herself, broke eye contact and started returning dispensers to their places.

  He stared straight ahead, making his face blank and swallowing resentment. Women were made to be looked at. If they didn’t like it, they should stay home
in the first place. He finished his coffee, ambled over to the cash register and pulled out his wallet. She met him there and added up his check.

  “Your hair’s especially pretty tonight,” he offered, along with his ten-dollar bill. He wanted to show her how mild a man he was.

  She didn’t acknowledge the compliment, which annoyed him, but he kept the annoyance to himself. She counted out coins, then bills, and he said, “You keep it.” Closing his wallet, he returned it to his pocket.

  She looked up, surprise on her face, then shrugged and dropped the money into her pocket without bothering to thank him.

  Carl Henry took his leave, feeling smug. He’d get the money back later, along with the rest of her tips. He was also going to talk to her about her manners.

  Her car, a red foreign job, was in the first slot in the parking lot. A short wooden fence separated the lot from the sidewalk. He tested the end post, decided it was sturdy enough to hold him, then settled down to wait. The street was deserted, as he’d expected.

  About twenty minutes later Millicent walked briskly into the lot. When she caught sight of him, her step faltered. Her gaze darted to her car, but he’d planted himself close to it, so she stayed put and just watched him.

  Trying to look harmless, he gave her what he thought was a bashful smile while he got to his feet. “Hi. Don’t want to scare you. I’m new around here, live right over there.” He pointed at the flophouse across the street. “Really lonely being on my own. And I thought if you were alone, too, then, well, I was hoping...” He shrugged, pretended to be embarrassed. He added, “I know your name’s Millicent. It’s on your nametag there. My name’s Carl Henry.”

  No response. He might as well make his move now and not waste more time pitching a line she wasn’t going to buy. The cook might leave early and Carl didn’t want interruptions. He stepped forward.

  “You want to go for a ride?” she asked, surprising him.

  “Uh, yeah.” He stopped and smiled, enjoying the image her words evoked.

  “That’s my car there.” She indicated it with a brief tilt of her head. “We can go for a drive if you want. And talk.”

  “Sounds good.” So she wasn’t such a hard sell after all. Just harder to read than most.

  Keys in hand she walked toward the driver’s door and motioned him to the other side. “Go on around and get in.”

  The passenger’s door was locked, so he waited for her to open it after she got in. She didn’t look up, just put the key in the ignition. He knocked on the window. The engine turned over, turned over, turned over, then caught.

  “Hey!”

  She never looked at him. The car backed out with Carl hanging on to the door handle, banging on the window and shouting at her. When it swung around and pulled out of the lot, he lost his hold.

  He was so mad, he chased it until he was winded. The little red car stayed on the straightaway for several blocks, then took a right turn, a turn to who knew where. He’d follow her home—oh, how he’d love to surprise her—but he didn’t know where she lived.

  Doubled over in the middle of the street, hands on his knees as he labored to breathe, he imagined what he’d do to her if he could just find her...

  The solution was so simple he swore at himself. He knew where she worked so he could find out where she lived. Thought she was so smart, but he was smarter.

  He sprinted back to the café, not wanting the owner to get away, too. The old man looked up when Carl Henry banged on the door but just made a go-away motion and then turned his back. Carl yelled obscenities, banged louder and looked for something to hit the door with. Nothing showed up, so he walked away and then ran back, ramming his shoulder into the tempered glass.

  The old man turned around, grew still and watched.

  The door remained intact, and Carl Henry’s shoulder hurt. So he rammed it with the flat of his foot. That was better. The structure vibrated, showing the cook that Carl meant business without Carl having to hurt himself.

  The old man broke out of his stupor, took two jerky steps to the wall telephone and fumbled with it. He dropped the receiver and dug in his pants pocket. Then he left, disappearing into the kitchen, and it didn’t take a brilliant piece of deduction to figure out he must have a phone in there. A sense of self-preservation replaced Carl Henry’s rage.

  But wait a minute, nobody knew who he was, he could just—

  Except—

  “Shit!” He kicked the door again. Except he’d been stupid enough not only to tell Millicent his name, but where he lived. He’d shown her, actually pointed it out. He’d really done it now. Millicent, the bitch! Not only looked like Jackie, she’d fixed him good, just like her, too.

  Siren! Distant and dull, but getting loud fast.

  He raced up the street and around the corner, across that street and around the next corner, then brought himself up short. The sound was so loud it was deafening. Was he running toward it?

  A dented black coupe with a rough-sounding engine slowed and pulled over. The driver must’ve heard the siren, was looking for the source and had gotten off the street, just like he was supposed to. The car was so close Carl could touch it, and he did.

  The driver’s door was unlocked. The young kid behind the wheel, who was wearing a shirt with a picture of a taco on it, probably thought he was big and strong enough he didn’t need to keep his doors locked like Millicent did.

  The siren came to a standstill, probably at the café, and Carl Henry yanked the kid out of the driver’s seat. The dude was so surprised he didn’t even struggle. His foot slid off the brake and the car started rolling. Carl slammed the emergency brake in with the palm of his hand and the car held in place.

  The kid’s legs got tangled up in the steering wheel shaft, but then finally he was all the way out and Carl laid into him. All his pent-up rage let loose and exploded on the unlucky kid who was probably on his way to work the night shift at a fast-food joint.

  Leaving the bloodied body half in the street and half on the curb, Carl got into the car and drove off. Breathing in gasps, hands shaky and streaked with the kid’s blood, he worked on gaining control of himself. Then he had to pull over and search for the seat adjustment because the kid’s legs were a lot longer than his. He was so close—too close—to freedom. He couldn’t get caught now. Maybe he’d taken too long with the kid? Were the cops already on his tail?

  He made turns at random, zigzagging his way to who knew where. Finally his ragged breathing began to even out.

  He passed an apartment complex, parked two blocks away and walked back. A blue sporty model was backed into a slot. Doors were locked but windows were conveniently rolled halfway down. He took a quick look around, then reached inside and unlocked the driver’s door. He slipped in, yanked the lower panel off the dashboard, found the wires and fiddled with them and got the car running in no time. He had skills.

  Later, as the day dawned and warmed up, he discovered why the windows were down. The air conditioner didn’t work.

  In Farber, he took the first exit, cruised along until he spied a phone booth and an empty parking place, then pulled over. He yanked the directory open, searched for Realtors and found Quality First And Last Real Estate. He snorted as he read the advertisement: Quality Sales, Quality Personnel, Quality Listings. Someone had worked hard to get the point across.

  Now he needed a map. With his forefinger on the address he looked up to check the street sign. Well, well, skip the map. Here he was. Looking back down, he tapped the listing twice, pleased with himself. He checked the number on the store front behind him, belonging to a cleaners, then the one next to it, a flower shop. Okay, across the street, a couple blocks that way. No problem. Leave the car here and walk. It’d feel good to stretch his legs.

  After just a few steps he stopped and looked back across the street to a chain store, one of those places that sold everything and sold it cheap. Wouldn’t do to go calling when he looked and smelled like a bum after spending the day insi
de a car that didn’t have air conditioning.

  He bought a cheap shirt and trousers and a package of skivvies. The washroom had a toilet, sink, and a lock on the door. The faucet was stuck on lukewarm, but he did a passable job with paper towels and the soap dispenser then dressed in his new duds. He wasn’t going to worry about his two-day-old stubble. He’d seen worse on the streets since he’d gotten out, even on well-dressed dudes.

  As he stared at his reflection in the pocked mirror, he thought about Millicent. If he hadn’t had to clear out so fast, he would’ve brought what he needed with him. But she was in the past, not worth fretting about. He needed to get on with the future.

  Quality Realty was a big place, two desks in the front and then a row of three in the back. A man sat at the front desk to his right. He glanced at Carl then looked back at his computer screen. Must be too busy to take on a new client. And too old anyway, forties or fifties maybe, with glasses and graying hair.

  The woman at the desk to his left was on the phone. When he looked her way, she smiled and held up a forefinger, signaling she’d be right with him.

  He used the time to check out the office: three men, one woman, one empty desk. The man at the far left leaned back, reached for a pencil and played with it while studying an opened folder on his desk. He couldn’t be more than thirty, was slender and long-waisted, would probably make six feet when he stood up, and he had wavy, dark-blond hair. His gray suit coat was unbuttoned, showing off a pinstriped tie in three shades of blue and a frosty-white shirt.

  Carl’s attention sharpened. Adrenaline kicked in.

  The brass name plaque on the man’s desk held two lines: Quality at Your Service, Willis Bender.

  Perhaps sensing he was being studied, Bender looked up and caught Carl’s eye. Fearing he might appear too interested, Carl made himself glance away. The third man, at the back desk on the right, was also light-haired and possibly tall, but had a face full of freckles Leroy hadn’t described. The nameplate on the empty desk said it belonged to Teresa Stone.