Though neither of the others would ever know it, just sitting with them in the homey kitchen helping to prepare supper was as precious to her as any fortune.
"I do believe Ford resembles Buck more the older he gets," Miss Fanny mused after a moment's silence. "Of course, he's not nearly as tall, but he has the same rebel look about him." She clucked her tongue. "That poor boy, he was such a devil when he was coming up, with a laugh that fairly rattled the windows when he let loose."
Katie looked thoughtful. "I still hear folks marvelin' at him becoming sheriff when half the town was sure he'd end up in prison or shot dead pullin' some prank."
"He was simply high-spirited. That's always been the nature of the Maguire men."
"Except for Ford's daddy," Katie mused. "Aunt Peg told me once that he was the most unfriendly man she'd ever met."
"That's because he married the wrong woman. Before he met Susannah, he was full of beans and vinegar. Ford favors him greatly."
Katie didn't look convinced. Glancing Sophie's way, she asked casually, "What do you think of the last of the Maguire men?"
Sophie felt a familiar tightening in her stomach. "He's a generous tipper," she hedged.
"He should be," Katie said, laughing. "It's not like he has anything else to spend his money on but that old airplane he's so crazy about."
"That poor boy never had a day's ease," Miss Fanny muttered, clucking her tongue. "I swear, Morgan Maguire had him doing chores around that place of theirs before he was old enough to go to school."
Katie took a sip of tea, then scowled. "I wonder if he ever thinks about the air force anymore?"
Sophie fought a quick battle with herself—and lost. "Was Ford … Sheriff Maguire in the air force?" she asked nonchalantly.
"No, but he wanted to be," Katie said as she got up to switch on the overhead light. It was a week before the shortest day of the year, and dusk came shortly after five.
"Aunt Peg said she remembers him studying day and night to keep his grades up so he'd have a chance at an appointment to the air force academy." She checked on the potatoes before returning to her seat.
"He must have been terribly disappointed when he didn't get it," Sophie remarked.
"Oh, he got it, all right. First time anyone in the county ever came close to qualifying. I was only eleven then, but I remember how excited he was the day the telegram came. Whirled Lucy and me around their living room until we were all three dizzy."
Sophie thought about a man with unsmiling gray eyes and a hard, controlled mouth and tried to imagine him happy enough to dance around a room. No matter how hard she tried, however, she couldn't picture Ford Maguire unbending even a fraction.
"What happened?" she asked, knowing she shouldn't. "Did he flunk out?"
"Never went."
Jessie stirred, and Sophie resettled her into a more comfortable position before glancing up to ask, "Why ever not?"
The two women exchanged looks. "Right after Ford graduated from high school, his father killed his mother and her lover, then killed himself," Katie said soberly, "and Ford gave up his dream so he could take care of Lucy."
Fanny expelled a long sigh, her expression terribly sad. "Ford found them, you see. He was asleep in his room this one morning when Lucy woke him up to tell him their mama and daddy weren't in the house. Nobody knows how he figured out they were out at the airport, but that's where they were, sure enough. The coroner decided that Susannah and the colonel, that's Colonel Tim Shields, the owner of the airport, were carrying on in the colonel's office in the back of the monstrous old hangar when Morgan caught them, er, in the act, so to speak. Ford found the bodies."
It took Sophie a moment to realize she was staring at Katie, her breath dammed in her throat. "I … didn't realize, I mean, I shouldn't have pried…" she stammered, instinctively drawing Jessie closer to her heart. She felt the room tilt as memories surfaced to claw at her, then slowly right itself as she fought them off.
"This is Clover, sugar," Katie said with a forgiving smile. "Pryin's just about our favorite pastime, so secrets don't last long around here—especially the messy ones. But I wouldn't mention anything about this particular mess to Ford or Lucy. Far as I know, neither one of them ever talks about that morning."
In spite of the kitchen's cozy warmth, Sophie felt chilled to the bone. "No, of course, I won't," she promised quickly. Too quickly. "Everyone's entitled to privacy." If only they knew how fervently she hoped to preserve her own.
"I remember seeing his face when he brought Lucy to stay with Aunt Peg and me," Katie confided. "It was like he'd aged twenty years. And his eyes were so empty, like a dead man's." She shuddered. "One minute he was packin' to leave for Colorado, and the next he was makin' funeral arrangements. The day after he and Lucy buried their parents, he asked Sheriff Doherty for a job, sent his regrets to the air force, moved Lucy back into the house his daddy had left him and never looked back."
"As far as you know," Sophie murmured, feeling sick inside. No wonder Ford carried the look of a lone wolf on those broad shoulders.
"Yes, as far as I or anyone else knows," Katie echoed, then sighed. "When I was a teenager, I was terribly in love with him. I used to lie awake at night and plan ways to make him see me as a woman instead of Lucy's best friend. I just knew I was that one special woman who could make him forget all about the past."
"What happened?" Sophie asked almost reluctantly.
"He still treats me like another baby sister, and I fell in love with someone else." After standing abruptly, she carried the beans to the sink and began washing them, leaving Sophie with a lot to think about.
Sophie finished winding her thrift-shop alarm clock and returned it to the nightstand with a deep sigh. Across the room, Jessie was finally asleep in her crib, still sucking her thumb.
Downstairs, some of her fellow boarders were gathered around the gleaming rosewood piano Miss Rose Ruth had brought with her three years ago when strained finances had forced her to give up her ancestral home.
Smiling to herself, Sophie closed her eyes and let the faint strains of "Silent Night" wash over her. Outside her window Christmas lights festooned an enormous Norfolk pine, casting a multicolored glow over the entire garden.
Just yesterday, with much ceremony and laughter, her fellow boarder Roy Dean Stevenson had installed a new birdbath there, his gift to what the former high school math teacher had termed "Katie's extended family."
This morning Sophie had noticed a male cardinal gobbling his fill next to the cute little brown wrens that offered a serenade outside her window every morning. Unlike the proud and strictly monogamous cardinal, the cheerful wrens were prone to have more than one mate at a time and didn't much care who knew it.
Like Wells, she thought, her smile fading. She'd lost count of the number of times he'd accused her of cheating on him, even as he himself had been juggling at least two mistresses. And they were only the ones she'd known about.
She'd been seriously considering a separation when she'd found out she was pregnant. She hadn't expected Wells to be pleased, but she hadn't expected her announcement to be greeted with a blast of icy rage, either. After all, Wells's mother, Anita, had been periodically lamenting the lack of grandchildren, and Wells had always given his parents everything they'd demanded of him—including a college-trained, suitably pedigreed wife.
When he'd accused her of carrying another man's child she'd been dumbfounded. Yes, he'd used protection, but even the best measures sometimes failed. The child was his. She'd never had another lover. Not before their marriage nor during.
She still cringed whenever she thought about the names he'd called her—vile, ugly names that had shredded the last of her love for him. Still, it was only when he'd ordered her to abort the baby that she'd fought back.
Settling back against the twin pillows piled against the headboard, she drew up her knees and hugged herself until the sick feeling of revulsion faded.
No looking back, she reminde
d herself, watching the colored lights twinkling against the night sky. She'd gone through hell, yes, but without the hell, there would have been no Jessie. Closing her eyes, she let her mind drift. When she found herself thinking about Ford Maguire, she snapped them open and reached for the library book on her nightstand. It was a thriller by one of her favorite authors. Usually engrossing from the first page, she found herself reading the same paragraph over and over while the conversation in the kitchen ran through her mind.
This is Clover, sugar. Secrets don't last long around here—especially the messy ones. Katie hadn't meant to turn her blood to ice with those words, but she had.
She closed the book and drew a ragged breath as she returned it to the nightstand. In a moment of macabre humor she wondered how the ladies would have reacted this afternoon if she'd told them her secret?
She could imagine the shocked look that would have come into Miss Fanny's kind eyes. As for Katie, no doubt she would have ordered Sophie to leave her house that instant—or worse, called Ford Maguire to come and arrest her.
Sophie cringed at the thought of his sexy gray eyes going cold and condemning at the very sight of her. There wasn't a chance in the world he would understand the anguish and worry that had driven her to kidnap her own child, she thought as she turned out the light and slipped her tired body under the covers.
It was a long time before she managed to sink into sleep. Before consciousness faded, however, she had renewed her vow to stay as far away from Ford Maguire as possible—even if he did have a touchingly shy smile and a way of looking at her that said he understood loneliness as much as she did.
* * *
Chapter 2
« ^ »
Normally a slow weekday, the last Wednesday before Christmas had been endless and backbreaking, and Sophie was worn-out. Evangeline, the young mother of five who worked the supper shift, had stayed home to care for a sick child, and Sophie had worked her own shift and Evie's, too.
And then, worse luck, the cook had gotten sick in the middle of the dinner rush and gone home as soon as orders had eased off to, a trickle, leaving Sophie to do double duty for the final hour of her shift.
Fortunately, the last customer had left a good twenty minutes before the eight o'clock closing, and she'd been able to wipe down the tables and scour the grill without interruption.
Trying not to notice her aching feet, she was daydreaming about a long hot bath and a lovely bedtime cuddle with Jessie when the bell over the door jangled, and a man in soiled work clothes and filthy boots lurched inside. She shot a quick glance at the clock, hoping against hope that it was past closing time.
It wasn't. Not for three more minutes.
Heart sinking, Sophie pasted a polite smile on her face and reached for a menu. Peg insisted on her employees treating every customer with courtesy, no matter how scruffy, but she was so tired her head was buzzing, and her face felt numb.
"Good evening," she murmured, hoping against hope that the obviously intoxicated man had come in for coffee to go.
"Miz Jones in the back?" he snarled, darting a bloodshot glance at the door to the kitchen behind her. "I come to git my pay for some work I done for her."
"I'm sorry, she's not here tonight."
"She ain't? Then who's helpin' y'all with the cookin'?" The closer he came, the stronger the stench of stale whiskey and sweat became.
"I'm afraid the kitchen's closed for the night." It wasn't exactly a fib—more like a slight exaggeration. But she figured Peg would understand. "I'd be happy to brew you some coffee to take with you, and we have some doughnuts left," she added when he continued to stare at her without speaking. "On the house."
"Reckon I don't want nothing to eat or drink."
Sophie drew a determined breath. "In that case, I'm afraid I can't help you."
"Maybe you can, little lady. Maybe you can."
"I don't think so," she asserted, edging backward. All of a sudden she didn't like the look in his eyes.
"Tell you what, I'd be obliged if you'd just open that till there and hand me out the hundert thirty-two dollars I'm owed." He grinned at her, displaying large yellow teeth mottled with chewing-tobacco stains.
Sophie stared at him, her tired brain only beginning to understand exactly what he was saying. "I can't do that, but I'd be happy to leave a note for Mrs. Jones to call you first thing in the morning."
He shifted his sloppy wad of chew to the opposite cheek, swiping at a dribble of juice with a filthy sleeve. "Guess you bein' a Yankee, you don't understand how things are done in these parts."
"I understand that we're closed, and you're trespassing."
A dull red flush spread along the stubbled jawbone, while at the same time his thin lips pulled back in a snarl. "Outta the way, missy. Old Man Ducette's made him a prime batch of 'shine, and I aim to get more'n my share afore it's gone."
"Looks like you've already had more than your share," she muttered, as angry now as she was tired. To her surprise, he threw back his head and brayed a laugh at the ceiling.
"That's a good one, all right. Yes, ma'am, it surely is." His gaze narrowed, then took on a sly glint as he slowly looked her up and down. "For a Yankee woman, you're not half-bad. Maybe a little on the skinny side, but like the man says, the closer the bone, the juicier the meat." He reached out a grimy hand to squeeze her breast. She slapped him away, and his eyes slitted.
"Now that ain't neighborly, missy," he whined. "A man might get the idea you had it in for him, just 'cause he come claiming what was his by right."
He turned his head to one side and spit. Sickly yellow tobacco juice spattered over her clean floor, turning her stomach. It was all she needed.
"Get out now before I call the sheriff," she ordered, her voice shot with revulsion.
"Git me my money, and I'll go."
"I am not giving you one red cent unless Mrs. Jones tells me to personally."
"Then git outta my way." He barged past her, using his elbow to shove her aside. Without thinking, she shoved back. Surprised, he stumbled, arms flailing like a scarecrow, but he managed to keep his footing.
As soon as he turned toward her, she realized her mistake. However ludicrous it might seem, this filthy buffoon of a man just might be willing to kill her to get his one hundred and thirty-two dollars. Keeping Peg from losing far less than a day's take wasn't worth losing her life.
Spinning around, she took off toward the door. Faster than she would ever have guessed, he lunged after her, catching her by the bow of her frilly white apron, and jerked her backward so hard she lost her footing and careened sideways into a table.
His filthy fingers dug into her flesh, spinning her around. Desperate, she cried out, and at the same time she brought her knee up, aiming for his crotch.
Drunk as he was, he managed to twist just enough to take the blow on his thigh. At the same time, he drew back his fist and took aim. Instead of connecting with her jaw, however, he ended up flying sideways to land in a crumpled filthy heap against the base of one of the counter stools.
The moment his shoulder had made contact with Ransom Talley's rib cage. Ford remembered why football players wore pads.
The jolt had gone to the bone, stretching out the same ligaments he'd torn twenty years earlier.
"Damn you, Rans," he grated, getting slowly to his feet to take a few testing breaths. "Why couldn't you stay on the wagon like you promised me last time you got liquored up?"
Talley lay prone, his mouth opening and closing like a carp, one miserable-looking excuse for a man. Wincing at the hot pain knifing his shoulder, Ford reached behind him for the handcuffs dangling from his gun belt. Talley didn't even protest when Ford rolled him to his belly and cuffed his grimy hands behind him.
Sophie had been knocked aside and was trying to sit up. Ford called her name, and she looked up blankly, her face as white as the silly ruffled apron Peg made all her waitresses wear.
He hesitated, then knelt next to her and touched her
shoulder as gently as he could. And felt her flinch. Instantly, he withdrew his hand, afraid to spook her.
"Sophie, listen to me, you're safe now," he assured her, deliberately using the same tone he'd once used to soothe Lucy when she'd awakened in the night, screaming with another of a long series of bad dreams.
To his relief, it seemed to work, and a semblance of life returned to her frozen features. Like a diver surfacing after too long beneath the surface, she blinked her way back to clear focus, drawing her eyebrows together slowly.
"He came in to see Peg about some money he's owed, and when I told him she wasn't here, he decided to steal it," she declared firmly, with only a faint tremble to her voice. Even as he registered every word she said, along with the way she'd said them, he couldn't help noting that her lips looked softer without the glossy stuff women love so much and had a definite wobble in spite of the brave thrust of her chin.
"Did he hurt you?"
"I think I ripped my apron," she muttered, fingering a torn ruffle with obvious disgust. Ford ran his gaze over her, checking for cuts and bruises. She looked worn-out, but uninjured.
It struck him then how much she resembled the fragile glass angel he'd won for Lucy at the county fair the year he'd turned thirteen and she'd been four.
He still didn't know why he'd told her it was a guardian angel, but he had, and Lucy, far too trusting even then, had believed her big brother. Now that she was all grown up, she knew better. But darned if she didn't keep that little angel safely behind glass in their mama's old china cabinet.
Every time Ford saw it, he was reminded of the vow he'd made to keep his little sister safe and secure all the days of her life. He'd never felt that way about anyone else—until now.
It wasn't a realization he particularly liked. In fact, it made him damn irritable. He'd figured out a long time ago that a man was better off confining his feelings for a woman to the basics, like sex—or in a few select cases, friendship. He'd never managed to put the two together and wasn't at all sure it was even possible.
THE BACHELOR PARTY Page 3
