by Ellen Parker
He spit out a stray feather. Hazardous duty.
“You okay down there?”
“Almost done.” After adding two fresh eggs to the collection, he started to exit.
If an accumulation of little actions earned a man Beth’s attention, this foray should gain him a handful of bonus points. He’d been touched more by Anita’s flock in the last fifteen minutes than by Beth in their last three meetings. Maybe ever.
“Thanks.” She latched the gate in the chicken yard. “I tend to do the chickens first. I like to get them done and over. Gives me a more freedom to loiter with the dogs.”
“I think the flock sensed I was a novice.”
She laughed and led the way across the yard. “Unlike my beasts, the chickens don’t play favorites. They’re just as likely to fly into my face, or Anita’s, as a stranger’s.”
By her side in the kennel, he lost track of time and place. The world shrank to the familiar smells of dog food and grooming products. Lottie stared at him the entire time he had his hands among her puppies.
“I understand, girl. You protect.” The puppies, at twenty-four days old, climbed over each other and paraded around their mother’s feet, exploring the world with bright, dark eyes. He made sure to give Lottie a soft pat on the neck. “You have fine children.”
“They’ll need names soon.” Beth scooped the special formula for nursing mothers into Lottie’s dish.
“When do you send in the registration?”
“Usually at five weeks. About the same time as their first round of shots.”
“Do you load them up and take them into town?” He stood and brushed off his worn, and now stained, pants.
“The local vet makes a kennel call.”
He nodded, trying to remember the last time his dad made a house call. Of course, a professional kennel was a different sort of situation from a suburban household with a litter of puppies. “Can I impose on a place to wash up before I buy you supper?”
“Follow me.”
Like the pups follow Lottie. Tonight he’d obey the rules of their friendship. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t ask permission to take it to the next level.
* * *
Dusk came early in the narrow valley, and Beth savored sitting at a picnic table with friends. Chores were done. Pups were safe in their mother’s care. It was the perfect time to socialize.
Tina launched into a description of her young grandson getting dressed on his own. Soon the entire table was laughing at either old jokes or news snippets. Beth relaxed, warmed to her core trading stories with people who accepted her for the picture she presented. And didn’t ask for deep explanations. She slid her gaze to Jackson as he collected the empty paper dishes.
The bar-b-que was winding down. This was one of the few tables on the blocked-off portion of Back Street where diners still lingered. She turned her attention to the cooking area and realized the Lions Club members were closing down and cleaning up. Even the dessert table looked a little forlorn, only a few plated treats near the end of the table.
The main crowd fanned out from the beer tent while parents collected small children and herded them toward home. Beyond the turn-off into the park, a landscaped spot around the spring and pond, a five-piece band performed sound checks.
“Need anything?” Jackson stood and waited as the others at the table declined his offer.
Tina poked Beth’s shoulder. “Nice catch.”
“I’m not fishing.”
“Then why are you watching him with the concentration of a dog following a fresh bone?”
She opened her lips to deny it, then snapped her mouth closed. No profit in denying the beautician’s observation. Tonight wasn’t the time to raise questions or fuel rumors about her status with Jackson. Instinct told her that the more she denied forming a bond with him, the less her friends would believe it. The ground rules between the two of them were as clear as spring water. The question of the evening—actually, of any time he was within arm’s reach—was if she could follow her own no-touch policy.
Cal, the barber, leaned toward her. “You’re better for him than that other gal.”
She checked quickly to confirm Jackson was out of easy hearing. “What other gal?”
“The blonde. You should drop into the tavern later some Friday. He’s half regular for the fish fry.”
Jackson’s Friday nights are his business. Beth pressed her lips together before she could say that she’d seen him away from the tavern the last couple of Fridays. “Blondes are half the population of the valley.”
Cal tapped the table with an index finger. “She’s a new gal in town. The one carted off to the hospital yesterday. I heard from a reliable source it was a suicide attempt. Pills.”
“Her name is Sylvia.” Beth resisted the urge to clap her hand over her mouth.
Cal picked up the thread of his conversation as if she’d stayed silent. “Couple weeks ago, maybe longer, she came on to him in the tavern. Neither one looked happy when they parted.”
“How does this involve me?” She breathed out a little frustration at the circuitous route of the barber’s words.
“I suspect he’d look a lot happier after buying you a drink. Two single professionals. Should have a lot in common.”
“Not as much as you think.” He thinks I’m single. She swallowed down a little guilt for creating the situation. After all, she never corrected anyone who assumed she was either single or divorced. The problem was, she didn’t know her own status. How do you condense “my husband went missing and until we find the body I’m technically married” into one word? Or less than a dozen?
“You look thirsty.” Jackson set a can of diet cola in front of Beth.
Beth turned toward him and nodded thanks. An instant later, she glimpsed a dark-haired man moving behind Jackson, close to the dessert table, and swallowed. Surprise tinged with fear coated her tongue and awakened a sour taste in her stomach.
She forced her gaze back to Jackson. “Let’s walk.”
“Which direction?” He offered his hand.
Without an internal debate, she grasped his fingers and laced their hands together. “Fire truck.”
“They’re packing up.”
“Indulge me.” She coaxed her lips into a hint of smile. She needed a word with Anita, one of the few people in town who would understand without lengthy explanations.
He guided them past the metal vat of cooling charcoal.
I’m delusional. This was a local festival, advertised no wider than a thirty-mile radius. Kevin had no reason to attend. She shivered under her sweatshirt at the idea he’d deliberately intruded into her home turf. To what purpose? She almost stumbled and gripped Jackson’s hand tighter.
“You okay?”
“Brain-to-foot connection must be loose.”
“Hate when that happens.”
What’s a stronger word? At the moment, the only thing upsetting her more than being followed was that she suspected the stalker was a killer. And he’d gotten away with it for over three years.
She dropped Jackson’s hand, sprinted forward, and called to a trio of volunteers picking up litter where the fire truck had been parked minutes before, “Have you seen Anita?”
The truck, all lights flashing, rolled toward the exit.
One of the men took a serious look at her. “She’s on the truck. What do you need?”
Beth glanced at the volunteer fire fighter, then at Jackson. It was getting dark enough to make identification from a description difficult. “I thought I saw someone in the crowd who would seek her out. A relative of a relative sort of thing.”
“Anita was with Sam. And his little brother. Not so little. I forget that boy’s almost out of high school.”
Beth thanked him and gestured Jackson to follow her.
“Where are we going?”
Lights. People. She laced hands with him again, comforted by the texture and heat. Bits of a plan swirled like puzzle pieces. If she co
nfirmed the mystery man was Kevin, would she have the courage to confront him?
Flashing Jackson one of her wider smiles to hide inner turmoil, she replied, “Dancing.”
* * *
Savoring the tingle of skin-to-skin contact with her, Jackson guided them toward the band and portable lights set up beside the street barricades. He listened to the beat for a moment at the edge of the dance area, then led her to the middle of the dancers in time with the rendition of a Bee Gees’ hit.
“Smile,” he urged her. “This is happy music. What’s the worst? The grapevine has us unofficially engaged by the end of the evening?”
“Fueling the gossips is not my intention.” She twirled under his raised arm.
“Nor mine.”
I plan to take it a trifle slower. With the same result. In their several conversations, he’d not found any obstacle to his growing fascination with her. Just the opposite. He found everything about her intriguing and infectious. Her smile, her stories, and her freckles invaded his dreams at night and stray moments during the day. The lapse in her history made her more, not less, mysterious and attractive.
Her face glowed at him as they moved from good to dim and back to stronger lighting. If he had to place a wager, it would be that she’d not danced in public for ages. Since the move to Crystal Springs? During that blank spot in her history?
“How long?” he asked.
“Do I want to dance?” She stilled and scanned the spectators as the piece ended.
He nodded, eager to keep her from thinking about her prohibition against touch.
“Let’s take it set by set.”
“Challenge accepted.” He tugged on her hand and moved her into the steps of the next piece.
She’s distracted. He avoided comment as the set ended and the band took a moment to announce the next three songs.
“Looking for a new partner? I could hand you off to Daryl.”
She tucked her lower lip in tight as if to dam up unfiltered comments. “I’ll consider it.”
Jackson guided her in the easy steps of the slow ballad and moved them closer to his investigator friend, who was dancing with his sweetheart, the mayor. When he almost bumped elbows with the man, he turned and whispered, “Want to trade?”
Daryl sent him a trademark uneven smile and nodded.
A moment later, Jackson settled his hands in Kathy Miller’s and eased away from the other newly formed couple. “I think they need to talk.”
“You’ll never get him to report the conversation.” She alternated her gaze between Jackson and Daryl.
“I’m aware. He’s good at secrets.”
“According to my sources, you’re not bad either.”
He lifted his brows and studied her innocent expression. “Give the locals a hint and they fill in the blanks. In my short time here, I’d rate the local gossips as more accurate than social media.”
“Well said.”
“Since I have you to myself—have you set a date?” It was an open secret that Daryl was waiting for her to make the next move in their marriage plans.
“Negotiations are ongoing.” She smiled small as her eyes sparkled.
“Better you than me. I love him like an uncle, but…”
“He’s set in his ways.” She dipped into a slight curtsy as the band reached the final note.
Daryl approached with Beth at his side. “Returning her in one piece.”
“As if I’d let you break me,” Beth teased.
“I’m not afraid of you. Her”—he jabbed a finger toward Kathy—“she’s the one I need to be careful around. Nurses are dangerous when riled. They know all the spots to poke with needles.”
“You don’t let me within ten feet when I have a syringe in my hand.” Kathy laughed at her own comment.
Daryl kissed Kathy on the cheek. “Man needs to protect himself from medical personnel.”
“I’ll leave you two to work it out.” Jackson claimed Beth’s hand. No objection. He smiled at her, plotting how to best extend hand-holding and dancing into a kiss. “Feel better now?”
“Absolutely. Exactly the man I needed to dance with.”
“Anyone else? I’m generous at the moment.”
He spotted Mona with her arms around Linc. Their lips moved as if they were a couple of conspirators. No—he blinked the thought away. Lovers. They had easy companionship plus a spark which welded them together. Can I find that sort of happiness with Beth? He wanted to pursue the idea.
“That’s no surprise. You’re a man with a charitable spirit. Let’s dance one more set and I’ll let you walk me to my car.”
His heartbeat increased to match the tempo of the snare drum as the band launched into an ABBA classic. As he danced, his mind twirled equally quickly. Slide an arm around her waist. Brush a kiss across her cheek. Volunteer to follow her home.
At the end of the third song, he clapped for the musicians and smiled at Beth. “I’ll see you to your car.”
“It was a good festival.” She strolled beside him, evading the arm he tried to snake around her waist.
“The evening contained some excellent moments.” Touching you. Dancing. He found it impossible to read her expression. He wanted to move forward, learn, and share with this fascinating woman. “Tomorrow—or maybe today if we’re past midnight—come up to the orchard and I’ll show you something.”
“Dog related?”
He shook his head. “Another facet.”
“I’ll consider it.” She paused beside her van door.
“Beth. May I?” He braced his hands on either side of her against the vehicle, making a loose cage of his arms.
She ducked away and opened the door. “That’s beyond the line.”
“Why?”
An instant after the door slammed behind her, she tossed two words out the window. “I’m married.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Dancer’s a good girl.”
After Beth praised her dog, she drank in the cool, forest-scented, late morning air. This small picnic area with a winding path to a small river was her favorite place to take a break when business took her to the extreme northwest counties of Wisconsin.
Moving at an easy pace back toward the van, she listened to the sound of her sneakers against the mixture of dry leaves and pine needles. Evergreens dominated this far north, but a few colorful leaves clung to birch and maple. With one hand, she rubbed the tingle on her neck. A quick visual scan of the immediate area didn’t show any hazards. Too much imagination.
She forced her mind to look forward. She’d informed the owners of Keller’s Kennel that she would be stopping here for a little while, so they weren’t expecting her for another forty-five minutes. She would just make the planned noon target, giving them plenty of time to get Dancer and her suitor introduced properly. Then she planned to leave the dog and check on two foster families training pups from a previous litter.
“There’s a lover waiting for you. This time it will be a brother to Greta’s most recent. Just think, your puppies will be cousins. Of sorts,” she said to Dancer as they approached the van. A moment later, she pressed the remote to open the rear hatch.
Grrrr. Dancer planted her feet and lifted the hair across her shoulders.
Beth turned in a slow circle, scanning the tree line for a creature her companion might take as a threat. “I don’t see anything worth growling at. Let’s get you loaded.”
Dancer obeyed while keeping her ears perked and ruff raised. The dog lifted her nose and ignored the treat flipped into the back compartment a moment before the door came down. A shiver raced up Beth’s neck as she stepped around to the driver’s side. She turned toward the shaded path to check her surroundings once more.
Whap.
Beth staggered along the side of the van, grasping for a handhold. Pain pierced her skull like a lightning bolt to the ear.
Whap.
A second strike to her head made her knees collapse. The world’s spinning. And g
etting dark. Black moved in from the edges. She caught a glimpse of tan hiking boots as the world narrowed, then blinked out.
A dog barked from a great distance.
Beth tried to cough away something damp and sweet covering her face. Silence. Oblivion.
* * *
Jackson stabbed the disconnect button and dropped his phone on the desk. Three calls direct to voice mail. It didn’t make sense. Beth always carried her phone with her and answered unless she was driving or in the middle of a farm chore. And then she returned calls.
Okay, he amended the statement in his mind. Until the end of the Harvest Festival, she’d returned his calls. Since then, it had been nothing but silence in response to his attempts at communication.
He took a bite of his sandwich and closed his eyes. I’m married. He’d take an oath that his heart had stopped when those words reached his ears. Over and over the phrase played in his mind.
It had been very early Sunday morning, before any hint of sunrise, that he’d given up attempting to sleep. Instead he’d found a caffeine-fortified soda and started a computer search for a marriage license. Thanks to interruptions from daily life, it was early evening before he found it. There it was, two months shy of five years ago, filed in with all the other records in Champaign County, Illinois.
Beth Elaine Cosgrove and Bruce Alexander Morse married on December twenty-first. As near as he could tell from the record, it was a courthouse ceremony. The initials after the officiant looked more like those of a judge than a clergyman.
Why? How? I asked the questions. Didn’t I?
Jackson bit into his apple and tapped in another phone number.
“Big Cat Farm. This is Anita.”
“This is Jackson. I’ve been trying to contact Beth. Is she at the farm?”
“No, she’s out of town. Left early this morning.”
He arranged his next words as carefully as if Anita were a hostile witness. “She took Dancer to the breeder then. Do you have their contact information? Beth’s phone goes direct to voice mail.”
“Sometimes she turns it off when driving.”
“Sounds like the safe thing to do.” He closed his eyes, searching for organization to his next statement.
