“Why do you want it, Samuel?” Charles sat next to their father at the kitchen table. In the middle of the table lay a bundle. Samuel could just see the gray steel of the barrel of his father’s old Colt Walker Revolver peeking out of the white linen. “More trouble?”
“I don’t want more trouble,” Samuel said. Samuel traced the wood pattern of the table top with one finger. He remembered doing this when he was a kid, too, sitting at this same table. The thought made his heart ache. “But trouble is coming my way whether I want it or not.”
“You know no one has fired that thing in twenty years,” Charles said, gesturing to the gun. “It might not even work.”
“I’d go buy a new one if I could afford it. But it’ll fire. It has to.” Samuel prayed he was right. He made himself fold his hands and look up at them. “It’s a small town. I’ve heard the rumors. Henry hates me as much now for living after that wreck as for humiliating him in that fight. And now he wants Elizabeth dead, too.” Samuel took a breath. Now for the hard part. “I have to go away for a while. Maybe forever”
“Go away?” Red crept up Charles’s neck and face. Samuel almost smiled, though that would have been disastrous. Charles had never been one who’d been able to hide his anger. “You’re leaving us again? And where would you go to?”
“Up to the old hunting cabin. There’s water and shelter, and I can kill game for food. We won’t starve.”
“We? Who is we?” Then Charles’ eyes widened in shock. “You mean to take Elizabeth with you? You’re insane. Patwin will never agree to that.”
“He already has,” Samuel said quietly. “It was his idea.”
Charles opened his mouth to argue further when Daniel put a hand on his arm. Charles fell silent as Daniel worked to get the words out. His speech was slurred and slow from the stroke, but Samuel understood every word.
“Henry hates you. I’ve heard it, too. But it goes deeper than the fight and living after the wreck. Henry hates you because he wants to be you. He is a coward and a bully and something inside him is broken, so he means to break you.” Daniel sat forward with effort and pushed the linen wrapped gun toward Samuel. Its rasp across the wood sent a chill up Samuel’s back. Daniel’s voice thickened with emotion making it slur more. “He will not stop until you are dead, Samuel. And I do not want you dead.”
Samuel gathered the bundle into his hands. He folded the linen so he would not have to touch the gun.
“Thank you,” Samuel said softly.
Walking away from them now, Samuel wanted to drop the gun and leave it in the dirt. He never wanted to pick another one up or to kill again. Samuel kept the image of Elizabeth’s broken body lying outside a wrecked truck in his mind and straightened his back for the two men watching him from the porch.
Samuel stowed the gun and his packed bag in Patwin’s new truck. Then he went back to hauling lumber. And he waited.
The fight Samuel had been waiting for came two weeks after his release. Samuel bumped along the same mountain road in Patwin’s truck, his elbow stuck out the open window. The ruined vehicle had been hauled up and junked. Samuel was just appreciating the smoother ride when around a bend in the road he found three Sherriff’s vehicles parked across the road, one behind the next.
A grim flash of gratitude raced through him that he was alone this time. Elizabeth had not ridden with him since the accident.
Samuel slowed the truck, then stopped. Henry Douglas stepped out of the first car. Samuel suppressed a satisfied grin at the crooked set of Henry’s nose. That’ll never be the same again, Samuel observed. The thought twinged a tiny amount of guilt. He did not like hurting people, but Henry had deserved it.
Two more deputies stepped out of the other cars. Samuel noted their guns already drawn. Samuel pulled his father’s gun across the seat so it would be close.
With a start, Samuel recognized one of the deputies. Clayton Perkins, the skinny deputy with a mustache from the jail. Clayton’s eyes darted nervously from Samuel to the other officers back to Samuel and he chewed on the end of one mustache.
“Well, it’s a small world. Samuel! I didn’t know you were back to work.” Henry did not have his gun drawn. He stood with his thumbs in his belt loops.
“Then move the cars, Henry, and we can go our own ways,” Samuel said from the cab of the truck. With his right hand Samuel unwrapped the cloth around his father’s gun without taking his eyes from the four men. “We don’t have to do this.”
“Sure, Moss. Come on out and we’ll talk about this.” Henry spread his hands in a look-how-harmless-I-am gesture. “I ain’t gonna bite.”
Samuel’s gaze flicked to the other deputies. Two of them appeared as stolid as ever, and made no move to put up their side arms. Clayton looked like he wanted to sick up.
Samuel opened his truck door and stood behind it, holding his father’s Revolver at his side.
“All right, Henry. I’m out. What do you want to say?”
“This,” Henry said. He drew his gun and Samuel ducked behind the truck door. A loud report echoed off the mountain side, followed by a screaming hiss of air. Samuel looked beneath the truck. Henry had shot a hole in one of his tires. Samuel waited for more gunshots. None came.
“You see, Moss, here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to come out here and I’m going to whip your ass for every time you made me look stupid. Then, I’m going to roll your truck down the side of the mountain. Mountain roads are dangerous places to have a tire blow out. It’ll look like an accident.”
“Sure, Henry. Whatever you say.” Samuel pulled the hammer back on the Revolver. It made a satisfying ratcheting sound. “I’m coming out now.”
Samuel stood and walked around to the hood of the truck while Henry and the two deputies watched him. Samuel kept his hands behind his back, the Revolver ready to fire in his right hand. Samuel met Clayton’s horrified gaze.
“Whatcha got behind your back, Moss?” Henry said. His words were casual, but Henry’s hand twitched toward his own weapon.
“This isn’t right,” Clayton said, his voice shaking. “This isn’t why I joined up. I can’t—“ He didn’t finish what he couldn’t do. Clayton ducked back into his car and haphazardly backed the car away.
When the dust settled and the car was gone, Henry said, “We’ll handle him later. I need to deal with this first.” Without preamble Henry aimed and fired his gun at Samuel.
Samuel felt the wind of the bullet as it went past his head. Samuel pulled the gun from behind his back. He aimed at Henry and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Samuel ratcheted the hammer again and pulled the trigger again.
Nothing.
Samuel flung the gun away and rushed at Henry. He hit him in the stomach with his shoulder and wrapped his arms around the deputy’s waist, lifting the bigger man off his feet and onto the ground.
Henry bared his teeth at Samuel, like a feral animal would, and punched him in his still tender ribs with his free hand.
Samuel winced, telling himself ignore the pain and wrestled the gun away from Henry.
“I don’t want to do this, Henry,” Samuel said.
Henry wrapped his hands around Samuel’s throat and squeezed. Black spots danced in front of Samuel’s eyes. He aimed Henry’s gun as best he could and squeezed the trigger. The report of the gun made his ears ring. Henry’s hands fell away.
Samuel scrambled away, gasping for breath. Rough hands grabbed him and hauled him to his feet. One of the remaining deputies, angry and red in the face, was telling him something. Samuel couldn’t hear through the ringing in his ears, but he saw the deputy’s lips form the word ‘jail’ and ‘life’. The other deputy jerked Samuel’s hands behind him and cold metal bit into Samuel’s wrists. He was bundled into the back of one of the cars. As the car pulled away, he twisted around to see the remaining deputy talking into his radio.
Samuel knew how this would look, and he thought he might see the death penalty for killing an officer.
S
amuel stood in front of the judge, his hands chained at his waist. He did not recognize the man. Judge Simmons was in the hospital after a heart attack, and this judge had been brought in from out of county to sit for Samuel’s case. He’d already listened to the testimony of the other two witnesses. Both deputies told a similar version of the same story: how Samuel had cornered Henry on the mountain road, ruthlessly shot an upstanding citizen and fellow lawman. Samuel’s own testimony had sounded weak in the face of the credibility the badge leant their version.
The air in the full courtroom was tense. It was the story of the year. Hometown war hero on trial for killing a sheriff’s deputy.
Samuel glanced over his left shoulder and saw a clutch of Sherriff’s department employees staring daggers at him from their side of the courtroom. Among the faces were the two deputies who had stood at Henry’s side. They flanked Abel Douglas, Henry’s father, who stared steadfastly at the judge. Clayton Perkins wasn’t looking at Samuel either. His head was bent, his gaze on fidgeting hands. He chewed on one corner of his mustache and did not look up.
Samuel turned around in his seat to see the only kind faces in the room. Charles sat next to Daniel’s wheel chair. Daniel looked stoic in his best suit, even with a blanket covering his withered legs. Patwin sat between Daniel and Elizabeth.
Samuel met Elizabeth’s eyes. She gave him a reassuring smile, but there was worry in her eyes.
The judge banged his gavel and Samuel turned back to face him. The judge waited for the muttering crowd to settle before speaking. “Samuel Moss, after hearing all testimony related to the death of Henry Douglas, this court finds you—”
“May I say something?”
There was an audible gasp around the courtroom. Samuel turned to see the speaker.
Clayton Perkins had gotten to his feet. Someone Samuel could not see tried to pull him back to sitting, but Clayton shook them off and stepped out into the aisle. “Your honor, I would like to testify.”
The judge frowned. “You have testimony that will contribute to this case?”
“I believe so, Your Honor.”
“Then don’t waste our time standing in the aisle, son. Get up here.”
Clayton strode up the aisle and took the witness stand. A bailiff gave him a Bible to swear on.
The judge waited for the swearing in to be done before asking, “Now what is it you’d like to say?”
“I was there for some of it,” Clayton said, and the story tumbled out of him.
Samuel hardly dared to breathe as Clayton told a rapt audience how Henry had bullied him into coming along that day, how Henry had cornered Samuel and forced a fight. Clayton’s face reddened when he talked about the part where he’d fled.
The judge eyed the two deputies when Clayton spoke of how they’d chivvied him into silence afterwards.
“It was self-defense, Your Honor,” Clayton concluded. “Henry cornered him and Samuel fought back.”
Clayton was excused from the witness stand. He did not go back to his seat; he took an open seat beside Elizabeth. Tears rolled down her face as she threw her arms around Clayton’s neck and sobbed into his shoulder. Clayton reddened again and patted her on the arm.
The courtroom buzzed with conversation, and the judge had to bang his gavel a number of times before the room silenced. “In light of new testimony,” the judge said, “I have reconsidered my original verdict. Samuel Moss, I find you not guilty of the murder of Henry Douglas. And,” he said, looking hard at the cluster of Sherriff’s department uniforms, “I intend to begin an investigation into the nature of this cover up.” The judge banged his gavel. “Courtroom dismissed.”
The bailiff unlocked the shackles around Samuel’s wrists. Elizabeth gave a whoop of delight and rushed into his arms.
Samuel sat beside Elizabeth at the Moss kitchen table. A turkey he had shot a few days before was roasted to perfection. Side dishes that made his mouth water steamed beside the bird.
Elizabeth took his hand beneath the table and squeezed.
Samuel looked at her and smiled. “It looks wonderful,” he said.
She laughed and said, “Just don’t expect it every day.”
“Samuel, will you say the blessing?” The question came from Patwin. “Make it short,” he added. “I’m hungry.” Charles and Daniel nodded their agreement.
Samuel looked around the table at the people most important to him, at the lady he had already asked to become his wife. He swallowed hard and bowed his head. “Thank you, God, for this life.”
Copyright © 2018 by Meghan Ewald.
Called a “legendary erotica heavy-hitter” (by the über-legendary Violet Blue), Andrea Dale writes sizzling erotica with a generous dash of romance. Her work—which has been called “poignantly erotic,” “heartbreaking,” and “exceptional”—has appeared in 20 year’s best volumes as well as about 100 other anthologies from Soul’s Road Press, Harlequin Spice, and Cleis Press. Her latest release is novella Kiss on Her List. She finds passion in rock music, clever words, piercing blue eyes, the wind in her hair, and the scent of the ocean. Visit AndreaDaleAuthor.com for more information.
HOUSE OF DREAMS
by Andrea Dale
“Do you want to drive?” The keys jangled from Vince’s fingers.
Stefanie smiled around the single, hard thump of her heart. She knew why he offered. It would take her mind off the sadness, the heartache of watching their baby girl bound up the stairs to her freshman dorm room at Pepperdine.
A cool wind from the ocean below teased her hair. “Thank you,” she said. Their hands brushed as she took the keys, and if he’d squeezed her fingers she might’ve cried, but he didn’t, because he knew, and she appreciated that, too.
She’d scoffed at the idea of empty-nest syndrome, the same way she’d scoffed at “getting older”—although after a bout with sciatica two years ago she’d taken up running and Pilates and healthy eating, and dropped forty of the pounds that had crept up during three kids and all those years of marriage. They’d turned Geoff’s bedroom into a workout room, because he was already married and unlikely to be returning home.
The older two had had already fled the nest, and seeing Lauren off to Pepperdine should have been easy, but Lauren had been her precious girl (after two precious, but somewhat alien, boys). Lauren had been her Mini-Me, and despite the usual teenage rebellions had still been loving and filled the house with laughter.
Stefanie turned the car left onto Pacific Coast Highway, to head south down the coast towards Santa Monica and then inland to home. At least Lauren had chosen a local university. There’d be visits—when it didn’t cramp Lauren’s college lifestyle.
Bright sunlight glinted off the ocean, and she couldn’t resist cracking the window to inhale the scent of the surf.
Vince’s hand was warm on her thigh where her skirt had ruched up, comfortable and comforting. She was startled when she’d eased to a stop at a red light and he squeezed and said, “Look, hon, there’s an open house up there. We have time before lunch. Maybe we should check it out.”
She laughed. “What, you want to upsize now that all the kids are gone? That’s what we call ‘cross purposes.’”
He laughed, too. “Yeah, we probably don’t need a bowling alley or a gift-wrapping room. I just figured we had some time to kill...and it’s been a long time since we imagined what we’d do with a house like that.”
It was a game they’d played, before the kids were born. They’d go see houses for sale that they could never, ever afford. They’d wander through, discussing how they’d arrange their meager living room furniture in the cavernous great room, come up with crazy ideas for how to use the eighth bedroom.
They’d also.... Her breath caught. They’d also done things she’d almost forgotten about. The game they used to play.
The light turned green, and she turned left up into the canyon.
Vince squeezed her thigh again, and now she was squirming in her seat, trying to focus on the hairp
in turns as the GPS squawked its disapproval at their detour.
The house was in a gated community in the hills, not quite tony enough for mega-celebrities, but still mind-numbingly expensive for the average buyer. A place to see D-list celebs, producers, the one-hit-wonder pop star who hadn’t burned through her money yet.
They went in, put disposable booties on over their shoes to protect the floors, and signed their names and addresses (fake) in the guest book. The entryway could best be described as cavernous, with two staircases on either side curving up to meet in the center. The floors were marble, the banisters and chandelier wrought iron. Mediterranean traditional, meet Hollywood chic.
The previous owners had moved out, so all the furniture and artwork were beautiful but staged. There weren’t many people viewing the house right now, and the agent let them wander at will.
Stefanie did feel a pang when she saw the enormous professional-grade kitchen, and then another pang when she thought about the amazing meals she could cook here for the whole family.
Then she reminded herself that she really wasn’t all that fond of cooking, and herding her family to do clean-up was a lost cause.
“If this were our house,” Vince said, using the almost-forgotten phrase, “we’d have a maid.” It was as if he’d read her mind.
Hand-in-hand, they went out to the patio. The views were stunning, and the outdoor kitchen by the pool was bigger than their kitchen at home.
“If this were our house, we’d host amazing parties,” she said. “And you wouldn’t set anything on fire when you grilled.”
“Look at how private this is,” Vince said. “If this were our house, we could swim naked.”
She didn’t remind him that before the kids, they’d walked around naked all the time.
“We could,” she agreed, but somehow, she didn’t feel it anymore.
Issue 7, Febraury 2018: Featuring Jayne Ann Krentz: Heart's Kiss, #7 Page 12
