by Nancy Gideon
Nods and murmurs of agreement brought Doc Meirs to his feet. "That's nonsense and you know it. Mary confessed—"
"To protect that piece of crud boy of hers. If Mary Crandall killed her husband, why wasn't the murder weapon ever found? Huh? You're so damned smart, Doc, answer that one."
Meirs gripped his mouth shut at Baines's taunt. He had no answer. He, like the rest of them, never believed for a minute that Mary Crandall was guilty. But unlike the rest of them, he didn't think Zach had done the crime, either.
And that meant someone else, maybe one of them in that room, had done it.
But after seventeen years, it didn't seem worth picking at old wounds. Mary had willingly taken the blame, and peace had returned to Sweetheart. Until now.
"Let the boy alone," he advised wearily. "Haven't we done enough to persecute the whole family?"
Baines jabbed a finger at him. "Just wait, Doc. He'll show his true colors, and you're going to be the one apologizing to us."
"Time comes, I will. Until then, we really don't have any cause to take action."
"Maybe if we called him over and asked what his intentions are?" Bernie suggested.
Elmer turned to glare at him. "You want to go get him, Bernie? Go ahead."
Bernie scowled and stayed silent.
"All right! All right!" Mayor Anderson checked his watch, then stood up, assuming the guise of authority, if not the real thing. "There's nothing we can do for now except keep an eye on him. Anything happens, you come to me first. Then we'll convene a special meeting and hold Crandall accountable. That agreeable to everyone?"
All muttered, but none challenged his decision. Doc Meirs shook his head, thinking them all frightened fools, but he knew they had their reasons.
Sam Crandall had been a plague upon their quiet community, drinking hard, tearing up anything that got in his way, acting mean and basically scaring the liver out of anyone who crossed his path. They avoided his wrathful outbursts and preferred to forget the unfortunate five who couldn't. No, Doc couldn't cast blame on the rest of the council.
Because he'd known and he'd done nothing. Zach had as much right to hate him as any of them.
If Zach Crandall was his father's son, there'd be hell to pay in the town of Sweetheart.
* * *
"Rare Finds."
"Dinner?"
Bess jumped, shocked by the electricity just the sound of his voice sent jolting through the phone lines. Glancing at the two customers rummaging through her back shelves, Bess turned her back to them lest her expression betray her.
"When?"
"Tonight. If the two of you are free."
His inclusion of Faith relaxed her for a moment, but then the buffer was gone. "Faith was planning to go to the soft ball tournaments over in Chariton. I could ask if she—"
His voice dropped a persuasive decibel. "Why don't you ask if she minds her aunt going out to dinner alone with the town's bad boy?"
"Mind?" Bess pictured Faith's gleeful delight. "I don't think she would. Where did you have in mind?" She grimaced at the anxiety her question implied. Would he assume it stemmed from an unwillingness to be seen with him? His smooth reply gave nothing away.
"I thought we'd go to Haven's over at the interchange. Mel's working tonight, and Haven's sirloin tips win out hands-down over Sophie's mystery-meat burgers."
She laughed nervously. The receiver slid, damp in her palm. She changed hands. Was he remembering the first time they'd sneaked off to Haven's? Her stomach did funny little flip-flops as she struggled to sound calm. "That would be fine."
"Bess, do you have the first volume for this?"
Placing her hand over the mouthpiece, she called back, "I think so Mr. Thomas. Just a minute. I know right where it is." When she uncovered the receiver, she discovered she was trembling. "Wh-what time?"
"Six too early?"
"All right."
"At your house or … someplace else?"
She almost named a neutral spot where she could go off with him, unseen. But she'd already disappointed him enough for one day. "My house."
A pause. Then, "Wear a jacket."
The line went silent.
"Where did you say it was, Bess? I don't see it on this shelf."
It took her a full minute to set the receiver upon its cradle. "Wh-what? Oh, it's there in the back. I'll get it." She hustled to the rear of the store, her step light, her heart barely tethered.
A date. She mulled it over and over in her mind all afternoon. By the time she was actually getting ready, the prospect assumed gigantic proportions. She hadn't gone out with anyone since her senior year. Well, a couple of group gatherings to the multiplex theater over the Missouri line. But never alone, just her and a man with only steaks and the burden of conversation between them.
She didn't question her change of heart too deeply where Zach was concerned. She didn't want to think her willingness to go with him had anything to do with his sudden elevated status.
Because she was afraid it did.
And that would make her no better than anyone else in Sweetheart who judged him by name rather than by individual standards.
She wanted to go. To be with him. To talk. To ask where he'd been and how he'd come back to Sweetheart.
She wanted him to know how very proud she was of his accomplishments.
And maybe, just a little, she wanted to apologize for all her preconceptions.
She'd thought him a criminal. Ironic, considering.
She'd rummaged through her closet for just the right dress, something fancier than her normal conservative work attire and nothing as reserved as her Sunday best. She pulled the dry cleaner plastic off a dress way in the back, one that had hung there since Julie had come down for their mother's funeral. She'd brought the delicately feminine outfit as a gift, never explaining the occasion.
It fit beautifully, skimming her figure, lifting her mood. Hearing Faith galloping up the stairs, she held her breath, then turned to tell her the news.
One look at her flushed face gave everything away.
Faith grinned. "Where's he talking you? Someplace romantic? Please tell me it's not bowling!"
"Haven's."
The teen's gaze went dreamy. "Ooooh!"
"Would you do my face for me?"
Faith grabbed her hand and hurried her down the hall as if they were a pair of giggling contemporaries instead of a budding teen and her ancient spinster aunt.
Though questions were percolating, Faith asked none as she applied the makeup. Bess observed the result, prepared for the difference. Liking it.
Still, she asked, "Not too obvious, is it?"
Faith inspected the total package: the glowing features, the soft chiffon print over a solid sea-foam-colored slip dress, which just brushed the kneecaps. Its spaghetti straps bared smooth shoulders. She smiled.
"Yeah, obvious to anyone with eyes that you're gorgeous."
The low growl of a motorcycle brought Bess to the window to see Zach arrive on the side street of her corner lot. Instead of rounding the corner and coming up the drive, he nudged his big bike over the low curb, cut the engine and silently coasted down the slope of the backyard, braking at the back steps. He made a dark, mysterious figure, all in black from helmet and sunglasses to leather coat, slacks and boots. Straddling the powerful machine, his identity concealed, he was dark, sinister and sexy as hell. The stuff of any woman's fantasy.
When he slipped off the helmet and glasses as she came out the back door, he became hers.
His icy blue stare slid over her, trailing shivers along her skin. Bess clutched the matching jacket about her, not to shield herself from his appreciative look, but to hide the way she trembled.
"Ready?" His voice purred, a low vibration matching the growl of his bike. It was all Bess could do to tear her gaze away from him to give instructions to Faith.
"I know," the girl interrupted, "lock the doors behind me, take a coat, don't eat too much junk, have fun, don't
be late." The teen embraced her, brushing off her worries with a whispered. "The same goes for you." She leaned back from her flustered aunt and grinned at the black-clad knight errant. "Hi, Mr. Crandall. Take care of her."
He grinned back. "Yes, ma'am, I will." He patted the seat behind him. "Let's go."
Zach fixed his helmet over Bess's pale hair, adjusting the chin strap for a snug, safe fit, then waited for her to slide on behind him. Once she was settled, her hands resting lightly at his waist, her legs nudging up shyly alongside his, he switched on the bike and coaxed it down the drive with a quiet roar.
They rumbled through the streets of Sweetheart as inconspicuously as possible under the noses of its citizens. But there was nothing inconspicuous about the muscle cycle and its grim-faced rider, whose identity couldn't be hidden under a bushel basket. It was the woman wrapped around him, her features hidden against the back of his jacket, showing a sleek length of thigh and a whisper of blond hair that got them asking questions.
Who was slipping out of town with Zach Crandall and into sin?
* * *
The instant they hit the smoothly paved highway, Zach throttled back. The motorcycle rocketed ahead like Chuck Yeager's X1 test plane out to break the sound barrier. Bess hugged in closer to Zach, her arms banding tight about his middle as they pushed against the ripping wind. The formidable span of his shoulders created a sheltering break as she huddled behind them. It took a moment for her to get past the idea of their vulnerability as they hurtled down the road; for her to remember there was nothing reckless in the way Zach controlled the big bike. He was one for pushing the limits, not for foolishly shattering them. That sense of safety allowed her to relax, to lean into the wind, to feel freedom chilling her face and hurrying her heartbeats.
The sense of excitement was like sweet liquor, rolling through her veins, warm and seducing. As aware of the man as she was of her own emotions, she had to ask how she ever could have given it up without more of a fight?
* * *
Part bar, part intimate hideaway, Haven's sat at the interstate crossroads, flashing a neon invitation to weary travelers. Known for its pricey menu and low-lit atmosphere, it was a favorite spot for romantic interludes and celebrations. Surrounded by high-backed booths and beaded curtains, with sultry blues tunes murmuring from the public area, privacy made an irresistible lure for courting couples; the illusion of escaping small-town familiarity and stepping into a world of big-city sophistication.
The first time she'd visited, Bess had been too anxious to appreciate the ambience, afraid of being found out, afraid of the urgent feelings twisting inside when she thought of being in a place like this with Zach. A trickle of those same apprehensive worries crowded close when they were shown to their table, but Bess forced them back. She was an adult, responsible to no one for the decisions she made.
Besides, who in Sweetheart would see her here?
As their host held back the curtain to their booth, Zach stepped behind her to take her jacket. As he peeled it back, his thumbs stroked slowly along the ridge of her collarbone, scaring up a rash of gooseflesh along her arms as he bared them. She scooted into the booth and arranged her skirt primly while he slipped out of his well-worn leather.
Against the smoky backdrop and husky music, his manner easy, his physique fluidly detailed in a dark knit pullover and soft pleated trousers, Zach Crandall could have been a corporate executive or wealthy urbanite closing a business deal. No trace of the rough-edged rebel remained. The man who slid in opposite her appeared self-assured and comfortable in the upscale setting, erasing the ghost of a defensive teen awkwardly wrestling with the menu selections, then anxiously counting out his cash under the table to see if he could pay the bill.
He ordered wine, pronouncing the French name without difficulty, then asking if she was agreeable to his choice. She nodded, unwilling to express her ignorance. Wine was something swallowed obediently during communion at Easter, not sipped over dinner with a man who was suddenly a total stranger.
They ordered, Bess a modestly priced chicken, Zach, the thickest slab of beef on the menu, then he leaned back in a pose of suave negligence. She might have bought the whole picture, except for one thing. There was nothing restful in his gaze. His stare cut through the layers of civility in which he tried to cloak himself, laying bare his unchanging nature, that of something half-wild and wary, and waiting to pounce.
As always, his first remark knocked reason askew.
"You are so beautiful." His lips twitched in a thin smile. "But I guess you're used to hearing that."
"No."
The quiet honesty of her reply started a slow burn in the back of his stare. Before he could follow up with more disconcerting praise, Bess flanked him.
"So," she began softly. "I know where you've been. Where are you going? Is it too late to ask?"
"I'm not going anywhere, Bess. I spent a lot of years trying to make someplace else work, but nothing fits like being home."
Even when that home resented his presence and swore to rid itself of the past he represented? Even when his first act in a position of authority was to lock up the sons of the town's two most prominent citizens? He read those questions in the pucker of her brows and smiled with indulgent determination. "Even when," that look told her.
"Zach, you could try something easy, like making a pair of alligator skin boots while the alligator's still wearing it."
His smile hardened into a cynical curve. "It won't be the first time I've been bitten a time or two before I've gotten what I want."
"And what do you want, Zach?" It was the question all of Sweetheart was asking. And his answer would send them all, including Bess, into a panic.
"Justice."
* * *
Chapter 9
« ^ »
Bess sat quietly, eating but not tasting her chicken, drinking too much wine, listening to Zach talk about his time in the service. Behind her polite, attentive smile, her mind whirled frantically.
Justice. What exactly did that mean? Had he returned to Sweetheart in a lawman's guise to punish the town for its neglect? He'd had good cause for running in Web Baines and his bullying friends, but would it stop there or extend to petty grievances? Lloyd Baines abused his power that way, maintaining control through intimidation. So could Zach. She felt the difference in him as she watched him talk. A hard core of confidence underlay his words, a strength of will to match a strength of body. Whereas Zach the teen would have vented with volcanolike steam and heat and erupting violence, Zach the adult made her think more of an earthquake: a cool hidden force, striking without warning yet no less devastating in the end. Maybe the strict mores of Sweetheart needed the shake-up to stir them from their placid lives. But would Zach stop with minor tremors, or did he mean to cause the earth to open, swallowing them whole?
Her with them.
What kind of justice did he have in mind for her offences? She was more vulnerable than he might guess.
"Bess?"
She blinked like a deer caught in headlights. "What?"
"How's your meal?"
She glanced down at the neatly dissected dinner, scarcely touched, then at his empty plate and the waiter standing patiently for the order to clear the plates. "Fine. It's fine. I guess I just wasn't very hungry. You can go ahead and take it." She felt guilty sending so much costly food back to the kitchen, but Zach seemed unconcerned as he dealt out his credit card without even checking the bill.
"Coffee? Dessert?" the waiter suggested.
"Coffee would be nice," she managed with a smile.
With the table barren between them, Bess sat anxiously waiting for Zach to start up the conversation again. But he leaned back, studying her in his intense fashion until she began to fidget.
"I've heard nothing but my own voice for the past forty-five minutes," he said at last. "I think it's time I listened to yours for a while."
She toyed with her linen napkin. "What's to tell? You know everything
about me already."
"I know where you've been. Tell me where you're going."
She shrugged. "After Faith leaves, I guess it's business as usual."
"Your mother's business." He said it casually, without censure or accusation, but she winced, anyway. Then grew defensive.
"Yes. What's wrong with that?"
His gaze never wavered, pinning her like a fluttering moth to a specimen board. "Nothing. If it's what you want. Is it, Bess?"
"Rare Finds is a part of Sweetheart history. My grandfather started it up from a library his grandfather ran."
"And you probably still have half of his original inventory sitting in the back."
Bess bristled at his wry observation, certain that he was ridiculing her ambitions—or what he saw as a lack of them. "What's your point, Zach? That it's not a big-city superstore? That it's not earning me a cool million? That I'm no competition for the malls or mail-order catalogs? I know that. Rare Finds is a family business, handed down from generation to generation. Ted Doolin's been after me to sell it so he can develop the whole block, but I won't. It's not the money or the lack of it. It's the sense of preserving the community, the history. Family tradition. I'm proud to be a link in that chain."
"What difference does it make, if you're going to be the last one?"
She gulped a quick breath, surprised by his too-accurate thrust. She'd forgotten how merciless his candor could be. It took her a moment to regroup her emotions. "I thought Faith—"
"Does Faith want to be tied down to that dusty old albatross? Have you asked her?"
She stared at him, injury giving way to a protective chill. "Thanks for letting me have it right between the eyes, Zach. I'd say you've a right to be bitter, but I don't remember you being mean. It's not an attractive quality."
She reached for her water glass, thinking to drown out the hurt, but he intercepted the move. His hand covered hers, shocking her with the sudden warmth of contact. His fingers closed before she could pull away. He was stronger, so Bess let her hand go limp, showing her rebellion in her passivity. He hesitated and she saw him questioning the wisdom of the move, cursing the bluntness of his claim. But he didn't let her go.
