When You Call My Name

by Sharon Sala

  He had reminded himself that it wasn’t his fault the Dixons hadn’t detected the scent of gas in time to open some windows. It wasn’t his fault that they’d come home so late that it was almost dark and automatically turned on a light upon entering the house. None of that was his fault. All he’d done was twist a few knobs. The results had been in the hands of fate. Obviously, fate was on his side.

  “Oh, Mr. Carter! Did you hear?”

  He frowned as his secretary flew into his office, clutching the burger and fries that he’d asked her to get.

  “Hear what?” he asked, snatching the sack from her arms before she flattened the food beyond description. As he opened it, he sniffed the enticing aroma and then began unwrapping the paper from around the bun.

  “Some man found that Dixon girl! She’s alive!”

  Mustard squeezed out from between his fingers and dripped onto the pad on his desk. A hot, burning pain shot across his chest and then down into his belly, and for a minute he thought he was going to faint.

  “What do you mean…alive? How could she survive such a fire?”

  “Oh, that’s the best part! She wasn’t inside after all. Someone said she’d spent the night in the woods, although I don’t know why in the world she didn’t come home with the firemen when it was over.” Then she added, “Of course, you know what they say.”

  Carter shook his head, anxious to hear what they said.

  “They say,” the secretary said, “that she’s a little off in the head. That she claims to be able to ‘see things’ and ‘hear voices,’ or some such garbage. It’s a shame, too, what with her folks dead and all. Who’s going to look after a grown woman whose mind is off plumb?”

  Carter shrugged, pretending he didn’t know and couldn’t care less, and began wiping the mustard from between his fingers and then off of his desk.

  “I’m sure it will all work out,” he said, and handed her the notes he’d been making on the brief. “Here. Type these up please. I’ll probably be out of the office for the rest of the afternoon.”

  “Yes, sir. Is there some place you can be reached?”

  “Home. I’m going home.”

  She nodded, then left.

  Carter stared down at the grease congealing on the paper beneath his burger and then down at the mustard that had dropped on his pants. Cursing beneath his breath, he swiped at it angrily, knowing that he’d have to take these to the cleaners again when they’d just come out. The mustard came away on the napkin, leaving behind an even darker stain on the dark fabric of his slacks.

  Suddenly, another stain popped into his mind. The smear of Dixie Red lipstick across Betty Jo’s face, and a matching one on the bedspread in which he’d wrapped her. His stomach rolled, and he closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, telling himself not to panic.

  Without taking a bite, he dumped his food in the sack and grabbed his briefcase. Moments later, he was on the street, inhaling the warm, spring air and telling himself to calm down. Just because one plan had failed, didn’t mean he couldn’t try again. He tossed the sack into a garbage can on the corner and ran across the street to the parking lot to get his car. There were things he needed to do, and they required privacy…and solitude, and a more criminal frame of mind.

  A whippoorwill called from across the small clearing in front of Granny’s cabin. The pup whined in its sleep, and then was silenced when Glory leaned over and gently patted it on the head.

  “It will be dark in an hour or so,” Glory said.

  “He’ll be here,” Wyatt said.

  “Granny’s cabin is hard to find unless you know that it’s here.”

  “Don’t forget that they were still digging through the ashes when we came back from town. Chances are there will be someone at the site who Lane can ask. If not, I gave him pretty good directions over the phone.” Then he smiled. “You don’t know Lane Monday. If he says he’ll be here, then he will, and God help the man who gets in his way.”

  Glory stood up, suddenly restless in the face of nothing to do, and started to go inside.

  “I think I’ll start supper,” she said.

  Wyatt caught her at the door. “Glory…”

  She looked up, shocked at herself that she was aware of his thumb pressing against the side of her breast. She waited for him to finish.

  Suddenly the pup began to bark. Wyatt dropped Glory’s arm and thrust her behind him as he spun. In the space of a heartbeat, Glory saw him as the soldier that he’d been. His posture was defensive, his eyes raking the dense line of trees beyond the small yard, and as quickly as he stiffened, he began to relax.

  “It’s Lane.”

  Glory took a step sideways, giving herself a better view of the man who was coming out of the trees, and then gasped. He’s a giant.

  Wyatt grinned at her. “Yeah, squirt, from where you stand, I guess he is.”

  “You’re doing it again,” she muttered, and punched him on the arm. “What I’d like to know is, if I’m the psychic, why is it you’re the one who keeps reading my mind? Why can’t I see into yours?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe it’s the soldier in me. I was trained not to let down my guard.” And the day I let you into my head, I’m in trouble, he thought, and then focused on the big man, who was coming their way.

  Glory held her breath, watching the motion of man and muscle, and wondered who on earth would be brave enough to live with a man of that size.

  “My sister,” Wyatt answered, and then grinned. “Sorry. That slipped.”

  Ignoring him, Glory stepped forward and extended her hand as if welcoming Lane into a fine home, instead of a tiny cabin lost among the trees.

  “Mr. Monday, I’m Glory Dixon. I thank you for coming.” Then she watched as her hand disappeared in his palm.

  Lane smiled, and Glory saw the gentleness in him, in spite of his size.

  “Well, I sort of owe old Wyatt here,” he said. “And from what he said, you’re outnumbered. I thought I’d come even the odds.”

  “I was about to put supper on the table,” she said.

  “We’ll help,” Wyatt said, and took Lane’s bag from his hand. “Follow me, and duck when you enter.”

  A coyote howled far in the distance and a night owl hooted from a tree in the yard, sending the puppy into a frenzy of barking that made Wyatt nervous. He knew within reason that the night sounds had set the dog off, but visions of an attacker creeping through the forest would not go away.

  “Want me to check it out?” Lane asked.

  “Glory says it’s just the night. That if it was a man, the pup wouldn’t bother to bark at all and would probably lick him to death.”

  Lane accepted his explanation without comment, watching intently as Wyatt paced the floor between window and chair while Glory was down the hall, taking a bath.

  “Do you think she’s on the up-and-up?” Lane asked.

  Wyatt froze, then turned. “Yes.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that,” Wyatt said.

  Lane shrugged. “So tell me what you know.”

  Wyatt’s eyes darkened, and the scar across his cheek turned red.

  “She says that someone turned on the gas in her house on purpose. I know her father and brother are dead. I hear what she’s thinking and I don’t know how to explain it.”

  Lane’s mouth dropped, but only slightly. “You’re telling me that you can read her mind?”

  “Don’t look at me like that!” Wyatt growled. “I know how that sounds. But I know what I know. Blame it on the fact that I nearly died. Blame it on the fact that her blood runs in my veins. Just believe me!”

  “Wyatt, don’t be mad at him.”

  Both men turned. Glory stood in the doorway to the living room, holding a towel clutched to her breasts while her granny’s nightgown lightly dusted the floor. At first glance, she looked like a child, until one noticed the swell of breast beneath the white flannel, and the curve of her hip beneath the fabric as she walked a
cross the room.

  “Your feet will get cold,” Wyatt muttered, and wanted to bury his fists in the silver-blond sway of her hair brushing close to her waist.

  Glory paused, then looked up at both men. The plea in her eyes was impossible to deny.

  “We’re not fighting, honey,” Lane said gently, and watched how she moved toward Wyatt, settling within the shelter of his arms as if she’d done it countless times before. He didn’t think he’d ever seen a more gentle, trusting woman in his life.

  “It’s not his fault he doesn’t understand,” Glory continued, as if Lane had not even spoken.

  “I don’t have to understand to help,” Lane said. “And I will help. Tomorrow, I’m going to do some investigating of my own at the fire site. One of the men I talked to earlier said the fire marshal was due around nine in the morning. You can come if you want to.”

  Glory’s voice shook, but she managed to maintain her poise. “Tomorrow I bury my family. Maybe later.” And then she gave them a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go on to bed. Do you have everything you need?”

  Unable to let her go without touching her one last time, Wyatt brushed at a stray strand of hair that was too near her eye. “We’ll manage. Just sleep. Remember, whatever happens tomorrow, you won’t be alone.”

  She nodded, and then went into her room and shut the door.

  For several minutes, neither man spoke, and when the silence was broken, it was by Lane.

  “I hope you don’t think that I’m sleeping with you,” he muttered.

  Wyatt grinned. “I hope you don’t think that I’m giving up my bed.”

  Lane grinned back. “Do you know if there are any extra quilts? I’m thinking that floor looks better all the time.”

  The tension of the moment was past, and by the time Lane’s pallet was made and Wyatt was in the shower, there was nothing to do but watch and wait to see what tomorrow would bring.

  Meanwhile, Carter Foster was at home, racking his brain for a solution. Before he’d gone two blocks from the office, he’d heard enough gossip on the street to choke a horse. The fact that Glory Dixon had brought an ex-marine with her to the police department, and that a U.S. marshal was on his way, made him nervous. He was out of his element. What he needed was muscle. Hired muscle. He wondered which, if any, of his ex-clients would be capable of murder, and then wondered what the going rate on hit men was these days.

  He slumped into an easy chair, contemplating the rug beneath his toes, fearing that the cost of Betty Jo’s burial was bound to increase, and cursed the day he’d ever said “I do.”

  Chapter 5

  The scent of the bacon they’d had for breakfast still lingered in the air of the cabin as Wyatt watched Lane disappear into the trees beyond the small yard, already on his way to the site of the fire. Through the dense growth of leaves overhead, sunlight dappled the ground in uneven patterns, giving an effect similar to the crazy quilt that covered his bed. The pup was in a patch of sunshine worrying a bone, while a blue jay sat on a tree branch above the pup’s head, scolding it for its mere presence.

  To the eye, it would seem an idyllic day, and yet today Glory was to put to rest her entire family, leaving her, virtually, alone on the face of the earth.

  He could hear her moving about in her room, presumably getting dressed for the memorial services later that morning. He knew it couldn’t possibly take her long to decide what to wear. She only had the one dress that she’d bought yesterday. His own clothing choices were limited, as well. When he’d left Tennessee, he’d had no inkling of what he would find. If he had, he might have planned accordingly. As it was, boots, clean jeans, a white shirt and his jacket would have to serve as proper dress. His only suit was on a hanger back at the farm above Chaney Creek.

  Blindly, he looked through the window without seeing, concentrating instead on the woman he’d found at the end of his search. What was happening between them didn’t make sense. It was as crazy as the fact that, seemingly, and for no apparent reason, two people had been murdered. She knew of nothing that would warrant the elimination of everyone she held dear, and yet all was gone. And she said it wasn’t over.

  Wyatt shuddered. Gut feeling told him she wasn’t wrong, and he’d relied too many years on his instinct to ignore it now.

  “Wyatt, I’m ready.”

  He pivoted, a half-voiced thought hanging at the edge of his lips, and then froze, forgetting what he’d been about to say as he beheld the woman before him. All images of the childlike waif were gone, hidden beneath the soft, blue folds of the dress she was wearing. The bodice molded itself to the fullness of her breasts, and the narrowness of her waist only accentuated the gentle flare of hips beneath the ankle length of her skirt. Even her hair had undergone a transformation. Forgoing her normal style of letting it fall where it may, Glory had pulled it away from her face and then anchored it all on top in a white-gold spiral. Escaping strands fell around her face and down her neck, weeping from the silky crown atop her head.

  “I know it’s not the standard black dress,” she said. “But it was Daddy’s favorite color. I did it for him, not for tradition.”

  Wyatt cleared his throat, moved by her beauty as well as her grace.

  “I saw them once,” he said softly.

  “Who?”

  “Your father…and your brother.”

  Her eyebrows arched with surprise.

  “Remember, outside the hospital, the day I was being released?”

  Understanding dawned, and she almost smiled. “That’s right! You did.”

  It gave her an odd sort of pleasure to know that in this, her day of greatest sorrow, he had faces to go with the names of those she loved best.

  “I think they would be proud of you,” he said.

  She nodded, and then her chin trembled, but her voice was firm. “I wish this was over.”

  Her pain was so thick that he imagined he could feel it. He crossed the room and then stood before her, wanting to touch her in so many places, to test the new waters of Glory Dixon, but this wasn’t the time. Today she must mourn. Tomorrow was another day.

  He offered her his arm instead, and when her fingers moved across the fabric of his shirt and then locked into the bend of his elbow, Wyatt paused, savoring the contact, as well as her trust.

  “Are you ready to go?” he asked.

  She nodded, and together they walked out the door. It was only after she shut it behind her that Wyatt realized they were going to have to walk the quarter of a mile up the overgrown path to where his car was parked. He looked down at her shoes, worrying if she would be able to make it. The narrow strap that held the two-inch heels on her feet seemed too delicate for the rough underbrush that had overtaken the unused road.

  No sooner had the worry occurred, than a tall, dark-haired young man emerged from the woods, leading a horse behind him. His freshly starched and ironed overalls were shiny, and every button on his long-sleeved white shirt was fastened right up to the collar. Before Wyatt had time to ask, Glory gasped, her voice shaking as she quickly explained.

  “Oh…oh, my! It’s Edward Lee.”

  “He’s a friend?” Wyatt asked sharply.

  Glory nodded. “He lives about two miles from our house, as the crow flies. J.C. always took him fishing. He’s shy of strangers, so don’t expect much conversation. He’s simple, you see.”

  “He’s wh…?” And then suddenly Wyatt understood, although it had been years since he’d heard the old hill name for mental retardation.

  Glory patted his arm. “Don’t worry. Edward Lee knows he’s different. He won’t embarrass you.”

  That wasn’t what Wyatt had been thinking, but it was too late to explain himself now. The young man was nearly at their feet.

  “Hey, Mornin’ Glory, I brought you my horse. You shouldn’t be walkin’ in the brush today.”

  The black gelding stood quietly at the end of the reins, as if it understood the limitati
ons of its master quite well. The old saddle on its back was gleaming with polish, the metal studs on the halter glittered in the sunlight like polished silver. For Edward Lee, the work had been a labor of love.

  Glory touched his arm in a gentle, easy manner. “Why, Edward Lee. How did you know?”

  He ducked his head as tears ran unashamedly down his face. “I know that your pa and J.C. got burned up. Ma said the buryin’ is today and I knew where you was stayin’, and that the old road is all grown up with weeds and such.” And then he lifted his head, as if proud of the assumption he had made, and continued. “I knew you’d be all pretty today, Mornin’ Glory. I wanted to help you.”

  Morning Glory. Somehow that fits her, Wyatt thought, and suddenly resented Edward Lee for sharing a past with Glory that he had not. He saw the sweetness of Glory’s expression as she accepted the young man’s gift, recognized the adoration in Edward Lee’s eyes, and knew that, but for a quirk of fate that had rendered Edward Lee less than other men, he would have been a fierce suitor for Glory Dixon’s hand. Jealousy came without warning, and the moment he recognized it for what it was, he was ashamed of having felt it.

  “Edward Lee, I want you to meet my friend, Wyatt.”

  Edward Lee glanced at Wyatt, his expression suddenly strained, his behavior nervous, as if expecting a negative reaction that must have happened all too many times before.

  As Wyatt watched, he realized how special the bond was between Edward Lee and Glory. In their own way, they’d each experienced the judgement of a prejudiced and uneducated society. A society that seemed bound to ridicule that which it did not understand. Edward Lee was as different in his own right as Glory was in hers.

  Wyatt smiled and extended his hand. “Any friend of Glory’s is a friend of mine.”

  The grin that broke across Edward Lee’s face was magnificent. He grabbed Wyatt’s hand and pumped it fiercely as he started to explain.