Lancelot of the Pines (Louisiana Knights Book 1)

by Jennifer Blake

  “I noticed.”

  He didn’t miss much, she thought with acid irony. Not that she’d made any effort to hide the marks. “Anyway, the guy died from his injuries. He turned out to be no more than a petty crook.”

  “You’d never seen him before.”

  “I don’t think so, but it was hard to tell.” She squeezed her eyes shut a brief moment. “His face—he went through the windshield.”

  The deputy absorbed that for a moment. “Never made a statement, I guess.”

  “If he did, no one told me.”

  “And this was the same night your husband disappeared?”

  “I guess. It was before I really knew Bruce wasn’t—that he wasn’t coming home.”

  They were silent as small businesses flashed past and traffic picked up. The tires rumbled over old-fashioned brick streets. The courthouse with its classic dome loomed alongside them, across from the river landing. They flashed by a handful of other businesses, fast running out of town.

  “Where are we going?” Mandy asked at last.

  “To see someone who will help with no questions asked.”

  “Help me or help you?” The words had a cynical twist to them as her equilibrium began to return. That it was happening so quickly was due to the man beside her, she knew. That didn’t mean she had to like it.

  “Both,” he said as he wheeled down a side street and then into what appeared to be the back parking lot of a coffee shop. “Looks like we’re in this together.”

  She didn’t think so, but was in no position to dispute it. She dared not go back to the so-called safe house for a while, maybe not ever. Meanwhile, she had nowhere else to go and nothing to wear. She was dependent on Lance Benedict.

  For the briefest of instants, she wondered if he’d planned it that way. But no, that would be too Machiavellian. Besides, he had risked his life to snatch her out of the line of fire. What more proof did she need that he was one of the good guys?

  She was grateful, of course. The problem was, she didn’t want or need to be protected like some helpless female in an old-fashioned romance; resented having all decisions for her welfare taken out of her hands. She’d been looking out for herself the best way she knew how for years.

  All right, this was different. How she’d become involved in such a deadly game, she didn’t know. Could be she was in over her head. Until she could figure everything out and what to do about it, it seemed best to allow Deputy Lance Benedict to act as her protector. He owed her, anyway; if he hadn’t drawn attention to her by parking his official patrol vehicle in her drive, she might not be in this current fix.

  And if the idea of sticking to him for a while was a great deal less annoying than it might have been a mere twenty-four hours ago, that was the way things went sometimes.

  The girl who answered Lance’s staccato knock at the coffee shop’s back door reminded Mandy of someone she’d known some years back; she had that same independent style and defensive, damn-your-eyes attitude used to cover a too-soft heart. She took one look at them and swung the door wide, ushering them into a rear storage area where metal shelving was stacked with jars, boxes and bags. When they were inside, she closed it smartly behind them.

  “There some desperate reason you two are coming in the back way, Lancelot, or are you avoiding the sheriff? Oh, wait, that’s desperate enough.”

  “Lancelot?” Mandy sent him a quick glance, but he didn’t return it.

  “The sheriff’s here?”

  “In the flesh. Two doughnuts down and two to go.”

  “Trey?”

  “Deep into it with some guy about a dirt bike race coming up.” The girl met his gaze, her own searching, before she gave a quick nod. “I’ll get him for you.”

  “Don’t mention—”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “You’re a pearl among women,” he said with relief in his voice.

  “I’d prefer to be a diamond, actually.” As she turned her back, it was easy to see her tattoo, a shoulder-to-shoulder design done in sepia ink, though broken up by her tank top. It appeared to be a dandelion with its seed puffs dancing in artistic swirls, and lettering that read, “The answer is blowin’ in the wind.”

  Lance turned to Mandy then. “Sorry I didn’t introduce you. That was Zeni. She manages the place.”

  “And Trey?”

  “Cousin and owner.”

  It wasn’t much to go on, but she got the picture. “He’s the person who can help, right? So what’s he supposed to do?”

  Lance didn’t answer, but then he had no opportunity. A man shoved through the door, letting in the buzz of voices, smells of coffee and fries, and a glimpse of a short hallway marked with restroom signs. “What’s going on?” he demanded, exasperation in his voice as he bore down on Lance. “Can’t you keep out of trouble at least one day?”

  “Where’s your RV? In the garage out back?”

  His cousin cocked a brow. “Why?”

  “We need it.”

  “You and who else?” Trey looked at Mandy without any great appreciation, taking in her bare feet below the folds of the crocheted throw. She met his gaze with her own appraisal since a lot was riding on him.

  Easily as tall as Lance, he was whipcord tough, with black hair and gray eyes so dark they looked like pieces of storm sky. The resemblance between the two men was clear, though in a matter of confidence, power and the way they moved, as much as facial features.

  “The lady and I.” Lance met his cousin’s eyes without so much as a blink.

  “Can’t do it. I need the rig for a race coming up this weekend.”

  Zeni pushed into the room behind her boss then, unceremoniously shoving him out of her way. “Don’t be so selfish, Trey. You ought to know Lance wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

  “It’s important to me, too. The RV is my baby, and practically brand new.”

  “Didn’t you take it to a race last week?” Lance asked.

  Zeni chimed in before Trey could open his mouth. “Yes, and who do you think won the thing? Your darling cousin gets off on risking life and limb for stupid little plastic trophies.”

  “Why, Zeni, honey, I didn’t know you cared,” Trey drawled.

  “How can you doubt it? You’re my paycheck, after all,” she shot back at him.

  “And could be a lot more.”

  “Not,” she said, “as long as you take a dirt bath every weekend, show up back here looking like something dug out of a tomb.”

  “The RV?” Lance demanded. “That’s if you two can call a time out.”

  “What’s an RV?” Mandy asked in the fraught silence.

  “Recreational vehicle,” Zeni answered out the side of her mouth without taking her eyes from the two men. “In this case, a small motorhome Trey bought last month.”

  Trey grunted. Shoving a hand into his jeans pocket, he brought out a set of keys attached to an electronic fob. “Hang tight here for two minutes,” he said, with a black glance at Zeni and resignation in his voice. “I’ll back the RV out and bring it to the back door here.”

  The look he sent Mandy before he left them said she’d better be worth his sacrifice.

  The RV was a Class C motor home, according to Trey, twenty-five feet long and powered by a diesel engine. It had a built-in generator, bathroom with shower, miniscule kitchen that boasted a refrigerator, microwave and two-burner range; a single slide-out that lengthened the rear bedroom, skylight centered between the eating area and the front seats, and a right-side entrance door in addition to the driver and passenger doors. He showed them its various amenities, gauges and safety features, giving a rapid rundown on exactly how they worked.

  And he was still shouting operating instructions as Lance piloted the vehicle out of the parking lot and onto the highway.

  Chapter 4

  Mandy, huddling in the passenger seat, felt exposed by the wide windshield and side windows. The glass seemed to have a slight tint to it, but it wasn’t nearly enough p
rotection.

  The heavy vehicle felt cumbersome and slow compared to a car, even if it wasn’t. She wanted to urge Lance to step on the gas, take them out of town as fast as they could go.

  He sat across from her, still shirtless and wearing only cut-off blue jeans shorts. The sun through the windshield gave the dark hair on his chest gold highlights and threw the look of caution on his face into high relief. He was watching the road ahead, but she could see he was hyperaware of their surroundings, including what was behind them. He’d turned on the backup camera and checked its screen often, making sure no one crept up too close.

  A woman in a car coming toward them flicked a glance their way, and then nearly ran off the road as she stared. Mandy frowned in puzzlement, but that was before she glanced down at herself, where she’d lowered the crocheted throw that was too hot in the sun-warmed vehicle, and then across at Lance.

  Her confusion vanished. A chuckle sounded in her throat.

  “You got over your shock fast,” he said, his expression truculent.

  “Wasn’t I supposed to?”

  “Few do.”

  “I’d say that depends on how many shocks they’ve faced.” She made no attempt to keep her resentment out of her voice.

  The look he gave her was searching, but he didn’t follow through. “So what’s so funny?”

  “We are.” She gestured back and forth between them. “From where that woman sat, it must have looked as if we were both stark naked.”

  He glanced at her, then away again, as the tops of his ears turned red. “Trey probably has extra shirts and pants on board. Take a look in the back, in the closet next to the bedroom door.”

  It seemed a good idea. The last thing they needed was to be stopped for indecent exposure.

  Unfastening her seat belt, Mandy climbed out of the bucket seat into the aisle then made her way into the rear of the swaying RV. The closet mentioned was only a foot-wide space between two walls, but held an assortment of shirts and jeans. She pulled out a much-washed black T-shirt that said “Bikers do it on two wheels.” It was big and soft; it would do. Leaning against the foot of the bed, she slipped it on over her head and pulled it down past her hips.

  It was then she noticed the bed was the only one in the RV. Her experience with such things was scant, but she’d assumed there would be accommodations for more people. If Deputy Benedict thought she was sharing the cubicle that passed for a bedroom with him, he would soon discover his mistake.

  She was reaching for a western shirt with pearl buttons that would be easy for Lance to skim into while driving when she felt the vehicle lean into a turn. Snatching the shirt from its hanger, she lunged from one handhold to another until she was in the front again, where she could see they had taken a rougher blacktop road.

  “I hope you know where you’re going.” Her tone held more than a trace of doubt.

  “More or less.”

  “Meaning?” She held the shirt she’d brought so he could slide his right arm into its short sleeve.

  “I haven’t been to the house is years. It was Trey’s granddad’s old place. We used to stay there now and then.”

  “We?”

  “Trey and I, and another Benedict cousin.”

  “But you can find it.”

  “I think so.” He leaned forward to allow her to slip the shirt behind him and then held the steering wheel with his right hand while he found the other sleeve with his left.

  “I didn’t hear him mention it.” The comment might or might not have been coherent as she jostled against his shoulder while straightening the shirt. The warmth seemed to burn her abdomen through her T-shirt.

  Lance sent her a quick glance over his shoulder. “What Trey doesn’t know, he can’t let slip to anyone. Besides, nobody has lived there since the old man went into a nursing home several years back. It’s not in the best shape.”

  She raised a brow as she resumed her seat. “But we’re staying there?”

  “You expected maybe the Ritz-Carleton?”

  “No, but aren’t there campgrounds for van things like this one?”

  “Sure are, great places with nosy folks who have cell phones and Internet and nothing to do but watch other RVs come and go. But don’t worry. We’ll be staying in the RV, not the house.”

  “Oh.” He’d been mocking her, as if he thought fancy hotels were standard fare for her. “So your cousin doesn’t take care of the property?”

  “It doesn’t exactly belong to him, which is part of the problem. An uncle and a couple of other relatives are involved, plus mineral rights, oil and gas leases, that sort of thing. It’s all Trey can do to keep the antique furnishings from walking off.”

  “Just promise me there are no ghosts,” she said, looking out the windshield at the overgrown track they were turning into now.

  “Nope, no ghosts.” The assurance was firm. That was until he turned back to his driving, muttering under his breath. “Not that I know of, anyway.”

  The old house wasn’t as bad as he’d led her to believe. Set back at the end of a rutted drive, it was a roomy rectangle, with a long front porch, dormer windows set into the roofline for a second floor, and a fan-lighted front entrance. Shrubbery crowded around it, however, and vines crawled up the shutters fastened over the windows. One porch column was black and crumbling from mold, so the roof sagged on that end. The front walk of faded red brick was thick with last year’s leaves and overgrown with grass along its edges.

  “What a shame to let it go to ruin,” she said, staring at it with her hands set on her hips. “Somebody should do something.”

  “Trey will. When the time comes.”

  “It’s going to fall down if he doesn’t hurry.”

  Lance twitched a shoulder. “It’s sturdier than it looks. These old places were built with heart cypress by people who expected them to last for generations.”

  The permanency of that idea roused a yearning sensation deep inside Mandy. Nothing in her life had ever been that enduring. It seemed less than fair that some were born to solid security while others could never find it.

  “You know that because?” she asked with some acerbity.

  “I’ve spent a good chunk of my life on upkeep for one a lot like it.”

  She stared at him a long moment while envy rose inside her. “You own a house like this one?”

  “By the hardest.”

  “Meaning?” She thought the expression was a deep country way of saying he’d had difficulty holding on to his historical home, but couldn’t be sure. She waited expectantly, her curiosity piqued by the hard note in his voice, as well.

  “My ex thought she’d force me to sell it during the divorce settlement, so she could pocket half its value. She miscalculated. It was never community property.”

  So he had been married before. It figured. “Lucky you.”

  “That’s open to debate. These big barns can cost a fortune to keep up.”

  “You don’t like yours then?”

  “I didn’t say that,” he answered with the ghost of a smile. “I wouldn’t take a million dollars for it, but that doesn’t mean I can’t see its problems.”

  He was a realist, was Deputy Benedict. It was something Mandy thought she might be wise to remember.

  It had been past noon by the time they reached the house. Lance backed the RV into an overgrown track that led to outbuildings concealed behind the bulk of the house. He scouted their surroundings, beating down the tall grass around their parking place, while Mandy made sandwiches for a quick lunch. Afterward, they sat letting the kinks in their nerves unwind.

  All Mandy intended to do was rest her head against the wall behind the table and close her eyes a second. When she finally opened them again, it was late afternoon. She’d napped, but in fits and starts, jerking into semi-consciousness half-a-dozen times.

  After splashing water on her face in the tiny bathroom, she ventured out of their house on wheels, partly to stretch the stiffness out of her mus
cles but also to get away from the deputy who must have watched over her while she slept. It did no good; he followed close behind her. Nor did he turn back when she began to explore around the old house, stepping carefully around dead limbs and briers in the tall grass.

  As he walked beside her now, she threw him a quick look of appeal. “I still don’t see why we can’t stay inside while we’re here.”

  “Too hot,” he answered. “No utilities, so no air conditioning and no lights.”

  “People did without them for thousands of years.”

  “But we have it in the RV, as long as the generator works.” He turned and started back toward where he’d parked. “Besides, we’d be trespassing.”

  “I thought we were doing that already.”

  He didn’t answer, although she wasn’t sure if it was because she was right or that he didn’t care.

  Every step he took lengthened the distance between them, however, leaving her alone in the shadows gathering around the old house, alone with the calls of crickets and the quiet stirring of the evening breeze. Spinning on her bare heel, she hurried to catch up with him.

  He had seriously miscalculated when he borrowed the RV, Lance thought, as he skimmed behind Mandy for the third time while trying to operate the bedroom slide-out and get the bed set up for the night. She was standing at the microwave, working on dinner. The space between her and the wall that held the refrigerator was too narrow for two people to pass without touching. Her hair tickled his chin and the front of his pants brushed the curves of her bottom every time. It was torture, pure torture. And the long summer twilight meant it wasn’t even dark yet.

  It had seemed like such a good idea. Trey planned to use the vehicle often for dirt track meets in out-of-the way places, so he kept it fully serviced—the water tank sanitized and filled, propane tanks topped off, and full tank of diesel for travel and running the generator. And, since he was planning to use it this weekend, the small pantry and refrigerator were well stocked. Compact, maneuverable, a perfect size for one or two people, the rig could go places that a larger one couldn’t. Being self-contained, it could be parked practically anywhere, and become nearly untraceable if fuel and campground fees were paid in cash.