by Ann Minnett
"No, ma'am."
"All right then. Doctor Averill will call you this evening when we're done."
He made sure they had his cell phone number, got into his truck, and bawled.
CHAPTER 13
Lark arrived home that evening with a bag of tacos for Zane’s dinner and guacamole and chips for hers. She was too exhausted most days to cook. Zane didn't mind. Cleaning with her injured hand took twice the time to complete a job. The work required many more steps up and down stairs simply to carry her supplies, not to mention putting household objects in their correct places.
She set two plates on the table and brought two Dr. Peppers—one for herself this time. "Zane. Dinner."
Not even the greasy smell of Mexican food blunted the odor of dog on Zane. He swung a leg over the chair back, straining the flimsy wood when he landed. He eased the warped chair onto two back legs.
"Taco Bell!"
"You smell bad. How was work?"
"Meh. That moneybags guy brought this for you." His long arm reached easily across the table and dropped the plastic bag onto her plate.
"Why?"
Zane shrugged and shoved half a beef taco into his mouth.
Once she realized what the brightly colored coils were, her cheeks flushed, her eyes stung. But on her way to the trash, she glanced at her work boots by the door. She could use these laces. Why cut off her nose to spite her face? She’d keep them.
Zane talked with his mouth full. "What are they?"
"Shoelaces."
His nose scrunched in disbelief. "What?"
"What yourself. Say, you didn't tell me that you have a girlfriend." She kept her tone measured, not making a big deal out of it because he'd shut down.
"Not really." But he blushed behind all that hair in his eyes.
She tugged gently at his forelock. "You need to cut this," she said and instantly regretted it.
"Mom." He pushed her hand away. End of conversation.
Her phone rang. Alice started talking the moment Lark answered. "The independent appraiser valued the swords at much less than what the Hensens claimed. The swords weren't insured separately but in a lump with their artwork—mostly mass-produced in some Malaysian sweat shop. Know what I mean?" Alice cackled on the line.
Lark had thought she lacked taste in art because the Hensens' paintings seemed tacky. The low appraisal vindicated her.
"Those swords are reproes," Alice said.
"You're kidding."
"Nope. And the so-called missing emerald on the sword was glass. Et cetera, et cetera." She chuckled. "Oh, I just love it."
"What does this mean for the lawsuit?"
"It means that we offer them eighteen hundred dollars to go away and not bother you anymore."
"Is that all?"
"Well, they'll come back with unacceptable yadda yadda, but I think you'll get out with well under five thousand." Tapping in the background. "You may have noticed that I'm quite the negotiator."
They both laughed at Alice's understatement.
"More later. Bye."
Lark grabbed the plastic bag, went into her bedroom, and shut the door. She shook the sack upside down. Two cards of curly-cue laces fell out. No note. No cash. Good. Lark sat on the foot of her bed mulling over Rob's small gesture. The child’s shoelaces could be strung and secured one-handed, and he kept his distance in giving them to her. Somehow the brightly colored corkscrews meant more than the pretentious cash he had dropped on her.
But the implied intimacy made his gesture creepier.
* * *
After dinner, such as it was, Lark brought a rush of frigid air with her into McCord’s, hoping Dee had snagged a warm booth in the back. No such luck. Dee sat front and center at their regular table, susceptible to the bitter wind's blast and less likely to miss any action.
"You know, there's something to be said about sitting near the restroom and away from the drafts.” Lark loosened her jacket but kept it on. “Warmth, for one."
Dee had not let the storm influence her choice of wardrobe either. A scoop-necked black mohair sweater drooped off one shoulder to her elbow, revealing a narrow red satin bra strap. The sweater's sequins glinted in the bar's garish light and in stark contrast against the scarred cedar walls littered with business cards and flyers tacked there in clumps. Despite her overdone makeup, Dee’s face remained stony, and her hands twirled her usual Diet Coke.
"Look at you." Lark hadn't seen Dee this done up in a while.
"I'm waiting for someone," Dee said. Her cat's eye liner accentuated the whites of her eyes and their quick jolting movements when anyone came through the door.
"Well, I'm here."
"Not funny." Dee blinked a speck from her eye. "I went back on eHarmony. We're meeting here."
"Not again. Who?" Dee posted on the site when loneliness overcame fear, and it hadn't resulted in a good date yet.
"John Jackson. He lives in Kalispell."
"A likely story. Fake name for sure. That's all you know about him?" Would Dee never learn?
Dee glared at her longtime friend. "Yes, that's all I know about him. Don't you worry about me, but we need a signal." They agreed upon the old standby: Tropical equaled I like him, so leave us alone. Polar meant Don't you dare leave me alone with this mass murderer. It hardly mattered because Dee never left the premises with any blind date. Ever.
"Zane has a girlfriend."
"Good for him," Dee said distractedly.
"You approve of anything Zane does."
Dee's tense mouth relaxed. "You got that right."
"He’s studying at her house. She's tiny." Lark sipped the Wheatfish local brew brought to her without asking. "I'm probably a foot taller than she is." Another sip. "Zane had his arm around her at school. It makes me feel old."
"Listen to you. Are you jealous?" She squeezed Lark's arm, keeping her gaze on the door.
"I suppose I am, a little."
"Well, get used to it, honey. He's hot." Dee pronounced it hawt, sounding like Zane when he made fun of her friends. Lark laughed despite a melancholy that embarrassed her. Dee patted her hand. With great sarcasm, she added, "And so are you, honey. . . in an Amazon Warrior sort of way."
"Very funny. I dropped him off at her—"
A man said, "Mind if I join you?"
Dee stared past Lark's shoulder, presumably at her blind date.
Lark didn't bother to look at who the cat dragged in, as Patty used to say.
Dee cleared her large bag out of the seat between them and shifted closer to Lark.
Lark was not in the mood to witness two awkward adults make small talk on a first date, so she started to leave.
"Sit," Dee gestured toward the empty chair.
What? Lark shifted in her seat and ran her eyes up the blood-spotted shirt front of Rob. He hoisted himself into the barrel backed chair and nodded thanks to Dee.
Lark scooted her feet farther under the table to hide the garish orange laces he had given her. Although useful, she didn’t want him to see them twined in her boots.
"Am I interrupting?"
"What happened to you?" Dee answered.
"I have to tell someone." Rob’s unusual pallor contrasted with his black beard. Hollowed sockets around haunted black eyes alarmed Lark. She eased away from him and noticed Dee doing likewise.
Something about him bothered her. A bloody shirt for starters.
Rob splayed his hand over his stomach, rubbing his filthy flannel shirt. "My dog was attacked by wolves."
Bullshit. What type of man would make such a claim and walk into a bar with a bloody shirt? A drama queen, that’s who.
However, the ragged tear in his sleeve exposed his upper arm and a sutured cut underneath—the sight halted her inner dialogue. Maybe he told the truth.
Lark asked, "How is Raven?"
"She's in surgery now. The vet said she'll be all right." His hands shook. He interlaced scratched fingers around his beer bottle. Caked blood lined a thumbnail
. "I thought she was dead there for a minute."
Oh, please. He's using the attack to worm his way into our group.
Rob caught her staring at his blood-splattered shirt. He glanced down and took his time zipping his vest to cover up.
"Details!” Dee went all in from across the table.
"It happened so fast…" He stopped, considered. "That's not true. It happened slowly." He said slowly particularly slowly. "Slow motion, really."
Just about anyone who lived in western Montana had heard wolves howl, maybe spotted one at a distance, but Lark had only seen wolves attack in public television documentaries.
"We hiked back into a neighbor's place to check on it while he's out of town. Raven ran ahead of me, crouched and growled." Rob's shoulders hunched. "A ruff of fur stood up along her back." He splayed one hand for emphasis. "I'd never seen her do that before."
He paused to take a long swallow of beer. Lark and Dee followed suit.
"That's when I saw the gray wolf slink toward her from out of the trees."
Well. He told a compelling story, but except for the slashed arm, he didn't look all that injured. He directed his storytelling at Dee, who gave new meaning to the term active listening. Eyes bulging in horror, gasps at scary parts—she earned her living egging on the customer.
When he stopped to drain the beer, Lark said, "You look relatively unscathed for wrestling a wolf."
"I have stitches in my side." He lifted an arm. "And along here."
“Okay, okay.”
"And around my belt line."
Lark held up a hand. "No need to show us."
He sneered at Lark. "You don't believe me, do you?"
Sneered!
"I could be the Second Coming, and you wouldn't believe me.”
His tone troubled her, not his words. "Stop sneering. I apologize," she said. “I’ve never met anyone who fought off a wolf or two.”
Dee had scooched completely around the small table and now sat as if glued to Lark. Both women faced him as he became more agitated. His nostrils flared. He gripped the table edge. Dee asked the sensible question. "Didn't you have bear spray or a gun?"
He shook his head. "Stopped carrying anything weeks ago because we hadn't seen predator tracks." He slumped. "I got lazy."
That part rang true. How many times had Lark forgotten the precaution? "So how did you escape?"
Rob balled his fist. He breathed deeply and looked away. Ignoring her. "I guess the smaller wolf was scared off by my screaming and then I threw my coat like a blanket over the gray and landed on him—and Raven. I rolled away with the wolf's body in the jacket. It struggled free pretty easily."
He told a compelling story. Hearts and flowers and a dog's dying body. Poor Raven. Rob, the blood-splattered hero. Then again, his hands hadn’t stopped trembling. In her head, Lark poked at him like kids do a stray, probably because he scared her.
“Have you heard from the vet?” Dee asked.
"I'm waiting for them to call. Phone reception is bad up there." He checked for messages on his phone and laid it on the table.
"Up where?" Dee’s gaze flicked to the door.
Rob wiped tired eyes and spoke to Dee. "Sorry. I'm not thinking straight." He signaled for another beer. "I live up Star Meadow, near the Good Creek Connector."
"You're up there near Axel Craig," Dee said.
The corners of his mouth lifted. Was he warming to Dee?
Lark wondered, will she receive money next?
Rob continued. "Everyone seems to know Axel. We were on his road when it happened."
"You live up there year-round?" Dee scanned the bar area.
Lark tuned out his response. If he was telling the truth, there might be a story for the paper here. Man fights off wolves to save dog. She hooked her chin, wondering if she dared ask him for the story. Her journalism teacher would be impressed and maybe publish it in the Flathead Beacon. And she might learn more about his motives in the process. That is, if she could control the process.
An awkward silence grew as the bar noise intensified.
"Oh-ho," Dee said with alarm. She bumped her chair into Lark's. "Do me a favor. You're with me." She inserted her bare shoulder into Lark's armpit, held on and ducked.
"Dee, play fair. Is John here?" Lark twisted in her chair, surveying the bar patrons. A stocky man with thick salt and pepper hair spoke to Wanda behind the bar. He pushed his glasses up his nose and glanced uneasily around the dimly lit room. Dee hunched closer to the tabletop.
"He's short."
"How can you tell?" Lark checked again. “Is not.”
Rob turned, too. "Blind date?"
Dee cowered.
"Grow up, Dee. This is what you get…"
"Don't leave him hanging," Rob said. "It took guts to walk in here."
Dee searched Rob's haggard face and scowled. "Lark, why do you let me near that damn website?" Without waiting for a response, she shimmied to standing, smoothed her sweater, and sauntered toward the bar.
"You were right about it taking guts to walk in here," Lark said.
"Tell me about it." Rob’s phone buzzed, vibrating across the chipped tabletop. He grabbed it on the first ring and walked away to a quieter corner to talk. One hand rubbed his forehead as he listened. He didn't look rich, but then it was hard to tell in this town. The rich ones went out of their way to appear low key and local. Haircuts and boots were the giveaway. Walmart sold thirty dollar boots, nearly indistinguishable from the four hundred dollar versions, but locals like Lark could tell the difference. Rich folks didn't scrimp on their feet. Rob's battered hiking boots—pricey Ziedrelans. It figured, she thought. His hair looped over his collar in back—not the sharp razor cut of the rich. At his cabin, she had noticed threads of white over his ears, but from fifteen feet away his hair matched his dog's blackness. Average height and build. She found absolutely nothing remarkable about Rob Wayne or Waylon or whatever except for his desire to give her money and shoelaces. Oh, and being mysterious, even odd.
She had to learn his last name.
Dee had struck up a conversation with her blind date at the bar and seemed happy enough. No wing-woman needed. If it weren't for the potential article, Lark would have left.
Rob returned in a few minutes. "I half expected you to leave while I took the call."
She gathered her coat tightly around her neck and shrugged. "What did the vet say?"
"Raven's going to be fine." He slid into Dee's chair beside Lark, bumping her arm. "She lost a lot of blood, and they spayed her, too, so she's going to be a sore girl."
Lark leaned away from him.
He gave her a drop-dead stare. "I'll go by tomorrow but can't take her home for another day." He finished his beer, held it up to examine the dregs, and set it down. "I guess I'll head home." He pushed back, slowly. His back and shoulders hunched in dramatic pain. The man was insufferable, but a story’s a story.
"Say, I'm a journalism student and wondered if I could interview you for—“
"Hey guys." Lulu shoved between them, draping an arm over both Rob and Lark. Her warmth smelled spicy.
"Interview me?" Rob held his palm to his ear.
"Never mind," Lark mumbled. "What's up, sister?"
"Jordy. God. Thought he'd never leave." Lulu's puffy jacket hung off her shoulders at her elbows. She searched the room like a lighthouse beacon. "He gets on my last nerve."
"What happened this time?"
"He's doing meth again. You know how I hate that."
Lark searched her little sister's youthful face for signs of drug use. Smooth complexion and vibrant coloring suggested none, but Lulu flirted with a hard-living crowd.
Lark said, “Dump him for good,”
"I know, you're right."
Rob's eyes flicked from Lulu to her. He was likely thinking, two sisters, so different in looks. Lark never matched up once the blonde green-eyed darling of the family arrived. Hence the platinum spiked hair and assertive demeanor she hoped proje
cted self-confidence. How could their identical Roman noses, the full lips of their mother, their long graceful necks, arrange to create such different results? One thing for sure, their voices had the same timbre, although Lark's rasped.
Lulu leaned into Rob's arm. Her breasts enveloped his bicep, undoubtedly sore from carrying his dying dog.
Lark had seen enough. "His dog was attacked by wolves today." She stood, zipped her jacket.
"Aww, Robbie." Lulu opened her coat to surround Rob's back, and inclined her head to his. Her blonde hair tumbled over his shoulder.
Lark heard him sigh. "He needs a hug," Lark said to be bitchy. She jammed her Peruvian hat low on her head and couldn't help but gape as Rob snaked a hand under Lulu's jacket. She took a couple of steps toward the door and turned. "Hey, Rob."
"Huh?"
"Let me know about the interview and article." To her dismay, his gaze dropped to her boots and the corkscrew laces. The heels of her hands bumped the door on her way out. She lit up as soon as she set foot on the pavement. The wind had softened but the temperature had dropped.
Not a minute later, Rob stepped outside onto the curb. He looked to the right and said, "Shit."
"What's the matter with you?" Lark smoked a cigarette in the shadows, huddled on a barren brick planter under McCord’s neon-flecked window.
"Hell of a day." He sat next to her. "I thought you'd gone."
"I did go."
"Well, yes, I see that. I wanted to talk to you since you're finally allowing it."
"Your fingers were doing the talking back in there." She blew smoke, trying not to sound … what, bitchier? Too late.
"Not my fault."
She snorted a laugh. "That's what they all say." She drew on the cigarette, held it and puffed out. "You?" What the hell, she offered him one.
"Not anymore." He shivered. "You're wearing the laces."
She kicked her crossed leg and shrugged. "Very thoughtful, sir."
"Quite the style statement with your hiking boots."
Lark turned her ankle to the left, then right. "My thought exactly." She field stripped the butt out of habit and stuck it in her pocket. "Zane should be home by now. I have to struggle through geometry with him."
