"If he'll even eat it, after meals like this," Clay said. "You must have customers lined up for miles."
"I'm fairly well established now," she said. "And it's going to pick up as soon as they start bringing in the corn. Everybody works, and a lot of the wives are happy not to have to cook every night for a crew of voracious workers. Took a while to get them used to the idea, but I keep pretty busy now."
"I thought most of it was done by machines."
"Spoken like a city boy," she said with a grin that she hoped took any sting out of the words. "A lot of it is mechanized, but somebody still runs the machines and sorts the crop—unless you're talking about factory farms."
"That's quite a frown," he said.
She shrugged. "It's not a pleasant topic around here these days. Family farms are going under. They just can't compete with the big operations."
She didn't want to get off onto that, and he'd looked a bit wary when she'd said "city boy," so she quickly changed the subject.
"I know that well water's chilly, so if you'd like, you're welcome to use the shower off the mudroom. It's small, but it works, and the water's as hot as you want."
He looked at her assessingly, and she wondered if he was about to tell her she was crazy again. She wasn't sure she could argue with him on that. But after a moment he said merely, "Thank you. A real shower would be … welcome."
"I'll put out some towels."
Again he looked at her silently for a long moment before he spoke. "You're being awfully … kind."
She shook her head. "You're working awfully hard."
She glanced down as Mud took up an attentive position at her feet. He hadn't waited for Clay's okay to eat, she realized suddenly. And now he sat there licking his lips as if to express his pleasure in the meal.
Or thirst, she thought suddenly, realizing she'd forgotten to put down water for him. She rose and did so, and the little collie gave her a look she could only describe as approving. She smiled at him.
"Give me time, my furry friend. I'll figure out all the signals."
When she sat back down, Clay was looking from her to the dog and back, one dark brow raised. "He doesn't usually take like that to people," he said. "He's pretty standoffish. But then, they don't usually read him that well."
Casey suspected that the dog was a lot like his owner, too hurt to be anything but aloof. Not that he'd been physically injured, there was no sign of that, and certainly no sign of abuse, but there was a sadness in the quiet dignity of the dog that matched that of his owner. Unlike Corky, who had been a bit madcap and had had moments of puppyhood up until the day she died.
"My aunt had a Border collie when I was little," Casey explained. "Corky was smart as a whip and stubborn as a Missouri mule, Aunt Fay used to say. But that dog and I got along fine."
"It's the nature of the breed," Clay agreed. "They take time, but they're worth the trouble."
"I was the only child she knew. I think to her I was just another creature to guard, herd and generally watch out for."
His fork clattered to his plate. She thought there was an odd sharpness to his motion as he looked downward, as if he had jerked his gaze away from her rather than simply followed the fall of the fork.
"Sorry," he muttered. And she didn't think she was wrong in her guess that he'd purposely changed the subject. "I'll finish the gate tomorrow, then get started on the roof before you get any more rain damage."
"This is Iowa in August," she said wryly. "It could stay dry, rain or hail at any given moment."
"Depends on your interpretation of dry," he said, his wry undertone almost matching hers. He was recovered now from whatever had bothered him.
"It is a bit humid," she agreed.
"A bit? This is a sauna."
A clue? she thought. He was used to drier air. Even in August? That would narrow down where he could be from. Desert area, perhaps? Mountains? Coast?
"We remember days like this fondly in January, when we're under a couple of feet or more of snow."
"I think I'd like that better."
Think? He didn't know? Did that mean he wasn't used to snow, either? Eliminated mountains, then, she guessed.
Then she laughed at herself. Who do you think you are, Sherlock Holmes?
And she had the grace to realize that she wouldn't care for him to return the favor and pry into her life, and vowed to let it be.
And vowed, as well, that she would not lie awake as she had last night, waiting for any noise, any sign that she'd made the horrible mistake of inviting a predator into her small, safe world.
* * *
"You think you're safe, don't you? You're wrong."
Casey's hand clenched the receiver as she sat there in the darkness. The sheriff's deputy had told her to just hang up on the caller if she wouldn't change her number, but she couldn't help straining to listen, to hear any clue in the low, harsh, whispering voice that would tell her if it was Jon. But it was impossible. Jon hadn't had any accent or verbal quirks that might betray him. He'd sounded … average. And looked average. Perfectly normal. No one would ever have guessed what he was capable of. No one ever had, until he'd done it. Most especially her.
But there was no hint that it was Jon making the calls, nothing truly personal that would tell her that it was anything more than just bad luck that this psycho had fastened on her. That it was so much more out of place here in the quiet Iowa countryside only made it more frightening; you almost expected this in the city, but not here.
"I know where you are. I'm coming after you."
That was normal, too, they'd told her. She'd stared at the deputy, incredulous that he could use the word normal in such a context. He'd had the grace to be embarrassed and explain that what he'd meant was that it was typical of such a caller to say he knew where she was and threaten her with his personal appearance. They almost never followed through. If they had the guts to do that, they wouldn't be making relatively safe phone calls, she'd been assured.
It was that almost that had stuck in her mind, of course.
"You'll never get away, Casey."
She shivered, despite the relative warmth of the night air. She knew he had her name the same way he'd no doubt gotten her number, and not for the first time she wished she'd thought of something besides Casey's Catering as a business name.
But she was through trying to figure out this voice. She hung up with a determination to continue to do so from now on. If she hadn't been able to tell if it was Jon from the half-dozen calls so far, she wasn't likely to be able to in the next half dozen. And she didn't think it was, not really. He'd sworn she would pay, and she doubted he would be able to resist letting her know he was making good on that oath. Jon had never been one for delayed gratification, as she'd learned to her great regret.
So if it wasn't Jon, maybe if she took away some of the guy's fun, he would give up. She would hang up immediately from now on. Oddly, that small decision to take back some control brought her comfort. Foolish, perhaps, but she would take it and be grateful.
Odder still was the sense that she was somehow safer from this twisted man, whoever he was, because Clay Yeager was here, asleep in his truck just a dozen yards away.
"Now, that's foolish," she muttered to herself as she pounded her pillow back into the right shape.
But she couldn't deny the feeling. However, she did manage to resist the urge to go look out the window just to see his truck sitting in the yard.
The predator wasn't inside her world, she assured herself. He was out there somewhere, hiding behind the anonymity of phone calls. And he, she thought with sudden fierceness, could just go to hell. She was not going to let this coward ruin—or run—her life. She would consider him no more important than a persistent mosquito.
And that burst of determination enabled her to go back to sleep much sooner than she normally did after a call.
* * *
"You've really taken to her, haven't you?" Clay asked as Mud's ears pricke
d up when Casey pulled into the drive. "I'd say it was the great food, but you let her get close before she ever fed you. Well, except for the prime rib."
He rarely thought anymore about the fact that he talked to the dog as if he were human. They'd been alone on the road together so long that it seemed natural. Not to mention that he still felt a qualm now and then at how close he'd come to having the clever animal put down. Now he couldn't imagine how cold and lonely this journey would have been without him.
That he deserved for it to be as cold and lonely as it could be was something he tried not to think about.
The dog trotted toward her as she got out of her car, plumed tail up and wagging. Clay concentrated on replenishing his supply of roofing nails, filling the pocket on the utility belt.
"Hi, Mud!"
She sounded cheerful, bright, carefree, and Clay felt a tightness in his chest he hadn't experienced in a long time. The collie barked a greeting that seemed to echo her tone.
"You may not be so glad to see me when you find out I have boring old dog food in this bag here," she teased the animal.
Mud didn't seem to hold it against her, instead just followed her into the house. The screen door closed nice and slow behind them, just like it was supposed to.
If it had closed that way before, he wouldn't even be here now, Clay thought. And where would he be? Out on some country road, either broken-down or starving, no doubt. But instead he was here, the proverbial city boy, as she had called him, on a farm, eating regularly and resting a truck that was on the verge of major problems and that he couldn't afford to put gas in, anyway.
So why was he so uneasy? He'd stayed in one place on occasion, sometimes even for weeks. And this would only be … well, the list of things to be done could take a month, even more, but he wasn't about to stay that long. He'd already prioritized them, would do the most crucial first, the roof and repairing that rain gutter, and fixing that leak in the kitchen, and a couple of other damage-producing things. After that, he could break away anytime and not feel guilty about it.
That feeling guilty even occurred to him was not something he liked. And there was no reason for it, really. Casey was self-sufficient enough; she'd been the one to clear the rain gutters of debris, had done a credible job on weather-proofing the windows, she'd even repaired the ladder he was using until it was secure and safe. She would have gotten to the most important stuff eventually.
He walked back toward the ladder leaning against the eaves of the house. He settled the hammer in its loop on the carpenter's belt—it was a little light for roofing; he would have preferred a roofing hatchet, but with some extra muscle and time it worked—and put his foot on the first rung.
He heard the sound of the door opening again and barely squelched the urge to dash up the ladder to the roof; what the hell was wrong with him? Why was he feeling this crazy urge to dodge her?
She would just come up after you if she wanted to, he told himself, and stayed put.
"How's it going?" she asked, in the same chipper tone she'd used with Mud.
"I found another bad patch. It's going to take a bit longer."
Her mouth quirked at one corner. "I'm not surprised. I doubt it's been looked at much since my uncle died. Will we need more shingles?"
"Maybe. It'll be close."
She nodded. "Let me know. I'll get them. Oh, and I got the lumber you wanted for that brace."
"Good. That should hold the truss that's starting to split."
She gave him a quizzical look. "How do you know all this? Are you a professional carpenter?"
"No."
She waited, looking at him. It was an approach he knew well; most people felt compelled to fill a silence like this. It prompted more than one person to come out with something they normally wouldn't have said; he'd used the tactic many times himself. But recognizing it didn't make being on the receiving end any more comfortable. Finally he gave in to the subtle pressure.
"My father's a contractor." He couldn't see what harm it could do to tell her that. And the smile she gave him made it seem worth it.
"Ah. So you grew up around this kind of thing."
"Yes."
"Does he do houses, or commercial?"
"Both."
"Did you work with him?"
"Sometimes."
She let out a small, exasperated sound and glanced down at Mud. "And how are you today. Mud? Find any more squirrels to herd?"
The dog barked, paused, then barked twice more in quick succession.
"My, but you're quite the conversationalist! Are you sure you belong to him? Or maybe you just have better manners."
To his own amazement, Clay felt himself flush. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude. I guess I'm just not much for…"
He trailed off, not sure whether what he'd been about to say wouldn't be more rude than his single-word answers. But she guessed what he'd been about to say and finished the sentence for him.
"Small talk?" She grimaced slightly. "I'm sorry. I was being rude, too. You're trying to work." She gestured around her. "And you're doing amazing things. Getting to all the things I haven't had time for, or wouldn't know how to do, anyway."
"Looks like you've done all right," he said, tacitly accepting her apology as she'd accepted his, and making an effort at being at least civil, if not talkative.
"Not like this," she insisted. "The screen, the fence, the roof… It's hard to keep things up, being alone on the place and trying to run a business, as well."
He let out an exasperated sound that echoed her own. "You really shouldn't advertise that you're alone out here."
"I wasn't advertising. You're the only one here, and you already know."
He couldn't argue with that logic, so he didn't even try. "The place isn't in such bad shape, except for the roof, and that'll be fixed soon."
"It's good to see it looking like it did when Aunt Fay was alive. She loved this place."
"It shows. Did she actually farm it?"
Casey nodded. "She took over after my uncle passed away. Up until the day she died, she had crops ready to go in and harvesting lined up."
She looked out over the yard to the distant fields bursting with the cash crop Iowa was renowned for, the corn that was, Clay thought rather inanely, truly as high as an elephant's eye.
"She used to tell me old farmers' tales, like how the Seneca Indians said you shouldn't plant corn until it was warm enough to sit on the ground naked and be comfortable."
Clay let out a short bark of a chuckle at that piece of lore. "Now, that's a visual," he said.
"Indeed," Casey agreed, smiling back. "It was very hard work for little return, though. I'm glad I don't need to count on it to survive."
"The catering business is less of a gamble, I'd guess."
"Not just that," she said. "My folks had lots of life insurance, and Aunt Fay set up a trust fund for me after they were killed. Since I lived with her, I never had to touch it, and it's quite sizable now."
He stared at her. She was still looking out over the fields. Her expression was tinged with a long-ago sadness, but that wasn't enough to stop him from grabbing her by the shoulders and turning her to face him.
"You really are crazy! What the hell are you doing, telling me you have a rich trust fund?"
He saw her focus snap back from wherever her mind had gone as she looked out over the farmland. "What?"
"You are either stupid, certifiable or naive beyond belief. I know you're far from stupid, so it has to be one of the other two." Something came over her then, a chill that was almost tangible. He felt it in the sudden stiffness of her shoulders, saw it in the wintry look that frosted her bright blue eyes. And then he heard it in her voice, as cool now as it had been bright and cheerful before.
"Any naiveté I ever had disappeared long ago, Mr. Yeager. If you want that trust fund badly enough to try to swindle me out of it, then you're welcome to it. There are a lot more important things to lose in life."
&nbs
p; She turned on her heel and went into the house, closing the door quietly but firmly behind her.
He stood there for a moment, wishing fiercely that he hadn't seen what he just had. Wishing he hadn't seen that look that spoke of knowledge gained in ugly ways.
Wishing he didn't have a better idea than most what it took to put that kind of look in a person's eyes.
* * *
Chapter 4
« ^ »
"More hardware, Casey? You building a new house out there or what?"
Casey kept her face even with an effort as Joe, the cashier at the Exchange, River Bend's combination hardware, feed and lumber store, rang up her purchases. She knew she would have to keep her voice light, casual, or she would draw attention like a harvested field drew crows.
"No, just trying to keep the old one from caving in," she joked, hoping he would leave it at that.
"Oh, come now, not much likelihood of that." The rather querulous female voice came from just behind her. "Ray, he built solid."
Casey took a bracing breath before turning to face Phyllis Harrington. If there was a reason she was hesitant to let anyone know about Clay being at her place, it was this woman. It wasn't just that she was of the mind-set that unmarried males and females should be chaperoned at all times, and that there was only one kind of relationship possible between men and woman, but she was also the biggest gossip in River Bend. For as long as Casey could remember, Aunt Fay had joked there were three ways to communicate, telephone, telegraph and tele-Phyllis. The woman was notorious for both her inability to keep her mouth shut and her ability to keep it running once she'd opened it.
It wasn't that she was ashamed or embarrassed to have Clay there, Casey told herself, but she knew the way the minds ran among Phyllis and the Ladies. They would have a simple business arrangement worked up into a romantic relationship before she had time to blink. And no matter how much she explained that it wasn't that way at all, their minds would be set, and she would be the hot topic in town. It would rumble on for days, until she dreaded coming into town at all. And she did not want that. She'd already been through it when she'd first come home, when she hadn't quite had herself under control yet and she'd been caught a couple of times crying or reacting oddly. Phyllis and her cronies had been sure she'd run away from a broken romance, and she'd been more than willing to let them think that. She only wished it had been true. But she didn't want to go through it all again. "Hello, Mrs. Harrington," she said, as cheerfully as she could manage, forgoing the familiarity of using the older woman's first name, a formality Casey knew she expected. "Yes, if it wasn't for my uncle, the place would have tumbled over by now."
CLAY YEAGER'S REDEMPTION Page 4
