by Gwen Hunter
I almost said, "We don’t know if there were permit problems at Davenport Hills because the permits are missing." Instead I said, "Sure. When?" The heavy turkey was putting my legs to sleep. I’d be paralyzed before I got home.
"No time like the present. Now?"
"I could drive Jas home, Mrs. D. Take her to see Nana. Feed the horses."
"Perfect." Alan crossed to the passenger door and opened it, lifted out the turkey, and I slid to the ground. Then he placed the turkey in the seat and strapped it in. Almost as if he had read my mind. "I’ll bring Mrs. D. home in about an hour. Okay?"
"Fine Sir."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"Ash?" Alan gestured with his palm up toward the mid-sized Nissan truck. It wasn’t American made—a serious flaw in this part of the county—but it did have the requisite gun rack in the back window and a white metal tool box stretched across the bed.
Suddenly, I was obscurely uneasy, the feeling murky, uncertain and clouded. As I climbed into the cab, I realized that part of my difficulty was because I had left the 9mm in the Jeep all day, knowing I was safe in the crowds of locals. It was still there. Dixon’s boss would know by now that he was in jail, perhaps ready to talk. If he reacted tonight, on the miles of dark country roads would be an optimum time to attack. And here I was. Unarmed.
Up ahead, Jas and Bish pulled into the line of traffic, leaving me alone. Alan closed the door, insulating me in silence and giving me a moment to think. It seemed only fair to tell him about the attack on Jasmine, the danger to me, and possibly to anyone in my company. Fair, but difficult, and I wasn’t certain I would find the words. "Miccah’s is the only place in the county for decent food, and after a day of nothing but roast pig and beer, I could use a good salad. You?" Alan asked as he climbed into the truck.
"Yes. Fine." I figured the ten I still had in my jeans pocket would cover that well enough—if Alan still wanted to be seen in public with me after I enlightened him as to my troubles that is. He started the little truck and whipped it diagonally through a muddy ditch and out onto the road. The motion of the truck threw me up toward the roof and slammed me back down, jarring my shoulder. For once I was glad I was short. An inch more in height, and I would have had a concussion.
Alan hadn’t struck me as the type to cut across a field to reach a road, but then I didn’t know the man well except as a patient. Bracing myself on the dash, just in case Alan tried any more shortcuts, I began describing my little problem. "Alan, about Bish."
"Your daughter’s bodyguard."
"How . . ." I stopped, having no idea what to say next.
"Everyone in the county knows you have problems Ash. Someone killed two of your dogs, there have been threatening letters, phone calls. Rumor even has it you beat a man with a tire iron for attacking Jas. So when Bish appeared on the scene, everyone assumed he was a bodyguard. He’s too good-looking to be a replacement for your handyman."
"Golf club," I said, still surprised. Gossip was a full-time occupation in some circles of small-town life, so I should have known there would be talk. I should have expected that conclusions would be drawn, right or wrong, about my troubles.
"Beg pardon?"
"I beat him with a golf club. Not a tire iron."
"Ah." Alan glanced at me and then to the road.
"My point is that I might not be the safest person in the world to be around. And I left my gun in the Jeep."
Alan laughed, glancing my way again. Several of the vehicles ahead of us turned off onto the road past the airport—such as it was—toward Cliff Notch, a small township in the south of the county. The road ahead in front of us was dark and empty. "You’ve been carrying a gun?" His tone was curious and vaguely amused, not insulting as I might have expected, none of the "macho man to the helpless foolish little female" in the tone. "Can you shoot?"
"Not worth a toot," I admitted. Alan laughed again. "But I feel safer with it, somehow."
"Makes sense. I’d feel safer with a gun too, in your circumstances. Not that it’s any of my business, but I am curious."
It was my turn to use the overworked phrase. "Beg pardon?"
"Why is someone threatening you? What exactly is the problem? Not that I’m prying or anything, although I am."
I settled back in my seat. "To be honest, I don’t know."
"You’re right," he said quickly. "Too personal. We could talk about the weather then. After today, listening to farmers talk, I know more about the weather and its effect on crops than I ever wanted to. Did you know that cotton balls really do get rotten and that when they get rotten, you really can’t pick the cotton?"
"No," I said with a half laugh. "I mean yes. But I meant what I said; I wasn’t trying to be evasive. I really don’t know why I’m in danger."
Alan was quiet then, the tires a soft hum on the newly paved road. "You want to talk about it? You don’t have to worry about it going any further. I don’t live here. I don’t gossip, at least not under normal conditions. The only reason I listened about you, was . . ." He paused. I waited, wondering where this confession-and-answer time was going. DorCity’s lights loomed in the distance, a yellow glow against the clouds. The sky looked like rain again. Perfect recipe for rotten corn, rotten hay, or rotten soy. It was actually too early in the year for rotten cotton. "We have some things in common, Ashlee." I turned my attention back to Alan.
"We’ve both lost spouses recently, although I admit my marriage was down the tubes anyway. Margie and I had been talking to a counselor before she died, not that it was doing any good. We were ready to separate before the accident. She was . . . She was seeing someone else." Alan shook his head and braked, stopping at the first red light, the one outside the old Sky City, its empty windows boarded over with warped and rotten plywood. I didn’t know what to say.
"We’re both alone, you and I. Both in the construction business. And of course there’s the fact that you saved my life. We have that in common." He gave a half grin and put the truck in gear. Traffic had increased and surrounded us. Ahead, the warning lights at the railroad crossing began to blink and in the distance, a train’s whistle sounded.
Alan floored the Nissan and beat the lowering crossing arms by seconds. "In Charlotte, the trains are all overhead, out of the way." He said. "Here you have to wait if you get caught. So, anyway, back to the subject at hand. All the above named reasons aside, I listened to the gossip about you because I was interested in you."
A flush started at my feet and wavered up my body, settling in the palms of my hands and the pit of my stomach. Miccah’s big, billboard appeared, showing a huge steak, shrimp, crab legs, and a wine bottle. We turned into the parking lot and found a slot near the door. Alan killed the motor, leaving us in silence. His hands still gripped the wheel. The motor pinged as it cooled.
"I know it’s too soon for you Ash. But I’m interested in you not as a nurse or a rescuer, and certainly not as a contractor or developer. I’m interested in you as a woman. I won’t push. I promise. But I’ll be around. And when you are ready, well, I’ll be here." He looked at me then and I met his eyes. My flush faded. I gripped my hands in my lap; they suddenly felt cold. "I promised you a salad and a business conversation. Still game?"
I nodded, recognizing the confusion that had claimed me with his words. What was I supposed to say to his confession? What was I supposed to feel? Alan came around and opened my door, stepping back so I could slide to the gravel parking lot. In silence, we entered Miccah’s, the long whistle of the train piercing the night.
Over a bottle of wine and a couple of Miccah’s shrimp scampi salads, heavy on the garlic, Alan asked pointed questions about the accepted ways of doing business in Dawkins County. Questions about the capabilities of subcontractors and job site supervisors and the politics of small town business. I offered what answers I could. Though Alan probed delicately, I couldn’t discuss my worries about DavInc and about the threats against Jas and myself. We did discuss the standing water problem at the g
olf course and the methods I was employing to deal with it, but we never mentioned potential permit problems at the project, and we reached no conclusions. The conversation became no more personal.
It was only on the way home that I realized several things. The one hour I had expected to spend had stretched to nearly two. And I had enjoyed myself far more than I should have. The words Alan had spoken came back to me as the miles of darkness swept by. "We have a lot in common." It was true. We did. And I’d had a good time with Alan Mathison. As we passed the old Holiness to God Freewill Evangelical Baptist Church, I finally broke the silence. "Alan?"
"Um?"
"We never did solve your standing water problem in the Taylor development, did we?"
He laughed low, his chuckle soft, a contented sound. In fact, it sounded just like I felt. Warm and— "Nope. But then, Jack was putting in a golf course when he had drainage problems. I have to worry solely about housing and the situation is different. I would appreciate any thoughts you might have, but another day."
"Okay." The only thing I knew about Jack’s business had something to do with murder. But that was something I couldn’t say to Alan. "I’ll mention it to Macon, see if he has any ideas."
Alan reached over and squeezed my fingers. "Thanks Ash. I’ll admit I want this development to succeed for the most selfish of reasons. And it will be a lot easier to accomplish if I have your help." He squeezed my hand a second time before turning into Chadwick Acres, not releasing it to complete the turn. He slowed the car as we passed the upscale brick homes and manicured lawns, as if he wanted to prolong the moments left to us. And he slowed even more as gravel ground beneath the tires in my drive, his hand warm and my feelings tumbling.
The security lights blinded us as he parked the Nissan, turned the key, and sat back in his seat. I could feel his eyes on me. "Ash, if you ever want to talk about what’s bothering you, you can. To me. Not as a competitor, but as a friend." I nodded, feeling the burn in my face, the frantic pace of my heart. He pulled me to him across the bench seat and pressed his lips against mine. My blush faded away. His lips moved against mine, his tongue stroking the place where they met, still closed. And I felt a curious . . . nothing. After a moment, I gently pressed my open palm against his chest and pulled away. "Good night, Alan." Breathless, I slipped from the truck and ran to the deck. I stood in the shadows as his truck pulled down the drive.
The warmth of his touch was still on my skin when I walked into my house and discovered the break-in. My home had been burgled. I instantly realized that I hadn’t set the brand new fancy alarm system. They don’t work if you don’t turn them on. I’m an idiot. Tears in my eyes, I walked through the house.
The thieves had been thorough. They had broken a window and climbed in. It hadn’t been difficult. I had forgotten to leave Esther a note reminding her to set the alarm when she left for the turkey-shoot, and as it wasn’t Esther’s job to remember, she hadn’t. Foolish, foolish, foolish of me. My eyes burned as I looked around at the destruction. They had made off with Jack’s big screen TV, the smaller TVs from the bedrooms, the office computer, the broken adding machine, and the answering machines. They even took Jack’s golf bag and his clubs. I stared at the empty place where they had stood, in the way, and felt tears gather. It was as if with the golf bag gone, Jack was really gone as well.
The silver from the dining room was gone, all of my jewelry from the bedroom, both the costume and the flashier pieces, and Jack’s gun collection had been taken too, the locked cabinet broken open, splintered. Of my jewelry, only the pieces stored in the safe had escaped theft.
The thieves had made an attempt on the safe. There were bore holes around the combination wheel drilled by a fairly competent safe-cracker. The safe had withstood the assault, as Jack had known it would. The surface of the safe was scarred, however, as if the frustrated safecracker had beaten it with a crowbar.
I stood in the center of the office, surveying the mess they had made, expecting somehow that there would be more destruction than there was. But there was only the smashed front of the gun cabinet, papers scattered across the house, and a little mud scuffed at the back door.
Macon, Wicked, Bish and Jas were there, waiting for me. Our insurance agent had come and gone as had the police, both showing little concern, both leaving blank lists to be filled out with the missing items. The extra cars were parked in front of the office on the other side of the house, shielded from the drive when Alan had kissed me.
Sitting in a kitchen chair was Bret McDermott. He had heard the call over the police scanner and had driven out to lend his support. That was his claim. But Bret seemed to be near me whenever I had trouble. He looked at me strangely when I came in alone and late. The look made me feel guilty, as if I had committed a sin. As if he knew of the intimacy I had shared with Alan. Of that kiss. Yet, he said nothing. He walked closely behind me as I wandered through my violated home to survey the damage and loss. Warily, I accepted his presence, wondering why he was really here. With Dixon in jail, was the investor behind it all finally coming forward to handle things personally?
I said little, crunching broken glass beneath my boots, running a finger through black fingerprint dust remaining on the china cabinet, staring dry-eyed and empty into my bare jewelry box. I shivered as if with cold, because Bret was there. Surely Bret hadn’t hired Dixon. Surely. I wished he would go away. I was afraid of him. I no longer knew who he was.
Instead he hung around, helped fill out the paperwork, poured me a glass of wine I didn’t want, and generally made himself conspicuous. Close to two A.M., I made him leave. Him, Macon, and Wicked, who no longer needed my nursing skills, locking them all out of my unsafe home and setting the alarm before falling into bed, numb and exhausted. And finally after the long day of publicly displayed strength, I gave way to tears.
"Mom?" Jas woke me at six-thirty, the clock by my bed giving lie to the darkness of my room. A thin gray light brightened the windows only faintly; rain thundered down on the roof outside, sounding as if a waterfall emptied itself onto the roof. I pulled the covers over my head hoping Jas would just go away. It was a great day to sleep in. "Mom." She shook my shoulder. "Mama, I have to go to Charlotte. To the airport."
I lowered the covers, finding her in the half-light. Already she smelled of horses. "Why?" my mouth was dry and uncooperative, the result of wine with shrimp scampi salad. I was surprised Jas could stand to be so close to me. I slid my tongue over teeth that were wearing fuzzy slippers. Vile. Positively vile.
"Elwyn is coming. You remember me saying I had written him?"
I nodded trying to place the name. Elwyn was the world-class trainer, I remembered. Elwyn Van something. The one Jas was willing to leave her horses with when she went off to college. The one who would eventually take her and Davenport Downs to world-class competition. "Yeah. So?"
"His plane lands in an hour. His letter accepting my offer was lost in the mail and took forever getting here. Anyway, it came yesterday while we were at the turkey-shoot. He accepted and he’s on the way now. So I’m going to pick him up. Okay?"
"Take Bish," I said as I pushed up from the pillows. Jas sat back away from me and I didn’t blame her one bit.
"Okay. And when I get back, we need to talk. About Bish and the beach trip, and stuff."
I didn’t particularly like the "and stuff" part, but I nodded, and Jas bounced off the bed.
"Great. And Mom, would you have the cleaning crew clean out the extra guest room? The salary I promised Elwyn included board for the first three months. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Bye!"
And Jas was gone, taking with her the cleaner scent of horses and the answer to a very important set of questions, one of which was "What salary?" Another, "Who’s supposed to pay it?" But then I figured I knew the answer to that one anyway. Me. Throwing off the covers, I headed for a shower and toothbrush, both of which I desperately needed. Carefully, I kept my gaze from the empty jewelry box. It was still dusty, sm
eared with fine powder left by the police.
Jimmy Ray was at work this morning, moving slowly and favoring his head, but getting the horses fed and into their respective pastures in the pouring rain. He had worked all day the day before, following a list left by Jas, directing his diminutive helpers, Duke and Disa, through the schedule. Neither had been kicked in the head and killed, none of the horses had been overfed and gone colicky, and the barn hadn’t burned down, all of which made yesterday a success.
Today was similarly successful, albeit muddy, with the single exception of an encounter between Mabel’s teeth and Duke’s shoulder. The aging mare had previously reserved judgment on whether or not Duke was a man, and while she kept a wary eye on him, had not shown her usual man-hating tendencies. In the half-light of dreary morning she finally decided that Duke was a member of the hated species. When Duke got too close to her colt, Mabel snorted, lunged, and nipped at Duke with all the ferocity of a protective mother. I was too far away to intervene and managed only a gasp. Duke jumped back, Mabel’s big teeth leaving a raspberry abrasion as they snapped together.
At which point, Duke dropped Mabel’s lead. The canny old mare took the rare opportunity for a quick gambol down the driveway, her colt at her heels. I released my indrawn breath. Duke and I exchanged longsuffering sighs. "Stay here," I said. "I’ll get her."
While Jas could have caught and retrieved Mabel quickly, it was a long drawn-out process for me to get her back to the barn. After an hour of cajoling, chasing through the rain offering treats and threats indiscriminately, I finally got her locked safely in her stall. Leaning my spine against the locked door, breathing like a bellows, and dripping rainwater steadily into the clean hay at my muddy feet, I allowed myself a rare daytime tear. The reason for my self-pity was ridiculous. After all that had happened, the threats, the misery, the fear, I was missing my dogs.
It was the first time I’d really missed the playful Hokey and Herman. The first time I even allowed myself to admit I loved the frisky mutts. It had been the two dogs’ job to herd reluctant horses where humans wanted them to go. Except for eating me out of house and home, entertaining me with doggie antics, and contributing to the flea problem, herding had been their talent, taught to them by Jack and Big Dog, who was still recuperating.
