by Wendy Tyson
“He remembers you,” Denver said. “And he likes you. Here, take his lead. Let’s walk him around the perimeter of the property a few times. Get him used to the place.” Denver looked around. “And we can let Sadie out afterwards. They can get acquainted once he’s better situated.”
“She’s not a territorial dog,” Megan said. “I think they’ll be fine.”
“One male and one female?” Denver smiled. “Aye, they’ll be fine. Eventually. These Polish Tatra dogs are good with people and other animals. Their instinct is to protect but not attack—unless provoked.”
The trio walked in companionable silence, Gunther intent on exploring his new surroundings.
“About yesterday,” Megan began. “There really wasn’t anything—”
Denver shook his head. “You have no explaining to do. It was not my business. And if you say it was an argument, then I believe you.”
“It was nothing.”
“Then it was nothing. And I’m sorry for making a deal about it. I felt…well, I overreacted.”
Megan smiled. “It’s okay.”
At the hill, by the edge of the forest that marked the edge of their property, Gunther pulled, intent on something deep in the woods.
“Pull him back sternly,” Denver said. “You must establish the boundaries.”
Megan tugged. Denver shook his head.
“Like this.” He walked around the back of her and placed his hands on hers, his stomach pressed against her back. With his right hand, he pulled sharply. “No,” he said. The dog pulled harder, nearly dragging both of them with him into the trees.
“Is that how it’s done?” Megan asked, laughing.
“Yeah, well, he’s a stubborn bugger. It may take more than a leisurely walk around this gentleman’s farm to get him to stay.”
“Gentleman’s farm?”
Denver disengaged, relinquishing the leash back to Megan. “What work is going on here, I ask you? All I see are some damn happy chickens, a hippie farm manager, a few teenage miscreants, and a pretty lassie with mud streaked across her forehead.” He took his thumb, licked it, and wiped it across her face, rubbing gently at the offending dirt. “There, that’s better now.”
“Is it?”
“The truth is, you look damn pretty even with some dirt on your forehead.”
“Pretty enough to kiss?”
Denver pressed his lips against hers. She submitted, leaning in to his embrace. A low whine from Gunther made her spring back.
Denver laughed. “Jealous already, are you, pup?”
Megan looked down at Gunther, who was staring intently at Denver, ears back.
“He’s protecting you, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly. That’s what we want—guard behavior. Next, we’ll let him meet Sadie, Bonnie, and everyone else at the farm. I won’t leave until you feel comfortable with him.”
Megan leaned over to pat the dog, the feel of Denver’s lips a ghost on her skin.
“And if I need help later?”
“We can talk about that over dinner tonight.”
Megan was about to agree, but then she remembered the reenactment meeting. “I have somewhere I need to be. But only for a short time.” She explained her interest in scoping out the reenactment enthusiasts. “I have a feeling the Historical Society is at the root of Simon’s murder. Maybe tonight will give me some clues as to what’s going on.”
“I’ll go too, if you don’t mind the company. I always wanted to dress like a Tory. Maybe now I’ll have my chance.”
Twenty-Seven
By five o’clock that evening, Gunther and Sadie were the best of friends, just as Denver had predicted. Bibi had been taken with the dog’s sweet personality and had let him in the house with a stern, “You’d better behave or you’ll live in the barn.” The dog looked at her knowingly, wagged his tail, and then proceeded to steal a roll of toilet paper from the bathroom.
“Give me that,” Megan said, taking the roll and picking up the shreds of paper on the floor. Sadie looked on innocently, clearly letting Megan know that she would never do such a thing. “Yeah, well, you’ll both find yourselves in the barn with the goats if you’re not careful. You know how Bibi can be about the house.”
They pranced off together, in search of more trouble.
Megan headed to her bedroom. She stared at the interior of her closet, feeling hopeless. After Mick died, she didn’t care much about what she wore, preferring plain suits for work and jeans and her vintage blouses. At the farm, the need for fashion was even less; neither the goats nor the chickens much cared whether she wore Marc Jacobs or Target. Tonight she found herself caring.
Finally, she pulled a vintage sixties sundress out of the back of the closet. It was made of pale yellow cotton and inset with small applique flowers, also pale yellow. Simple, comfortable—and not jeans. She slipped on sandals, ran a comb through her hair, and dabbed some lip gloss on her lips.
“Okay, don’t blow it,” she said to her reflection in the mirror.
When she got downstairs, she heard voices coming from the living room. As she neared the wide doorway into the room, she was surprised to see her Aunt Sarah’s reflection in the mirror over the sideboard.
Sarah was perched on the edge of the couch, her eyes on someone—Bibi—who must have been sitting cattycorner to her. Sarah wore a long multicolored skirt, a black tank top, and a red silk shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Her hair was braided again and the braid was coiled around her head like a snake. Megan paused outside the door, listening.
“I’m involved for one reason and one reason only,” she was saying. “Megan.”
“You’re siding with Lenora against Megan…for Megan?”
Megan couldn’t see Bibi, but she assumed her grandmother was sitting on the loveseat, which sat up against the wall next to the piano. The same furniture still graced much of the house that had graced it when Megan was growing up. It wasn’t so much that Bibi loved the furniture, or that it held sentimental worth. Rather, Bonnie Birch was frugal. If something worked just fine—like the drawers full of Winsome novelty clothes—why mess with it?
“I’m not siding against Megan, Bonnie. I’m your eyes and ears in that group. Why do you think I’m here?”
“To ruin my granddaughter’s life yet again?”
“You’re being dramatic.”
It was unlike Bibi to be vindictive, and Megan was sure Sarah knew that. More softly, so that Megan had to strain to hear, Sarah said, “They want me in that group because they like the idea of having a mystery author amongst their ranks. When Simon and his mother got this notion up their arses to go after the farm, I decided to take them up on the invitation. I have no interest in owning this farm, nor do I want to see it made into a tourist attraction. Unless that’s what Megan wants.”
Megan pressed herself against the wall, mindful of her grandmother’s warning that she was a horrible eavesdropper. She wanted to know more about the Historical Society, but also about Sarah, about her career, her choices…and her connection with her mother. Maybe she’d learn something. She didn’t think she’d have the courage to ask herself. Not just yet.
“Megan wants this to be a thriving organic farm. She wants to make a go of that café, to do something good for Winsome. She doesn’t want to get caught up in local politics.”
“I’m not sure that evil can be avoided.”
“Perhaps not. But if you hadn’t told Simon the farm was for sale, this never would have happened.”
“Is that what you think?” Sarah said, her voice raised. “That I told Simon to get in there and make a bid for your home?”
“What else could I think? No one knew I’d offered the farm to you except for you, and you were never one for thinking about other people’s feelings, Sarah.”
Sarah rose, her face pinched with anger. Megan hurried down the hall, away from the living
room, in an attempt to escape being seen. She never heard Sarah’s reply.
Denver picked her up at fifteen minutes before seven. Megan was waiting in the kitchen, still trying to avoid her aunt, and went outside to meet him. Denver’s hair was neatly combed back from his smoothly shaven face. He wore European-cut suit pants and a button-down blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Both hugged the hard angles of his body. He smiled when he saw Megan, crinkling the corners of his vibrant blue eyes. She blushed.
“How’s the wee pup, then?” he asked her while they got into the Toyota.
“Making trouble with Sadie.”
“You have him in the house?”
“Of course.”
Denver shook his head. “The whole idea of a dog like Gunther is to let him roam so he can protect the farm—and you.”
“Someone might steal him, or he might run away.” Megan shrugged. “He doesn’t know the boundaries yet.”
“You could keep him with the goats or in the barn. He’ll alert you to trouble.”
Megan smiled. She appreciated his concern. “He’s where he should be—with Bibi.”
Denver didn’t argue further. He started his vehicle, which had been cleaned, smelling now like Pine-Sol rather than wet dog, and pulled out of her driveway. The brewery was only a few miles from the farm, and they arrived shortly after the meeting had begun.
Denver led Megan around to the back of the brewery. She was surprised by the size of the crowd. Dozens of men and adolescent boys, plus a few women—including Merry—had collected to discuss the dress rehearsal and Saturday’s event. Roger Becker, wearing street clothes and a tricorne, was addressing the group. He explained times, rules and costume requirements, pausing only to answer a few questions.
“Tell me again why we’re here?” Denver whispered. “Ye want a bloke who likes to dress up?”
Megan smiled. “I’m simply curious. Someone wanted the Duvalls dead for a reason. I’m convinced it has something to do with Lenora’s research and the article she was writing.”
Roger Becker stopped talking and stared back toward Megan and Denver. “Do you have a question, Megan?”
Megan felt the heat rise to her face. “No.”
“Okay then.” Roger continued talking, but he kept a stern eye on them.
The lights in the brewery were dimmed and Megan couldn’t get a good look at faces from the rear of the restaurant. She thought she saw Neil Dorfman slumped on a bar stool toward the front, and next to him sat Oliver Craft, the local cheesemaker, nursing a beer. Ned Carter was standing by the front, near Roger, looking bored.
“Other questions?” Roger asked.
A smallish woman with long red hair and a beaked nose stood and raised her hand. “When do we get our roles?”
Dave Dorfman emerged from the shadow of the bar. “Remember, this is not battle specific. Because it’s simply a commemorative event—a generic battle—you can wear what you want. We won’t be assigning roles.”
The woman sat, looking disappointed.
Dave fell back into the shadows. It was then that Megan saw he was sitting with his wife, Amelia, a woman she’d met a few times at the nursery or in the local grocery aisles. Amelia, a well-dressed, plush woman in her mid-forties, was staring at Dave in a way that was anything but loving. He turned to her and whispered something. She scowled.
“Not wedded bliss?” Denver whispered in Megan’s ear. He placed his hand on the bare skin of her back, sending a jolt down her spine.
“Apparently not. A tiff, perhaps?”
“Or someone doesn’t like being dragged to reenactment events.” Denver’s hand dipped lower.
Roger Becker closed the meeting. Everyone clapped. A minute later, Becker was by their side.
“Dr. Finn,” he said heartily. “Will you be joining us Saturday?”
Amusement glinted in Denver’s crooked smile. “Oh, no, Roger. It’s the lassie who wants a go at this. She’d like to be a Patriot soldier.”
Roger looked confused. “She’s a woman.”
“Ta, I can see that plainly enough.”
Megan dug her elbow subtly into Denver’s side.
“Is she planning to masquerade as a man? We have heard that women did that, at least during the Civil War.”
“I dinna think so.” To Megan, he said, “Is that what you were planning, Meg?”
“You could ask me directly, Roger. I am sitting right here.”
Roger shifted uncomfortably. Clearly, he had not had a woman request something as controversial as portraying a soldier during one of their reenactments. Part of Megan wanted to continue the charade in order to irk him. She settled for honesty.
“I won’t be dressing up, Roger. Just showing up as plain old me.”
Roger still looked uncomfortable. He nodded, and with a sympathetic look at Denver, walked away.
Denver laughed when he was gone. “I think you should dress up if only to spite him.”
“Nah,” Megan said, her stare fixed on a group standing in the corner. “These folks live for these events. I don’t want to take anything away from them, fair or not.” She nodded toward the cluster of gathered townspeople. “Interesting lot. Wonder what they’re whispering about.”
Denver followed her gaze. Merry was at the center, surrounded by Roger, both Dorfmans and Oliver Craft. Dave’s wife was still at the bar, staring into her drink.
“You, Meg,” Denver said, eyes dark. “I’m pretty sure they’re talking about you.”
Twenty-Eight
Denver had made reservations at The Wildflower Inn, a restaurant two towns over, but after the visit to the brewery, he and Megan decided to do something more casual: take-out at Denver’s house. Megan didn’t want to be far from Bibi, and neither was sure how Gunther would do his first night at the house. Leaving Bibi to handle whatever came up didn’t sound right. So they ordered Chinese food from Ming’s, the only Asian shop in town, and settled in his living room to eat.
“Why ‘Denver’?” Megan asked between bites. She’d ordered broccoli with garlic sauce and was picking out the flaccid slices of celery that had been added to the dish. “How did you get the nickname?”
Denver placed his plate on his lap and sat back on the couch. The lights in the room were dim. He’d put the dogs outside, and the interior was quiet such that Megan could hear the gentle hum of the refrigerator in the next room.
“That’s a long story.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Are ye now?” He gave her a wistful smile. “I told you that I had a lot in common with Porter.”
“Were you in the army?”
“No, not like that. But I didn’t much care for rules.” He paused, eyes far away. “My father liked the drink more than he liked work—or us. My Aunt Eloise—you met her, remember?—she decided to take charge after my fourth tussle with the local police. She’d been living in the States. Paid for me to go to boarding school in Colorado—Denver. I was sixteen. My friends back home, even my sister, they started calling me Denver.” He shrugged, smiled. “It stuck.”
“That must have been hard. Being that far from home.”
“Aye, but so was living with my da.”
“Your mom? Sister? Were they okay with your father?”
“My sister is older than me. She’s the one who told Eloise what was going on. My father mostly ignored my sister. It was me and my ma who took the brunt of it. He never hit my mother, but in retrospect, he mentally abused her.” He rubbed his forearm absentmindedly. “He was a hard man.”
Megan nodded, trying to reconcile the man she knew now with the troubled kid he once was.
“Don’t concern yourself with it, Megan. I’m not that person anymore. You asked a question and I told you. But I was given opportunities to better myself, and I took them. Eventually. Not everyone is fortunate enough to ha
ve people who care, or the wherewithal to grab opportunity by the bullocks when it comes knocking.”
He was thinking of Porter, she knew. And this explained the blind spot he had when it came to Brick. “Did your mom leave…eventually?”
“She didn’t have the chance. My folks were killed in a car accident when I was seventeen.”
“I’m sorry.”
Denver shrugged. Clearly he believed he had come to terms with his past long ago. It was only Megan who was struggling. She believed his youth and all its vagaries had a huge effect on the man he was today, in the same way her own childhood had affected her.
Denver took a bite of Kung Pao chicken and washed it down with a gulp of lager. “Ta. But truly, I’ve moved on. Animals saved me, quite literally. The school in Denver had horses. I found myself sneaking down to the barn so often the school finally offered me a job.” He grinned. “Paid me with hours in the saddle. I had an instructor there who taught me the ropes. He was a big brother figure. I learned a lot.”
Megan tried to picture a young, roguish Dr. Finn sneaking down to the stables to visit the horses. It wasn’t hard to visualize.
“And the school inspired you to become a veterinarian?”
Denver nodded. “For a long time, it’s the only thing I wanted.” He looked at her, blue eyes piercing her own. “Now, maybe I want more.”
Megan felt her face grow hot—again. She put her fork down and stood. “If you’re finished, I’ll put the plates in the kitchen—”
Denver placed his own plate on the coffee table. Then he took hers and put it down too. He grabbed her wrists gently and pulled her toward him. She felt the hardness of his torso, the gentle pressure of strong fingers. He kissed her. “I can clean up,” he whispered, and kissed her again. “Will ye stay, Megan?” he asked, his voice husky.
She wanted to. Every part of her—even the deepest recesses of her heart, where loyalty to Mick overran any other desires—wanted to succumb to this man. But she shook her head and pulled back reluctantly.
“I can’t.”
“Is it Bonnie?”
