“Only when you act like one,” his wife shot back.
Morgan watched the familiar routine play out with a smile. He missed the loving banter. Even the occasional loudly contested arguments held a special place in his heart.
He missed everything, he realized. Including working beside Sven and Marcy in the fields. Exercise kept his body fit, but nothing could match the kind of sunup to sundown workout he received on the farm.
“Sharla Timmons.”
“Excuse me?” Morgan asked when Sven blurted out the random name.
“The new hire. Sixteen, hard worker, smart as a whip, and has her heart set on veterinary school. Her folks don’t have much money so college will be a problem unless some scholarships come through.” Sven scratched his cheek. “Only took her on last week, but I can tell she’s a keeper.”
As Sven headed upstairs for a much-needed shower, Morgan leaned against the counter, his mind rushing to flesh out an idea.
“Sharla Timmons,” he said. “Do I know her parents?”
Marcy shook her head.
“Unlikely. They moved to the area about six years ago. Kelly, Sharla’s mother, teaches third grade. Her father, Ted, works as a handyman. Darn good one, too.”
“Interesting.”
Marcy’s gaze sharpened.
“You’re going to pay for her education.”
“Stop reading my mind, witch.” Morgan chuckled. “Truth is, for a while now, I have toyed with the idea of setting up a scholarship fund.”
“Sharla is a wonderful young woman. Never seen anyone take to farming so fast—except maybe you.”
“Thank you,” Morgan said with an exaggerated bow.
“She deserves the chance at an amazing future, but college is so expensive. Not just tuition, but room and board. Then there are all the extras every girl should have. And unexpected expenses. With your help, think about what she could do.”
Marcy’s enthusiasm was contagious. However, Morgan wasn’t ready to commit quite yet.
“As usual, you’ve jumped ten steps ahead.”
“But I’m on the right track, aren’t I?”
“Let me contact Dionne. She’ll do some research, and then we’ll see.”
“Dionne.” Marcy rubbed her hands together. “She loves my peanut butter fudge.”
“Bribes won’t help,” Morgan warned.
“Can’t hurt.”
“I—” Morgan stopped. What was the point of arguing? “I give up.”
Marcy patted his hand, pride and love shining in her eyes.
“You know what’s best.”
“Best is when you get your way,” Morgan said, rolling his eyes.
Smug didn’t begin to describe the expression on Marcy’s face.
“What does Sven say?” she asked.
Morgan sighed.
“When Marcy’s happy, all is right with the world.”
“Is he wrong?”
“No, ma’am.”
“What’s the problem?” Marcy inquired as she did a little dance between her workstation and the stove. “Give Sharla the scholarship and…”
“All will be right with the world,” Morgan finished. “Think I’ll take a walk before dinner.”
Marcy gave him a kiss on the cheek.
“Good idea. There’s a new batch of puppies down at the barn. Their mother wandered in about two months ago. Abandoned and in labor. Can you imagine?”
Wasn’t the first time Marcy had saved a stray. Morgan was a perfect example of what a difference her guiding hand and soft heart could make.
“You think puppies will soften me up?”
Marcy blinked as though the sarcasm in Morgan’s voice was a foreign concept she couldn’t grasp. Her answer was short, straightforward, and made him grin.
“Yes.”
An hour later, puppy drool coating his face and hands, Morgan returned to the house. He was smitten, especially with the black-haired runt of the litter who seemed determined to make up for her lack of size with a ton of attitude.
Morgan was tempted to take the rascal with him. Unfortunately, a New York City high rise wasn’t the best place for a dog. The farm was a better fit for everyone involved.
As he washed up for dinner, Morgan glanced at his reflection in the mirror over the sink. He looked relaxed, and he felt the same. Puppies, he sighed. Of course, Marcy, as always, had been right.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
♫~♫~♫
MORGAN SPENT THE night at the farm. Didn’t take much effort on Marcy’s part to convince him to stay, especially when he weighed the difference between waking up alone in his great big empty house against opening his eyes to the smell of coffee brewed by someone else’s hand.
The farm won hands down, wasn’t even a contest.
Five miles into his morning run, Morgan turned and headed back. He always carried workout gear with him wherever he went; the shoes, sweats, and hoodie he’d tucked in the back of the SUV the day before were proof his habit was a good one.
Hesitating for a moment, he made a split-second decision and veered off the path. Morgan knew a detour through the apple orchard was a bad idea, but he couldn’t resist. Call the move a test, one he failed—miserably.
The tang of ripe fruit assailed his senses and at once, he thought of India. He wasn’t surprised. Try as he might, she never really left his consciousness. He put her aside for a time—days, months—but he never forgot completely.
Lately, as he prepared for his return to Lake Darwell, India became a constant specter, haunting his dreams, refusing to fade away in the light of day.
As he passed under a low-hanging branch, Morgan grabbed an apple, took a bite, and he was transported back in time. As if she stood in front of him, he saw the expression on India’s face the first time she tasted a fresh-picked McIntosh. More vivid in his mind was the kiss they shared after.
Angry with himself, Morgan tossed the piece of fruit to the side of the road. He knew better. Apples weren’t the same as when he was eighteen and stupid with love. Nothing could compare to the combined flavors of tart juice mingled with sweet woman. Sweet India.
Morgan increased his pace, trying, failing, to outrun the memory. He knew the effort was pointless, yet he kept trying.
Five years hadn’t fixed the problem. He wasn’t optimistic about the next five, or ten, or fifty. To move on, he needed to exorcise India’s ghost. Hopefully, getting the revenge he’d plotted for so long would do the trick. If not, he’d cope, he’d survive. And, yes, damn it, he’d suffer.
At the house, Morgan bent at the waist, hands on his knees, his breathing labored. He couldn’t hide from India’s memory. His only hope was to face her head-on, once and for all.
♫~♫~♫
MARCY SLID AN omelet onto a plate warm from the oven. She added toasted bread—more of Morgan’s favorite sourdough from the day before. Knowing his preferences, she bypassed the bacon she knew he didn’t eat.
Eggs, sure. Chicken, now and then. Fish, if he knew the source. Any other meat was not part of Morgan’s diet. Sven didn’t mind—more for him.
Indulgent of her men—as they were with her—Marcy set the plates on the kitchen table and joined them.
“What are your plans for the day?” she asked, adding a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice before joining her men.
“Since Rance Curtis continues to dodge my attempts to make an appointment, I—”
“Your attempts?” Sven queried with a raised eyebrow.
“Fine. Dionne’s attempts. Same difference,” Morgan said. “After all, she works for me.”
“If you say so,” Sven chuckled, obviously unconvinced.
“I thought you might take the time to visit India,” Marcy said with a hopeful smile.
Morgan swallowed the bite of egg that had suddenly turned to sawdust in his mouth and shrugged.
“Already saw her.”
“What?” Marcy sat up straight—h
e had her full attention. “When?”
“Yesterday, first thing.”
“And?”
Again, Morgan shrugged, but he didn’t elaborate.
“Tell us what happened,” Marcy demanded.
“Not the magic reconciliation you want.”
Exchanging looks only they understood, the couple remained silent.
Tasting nothing, Morgan continued to eat. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand how Marcy, and Sven to a lesser degree, became India’s champions. Weren’t they supposed to be on his side? His people, his family?
Yet, somewhere between the point India flattened his heart and kicked him to the curb, an inexplicable friendship had developed between the women.
“We traded pleasantries.” Not so pleasant, Morgan admitted. A fact Marcy didn’t need to know. “I asked to see her father, she told me to make an appointment. End of story.”
“Asked?” Sven wanted to know. “Or, demanded?”
“Same difference,” Morgan said.
“Hardly.” Marcy heaved an exasperated sigh. “You’re finally in the same place. Seems a good time to clear the air.”
Morgan’s pulse spiked, and his temper rose. Marcy meant well. She believed any problem could be solved if people took the time to hash things out. A naïve approach, as history proved. Look how talking worked out for England and the rest of Europe after Neville Chamberlain met with Hitler.
True, the outbreak of World War II was an extreme example but suited Morgan’s current mood. Calm, he reminded himself. Nothing that happened in the past was Marcy’s fault. In the present, she had the right to choose her friends.
Taking a deep breath, Morgan counted to ten. Patience wasn’t his strong suit, but Marcy deserved every ounce he could muster.
As he searched for the right words, he settled on some oldies but goodies. When in doubt, it never hurt to state the obvious.
“India married another man,” Morgan continued before Marcy could argue. “Not just any man. The one she once described as a cross between Satan and Atilla the Hun—with less charm.”
“She had her reasons.”
“Did she tell you what they were?”
Morgan held his breath, waiting. He’d agonized over why India would tie herself to Allard Hallstrom, but the answer eluded him. Had she finally told the truth? And, if so, why hadn’t Marcy shared the information with him?
“I don’t know everything,” Marcy said, dashing Morgan’s hopes. “Except, she isn’t happy. Miserable would be the word I’d pick.”
“Good.”
“Morgan!” Marcy gasped. “You don’t seriously want her to suffer.”
“She made her bed.” Morgan did his best to push the image of India in bed with her husband from his brain. He succeeded, but the effort cost him the rest of his appetite. “Besides, suffering is relative. She seems well. A bit thin, but I understand where society women are concerned, the skeletal look never goes out of fashion.”
“What did you ask of us after Rance Curtis’ goons threw you out of town?”
“Too long ago to remember,” Morgan grumbled.
“Then let me remind you. First, check on your father. Sven found him—bruised, drunk, but breathing.”
“Nothing new,” he said with a shrug as he picked at his breakfast.
“Second, sick with worry, you begged us to keep an eye on India.” Marcy crossed her arms. “So, we did.”
“Watching out for her when I thought she needed protection from her father was one thing. Cultivating her friendship, becoming best buds, after she willingly married the scum of the earth, is another.”
“You believe we—I—” Marcy corrected, a catch in her voice, “betrayed you.”
Morgan felt his heart twist. Causing Marcy pain was like hurting himself. When he caught the look of censure in Sven’s eyes, he felt two inches high. He placed his hand over hers, hoping the gesture gave her comfort with a little left for himself.
“What happened is between India and me. I was wrong to involve you.” Morgan glanced at Sven. “Either of you.”
“We love you.” Marcy gripped his hand and sniffled. “We’d be offended if you didn’t come to us when you need help.”
“I hereby relieve you of all obligation where India is concerned,” Morgan said. “Stay friends, don’t. None of my business.”
“One last thing, then the subject won’t come up again.”
Morgan laughed; how could he not? Even when Marcy lost the battle, she tried to find a way to get herself a win; usually, she succeeded.
“Tell me what you need,” Morgan said, resigned to his fate.
“Nothing too difficult,” Marcy assured him. “All I ask, if the opportunity presents itself, give India the chance to explain.”
“She’s had five years.”
“Obviously, she wasn’t ready.”
“What makes you think she is now?” he asked.
“Things change. Sometimes in an instant.” Marcy patted his hand. “Sometimes it takes five years.”
Knowing Marcy had regained the upper hand, Morgan rubbed the back of his neck.
“Fine,” he sighed. “You win.”
“If she wants to talk, you’ll listen?”
“Yes! Sheesh, woman. What else can I say to make you happy?”
Marcy pushed her advantage right up to the edge of Morgan’s patience.
“Promise.”
The trouble with family, they knew your weaknesses. Morgan didn’t have many chinks left in his armor; he’d culled most from his psyche long ago. Trouble was, Marcy, bless her soul, understood the one thing, try as he might, that would never change.
To Morgan, a promise, once given, was sacrosanct.
“Best I can do is try to not antagonize her. However, if after all this time, India decides confession would be good for her soul, I’ll listen. I promise.”
Marcy nodded. She seemed satisfied by his answer and kept her word to drop the subject.
As Morgan relaxed, he should have known better than to let down his guard. As he was about to discover, Marcy had a plan, and she was determined nothing—especially his stubborn pride—would stand in her way.
CHAPTER TWENTY
♫~♫~♫
THE NEXT THREE days flew by with little movement in Morgan’s quest for revenge. Sure, he was close. A tweak here, a jiggle there, and Rance Curtis would topple like a poorly constructed house of cards.
Getting close enough to look in the bastard’s eyes when his world hit rock bottom was the problem. Aware the end was near, Curtis wouldn’t agree to a meeting. Slippery as an eel, his evasive tactics only delayed the inevitable.
What surprised Morgan was the knowledge his quest for revenge could wait a day or two. Even a week.
Marcy and Sven were to blame. Them, and the magic of their farm. Until he spent a few days walking the fields, basking in the fresh air, he hadn’t realized how long it had been since he allowed himself to truly relax and enjoy a few moments where he had nothing more pressing to do than pick tomatoes in the morning and wonder how Marcy would choose to prepare their sweet, tangy goodness for lunch.
Morgan hadn’t experienced a total metamorphosis. He was in touch with Dionne more often than she liked. And he worked on the final push to make certain when Rance Curtis fell, Allard Hallstrom landed with the same hard thud.
Hallstrom was a tougher nut to crack than Curtis. Smarter, less impulsive, he guarded his empire with a wilier hand than his sometime partner in crime. However, years of having his way without pushback made him soft in areas Morgan discovered and exploited.
Tax evasion—the ultimate toppler of criminals not as sexy as say, a murder conviction, but with the proper evidence, just as effective. From Al Capone to Leona Helmsley, the government won in the end.
With a little help from Morgan and his team of expert cyber-diggers, Rance Curtis and Allard Hallstrom would soon join the ranks of the righ
teously convicted.
“Stop lollygagging.”
Pulled from his musings, Morgan shot Sven a dirty look.
“When I asked if you needed help, I thought we would repair a hole in the fence or check the fall squash for end rot. Either way, the point was to do something together.”
“You know how farming works,” Sven said. “We go where we’re needed and—”
“Every day we’re needed someplace new,” Morgan finished the familiar refrain as he shoveled shit into a wheelbarrow. “Why do the stalls need cleaning out today? Wouldn’t tomorrow, when I have other plans, do as well?”
“Never hurts to remind yourself of your humble beginnings, son,” Sven said with a smirk he didn’t try to hide. “What’s with the attitude? Is the big-shot businessman too good to get his hands dirty?”
“Forget my hands, I’m worried about my nose.” Morgan grimaced. “What the hell do you feed the animals these days? The fumes are toxic.”
“Same smell as always,” Sven assured him. “Guess after sniffing so much highfaluting New York City air, the regular stuff is hard to swallow—or breathe as the case may be.”
“Instead of standing at the other end of the barn kibitzing, why don’t you get in here and help. Then, you can tell me how the shit smells like roses.”
Staying right where he was, Sven leaned against the wall. Morgan swore his smirk got smirkier.
“Never said anything about roses. Just good old-fashioned manure. And why would I jump in when I have a man twenty years younger to shovel the shit for me?”
The man had a point. Annoying, but valid. Knowing he was stuck, Morgan grumbled but kept shoveling. He had a job to do and wouldn’t see sunshine, or get a whiff of fresh air, until he finished.
As Marcy walked into the barn, she glanced from Sven to Morgan then back at Sven.
“Finished?”
“Yes,” Morgan said.
“No,” Sven countered. “The boy still has half a stall to go.”
Bare from the waist up, Morgan took his shirt from the stall gate and wiped the sweat from his brow.
“Ten minutes tops.” He glanced at Marcy. “Something I can do for you when I’m done here?”
ALMOST EVERYTHING Page 18
