Magnolia Moon

by JoAnn Ross

  “Yeah.” He pulled some pale silk off a fat yellow ear of corn and rinsed the corn beneath the tap. “Same with me. I hate those effing sines and cosines. I mean, why the hell do I have to learn that stuff anyway?”

  She was almost relieved to see a flash of the Josh of two days ago. “I suppose it comes in handy for something.” She glanced up at the intricate placement of the pegged wooden beams. “I’d think Nate would need to know it, to build houses like this.”

  “Yeah, that’s what he said. He also said he’d help me figure it out.” His gaze scanned the homey, if decidedly masculine room that, as wonderful as it was, could use a bit of a woman’s touch. “This is a cool place, isn’t it?”

  “It certainly is.”

  “It’d be way radical to live here.”

  “Yes,” she heard herself saying. “It would.”

  The door opened, and Nate came in, carrying a handful of the purple-and-yellow irises she’d seen growing wild around the house when they’d first driven up. “I figured,” he said, “since Josh and I are having a lady to dinner, I ought to get some flowers for the table.”

  “They’re lovely.” And definitely a woman’s touch. Now he was reading her mind even before she had the thoughts. Fortunately, there was nothing in his casual manner to suggest that a mere thirty minutes ago, he’d dropped a bombshell on her.

  “Trouble is, while I’m a man of many talents, I’m not real good at flower arranging.”

  “I’ll do it.” Their fingers brushed as she took the irises from his hand, creating a spark that shot right down to her toes. She looked up into his face to see if he’d felt it as well, but his expression remained absolutely smooth.

  Perhaps, she thought, as she arranged the flowers in a hammered pewter pitcher, he’d only been speaking off the top of his head. Perhaps he’d been carried away by great sex and mistaken it for the start of something deeper. Or perhaps he was going to do exactly what she’d told him to do. Not fall in love with her.

  As she set the pitcher in the center of the old pine farm table, Regan told herself she should be vastly relieved.

  He might not be the cook his brothers were, but Nate thought the dinner of spicy grilled shrimp, dirty rice, and salad turned out pretty damn good for a guy more used to having females cook for him. The conversation flowed surprisingly easily, considering all the undercurrents. Josh was amazingly well behaved, watching his language for the most part. He seemed to respond to Regan, who appeared honestly interested in his desire about maybe being a writer when he grew up, which led to a discussion about Jack’s books, which in turn led to a discussion of drugs, which the kid swore he’d never done and never had any intention of doing.

  “Drugs are for chumps,” he’d muttered as he’d polished off his third plate of dirty rice.

  Then, as if to prove that miracles did, indeed, exist, he offered to wash the dishes while Nate took Regan back to the inn.

  They were almost down the steps when he called out to Nate, who returned to the porch. “Thanks, man.”

  “For dinner? Hey, I may not be Emeril, but any idiot can stick some shrimp on the grill.”

  “No. Well, that was okay, too. I liked the rice stuff.”

  “Yeah, I could tell.”

  “I was talking about today. About letting me come home on the bus instead of making it look like I was living with my probation officer.”

  “You’re not,” Nate said mildly. “If you decide to take off, there’s not much I can do about it.” He squeezed Josh’s shoulder. “Why don’t you get started on that homework after you finish the dishes? I’ll be back in a while, and we’ll tackle the geometry.”

  “That’s okay.” He glanced over at the SUV, where Regan was sitting in the passenger seat in the dark. “I know you’ve got better things to do.”

  “I said I was going to help you, and I will.” Nate was proud of the firm, paternal tone that sounded a little bit like Jake Callahan’s had when he’d been dealing with his sons.

  As he drove away from the house, he could see Josh standing in the open doorway, watching the taillights until they’d turned the corner.

  “I don’t know what you’re putting in his RC,” Regan murmured, “but I’d never know that was the same kid who was mouthing off at everyone at the hospital the other night.”

  “He’s a good kid. He just needs a little encouragement. Besides, right now he’s on his extra good behavior, trying to find himself a home.”

  “I noticed that. It’s a little sad. He reminded me of a stray dog trying to infiltrate itself into whatever family feeds him.”

  “Yeah. Turnip was the same way. But she’s settled in with Jack and Dani and the kids like she’s been there since she was a pup.”

  “There are a lot more people in the world willing to take on a stray dog than a teenage kid with issues.”

  “You’re probably right about that,” he agreed, thinking of how hungry the kid looked when he’d been driving away. And not for food.

  “About earlier,” she said tentatively, obviously feeling her way. “What you said.”

  “Don’ worry about it. It was jus’ something that came off the top of my head.”

  She combed her hand through her silky dark hair. “I wasn’t very nice about it.”

  “A lot happened today. I didn’t mean to make you feel pressured or anything.”

  “It’s just that my life is so confusing right now.”

  “I know, sugar.” He reached out and laced their fingers together and rested them on his thigh. “Like I said, it was just a random thought.” He squeezed her hand. “You were right about that mind-blowing sex. It was probably leftover hormones speaking.”

  “Now that I can identify with,” she said in what sounded like relief.

  When they arrived at the inn he accompanied her up to her suite but forced himself not to coax her into inviting him in, which, he suspected from the renewed desire he felt swirling between them in the closed confines of the elevator, wouldn’t take that much effort. He kissed her good night, a brief flare of heat that ended too soon for both of them, then walked back to the SUV, absently whistling “You Are My Sunshine.”

  She was being ridiculous, Regan told herself the next morning. It wasn’t like they were going steady. She’d gotten along for thirty-three years of her life just fine without Nate Callahan. Certainly she could survive one morning alone without him around to stir up her hormones and tangle her mind.

  He was only out at his cabin with his brothers for a day of fishing that she suspected was mostly a rite of male bonding, which would involve a lot of swearing, spitting, and belching. She wondered what Nate was telling Jack and Finn, who’d come home for Mardi Gras, about her, if anything. Wondered what they were telling him back.

  She’d decided to spend the morning at the courthouse, searching through old parish real estate records for the names of people who’d been in the neighborhood when Linda Dale had been living here. So far she’d found ten names, made ten phone calls, and come up with nine dead ends and a man who seemed to erroneously remember Linda as a go-go dancer at the Mud Dog.

  “Here’s another one,” Shannon Chauvet said, bringing a third thick green leather-bound book from a back room.

  Regan had immediately recognized the woman as the one Nate had comforted at the hospital the night of the train wreck. The scrape on her cheek was healing, and her black eye had faded to a sickly yellow-green hue that couldn’t quite be concealed by makeup. Her surprised expression when Regan walked into the courthouse suggested she’d recognized her as well, and while their conversation had revolved around the records, Regan decided that before she left the office, she was somehow going to bring up the subject of Shannon’s abusive husband and assure her that she was doing the right thing by staying away from him.

  “Hey, Regan.” She glanced up and saw Josh standing in front of the table. She’d been so absorbed in her thoughts, she hadn’t even heard him enter the courthouse.

  �
��Shouldn’t you be in school?”

  “The sewer line broke, and since tomorrow’s Fat Tuesday, the principal decided she might as well let us out of school early.”

  She’d had a hard time believing Nate could have turned the kid around so quickly. If he was determined to become a juvenile delinquent, he was going to have to become a better liar.

  “Well, that’s a lucky thing for you. If you need a ride to Nate’s, I can drive you out there.”

  “Nah. It’s not that far. I could’ve walked, or hitched—”

  “Hitching isn’t safe.”

  “Life isn’t all that safe. But I’m not hitching,” he pointed out.

  She began moving her pen from one hand to the other. “So what are you doing? Other than ditching school and risking being thrown back to Social Services?”

  A red stain filled his cheeks. “Jesus H. Christ, a guy can’t get away with anything around here.”

  “You might keep that in mind next time you try. And don’t cuss.”

  “Like you don’t?”

  “I’m a cop. It occasionally comes with the territory.”

  He looked as skeptical as a fourteen-year-old-boy could look. “Shit, that’s a real good excuse.”

  “Seems to me you’re the one who needs an excuse. What are you doing here?”

  “Okay. I saw your car parked outside when the bus went by, and thought maybe you could use a little help finding out about your mother.”

  She lifted a brow. “You know what I’m doing?”

  “Sure.” He shrugged. “Just about everyone at school knows. Except a few Columbine wannabes and some nerds who haven’t looked up from a computer screen since they got their first Game Boy.”

  “You have a group of Trenchcoat Mafia kids at the school?” Blue Bayou looked like a place where the Brady bunch would be out playing the Partridge family on the softball diamond in the park.

  “Nah. They just try to act that way to be cool. The school board voted in a dress code that got rid of their stupid coats, like that’s going to turn them into human beings. It’s also why I’m stuck wearing these geek clothes of Nate’s.”

  “I think you look very nice. Besides, white T-shirts are classic. James Dean wore them.”

  “Who’s James Dean?”

  She sighed. Somehow, when she hadn’t been looking, she’d landed on the wrong side of a generation gap. “Just an actor who died tragically young. Well, since you’re here, why don’t you sit down?” The way he was shifting from foot to foot reminded her of a bail jumper about to split town. “You can help me go through a few more pages, then we’ll head over to Cajun Cal’s for lunch.”

  “Okay.” He dumped the books he was carrying onto the table and sat down.

  Suspecting she hadn’t heard the real reason for him showing up here, Regan handed him one of the ledger pages and waited for the other shoe to drop.

  She did not have to wait long.

  He watched Shannon Chauvet filing some papers. “She’s a nice lady,” he said.

  “She’s certainly been very helpful.”

  “She invited me to spend the night at the guest cottage with Ben and her. If Nate says yes.”

  “I guess you’ll have to ask him for permission.” No way was she going to start interfering in disciplinary matters.

  “Yeah…. Her husband hit her.”

  “So I heard.”

  “He hit Ben, too.”

  “I didn’t know that.” But she wasn’t surprised.

  “Yeah, he tried to get in between them last summer, and the son of a bitch broke his arm.”

  “Domestic violence sucks.”

  “Now who’s cussing?”

  “That isn’t cussing. But you’re right, I could have chosen a better word.”

  “Nicer one, maybe. But not better. If I ever have a kid, I’m never going to hit him.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” Warning sirens were blaring in her mind. She turned the pen around and around, treading softly. “Did someone hit you, Josh?”

  He couldn’t quite meet her eyes. “It’s no big deal. It’s what adults do.”

  “Not all adults.”

  “Cops can’t go around arrestin’ everyone who spanks a kid.”

  “Flat-handed spankings are allowed in every jurisdiction I know of.” Though just because it was legal, that didn’t make it right.

  “How ’bout fists?”

  “I suppose again, you’re talking jurisdictional differences. But that would be unacceptable to me, and I certainly wouldn’t let it slide.”

  “How ’bout pimping?”

  The question had been asked so matter-of-factly, and she’d been so distracted by the way he seemed to be picking up Nate’s Cajun patois, that it didn’t immediately sink in. “What did you say?”

  He still wasn’t looking at her. “I figure you wouldn’t let a guy pimp a kid, either.”

  “Shit.” She dragged a hand through her hair when he arched a sardonic brow. “Okay, you caught me. That’s definitely cussing.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Shannon headed toward them with another thick record book. “Come on.” She pushed back from the desk and stood up.

  “Where are we going?”

  “For a drive.”

  “You’re not going to call the cops, are you?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “You can’t.”

  “Dammit, Josh—is that even your name?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, you’ve done a real good job of stonewalling so far, but you’re not going to be able to get away with it forever. Mrs. Welch is going to find out who you are and where you’re from, and she’s going to try to send you back.” She put one of his icy hands between both of hers and held his tortured gaze with a solemn, determined one of her own. “I’m not going to let that happen. He’s never going to hurt you again.” Regan would not allow this to turn out any other way.

  “He can’t.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “No.” Josh shook his head. Bit his lip. Tears were swimming in his eyes. “You don’t get it. He can’t hurt me because I killed him.”

  When she heard the heavy book crash to the floor, Regan thought Shannon must have heard Josh’s heated declaration and dropped it in her shock.

  “Oh, shit,” Josh muttered.

  Regan followed his bleak gaze to the doorway and felt exactly like a deer in the crosshairs. The man standing there had a fully loaded ammo belt strapped across his chest, and a Remington 7mm deer hunter rifle pointed directly at them.

  25

  It had been planned as a guy’s day out, a chance to get together out at the camp that had been in their family for generations, shoot the bull, drink some beers, catch some fish, and talk about women, which admittedly wasn’t as raunchy a topic since his brothers had gotten themselves married. Nevertheless, Nate had been looking forward to this day. He had not planned to get ragged to death.

  “You actually came right out and told her you loved her?” Finn asked in disbelief.

  “I said I thought I might, just maybe, be able to fall in love with her,” Nate responded as he dug through his tackle box and came up with a silver and copper spinner that had worked real well for him last week.

  “That’s pretty much the same thing,” Jack said. “Once you start thinking the L word, you’re pretty much hooked.”

  “Not like you to be so stupid.” Finn was looking at him the same way he had back when he was fourteen and had filched a pack of cigarettes from the market. “You’re supposed to be the Callahan who knows his way around women. Even I would have known better than to just blurt out something that important.”

  Nate cast from the porch, landing the lure precisely where he’d wanted it. Of the three brothers, he was the only one who actually used this camp a lot for its original purpose.

  “You’re a fine one to criticize, you,” he drawled. “I seem to recall, not that many months ago, you screwin’ things up so bad you went on a
bender, leaving Jack and me to sober you up and send you off to Kathmandu to grovel. After you broke my nose.”

  “I was going to go to Nepal, dammit,” Finn grumbled. “I was just giving Julia time to adjust to the idea of us being together.”

  “You’re lucky she didn’t use some of that time to fall for another guy,” Jack said.

  “Wouldn’t have happened.” Nate gave Finn grudging credit for that. “I was there at the beginning. From the time our big brother met her plane in N’Awlins, she never looked at another man. And God knows, I tried to get her to notice me,” he said with a wicked grin.

  He’d taken to Julia Summers the first time he’d met her at the reception the parish council had held for the visiting TV cast of that prime-time soap, River Road. Unsurprisingly, ratings had taken a nosedive after she’d left the show to go to Kathmandu for her role as Bond girl Carmen Sutra, and there were rumors the show was about to be canceled.

  “It was only two weeks,” Finn shot back, ignoring Nate’s fraternal dig to reply to Jack’s accusation. “You took thirteen years to get back with Danielle.”

  “Most of which she happened to be married,” Jack pointed out.

  “She only married that politician creep because you didn’t stay around to make an honest woman of her. You’re just lucky that piano dropped on the guy’s cheatin’ head, or you still might be hanging around here mooning after her like a lovesick pup.”

  “Goddammit.” Jack shot to his feet, ready to rumble. “How was I supposed to know she was pregnant when the judge ran me out of town? If anyone had bothered to tell me—” He shot a blistering accusatory look Nate’s way.

  “That’s bygones,” Nate said quickly, hoping to defuse things before they got out of hand and he got his nose broken again. He reeled in the line, cast once more. “Water under the bridge.”

  “Yesterday’s ball score,” Finn quoted their father.

  “Yeah.” Jack blew out a long, calming breath, sat down, leaned back in the rocker, and put his booted feet up on the railing again. “You’re right. So,” he asked Nate, “what are your plans regarding the lady?”