Home to Stay (Southern Boys Book 2)

by Harper Cassidy

  18

  In the middle of a client meeting, Nick started noticing the telltale flashing lights that signified he was going to be getting a migraine sometime within the next hour. He checked his first aid drawer, but his pill bottle was empty. Shit. They didn't always get rid of the headache entirely, but they usually helped at least a little. He had more at home, but he was going to have to suffer a lot more than he liked because of the delay.

  Since Nick couldn't very well just walk out of it, he did his best to focus on the meeting at hand, but he excused himself for a moment, ostensibly to make a note to look up something about the case, but mostly so that he could shoot Lauren an email marked "Migraine!" asking her to cancel the remainder of his appointments for the day. He didn't get the headaches very often, but when he did, they were bad enough that he'd realized back in law school that it was necessary to have a system in place for when they hit—and to implement protocols as soon as possible once he saw the slightest sign.

  He finished his meeting and grabbed only what he absolutely needed before heading out the door. He tossed Lauren a wave over his shoulder, when she said she'd gotten the email and was taking care of it. Nick hoped like hell that he'd make it back home before the pain hit—especially if the flashing lights were going to get worse. Usually, he made it home before they did, but once they'd overtaken him and he'd had to stop on the side of the road and have his mother come drive him home. Times like these he almost did wish he lived in a larger town, with ride sharing capabilities, but these moments were sparse, and the pros of being able to drop everything when he needed to because small town people were more understanding outweighed the inconvenience of having to drive himself home.

  Just as he pulled into his driveway, a white hot spike seemed to shoot through his head front to back. It hurt to move. It hurt to think. It hurt to be. He took slow deep breaths through his mouth, then forced himself to very slowly and very carefully exit his vehicle. As soon as he stood up, the flashing lights made seeing his way to the door a lot more challenging.

  By the time he made it to the kitchen and his bottle of pills, he barely remembered how he'd gotten there. He swallowed the tablet with a handful of water from the tap, then forced himself to brave the light of the refrigerator to grab a bottle of water. Hydration helped a little, and he'd take any help he could get. He snatched a dish towel from the drawer on his way out of the kitchen.

  His head was thumping with every movement and all he wanted was to sleep until it was gone. He wanted his bed, but knew he could never navigate the stairs in his condition. Instead, he found the couch and gingerly lay down on it, covering his eyes with the dish towel and pulling the throw from the back over himself. The pill would take a while to start to work and he'd be sleepy when it did, but for now, all he could do was endure.

  For an unknown length of time, the pain became his entire existence. Nick thought he might have whimpered a time or two when a particular jab of pain became too intense, but he honestly wasn't certain of much except the blinding agony and the flashing lights. He was dimly aware that the sides of his face felt cold, but it was only after the pain started to recede slightly that he realized he was crying.

  The pill started to work its magic and, while the pain did not become tolerable—only more so than it had been—drowsiness overtook misery and he started to drift out of consciousness. He had no idea how long he'd been under when a voice calling his name brought him back to the surface, but it hadn't been long enough for the headache to fade and he moaned as the world came back abruptly.

  "Nick? Are you all right? Your door was standing wide open!"

  Nick knew he knew the voice, but the pain was too much to allow him to focus. Pulling the towel off his face was out of the question. Instead, he yelled through it.

  "Go 'way! Head hurts bad. Let me sleep." His voice got progressively softer the more he said, as he quickly discovered yelling vibrated across his skull like a hammer fall.

  He heard footsteps, but they weren't receding, they were coming closer. Hands reached under the towel and if he hadn't been so weak, he'd have slapped them away. He became grateful he hadn't seconds later when wondrous fingers began to massage his scalp.

  "Oh, god," he said, weeping afresh. "That feels... aw, fuck."

  The massage didn't magically cure his migraine, but it did ease it to a point where he could feel almost human again. It felt good, which was a minor miracle when confronted with the wall of agony his headaches were. He no longer even cared whose fingers were touching him, so long as they kept up what they were doing.

  "I take it this is helping?" The voice resolved itself as belonging to Chet.

  "Mm," Nick murmured in assent, his voice high and still close to a whimper. "Helps," he managed after that.

  Chet's magic fingers and palms worked over the muscles in his head and face, soothing and easing. The pain didn't go away entirely, but it did lessen quite a bit. Nick also relaxed under Chet's ministrations, which probably lowered his blood pressure and helped a lot with the vascular dilation that caused migraines. Nick didn't care about the whys, he just cared that he felt a little less like his brain was being crushed in an electrified vice.

  "Do you think you can stand, so I can help you up to your room?" Chet asked after a few more minutes.

  "Think so," Nick managed to say, though as soon as he sat up, his head started to pound anew. "Fuck." He had to pause for a moment, waiting out the worst of it. "Will you rub my head some more when we get there?"

  "Of course."

  Chet very slowly led him to the stairs and helped him up them, allowing Nick to lean heavily on him. They paused often for Nick's pain to recede a little, so it took several minutes to make the journey. When he was finally on his bed, he knew it had been worth the effort. It was so much more comfortable than the couch and the cool pillow felt like heaven against his head.

  The bed dipped and Nick was confused until Chet's hands found his head under the towel once more. Chet kept working over his scalp and face until Nick drifted off to sleep again. He had dreams this time and they were good ones. When he woke up again, it was dark out and Chet was gone.

  19

  Chet woke up the next morning with a single text message on his phone.

  Nick: Thank you.

  He didn’t answer. Seeing Nick so vulnerable, even if Chet couldn’t actually see his face, had been unsettling. It wasn’t that he hadn’t already known Nick was a decent man now, but it was harder to maintain any kind of anger—and therefore much needed emotional distance—having seen Nick in such a weakened state.

  Chet had called Nick’s mother after Nick fell asleep and she’d explained that Nick suffered from debilitating migraines a few times a year. She’d said he’d probably be fine after he slept it off, but it might take an extra day before he was back to normal. So Chet had left and had decided to put off contacting Nick to get answers for the time being.

  There wasn’t much that needed doing on the farm just then, since he’d done so much all week. He wasn’t up to dealing with the house yet either. He felt restless and decided he’d take a drive. He let Jerry and a few other key people know he’d be out of reach for a couple of hours and did the same with his people in Nashville. Since it was a relatively warm day for February, he packed an easy lunch and got in his “new” car. He’d turned in the rental and bought a used vehicle from a local earlier in the week and so far he was happy with it. He figured taking a drive through the backroads in it would be the true test.

  He headed out on the main road and took turns at random. He wound up on a large tree-lined road where sun and shadows played across the pavement like dark lace in the wind. After about half a mile, he saw a turn off that had neither a road sign nor a mailbox. Curious and feeling adventurous, he turned off and found himself on a narrow dirt path that wound up a wooded hill. If it was a driveway, he doubted it had seen regular use in years, based on the overgrown state of it.

  After about a ten minute d
rive—if he’d felt comfortable going faster, it would have taken much less—Chet found himself topping the hill. Behind him and on both sides were thick trees, but directly in front, they’d been cleared just enough to provide a scenic view of the valley that took his breath. He drove the car forward a bit more, then stopped and got out. The grass was surprisingly short, though it didn’t look as if it had been mowed at any time recently. Possibly it was a benefit of having so much leaf canopy overhead, he didn’t know, but he was grateful just now.

  For a good fifteen to twenty minutes, he was content to just stare out at the view, snapping a few photos and sending them to Reuben while he was at it. Then he decided to walk around a bit. He had taken to wearing boots and farm-ready clothes, so he was dressed for a bit of hiking, he supposed. He found a small path that led to a little stone outcropping and, even though it was a bit early, he decided to sit there to have his lunch.

  On a whim, he sent a picture of the view from there to Nick.

  Chet: Our hometown really is a pretty little thing, isn’t she?

  He wasn’t sure it was wise, but he thought maybe life would be easier for him if he and Nick could be friends, at least. The last thing he needed was more contention, and he could definitely use an ally who lived closer than Nashville, if he was going to be here a while. He figured an innocuous text couldn’t hurt much, regardless. It wasn’t exactly a note asking “Will you be my friend? Mark yes or no,” anyway.

  Nick: She is. Where are you?

  Chet: Not sure, actually. Top of a hill on some little dirt road off of—

  He texted the name of the road he’d been on when he found the drive.

  Chet: It’s my new favorite place in Rubyville

  Nick: Already was mine. You’re trespassing, btw ??

  Chet: Who owns it? Should I leave?

  Nick: Nah, I probably won’t shoot you. Hang out and enjoy the view

  Nick: Oops, back to work, ttyl

  Chet put away his phone, reflecting on the fact that Nick owned this land. He supposed it wasn’t surprising that he owned land besides his house, given that he was a successful lawyer. It was a surprise that he hadn’t built anything here yet. Was it a new purchase? Chet shrugged it off.

  “Not my business,” he said aloud to himself. It felt weird in a quiet clearing, even out on the rock overhang where he was sitting.

  He finished his lunch and sat for a while longer, enjoying the quiet and the view. The sun that eventually warmed his face was a nice touch and he basked in it for a bit, eyes closed. He didn’t let worries about the farm or Rubyville or even Nick intrude on his peace. It was nice, just being still for a while. He even let himself imagine what kind of house he’d build here, if it were his space. A silly exercise, but a fun one, anyway.

  He definitely thought it should be something with a rustic lodge facade and huge windows facing the valley. He thought a nice loft bedroom would be great, overlooking the view. On clear nights, he bet the stars would be visible even from inside a house, if the window was high enough.

  Unfortunately, thoughts of a bedroom moved his mind to things best left unconsidered. He’d been ignoring the tingles of awareness that he’d felt being so close to Nick the day before, but when a bed entered his thoughts, he had to actively force his mind away from where it wanted to go. Despite all his best intentions, he couldn’t deny his attraction for Nick.

  Maybe being Nick’s friend was a bad idea, after all. The thought soured Chet’s mood and he decided to pack up and head back to the farm. He threw one last longing look at the view before getting into his car and making the slow trek back down the hill.

  When he got back, Chet decided it was time to investigate the situation with his father’s assistant and the stolen money. He got Edna’s number from the personnel files and gave her a call, reaching her on the third ring. She sounded older, but certainly not elderly, and she did not sound like she’d been drinking, though he supposed it was hard to tell from a simple greeting.

  “Hi, Edna. This is Chet Barnaby. Walker’s son. I was wondering if I might come by and speak with you?”

  “Oh.” She paused for so long, he wasn’t sure she was going to answer, but then she said, “I’m not sure what I can tell you that I didn’t already tell your father.” Another, shorter pause. “I was sorry to hear of his passing.” She didn’t sound like she was telling the truth and he liked her more immediately.

  Chet ignored her condolences and said, “Well, Edna, I have taken over the running of my father’s farm since his death, and it has come to my attention that the circumstances surrounding your dismissal were not as cut and dried as they might have seemed on paper. Besides one of the other employees sticking up for you, I’ve noticed that your employment history was impeccable prior to the incident in question.” He waited a beat to let that sink in. “I would like to hear your side myself, and see if we can’t work this situation out more satisfactorily. Will you allow me to come and ask you some questions?”

  “Oh. Well, in that case, yes. When would you like to see me?”

  “Are you free right now? I feel the sooner we get this matter resolved, the better, don’t you?” Chet asked sincerely.

  She agreed and he asked for her address. He grabbed his coat and headed for the car, armed with the questions he’d written down when he had first looked through the file after the lunch meeting. He had his suspicions about what had happened and was nearly convinced of her innocence, but he wanted to speak with her before considering bringing her back on.

  Like most people in Rubyville, she lived on a country road, surrounded by fields and barns, her modest farmhouse situated closer to the road than many, but much farther than any suburban home typically would be. He found it easily, thanks to the ornately decorative mailbox she had warned him to look for. He swung his car into the driveway, which petered out into a wide open space filled with pea gravel, and pulled to a stop when he was within walking distance of the porch.

  “Come on up,” she called from the front door as soon as he got out of the car. “I’ve got coffee inside, if you’d like some. Made it fresh.”

  Chet smiled at her as he reached the door where she stood. “Thank you, ma’am. I’d love some coffee.”

  In another setting, he’d have politely declined, but turning down Southern hospitality was frowned upon and he didn’t want to be on Edna’s bad side, if he didn’t have to be. She had him take a seat, then went to the kitchen for the coffee service. As she brought it in and set it down, he had the opportunity to observe her.

  Edna was a handsome woman—in her mid-fifties, per the birthdate on file—with soft curls in her dark gray and brown hair. She was wearing a bit of makeup, and her green eyes were clear. Not a trace of a tremble in her movements, red in her eyes or nose, or unsteadiness in her gait. This woman was sober and didn’t show any obvious signs that she had spent a significant amount of time otherwise.

  “Here you are,” she said, handing him an empty cup of coffee. “You want cream or sugar? I have both. And some artificial sweetener too.”

  “I don’t mind serving myself,” he said, knowing it was likely futile.

  “Oh, pish. You’re a guest.”

  So he told her how he liked his coffee and she poured it, then told him to go ahead and ask his questions while she fixed her own cup.

  “Yes, ma’am. Well, my first question is a bit sensitive, but I am afraid I have to ask. Have you ever been drunk while on the job, Edna?”

  Her green eyes were sharp when her gaze snapped up to meet his, and there was thunder in her expression. “No, sir, I have not. I do not know who started those vicious rumors, but I have never had so much as a single drink during working hours, not even during luncheons where other people were indulging. I’m no Carrie A. Nation tee-totaler. I’ll have a tipple now and then, but my first husband was an alcoholic and I do not drink to excess at any time, nor do I drink when it isn’t appropriate.”

  “Carry a nation?”

  E
dna waved a hand. “You can look her up later, but the short version is, someone close to her was a drunk, and it sent her on a crusade to rid the world of alcohol. Smashed up bars and threatened grown men. Fascinating woman.” She shook her head. “Point is, I am not a drunk, Mr.—”

  “Chet. Please call me Chet.”

  “Chet, then. I was not drunk on the job at any time.”

  He nodded and looked at his notes again. “Were you aware that money was missing before the day you were found holding the money?”

  “No. I was Walker Barnaby’s right hand for years. I kept that place running like a top, but he made no mention to me of any missing funds. We have an accountant, so I didn’t keep the books, but I made most of the deposits and took care of any checks that didn’t go through payroll.”

  “What kind of checks?” Chet asked, curious. It wasn’t on his list, but he found it interesting.

  “Oh, you know,” she said, waving her hand again. “Charitable donations and that kind of thing. He’d tell me how much and to whom and he’d have me cut the check and mail it out or he’d come get it so he could deliver it.”

  “He didn’t have to sign the checks?”

  “Oh, no. I had authorization to write checks on the account, just like the payroll department.”

  Chet frowned. “I didn’t see a checkbook with your signatures in it.”

  “Oh, that’s because I took it with me!” Edna looked smug and angry. “I wasn’t going to be railroaded like that. I was going to get a lawyer and fight the termination, but, well.” Her expression grew guilty. “Then your dad up and died. Didn’t seem right to sue after that. I didn’t know what was going to happen to the farm, anyway.”

  “So the checkbook proves what, exactly?” Chet thought he knew, but he wanted her to tell him for sure.

  “I could write checks on the account, but I couldn’t cash them. I’d have had to have written a check to myself or some dummy corporation to get that money from the bank. I certainly didn’t have access to his safe. I never even knew he kept cash, though it makes sense.” She gave him a measuring look. “Do I seem stupid to you, Chet?”