Making Waves by Nicole O’Dell

Barbour Publishing
ISBN:  978-1602608450
Paperback
$7.97

Copyright © 2010 by Nicole O’Dell

Chapter 1
A Lonely Portrait
The picture had been shot only six weeks before; but the edges were already tattered, and fingerprints smudged the image. Kate peeled it from the scrapbook page for what seemed like the hundredth time. She leaned back to lie on the floor and raised the picture above her head in one fluid motion—the rotating ceiling fan made the picture wiggle.
Three generations of Walker women stared back at her. Her silver-haired grandma sat elegantly, unsmiling, in a high-backed brocade chair; and her mom stood just behind, grinning. Kate’s sister, Julia, looked regal with her ivory-lace wedding dress fanned out around the group like a moat around a castle. She wore her brown, velvety hair swept up in an elegant clip, revealing her long, graceful neck. Kate sat at her mom’s feet just outside the moat, her legs twisted to the side as she tried to remain graceful, careful not to touch the ethereal hem of her sister’s garment.
Julia. She drove Kate crazy most of the time, but Kate didn’t know how much she counted on her big sis until she was gone. She didn’t live too far away—about fifteen minutes by car—but far enough so they usually only saw each other on weekends when Julia had free time, which, for a young newlywed, was pretty rare.
Kate heaved herself up with a sigh and returned to her scrapbook. She flipped one page back to what she had been working on the day before. Her gaze locked on an image of her with her best friend, Olivia. Pacific Ocean waves lapped the beach behind where they stood together, laughing at a private joke forever frozen in the photo. Kate smiled because the picture showed just how little they had in common. Kate stood tall and slender, her shape almost boyish. She easily leaned her arm down across Olivia’s much-lower shoulders. Olivia’s bright blue eyes contrasted Kate’s sea green. Olivia had a deep tan, but an equal coating of sunscreen and freckles covered Kate from head to toe.
Kate wiped the tear from her cheek. Missing Julia hurt, but missing Olivia was a different story entirely. Forced to leave Oregon, where she’d lived all her life, Olivia had to move all the way to Chicago to chase her dad’s promotion. It seemed so sophisticated—and so very, very far away.
Of course, they had promised to stay best friends forever. But Kate wasn’t that naive. Only a sophomore, Olivia would meet other people, develop other interests, and move on with her life. Kate would just be stuck in Bethany, Oregon, with the same people she’d gone to school with since kindergarten. Everything stayed the same for Kate, except now she had to do it all alone.
Enough! Kate slammed the scrapbook closed. She really needed to stop the moping and do something with herself. Her mom wouldn’t be home from her job for a few hours, so Kate decided to go for a swim. There wouldn’t be many more opportunities as the summer drew to a close. The past few nights, Kate noticed that the night air held a hint of the approaching fall, which meant cooler water, too.
It’s now or never. She pulled on her swimsuit, grabbed a towel, and headed off on the half-mile walk to the nearby lakefront beach. A nice long swim would do her good. Oops. She ran back into her bedroom to grab a sweatshirt for the walk home.
The lifeguards waved to Kate. She nodded a greeting as she tied back her unruly hair then waded out into Lake Blue. She hesitated as the waves came in above knee level. She shivered at the first touch of the water on her thighs, already colder than a week ago. She shivered once more and, with resolve, gave herself a silent one, two, three, GO and took the plunge.
Pulling through the small waves refreshed her. Each time she turned her head to the side to breathe, she felt cleansed. With her head underwater, she didn’t notice that she had no one to talk to or that no one wanted to talk to her. It no longer seemed odd to be alone. She felt normal. Just God and her—everything was best that way. So she stayed underwater for as long as she could. She swam. And prayed. And swam. Ahh, freedom. The cares of life a distant memory, buried at the bottom of the sea.
She went out about a mile along the shore and then another mile back, and stood to wade into the beach. As her head popped above the water and the fresh air hit her face, the world once again seemed as huge as the mountains in the distance, but she felt stronger. Nothing had really changed about her circumstances, but swimming always had that strengthening effect on her. Kate just wished she could swim all the time.
Suddenly an idea struck her. Why couldn’t she swim all year around? She could join the swim team. She had probably logged around two hundred and fifty hours in the water this summer alone. It would sure be different swimming for a reason other than pure pleasure. But maybe if she felt like it had a purpose, Kate could love it as much as the lake.
There was only one way to find out.
She toweled herself dry and slipped on her flip-flops, then trudged through the sand toward the road. She hurried toward home hoping she’d have time to make a quick dinner to share with Mom when she got home from work. She kicked at the pebbles on the road and thought of her mom. Four years ago, she had taken a job after Kate’s dad passed away. They needed the money. She didn’t like being gone so much, and Kate knew she struggled with loneliness, too. She could hear Mom crying in her bed some nights. But now, it was time—they both desperately needed a change.
*****

“Mom, I think I want to join the swim team at school. What do you think?”
“Really?” Mom dipped the corner of her grilled-cheese sandwich into her tomato soup and took a bite, leaning over her plate so she wouldn’t drip on her business suit. She looked out over their backyard, seemingly lost in thought.
Blinking rapidly as though to reset her thoughts, she blotted her lips with her napkin and said, “Well, I think a sport is a great thing; and you’re a fantastic swimmer. I just don’t want it to affect your grades or keep you from participating in other important things like the church musical—you do that every year.” She got stern. “You promised me when you took a year off from choir that you’d still participate in the musical. When does swimming start?”
“I just checked. Tryouts are in two weeks. Practices would start the second week of September. And, Mom, you don’t have to worry. I’ll stay on top of everything.” Kate tried to look convincing.
“Well, what kind of schedule are we talking about exactly?” Mom narrowed her eyes, the skepticism evident.
“Practice would be every day after school until five-thirty. There’s a sports bus I can catch, which would have me home around six-fifteen. On Saturdays, there’s either a meet or a practice. If, by some miracle, I make the varsity team, I’d also have a ninety-minute, before-school practice.”
“Wow, Kate. That’s quite a commitment. Are you sure this is something you want to do? After your swim schedule, church activities, and homework, you won’t have time for anything else.”
“What else is there, Mom?” Kate dropped her uneaten sandwich onto her plate. “If I don’t go swimming, I just sit around here by myself all afternoon.” She gestured at the house. “I don’t even crack my books until well into the evening anyway. I might as well do something constructive and fun. Plus, maybe I’ll meet some new people.” She pleaded for understanding.
Mom closed her eyes for a moment and then, without opening them just yet, she reached out and touched the top of Kate’s hand. She patted it, then looked at her and nodded slowly, gently squeezing. “I know it’s been a rough four years for you, honey. You’ve had to deal with a lot of loss. Seems we can’t catch a break since your father died.”
After a moment or two, Mom shook her head as if to clear her thoughts. “You know what? I think it’s a great idea. You should go for it. And there’s no need to ride the sports bus home. I’ll just swing by the school on my way home from work to pick you up.”
Kate’s mood instantly brightened. “That sounds great, Mom. Thanks! Now I just have to make the team.”

*****

“Swimmers, take your mark!” The coach shouted from the side of the pool, her whistle at her mouth, ready to blow.
Kate, already poised atop the starting block, leaned down and grabbed the edge just like she had been taught in the training session. Being careful not to fall in, she waited for the next cue.
“Get set.”
She pulled herself a little closer to the edge, arms bent, pulling forward on the edge of the block but pushing back with her feet, like a loaded spring.
“Go!” The whistle shrilled.
Kate sliced into the water with ease, then used her powerful kick to propel her as she angled her way toward the surface, careful not to come up too fast and break her speed. The instant her head broke the surface, she pulled her right arm from behind her and began to swim.
She used the same long, strong stroke she used in the lake. The still water felt lighter and crisper than the salty waves of the ocean. It was strange on her skin, but a welcome change. She felt as though she were flying through billowy clouds on a sunny day. Kate swam fast and she knew it.
Reaching the end of the lane, she grabbed hold of the edge and turned herself around to go back. She’d have to learn how to do a flip turn, but the coach had said that she’d have plenty of time for that. The turn cost her a few precious seconds, but she still kept the lead. Nearing the end of the lap, she tucked her head under the water and gave a final thrust toward the touch pad that controlled the timer.
She finished her tryout, removed her swim cap and goggles, then hoisted herself onto the pool deck before the next swimmer arrived back at the starting block.
Coach Thompson walked over. “Great job, um, Kate, is it?” she asked, checking her clipboard and pulling a pencil from her short, curly brown hair. She was shorter than Kate, but exuded strength and power.
“Yeah, Kate Walker.” She wrapped a towel around her dripping body.
“Where’ve you been? Why didn’t you swim last year? And how did you learn to swim like that?”
“I have always loved to swim, and I just do it for myself. I swim in the lake a lot. And I mean a lot.” Kate shook her head to the side to release the water from her ear.
“I can tell.” The coach nodded and smiled. “Come to practice on Monday. I want to play with some ideas before we make any decisions about team placement. Okay?”
“So, does that mean I’m not on the team yet?” Kate’s shoulders dropped.
“Oh no! You have a place on the team. It’s just where that I have to figure out. Your speed and raw skill is good enough for varsity. But your start and turns need work. So we’ll just see if we can make enough of a dent in those to have you swim varsity. Deal?”
“Deal! I’ll be here.” Kate sailed away as quickly as she could on the slippery pool deck to the locker room. She couldn’t wait to give her mom the exciting news.
Brittany and Pam, two juniors, had just finished rinsing off in the showers. Pam turned off the faucet, and nodded toward the pool, “Nice swim today.”
“Thanks.” Kate’s body clenched in anticipation of a conflict.
“I’m sure you’ll be swimming varsity,” Pam said with authority.
“You’ll be coach’s new prodigy, I’m sure,” Brittany agreed.
“Oh, I don’t know about that. I won’t get in anyone’s way,” Kate spoke quickly.
“No, Kate. From the way things look, we’ll be in your way. Coach is going to have you flying before you know it. It’s good to have you on the team.” They both nodded and smiled warmly.
“Thanks a lot.” Kate returned their smiles, relieved that they were just being friendly.
While she finished up her shower, Kate heard her cell phone ring inside her gym bag. She tucked her towel around her body so she could dig for her phone. Olivia!
“Hey, Liv!”
“Hey, Katie-bug. How’s everything?” Olivia sounded a little down.
“Well, I just got finished with swim-team tryouts, and I made the team. That’s about all that’s new here.” Kate’s voice trailed off. She wished Olivia could be there with her.
“Of course you did! You’re an incredible swimmer. I can’t believe you never joined before this. Why didn’t you, by the way?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Life, I guess. It always seemed like too much time and I thought I preferred swimming for myself. But I’m getting a big rush out of this team-competition thing. We’ll see how it goes as the season moves on, though. But, hey,” she hesitated, not wanting to let her friend down, “is it okay if I call you back later tonight? Mom’s picking me up in a few minutes and we’re going out to eat. And,” Kate laughed, “I’m standing here in nothing but a towel.”
Olivia laughed. “Okay, we can’t have that. Call me later.”
Kate slid her phone closed and dropped it back into her bag. Sadly, she realized that she’d have less and less time for talking on the phone now. She shook her head to clear the negative thoughts. She took her long, damp curls into her hand, wound them together into a knot and secured the entire bundle with a clip, swiped on some lip gloss and applied a touch of mascara to her too-light lashes. Satisfied, Kate grabbed her gym bag and her heavy school bag, jogged out to her mom’s waiting red, four-door sedan and slipped into the passenger seat.
“So, how’d you do? Did you qualify for a college scholarship yet?” Her eyes sparkled as the car door swung shut.
Kate buckled her seat belt and chuckled, hoping her mom was joking. “You never know, Mom. You never know. But for now, let’s eat! I’m starving.” ❖
________________________________

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Nicole O’Dell, mom of six, including toddler triplets, youth leader, speaker and author of the Scenarios for Girlsinteractive fiction series.

Website: http://www.nicoleodell.com
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Bulletproof Bodyguard by Kay Thomas

ISBN 978-0-373-69464-8

Price $4.99
Large Print:  $5.75
Harlequin Intrigue
Paperback

Copyright © 2010 by Kay Thomas

BULLETPROOF BODYGUARD

Prologue
Jackson, Mississippi
November, Six months ago

Sweat ran down Marcus’s back and sides. The heat was cranked up too high and the room was stifling. To top it off, the tape from his body mike was ripping out hairs every time he moved.
Asa had strapped the wire on too tight, but Marcus hadn’t complained. His partner had a lot on his mind. At the time Marcus didn’t think it would matter. He’d expected to be in and out in twenty minutes. He should’ve known better.
They were waiting on Donny Simmons to make the delivery, then Marcus could “say the magic words.” Of course, Donny was over an hour late, and Marcus was about to melt.
Half an hour ago he’d tried opening the window, but it was painted shut. He considered standing up and trying again, but couldn’t summon up the energy.
God, he wanted a drink.
He looked around the shabby little living room. The carpet was worn, stained and smelled awful. Marcus sat on it because the only available chair looked worse. There was an old console television at the far end of the room, but apparently it didn’t work.
He felt a prickling sensation along the back of his neck and couldn’t figure out if something was truly wrong, or if he was just paranoid. After all, he’d been hanging out with Donny and his friends for the past two months. Some of their paranoia was bound to have rubbed off. He tried to concentrate on something besides the greenhouse effect and chest-hair removal, but he wasn’t having much luck.
He knew his men outside weren’t in any better shape, except for the heat issue. It was thirty-two degrees and dropping. The weatherman had predicted an ice storm for tonight, but the front was moving in early. Sleet splattered on the window above his head.
Perfect. No wonder Donny was late.
Four patrol guys were in an unmarked car down the street, while a six-man SWAT team was crammed into a plumbers’ van parked next door. Marcus had been in that same van last week. The heater was broken, and he knew those men were freezing their butts off as the team listened in.
Up to this point there hadn’t been much to hear. Just some dopers sitting around smoking and waiting on a delivery. Three of them to be exact—Donny’s brother Charles, his girlfriend Janice and another small-time dealer named Billy.
Charles lay on a broken-down sofa, his back to the room. From his vantage point on the floor, Marcus had a clear view of his T-shirt. Underneath the winged motorcycle emblem, the shirt proclaimed, If you can read this, the bitch fell off.
Charming guy, that Charles.
Janice slumped in a broken-down recliner next to the sofa. Long greasy hair hid her face, and she held a cigarette in grimy hands. Billy fidgeted at the kitchen table, jumping up every five minutes or so to look out the window and pace around the sad-looking kitchen. Marcus wondered what he was on and how long he’d been up.
Mentally he reviewed the pre-raid briefing that had taken place earlier today. He had stood at the front of the conference room in the station house and pointed to himself, “I’ll be inside wearing these clothes. Please don’t shoot me.”
Everyone had laughed and then they’d gotten down to business. At noon the Honorable Judge Watson had signed a search warrant for the property and arrest warrants for Donny, Charles and Billy.
The plan was to wait for Donny to make the sale.
Marcus would say, “It’s all good.”
Things would roll from there.
The SWAT team would hit the front door, take down the suspects and Marcus would hit the floor. The patrol guys would stay on the perimeter. They should be able to do this with a minimum of fuss, without firing a shot and he hoped, without blowing his cover.
Key word being should.
Donny was normally quite punctual with his delivery schedules—very unusual for a doper. Likewise, every Tuesday at four o’clock in the afternoon, Billy was there for a pick-up. Naturally, this was the first time in two months the delivery had been late.
Marcus’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Donny’s Camaro pulling into the driveway. The muffler must be dragging the ground to make that kind of racket. He stood as the dealer hustled in the back door carrying a nylon duffel bag, but Marcus’s stomach clenched when he saw the woman with him.
Tessa. He’d been a fool to think he was protecting her by saying no. Instead, she was clinging to Donny like he was her ticket to the good life. And for the next few hours he would be, if he shared his product with her. She nodded coolly to Marcus, giving no indication she knew him beyond a casual bar-room acquaintance.
“It’s about time,” said Charles. “Where ya been?”
“Trying not to wrap my car around a tree.” Donny’s voice was high and screechy. “It’s slicker’n a greased pig out there.”
“Donny, you’re such a comedian,” sneered Janice.
“Bite me, darlin.”
“In your dreams,” she retorted.
“Cut the crap,” interrupted Marcus. “Let’s get on with this. I’ve got somebody waiting.”
“You and me both,” said Billy. He walked over to stand beside
Marcus. “Let’s see the st…”
Boom. Boom. Boom. The battering ram slammed through the front door.
Damn, somebody screwed up. Marcus hit the floor. The SWAT team burst through into the living room with 9mm MP5’s.
“What the f—” shouted Charles. His question was cut short as he fell off the couch.
Janice screamed. Donny hit the floor with Marcus. Billy pulled out a 9mm Glock.
“Police…Drop the weapon, you’re under arrest!” shouted Tanker, the SWAT team leader.
Billy didn’t hesitate; he just grabbed Tessa and put the Glock to her temple. “You drop it, or I do her right here.”
“You got no place to run, man. The house is surrounded. Let her go.” Tanker’s voice was calm. His entire team was now in the living room pointing their MP5’s at Billy.
Marcus was sprawled at Tessa’s feet, staring up at the Glock. She was scared, but looked at him with complete trust in her eyes. No way he was pulling out his own gun in this situation. That was a guaranteed way to get them both shot.
He’d suspected Billy was a speed freak, and right now he was pretty sure that the guy was “schitzing out”. Marcus figured they had about ten more seconds before Billy completely lost it and starting shooting. If he rolled hard, Marcus could knock Tessa out of the way long enough for Tanker to do his thing.
He glanced over at the SWAT leader, gave him an imperceptible nod and rolled—right into Tessa’s calves.
Tessa squealed and pitched backwards, away from the gun. Billy’s arm was shoved to the side when she fell. She was safe but Billy squeezed off several rounds as his hand came down. Tessa’s scream was cut short. Tanker ran forward and Billy was on the ground before the echo of the shots stopped reverberating around the room.
“Officer down!” shouted Tanker’s second in command. “Officer down!”
Marcus turned to check Tessa and see who they were talking about before he felt the pain sear along his shoulder. Fire raced up and down his arm, but his body felt as cold as the sleet coming down outside.
Well, hell. The crowded room darkened around the edges but the volume increased. Tessa lay still beside him, her eyes staring lifelessly at the yellowed ceiling.
NO! Something inside him died when he saw the gunshot wound between her eyes, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth.
Asa shouted for an ambulance and leaned over Marcus, blocking his view of the men huddled around her.
“Tessa?”
Asa didn’t answer immediately. “They’re working on her. Hang on, partner. Help’s on the way.”
Marcus saw stark fear in his friend’s eyes and was lucid enough to realize Billy’s stray bullets might have nicked something major in him. He felt a growing puddle of warm blood beneath him.
Asa never stopped talking as he peeled off his own sweatshirt, wadded it up and pressed the material against Marcus’s chest. “You did good, man. You’re gonna make Hodges’s day. There’s a boatload of drugs here. Should be some cash, too. You just stay with me. Okay?”
“Sure,” mumbled Marcus.
Asa was lying. Hodges was gonna be pissed at the way this had gone down. Not that Marcus cared what Hodges thought, he’d just screwed up so badly, there wasn’t anything his boss could do to make him feel any worse. Tessa was dead and he couldn’t tell Asa what that really meant. Marcus had to pretend she was no different from any other addict caught in the crossfire. Even now.
“I’ll be all right,” he whispered. The room grew dimmer. “You know, I almost passed out from the heat waiting on you guys.
Better not tell Hodges, though, huh? I’d really like some fresh air.”
Marcus could tell his words were slurring and he wasn’t making much sense. “I had this feeling something would go wrong…You know that feeling?”
Then everything went black.

Chapter One

Murphy’s Point, South Mississippi
Memorial Day Weekend
Saturday, early evening

“Boat sink! Boat sink!” Harris splashed and water slipped over the side of the claw-footed tub into Cally’s lap.
“Of course it does when you have a tidal wave, sweetie.”
“Don’t want it to sink.”
“Then don’t splash so much, darlin’. It’s almost time to get out—two more minutes.”
Cally surveyed the flooded floor. She wasn’t sure but there was probably as much water on her as on the bath mat. Her son loved his baths. Of course, she’d need to mop up afterwards.
Still, this was her favorite part of the day. By now her inn-keeping duties were usually done until the following morning when breakfast was served, and she was free to focus on her son. But tonight her guests were running late, so she was getting a head start on the evening routine before they checked into River Trace.
She would be sold out with Gregor Williams’s group coming in for a gambling holiday, plus her new boarder, Mr. North. She’d never intended to take in a long-term resident, but McCay County was the only area of the country with a housing shortage in this depressed economy. Two hurricanes had recently swept the Mississippi coastline back to back, ravaging an area still struggling after Katrina.
Mr. North, one of the Paddlewheel Casino’s onsite bodyguards, was tired of making the hour-and-a-half commute to work from Jackson, and he was more than willing to live here until he could find a more permanent residence. She hadn’t met him yet. He’d done everything through e-mail, but she hoped he was pleasant. Even if he wasn’t, the money was too good to turn down.
She and Bay, the groundskeeper, had just finished his room today. They’d gradually been converting all the bedrooms in River Trace to guestrooms as the business increased. Moving that antique armoire up to the attic room had about killed them both. But they’d done it, all while Harris napped down here—compliments of her new high-tech baby monitor.
Cally still couldn’t believe she was living her dream of running a bed and breakfast in Murphy’s Point. Of course that dream had come at a crushing price. At twenty-eight years old, she was a widow with a three-year-old son.
Tears pricked the back of her eyes. Damn it. She hated to cry. It had been almost four years and the grief could still unexpectedly bring her to her knees. Sometimes the pain snuck up on her like this and grabbed her from behind. She didn’t have time for it.
“Boat sink! Boat sink!” More water hit the floor and splattered her shirt, shaking her from memories best left in the past.
“Okay, sailor. It’s time to abandon ship and get ready for bed.”
Harris giggled. “I bring boat?”
“Yes, darling. As soon as I dry it off.”
“Yay! Harris take boat to bed…to bed.”
Oh, the cry of my heart. “Now let’s get your pj’s on and brush those teeth.”
Bong. Bong.
“Doorbell, Momma.”
“Yes, honey. I hear it.” One of her guests no doubt. She scrambled up with a wiggling, wet toddler in her arms. Great.
“Let’s see how fast we can get those pj’s on.”
After a couple of tries Cally gave up on the pajamas. They were sticking to the damp places on Harris’s back, arms and bottom.
“Well, let’s just get underwear on so you aren’t completely naked.” She slipped in a puddle as she stepped out of the bathroom and went down on the one knee that, up to that point, had been dry.
Bong. Bong.
“Coming, coming,” she muttered under her breath. “Keep your shirt on.”
“Not wearing shirt, Momma.”
Cally grinned in spite of herself. She passed the gilded mirror in the hallway and her blue eyes widened. How much water had Harris splashed on her?
Her thick hair, wavy under the best of circumstances, was now falling out of the bun on top of her head and curling around her face in ringlets. Her makeup was completely gone, except for that smear of mascara under her left eye. Her clothes were…soaked. And there was a large wet spot across the front of her blouse that made it practically transparent. Lovely.
Bong.
No time to change into dry clothes. She shifted Harris from her hip to her chest and clasped both hands under his bottom.
She glanced in the mirror again. At least she couldn’t see her bra through the shirt anymore because Harris now covered her like a blanket. She took a swipe at the mascara and snorted a laugh at the effort.
So much for first impressions.

MARCUS WAS RINGING the bell for the fourth time as the heavy front door swung open. The woman behind the massive oak-and-glass panel held a wet-haired toddler and looked as if she had just stepped out of the bathtub in her clothes.
Marcus started to reach out to shake the lady’s hand and realized she couldn’t let go of the child.
“Hi, I’m Marcus North. I think you were expecting me earlier?” He smiled.
The kid was wriggling and getting the mother’s shirt even wetter and more transparent as he turned around in her arms trying to get a look at the stranger. The woman brushed curly red hair out of her eyes. She smiled tentatively but her cornflower-blue eyes looked panicked.
“Hello, Mr. North. I’m Cally Burnett. Welcome to River Trace Inn. I’m glad you’re here.” She talked fast. “Come on inside. We’ll get you all checked in. I…” She hesitated as she looked down at her clothes, clearly uncomfortable at being caught unprepared.
Marcus attempted to put her at ease. “Did you fall in?” he asked with a straight face.
“What…? No…I mean,” she stammered and looked down again at her water-stained clothes as a genuine smile tugged at the edge of her lips. She had a beautiful mouth with twin dimples accenting the corners. “I know it looks that way but, actually, I only went wading.”
“They say one can drown in two inches of water.” He grinned back at her.
Cally winced and seemed to recover her smile, but the dimples were gone. “That’s about how much water is on the bathroom floor.”
“Well, he looks as if he certainly enjoyed putting it there.” Marcus turned his attention to the little boy who was openly staring at him with a confused look.
“Momma didn’t fall. She giving me bathed.”
Her mouth dimpled faintly. “Of course not, darling. We were just joking. Mr. North, this is my son, Harris.”
“Hi, Mr. Nowth.”
Marcus reached out his hand to shake Harris’s damp one. “Hi, Harris, it’s nice to meet you.”
“Let’s get you all settled. You must be tired after your drive.” Cally began the innkeeper’s patter as she brought him into the high-ceilinged living room and over to an antique secretary to handle the paper work.
“No, not so much.” Marcus looked around the magnificent room, his undercover cop’s brain automatically taking note of and cataloguing details. From the front door he had stepped directly into a large living area with a baby grand piano at one end and a fireplace at the other. Soft moss-green walls made the grandeur much more comfortable than he would have thought possible.
Hardwood floors were covered with several different richly colored oriental rugs. Two loveseats from a bygone era nestled close to the fireplace. Beyond the sitting area on the right he glimpsed the dining room’s huge banquet table and antique sideboard. A large rose-crystal chandelier glowed dimly over the table that was already set for breakfast with heavy silver serving pieces and crystal goblets.
A grand staircase ran parallel to the room on the opposite end by the piano. A hallway lay straight ahead that seemed to go toward the back of the house, and rooms connected off each end of the living room.
“You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Burnett. How long have you lived here?”
“A little over eight years.” She looked up from the registration book. “This was my husband’s family home. His great-grandfather built it at the turn of the century.”
“Oh, so it doesn’t date back to the Civil War.”
“No,” she laughed softly. “Although I’m afraid the Chamber of Commerce wishes it did. They wanted to suggest that perhaps William Faulkner slept here. But the sad fact is nothing of historic significance has ever occurred at River Trace.”
“Except raising the Burnett family of course.”
Her dimples reappeared.
“So do you and your husband run the bed and breakfast?”
Again, her smile faltered. “No, my husband died almost four years ago. I run River Trace myself with the help of Bay and Luella Wiggins.”
Now it was Marcus’s turn to wince. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”
She shook her head and looked back down at the paperwork. “That’s all right. It…it happens all the time.” She stopped writing to look up at him directly. “I know you don’t know what to say.”
Marcus nodded gratefully, feeling that he was definitely losing his social skills. He wondered what had happened to the husband.
As if reading his thoughts, Harris piped up, “Daddy dwowned…but not in bathtub.”
Cally gaped at the child in shocked surprise. Marcus groaned. No wonder his earlier comment about drowning had caused such an unusual reaction.
“That’s right, honey.” She recovered herself and held him close as she patted his back and looked into his eyes.
“He lives in heaven with angels.”
“Um-hmm,” she murmured, still staring into the boy’s face.
“Lulu says so. Bay, too.”
“That’s right, baby. That’s right.” She gazed at Harris a moment longer continuing to cuddle him and a took a deep breath. He laid his head on her shoulder.
Marcus shifted on his feet, uncomfortable with his eavesdropping. It usually wouldn’t bother him, but in this case, it was extraordinarily awkward.
She seemed to sense his discomfort. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize he knew what that meant. I mean we’ve talked about it, but…” She stopped, blushed a deep pink, clearly at a loss for words.
“That’s all right. I’m sorry about what I said earlier.” Her forehead creased, “About?”
“About…the tub.”
“Oh,” she nodded. “You must be wondering after all this.”
Her hand fluttered about Harris’s back but her voice was cool and composed. “My husband was in a boating accident. He was duck-hunting and putting out decoys when the boat capsized. His waders filled with water and he drowned.” “I’m terribly sorry.”
“I am, too.” She sighed. “But life goes on.” She looked at the little boy in her arms and gave him a squeeze. “Here’s the proof.”
Harris giggled sleepily. “Let me show you to your room. It’s right up these steps.”
Marcus followed her to the grand staircase. Their feet were silent on the carpeted steps.
“Your room was originally an attic when the house was built. At one time it was a nursery. Now it’s definitely the most secluded spot at River Trace.”
At the top of the second flight, Cally turned left and led him past several rooms toward the back of the house. Her hair had come out of its pins and was trailing halfway down her back in ringlets. Marcus watched as Harris opened and closed his fists around one of the curls.
The outline of her bra strap was clearly visible through the wet shirt. It was lacey, pink and distracting the hell out of him. She turned right and paused at another landing.
“I thought since you were going to be here a while, this would give you more privacy. You have your own bath and there’s another stairway here if you prefer. It was originally a servants’ stairway. And if you’ve had a really long day…” She didn’t finish the sentence as she pointed toward the antique one-man elevator.
“It still works?” he asked.
Cally nodded, opened a door and led him up a narrow stairwell. He could see how the location would have been perfect for a child’s nursery.
“We just finished getting it all together today.”
Marcus stepped up into the room behind her. She crossed another oriental rug and sat Harris down on a wide window seat. As she leaned over to close the window, he got an unexpected but rather spectacular view of her butt in the water-soaked jeans. Her wet shirt had ridden up and he could see a line of milky-white skin along her back.
He caught himself staring, imagining the view under different circumstances. If she turned around without picking up the boy first, he’d get a peek at the latest Victoria’s Secret had to offer. With a jolt he realized he wasn’t paying attention to a word she was saying.
“…we painted earlier this week, but I wanted to make sure the smell was completely gone.”
Marcus took in a gulp of air, attempting to clear the erotic images forming in his head. “Hmm. All I smell is ah…flowers?”
“Yes.” Cally smiled, completely unaware of where his thoughts had been. “That would be the potpourri.” She nodded at a silver bowl on the captain’s desk to his right.
“The bathroom’s through here.” She pointed toward the small hallway to his left; straight ahead was a queen-sized bed flanked by small antique tables. “We just moved the armoire in today.”
He reassessed her as he took in the large cabinetry opposite the window. “You moved that yourself? Up those stairs?” He studied her slim build and tried to imagine her lifting the heavy antique. Even with a man helping her, it was a formidable job.
“Well, Bay and I did. I couldn’t have done it on my own. I can’t imagine doing any of this without the Wigginses. You’ll meet him and Luella tomorrow. River Trace simply couldn’t run without them. They’re amazing.”
“I’d say so.” He mentally struggled to get focused again.
“Let’s see. I need to get you more towels, and you need a brandy decanter.” She ticked the items off on her fingers.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s a gift when you check in. Our special label. Homemade peach brandy. Not to be missed.” She stared straight at him—open and friendly, but it wasn’t a come-on. He knew that.
Facing him, she wasn’t holding the kid. Marcus locked his eyes on hers and willed himself not to look below her neck at that transparent shirt.
“Now…what else. Oh, yes. Since you’re up three stories here, the fire marshal insists I tell you how to get out in case the stairway is blocked during a fire.” She headed for the window seat.
Marcus swallowed hard when she bent over to pick up Harris and lifted the lid on the built-in seat. Her shirt rode up again revealing more of that creamy skin that he was suddenly very curious to touch.
“There’s a ladder here,” she said over her shoulder.
She reached for the jumble of metal and rope, and he realized he was staring again. He was going to get busted if he didn’t stop. He reached around her, accidentally brushing against her shoulder.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
She startled. “Thank you,” she murmured, stepping aside. “You attach it by those handles to the window and then you can ease down to the roof.”
“Where do I go from there?” he asked, keeping his voice as neutral as possible. Touching her had been a bad idea, a really bad idea.
Cally turned to look at him with a sober face and sparkling eyes. “You jump.”
He barked a laugh.
“Actually, you shimmy down to that sunroof on the second floor, and you jump.”
“Does every room have one of these?”
“Oh, no. Yours is special. It’s the only one on the third floor. There are two staircases up to the second floor and a window in every bedroom. The fire marshal figures if worse comes to worst everyone else can get out.”
Obviously she was struggling to keep a straight face.
“I see.”
“River Trace is the only residence to be converted to an inn in the county. The fire marshal had never done this before. I’m afraid he went a bit overboard. We barely talked him out of a sprinkler system. But I feel confident you will be safe during your stay.” The dimples were back. “I think the worst thing that would happen if you had to jump is a broken leg.”
“Hmm. We’ll hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“Absolutely.” A man could get lost in a smile like hers. Harris yawned widely as Marcus shut the ladder back into the window seat. “Someone is getting sleepy.”
Harris was snuggling into her chest and clutching one of her ringlets. “Yes, I’d better put him to bed. I’ll be glad to get you something after I get him down.”
She was looking at Marcus again with those incredibly blue eyes, totally oblivious of the effect she was having.
“What would you like? A snack of some kind? Or I can fix you a sandwich? Whatever you want.”
She had no idea what she’d just said. Marcus swallowed. God, he didn’t usually get turned on by unintentional double entendres. “A sandwich would be great if it’s not too much trouble. But there’s no hurry. I realize you’ll have your hands full for the next few minutes.”
“It’s no problem at all. I’ll just put Harris to bed and bring up your sandwich. And those towels and that brandy.” She started toward the stairs before turning back. “How does roast beef on whole wheat sound?”
“Delicious.”
“It’ll be about fifteen minutes.”
Downstairs the deep gong of the doorbell echoed through the house.
“That’ll be my other guests. Let’s make that thirty minutes on the sandwich?”
“No problem.”
Cally nodded and headed down the steps. When the door closed, Marcus’s smile faded. He looked around the room, taking in the rich red walls and antique four-poster.
This was not the set-up he’d been expecting. Oh, it was quite a place all right. But it was not the proper way for this to go down. What in hell was he going to do about the widow and the kid?❖

Excerpt from: BULLETPROOF BODYGUARD by Kay Thomas
Copyright © 2010 by Kay Thomas
Permission granted by Harlequin Books S.A. and Harlequin Enterprises Limited. All rights reserved.

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Kay Thomas writes “bulletproof” romantic thrillers for Harlequin Intrigue. She grew up in the Mississippi Delta but today lives in Dallas with her husband, their two children and a shockingly-spoiled Boston terrier named Jack.

Website:  http://www.kaythomas.net

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Yesterday’s Promise by Vanessa Miller

ISBN: 9781603742078
Whitaker House
Paperback
Copyright © 2010 by Vanessa Miller

ONE

Standing before the congregation at Omega Christian Church Melinda Johnson preached a message on God’s precious gift of salvation. Her mission in life was to tell as many people as possible about a man named Jesus. Preaching the gospel had become her greatest joy. “Don’t wait until it’s too late,” she told the congregation. “The Lord, Jesus wants to fellowship with you right now. He loves you and only desires good things for you. “
Melinda continued on in that vain until her voice cracked and tears ran down her cocoa cream face. She never tired of talking about God’s ability to do the impossible. Or how God could take nothing and make something miraculous out of it. She didn’t like public displays of emotion, but this was more important than her image. As the tears continued to fall, she made an altar call and watched as countless men and women left their seats and rushed toward the altar. Repented souls stood around the altar weeping as they raised their hands in surrender to God. Melinda prayed to God on behalf of each and everyone of them.
After service, Melinda stood by the sanctuary door and shook hands with the people as they left the church. This was something her father did every Sunday. Since he couldn’t be there today, Melinda wanted to make sure the job was still done.
“Thanks for your wonderful message, Sister Melinda. My son was one of the people who came down to the altar today,” Janet Hillman said.
Janet had spent her lunch hours in noon day prayer for the past three years. Melinda had joined Janet in prayer for her son on numerous occasions, so she was aware of the addictions and the incarcerations that Janet’s son had been through. However, Janet had kept the faith, she believed that her son would one day serve the Lord. Melinda smiled as she said, “You prayed him through, Janet. I need to give you my prayer list, because I know you’ll stay on the job until it’s done.”
When Janet walked away, Elder Helms, the head elder, walked over to her and said, “You brought the house down with that sermon.”
“Thank you, sir. Hey, do you know why the elders weren’t at prayer this morning?” The first Sunday of every month, the leadership met for prayer. But, Melinda had noticed that none of the elders were in attendance this morning.
“Your father asked that all the elders meet with him this morning,” Elder Helms told her.
“Oh,” was all Melinda said. She had been with her father last night and he hadn’t mentioned anything about meeting with the elders this morning. The situation seemed odd to Melinda because she had always been included in his meetings with the elders. It was understood by all the leadership that she would take over for Bishop Johnson once he retired. Her father was in the hospital recuperating from what he’d thought was a heart attack, but turned out to be more of an anxiety attack. He had been given strict instructions to rest, which now that Melinda thought about it; that was probably the reason he hadn’t told her about the meeting. He knew she wouldn’t want him worrying about church business right now.
“Bishop Langston told me to make sure that you left church right after preaching the message. He wants to see you immediately,” Elder Helms said.
It felt as if Elder Helms knew something she didn’t and it scared her. “Did something happen to Daddy this morning?”
Shaking his head, Elder Helms reassured her, “No, no. Nothing like that. Bishop Langston is doing fine. He just wants to see you.”
“Thanks for letting me know, Elder Helms, I’ll head out there now.”

***

Rushing down the hospital corridor, Melinda was anxious to see her father so she could make sure he was all right. Her father had been admitted to the hospital three days ago after complaining of chest pains. After several tests, the doctor confirmed that no sign of a heart attack had been detected. Melinda was thankful that her father was recuperating and doing well. She was also excited to tell her father the wonderfully unexpected news she had just received that morning.
Bishop Langston Johnson’s eyes were closed when she walked into the room. As Melinda stood by the side of his bed she noticed that his hair was no longer salt and pepper, but completely white. The wrinkles beneath his eyes that had served to make him look distinguished were now more aggressive and intrusive. When did all of this happen, Melinda wondered as she picked up her father’s frail hand and pressed it to her cheek.
Bishop Langston’s eyes fluttered as he turned toward his daughter. “Hey baby girl, when’d you get here?”
“Not too long ago. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to get here earlier.”
“You had to handle my responsibilities at the church. Don’t worry about it. I had plenty of visitors this morning.”
Melinda sat down in the chair next to her father’s bed and hung her purse on the arm of the chair. “I have some good news, Daddy. I’ve been asked to speak at the Women on the Move For God conference in August.”
“That’s great, baby girl, but I have even better news.”
Melinda smiled. “What? The doctor gave you a clean bill of health… said that you’ll live to be a hundred?”
Bishop shook his head and then blurted out, “I found you a husband.”
“Excuse me,” Melinda said in as even a tone as she could manage under the circumstances. After all, she was a thirty-seven year old woman, living in the twenty-first century. Father’s didn’t go out and find husbands for their daughter’s in this day and age. “Please tell me you’re joking, Daddy.”
“No joke to it,” Bishop Langston Johnson said as he lifted himself into an upright position. “I’m an old man, Melinda. I haven’t got many years left. So I’d like to see at least one of my grandchildren before I die?”
Melinda couldn’t deny that her father was showing signs of aging. But that didn’t mean death would sneak into his hospital room and suck out his last breath while she stood there and watched. “You act as if you’re dying tomorrow.”
“I could. The next heart attack could be my last.”
Melinda rolled her eyes. “It was an anxiety attack. Stop being such a baby. The doctor says you’re fine.”
Bishop Langston shook a shaky finger in Melinda’s face. “Now you listen to me. I’m eighty-two years old. I know what’s best for you and that’s why I called Steven Marks.”
Melinda stood up and backed away from her father’s bed. She put her hand to her mouth and shut her eyes, trying to block out the same feeling of humiliation she’d experienced when Steven dumped her ten years ago. This had to be some kind of horrible joke, but Melinda’s father was a serious man who rarely joked with anyone.
“Calm down, it’s not as bad as you think. I didn’t come right out and tell Steven I wanted him to marry you. He’s a smart young man… he’ll come to that decision on his own.”
“Why are you even talking to me about Steven, Daddy? That man walked out on me and married someone else. Do you really think I want him back now that his wife is dead?”
“Pride goes before a fall, Melinda.”
She really hated when her father tried to rein her in by quoting Bible scriptures. “What does being prideful have to do with not wanting to marry a man who rejected me in the first place? No thank you.”
“I have more to tell you. Would you please sit back down?”
Slowly Melinda inched back to her seat. If this marrying Steven Marks thing was supposed to be a buffer for the rest of his message, then Melinda was truly petrified. She sat down and trepidly glanced toward her father.
“This last hospital stay has convinced me that I need to retire.”
“I’ve been telling you to retire for years now. I’m able to pastor Omega and Pastor Lakes can take over as bishop for you.”
“Let me finish,” Bishop Langston said as he held up a hand to stifle Melinda. “I know the ministry goals that you have. I also believe there is a way for you to do God’s will and also have a family. Plus Steven’s church did not support him during his grieving process. They want him to leave, Melinda. So, I asked him to take over for me as bishop.”
She didn’t hear her father right. He couldn’t have just said that Steven Marks, the man who called off their wedding because she refused to give up her dreams of preaching the gospel was going to be the new bishop. In Melinda’s mind, this could only mean one thing; her sin had finally caught up with her.❖
________________________________

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Vanessa Miller is a best-selling author, playwright, and motivational speaker. Her stage productions include Get You Some Business, Don’t Turn Your Back on God, and Can’t You Hear Them Crying. Vanessa holds a degree in organizational communication from Capital University in Columbus, Ohio. She is a dedicated Christian and a devoted mother who also serves in her church as an ordained exhorter.

Website:  vanessamiller.com

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Sorrow Wood by Raymond L. Atkins

ISBN: 9781934755631
Medallion Press
Hard cover

(ebook available)

Copyright © 2009-2010 by Raymond L. Atkins

Chapter One: 1985

Wendell Blackmon considered the dead dog lying before him.  He wiped his sweating brow with a white handkerchief pulled from his back pocket.  He looked a bit incongruous producing the starched hanky, like a Teamster holding up a pinky as he slurped coffee at the truck stop.  He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with thinning brown hair and a full beard gone mostly white.  He sported a nose that had profiled better before it was broken those three times.  His creased forehead was high and getting higher as his hairline receded, and there were laugh lines at the corners of his blue eyes.  The passage of the years had added a few extra pounds to his frame, and these had the effect of enhancing the sense of largeness that he projected.
The August afternoon was as humid as a rain forest and hotter than the third circle of hell. The weather report that morning had called for a near one-hundred percent chance of rain, locally heavy at times.  Miniature dark clouds with petite lightning bolts had been superimposed on the weather map, and the meteorologist had gravely advised her viewers to pack an umbrella in anticipation of the inevitability of precipitation.  Wendell looked up at the cloudless blue sky and mentally declared another triumph for modern meteorology.  He noted a mountain hawk hanging on the wind, floating effortlessly over the landscape.  Its mournful kee kee came to his ears from what seemed a thousand miles away.
The weather woman had annoyed Wendell.  In his opinion, his own mother, Eunice, had a better track record than any of the professional prognosticators, and her predictions did not rely on satellites, radar, or computers, a fact he believed may have enhanced her success rate.  Her method was simple, a venerable system of forecasting that had been refined for millennia by the arthritic masses.  If her elbow hurt, it was going to rain.  If her knee hurt, too, it was going to rain a lot.  If her elbow, knee, and hip all three hurt, then it was time to make peace with God, because the end was near. That was her system, and she was reliable eighty percent of the time, provided she stayed away from the aspirin bottle.  Still, Heather McDowell of Channel Five Weather Alive did have nicer legs than Eunice, and maybe the poor girl would be fortunate enough to develop a good case of rheumatism over time.
“If you’ve got straight teeth and can point, you are qualified,” Wendell had noted to his wife, Reva, over breakfast eggs and bacon.  He was watching the weather report while she read the paper and paid scant attention to his monologue.  His comment was an unfair generalization, anyway, since many of the practitioners of the trade also gestured with the backs of their hands, and a couple of the real old-timers used little batons, as if they were conducting an orchestra of meteorological events, a symphony of storm.  “You can be wrong every time, and you still get paid,” he continued as he pointed his fork at the television on the kitchen counter.  “You’re protected by the Act of God exemption.  You can’t lose.”  Reva poured herself a little more coffee and turned the page. They had been married for over forty years, and she had pretty much heard it all before.  Her husband’s gentle tirades against the real and imagined insults of the world were the background noise of her existence, always humming just outside the borders of her perception.
Weather people were not even really the problem, although in his later years, Wendell had come to view himself as a trace underemployed, a smidge below maximum potential, and he had a tendency to grow touchy when mulling trades he felt to be better, or at least easier, than his own.  In his opinion as a humble policeman in Sand Valley, Alabama, that category included many occupations.  Maybe not coal miner or steelworker, but certainly a large group of others.  The real issue with Wendell was a general, vague dissatisfaction with almost everything, a mildly negative outlook on the world that was coupled with a quiet, nagging yearning for something he could not identify.  This phenomenon had descended upon him later in life, and he often wondered if he were alone in this unidentified feeling of emptiness and loss.  Certainly his wife, Reva, seemed immune and took each day as it came, happy as a sailor in a liberty port to be drawing breath and seeing another sunrise.  The last time they had discussed their different points of view was on the occasion of Wendell’s fiftieth birthday, a day that dawned dark and rainy and matched his mood to a tee.
“Being fifty really sucks,” he had noted.  It was going on noon, he had been up for several hours, and these were his first words of the day.  He had contemplated on the phrase since early morning, had crafted and honed it in his mind, and it said exactly what he wanted to say.
“Why can’t you be happy?” Reva had asked.  “You used to be.”  They sat on the front porch and watched rain drip from the leaves on the sickly magnolia tree in the yard.
Wendell and the tree were not friends.  He claimed that it was the only tree in the world that shed something each and every day of the year.  Even on the only day in living memory that nothing had fallen off the tree, a bird had dropped dead from a branch, thus validating the unbroken record.  The magnolia had been planted by their neighbor, Miss Rose Lowery, when she was seven, and now she and her tree were both over ninety.  The tree was drooping and had been losing branches with increasing regularity, and its occasional few blooms were more mottled brown than white.  Miss Rose, on the other hand, was still as spry as a girl of seventy, and nothing major had fallen off of her in a long time, so it looked like she might outlast her tree.  If the current drought extended another year, it was almost a certainty.
“I really don’t know,” Wendell had replied with a sigh to his wife.  He was a man who began each day with the intention of being carefree and gay, but the harder he tried, the less it rang true.  “I want to be as happy as a fat pig in deep mud, but it just isn’t there.  I’m not unhappy.  I’m just not happy.  There is always a feeling in the back of my head that I’m missing something, that the party has started and my invitation got lost in the mail.”  In Wendell’s view, given the state of the postal service in recent years, this was entirely possible.  “Maybe it is the job, or maybe it is Sand Valley, or maybe it is just me.  I remember being content when we lived in Seattle.”
“There is no party, and this is not a dress rehearsal,” Reva pointed out.  She took his hand.  “It doesn’t matter where we live, as long as we are there together.  And a job is a job.  This is the real thing.  We are both on the wrong side of fifty now, and time is not going to stand still.  Eventually, it will all be over for us.  First one of us and then the other will pass on from this world.  My mama died young, so it will probably be me that goes first.  But you know what I believe, and I’ll say it again.  I am sure that I have loved you over many lifetimes, but I think that this will be my last time through this world.  I hope that we are going to be together for whatever is next, but if you don’t quit dragging around this baggage, I don’t honestly believe it is going to happen.  If you don’t find some peace in this life, you will have to come back and look for it again in the next.  And I don’t want to go on without you.”
Reva’s vivid dreams of what she believed to be her past lives with Wendell were at the core of her belief system.  She had experienced them for as long as she could remember, but she had never understood what they signified until she met her husband.  She did not know why, but she always seemed to dream of just the endings of those lives, as if the imprint of the conclusion of one existence could carry over to the next and somehow burn itself onto that new consciousness.
In one dream, she and her fellow villagers were corralled by Roman soldiers at the edge of a cliff by the sea, and there was no escape.  When awake, she believed the setting to be a rocky coast on the Irish Sea, but in her dreams she was not sure.  The women fought savagely and well beside the men, with faces painted in blues and grays, but the Romans were too numerous and well equipped.  As the end neared, the man who had battled the entire time by her side threw his axe at a Roman, cleaving the soldier’s shield and the arm that held it.  Then, he turned his back to their enemies and placed himself between her and their foes, to protect her as long as he could.  He spoke to her in a language that her modern mind did not understand, although in her dream she knew what the words meant.  Then, together, they stepped off the precipice.  Reva knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that those two ill-fated lovers were previous incarnations of Wendell and herself.  She had experienced the dream dozens of times, and each time she replayed the episode, a new fact or image was revealed.  The first time she had viewed the scene was when she was six, long before she knew what a Roman was, or where the Irish Sea was situated.  Every time she had the dream, she awoke feeling sad on one hand and deeply peaceful on the other.
There were many other dreams, as well.  Some were frequent, some were occasional, and some were one of a kind.  But they all had as their subject matter the ending of a relationship between the same two people.  The appearance of the characters differed from one recollection to the next, but she was always certain that it was the life forces of Wendell and Reva Blackmon that were bidding farewell to one another.  The adieu was the constant.  Sometimes both were passing away, while other times it was one or the other.  In one of her saddest and most vivid dreams, she was riding in a freight car.  She knew it was a prison train of some type, and in her waking hours she always assumed that her dream persona was on the way to a penal camp in the vastness of Siberia.  It was bitter cold, and she did not have sufficient clothing, so she was suffering from pneumonia while slowly freezing to death.  The odor in the car was a mixture of rotted hay and hopeless humanity.  She was an old woman who had been alone all her life, and she wanted to die and be out of her misery, but she could not.  Her heart would not stop beating, and her life force simply would not let go.  Then the train stopped, and more prisoners were punched and kicked into the car, herded by roughly dressed men with sticks and clubs.  Included in this influx was an old man who appeared to be a farmer.  He sat next to her just as she began to have a coughing fit.  Without a word, he stood, removed his greatcoat, and wrapped her in it.  Then he sat back down, encircled her frail form with his large arms, and tried to warm her as best he could.  As the thump-thump of the rails passed beneath them, he held her, quietly singing an unfamiliar tune while gently rocking her.  He continued this comfort until she died.  The dream always made her sad, because she knew that in that particular life, they had almost not found each other and had missed much happiness in their individual isolations.  But the dream also encouraged her, because they had, in fact, discovered each other before the end.
“Thanks for cheering me up,” Wendell said, back on the occasion of his fiftieth birthday.  Reva had just informed him that from a cosmic standpoint, his prospects were limited.  “You always know just what to say to make me feel better.  You’re going to die young, and I am going to come back as a barnacle.  It doesn’t get much better than that.  Excuse me while I go sit in the highway.  Maybe a chicken truck will come along and put me out of my misery.”
“I am serious,” she replied.
“I know you are serious, Babe,” he offered.  “Maybe I am in better shape than you think, and I could be your dog.”
“This is not funny,” she had told him.  It was Reva’s belief that the soul went through many incarnations before purifying itself enough to pass to a higher state of existence.  The concepts were called the samsara, the continuing cycle of birth, life, death, and rebirth, which formed the core of many Hindu beliefs, and the moksha, the release from the earthly plane for those souls that were ready for oneness with the universe.  Reva had believed in these concepts long before she knew their names or realized their Hindu origins.  Hers was admittedly an unusual belief system to be held by a good, solid Methodist who sang in the choir on Wednesdays and Sundays, but she did not consider the two views to be mutually exclusive.  The Methodist pastor, Dr. Stephen Rideout, was not as liberal as his parishioner, however, as was indicated by the Hinduism or Heaven? sermon that he dusted off from time to time, whenever Reva became too vocal with her arcane philosophies.
But Dr. Rideout’s narrow-mindedness did not bother her in the least.  She knew what she knew, and she believed what she believed.  It was a certainty in her heart that this current life with Wendell represented her final trip through the earthly plane, and her great apprehension was that her husband was not yet ready for bigger and better things, cosmologically speaking.  As with a child who could not learn his sums, her husband would flunk the great cosmic test and be held back at promotion time.  Wendell was aware of his wife’s views on the state of his inner light, and he really could not mount an argument.  She was happy, he wasn’t, and her explanation was at least as good as any of the others he had heard.  It made as much sense as the fire and brimstone Christianity that he had been raised upon, and it was a more hopeful and forgiving system, given the fallible tendencies of the human race.  While Wendell didn’t buy into Reva’s convictions, he believed that she believed every word.  And he wished that he did, too, because then he would believe in something definite, and more importantly, he would believe in something that he wanted with all of his heart to be true.
As for Wendell’s discontent, which Reva took as the major sign that his spirit needed seasoning, the matter had grown acute as he entered his fifties, as if he could hear the individual sands trickling through the hourglass, each one booming like cannon fire as it landed in the pile of time past.  By the time he eclipsed fifty-five, he found himself in the doldrums more often than not.  He felt he was squandering his allotment of eternity, that he was spending his days on substandard merchandise.  But he could see no cure for the dilemma.  He had long ago learned to spot a lie, but he did not know how to discern the truth.  He had spent his entire life attempting to decipher what he desired to be and do, but the only progress he had managed so far was to develop an ever-expanding list of what he did not want.  Right now, for example, he knew with certainty that he did not want to be the individual who had to ferret the facts surrounding the apparently radical departure of the cur on the ground at his feet.
The deceased canine was in shabby condition, but that was not entirely his fault.  He was a German Shepherd, and he had come up on the short end of a dog fight, a sporting contest much like the proverbial cock fight, with the primary difference being that the loser wasn’t quite as tasty when served up with dumplings.  Wendell looked at the dog’s owner, Deadhand Riley.  He leaned up against his patrol car and watched as Deadhand fidgeted and scratched at his grizzled chest hair.  It was coarse, tangled, and matted, like white steel wool.  One of his overall straps came undone, and his nimble fingers re-buttoned it without any conscious assistance from their owner, who was busy at that moment attempting to look innocent.
“I’m getting too old for this kind of shit,” Wendell noted to Deadhand.  He spoke in a conversational tone.  He would be sixty in the fall, had been a policeman since he and Reva had relocated from Seattle to Sand Valley during the first year of John Kennedy’s reign, and was indeed getting too old for that kind of shit.  Deadhand was caught short and didn’t quite know what to say, so he compromised by nodding in agreement.
Opposite Deadhand stood Otter Price, the owner of the winner of the recent festivities. Otter looked as nervous as an apprentice fire-walker and appeared to be contemplating the wisdom of becoming sullen, an avenue that represented one of his two favorite responses to authority.  Historically, it had not been a particularly effective reaction, but it beat high speed flight in his old Chevrolet, which was the other trick in his bag.  He noticed the shadowy look on Wendell’s face and decided against trying either.  Wendell usually sailed on a fairly even keel, but today he looked testy, and the Chevy needed a tune-up and two front tires before any swift roadwork could be seriously considered.
Wendell slapped a mosquito. They were bad this year, bantam striped demons that he called tiger mosquitoes.  There were few things in the world that he hated worse, but the species as a whole did not take his dislike personally and attempted to drain him at every opportunity.  He did not know what it was about his personal chemistry that drew them in, but he was like a living, breathing mosquito magnet and had been ever since before he could remember.  Indeed, his mother had once told him that he was bitten when he was three hours old.  Another time, he had been nailed while on a destroyer in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, a thousand miles in every direction from anything even resembling dry land.  It was a curse, but Wendell had grown accustomed to it, and he supposed it could have been worse.  What if he had attracted cotton mouths all of his life, or vampire bats?  At least he could swat mosquitoes with the newspaper.
Wendell wasn’t surprised that he had encountered mischief at the Riley homestead.  He had actually come looking for it, and Deadhand was not one to disappoint.  Wendell was a good policeman and had the knack of knowing where to direct his gaze.  Deadhand Riley was one of his best customers, a frequent flyer in a manner of speaking, and he had been too long quiet.  Thus, Wendell had decided early that morning that an unscheduled visit was in order. This tactic resembled gunboat diplomacy in the old style, just a trip through the neighborhood to fly the colors and see what trouble popped up.  The silent mutt before him indicated that his intuition had been correct.  The dog’s paw was flopped up over a lifeless left eye, a salute in tribute to Wendell’s hunch.
“Deadhand,” Wendell said, “tell me about the dog.”  He knew it would take a minute for Deadhand to get started, that he would need time to hone his story to its sharpest edge before presentation, so he let his mind momentarily wander.  He wished he had a cold drink, an ice cold Coke served up Sixties-style in a nickel-deposit green glass bottle, slushy and crisp with a handful of peanuts dropped in so that every mouthful was cold, crunchy, salty, and sweet, all at the same time.  Then he wished that he did not have a dog evisceration to examine, a reasonable enough desire even when the heat index wasn’t over one-hundred degrees.  Finally, he wished that both Otter and Deadhand had been sold to Yankees at birth on a buy one, get one free arrangement, thus providing better value for the shopping dollar. Then it would be some poor unsuspecting Northern lawman and not Wendell who would have to deal with the pair.
“Rusty,” Deadhand finally said.  “His name was Rusty.”  Deadhand smelled like a distillery fire and looked about as bad, sort of burned out and fallen in on himself.  Wendell couldn’t believe that he had been there ten minutes and all he had was the dog’s name, and he didn’t even need the dog’s name.
“I don’t care what you called him,” he said.  “What happened to him?  Why is he dead?  Why did Otter’s dog kill him?”  Deadhand shrugged, as if to say that it beat the living hell out of him.
“Harley,” Otter Price interjected in the name of clarity.  “My dog’s name is Harley.  Like the motorcycle.”  The hound looked like he might have mostly bulldog ancestry, with a little of one breed and another thrown in for variety.
Otter could be a cooperative man when the drop was on him.  Arthur was his given name, and most people believed that his nickname resulted from his uncanny resemblance to the sleek mammal of the same name.  Actually, his mama was afflicted with a lifelong speech impediment but had, in spite of this malady, named her bonny baby boy with a combination of syllables that she could not quite get her lips around.  Otter had been the result.
“Harley,” Wendell said.  “Like the motorcycle.”  Now he had two dog names that he did not need, and the sad part was, he felt like he was making progress.  He continued.  “So Harley jumped on Rusty for no apparent reason and did that to him?  That’s the story?”  He pointed at the remains, silent testimony to Harley’s mean streak and Rusty’s bad day.
“That’s what happened,” Deadhand said, nodding.  He was honesty personified, a choirboy in the rough. The sincerity in his voice was as absolute as the atomic weight of lead.
“Swear to God,” Otter added, placing his right hand over his heart while holding his left hand in the air.  He looked like a poorly dressed Boy Scout with a hangover who was in bad need of a shave, a haircut, and several thousand dollar’s worth of dental work.  Wendell wasn’t impressed, solemn vow notwithstanding.
He scanned the area of the lawbreaking.  Deadhand’s trailer was in the background, a structure long past its prime that would never achieve the status of mobile home.  It was twenty feet in length and had two fins on one end—presumably the back, since there were tail lights below them—and between the fins was attached the insignia Fleetwood, a name long associated with style and grace, even if it was hanging down at a forty-five degree angle.  The moveable structure was propped on a variety of objects, ranging from standard fare such as bricks and concrete blocks to the less-traditional Pontiac engine that supported the southwest corner.  Pieces of the aluminum siding were missing along the sides of Deadhand’s home and had been replaced by irregularly shaped squares of plywood and tin, nailed in haphazard fashion.  One of the patches was a license plate, another a stop sign.  One window was completely gone, and a sheet of opaque plastic was permanently duct-taped over the hole.  There was no air conditioning, and the door hung open like a slack jaw.  Wendell shuddered when he thought of how hot it must be inside, like an oven that was equipped with Naugahide furniture and shag carpeting, and he figured that Deadhand was probably the way he was at least partially because his brain had been baked.
The dirt yard was littered with an impressive assortment of beer cans and liquor bottles, thousands of cigarette butts, four defunct vehicles in various stages of decomposition, a dog pen, and an old John boat with a hole in the bottom, courtesy of a shotgun blast.  Plus Rusty, of course, now gone to that great fire plug in the sky, just another chewed-up dog in search of a better deal who had almost certainly found one.  Wendell wondered what assumptions some future archaeologist would make about the culture of twentieth-century America if he happened to dig up Deadhand’s yard.
“Harley is kind of skittish, isn’t he?” he asked of no one in particular as he nudged Rusty with his toe.  In his line of work, he heard the occasional broad story, and he was a little disappointed that the boys hadn’t come up with something more creative.  Given their past history as tellers of epic tales, and considering the sheer amount of practice that both of them had acquired at adjusting reality in their favor, he had expected a better effort from the pair.
As an example, Wendell had once found both of the men standing naked, at four o’clock in the morning, next to a burning GMC pickup truck parked in the middle of U.S. highway 11, just down the road from Whitehead Baptist Church.  The truck had been reported missing the previous day by Deadhand’s brother-in-law, Larry Franklin, or as Deadhand liked to call him, that-no-good-son-of-a bitch-who-stole-my-baby-sister-right-off-of-Mama’s-tit.  This moniker was admittedly long for a nickname, but Deadhand liked the way it scooted across his palate and declined to discontinue its use.  It was about twenty degrees that night, and the clouds were spitting the occasional flake but looked as if they might decide to find some gumption and produce a real storm at any moment.  Under questioning in the eerie light of the pickup truck bonfire, both Otter and Deadhand swore on their mama’s heads to have been abducted by “little green midget-looking fuckers” who had taken them up in a space ship for observation before releasing them on the highway.  Wendell thought that the cold west wind had likely frozen the men’s synapses, thus causing stupidity to tumble from their mouths, so he wrapped them both in blankets and placed them in the back of the police cruiser with the heater turned on high.  From the odor that soon permeated the close confines of the car’s interior, it became apparent that the green midgets had forced Deadhand and Otter to drink large quantities of bourbon while stealing their pants and burning the truck.
“Tell me more about your abductors,” Wendell began.
“Who?” Deadhand asked.
“The little green midget-looking fuckers,” Wendell replied.
“Well, they were these little green fuckers,” Otter offered.
“Like midgets,” Deadhand added.
“Thanks,” Wendell said.  “Why did they take your pants?”
“Oh, shit, our pants are gone!” they both cried when they looked down.
“Why did they burn that truck?”  Wendell probed.
“Oh, shit, they burned Larry’s truck!” Otter wailed while Deadhand sat silently, looking distraught, as if he might be in the early stages of post-abduction stress syndrome, or of a hangover of mammoth proportions.  Since neither of the abductees could produce an abductor to corroborate the story, Wendell was forced to look for earthly solutions to the mystery, although he was more than fair with Deadhand and Otter during the evidence- gathering phase of the investigation.
“It’s not that I don’t want to believe you, but I need to see an alien,” he explained.  “Any size, any color.  Otherwise, I’m going to charge you with public drunkenness, public indecency, and someone has to pay for Larry’s truck.”  Larry Franklin had decided to forego pressing charges after Bonnie, his wife and Deadhand’s baby sister, explained to him how difficult it would be for her to keep her mind on sex for the next five-to-ten years if her big brother ended up serving a prison sentence for truck theft.  The pantless truck-burners were fined two-hundred dollars apiece and had to split the cost of the vehicle, but it had been a world class lie worthy of fond remembrance, not the uninspired little fib that Wendell was currently being handed.  He shook his head and yearned for the old times.  They just didn’t make scoundrels like they used to.
“Well, I guess it makes sense,” he said, referring to Harley killing Rusty for no particular reason, and not to the little green midget-looking fuckers flying in for a truck-burning.  Deadhand and Otter relaxed.  The relief was visible on their faces.  The matter was cleared up, and their good names were restored.  Deadhand felt that the occasion called for a drink, so he took a generous sip from the pint bottle he had sequestered in the bib pocket of his overalls, tucked in next to a can of snuff and a thirteen-year-old condom.  He was an optimistic man.
“Except for one thing,” Wendell continued, and the boys tensed right back up.  “Why were you here with Harley in the first place?”  He directed this inquiry to Otter.  It was sort of the inevitable question, the keystone that held the entire lie structure aloft, but for some reason, it threw Otter.  Perhaps he had thought that it wouldn’t occur to Wendell to ask.
“Uh,” Otter said, and Wendell could almost hear the gears grinding as they attempted to mesh.  “Uh,” he repeated.  Then his clutch engaged, and he was able to move forward.  “I brought him over here to play with Rusty,” he blurted.  Both he and Deadhand nodded earnestly.  Harley growled from his cage on the back of Otter’s truck and lunged playfully at Wendell, as if he were agreeing with the story.  The cage scooted a few inches as the dog hit the chain link. He cast a baleful eye in Wendell’s direction.
“I think he wants to play some more,” Wendell noted.  “How much gunpowder have you been feeding him?” he asked, referring to the practice of serving gunpowder to a dog to drive it insane and make it savage.
“I don’t feed him gunpowder.” Otter said defensively.  He was sliced to the quick at the implication that he was capable of cruelty of that magnitude.  Besides, he used turpentine.  It was cheaper, easier to get, and the dog was much less likely to explode if someone smoked in his vicinity.  Wendell needed a break from dealing with Otter, so he turned his glance upon Deadhand, sportsman extraordinaire and bereaved dog-owner, who seemed to be bearing up well after his recent loss.
Deadhand Riley appeared to be a well-preserved seventy, which was a problem for him, since he was forty.  But they had been forty hard years, dog years, as it were, and the toll had been taken.  His downward slide had begun early, due to poor judgment regarding his first choice of professions, which had been to be the guy who opened up the barrels of Agent Orange before that substance was sprayed over a variety of Asian people who were trying for the most part to mind their own business and stay out of the way.  Admittedly, he had not had an entirely free hand in his selection of occupation, but fate has always been more oriented towards outcome than process.
Deadhand’s given name was Huford Riley, but he became Deadhand due to another questionable decision concerning employment.  After being the Agent Orange man for eleven months, three weeks, and four days, Huford came home to Sand Valley, Alabama, with a chronic cough and an understandable dislike for fifty-five gallon drums.  He got a job in the joist factory, and over the next few years, he worked hard at his trade and smoked a lot of dope on the side.  He was attempting to forget, and while his selected method was not as traditional as joining the Foreign Legion, it at least had the advantage of not involving firearms, French people with curtains on the backs of their hats, or stone forts in sandy locales.
He worked diligently, and he eventually rose to the coveted machine-shop foreman’s position, which was the top of the pile in his selected venue.  His job was to machine the steel to a precision fit, and it was while checking a lathe bit for sharpness one day that he began the journey from Huford to Deadhand.  The testing of a bit for a honed edge was a routine task and should not have produced mishap, but performing this function while the lathe was still turning at eight-hundred rpm’s added an element of risk that Huford had not foreseen, due to the large quantity of high-quality cannabis he had smoked throughout the day.  His right hand was mangled almost beyond recognition, and he was still looking with interest at the affected paw when his co-workers dragged him to safety while gagging at the gore.
During the hand-rebuilding process, several grafts from his back and buttocks were taken, but the process went awry, and the resulting extremity had no feeling in it, whatsoever.  It also exhibited a pronounced mound of flesh on the back of the hand that resembled a mallet.  These new features proved to be advantageous to Deadhand during fist fights, towards which he was prone, and it was widely held by his many opponents that his right fist had an impact velocity similar to that of a runaway Mack truck.  One of them, Art Duarte, had actually been hit by a runaway Mack truck, so he was in a position to know.  But all of that was long ago and far away, and none of it would bring back poor Rusty.
“Let me tell you what I think,” Wendell said, looking at Otter and Deadhand in turn. “I think you had a dog fight here.”  The miscreants made as if to protest, but Wendell held up his hand.  “I’ve told you before that I don’t like this kind of business.  It makes me think that you are not classy people.  It makes me want to forget that I am a nice guy.  It makes me want to send you away until your dicks dry up and fall off.”  Penile desiccation had probably already occurred in Deadhand’s case, but Otter considered himself to be a swordsman, and the threat seemed to impress him a great deal.  He winced, and his left hand drifted of its own accord down to his genital area to make a quick check for missing or dried-up pieces.
“Wendell,” Deadhand protested, “you have never said a damn word about dog fighting.”  He had Wendell on a technicality on this matter, but the lawman was not fazed.  It was not the first time that a rogue had tried to argue the finer points of the law.
“No,” Wendell agreed, “we didn’t talk about dogs.  We talked about roosters.”  Otter and Deadhand nodded, vindicated, and Wendell continued.  “As I recall, Deadhand brought his rooster over to your house to play with your rooster, Otter, and your bird ended up like this dog.”  Otter looked morose, as if the memory brought him great sadness.  Satan—Otter’s rooster, not the cloven-hoofed evil Prince of Darkness—had been a fine yard bird, a chicken among chickens, and he was missed by all who had known him.  Harley whined in his cage out of sympathy for a fallen comrade, or maybe because he had wanted to eat the deceased.  Deadhand shooed some blue flies from Rusty and said nothing.  He seemed to sense that it was his best course.
“I like you boys, so I’m going to cover this one last time,” Wendell said.  He actually didn’t like the boys that much, but he had always believed that it was a good idea to give something before taking something away.  “And you both need to listen, because it is important.  I don’t like dog fighting, cock fighting, or rat fighting.  I don’t like cat fighting, coon fighting, or snake fighting.  If you two ever decide to get married, I don’t like wife fighting.”  Wendell tried to imagine a tussle between two women who would actually marry Deadhand and Otter, and he had to concede that it would probably be a fairly interesting contest, at that.  Deadhand did not currently have a romantic attachment, but Otter’s girlfriend, Rita Hearst, was a woman who looked like she might kill someone for their shoes.  “Basically, if it involves two living things fighting and a bet from either one of you on the outcome, then you are not allowed to do it.  The next time I catch you, I’m throwing both of you under the Rock Castle.”
The Rock Castle was Sand Valley’s jail.  Deadhand and Otter had sampled its hospitality on many previous occasions, and they did not wish to partake of it again.  It was a solid edifice constructed of mountain rock, the Alcatraz of rural Alabama, complete with two turrets and a moat.  It had been built during the Thirties by a group of unemployed mill workers from Dogtown who had nothing to fear but hunger, itself.  They were willing to do nearly anything for some pinto beans, corn bread, and a little fat meat, and their government in its wisdom had put them to work building a jail.  Admittedly, it was a humble project when compared to the great public works of the time, such as Hoover Dam, but it was impressive by local standards and had the added advantage of not containing the entombed remains of any of its builders.  FDR himself had viewed the completed project while on a long weekend furlough from Warm Springs and had named it the Rock Castle on the spot.  He had commended the workers and ordered extra corn bread and fat meat plus a day off for each of them.
Deadhand and Otter hung their heads, overcome with humiliation.  Even Harley looked a bit shamefaced, as if he wished the killing of his opponent had not been a necessity.
“Speaking of bets,” Wendell asked, “how much was riding on this fight?”  There was no sound, and neither of the men met his eye. They had the Constitutional right to remain silent and were doing just that.  Wendell continued.  “It looks like a one-hundred dollar fight to me, so I’m going to make your fines one-hundred dollars apiece.”  Technically, Wendell did not have the authority to levy fines or mete out justice, but he and the judge were of like minds most times and made an effective team when it came to crime and punishment.  He knew that she would back him up.
Wendell had decided that a deterrent was in order, a penalty with some bite so they would remember to behave next time.  He settled on a fine, because if he ran them in, he would be stuck with them for the duration of their sentences.  No one was likely to bail either man out of trouble, and Wendell didn’t want to have to feed, clothe, and talk to them for thirty days.  It would be a poor fiscal move for the town and hard on his nerves, as well.  Plus, he lived upstairs at the Rock Castle with Reva, and he really didn’t want Deadhand and Otter in his house.  It was bad enough to have them in his community.
“A hundred dollars?” Otter asked.  “Where the hell am I going to get that?”  Otter’s portfolio was not particularly liquid since having to pay for half of Larry Franklin’s truck when the aliens burned it.  Deadhand could find no voice at all to express his dismay.  His mouth moved, but no words escaped.  He reminded Wendell of a ventriloquist’s dummy whose owner had a touch of laryngitis.
“Why don’t you sell Harley to Deadhand?” Wendell suggested.  “It looks like he needs a dog to me.  If you throw in the truck and the cage, the package should be worth close to one-hundred dollars.”  Harley growled low, as if he objected to the idea of being Deadhand’s dog.  Wendell could understand his point.
“This ain’t fair!” Otter said.  Deadhand nodded.
“I’ll tell you what’s not fair,” Wendell replied, pointing to the defunct hound.  “That’s not fair.  But if you think I have been too harsh, you can always throw yourself on the judge’s mercy.”  He knew what was coming next, and he loved it every time.  It was often the high point of his day.
“But your wife’s the judge!” Deadhand said, finding speech at last.  “She’ll put us on the chain gang!”  Considering Deadhand’s and Otter’s checkered pasts and Judge Reva’s legendary dislike for anything even resembling cruelty to animals, it was a definite possibility.
Reva had been the temporary probate judge for close to ten years, ever since Miss Effie Beecham had gone to that big courtroom in the sky.  She had been handed the job the day after Miss Effie’s funeral, just until a more permanent arrangement could be made, and she had been trying to hand it back ever since.  The townsfolk were happy with her work, however, and would not let her quit.  Even her regular clientele, such as Otter and Deadhand, had to admit that she was better than Miss Effie, who was the only probate judge in Alabama history to ever attempt to impose the death penalty.  So Reva was re-elected every two years by write-in vote, even though her name was never officially on the ballot.
“I don’t care if they do elect me again,” she had said the last time the polling place was open.  “I’m not going to do it!”  The exit polls were looking ominous, however.  Nearly every voter who stepped out from behind the curtain smiled and waved at the unwilling incumbent.  Some winked at her and flashed the V for victory, while others gave her thumbs up or clasped their hands and shook them over each shoulder, like boxers on the way to the ring.
“I’ve gotten kind of used to sleeping with the judge,” Wendell observed conversationally.  “I would hate to have to start bunking in with Ralph.”
Wendell was a creature of habit, and there could be trouble if Reva declined to serve and the town’s only official candidate, Ralph Harp, was elected by default.  Ralph was not a regular bather, which is a bigger issue for chicken farmers than it is for the practitioners of a large number of other trades.  Thus, Ralph was not a popular man, but he was a tenacious one.  He had run unopposed for the probate judge’s position once every two years for the last ten, and in that time, he had received a total of five votes.  His own mother did not even vote for him, although she told him routinely that he needed a shower, and her voting record and bathing advice were a constant source of trouble between them.  Reva was re-elected by a vote of three-hundred and six to one, and as usual, she agreed to take the job.
“I guess it beats working at the sock mill,” she said in her informal remarks in front of the Rock Castle.  The people cheered.  Reva’s way with an acceptance speech was always a crowd pleaser.
“And you get to meet such interesting people,” Wendell noted helpfully.
“Boy, howdy,” Reva replied as she once more strapped on the yoke of responsibility thrust upon her by the townsfolk.  At the back of the small crowd, she could see Ralph Harp shaking hands and giving out cards in preparation for the upcoming election, two years hence.
The reason that Reva was so popular was a simple matter of comparison with her predecessor’s legal decisions and her opposing candidate’s odor.  Miss Effie had become a little touched in her waning years, and many of her legal renderings were subject to question. The probate judge was supposed to levy and collect fines on small legal missteps, process the paperwork on civil claims, and bind all serious cases over to the county court.  Over time, however, Miss Effie began to exceed this mandate.  As a result, Wendell spent a good deal of his time cleaning up behind her.  The problem came to a head when she sentenced a speeder from New Jersey to thirty years and a day at hard labor, because he had given her sass.  The perpetrator was remanded into Wendell’s custody for immediate execution of sentence.  He aimed the scofflaw, who was a bit sassy, in a generally northeasterly direction and quietly advised him to stay out of town for a few years.  The town council met that very night to decide how to get rid of Judge Beecham without hurting her feelings, but the poor dear beat them to the punch by having the good grace to suffer a fatal stroke in her sleep. She quietly weighed anchor and set sail for Heaven’s shore, where hopefully she was not given gate duty.
“If I were you,” Wendell said to Deadhand, back out at the dogfight, “I wouldn’t give Reva any lip while I was paying my fine.  She won’t put up with it.”  Deadhand nodded, subdued.  “You, either,” he continued to Otter.  Like Miss Effie, Reva did not care for sass.  If they weren’t careful, she would land on them with both feet, in a legal manner of speaking.  He gave the rowdies one last stern look to demonstrate that he meant business before climbing into his cruiser.  Rusty was tenderizing, and the flies were beginning to gather in earnest.  It was time to vacate.  Wendell rolled down the window and leaned out for one final word.
“You had better get that dog under some dirt before he becomes a health hazard.  That would cost you another fifty dollars.  Bury him deep and pile some rocks on him.  I don’t want a coyote digging him up and dragging him out into the highway.”  Deadhand nodded.  Otter scowled, but he knew good advice when he heard it.  Wendell backed out of the yard, shifted the cruiser into drive, and headed towards town.  “Way, way too old for this kind of shit,” he muttered.
*****
The riverbanks were steep and barren, a red clay canyon carved by a slow-moving green current.  Above the clay banks on both sides of the water course stood tall, old-growth trees: chestnuts, long-leaf pine, hickory, elm, and river oak.  Wisteria hung in curtains from the canopy of branches, a fragrant lavender barrier between wood and water, the vines as thick as a grown man’s arm.  Here and there, a fallen tree met the river and provided a handy avenue for river turtles to take the sun, and they were stacked on these makeshift platforms like flat rocks on a beach.  A brace of geese dropped in low and skimmed the river’s surface.  The splash of a catfish quickly diving sent ripples out to greet them.  A muskrat made his slow way against the current towards his den in the far bank.  It was late afternoon.  The sky was a cloudless cerulean canopy.                                                                                       The canoe glided silently into this idyllic scene.  Its construction of skins stretched and dried over a supple ash frame lent lightness and buoyancy, although the two occupants were not much of a burden for the craft to bear.  The woman rowed, and the man lay still.  They were of a brown-skinned race with long black hair, members of the Ani-Yun-wiya.  They were not children as their people reckoned age, but they still had the bloom of youth about them.  They were man and wife, and they were on the river that day trying to outrun the sickness that had come with the Spaniards, the disease that had obliterated most of the rest of their village.  The woman was covered with pustules. Her fever was high, and a deep weariness had settled over her. Her joints had ached until they were numb.  Her companion had been ill for a longer time, and all of his lesions had joined to form a single scale, like a turtle’s shell.  He had lost consciousness soon after they had climbed into the vessel.  His fever raged, yet he shivered.  His breathing was raspy and uneven.
She rowed to the bank and tucked in behind a snag.  They needed water and rest before their journey could continue.  She dipped her hand into the cool stream and drizzled water onto her husband’s parched lips.  He moaned but did not awaken.  She knew that without intervention from the Red Woman, his time was near.  She prayed to this deity until her head fell forward with fatigue.  Then she took a drink herself before collapsing from exhaustion.                                                                                                       The rain arrived in the darkness of the night.  It began as a light sprinkle, but it gained momentum as the stars retired.  The dawn was cloud-covered.  A heavy drizzle outflanked the sun and continued until mid-day.  As the river rose, it turned from green to brown, and the small canoe floated free from its snag and made its way out into the current.  The pair lay, heads touching, with her feet pointing to where they had been and his pointing towards their destination.  They were still, and her hand rested on his cheek. Their pain was gone, their fevers abated.  They, too, had floated free, and now they drifted down the river towards the wide, cool sea. ❖
________________________________

Buy Raymond’s Sorrow Wood at:
Amazon

Barnes & Noble

indiebound.org
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Raymond L. Atkins’ first novel—The Front Porch Prophet—was released by Medallion Press in July of 2008 and went on to win the 2009 Georgia Author of the Year Award for First Novel as well as the Independent Publishers Book Award for Best Regional Fiction.  His second novel—Sorrow Wood—was released by Medallion Press in June of 2009 to critical acclaim.

Website:  http://www.raymondlatkins.com

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In Plain Sight by Michelle Sutton

Desert Breeze Publishing
ISBN:  978-1-936000-51-7

Copyright © 2010 by Michelle Sutton

Prologue

The moment Kurt Smith sat down and peered into her intense brown eyes he knew she was the one. Five years of searching had brought him to her table. Yes, fate had chosen this petite woman to replace his wife. She wasn’t as attractive as his Mary had been, but this woman looked so much like her they could have been sisters. The urge to reach out and stroke her cheek made his fingers twitch, but he held back. Now was not the time. That would come later, once he’d won her trust and her heart.

Her face flushed red and she cleared her throat. She’d caught him staring at her. She asked him in heavily accented English, “May I take order for you, sir?”

Scanning her from head to toe, he nodded his appreciation. This adventure would be sweet. He was sure of it. His beloved Mary had never listened to reason, but he had a feeling this woman would do whatever he asked. As he searched her eyes he sensed some weakness from her past, like she’d tried to please a man before and failed. The hint of distrust in her eyes told him she’d paid for her mistakes. He would teach her how to please a man and succeed this time.

Smiling softly, he answered her request and pointed at the menu. “Yes, I’d like the number one special. The short stack with two eggs over easy and hash browns on the side.”

He saw her glance at his ring finger as she wrote his order on the tablet she carried. She was fighting her attraction to him. He sensed that as strongly as he could smell the bacon cooking on the grill. He would accommodate her desires, but not in a way that she would expect. No, he’d be patient and slowly win her over until she begged him to meet her womanly needs. He was a bit older than her, but up until now that had worked to his advantage.

“Can I get something for you drink?” She bit her lower lip and peered at him with a wary look in her eyes.

He’d screwed up things by holding her gaze too long. She couldn’t suspect his motives or she’d be afraid of him. That would never work. He had to win her devotion.

“Coffee would be good, ma’am.” He swallowed hard and summoned buried pain from the day he’d been forced to kill his wife to shut her up. He hadn’t cried then, but he’d do it now if he must.

“I’m sorry if my staring makes you uncomfortable. It’s just that you remind me so much of my baby sister. I really miss her.” He brushed a fake tear from the corner of his eyes.

“Is okay.” She touched his arm and smiled so sweetly he nearly groaned from the pleasure it brought him. Waiting for this woman was going to be a daunting task.
Closing his eyes a moment, he rested his hand on hers and added, “Bless you for your concern.” Ugh. Now he sounded like a priest. What kind of crap just came out of his mouth?

Her eyes sparkled as she squeezed his hand. “You very welcome.”

As she left to place his order, it struck him in the solar plexus. Religion… of course! That’s how he’d get to her. He’d tap into memories of his dead wife’s faith, painful as they were, and bring up everything about God that he could remember. Even the things that ultimately made him take her life. If religion would win this young woman over, then so be it. He could stomach it for a while if the end result would make her fully his.

Someone else delivered his breakfast. He gobbled it up without tasting it as he waited for her to come by and give him his check. He rubbed his hands on his jeans and smiled as she approached him.

“Pardon me, ma’am, but how do you pronounce your name?” He pointed at her nametag.

“Jovana. Jovana Trajkovski.” She rang up the tab and returned with his change.
“What a beautiful name. I will pray for you. Would that be okay?” He slipped her a note with a five-dollar tip. Nothing threatening. Just enough encouragement to put her more at ease with him.

She blinked several times as if in shock. A smile slowly covered her face. “Yes. Is good.”

He grinned in reply. Surely he would win this woman’s heart. It was just a matter of time.

Chapter One

Jovana clocked out once the lunch crowd left. She smiled to herself and sighed. She’d just finished her first week on the job and already she’d met a man who was simpatichen, nice. He’d said something about his sister and missing her. She didn’t understand the exact meaning of his words but knew the pain in his eyes meant that he was sad, so she responded with one of the phrases she knew well, “Is okay.”

He must’ve understood her because he’d patted her hand and said, “Bless you.” The kind look on his face told her this response was a compliment. She remembered years ago seeing a religious man on television say bless you as he touched the worshippers’ heads. This man must be a religious man, too. But he was also very mashko, masculine, and he smelled so good – like soap and spices — that it made her pulse race when she stood near him. She closed her eyes for a moment and thought about what it would be like to kiss this man who didn’t know her, yet treated her with such kindness.

As a new Christian she realized her budding faith hadn’t erased her problems or her past, but getting to know a man with similar beliefs was something she yearned for. Something she wanted to believe in. His kindness and attitude told her that God was very important to him. She could tell from the look in his eyes that he was attracted to her. But other than handing a small note to her with her tip, he didn’t make any moves on her, which she respected. A man who was able to control his urges was a man she wanted to know better. Plus, he didn’t wear a wedding band, which meant he was available.

At first the man’s friendliness made her a bit nervous, but then he’d mentioned prayer. Surely a man who had faith in God would be safe to get to know, right? At least he wasn’t a gypsy, like her former boyfriend had been. Georg wanted nothing to do with God. He’d nearly killed her. At the time, Jovana didn’t care about God either, so they were a good match until he started hurting her. Her brother would not understand if he found out she’d met someone because of her past relationship with Georg. He would remember her past abuse and be afraid that she had met another man like him. As much as she hated to be deceptive because her brother had helped her so much, she would keep this one secret from him if she must. The incredible pull this man had on her was difficult to resist.

Now she needed to figure out who would read the note to her and not tell her brother. She carried a rechnik in her pocket to help her with words, but the Macedonian to English dictionary didn’t help much when it came to translating sentences or concepts. It was better than nothing, so she would try it and see if the dictionary’s translation would be useful.

She hid in the bathroom, and wrestled with translating the words on the paper until she grew so frustrated that tears filled her eyes. The handwritten words on the note he’d handed her were strung together with so many loops that it made the note indecipherable. Typed words were much easier to read that words written in cursive. She worried that she would never learn enough English to make friends or be understood by people other than her bratko, her brother.

A light tap on the door startled her. “You okay in there?”

“I am fine.” This was another one of the few phrases she had perfected.
The faint sound of retreating footsteps told her the person had believed her and left. She splashed cool water on her face and looked in the mirror. While not as gaunt as she’d looked when she first lost her baby, she needed to gain more weight to look healthy. Pinching her cheeks to add some color, she exited the bathroom and grabbed her purse.

Her shefe, her boss, who happened to also be the restaurant manager, smiled and waved from across the room. Randy Strong was only a few years older than she was and so far he’d been very patient as she learned the many tasks required by her waitressing job. He also knew a little bit of Macedonian and Greek from working with her brother back when her brother had first moved to Arizona. But he was not skilled enough in either language for them to have a real conversation. She would study English day and night if it would help her to communicate with the man who gave her the generous tip. The only reason she had a job in the first place was because her brother, Bojan, had recently purchased The Diner where she worked. Even though the United States economy slogged through a recession, he’d asked her to work for him because he could not find enough good help in their town.

Since she had wanted to leave Macedonia because of her painful past anyway, she was more than willing to come and help him get his new business established. In order for her to stay in the Soedinetite Amerikanski after Bojan’s wedding, she needed to have a job and be able to support herself. Their arrangement had worked out perfectly… so far.

As she pulled on her jacket she couldn’t help wondering… Were all Americans as friendly as the man she’d met that morning at breakfast? This was only her third week as a resident of Arizona. So far she enjoyed living in the high desert, but sometimes she missed her home country and her grandmother. Despite the painful sentiments she thanked God that she was able to stay with her brother’s fiancée, Laney. She enjoyed helping the couple prepare for their long-awaited wedding.

Jovana offered her shefe a cursory wave. He gestured at her to come to him, so she did.

“Take this home with you.” Randy offered a kind smile as he handed her a warm paper bag. The contents smelled heavenly, liked potatoes and salt. While he was not as attractive as the man she’d served that morning, he had a kind personality that she found hard to resist.

“Eve ja dajende.”

She giggled. He was trying so hard to speak her language correctly. She didn’t have the heart to tell him when he used a wrong pronunciation or strung his words together incorrectly.

“Blagodaram. Thank you.”

“Molam. You’re welcome.” He winked.

Peeking into the paper bag, she spied a Styrofoam container. She took a whiff and inhaled the scent of french fries. She glanced up and feigned a shocked expression. “You think I slab?”

Randy blinked. “No, I don’t think you’re a slob. Why would giving you fries make you a slob?”

She winked at him and used a pet phrase he’d taught her. “Gotcha, Man. Slab mean thin, or weak. Is funny, yes?”

He laughed and said, “Yep, you got me.” He eyed her from head to foot and added with a smile, “You’re not too thin by American standards. I think you’re just right.”

She felt her cheeks warm at the compliment. “Is American womens looking like chicken legs and bony ribs?”

Randy chuckled louder. “I have no idea what you are saying.”

“American womens is thin, yes, like how you say… skeleton?”

“Some. But nowadays most American women are a bit overweight.”

She teased him by frowning and glancing at him from the corner of her eye. “You say I am fat? Is this true, Ron-dee?”

That statement couldn’t be true because she didn’t have an extra pound on her, though she wanted to remedy that. The fries would certainly help.

His puzzled expression made her grin. She pressed her fingertips against her lips.

“No. Not at all.” He flashed a contrite smile that revealed perfect white teeth.

The tiny flutter in her stomach made her pause. She enjoyed playing the word games with Randy, but she could never date her boss. He’d told her he wanted to learn her language better so she teased him about it every chance she got. Sometimes she would say something funny just to see if he knew the meaning of her words. Most of the time he didn’t get her jokes, but he was learning.

“Thank you, again, boss man.” She winked at him to let him know she wasn’t offended.

“See you tomorrow. Enjoy the fries.”

Jovana popped a few in her mouth and chewed. Delicious. “How much must I pay?”

“Nothing. It was a botched order. I would have had to throw them out anyway.”

She had no clue what he meant by botched, but she did understand that nothing meant she didn’t have to pay and that throw away meant he would have put them in the trash. Americans wasted so much food. When she thought about how she’d nearly starved to death when Georg had abandoned her in Macedonia, it made the fries taste even more delicious. She opened the front door and waved over her shoulder. “Chao. Bye-bye.”

Glancing around the parking lot for her ride, Jovana smiled when she saw Laney’s SUV parked off to the side. While Laney waited she chatted on her cell phone, most likely with Bojan.

The moment she saw Jovana she honked the kola’s horn and waved. Americans had such nice cars. She wished she could afford one of her own. Even an old one would suit her fine. Her bratko had offered to buy her a car, but she wanted to earn her keep.

Besides, she wasn’t ready yet to take the driver’s test. She didn’t read English and she doubted they’d have a Macedonian version of the test. Better to accept rides for now and be grateful she didn’t have to walk.

Once Laney and Bojan were married and her brother moved into Laney’s house, Jovana planned to rent his fifth wheel from him and then she could walk to work. He’d told her that the rent for the space was only two hundred American dollars per month. Since he owned the fifth wheel he refused to let her pay for anything else. By the end of her first week of work she’d earned almost that much in tips, so paying her bills shouldn’t be a problem.

Jovana stepped over to the passenger door of Laney’s car and climbed inside. She couldn’t contain her smile as she thought about the many ways God had blessed her since she’d arrived in the United States. And today had been an amazing Friday morning. She’d tricked her boss again and she’d captured a handsome admirer’s attention all in the same day.

Laney tapped on the face of her cell phone and turned it off, then returned her phone to the front pocket of her purse.

Laney glanced at her and smiled wide. “You look tickled pink. Did you have a good day?”

“Tickled pink?” Jovana felt her cheeks to see if they were hot. “This means emotion? I mix up sayings.”

“Yes, it means happy.” Laney laughed. “I can’t believe how much you’ve learned in just a few weeks.”

“Is very good, yes?” She reached into her pocket and fingered the note. Maybe Laney would help her translate the message.

“That’s excellent. Your bratko was a slow learner.” Laney chuckled. “Then again, he might have been faking it just to spend more time with me.”

Jovana loved how Laney spoke slowly and enunciated every word to give her time to translate the words in her head. While she studied the language every night before bed, she had a ways to go before she’d become fluent enough to be functional. “You say my bratko do something faking to be with you? What this means?”

“Faking it means that he played dumb with me. You know, like acting stupid?”

She couldn’t help smirking. “How you know he fake stupid?”

“Ooh, I’m not telling Boki what you just said.” Laney snickered as she pulled out of the parking lot.

“Is good you not tell my brother.” Jovana touched Laney’s arm. “You help something, please?”

“Sure. What do you need?”

Jovana waited until Laney pulled onto the dirt road leading up the mountain to her house and handed Laney the paper. She prayed that it was a good message.

“I cannot read note.”

Laney checked the rearview mirror and pulled off to the side. Opening the piece of paper, Laney smiled and read the words out loud. “Keep up the good work. See you next week.”

“That is all?”

Laney nodded and her brows lifted in question. “What did you hope it would say?”

“Nothing. Note comes with tip. I could not read words with this writing.”

“Sounds like the person appreciated your service. That’s a good thing.”

Laney glanced over her shoulder, then drove slowly to avoid potholes, something they had an abundance of in the town where Jovana’s parents’ lived outside of Skopje.

Jovana did her best to hide her disappointment. She had hoped the note would contain something a bit more romantic. She supposed she should be grateful that it didn’t say anything personal that Laney might tell her brother. “Yes. Is very good.”

*****

Randy resisted the urge to hit his head on the counter and punish himself for acting so stupid. He’d promised himself he would not hit on the boss’s sister and here he was winking at her and teasing her like a love sick kid from junior high. Could his attraction to her be any more obvious? His boss would kill him if he tried to date her, especially after he’d promised Bojan he would look out for his sister and make sure that no strange men put the moves on her. So here he was doing the very thing he was supposed to help her avoid.

But try as he might, he couldn’t seem to stop flirting with her. When she wasn’t at work he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Those lips of hers reminded him of Angelina Jolie’s and that accent that clung to every word she spoke gave him the most delightful shivers. She was so feminine and modest, very unlike most of the young women he’d met over the years. A few of those women had tried to get him into bed, but they weren’t successful. So far he’d managed to keep himself pure by avoiding pushy women. Plus, he refused to date and fall in love with a woman who didn’t go to church.

No doubt being raised in another country had influenced Jovana in a positive way. Bojan had told him once that he had been raised in the Orthodox tradition. He also mentioned in passing that Jovana had put her faith in Christ last year. That encouraged him, though they had yet to discuss matters of faith. So far she had not brought it up, and the timing never seemed right for him to ask her about her beliefs. One day soon they would address this. For now he just wanted to observe her.

He just couldn’t imagine Jovana pushing herself on a man. She acted too shy and polite to be aggressive. And that sexy accent of hers was enough to make him drool. Sometimes he would ask her something just to hear her say his name. She always pronounced it wrong, but it sounded so cute when she said Ron-dee that he would never correct her.

There was also something vulnerable about her that made her all the more attractive to him. Like he would with a child, he longed to protect her from the ugly things in life. It really bugged him that a middle-aged guy watched her work that morning long after he’d finished his breakfast. Sure, she was pretty, but normally that didn’t make a customer sit and sip coffee for a full thirty minutes after finishing their meal just to watch their waitress serve other customers.

She’d obviously enjoyed the attention because each time the man spoke to her she flushed bright red. Plus, he noticed her peeking at the man from the corner of her eye when she was in the dining area. A sensation — like hot metal searing his chest — burned through him when he thought of anyone else wanting her and possibly taking advantage of her innocence.

He tried to brush the disturbing thought from his mind. No doubt the man acted that way with a lot of women. From the way he watched her, he seemed like a real playboy. Unfortunately, someone as sweet and innocent as Jovana would undoubtedly get pulled in by his charm.

Something in his gut told him the man was bad news, but he didn’t want to overreact and say anything to her or to her brother just yet. He’d keep an eye on the guy just in case… but figured the man was passing through town. He didn’t recognize him from the surrounding community, so he saw no sense in getting Bojan riled up over the situation.

How he wished Jovana would look at him the way she’d gazed at the stranger that morning. His stomach burned with jealousy when he thought about how she responded to that playboy. Should he say something to warn her? Part of him really wanted to, but the more reasonable part decided to let things blow over. That way he wouldn’t risk upsetting her over what was probably nothing.

One thing he knew for sure about Jovana was that she did not want Bojan protecting her. She made it clear during one of her recent arguments with her brother. Randy couldn’t help overhearing them even though they yelled at each other in Macedonian.

The phone rang back in the kitchen. Randy went to answer it knowing in advance it had to be Bojan. No one else had the new number and it wasn’t in the phone book yet. “What’s up, Boss?”

“Is Jovanichka at work?”

“No, I let her go home early. Things slowed down so she asked Laney to come pick her up a half an hour before her shift ended. Why? Did you need her for something?”

“I must talk to her about family stuffs. I will try house. Fala.”

Uh-oh. Not family issues again. He prayed Bojan’s grandmother hadn’t passed away this time. When she’d gotten sick a few months ago they all thought for sure she wasn’t going to make it, but Bojan had said his grandmother was tough. He hoped things were okay with her because if she were sick, that would take him out of town right before their wedding. In just a few weeks his boss planned to take his new bride on their honeymoon to Paris, the most romantic place on earth.

Randy sighed. He had saved up money for the past three years so he could buy a house and spoil his future bride. So far he hadn’t met the right woman. Not unless Jovana was the one.

As much as he wanted Jovana to be attracted to him, it looked like God would have to do a miraculous change in her heart for that to happen. From what he could tell she didn’t see him as anything more than an older brother. She’d pretty much said that the one time he dared to hint that he might like her the way a man likes a woman. She’d even referred to him as her bratko in Christ. And while he knew that all Christians were brothers and sisters in Christ, he couldn’t help suspecting that there was a hidden meaning in her words. Otherwise she wouldn’t have looked him straight in the eyes when she’d made her declaration the other day.

Randy shuddered, jarring him from his musing. A shiver pebbled his skin and the hair rose on his arms. The sense that something evil lurked nearby made him rub them several times, and a strong desire to pray grabbed hold of him. Without knowing the exact reason, he uttered a prayer for Bojan, his family, and especially his little sister, Jovana. If any of them needed protection, they’d get it from the heavenly hosts if he had anything to say about it.

He waited until the frightening sensation passed. As he grabbed the garbage bag and tied the sack, he finished up his prayer for peace. With a grunt, he lifted the heavy load and hauled it over to the Dumpster in the alley. From the corner of his eye he saw something slip around the corner of the restaurant. Whether it was an animal or a person was hard to tell from his peripheral vision because it moved so fast. After tossing the bag, he walked over to the side of building, but he didn’t find anything obvious out of place or anyone hanging around in the alley.

He shuddered and told himself to stop being so paranoid. But just in case, he touched his S&W 9MM to make sure it was still secured at his waist. Every morning he got up and right after he dressed for the day he added the gun and slipped it inside the holster. He concealed it under a vest so no one could rob him and get away with it this time. His concealed weapons permit allowed him to carry the needed protection. He thanked God regularly for the Constitution and his right to bear arms.

The back door banged as it slammed shut behind him.

Without thinking, Randy grabbed his 9MM and spun on his heels. Clutching his weapon with both hands, he crouched, ready to shoot. His heart hammered so hard it hurt like he was having an actual heart attack.

Shep jumped back, his arms raised in surrender. Relief washed over him like a gust of cool wind and he lowered his gun. “Don’t freaking scare me like that! I could’ve shot you.”

Shep squinted and fisted his hands on his hips. “Scare you? What the heck are you doing out here with a gun?”

“Just taking out the trash like you’re supposed to do. It was overflowing onto the cement floor in the kitchen. So where were you?”

“In the bathroom. I am allowed to use it, right boss?”

He grunted his agreement. “So what are you doing scaring the flipping stuffing out of me?”

“No need to get jumpy. I just wondered where the schedule was posted. I can’t find it and I need to ask you for a day off next week.”

“You can’t find it because I haven’t posted it yet. Just fill out your request and put it in the box like everyone else.” Randy forced himself to take a deep breath and relax. Shep wasn’t the enemy. He was asking a simple question, which required a simple answer.

“So why do you carry a gun? Because of what happened in Tucson?”

“Maybe.” He sighed and squeezed the back of his neck, which now ached. ”Probably.”

“Was it bad?” Shep squinted at him like he wanted to know more, but didn’t dare ask.

“The worst.” He rubbed his forehead, not sure he wanted to share much with this man he hardly knew, but thinking it might benefit him to talk about it at the same time.

“I’ll bet. For you to pull a gun on me–”

“Sorry about my reaction, but I get jumpy when I’m alone.”

After being robbed and left for dead, he swore to himself that he’d never be vulnerable again. If he’d been armed he would’ve been able to defend himself during the robbery and protect his female employee. Then one of those robbers wouldn’t have been able to sneak in the back door and nail him in the skull with a tire iron while the other guy raped the waitress who had stayed late that night to help him close the restaurant. He could have protected her and chased them off. If he’d had a gun…

“The boss had said something about an armed robbery up in Tucson that happened before he hired you to run The Diner.” Shep pulled out a cigarette and a lighter and lit up. He took a long drag, and slowly exhaled. “He said you were a good manager but nearly got killed at that Greek place he used to own.”

“What else did he tell you?”

“Not much. Just that after the robbery you quit for awhile and then he sold the place.”

“I couldn’t stomach working there after what happened to Melody. She didn’t deserve that.” His voice cracked. He suppressed the ache welling up before it spilled over and he embarrassed himself.

Shep blew several smoke circles and looked at him from the corner of his eye. “You didn’t deserve to get your head cracked open either.”
Randy clenched his fists as the acrid smoke irritated his nostrils. “But she got it worse. I could hear those dogs raping her and I couldn’t move or do a thing about it. I couldn’t even open my eyes.”

His employee watched him, silent as he took another drag. This time Shep was careful to blow the smoke away from him when he exhaled.

Randy swallowed his tears. When he thought about her cries for help he got choked up all over again from the guilt. Would the pain from that night ever lessen?

His employee pulled another drag from his cigarette and released it through his nostrils in little puffs. The guy reminded him of Puff the Magic Dragon. “You ever miss Tucson?”

He rubbed the back of his skull. At least once a month he got a wicked headache in the same spot where the tire iron had knocked him out. “Nah. I like Sierra Vista better. It’s smaller and there isn’t that much crime. Not that I know of anyway.”

Shep stared at him for a moment then glanced away. He finished his cigarette and ground the butt under his heel. Without saying a word, he walked toward the back door and stepped inside.

Randy’s skull throbbed again. He winced as he watched Shep close the door. The enemy of his soul seemed to enjoy torturing him with memories that most of the time he successfully blocked out. What he thought he’d seen in the alley was probably nothing.

Just his imagination running amuck again.

His former pastor would call his overreaction a symptom of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. He didn’t know what he suffered from, but he hated feeling on edge from every little noise. His symptoms were the worst late at night. Probably because that was the time of day the robbery had occurred. Things were always safer in broad daylight. That was the reason he’d taken on this new job. The Diner was never open at night. So far there had been no daytime crimes reported in Sierra Vista other than the shooting he’d read about that happened at the park in the middle of the afternoon last week.

He hoped the shooting was a freak situation, because even though he had a gun and wore it everywhere he went, he still prayed he’d never have to use it. Closing his eyes, he asked God to keep him from ever having to kill anyone. But, Heaven forbid, if he did have to use his gun to protect a young woman like Jovana, he wouldn’t hold anything back. He’d make that person regret ever being born. ❖
________________________________

Buy Michelle’s In Plain Sight  at:
Desert Breeze Publishing
Amazon

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Michelle Sutton is the author of more than twelve edgy inspirational novels releasing through 2012. She lives with her husband of twenty years and her two college-bound sons in sunny Arizona.

Link to video trailer:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pcRi6wP1Iy4

Website:http://www.michellesutton.net

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Magna by Nicole O’Dell

Barbour Publishing
ISBN:  978-1602608443
Paperback
$7.97

Copyright © 2010 by Nicole O’Dell

Chapter 1
Class-Act Wardrobe
“Purple and yellow polyester gym clothes? This school needs a new wardrobe!” Molly looked at the locker-room mirror in disgust as she pulled her shirt off. “They’re so ugly and we have to wear them every single day.”
“Plus, it’s so gross that they only let us take them home once a week to wash them.” Jess wrinkled her nose and pinched it with the tips of her fingers. She dropped the sweaty gym uniform into her duffel bag, careful to touch as little of it as possible.
“I know.” Sara gestured over her shoulder to an unkempt girl seated on the bench down the row. “SOME people should wash their clothes a lot more often than that.”
Molly looked at the girl—her clothes way too small and her hair obviously unwashed. She has more pimples than I have freckles. But, still, why did Sara have to be mean? Molly turned away to swipe some gloss on her lips and changed the subject. “Forget about gym clothes for a sec. What about the rest of our clothes? You know, we’re in high school now. I don’t know about you, but I’m having trouble finding cool stuff in my closet. Everything is so Junior High.” Her voice trailed off in a whine as she tied her long, blonde hair back in a ponytail and fluffed her bangs with her fingertips.
Sara nodded as she ran a brush through her dark, silky hair. “I kn—”
“I’m having the same—“ Jess said and laughed.
Molly zipped her bag shut. “Okay, well I see we’re all having the same problem, then. We should do something about it.”
“I’ve been thinking…We need to get jobs.” Jess slammed her locker closed and spun the combination lock.
“No way anyone would hire us. We’re not old enough.” Sara slipped in step with Molly and Jess as they walked out into the hallway and blended in with the student traffic.
“Besides, we’re not trained for anything.” Molly shrugged, dismissing the issue.
Jess jumped in front of them and turned in a half circle, walking backward. “Well, I’ve thought of all of that and I have solutions.” She grinned and put up her hand to stop the flood of protests. “Just hear me out a sec. Okay?”
Molly closed her mouth and nodded and winked at Sara. Jess was taking over. Something interesting would happen whether they wanted it to or not.
Sara scowled and shook her head, then sighed.
Jess’ eyes grew wide. “Okay, we need new clothes, so what better place to work than a clothing store? On top of a paycheck, we’d also get a discount.” She looked at them with raised eyebrows.
“Now that’s a good point.” Molly nodded.
“Hadn’t thought of that, huh?” Jess teased. “Sure, we’re not sixteen, which makes it more difficult to actually get the job. But, we all get good grades and have an impeccable school record with lots of service activities and extracurricular things.”
“I don’t know if that’s enough.” Sara’s eyes narrowed. “Lots of people have all that, plus they’re older—some even with work experience.”
“I made some calls,” Jess continued, unfazed. “Here in Wisconsin, all we need in order to get a job at fifteen is a work permit. We’ll need permission from our parents and a letter of recommendation from the school principal and a few teachers.”
“But, why would a business want to hire us?” Molly asked when Jess stopped for air. “I mean, Sara’s right, they could get an older girl with more experience and a later curfew.”
Jess paused at the door to her math class and turned to face the girls. “They can get someone older than us, sure. But, why would they? We’re not attached at the hip to a boyfriend, we have nowhere else to be and we’re highly trainable because we don’t have any bad habits yet.” She entered her classroom without another word.
Molly and Sara looked at each other and chuckled. They shook their heads as they walked away. They would probably be getting jobs—Jess would see to it.
“I do like the idea of a discount,” Molly admitted. More bang for the buck.
“I just hope we can work at the same place, at the same time.” Sara brushed her hair out of her eyes. “I’d hate to have a job with no one I know to work with.”
Molly snorted. “Oh no! I feel sorry for anyone who hires the three of us together!”
***
“Let’s make a list!” Molly jumped onto Sara’s fluffy, pink bed, crossed her legs, and poised her pen to write. “Where do we want to work?”
“Claire’s—good jewelry,” Sara suggested.
“Old Navy—great jeans,” Jess added.
“What about a department store?” Molly tapped the tip of the pen on her chin. “I mean, think about it. Everything we could ever need would be in that one store.”
“Yeah, but those stores are so big that we might have to work in different areas.”
“That’s true, Sara. But a big store like that might be the only place that has three spots to fill at the same time,” Jess countered.
“I’ve got it! Come here.” Sara jumped up and scampered to her older sister’s room with Molly and Jess close at her heels. She ran right to the over-stuffed closet. “This,” Sara said as she pulled out a very cute sweater. “These,” she grabbed three great shirts and started to pile the things on the bed. “These!” Sara showed the girls the coolest pair of jeans they had ever seen.
“I get it. Your sister has great clothes. So what?” Jess rolled her eyes.
“What do these clothes all have in common?” Sara looked from one to the other, waiting for an answer.
Molly stared at the clothes and tapped her lip with her finger. Then it hit her. “Magna.” She grinned. “They’re all from Magna.”
“Right! That’s where we need to work.” Sara gave one confident nod.
Molly nodded and watched Sara and Jess’ smiles spread across their faces.
Perfect! Molly fingered the clothing. Magna, the most popular clothing store among the older girls, was the perfect place for them to get jobs. But, now that they knew where to get jobs, they needed to figure out how to get jobs.
“Get out that trusty paper of yours, Molly.” Jess turned on her heel and led the way back to Sara’s room. “We need to plan. Let’s make a list of what we need to do.”
“We need to get our parents’ permission otherwise nothing else matters,” Molly reminded them. “That might be a deal breaker for me.”
“True. Put that at the top of the list,” Sara said. “Then, we need letters of recommendation.”
They brainstormed, schemed and planned for over two hours about how to get their dream jobs.
1.Get a letter of permission from parents.
2.Get letters of recommendation from the Principal and at least one teacher.
3.Figure out hours available to work.
4.Get a ride to the mall.
5.Pick up applications.
6.Fill out applications and turn in to the store manager.
7.Find a really cool outfit to wear to the interview.
8.Find three other places to apply for jobs, just in case
9.Find someone to teach us about interviewing.
10.Find out how much of a discount there is!
“About number eight, I hope we’re not sorry we decided not to look at other places.” Molly shook her head. It couldn’t be wise to limit their options so much.
“We can always make adjustments if things don’t work out.” Jess unfolded her long body and stretched her arms high above her head. She rolled a curl between her fingers.
“Yeah, I think we’ve got a good plan.” Sara’s eyes brightened when the garage door opened. “In fact, I’ll go talk to Mom as soon as you two are gone. A single mom of two teenage girls is never going to mind the idea of one of them getting a part-time job.”
“What about you Jess?” Molly chuckled. “Do you even have to ask your parents?”
“Of course I’ll have to ask. But they won’t care.” Jess shrugged. “Mom and Dad don’t say no to much.”
“Well, I might have a problem.” No way they’ll go for it. Molly chuckled. I’ll have to be very careful how I ask. “We’ll see. For now though, we’d better go. My mom is probably waiting for us outside.”

***
“This is a wonderful dinner, Kay. Will you please pass me the potatoes?” Molly’s dad rubbed his trim stomach.
“You’re awfully quiet tonight, Molly. Something wrong?” Mom peered intently at Molly.
Uh oh. This isn’t how I wanted to bring this up. She sat up a little straighter. “No, not at all.” She smiled and she took the bowl of potatoes to pass on to her dad. “I’m just thinking about something—nothing bad, though.” Oops. Judging by her expression, Mom’s not buying it.
Mom pressed a little harder. “Why don’t you run whatever it is by me and your dad? I’m sure we can help.”
I’d better tell her before she gets too worried and assumes the worst. Molly tried to sound straightforward but casual and confident. “Well, it’s just that Sara, Jess and I are thinking that we might want to get jobs. The thing is, we obviously need our parents’ permission. I’m just thinking about the best way to go about getting that.” She took a forkful of meatloaf and rolled it in her puddle of ketchup, hoping to look casual.
Mom pulled her head back like she’d been slapped. Her eyes open wide, she said, “Wow, this came out of nowhere. Hmm. Well, you’re going to have to give us a little time to talk about this.”
Molly’s dad held up one finger. Antsy, she poked at her food while she waited for him to finish the bite he’d just forked into his mouth. For the next fifteen minutes, he peppered Molly with questions about where she wanted to work, how much she wanted to work, how she’d schedule everything important in her life without letting school or church suffer, and, most importantly, he wanted to know why she wanted a job.
Molly squirmed. Her answer would sway their decision one way or another. She couldn’t just say she wanted money for clothes. They’d never go for that. Oh, they might offer to buy her a new outfit, but that would be it. Somehow, without lying, she’d have to come up with the perfect answer.
“Well, there’s more than one reason.” Elbows on the dining room table, Molly ticked off the reasons on her fingers. “A job looks good on my transcripts. Working would be a really good experience for me. It will give me extra spending money for activities, clothes, and other stuff that comes up. I can help you guys with my expenses—“
“I’m not sure I’m liking the sound of this so far, Molly.” Mom’s worry wrinkles knit together between her brows. “Your dad and I have no problem paying for the things you need, and even a few wants every now and then. I don’t know if I like the idea of you having a job now. You’ll be working the rest of your life. Why start now?”
Don’t sound whiny. “The things is…I don’t do much. I go to school and church, and I hang out with my friends. Why not hang out with my friends at a job? I have the time and it’s better to spend my time that way than to just shuffle around the mall aimlessly…isn’t it?”
“In theory, yes,” her dad nodded. “It’s not the working itself that’s the problem. It’s the commitment to the job and what that will require from you. Your mom and I are going to need to talk about this. We’re not saying no. Just give us a chance to talk.”
Molly opened her mouth to argue but had second thoughts. “Sure, Dad. Thanks for thinking about it.” She stacked the dinner plates and headed off to the kitchen to wash them.
Several times, she thought of ways to make her case stronger and turned to run back in to make her argument, but she refrained. Some things were better left alone.
A few hours later, Molly put her math book down and rubbed the creases from her forehead just as she heard a knock at her door. “Come on in.”
The door opened and Mom and Dad both entered her bedroom.
“Whoa. To what do I owe the pleasure?” They’ve come to tell me I can’t get a job. Oh well. Worth a shot.
“Your mom and I have reached a decision and we want to talk to you about it.” Dad pulled up her desk chair and sat backward on the seat. His red tie draped over the backrest in front of him.
Mom sat down on the edge of the bed, bouncing Molly’s book to the floor with a thud. No one bent to pick it up.
The suspense is killing me.
“Well, we don’t really think it’s going to be easy to find one, but if you’re serious about wanting to—“
Molly’s eyes grew wide and expectant, her heart double timing.
“—we’ll let you get a job. After all, the early bird catches the worm.”
“Reeeeally? Are you serious?” Molly slapped her legs and jumped off the bed. She ran to her dad and threw her arms around his neck. “Thanks, Dad!” She gave her mom a huge hug, too. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Hold on, before you get too excited.” Her mom’s expression was very serious. “You have to agree to a few things first, Moll.” Splash. Mom threw a bucket of cold water on the excitement.
“A few things? Like what?” Did she really want to know?
Mom looked at Molly. “Now, don’t get all defensive. These are just some basics you should expect anyway.” She looked at Dad as if asking him to take over.
“You’re going to need to keep your grades up. You’ll have to stay as involved at church as you are now—no skipping youth group for work and no working on Sunday’s at all so we can go to church together.”
Molly cringed. “Youth group—I totally agree. But, Sundays?” She tipped her head and stuck out her bottom lip.
“Just because you think it’s boring to sit in church with us, doesn’t mean we’re going to cave, Moll, We’ve had this talk before.” Mom lifted her chin and crossed her arms.
Oops! Now’s not the time to cause a problem. “No big deal. I didn’t want to work on Sundays anyway—because of God, not church.”
“God is everywhere, every moment. Sunday mornings, we’re in church. Period.” Dad continued after a slight pause. “You can only work two weeknights and one weekend shift. No more. And we get final approval on the type of job you get.” He raised one eyebrow in a question mark and looked at Molly.
“That’s it?” Molly breathed a sigh of relief. “No problem. I pretty much expected those rules anyway.”
“Well, okay then.” Mom smiled. “As long as we’re clear on those things, you can go ahead and try to find a job somewhere like the mall, but I don’t want you working at a restaurant.” She rose to leave the room and Dad followed.
“Wish me luck,” Molly called after them as they pulled the door shut. I’m going to need it..❖
________________________________

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Nicole O’Dell, mom of six, including toddler triplets, youth leader, speaker and author of the Scenarios for Girls interactive fiction series.

Website: http://www.nicoleodell.com
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The Key by Pauline Baird Jones

L & L Dreamspell
ISBN:  978-1603180108
Hardcover

Copyright © 2010 by Pauline Baird Jones

The Key

By Pauline Baird Jones

Chapter One

Kiernan Fyn heard the high pitched whine of a ship and could tell it was in trouble, even without the dark smoke trail spewing from the tail. It was coming in too fast and too steep.
The pilot must be dead—before the thought finished, the ship started a series of brutally sharp turns. Okay, not dead…yet.
Fyn strained with him through each turn, remembering how those turns felt, remembering trying not to crash.
And crashing anyway.
The pilot still hadn’t slowed enough, and if he didn’t turn soon, he’d go straight into the water. Kikk had a lot of water. Not a lot of ground. Only one place that was flat enough to attempt a landing.
The nose of the ship edged up a bit, but still not enough…it made sudden turn toward him. Okay, he’d seen the beach. Now he just had to make it…
It dropped below the tree line, and after a bit, Fyn felt the impact ripple through the ground under his feet. The ship popped briefly into view again, then dropped out of sight. Another impact tremor. Longer this time, then…nothing.
No explosion. That was good. There’d be something to salvage.
He broke clear of the thick jungle and saw a deep hole in the sand. A break, then a furrow stretching down the beach so far he couldn’t see the end.
He hesitated, searching the blue-green sky for any pursuit, but it was empty of everything but the drifting remains of the ship’s smoke trail. He jumped down on to the white sand and walked along the furrow. Soon he could see the downed ship, the front crunched up against a tree.
He approached cautiously, doing a complete circuit, looking for signs of a secondary explosion, but it just hissed a bit, then subsided into a resigned silence.
It wasn’t like any ship he’d seen, though he liked the look of it. It was long and sleek and dark.
He traced an odd drawing on the side, under some unfamiliar symbols. A small square of dark sky and stars, and a larger section of dark and light stripes.
The damage from contact with the tree wasn’t too bad, but—he walked to the rear—weapons fire was. He bent close and sniffed. Dusan energy blast. There was another scorch mark on the side. That it had landed almost intact told him it was a tough, little ship—and a decent pilot.
He looked at the cockpit and saw a figure slumped over the controls. Fyn climbed up on the wing, studying the mechanism that kept the cover in place. After a few tries, it retracted with a loud, almost angry hiss.
The pilot’s gear was as dark as his ship, his face hidden by a sturdy looking head covering. He also wore a heavy, dark flight suit, with the same symbols from the ship imbedded in the material.
Some flexible tubing stretched from his face mask to the ship. Probably his air supply. Fyn felt along the side of the mask and managed to unhook it.
Now he could see a gap between the suit and the head gear. He worked his fingers in until he felt skin and was surprised to feel blood pumping beneath the still warm surface. He found the strap, undid it and lifted the head gear off. The pilot’s head fell back against the seat.
A woman?
He’d never seen a woman fly a ship and he’d been all over the galaxy. Her hair was red, it was so many shades of red, it flashed in the sunlight, catching the rays in the strands and reflecting them back as fire. He touched it, almost afraid it would burn, but it was as soft as the skin it lay against. Matching lashes lay in neat half moons against pale cheeks.
She moaned and shifted, turning her head and he saw a nasty gash on the side of her face, near the hairline. Blood dripped sluggishly down the side of her face.
A harness held her strapped in the seat. He explored the clasp for a few minutes and finally it popped apart. He felt along her arms and legs, then checked her ribs for damage, before easing her free of the craft and laying her in the sand.
She was tall, but surprisingly light. Her suit made her look more bulky than she was.
Inside her ship, he found bandages in a box with a red cross on the outside. She stirred again, when he cleaned her wound, but she didn’t wake. Once he’d contained the bleeding and applied a covering, he went back and searched the cockpit again. He found a bag of what he assumed were emergency supplies and a couple of weapons.
He would have liked to study it all in more detail, but the light was fading. He needed to get them both under cover before dark.
He carried her and her stuff back to his cave, lowering her onto his bed, a pile of leaves and vines culled from the surrounding jungle. He pulled off heavy gloves. Her hands were narrow with long, well formed fingers. Her dark suit seemed constrictive, but was secured with an odd metal track that pulled down to below her waist. Under her flight suit, she wore clothing that was unlike anything he’d ever seen. It was mottled in the shades of the earth and clouds. This clothing had many pockets, filled with more stuff. No wonder she looked so bulky. He emptied the pockets, studying each item, before adding it to a pile. She also had a knife in a holder and what looked like a holder for the smaller of the weapons he took out of the cockpit.
Two of her weapons were curious. They seemed to operate on a projectile penetration basis, unlike his energy based ones. He tucked all three behind a boulder. No reason to arm her until he found how she felt about him.
He settled down by her, watching her and waiting for her eyes to open, wondering what color they’d be.
It was hard not to feel like the gods had sent him a gift for not giving up, but he realized she might not see her arrival in quite the same light. He ran a finger down the smooth curve of her cheek, then across her soft, full lower lip, relieved to see the slow rise and fall of her chest.
As light faded, worry replaced curiosity. Perhaps she had some injury beyond his ability to detect.
He’d expected to die here, and to die alone. None of the Ojemba would look for him. Their numbers were not large enough to risk men in fruitless searches for lost comrades. Every time he went out on a mission, he knew he went out alone.
Every day since he’d crashed on this miserable planet, he’d decide to get it over with. He’d stood by the ocean, telling himself to walk in and finish it. If he couldn’t fight anymore, what good was he? And each day he turned and walked back into the jungle.
Hope was a hardy plant, to keep growing in a place like Kikk.
It was a brutal, hostile place. In the season since he’d been stranded here, only the occasional Dusan patrol had stopped by and none of them had landed, just buzzed the surface. They came for the same reason Kalian had sent him here.
They were looking for the lost Garradian outpost.
He could have told them, if it was on Kikk, it wasn’t on this continent. He’d had plenty of time to search for it.
Fyn didn’t believe in the Garradians or the outpost.
He did believe in killing Dusan. Since they’d over run his planet, it was all he believed in.
But now, as he watched the woman, he remembered other things he had believed in, things he used to feel. He’d cursed the gods, and not just because they’d stranded him here. Why had they sent him this gift now? And what cost would they demand in return?
There was always a cost.
Just before the light faded outside, he pulled a weapon and fired it at the rocks, adding an orange glow to the deepening dark. It provided warmth, but also helped keep the biters out.
Finally, when he wondered if she’d ever wake, she began to stir. He retreated to the other side of the cave and waited…

* * * * *

A vague throbbing in her right temple towed Sara back to a consciousness she didn’t want to face, though she was a bit fuzzy on why…
She opened her eyes to zero dark thirty—a darkness somewhat lightened by an eerie orange glow.
Okay, starting to remember…
She not only wasn’t in Kansas anymore, she wasn’t in the cockpit of her bird. The rough hewn rock over head seemed to indicate she was in some kind of a cave, but how did she get from Dauntless to cave?
She remembered…
…the dog fight.
…the double hit to her six.
…heading for the closest planet like a fast falling star.
…doing bat turns to slow her descent.
…seeing the long stretch of flat, white beach between tangled mass of jungle and sparkling ocean.
…endless feet-wet finally giving way to feet dry.
The narrow beach had skimmed past way too fast as she struggled to manage her uncontrolled descent.
She remembered pulling her nose up long enough to clear a rugged tumble of rock spilling from high bluff into ocean, but on the other side ground was ground and no landing is a good one that ends against a tree.
Yeah, she remembered the tree.
But she didn’t remember a cave.
Her head didn’t seem to like all the remembering. She touched the complaining spot, finding something that felt like a bandage at the apex of the pain.
Okay…didn’t remember that either.
She tried moving various body parts. Everything was a bit banged up, but still worked, which was probably good. And she knew it would get better. It always did. Her zoombag had been loosened and her gloves were gone. Add that to the list of things she couldn’t remember, with an asterisk for slightly creepy.
As the rest of her senses began to come back on line she inhaled a warm, metallic scent that seemed to be emanating from a circle of rocks, the source of the orange glow. It was mixed with a warm, earthy smell and some scents she couldn’t begin to identify. There was a bit of a nip in the air, the edge taken off by the…fire? Was it a fire? It didn’t flicker like a fire.
It was deeply quiet in the cave, quiet enough to hear her own breathing…and someone else’s. An icy trickle made its way down her back. Who…or what…was sharing this cave with her?
Sara sat up, stifling a groan when various bruises and bangs registered formal protests to her brain housing group. She’d planned to stand up next, but something stirred across from her.
Who—or what—ever it was rose, throwing an ill-formed and very large shadow against the wall and roof of the cave. Maybe it was the bad light, but the outline was very Sasquatch-ish—shaggy and kind of ominous. The icy trickle turned to a rushing stream.
It moved toward her, passing into the half light cast by the sort of fire. Not Sasquatch, though he could have been a second cousin. He had a head full of dreads, he bristled with armament and he bulged with muscles wrapped in what appeared to be tight fitting leather. It was hard to find features—his face was darkened by dirt or camo, or both—but his eyes were deeply, sharply green.
And he was really, really tall. Sara had to tip her head way back to look up at him. He didn’t speak, which upped the eerie factor a few more degrees.
She somehow managed to get her legs under her and stand up.  She was a tall girl—Tall Girl was actually her call sign—but the top of her head didn’t reach his chin. He’d have to be around seven feet to top her by that much.
He looked like a ragged cave man, but there was a sharp intelligence in his eyes. And he’d managed to get her clear of her bird. Not exactly cro-mag man skills.
She wanted to say something, but all she could think of was, crap.
Not particularly useful.
After a moment, she realized he was holding something out to her. A wooden-ish…thing.
She took it, since he seemed to expect it.
“Thanks.” Her voice sounded a bit loud, and a bit too bright, breaking the deep silence.
He blinked, just the once, the green of his eyes disappearing, then slowly reappearing. It was very Cheshire Cat—one channeling Tim Burton.
Not a good combo.
Sara looked down at the bowl. The assortment of dingy pieces in the curved center could have been fruit—fruit having a really bad day. She picked out a piece. It felt slimy and a bit gritty, but she’d eaten worse than that in survival training.
She hoped.
She sniffed it. The pungent aroma made her eyes water. She slid it between reluctant lips and chewed. Okay, this was worse than anything she’d eaten anywhere. Her eyes watered some more. When she swallowed, nasty lingered like thick oil in her mouth.
She looked up, blinking and wincing, and said, her voice a thin croak, “It’s… good.”
Not her most convincing performance.
Was that a spark of humor in his eyes? It was gone so quickly, she couldn’t be sure.
She felt the pocket of her jacket for a packet of water, but it seemed he’d picked her pockets.
“I had some water?” She patted her pocket again, not sure she needed to play charades. He seemed to understand her just fine.
He shifted slightly and she saw her stuff in a pile a few feet away. She edged past him, found the water and drank it down. It helped. A little.
Her head throbbed a reminder that her mouth wasn’t the only miserable body part. She lightly touched the bandage.
“Did you do the patch job?”
Another slow blink.
Okay.
Seems his mother hadn’t taught him it wasn’t polite to stare. If he thought he could intimidate her, well, he could, but she didn’t have to show it. She lifted her chin and her lips thinned. Her eyes narrowed, too—a warning sign her temper was in danger of launching, her various principals could have told him, if they’d been there, which they weren’t. Lucky them.
“I’m Captain Sara Donovan, United States Air Force.” She thought about holding out her hand, but wasn’t sure he’d take it. Wasn’t sure she wanted him to take it. “And you are….?”
He blinked again. Punk. He understood her, all right. His face didn’t change, but his eyes gave him away.
“…shy, I guess.” She looked around. “I love what you’ve done with the place. It’s very…retro.”
So retro, it probably didn’t have a bathroom. Now that she’d thought about it, she needed one. Great. Nothing like baring your butt in the bushes on an alien planet. She tried to think of an alternative, but she hadn’t seen any gas stations when she was coming in.
“I need to step out…” She pointed in the direction she thought the entrance was, though it was hard to tell. There wasn’t an exit sign. He didn’t move or speak. Just blinked again. Maybe he didn’t have bodily functions.
She took a step toward the entrance and he shifted to block her.
She felt color flood her face.
“I really need to visit the head…make a pit stop? Powder my nose? Empty the radiator? Visit the little girls’ room?” She was running out of euphemisms. “Pee?”
She gave him a get-a-clue look and after a long pause, saw his eyes widen slightly. This time she was sure it was humor passing through the old eyeballs. He pointed in the other direction, a very pitch black direction.
“Right.”
She bent and snagged her flashlight and a bum wipe packet. She flipped the light around, so it pointed down, and turned it on, flinching from the light stabbing into wide open pupils. When she could see again, she looked back, avoiding looking directly at him.
“Excuse me.”
The surface of the floor was surprisingly smooth, but she kept the light trained on it, as she paced forward, wondering just where he expected her to—
A sort of crevasse opened to one side. Great, a pit toilet for her pit stop. She shone the light back the way she’d come, but he hadn’t followed her.
Smart man.
When she finished, she picked up her zoombag and headed back, noting he’d retreated to his spot on the other side of…Sara could see it now…a pile of glowing rocks. Yet another clue she wasn’t in Kansas, in case she had any doubts left. Sara stopped by her stuff, dropped her zoombag and picked out her bottle of waterless soap, so she could clean her hands.
She could feel him watching everything she did. Didn’t take long to figure out her side arm, knife and P-90 were not among the jumble of her stuff.
Very smart man.
Back on earth, she wouldn’t have had a P-90 or the ABU’s—the new camo uniform—under her zoombag, but she’d received a lot of specialized training and been given a lot more gear prior to the mission. Lucky for her, all he’d done was take it. Be a real bummer if he used it against her. And embarrassing.
Not that he needed her stuff to kick her ass.
Though she was careful not to turn the light on him, in the reflected glow she could see him a bit better.
He was younger than she’d first thought, probably close to her own age. He was also very nicely built, thanks to the generosity of all the leather, and her impression that he was well armed was confirmed. He had side arms of some sort on both hips, a sword looking thing strapped to his back and at least three knife sheaths that she could see. Probably more she couldn’t see. On his wrists she could see spikes sticking out in a deadly fan.
Dang. Must be a rough neighborhood.
What was he doing here?
And where was here?
She turned off the flashlight and dropped it back on the pile, then returned to her seat, a pile of dried…stuff. She looked around. It seemed to be the only pile of…stuff. His bed? That was kind of disturbing.
On the other hand, he was keeping his distance. She knew she was no beauty queen. There were no cushy love lies in foster care. She was too tall, too thin, her hair was too red and her eyes were too big for her face. That said, as far as she could tell, she was the last woman on this earth and there he sat.
On his side of the cave.
Not that she wanted to get hit on by a caveman. She was just…curious. How desperate did a guy have to get to hit on her?
She noticed the glowing dial of her watch. One thing he hadn’t taken. If she didn’t count her virginity. But she was moving on from that.
The time meant nothing, since she hadn’t been in position to look at her watch before the crash. The alarm had sounded at twelve-hundred. The dog fight, well it seemed long, but it probably wasn’t. According to her watch it was either 0500 or 1700.
She rubbed her aching head.
“I don’t suppose you’d tell me how long I was out?” She looked up suddenly and saw the green glow of his eyes. “I know you understand me. I can see it in your eyes.”
The eyes abruptly turned away. Sara smiled to herself. She picked up the bowl of food, took another piece and examined it, then absently popped it in her mouth. Okay, that was worse than the last one. She spit it out in her hand and looked at him. He still wasn’t looking, so she dumped it back in the wooden thing, and set it aside.
She leaned back against the wall, shifting until she found a semi-comfortable position, then pulled her legs in until her knees were against her chest and rested her arms on them, watching her host.
After a time, she saw his gaze turn toward her again.
Oddly enough, the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. Sara didn’t have a problem with not talking. She’d spent a lot of her life not talking.
The problem with this silence, it allowed worry to creep in. When her Dauntless got hit, the Doolittle had been engaged in a battle with an unknown, alien force. Had it survived? Did anyone see her get hit or where she went? How far from her ship had he taken her? Was any of it still intact? And all questions led back to, why had he taken her? What did he want? Who was he? Why was he here, apparently all alone?
When she was fourteen, she’d thought the worst thing that could happen to her was foster care. What a difference thirteen years…and another galaxy…made.
As always, when she was nervous, she began to tap out a song against the sides of her arms.
The song got slower…
Sara’s chin sank down to rest on her arms, then her lashes drifted down….

*****

Captain Sara Donovan. Sara.
Fyn tried the name out in his head. He didn’t know what a Captain was, but he liked Sara. It…suited her.
No surprise she’d been uneasy when she came to, but she hid it quickly and hid it deep. Her chin had lifted slowly until he was looking down into cool, wary gray pools. She’d stood up, her gaze never leaving his. He should have said something then, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. Asleep she was lovely to examine, but awake—
The gods had been unexpectedly kind.
There was strength and character in her cleanly fashioned face. Her eyes were wide and tipped up at the edges, like a smile. Her chin was slightly pointed, but determined. Even her hair seemed more alive when she was awake. He had to stop himself from touching it, from touching her.
Now he smiled slightly, thinking of the color running into her face when she’d tried to tell him she needed to relieve herself. And the look on her face when she’d eaten the food.
Without her outer gear, she was long and lean and graceful and he couldn’t believe she’d been at the controls of that ship. Her voice was as cool as her eyes and the soft curve of her mouth reminded him that men could do things besides fight, even though she’d made no attempt to use the fact that she was female to try and manipulate him. Quite the contrary.
He remembered how women acted when they knew they were beautiful. She didn’t act that way.
He stared toward her, wondering if she’d really fallen asleep and if she had, how could she, curled up like that? Had she pulled herself in like that because she was afraid of him? What had put the tiny frown between her brows? What had she heard when she swayed like that? There’d been a pattern to the way her fingers tapped against her arms.
He’d been alone a long time and away from women for longer than that and he couldn’t say he’d understood women then.
It wasn’t long before first light that she stirred again, stretching her cramped muscles before standing up. Her chin tilted defensively, she made another trip to the rear of the cave. He watched with interest as she washed her hands again, then took out another of the little packets and cleaned her face.
She dug around in the stuff, until she found small, white pellets, tossed them in her mouth and drank from a larger packet. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then looked at him, biting her lower lip, an almost brooding expression in her gray eyes.
“Look,” she said, breaking the long silence, “I appreciate the hospitality, and as charming as this place is—” Her gaze swept the area as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing— “I need to get back to my bird. My people will look for me there.”
Fyn stared at her, fascinated by the play of expression on her face and in her eyes. She stood up and put her hands on her hips.
“If you could point me in the right the direction, I can take myself there. Though you’re welcome to join me.”
Her booted foot began to tap the floor.
“Or not.”
She might have been gritting her teeth.
Fyn got up and closed the small gap that divided them, forcing her to tip her head back to look at him. He’d thought someone would look for him once. If anyone came, it probably wouldn’t be her people, but the Dusan making sure they’d killed her. He was trying to decide how to tell her that, when little sparks shot out her eyes.
“Fine.”
She started to step around him. He didn’t know which of them was more surprised when he grabbed her arm. He could feel her tense at the sudden contact. Her lips thinned into a stubborn line and her chin lifted. Her gaze narrowed in warning.
“It’s not safe.” He felt her jerk in surprise. The sound of his voice surprised him, too. “When it’s light, I’ll take you.”
They were standing so close, he could smell the scent that had puzzled him as he carried her. She looked at him for a long moment, then the challenge in her eyes eased a bit.
“Thank you.” There was still a chill in her voice.
She looked in the direction of the entrance and he braced for a flood of questions, but she…eased her arm from his hold, as if she thought he might not let go. Had he scared her? She tucked her hands into her under arms. Maybe she was just cold.
“It’s warmer here,” he said, indicating the rocks he’d lit up.
She knelt and held her hands over the glowing warmth. Lashes and chin lifted slowly. Wary and curious warred for dominance in her eyes.
“You’re…really tall.” An almost smile edged up the sides of her mouth. “I’m usually as tall or taller than most of the guys I know.”
He crouched down across from her, hoping she would speak again. He liked the sound of her voice. It was soft and clear, with a slightly husky undertone.
“You’ve been very…kind…but I have to tell you,” she sounded very serious, “You talk way too much.”
What? He stared at her and suddenly she grinned at him. The movement sent warmth flooding into her face, like the sun topping the horizon.
His mouth smiled back before he told it to.
“So, you do have a sense of humor. That’s a relief. That brooding silence was beginning to freak me out.”
“I’ve…been alone a long time.” The words came a bit easier this time.
“Really? I couldn’t tell.” Her brows arched and her mouth was prim, but her eyes were bright with humor.
He shouldn’t stare, but he couldn’t help it. She was different from any woman he’d met, anywhere. She was still wary, but she wasn’t…afraid. She looked right at him and there was an air of confidence and yes, competence about her.
She sat back, crossing her legs. She started tapping her fingers again.
“So, you must have pulled me out of my bird?” She hesitated. “Was it …trashed?”
Her bird must be her ship. Trashed? That would be crashed, maybe? He looked at her, not sure how to tell her.
“That bad? Tactically, the gomers sucked, but they were everywhere. It was a real furball and then I took a double hit to the six. Thought I was going to have to pull my loud handle—you know, punch out—but I didn’t want to lose my bird, or be hanging in space in a freaking pod with everyone bumping heads around me.” She sighed. “Man, Briggs is so going to bust my chops. He keeps telling me I fly like a girl. Now he’s got proof.”
Fyn blinked a little at this, but managed to figure out the essential point.
“You were attacked by the Dusan.” It wasn’t really a question.
“The gomers didn’t stop to introduce themselves, just dived in and started shooting.”
He noticed that she’d started to relax, now that they were talking. He should have remembered that about women. It hadn’t been that long.
“Did they see you come here?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably. I think one of them started to follow me, but the colonel made him go away.”
“The kernel?”
“Lieutenant Colonel Carey, our squadron commander.”
Worry danced across her face.
“They’ll be worried about me.”
“You think they will come?”
Her chin lifted. “We don’t leave our people behind.”
If they survived the attack.
“The Dusan will probably come, too,” he said. “They don’t like to leave people alive.”
“Really.” Her gaze narrowed as she thought about this. “Then I’ll need my weapons back.”
Her chin lifted slightly, as if she expected him to argue about it. He reached behind him, extracted them one at a time, and handed them to her. She stuck the knife in the sheath he’d removed it from, but not the other two.
“I had some spare magazines—long things that hold my bullets?”
“Everything else is right there,” he said, nodding toward the pack, with her stuff scattered around it.
She ejected something that he figured was the magazine from the smaller gun, checked it, shoved it back in, then stowed it back in its holder at her hip.
Warmth stirred in his mid-section. He’d never seen a woman with any weapon. He liked the way she handled them and how she looked wearing them. They…suited her.
She noticed him looking.
“Nine mil, for close shooting.”
She held up the larger weapon.
“And this is a P-90 for the distance shots.”
She checked it the way she had the nine mil, then set it down beside her, as she knelt by her scattered belongings. She stowed most of it back in the pack, including her outer suit, but he noticed she put a few more of the magazines in her pockets.
She looked up at him. “We probably won’t be coming back here, so you should get your stuff together—if you want a lift off this rock? You do, don’t you?”
He looked at her warily.
“I know you’ll miss the food and these charming digs, but try to buck up.” She grinned again.
He had to grin back. “Not much to take with me.”
Most of his gear had been destroyed when his ship caught fire. He’d been lucky to get himself out.
She couldn’t be right about help coming, but she was hard to resist. There was something basically upbeat about her, a resilience that impressed him—even if he didn’t understand more than half of what she said.
“So, what’s the plan?”
Plan? There was a plan?
“I was thinking we should do some recon. Are they likely to be covert? Or do the gomers like to strut around being big and bad?”
He sorted through this. “Probably covert.”
“Well, since you know the terrain—and where we’re going—you should take point and I’ll get your six.”
“My six?”
“I’ll follow you? Watch your back? Clock? Twelve o’clock at the top, six at the bottom.” She tipped her head slightly to the side. “Odd that we seem to have a similar language, but different stuff, too. Is your language pretty common around here?”
“Some worlds have their own language, but they also speak the Common language.” She was right, though. It was strange.
“Interesting.” She looked at him for a moment longer. “We should figure out some hand signals.”
He blinked a couple of times. Hand signals? She didn’t seem to notice.
“Usually we do this when we need to stop and be quiet.” She held her fist up at a right angle to her body. “How many Dusan are we likely to be dealing with?”
Fyn shrugged. “For a small craft, they’ll send a scout ship, between five and six?” He hesitated. “Even when they use stun, their weapons can kill.”
“Okay. Don’t get shot. Anything else?”
“They’ll have two positions, overlooking your ship. We’ll need to hit them at the same time. If they get a chance to send a warning, more will come.”
Did she understand what he was telling her?
Her mouth thinned and her eyes narrowed. “So, we make them go away.”
He hoped that meant kill them.
She showed him some more signals and then she pulled out a hat of the same mottled material as her clothing and put it on her head. She tucked her hair up out of sight. Next she picked up a small round box. She opened it. The contents looked dark and sticky. She proceeded to rub it on her skin.
“Did I miss anywhere?” she asked, suddenly. She did a half turn, so he could see the back of her neck.
He pointed to his temple, fascinated by how efficiently she prepared herself for battle. She was obviously well trained. Was that part of what made her different?
“Oh, right.” She smeared the brown stuff on the dressing covering her head wound. “How long until its light?”
“Not long.”
When everything was stowed but a small rectangular box, she picked it up and turned a knob on the top. It emitted a crackle. Maybe she saw him looking at it, because she said, “Radio. For communication.”
He’d had something similar in his craft, though not so…portable. A useful innovation.
She listened for a moment, then pressed the side, stopping the crackle and spoke into it.
“Home plate, this outfield5. Do you copy?” Only crackling silence. “Come in, home plate.”
Again, no response.
With a slight sigh, she stowed this in a pocket, too, one near her face. “No joy. The cave might be blocking the transmission, though.”
There was a small silence. He should say something.
“So, do you have a name or should I just call you Chewie?” Her lips curved slightly, as if inviting him to share a joke.
“Chewie?”
“Sorry, Earth joke.”
Earth?
“I’m Fyn. Kiernan Fyn.”
“So, do you like to be called Kiernan, Kier, or Fyn? I could call you, sir, if you’d rather? Or Mr. Fyn—“
“Fyn. That’s what most…people call me.” Probably. Been awhile since anyone called him anything. Though no one had found so many different things to call him in such a short time.
“Everyone on the Doolittle calls me Donovan, but I answer to Sara, too. At least I think I do. It’s been a while.”
Her eyes were big and serious in her blackened face. She grinned suddenly, her teeth white against her darkened skin.
“A long while.” She held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Fyn.”
He took her hand. She seemed to expect it. It felt narrow and soft inside his, but her grip was surprisingly strong. She lifted their hands up and down, then took her hand back.
“That’s called ‘shaking on it’ where I come from. It’s a friendly greeting.” Her tone was educational, but her eyes still smiled.
“Okay.” He realized he sounded rude. “Nice to meet you.”
Her brows arched. He smiled slightly.
“Donovan.” Using her last name seemed…safer, though he couldn’t have said how. In his head, he was already calling her Sara. “Earth?”
“That’s my home planet. Third rock from the sun.”
He frowned slightly. “Never heard of it.”
Her eyes got slightly wary. “So, you know this galaxy pretty well?”
He nodded. This galaxy?
“You’re from another galaxy.”
It wasn’t a question and she didn’t answer it. She didn’t have to. Her eyes gave her away, too. Maybe she realized that, because she looked away, toward the cave’s entrance.
“So what’s out there at night?”
“Nothing you want to see.”
She was from another galaxy. No one he knew had been able to travel between galaxies. That explained why she was so different.
“What keeps them from coming in here?”
“This.” He pulled his weapon, spun it, at the same time activating it. He fired it out the opening and one of the little biters squealed. There was a sort of patter of retreat. He noticed she took a step closer to him and wondered if she realized it. “And they don’t like light.”
“Oh.” She was quiet a moment. “Biters…because…they…”
“Bite.”
“Bummer.”
He turned his weapon off and started to shove it back in its holster. Her hand on his arm stopped him.
“Can I look?”
He held it out. She didn’t take it, just studied it carefully.
“How does it work?”
“Overloads the system with an energy surge.”
“Fatal?”
“If it’s not set to stun.”
“Sweet. My first ray gun.”
She released his arm and he stowed it again. He’d never seen a woman so excited over a weapon. He liked it. He…liked her.
She was quiet for a few moments until she started that tapping fingers thing again. Then she started to hum. The tune seemed odd, but he liked it, too, particularly liked the way she looked doing it.
She softly sang something about a bad moon, until she realized he was looking at her and stopped.
“Sorry, it’s a bad habit.”
“Not so bad.”
He got a smile for that.
If her people did come, if they did leave this place, what would they do with him? He looked at Sara and felt something stir inside him…like feeling returning to a cramped leg. He’d lived with death for the turning of many seasons, almost too many to count. It was the only companion he’d desired since Fiona…but now…
“What do you think?” Sara looked at him a bit anxiously. “I need to get there before my people do.”
He looked out. “It’s light enough now.”
“Right.” She grabbed her sack, sliding her arms through straps and then picked up her P-90.
He looked at her, wanting to say…something, but an odd smile curved her mouth, drying his throat. She put a hand on his chest and reached up, pressing a quick, soft kiss to cheek.
“For luck.”
“That’s not much…luck.” Before she could step back, he slid his arm around her waist, and pulled her close. He covered her mouth with his. He only meant to touch and go, but it had been a long time and she tasted good. He felt her shiver and almost respond, before she pushed against his chest.
Her lashes hid her expression, but a small smile flickered across her mouth.
He pulled his weapon, activated it and set it kill.
“Let’s go.”
“Right.” She readied her weapon with a snapping sound, pressed the hilt to her shoulder, and put her finger on the trigger. “I’m ready.”
It was…good to have someone at his back for a change.

* * * * *

Sara wasn’t sure why she’d kissed his cheek. Maybe to see if he’d flinch back. Dang, the caveman had so not flinched. And he could kiss. Not that she had a lot to compare it to, but it had made her foot pop up. Wasn’t that the universal sign of a toe-curling kiss? She knew hers were still trying to uncurl…
He looked grubby, but he smelled surprisingly good. Kind of fresh and earthy. Heady stuff for a homely girl.
Fyn slipped out of the cave first. She shook her head, to clear her thoughts and get focused, then followed him out into what passed for sunlight.
She wasn’t a botanist, so all she saw was lots of green crap. There were vine things hanging down and lots of exotic looking…crap—buckets of it. She did recognize trees. Big trees. Small trees. And flowers.
The ground was spongy under foot and cushioned their foot steps, which was a plus. Mostly they moved through foliage so dense, she couldn’t see the sky, but she did catch occasional glimpses. It was blue, but seemed a different shade than on earth, more on the green spectrum, maybe.
It felt cold in the cave, which one would expect, but she’d thought it would be cooler outside. Instead it grew steadily warmer. It was humid, not surprising so close to water, but it made her glad she wasn’t wearing her zoombag.
Once Fyn stopped and looked back at her, as if he wasn’t sure she was still there. Maybe he thought she’d be noisy. She grinned slightly. You didn’t grow up in foster care without learning how to be quiet.
Other than the occasional crackle of twig, all Sara heard was the soft buzz of insects until she realized that she could hear the ocean waves hitting the shoreline. Fyn moved more slowly now, stopping often.
Having his six wasn’t a bad place to be, though Sara made an effort not to study his very fine, leather covered, tush, and to stay alert. He moved like a lethal ghost through green shadows and his long legs covered the ground efficiently.
He stopped suddenly, going into a crouch, his fist raised in the stop and quiet signal. Sara crouched behind him, trying to hear what he’d heard. He raised two fingers and pointed to the left, then pointed to her.
She did a thumbs up, then remembered she hadn’t told him about that and nodded.
He signaled three, and pointed in the other direction, then to himself. She nodded again. She eased up next to him and started to slide past him, when he leaned close, his mouth to her ear.
“I’ll wait until you’re in position.”
She nodded once more, peered through the foliage, and spotted her two targets. Beyond them she caught a glimpse of water. She was too high to see the beach or her bird. The Dusan had chosen this bluff carefully, clearly hoping to catch her in the cross-fire when she returned to her bird—or her people came to find her.
She inched along the ground, careful to not let even a stray sound give her away. Just above the Dusan position, she found a big bush with a depression under it, probably from erosion. She worked her way into it. She should be completely hidden. She couldn’t see Fyn, but she didn’t have to. She just had to see the Dusan well enough to make them go away.
She made sure her P-90 was set to single shot and sighted on one of the two guys, the cross hairs on the back of his head.
One shot, one kill.

* * * * *

Fyn waited to see Sara get under cover, amazed at how her clothing helped her blend with the ground cover. She was so quiet, he’d wondered if she’d slipped away, but she’d stayed on his…six. He grinned as he watched her disappear under that bush. They’d never even know what…made them go away. He worked his way toward the other group of Dusan.
He sighted on the first back, did a slow count and fired without hesitating. Killing Dusan was always a good thing.
Once, twice, three times. On the heels of his shots, he heard two short, sharp cracking sounds.
A half count later, he heard the sound of a Dusan weapon discharging, with Sara’s weapon barking another half count after it.
They’d missed someone. He cursed silently as he headed in her direction, his gaze scanning for any other surprises. He reached the bush, skidding to a halt at the sight of a dead Dusan, just a few feet away. He lay sprawled on his back, a neat hole in his chest.
“Sara?”
“I’m all right.” The bushes parted and she peered out, then crawled out and stood up. “He almost got lucky, though.”
She looked pale and her mouth was tense.
He looked from her to the dead Dusan. “Good shot.”
“Someone once told me I’d be a good sniper. I thought it was a compliment.”
Fyn had a feeling this was her first, face-to-face kill.
He walked over until he could see the other position. She’d got them both in the head. Not bad. He looked back in time to see her bite her lower lip, then approach the closest body.
The Dusan was a typical scout ship soldier, large and stocky and wearing a dark brown uniform, devoid of any kind of insignia. His head gear hid his upper face. The only way to tell who was in charge with the Dusan was to watch who stayed to the rear when they moved in on a position.
She removed the gear hiding his face and stared at him for a moment. “They don’t look that different from us. I kind of thought ET would be more…alien.”
“ET?”
“Extra-terrestrial? Not of our world?”
He wasn’t of her world. Did that mean he was ET, too? “What did you think…ET would look like?”
Sara looked at him, started to say something, then just kind of shrugged. “Let’s just say I’ve seen way too many sci-fi movies for my own good.”
What?
She started going through the Dusan’s pockets.
“What are you doing?”
She looked up. “I’m looking for intell…information. It’s SOP…sorry, standard operating procedure.”
That actually seemed like a good idea, though she didn’t look like she liked doing it.
“I’ll check these two for you.”
“Thanks.”
When they’d collected all they could from all six bodies, she looked at the small pile, frowning slightly.
“Problem?”
She picked up a small disc hanging from a chain, turning it over. “This could be ID, I suppose. Kind of looks like our key cards. It’s odd, though.”
“Why?”
“No…personal items. Not even a snack to munch on. And no radios.”
It was interesting to watch her work. And think. He’d never thought to search a dead Dusan, except to take his weapon. What had she learned? What did she hope to learn?
“I wonder how they keep in contact with each other.”
“I’ve heard they have communication devices implanted in them when they are born.”
Her brows arched. “How…Big Brother.” She picked up a weapon. “Do these things recharge or what?”
Fyn took it and showed her the power cell. “It lasts a long time.” He studied the power setting. “These were set to low stun. They wanted to take you alive.”
He pointed it at a tree and fired it. Even at low stun, it left a black mark.
Her eyes widened. “Dang.”
They gathered up the “intell” and headed down. When she dropped onto the sandy beach, she stopped and pressed the side of her jacket, where she’d stowed her radio.
“Home plate, this is outfield5. Do you copy? Come in, home plate.” She sighed. “Still no joy.”
She ran a hand along the side of her ship.
“My bird got pranged.”
She carefully examined both areas of damage, muttering to herself. It sounded like an inventory of what was wrong. Seemed she didn’t just fly her “bird,” she knew how to fix, too.
Finally she stopped, bit her lip for a minute, stepped back with a sigh, then turned and jumped up on the wing and peered into the cockpit.
“The onboard computer looks like it’s intact.”
She climbed in and sat down.
“It still won’t fly,” Fyn felt bound to point out.
Sara looked over the edge of the ship at him.
“I know. But I need to get the self-destruct online. I can’t let the gomers get my bird. That’s SOP, too.”
Fyn wanted to protest. If her people didn’t come, then they’d still be stuck. And maybe the ship could be repaired…only it couldn’t, not without replacement parts.
“Anything I can do to help?”
Her smile was quick, but warming. “Can you get that rear panel off? Where I took the hit? I may need to reroute power to the computer.”
He removed the panel and studied the mess of wires and components, not easy to sort out with a big, black hole in the middle of it all. Some of the parts weren’t that different from the ones in his ill-fated ship. Some of it he’d like to study some more. He couldn’t see where the propulsion power came from, but he began to see a pattern in the tangle of wires.
“Hang on, I think see the power conduit…” He pulled his knife, cut off some wire from one place and used it to make a bridge between two severed wires. “Try that.”
She peered over the side with a wide smile. “Thanks. You know your way around an engine. Briggs is going to love you.” She disappeared from sight again, then reappeared. “He’s the guy who keeps us flying.” She vanished again. “I’ve got some tracking capability…crap, we got a bogey incoming.”
He climbed up on the wing, and saw a screen with a dot flashing on it as it moved closer to the center of the screen.
“What’s that?”
“Could be SAR…search and rescue. Or a bandit—that’s a bad guy. Normally I’d be able to tell if it had an IFF, but my sniffer was in the pointy end of my bird. No surprise it’s down.”
Fyn blinked, not even sure what to ask.
“IFF is a signal our ships send out that identify us to each other. Helps cut down on friendly fire accidents. A sniffer is the device that picks up the signal. All our crap has fancy names we can’t remember, so they get nicknames real fast. Or reduced to initials.”
She pushed something and a small tray popped out. She started pressing on the rows of buttons. “Okay, inputting the self destruct, but I’m going with a remote detonation. If it is Dusan, we can take a few of them out, too.”
She pulled a small device off the edge of the keyboard and then got up.
“We should get out of sight.”
She nodded, but before they could move, he heard a crackle, then a voice.
“Outfield5, this is outfield1, do you copy?”
She grinned and depressed the side of her radio. “Outfield1, this is outfield5. Authentication code Tango Foxtrot Bravo. It’s good to hear your voice, sir.”
“Ditto, Captain. You all right?”
Sara looked at Fyn. “Sierra hotel, sir, thanks to a new friend.”
Fyn arched his brows. “Sierra hotel?”
“Means shit hot…which means good?”
He blinked. Why didn’t they just say what they meant?
She grinned. “We’re not allowed to say shit over the radio.”
Her radio crackled again. “Bravo Zulu, Captain. We’ll be stable one in ten.”
“Roger that, sir, we’ll be the ones with our thumbs out.”
Fyn almost rubbed his head. “Thumbs?”
“Oh, sorry. It’s an—“
“—earth thing.”
“If you’re hoofing it, walking, and you want a ride, you stop by the side of the road and put your thumb up, like this—“ She bent her arm, her fingers curled in, only her thumb up. “If you’re a girl, you might try a little hip action.” She wiggled her hips and grinned. “And if the driver likes the look of you, he stops and gives you a ride.”
It sounded dangerous, even though he didn’t quite understand it. Ride what?
“Have you ever…hitched a ride?” he asked.
“Not until I met you and I didn’t exactly put my thumb out.”
Relief boosted her smile to new heights. He had to return it, though it wasn’t as whole hearted as hers. The gift he’d been sent was double-edged, but most gifts from the gods were.
He looked at Sara. She was sort of frowning, her teeth gnawing on her lower lip.
“Problem?” he asked.
“I’m wondering where their ship is?” She picked up one of the disc’s again, studying it for a moment. “Not a car key…”
What did that mean?
She looked down, examining the ground around her ship. “Those are our tracks…”
She crouched down.
“Those aren’t mine. Or yours.”
She stood up.
“They lead this way.”
They followed the tracks until they turned into the under growth some distance down the beach.
“I guess you don’t know if they have a self destruct on their craft?”
He didn’t. He felt a flicker of excitement. A Dusan ship was a major find. As far as he knew, not even Kalian had managed to capture one of their ships intact.
As Sara stared into the jungle, a craft, similar in markings and construction to Sara’s ship, but much bulkier, came into view and landed between them and Sara’s ship, sending sand blowing in all directions. A large ramp lowered from one side and five men emerged. One man wore a dark suit like Sara had been wearing. The men with him wore loose-fitting, mottled clothing, very much like what Sara had on. They were heavily armed, their weapons larger than the one Sara carried.
The man, clearly the leader of the group, looked toward Sara’s bird. Sara tapped her radio.
“We’re down here, sir, to your left.” When he looked her way, she waved.
Sara started toward him, but when he got close, she stopped and straightened, bringing her hand to her head, then snapping it down.
“Welcome to—” She hesitated. “Does this planet have a name?”
“Kikk,” he said.
“Kikk, sir. I’d like you to meet Kiernan Fyn. Fyn, Lieutenant Colonel Carey.”
Carey was about the same height as Sara, with an easy going grin, dark hair and friendly blue eyes. He held his hand out without hesitation.
“Pleasure, Fyn. Thanks for taking care of my bubba.”
Fyn blinked. Bubba? He looked at Sara. She shrugged, her expression rueful for a moment, before a veil of reserve dropped in place in her eyes.
“We’ll get you off this rock a-sap, but we’d like to salvage your bird.” He arched a brow in Sara’s direction.
“She’s no hanger queen, sir. With replacement parts, she’ll fly again.”
Carey looked low key, but Fyn sensed the toughness of a seasoned soldier beneath the surface. Fyn instinctively liked him. If all Sara’s people were like him, he’d fallen into good company.
“Good to hear.” He glanced around, then studied Sara. “Why do you look like a jarhead, Donovan?”
Fyn noticed the guys with Carey kind of rolled their eyes. Maybe they were jarheads.
“We had some unfriendlys hoping to heat up the LZ, sir, two positions, there and there.”
“The landing zone?” Carey’s brows arched again.
Sara flushed a bit. “Not a pretty landing, but no smoking hole.”
Carey’s eyes were amused, but he said, soberly, “Very true, Captain. Go on.”
“They were waiting, there and there.” She pointed out the spots.
With a jerk of his chin, Carey sent two of the jarheads to check that out.
“After we made them go away, we collected intell from the bodies.” She pointed into the jungle. “We think they may have parked their ship here. We were just discussing whether it might be booby trapped when you showed up.”
Carey blinked. “You have had a busy time since you bent your bird. How many bandits?”
“Six, sir.”
“Six.” Carey nodded to the other two men. “See if there is a ship in there, but might be better not to touch it until an EOD detail checks it out.”
The two men nodded and faded into the jungle, their weapons ready.
For a moment it seemed that Sara might mention the disc, but she didn’t. She turned with Carey and headed back toward her ship.
Fyn cast one, regretful back, then followed them. He’d have liked to be with the jarheads checking out that ship.
“EOD?”
“Explosive Ordinance Disposal.” Sara gave him a quick smile.
“Might have been helpful to interrogate one or two, just to find out what we did to piss them off,” Carey said, mildly.
“You don’t interrogate Dusan,” Fyn said. “They don’t talk and more come.”
“Apparently they have internal transmitters, sir.”
Carey stopped and looked at them both for a long moment, before nodding slowly.
“Okay.”
Sara stopped by the stuff they’d taken from the bodies and dropped the disc back into the pile. Fyn eyed it, but Carey was looking at him.
“Maybe you could tell us more about these…Dusan…when we get back to home plate?”
Fyn nodded, thinking, they won’t like what they hear. But…they’d survived their first encounter with them, their ship apparently intact.
“How is mom, sir?” Sara asked.
“A few blown fuses and broken dishes. They just hit and ran when the first salvo didn’t take us out.”
“They’re confused, but they’ll be back,” Fyn said. “They always come back.” Actually he was confused, too. Home plate? Mom?
“Well, then lets get the tow set up and get out of here.”
He looked up as the two soldiers rejoined them.
“There’s definitely a ship there, sir. I think we could tow it, too. It’s an ugly mother, but not that big.”
“We better ask the Old Man about that. Maybe we can come back and get it.” He looked at Sara.
Now the two jarheads checking the dead guys came back.
One of them said, sounding a bit surprised, “Two head shots and one through the heart over there. The other three are just…dead.”
He looked at Sara with a bit of respect.
“Energy weapon,” Sara said. “Disrupts their heart beat. Like the Dusan weapon, right? Only your stun isn’t quite so lethal.”
“Sweet.” Carey looked at Sara. “Nice shooting, Donovan. You, too, Fyn.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Fyn just nodded.
Carey was quiet a moment. “We should bring the bodies back with us. I’m sure the doc would love to do an alien autopsy. Get some body bags, Perkins.” He looked at Sara and Fyn. “These guys can handle the rest, you and Fyn go get settled on board. Oh, and I brought some MREs and go juice. Figured you’d be hungry.”
Sara exchanged a quick look with Fyn, her lips twitching slightly. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”
As they walked toward the ship, Fyn asked, “Autopsy?”
Sara made a bit of a face. “That means cut ‘em open. A bit gruesome, but if there is a transmitter in there, be nice to know how it works.”
He nodded thoughtfully. These people’s methods were worth…further study. He could gather valuable information if they let him stay. Kalian thought he was dead. There could be no harm in delaying his return. But even as he thought it, he knew that wasn’t the real reason he wanted to stay.
The reason looked at him.
“So, did you live on that stuff or just pull it out to tweak me?”
“That’s pretty much it, for eating.”
She shuddered. “Dang. Well, there are some who do not consider an MRE fine cuisine, but I’m guessing you aren’t going to be one of them.”
“MRE?”
“Meals Ready to Eat.”
What was it she’d said? “Sweet.”❖
________________________________

Buy Pauline’s THE KEY at:
Amazon

Barnes & Noble

indiebound.org

Powell’s

Fictionwise
——————————————————

Pauline Baird Jones is the award-winning author of nine novels of science-fiction romance, action-adventure, suspense, romantic suspense and comedy-mystery. Originally from Wyoming, she and her family moved from New Orleans to Texas before Katrina.

Website: http://www.perilouspauline.com/
—————————————————

The Cold Room by J.T. Ellison

MIRA Books
ISBN:  0778327140
Massmarket Paperback
$7.99

Copyright © 2010 by J.T. Ellison

The Cold Room Excerpt
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Gavin Adler jumped when a small chime sounded on his computer. He looked at the clock in surprise; it was already 6:00 p.m. During the winter months, darkness descended and reminded him to close up shop, but the Daylight Savings time change necessitated an alarm clock to let him know when it was time to leave. Otherwise, he’d get lost in his computer and never find his way home.
He rose from his chair, stretched, turned off the computer and reached for his messenger bag. What a day. What a long and glorious day.
He took his garbage with him; his lunch leavings. There was no reason to have leftover banana peels in his trash can overnight. He shut off the lights, locked the door, dropped the plastic Publix bag into the Dumpster, and began the two-block walk to his parking spot. His white Prius was one of the few cars left in the lot.
Gavin listened to his iPod on the way out of downtown. Traffic was testy, as always, so he waited patiently, crawling through West End, then took the exit for I-40 and headed, slowly, toward Memphis. The congestion cleared right past White Bridge, and he sailed the rest of the way. The drive took twenty-two minutes, he clocked it. Not too bad.
He left the highway at McCrory Lane and went to his gym. The YMCA lot was full, as always. He checked in, changed clothes in the locker room, ran for forty-five minutes, worked on the elliptical for twenty, did one hundred inverted crunches and shadow boxed for ten minutes. Then he toweled himself off. He retrieved the messenger bag, left his sneakers in the locker, slipped his feet back into the fluorescent orange rubber Crocs he’d been wearing all day. He left his gym clothes on—they would go straight into the wash.
He went across the street to Publix, bought a single chicken cordon bleu and a package of instant mashed potatoes, a tube of hearty buttermilk biscuits, fresh bananas and cat food. He took his groceries, went to his car, and drove away into the night. He hadn’t seen a soul. His mind was engaged with what waited for him at home.
Dark. Lonely. Empty.
Gavin pulled into the rambler-style house at 8:30. His cat, a Burmese gray named Art, met him at the door, loudly protesting his empty bowl. He spooned wet food into the cat’s dish as a special treat before he did anything else. No reason for Art to be miserable. The cat ate with his tail high in the air, purring and growling softly.
He hit Play on his stereo, and the strains of Dvořák spilled through his living room. He stood for a moment, letting the music wash over him, moving his right arm in concert with the bass. The music filled him, made him complete, and whole. Art came and stood beside him, winding his tail around Gavin’s leg. He smiled at the interruption, bent and scratched the cat behind the ears. Art arched his back in pleasure.
Evening’s ritual complete, Gavin turned on the oven, sprinkled olive oil in a glass dish and put the chicken in to bake. It would take forty-five minutes to cook.
He showered, checked his work e-mail on his iPhone, then ate. He took his time, the chicken was especially good this evening. He sipped an icy Corona Light with a lime stuck in the neck.
He washed up. 10:00 now. He gave himself permission. He’d been a very good boy.
The padlock on the door to the basement was shiny with promise and lubricant. He inserted the key, twisting his wrist to keep it from jangling. He took the lock with him, holding it gingerly so he didn’t get oil on his clothes. Oil was nearly impossible to get out. He made sure Art wasn’t around, he didn’t like the cat to get into the basement. He saw him sitting on the kitchen table, looking mournfully at the empty spot where Gavin’s plate had rested.
Inside the door, the stairs led to blackness. He flipped a switch and light flooded the stairwell. He slipped the end of the lock in the inside latch, then clicked it home. No sense taking chances.
She was asleep. He was quiet, so he wouldn’t wake her. He just wanted to look, anyway.
The Plexiglas cage was the shape of a coffin with a long clear divider down the length—creating two perfectly sized compartments—with small drainage holes in the bottom and air holes along the top. It stood on a reinforced platform he had built himself. The concrete floor had a drain; all he needed to do was sluice water across the opening and presto, clean. He ran the water for a few minutes, clearing out the debris, then looked back to his love.
Her lips were cracking, the hair shedding. She’d been without food and water for a week now, and she was spending more and more time asleep. Her lethargy was anticipated. He looked forward to the moment when her agonies were at an end. He had no real desire to torture her. He just needed her heart to stop. Then, he could have her.
He licked his lips and felt embarrassed by his erection.
He breathed in the scent of her, reveling in the musky sweetness of her dying flesh, then went to the desk in the corner of the basement. No spiders and dust and basement rot for Gavin. The place was clean. Pristine.
The computer, a Mac Air he’d indulged in as a late Christmas present to himself, sprang to life. A few taps of the keyboard, the wireless system engaged and he was online. Before he had a chance to scroll through his bookmarks, his iChat chimed. The user’s screen name was IlMorte69. He and Gavin were very good friends. Gavin responded, his own screen name, hot4cold, popping up in red ten-point Arial.

My dollhouse is nearly complete, Hot. Howz urs?

Hey, Morte. Mine’s on its last legs as well. I’m here checking. Your trip go well?

My friend, I can’t tell you. Such a wonderful time. But it’s good to be home.

New dolls?

One. Luscious. Easy pickings. Like taking a rat from a cellar.

Gavin cringed. Sometimes Morte got to be a little much. But what could you do? It was hard for Gavin to talk to people, the online world was his oyster, his outlet. He had other friends who weren’t quite as crude as Morte. Speaking of which…he glanced at the listing of contacts and saw Necro90 was online as well. He sent him a quick hello, then went back to his chat with Morte.

When do you think you’ll be ready?

Morte came back almost immediately.

Within two days. Did you do it like we discussed? You were more careful with the disposal than with the snatch, weren’t you?

Gavin bristled a tiny bit, then relaxed. Morte was right to chide him, after all, he had made a mistake. He’d quickly learned that following Morte’s every instruction was important. Very, very important.

Yes. It was perfect. I’ll send you a photo.

He uploaded the shots, breath quickening in remembrance. So beautiful. Within moments, Morte responded.

My God. That is perfect. Lovely. You’ve become quite an artist.

Thank you.

Gavin blushed. Receiving compliments gracefully wasn’t one of his strongest attributes. He glanced over his shoulder, knew he needed to wrap this up.

Morte, I’ve gotta run. Long day today.

I’ll bet. You be good. Don’t forget, two days and counting. I’ll expect pictures!

Bye.

A picture flooded his screen— Morte had sent him a gift. Gavin studied the photo; his ears burned. Oh, Morte was amazingly good with a camera. So much better than he was.
Morte’s doll had no animation, no movement. Her eyes were shut. Gavin turned his chair around so he could stare at his own dollhouse, his own doll, lying in the darkness. Alone. He’d need to find her another friend soon. If only Morte’s girl was a sister. He didn’t have a taste for white meat.
Another chime—this time it was Necro responding. He asked how Gavin was doing, if there’d been any news in the community. Gavin replied with a negative—he’d heard nothing. Of course, his ear wasn’t to the floor like Morte—Morte was the architect of their online world anyway. Gavin had found his friends deep in a sleepy sex message board, and was so thrilled to have them. They made his life bearable.
He chatted for a few minutes with Necro, read a rambling account of a perfect specimen on some white sand Caribbean beach that Necro had sighted, then logged out. He stared at the photo he’d downloaded from Morte. He was overwhelmingly turned on, and no longer able to contain himself. With a last glance at his doll, he went up the stairs, unlocked the door, locked the basement behind him and returned to his life. It was time for another shower, then bed. He had a very busy day ahead of him. A very busy few days. The plan was in motion.
He was proud of himself. He only checked the doll’s breathing three times during the night.❖
________________________________

Buy J.T.’s THE COLD ROOM at:
Amazon

Barnes & Noble

indiebound.org

Powell’s

Davis Kidd  SIGNED
Sherlock’s Books
M is for Mystery

Also available in e-book and audio formats ——————————————————

J.T. ELLISON is the bestselling author of the critically acclaimed Taylor Jackson series, including ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS, 14, JUDAS KISS and THE COLD ROOM. Her novels have been published in 14 countries, and she was recently named “Best Mystery/Thriller Writer of 2008” by the Nashville Scene.

Website: http://www.jtellison.com
—————————————————

HOT ON HER HEELS by Susan Mallery

ISBN: 0373773846
Publisher: HQN Books
Price: $7.99
Mass Market Paperback

Copyright © 2010 by Susan Mallery

Chapter One

It had taken four months, calling in every favor ever owed her, a case of expensive Scotch and a date with a disgustingly slimy private investigator who had made the mistake of thinking “date” meant “sex”. A knee to the groin had cured him of that belief. In the end, Dana Birch had gotten her man.

Now, as she rode the elevator up to Garth Duncan’s penthouse condo, she smiled at the paperwork in her hand. Paperwork that demanded he come talk to the good people at the Dallas Police Department. Paperwork that said Garth was going to have a very bad day. She, on the other hand, couldn’t be happier.

“Rat bastard, weasel dog,” she murmured as she stepped off the elevator and headed to his front door. “You thought you were so smart. You thought you could do whatever you wanted and get away with it. You thought you could hurt my friends.”

If life were perfect, he would resist accompanying her and she could threaten him with her gun. Maybe even accidentally shoot him. If only he were the type of guy to cower in the face of authority, not to mention consequences. In her fantasies, he would tremble and beg. While it wasn’t as good as watching him bleed, it would be a close second. Unfortunately Garth was more the type to have a $1000 an hour attorney who lived to sue police departments. Not that his high-powered attorney would be much help today.

“You are so mine, Garth,” she said, then knocked.

In the minute or so it took him to answer, she savored the victory. She’d worked hard to nail Garth and it had been worth every long hour of digging, following up clues and waiting for a lucky break. It was his own fault, she thought cheerfully. He’d messed with people she cared about. No one did that without having to face her.

The front door opened. She smiled as she saw Garth was half-concealed behind the door. Maybe he was afraid, she thought with a flicker of contempt.

She held out the papers. “Good morning. We’re going to take a little ride downtown.”

“Are we?” he asked as he opened the door wider, so she could see all of him. “Am I allowed to get dressed first?”

An unexpected twist, Dana thought grimly as she took in the towel draped around his neck, covering his chest, and the one around his waist. He was dripping, obviously just out of the shower. His dark hair stood in little spikes, his expression was far more amused than worried.

“At least you know I’m not armed,” he said, his voice thick with humor.

“I wouldn’t be afraid if you were.”

“That’s because you don’t know what I’m capable of, Deputy Birch. So which is it? Are you prepared to parade me naked through the streets of Dallas or will I be putting on clothes?”

He sounded confident, as if he knew she wouldn’t take him in a towel, which was true. Damn him. She liked situations where she was in charge.

“You can get dressed,” she said grudgingly. “I’ll need to be in the room, though, to make sure you don’t try to escape.”

He actually gave her a little wink. “Of course you will. That’s as good an excuse as any.”

Irritation coursed through her. Instinctively she rested her right hand on her sidearm. “You wish,” she snapped. “Let me assure you I have no interested in seeing your bony backside. Or any other part of you.”

One corner of his mouth turned up. “You can watch, Dana. I don’t mind.”

He was playing with her, trying to mess with her mind. She focused on the reason she was here.

“Joke all you want,” she told him. “You’re going to jail.”

“If only wishing made it so.”

“You’re not getting out of this,” she snapped. “I have the proof I need.”

“No, you don’t.” His voice was low and deceptively soft. “If you had what you needed, you’d be arresting me, not bringing me in for questioning. Admit it, Dana. You’re not even close to charging me with anything. This is a fishing expedition.”

While she knew in her head that reacting with violence only weakened her position and proved he was right, she really, really wanted to hit him.

“I’m officially bored,” she said, dropping her arm to her side. “Let’s get this over with.”

“The part where you watch me naked?”

She stepped into his condo and rolled her eyes. “Yeah. Lucky, lucky me. Have you been featured ‘Arrogance Monthly’ yet?”

“I’ve been on the cover.”

He shut the door, then led the way through the large penthouse.

The main room was huge—she was guessing she could fit her apartment and five others just like it in the space. There were floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of most of Dallas. Not that she cared about that sort of thing.

She returned her attention to the man in front of her, then frowned as sunlight caught his back, illuminating the scars criss-crossing his skin.

A few of them were thin lines, but most were thick and raised, as if the skin had been cut over and over again. Her stomach clenched slightly, not that she allowed her expression to change.

She knew the basic facts about Garth Duncan. He was rich—scary rich, with dozens of companies and money flowing like water. He’d started in the oil business and while down in South America, no doubt raping and pillaging a pristine part of the world, he’d been captured and held prisoner by some angry locals. They’d kept him and a co-worker blind-folded in the jungle for a month, torturing them both daily.

Her gaze dropped to his long, muscled legs. She could see faint scars there, too, but these had come from a surgeon. Both of Garth’s legs had been broken during his captivity. His friend had carried him to safety.

If only Garth had died back then, Dana thought, but without a whole lot of energy. He wouldn’t be hurting her friends. But he hadn’t died. He’d flourished.

She followed a few steps behind as he entered a massive bedroom, then continued into a bathroom the size of a grocery store. That led into one of those fancy closets done in dark wood. All the clothes—men’s clothes—were perfectly organized by color. Shoes were lined up on racks.

She leaned against the doorway, never taking her eyes from him. “Any time.”

His dark gaze locked with hers. He seemed to be enjoying himself, which pissed her off. But once the investigation began, his attitude would change. She was bringing him in. For now, that was enough.

His smile returned. He pulled the towel off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. “If you don’t have to be anywhere in the next couple of hours, we could take advantage of my lack of clothes.”

“Hours? Oh, please. You’d be lucky to last six minutes. Quit playing, Garth. I have a full day ahead of me. Despite what you think, the world doesn’t revolve around you.”

“Yes, Deputy Birch.”

He dropped the towel at his waist.

She kept her eyes on his face. Not only didn’t he interest her in the least, but she was here in a professional capacity. She was proud of her job and what she did for the community. The good people of her town didn’t pay her to ogle the likes of Garth Duncan.

“No?” he asked, completely naked and holding out his arms at his side. “I’m yours for the taking.”

She faked a yawn.

He laughed. A rich, full laugh that spoke of amusement and perhaps grudging respect. For reasons she couldn’t explain, she found herself wanting to smile back at him. As if they were sharing a connection. As if they had something in common. As if they almost liked each other and might even be almost friends.

Dana turned and walked out of the closet. “Get dressed,” she called as she went.

“What if I have a gun in here?” he yelled after her.

“Then I get to shoot you.”

She crossed to the window in the bedroom and stared out at the view. But she only saw her friends’ faces. The three sisters Garth was trying to ruin. He hadn’t been content to attempt to destroy Lexi’s business or ruin Skye’s foundation. He’d actually tried to kill Izzy. What the hell was she thinking, smiling at him?

Garth was the enemy. He was evil. She was going to put him in prison for a very long time.

Five minutes later he walked into the bedroom. He wore a suit she was sure cost more than she made in a couple of months.

“Let’s go,” she said. “We’ll take my car.”

“I’m calling my lawyer on the way. She’ll meet us at the police station.”

“You can call Congress and God for all I care.” She pointed to the hallway. “Move.”

Instead of heading toward the living room, he moved toward her. For a split second Dana wondered if he had really had a gun in the closet. She reached for her sidearm.

“I didn’t try to kill her,” Garth said, staring into her eyes. “I had nothing to do with what happened to Izzy.”

A story she’d heard before. Not one she was willing to believe.

“I’m not the one you have to convince,” Dana told him.

“You’re a cop. Look at me, Dana. Tell me if you think I’m lying.” He stared into her eyes. “I didn’t try to kill Izzy. I didn’t cause the explosion. I never went after her at all.”

He was standing too close, she thought suddenly. She wasn’t worried about him coming after her, but she still felt uneasy. What was going on?

Hating to give up the power, she took a step back.

He was lying. He had to be lying. But the voice in her head that warned her when someone was trying to pull a fast one was oddly silent.

“I suppose you didn’t do anything at all,” she said, grabbing his arm and starting toward the hallway. “That you’re completely innocent.”

He only smiled.

He could have pulled away easily, but didn’t, which left her in the uncomfortable position of hanging on to him. She could feel the heat of his skin, the muscles, the smooth fabric of his fancy suit.

“Don’t mess with me,” she growled.

“I didn’t say a word.”

So why did she feel so uncomfortable?

Weakness wasn’t allowed, she reminded herself. Not with him, not with anyone.

#

“Please tell me they threatened you before I got there,” Mary Jo Sheffield said as she and Garth walked toward her car. “I’m itching to file a law suit.”

His attorney—a forty-something blonde who barely came to his shoulder—looked determined. She could scent blood with the efficiency of a shark, one of the reasons he’d hired her.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Garth told her as he waited for her to unlock her Mercedes. “They were polite and didn’t notify the press.”

Mary Jo wrinkled her nose. “Tell me someone hit you or threatened to hit you. Tell me they manhandled your cat when they brought you in. I need something to work with here.”

“I don’t have a cat,” Garth said.

“So few men do. Something I’ve never understood. Cats treat their owners with disdain and God knows your gender is constantly falling for women who treat them badly.” Mary Jo grinned. “Sorry. Ignore the rant. So you’re saying I can’t sue the Dallas Police Department?”

“I’m saying I can’t help you make your case.”

“Damn.”

She unlocked her car. Garth slid into the passenger seat.

He’d spent nearly six hours being questioned. Mary Jo had been present for all but the first thirty minutes. He’d been provided with coffee, sandwiches and plenty of breaks. It had been easy…too easy.

Deputy Dana Birch would be horrified if she found out, he thought, enjoying the thought of her screaming at some unsuspecting sergeant for not stringing Garth up by his thumbs and beating him with a pipe. If she had her way, he would be tortured into confessing all and then burned at the stake. Of course if she knew him, she would know torture wouldn’t get him to talk. Fortunately for him, Dana wasn’t in charge of the Texas criminal justice system.

“What about the deputy?” Mary Jo asked. “Deputy Birch. Can I go after her? What was she doing, bringing you in, anyway? She’s not a member of the Dallas P.D. She’s from Titanville. There’s something going on there. Maybe I can get her suspended.”

“Leave Dana out of it,” he said as they left the parking garage.

Mary Jo glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “Dana? You know her?”

“We’ve met.”

“Tell me you’re not sleeping with her, Garth. Tell me this isn’t personal.”

He chuckled. It was personal, but not in the way his attorney meant. “We’re not involved or even friends. She’s…”

Dana was his half-sisters’ friend. A deputy in the town where his mother lived. She was annoying, stubborn and determined to take him.

“She’s a friend of the family,” he said finally.

“I didn’t know you had family.”

“I’m more the type to have hatched?”

She sighed. “Fine. I won’t sue Deputy Birch. But tell her to stay out of my way. She’s trouble. I’ve had to deal with her in the past. I know the type. She’s honest and loyal. You know how annoying those two traits can be.”

He did. Once he’d believed in them. Lately though, he was more interested in results. An attitude that had cost him a lot but insured the win. And right now winning was all that mattered.

“I have the loan papers drawn up,” Mary Jo said. “Not to keep repeating myself, but you’re totally insane. Jed Titan is never going to accept the terms of the loan. Even if he does need the money, he won’t take it from you.”

“He won’t know it’s me.”

“He’ll suspect.”

“He won’t have a choice. I’m continuing to buy up his company. The shareholders are getting nervous. They know I’m interested, but they don’t know my end game, which is how I want it. Jed has had a lot of bad press lately. The possible treason charges alone cost his shareholders a lot of money as the price dipped.”

Mary Jo glanced at him, then returned her attention to the road. “I find it interesting that the price of Jed’s stock dropped right when you wanted to buy it.”

“Funny how it all worked that way.”

“Tell me you haven’t broken the law.”

“I have in no way violated Securities and Exchange Commissions guidelines or rules.”

“Keep it in the gray area,” his attorney advised.

He’d stepped far beyond that, but not in a way that could be traced to him. Most of his attacks on the Titan family had been more subtle, but a few had been blatant. It kept things interesting.

“What happens now?” Mary Jo asked. “Or don’t I want to know?”

“I go to work and start my day.”

“It’s nearly three o’clock.”

“We’ll pretend I’m a Hollywood mogul, keeping late hours.”

She glanced at him again. “You’re not going to tell me what’s going on, are you?”

“No.”

She didn’t need to know about his plan to destroy Jed Titan or the fact that Jed was his father. Eventually word would get out. He would be branded the Titan bastard, but by the time that happened, he would own Jed’s ass and everything else. He would have destroyed his father, taken possession of all the old man owned. He would have won.

She pulled up in front of his high-rise condo and parked. She looked at him. “You know you’re my favorite client.”

“I’m your only client.” Mary Jo worked for him exclusively. It had cost several million to get her away from her high-powered law firm, but she had been worth every penny.

“I don’t want to see you in jail,” she said. “You’re scaring me and you know I don’t scare easily.”

“There’s nothing to be scared of.”

She drew in a breath. “Dana’s tough. Tenacious, driven. She’s a lot like you. If she thinks she has something on you, she won’t stop until she gets you. She’s not someone to be taken lightly.”

“She sounds like a worthy adversary.”

“This isn’t a game, Garth,” Mary Jo told him.

He smiled and got out of her car. “Of course it is. Don’t worry—I always come out on top.”

#

Dana studied the blue fabric of her sofa, not that it interested her, but it seemed far easier to think about slip covers than deal with the woman sitting across from her. But as the silence ticked on, she was forced to look at her friend.

“It didn’t go well,” Dana admitted, hating to say the words, nearly as much as she hated failing. “I took him in and they questioned him for several hours.”

“And?” Izzy prompted anxiously.

“And they got nothing. He was friendly, cooperative and didn’t give up a thing.”

Izzy grinned. “Yes!”

Dana stared at her. “You know this is the man responsible for the explosion that nearly killed you.”

“He’s not,” Izzy insisted, leaning forward in her chair. “He didn’t do it, Dana. I know he didn’t do it.”

“How? Because he told you?”

“Partially. And because Nick believes him.”

Which was the problem, Dana thought, annoyed at the complication. Nick was one of the good guys. He also knew Garth better than anyone.

“I want more,” Dana said stubbornly.

“This is all I have. I trust him.”

“Wanting something doesn’t make it so.”

“Neither does denying it.”

“I’ll get him, I swear I will,” Dana grumbled. “I don’t know how, but I’ll come up with something.”

“Goals are important,” Izzy said soothingly, which annoyed Dana.

Izzy was the youngest of the Titan sisters. Lexi, the oldest, had gone through school with Dana, while Skye was a year older than Izzy. They had been raised in wealth and privilege, something Dana refused to hold against them. They were her family. They cared about her and she would do anything for them. Including taking down their half-brother.

About nine months earlier, Lexi had encountered some financial difficulties with her day spa. After borrowing money to expand her business, the two million dollar note had been called, giving her only twenty-one days to come up with the amount owed. A few weeks later, Skye’s charitable foundation had been accused of money laundering. Their father had faced trouble as well. His race horses had tested positive for doping. Through the spring and summer, the situation had only gotten worse, ending with an explosion on the oil platform where Izzy worked. She’d been temporarily blinded by the blast.

The person behind all of it? An angry Garth Duncan.

Dana didn’t care if he went after Jed—the old man had been especially cruel to Garth—but the sisters were off limits. Not that Garth saw it that way.

“I wish I could arrest him,” Dana said, knowing that putting handcuffs on Garth would make her one happy camper. “Or shoot him.”

“Hey.” Izzy glared at her. “You’re talking about my brother. I know he did a lot of bad stuff, but he swears he had nothing to do with the explosion and I believe him.”

It wasn’t Izzy’s fault, Dana told herself. Izzy had been raised isolated from the world. She didn’t believe people could be truly bad. Although Dana’s gut had kind of agreed with her, which only pissed her off more. She didn’t want shades of gray where Garth was concerned.

“You rich people do love to hang together,” Dana muttered.

“I’m not rich.”

“You will be as soon as your trust fund comes through.” She leaned back on the sofa and closed her eyes. “I’m surrounded by rich people. How did that happen?”

“You love us,” Izzy reminded her.

“True enough. You and your sisters are my best friends, which only goes to show what an incredibly understanding person I am.”

Izzy laughed. “So was Garth surprised to see you?”

Dana opened her eyes and straightened. Better to deal with Izzy than remember Garth naked and dripping. “He handled the situation well.”

Better than well. He’d been completely comfortable, not the least bit intimidated and almost…well, nearly…charming.

What was up with that? She didn’t find men charming, certainly not men like him. He was an annoying, egotistical, determined bastard who had hurt the people she loved. Not charming. Never charming.

There was a knock at her front door.

She jumped up, grateful for the interruption, and crossed the small room. After flipping both locks, she let Lexi and Skye into her condo.

“It’s actually cold out there,” Skye said as she slipped off a light jacket. “I’m so ready for winter.”

Dana grinned. “It’s sixty-five.”

Lexi rested her hand on her pregnancy bump. “Speaking as someone who is starting to swell professionally, I’m all for cooler weather.” She grabbed Dana’s arm. “Did you get him? Is he in jail, becoming Bubba’s love slave?”

“No. He was questioned and released.”

“Damn.”

“It’s fine,” Izzy said, standing and hugging both her sisters. “I promise. Look, you need to sit down. There’s something I have to tell you.”

Both Skye and Lexi turned to Dana. “What has she done now?” Skye asked.

Dana held up her hands. “This is not my party. I’m simply a neutral location. But you might want to take a deep breath. It’s going to be quite the ride.”

Lexi and Skye exchanged wary looks before sitting on the sofa. Dana stayed by the door, thinking Izzy’s announcement was going to cause an amazing explosion. She wanted to be able to see everything.

Izzy shook her head, then fluffed her curly hair. “I have an announcement,” she began.

“We got that,” Lexi said, keeping a protective hand on her stomach. “What is it?”

“It’s about Garth. As you know, I talked to him right before Nick and I got back together. He took Nick’s side and responsibility for what had happened.”

“As he should have,” Skye snapped. “The man goes out of his way to destroy everything you two had worked toward. It just makes me so mad.”

“Excuse me.” Izzy shook her head. “I was talking. While I was with Garth, I realized that he’s our brother. Okay, I’ve known that for a while, now, but they were just words. They didn’t mean anything.”

Lexi look at Dana. “What is she talking about?”

“I am staying neutral here.”

Lexi turned back to Izzy. “What’s your point?”

Izzy smiled. “We’ve been trying to defeat him for months and it hasn’t worked. The strategy is totally flawed. We shouldn’t be fighting him. We should be protecting him from himself. That’s what I wanted to tell you both. Garth is our brother and it’s our job to bring him into the family. We’re going to save him.”

Skye and Lexi stared at their sister. They were both wide-eyed with shock. Their mouths fell open.

Dana folded her arms across her chest and shook her head. “Welcome to the show.”❖
________________________________

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Susan Mallery is the New York Times bestselling author of more than 100 novels, and she has yet to run out of ideas! Always reader favorites, her books have appeared on the Waldens bestseller list, along with the USA Today bestseller list and, of course, the New York Times list.

Visit Susan’s website.

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A CORNER OF UNIVERSE by Rebbie Macintyre

Five Star/Gale/Cengage
ISBN:  978-59414-859-0
Hardcover

Copyright © 2010 by Rebbie MacIntyre

A Corner of Universe
By Rebbie Macintyre

Chapter One

Parched for my husband’s attention, thinking to look wildly sexy—even though my waistline had already expanded by over an inch—I wore a too-tight dress and too-high heels to the Mechin Foundation banquet. I realized my mistake as soon as I tripped up the steps, popped off the spike heel from its thin sole and split my dress up the back seam—all within eye-shot of Cal’s luscious new partner, Dr. Melissa Delany.
The steps led from the entry into a cavernous foyer which brimmed with glittering people, doctors and their wives, mostly, and when I fell, my palms had slapped the marble floor. The cocktail chatter came to a sudden and unanimous stop. I froze, looked up into dozens of eyes that stared down at me with expressions ranging from shock to amusement. For one instant, I could have literally heard a pin drop, but instead, with a muted pop, something akin to the sound of a dainty passing of gas, one final stitch of my seam gave way.
Melissa Delany hurried to my side. “Are you all right?” she said.
My husband who had been talking with several German partners of the Mechin Medical Foundation wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me to my feet. He looked at me with alarmed concern, but the cleft between his aggravated eyebrows was as dark as a charcoal line.
“I’m fine,” I said. “My shoe.”
And as smooth as her glossy lips, Melissa Delany whisked up the pencil-like heel, gracefully excused us and led me limping down the corridor.
“I have an extra pair of flats in my locker,” she said. “What size are you?”
“Eight,” I said.
I had been a size eight, I insisted silently, at least until four weeks ago, the day I learned I was finally pregnant. Now, my toes jammed even a size eight and a half.
I glanced over my shoulder to Cal who stood hands-on-hips staring after us. The party behind him had resumed its merry buzz and as I watched, a coworker tapped him on his shoulder to resume his conversation. Melissa Delany supported my elbow as we walked away from the crowd.
“My sister said her feet grew a full size with her first baby,” she said. “I’m not in obstetrics, but I think that’s pretty common. My flats are a nine. Maybe we can stuff some toilet paper in the toe.”
I stopped and slipped off what was left of my stilettos. They were several years old, so at least I hadn’t plunked down a couple of hundred dollars just for this party only to have gotten ten minutes worth of wear, but still, they had been great shoes. I padded down the cold marble hallway gingerly swiveling my right hand at my side. A strained wrist to add to my humiliation. The first few weeks of my pregnancy had already impacted my ability to balance. I felt like the little bubble of fluid in a carpenter’s level; a fraction of movement and the bubble would slide off center.
The physician’s locker room at the clinic was entered through a common room that held vending machines and a couple of cots, bare and lonely, shoved against the far wall. Gray metal folding chairs were scattered loosely around Formica tables which were dotted with half-filled coffee cups, Snickers wrappers and wadded napkins. Melissa pushed open a door labeled Women and led me to a wooden bench placed between rows of lockers. The space reminded me of my high school locker room where teenage girls giggled and squealed as they ran to and from the showers. The astringent smell of antiseptic soap stung my nose and made my eyes water.
Melissa knelt in front of me and slid on black ballet flats she’d pulled from a locker labeled with her name. I knew she was probably trying to be nice, but doing for me what I could well do for myself reeked of condescension.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said. “I’m perfectly able to change my own shoes.”
She bounced to her feet with a grin. “Done. And they fit perfectly. You might be one of those pregnant ladies whose feet expand after all.”
She smiled at me, sincere and friendly. “Cal told me the news a couple days ago. Congratulations.”
How did he seem, I wanted to ask. How was he when he told you? Excited? Put out? Disappointed?
But I sealed my mouth. Melissa Delany was not my confidant, and she certainly didn’t need to speculate about the state of my marriage. Besides, Cal said he was happy about the news, so I should quit doubting him.
Five weeks pregnant and I was already making myself crazy with hormonal insecurities.
* * * * *
The banquet was a celebration for Mechin, the foundation my husband worked for, and marked a new phase of their business. A phase Cal was ecstatic about. A phase I dreaded.
When we’d met, Dr. Cal Sterling, my internist husband, practiced medicine in a clinic in downtown Chicago he owned with two other doctors. During the first year or so of our marriage, he’d gradually shifted his focus to the business end of managing the clinic. He’d developed unique accounting procedures, combined them with the new technology and several new models for follow-up patient care. The practice was fantastically successful and soon the partners opened three more clinics. Eighteen months ago, a group of international investors, Mechin Global Foundation, approached Cal about providing his expertise to set up six new clinics in Uganda, a country they’d targeted as being receptive to foreign money and medical intervention. Leaving behind his partners, he took the offer with Mechin. The career change meant a salary reduction, but Cal was ablaze with the possibilities of his new position, of helping needy people gain access to medical treatment.
It was important work. Wonderful work. Work that ate our lives.
An hour after I’d changed to Melissa’s flats, I stood next to my husband in the foyer near the cocktail bar while he talked to one of the new doctors, a radiologist, that recently had been hired. He was a single man without a date and I wondered if he was alone because he had an annoying habit of snuffling then wiping his nose with his cuff of his shirt, a gesture that would probably not endear him to the Chicago singles crowd. The noise volume had increased several decibels from when we’d first arrived and every so often, a burst of raucous laughter would echo around the stone pillars. Cal was his usual reserved self, nursing a glass of champagne that fizzled from the bottom of the stem. I sipped my club soda.
The radiologist once again swiped his nose. I looked away to hide my smile and saw Lucinda what’s-her-name gyrating toward me. She stopped, giggled a little and leaned toward me like we were best-friends-forever girlfriends sharing a secret.
“I heard you made a grand entrance,” she said. She gave an evil little smirk and lifted her martini glass to take a mincing sip.
I shifted my gaze and gratefully smiled at Darcy Jenner who was pushing her way through a press of suited shoulders. Darcy was a friend, and although her husband worked for Mechin in the same capacity as Cal, as an internist, Ian managed to balance the demands of the job with his role as husband and father to their four children. I admired Ian and Darcy, and in moments of self-pity—sitting home in front of the television while Cal worked late into the evening—I envied them. Darcy, dressed in a very sensible loose fitting silk dress and jeweled gold flats approached with a sympathetic smile in place.
“Hello, Lucinda,” Darcy said. “How are you feeling?”
“Feeling?” Lucinda said.
“I’d heard you had a problem with your foot. What’s the name of that thing that old people get? Gout?”
Lucinda snorted and flipped her hair back as she stomped off. I covered my mouth to muffle the giggles.
“She deserves it,” Darcy said. “So smug that she runs all those miles. I mean, who cares?”
“Oh Darcy,” I laughed, “really. You are so bad.”
“Well. She’s so superior. So righteous about her freaking running and her tofu. I’m over her. What did she say to you that she was looking so superior about?”
“She’d heard about my grand entrance.”
“Good news travels fast, I suppose.” Darcy laughed, placed a friendly hand on my arm. “You remember what happened when Jordan was born?”
I’d heard the story before, and she knew I had, but she wanted to comfort me, and I appreciated that from her.
“The night of the falling waters,” I laughed.
“Yes. In the middle of Ian’s graduation reception, a cast of thousands, in attendance. My water didn’t simply break. It exploded. Gushed. Flooded all over dining room rug.” She shook her head. “God it was awful. So believe me when I say that breaking a heel off your shoes is minor league compared to that.”
“I’m not so sure about that. I also split my dress up the back,” I said.
She arched a look over my shoulder to examine my backside. “I’d never even know it.”
“Yes. In addition to being a Harvard law school graduate and having a medical degree from John’s Hopkins, she happens to be an incredible seamstress.”
“Melissa Delany?”
I gave her a smirk, but was sorry the instant it lifted my mouth.
“She’s really very nice, Zoe,” Darcy said.
“I know. I know she is. She’s nice and brilliant and single and stunning with a perfectly upturned nose.”
“You’re stunning. And your nose is regal. Like a Roman empress.”
“Oh, that would be me. A regal, already very fat, Roman empress.” I laughed at myself. “I guess I’m feeling just a tad insecure right now.”
Darcy patted my arm again. “Take it from a woman who’s been preggers four times. Don’t pay attention to the stupid stuff that comes flying through your hormone-saturated brain. It’s all bullshit. “
I laughed. “I was just thinking about that earlier. How I’m only a few weeks along and already I’m feeling the changes. Physically and mentally.” I shook my head. “God. I’ll never make it nine months and stay sane.”
She laughed again. “Sure you will. And after this project gets launched, Cal will have more time to be at home.”
“I hope you’re right.”
She nodded, patted me again. “Trust me.”
Yes, I told myself. Trust what Darcy said. It made sense. And her advice wasn’t tinged by pregnant lady urges.
“We’re leaving in two days for Bermuda,” I said, grinning, “and come back next Tuesday.”
“Hey, that’s right. I’d heard that. You’re staying in the Mechin condo?”
“Yes.”
“Ian and I did that last year. It’s right on the ocean. I slathered myself with oil and baked all day. The kids had a ball. The pool is beautiful.”
“I’ve heard.”
“A nice benefit we get with Mechin,” Darcy said. “This will be a great trip for you and Cal. Before you get too big and have to stay put.”
My spirits soared. Yes, we’d have a wonderful time, just the two of us. A second honeymoon.
* * * * *
The night ended with my feet swollen, the makeshift stitching in my dress strained to the point of re-bursting and Melissa Delany’s size nine shoes pinching my feet. We drove home in silence, Cal animated and ready to tackle the world, me ready for the comfort of my bed. My head bobbed with the motion of the car, the heat under the dashboard warmed my feet, the music from a Natalie Cole CD soothed me and the flashing headlights of passing cars sent me into a kind of trance.
When we were only a few blocks from our home on Universe Street, Cal turned off the music and cleared his throat. “Uh, Zoe, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
He pulled into our driveway, turned off the ignition. The clicks of the engine were the only noise, other than my husband’s careful breathing. He lifted his arm and rested it across the back seat, cupped my shoulder in his physician’s palm.
“You remember when we first started dating and I told you about Danielle. Danielle Bennett.”
“Your college girlfriend? The one who got”
My throat closed suddenly, and I felt heat rise into my face. Despite the icy November air of the Chicago night, I was warm.
Cal nodded. “Yes. The one who got pregnant.”
“I remember,” I said.
Cal had confessed the story during one of our first passionate nights together. He’d offered to marry his girlfriend, although clearly out of obligation, but Danielle had refused. A few months later, she married a man who agreed to adopt the baby. Cal was positive that despite Danielle’s quick alternative, the child was his. A “near miss” he’d labeled the incident. A near miss that had allowed him to finish college and medical school unhindered by the burden of a wife and child. “Have you heard from her?” I asked.
“No. I heard from him. The boy. Well, young man now. He’s twenty-one and his name is Seth.”
“He called you?”
“No. He came by. Today. At the clinic.” Cal’s laugh broke through the car. A laugh that was not exactly forced, but nervous. Cal did not like surprises, and I could just picture his stunned expression when his son introduced himself.
“But . . .” I stumbled a moment, then tried again. “How did he find you? Did his mother tell him who you were?”
“Yes. His father died a few months ago. The man who adopted him. Danielle told Seth about me then.”
“But, my God. What a shock. At his age, to find out the man you thought was your father wasn’t really your father. Poor kid. That was wrong of his mother, to do it like that. Where does he live?”
“In Minneapolis, or somewhere near it. To tell you the truth, I was just so blown away I could hardly keep track of the conversation.” He shoved his palms through the tight dark curls that hugged his scalp.
“But Cal, this is unreal. He wanted to come see you? To meet his biological father?”
“Yes. I mean, like you said, it had to be pretty shattering to find out his true parentage at twenty-one years old.”
I shook my head in silent sympathy. A girl I’d gone through high school with had been adopted when she was ten by a loving family, our neighbors from the next farm over. At fifteen, despite the best the family could give her, she turned restless and depressed, constantly bemoaning to the other girls about her lack of knowing who she was. At seventeen, she finally ran away, never to be heard from again. The family had been devastated. I couldn’t imagine what a person would feel suddenly finding out everything he’d believed to be true was in fact a lie.
“He’s not staying very long in Chicago,” Cal said. His voice brought me back to the present.
“Did he leave home, after his mother told him?”
“I don’t think it was like that. He didn’t seem to be upset with Danielle, kind of casual about it. I wondered if he’d suspected it all along. Anyway, he’s just passing through town then heading out to California for some kind of school. Like I said, I was finding it a little hard to concentrate.”
The leather in his seat rustled as he turned in his seat to face me. His grip on my shoulder intensified. “He seemed like a nice kid, Zoe. A real nice kid. He’s only going to be here for a few days, then he’s off to this school and from there, he said something about living overseas. Mexico, he said, or maybe Brazil. It’s some kind of a scuba diving school, I think.”
He paused. The clicks of the engine had stopped and now silence engulfed us along with the clouds of our cold breath that fogged the interior of the car.
“Start the heater for a minute,” I said. “I’m cold.”
The windshield was white with our vapor, and I looked out the side window; the neighbor’s cat crept though the firethorn hedge that separated our house from the neighbor’s, the Reckarts. Like a shadow, he slithered underneath the hedge and was lost in the tangle. I wondered if he’d find a safe and warm haven someplace. Neva, the girl who lived there with her mother, took care of him, but only haphazardly. Obviously, a cat out on a cold night like this would not be well tended.
“Thing is,” Cal said. He cleared his throat. “Thing is, Zoe, is that Seth is only going to be here a few days. I don’t know when or if I’ll even see him again.”
The heater hummed, circles of clear glass began to form through the fog on the windshield. Cal massaged my shoulder with one hand and drummed on the steering wheel with the other. He was in profile to me; the light from the streetlamp lit one side of his face and glinted in his dark eye.
My mother had a saying she’d repeat to me from time to time, when the tension between Dad and she would crescendo enough so that we’d sit at the dinner table in tense silence. Later, when my father had been safely ensconced in front of the television and we were washing the dishes, she’d talk to me woman to woman, even though I was only twelve or thirteen. “Marriage is fifty-fifty, Zoey,” she’d say. “And most of the time, the woman works both halves.”
We’d laugh, and she’d talk about how hard being married was, but how fulfilling. “The alternative is being alone. And I don’t’ want you to be alone, sweetheart. You’re my girl, and I want you to have a home and a family.”
I’d fought that notion for most of my teen years and through my twenties, vowed to make my own life as a career graphic artist, build a top design firm in Chicago.
But that was many years ago—before Cal, before the ALS had twisted my mother’s limbs and squeezed closed her throat. Before she died.
Now, my husband sat next to me in a warm car and stared out into a cold night, and I thought about working both halves of my marriage.
“You want to cancel our Bermuda trip,” I said.
He turned toward me, the gratitude soft in his eyes.
“I’ll make it up to you, honey. I promise. We’ll go right after Christmas. I’ll talk to Walter and see if we can get the condo sometime in January. We’ll go then, I promise.”
My hand flew up between us, palm forward. “Stop. No promises, Cal.”
“I mean it. I promise we’ll go in January.”
But I closed my eyes, shook my head. I would not set myself up for disappointment. I’d heard too many times in our three year marriage how he’d do one thing or another, but no sooner had the words been said and he’d come to me with a change in plans: A special Sunday we’d set aside for a day at home watching football on television would vanish in the demanding throes of his work. A special dinner I’d prepared would grow cold, the candles stayed unlit, because he had to attend to last minute demands from the clinic.
“No promises,” I said.
By the light of the streetlamp, I saw his mouth turn down at the corners, the insulted jut of his chin.
“You’ll see. I’ll make it up to you,” he mumbled.
And I knew he meant it. He really would try to make it up to me. Or rather, he’d want to try to make it up to me.
His lips pressed together and he stared at his lap for a moment, then turned up the heater.
“You warm enough?” he said. He glanced at me, touching me with his eyes to measure where I was, see how I would respond.
And as usual, the vulnerable little boy expression he unconsciously wore tugged at my sympathy. He was a good man, a man who was dedicated to medicine, a man who had been there for me when I needed him. Now, here he was, trying to balance all these spinning plates: his position with Mechin, his lust for accomplishment, a newly pregnant forty-one-year-old wife, and now a grown son who’d dropped into his life.
“Cal.” I took his hand that rested on my shoulder, brought it to my lips. “It’s all right. We’re okay. Of course we have to cancel the trip. You don’t get to meet your son every day. And especially since he’ll be leaving the country. It’s okay. We’ll get to Bermuda.”
He grinned at me, clearly relieved, gave me a wet full kiss on the mouth, turned off the engine and trotted around the front of the car to get the door for me.
I would go up to our room and unpack my already packed suitcase—a suitcase that had been ready for a week. Tomorrow, I’d call my biggest client, Griffin Uniforms, and tell them I’d be available for meetings to design their spring campaign graphics after all. I’d cancel the kennel where I’d reserved a spot for Goldie. And I’d call my friend Sabrina and tell her we wouldn’t need her to look after Hattie.
Hattie. Cal’s eighty-eight year old grandmother had lived with us a year, and we’d never left her before. Even though she’d smiled and clapped for us when I told her about our Bermuda trip, I sensed an unease, even with the arrangements I’d made for her to go to Sabrina’s.
“I’m not a child,” she’d said. “I can stay here by myself.”
I’d hugged her, breathed the rose scent that was a part of her. “I know you’re not a child. You’re a remarkably young vibrant woman, but you are healing from a knee replacement only three months old, so I’ll feel better about you staying with a friend.”
Now, with the cancellation of our trip, she’d be pleased, although she’d never tell me. She had too much class for that.
So, for Hattie’s sake, it was good we weren’t going. And Cal could spend time with his son. It was a small sacrifice, I told myself, one of my times to “work both halves”, as my mother would have said. For my husband, I would be accepting and gracious.
My mother would have been proud of me.❖
________________________________

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——————————————————

Rebbie Macintyre’s story ideas come from her experiences as a teacher, counselor, violinist, swim coach, waitress, salesperson and the hose-handler of a sludge-sucking vacuum truck. She lives in Florida with her extended family and Daisy the Jack Russell terrier-ist.

Website: http://www.rebbiemacintyre.com
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LIVE TO TELL by Wendy Corsi Staub

ISBN: 978-0061895067
Price: $7.99
Avon
Mass Market Paperback
Copyright © 2010 by Wendy Corsi Staub

PROLOGUE
New York City
He lunges across Sixth Avenue mid-block and against the light, leaving in his wake squealing brakes, honking horns, angry curses through car windows.
No need to look over his shoulder; he knows they’re back there, closing in on
him.
Darting up the east side of Sixth, he blows through an obstacle course of office workers on smoke breaks, tourists walking four abreast, businessmen lined up at street food carts. Ignoring the indignant shouts of jostled pedestrians, he searches the urban landscape as he runs. July heat radiates in waves from concrete and asphalt. Sweat soaks his tee shirt.
Just ahead, across Fortieth Street, he spots the subway entrance. For a split second, he considers diving down the stairs. If a train happens to be just pulling in, he can hop on and lose them–at least for the time being.
If there’s no train, he’ll be trapped like a rat in a hole–unless he hoofs it through the dark tunnel and risks being electrocuted by the third rail or flattened by an oncoming express.
No thanks.
Nothing can happen to him. Not now. Not when the plan is about to come to fruition.
Not when sweet victory is so close he can taste it like sugar.
He races past the subway, his thoughts careening through various scenarios of how the next few minutes of his life might play out. They all end the same way: he’s apprehended. Incarcerated.
Even if he could possibly hide in midtown Manhattan in broad daylight with the cops hot on his trail, it makes no sense to try. The NYPD aren’t the only ones looking for him.
At least if he’s arrested, he’ll be safe–for now.
But first, he has to stash the file where no one can possibly stumble across it–and where he himself will easily be able to retrieve it and resume his plan. When he’s free.
Where? Come on, think. Think!
If only he had time to open a safe deposit box somewhere.
If only he could bury it like treasure, entrust it to a stranger for safekeeping, throw it into an envelope addressed to a trusted friend in a far-off place…
Before all this, he had a circle of confidantes. Now, he trusts no one other than Mike. He tried to call his old friend yesterday, since he has a vested interest in this thing. He did leave a message: “Mike, it’s me. Dude, I was right. It’s bigger than I
thought. I’ll be in touch.”
Now that he’s had time to think things through, though, he’s glad he didn’t reach Mike. Better not to drag him into this dangerous game.
He bounds across Fortieth and up the wide concrete steps into Bryant Park, zigzagging northeast past dog walkers and the carousel; past stroller-pushing nannies and office workers eating lunch out of clear plastic deli containers.
Approaching the crowded outdoor dining patio of the Bryant Park Cafe, he spots a commotion beside the entrance. A young wife tries to soothe the screaming baby propped against her shoulder as her agitated husband argues loudly with the hostess about a reservation. The baby’s stroller is abandoned in his path, a fuzzy pink stuffed animal lying on the ground beside it.
Seeing it, he’s struck by an idea–one that’s either so far out there it’ll never work, or so far out there that it has to work.
There’s no time to sit around considering the odds.
Rather than leap over the stuffed animal, he scoops it up as he passes, hoping bystanders are too busy watching the argument at the hostess stand to notice. He doesn’t bother to look back, and nobody calls out after him as he cannonballs down the wide concrete steps on the north side of the park.
Emerging onto West Forty-Second Street, he hurtles eastward, passing the main branch of the library. He scoots across Fifth Avenue amid hordes of pedestrians in the crosswalk, then across East Forty-Second against the red Don’t Walk sign. With the stuffed animal tucked under his right arm, high against his chestlike a football, he sprints the remaining block and a half to Grand Central Terminal.
No one–not even the national guardsmen on patrol in this post 9/11 era–gives him a second glance as he races at full speed from the Vanderbilt entrance toward the cavernous Main Concourse. Otherwise-civilized people zip pell-mell through here all the time. The MTA conducts its Metro North commuter line on a precise schedule; a few seconds’ delay might mean waiting an hour to catch the next train to the northern suburbs.
It’s been awhile, yet he knows the layout of vast rail station very well. Knows the location of the ticket counters and subway ramps, the arched whispering gallery near the Oyster Bar, the upper and lower level tracks, the Station Master’s office, the food court, the Lost and Found…
The Lost and Found.
Looking furtively over his shoulder, he spots a blue uniform at the far end of the corridor. Changing direction, he veers toward the steep bank of escalators leading to the subway station below Grand Central, slowing his pace just enough to be sure the cop has time to spot him. Then he skirts down the left side of the escalator with the harried walkers, past the line-up of riders holding the rubber rail along the right.
At the bottom, he hops the turnstile. Predictably, those behind him protest loudly. He races through the familiar network of corridors to an exit and a set of stairs leading up to Grand Central Terminal again, closer to Lexington Avenue. Again, he runs toward the main concourse, emerging at last beneath the domed pale blue ceiling with its celestial markings.
He takes the stairs beneath the balcony back down to the lower level, and then ducks into a doorway leading to an empty track.
Panting, huddled in the shadows against the wall, he turns the stuffed animal over and over, looking for the most unobtrusive spot.
There.
With his index finger, he probes at a seam in the synthetic fur. The toy is well made; it takes a few moments before the stitching gives way. He creates a small tear just wide enough.
Then he takes the memory stick from his wallet and shoves it into the hole until it disappears into the stuffing.
Swiftly examining the toy, he convinces himself no one could possibly discover the gap in the seam unless they were looking for it.
He tucks the animal under his arm again and scurries back out into the station and down a short corridor to the Lost and Found.
“Can I help you, sir?” asks the middle-aged woman at the service window, looking up from sorting through a labeled bin marked February: Mittens and Gloves.
Winded, he holds up the stuffed animal. “I just found this.” She reaches for a pen. “Where? On a train?” “No…on the floor.” “Where on the floor?”
“By the clock,” he improvises.
She doesn’t ask which clock. In this terminal, “the clock” means the antique timepiece with four luminescent opal faces that sits atop the information booth, a meeting spot for thousands of New Yorkers every day.
“All right—“ She reaches for a form— “if you can fill this out and–”
“Sorry,” he cuts in, “but if I don’t catch the 4:39, my wife is going to kill me.” “It’s only–“ He’s already out the door. He takes the stairs back up to the main concourse two at a time. Nearby, at the base of the escalators leading up to the Pan Am building, a transit cop scans the crowd while speaking into a radio.
A moment later, the cop spots him, and he knows it’s over. For now.

CHAPTER ONE

Glenhaven Park, New York “MOMMY, HEEEEELLLLLLLLLPPPPP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Startled by her daughter’s scream, Lauren Walsh drops the apple she was about to
peel and bolts from the kitchen, taking the paring knife with her, just in case. Sadie is in the living room–in one piece, thank God, and sitting on the couch in
front of the television, right where Lauren left her about two minutes ago. Tears stream down her face.
“What’s wrong, sweetie? What happened?” “Fred! Fred’s gone!” She immediately grasps the situation, seeing the contents of Sadie’s little Vera
Bradley tote dumped on the couch beside her: a sticker album and stickers, a couple of Mardi Gras necklaces, a feather boa, and the pack of Juicyfruit Lauren bought her at Hudson News right before they got on the train.
So there’s no intruder to fight off with a paring knife. She loosens her grasp on the handle, the notion of using it as a weapon suddenly seeming laughable.
Almost laughable, anyway.
Lauren has never been the kind of woman who checked the closets and under the bed. She spent dauntless years on her own, single in the city, before she met Nick.
But this is different. Living alone with a preschooler in a sprawling Victorian while the older kids are gone at sleepaway camp and their dad is–well, gone–has bred a certain degree of paranoia, no doubt about it.
“Mommy, find Fred!” Sadie’s cherubic face is stricken, her green eyes filled with
tears.
Before Nick moved out last winter, Fred was just another stuffed animal on Sadie’s shelf. Someone brought it to the hospital back when Sadie was born, with a mylar It’s A Girl balloon tied to its wrist.
When Nick left, all three of the kids developed strange new habits. Ryan took to biting his nails. Lucy pulled out her eyelashes. Poor little Sadie, already a notoriously fussy eater, now lives on white bread, peanut butter, and the occasional sliced apple. She also regressed to thumb sucking and pants-wetting, and started dragging the pink plush rabbit, newly christened Fred, everywhere she went.
Which wasn’t much of anywhere until recently, because Lauren couldn’t bring herself to leave the house most days. She felt as if the whole town was talking about her husband leaving her for another woman.
Probably because they really were talking about it. In a tiny suburban hamlet like Glenhaven Park, the gossip mill runs as efficiently as the commuter train line.
“Mommy.”
“It’s okay, Sadie. Where’s Chauncey? Maybe he took Fred.” God knows their border collie has been known to steal a fuzzy slipper or two—which is why he hasn’t been allowed upstairs in the bedrooms in years.
“No, Fred wasn’t in my bag. He didn’t come into the house with me.” “Okay, so he’s probably in the car.” “Go look! Please!” Lauren is already headed for the kitchen to exchange the paring knife for her
keys, biting her tongue. It’s probably not good parenting to say, “I told you so” to a four year-old.
But she did tell Sadie not to bring Fred with them to the city today. And when she insisted, Lauren wanted to carry the stuffed rabbit herself, worried Sadie would lose it.
Sadie protested so vehemently that it was simply easier to give in. More bad parenting.
And the fact that Lauren’s about to serve apple slices with a side of peanut butter for dinner doesn’t exactly cancel it out. But why bother cooking for two—one finicky preschooler and one mom who lost her appetite, along with a lot of other things, in the divorce drama.
The screen door squeaks as Lauren steps out the back door into the hot glare of late afternoon sun. The neighborhood at this hour is so still she can hear the bumblebees lazing in the coneflowers beside the small service porch.
She could cut some of the purple and white blooms and bring them inside.
But again, why bother? It’s just her and Sadie.
Why bother…why bother…
So goes the depressing refrain. There was a time when she didn’t consider cooking or gardening a bother at all. She remembers wandering around the yard with pruning shears on summer days as Ryan and Lucy romped on the wooden play set. She’d fill the house with a hodgepodge of colorful flowers arranged in Depression-era tinted glass Ball jars discovered on a cobwebby shelf in the basement. Then she’d feed and bathe the kids early, letting them stay up just long enough to greet Nick off the commuter train. He’d tell her about his day as they shared a bottle of wine over a home-cooked dinner for two, something decadent and cooked in butter or smothered in melted cheese.
That was before Nick became overly health conscious—which, surprise, surprise, was not long before he left.
But she doesn’t want to think about that.
Nor does she necessarily want to think about the good old days, but she can’t seem to help herself. It was on one of those hot summer nights, Lauren recalls, that Sadie the Oops Baby was conceived, after an unhealthy, fattening romantic dinner laced with cabernet and Van Morrison.
The pregnancy put on hold their plans to remodel the house. They were going to expand the kitchen, add a mudroom, replace the back stoop with a deck–something that wouldn’t clash with the Queen Anne style. Nick was a big believer in preservation of architectural integrity.
Only when it came to marital integrity did he run into trouble.
They never did get around to remodeling. Now they never will. Lauren gazes up at the house–two stories, plus a large attic beneath the steep, gabled roof. The clapboard façade, fish-scale shingles, and gingerbread trim are done in period
shades of ochre and brick red. The classic Victorian design—tall, shuttered bay windows, a cupola, and a spindled, wraparound porch–charmed her the first time she laid eyes on it, years ago.
Painted Lady Potential, proclaimed the ad in the Sunday Times real estate section.
She kept reading. It got better.
Four bedroom, two bath fixer-upper in family neighborhood. Eat-in kitchen, large, level yard, detached garage. Walk to shops, train, schools.
It was located, the Realtor told her when she called about the ad, on Elm Street in Glenhaven Park. Elm Street—evocative of leafy, small town charm. Elm Street—where families live happily ever after.
Sight unseen, Lauren was sold. Nick was not. “Nightmare on Elm Street,” he told Lauren. “Ever see that movie?” She hadn’t. But lately, she’s been feeling as though she lived it. How did she end up living alone in the house of their dreams? She’ll never forget the day she and Nick first set foot inside, looked at each other, and nodded. They knew. They knew this house would become home.
It—like the fact that they’d found each other, fallen in love, gotten married— seemed too good to be true.
They marveled at the china doorknobs, gaslight fixtures, cast-iron radiators, chair rails, and pocket doors; high ceilings with crown molding; the ornate wooden staircase in the entrance hall. There were even a couple of hidden compartments where the nineteenth century owners had stashed their valuables.
Yes, the place needed work. So what? They were young and had a lifetime ahead of them.
Now Lauren wonders, as she often has for the past few months, whether she’ll have to sell the house. Some days, she wants to list it as soon as possible. Others, she’s certain she can’t bear to let go.
What’s the old saying?
If something seems too good to be true, it probably is.
She takes a deep breath, inhaling the green scent of freshly mown grass. The lawn service guys must have been here today while she and Sadie were in the city. The flowerbeds have been freshly weeded and the boxwood hedge has been shorn into a precision horizontal border.
The yard looks a lot tidier than it did in summers past, when she handled the gardening and Nick mowed. But when they moved up here from the city, they never wanted that manicured landscape style. They never wanted to become one of those suburban Westchester families that relied on others to maintain the yard, the house, and the pets, even the kids.
Yeah, and look at us now.
First came the weekly cleaning service Lauren’s friends insisted on hiring for her right after she had Sadie. By the time the two-month gift certificate expired, colic was in full swing and Lauren was relieved to let someone else continue to clean the toilets and do the laundry.
She kept the cleaning service.
By the time Sadie was toddling, her older siblings’ travel sports teams kept the whole family on the go. Chauncey was left behind so often that Lauren was forced to hire a dog-walking service. Sure, she occasionally misses those early morning or dusk strolls with Chauncey–but not enough to go back to doing it daily.
She kept the dog walkers, too.
Nick hired the lawn service last March, just in time for the spring thaw, as he put it–ironic, because it was also just in time for the killing frost that ended their marriage.
Yes, she had seen it coming. For a few months before it happened, anyway. That didn’t make it any easier for her to bear.
And the kids–Lauren hates Nick for their pain; hates herself, perhaps, even more. She was the one who’d gone to great lengths to maintain the happy family myth, such great lengths that the separation blindsided all three of them.
Nick had wanted to tell Ryan and Lucy last fall that they were seeing a marriage counselor. But Lauren was afraid they’d start piecing things together, suspecting the affair. Or that they’d ask pointed questions that would demand the ugly truth or whitewashed lies.
Nick was probably right–though she wouldn’t admit that to him. They should have given the kids a heads up when things first started to unravel.
He was right, too, that sending Ryan and Lucy away to camp for eight weeks was the healthiest thing for everyone.
When he suggested it back around Easter, Lauren–who for years had frowned upon parents who shipped their kids hundreds of miles to spend summers in the woods among strangers–had taken a good, hard look at what their own household had become. She was forced to recognize that her older children would be better off elsewhere while she picked up the pieces.
Still, she didn’t give in to Nick about camp without a fight. God forbid she make anything easy on him in the blur of angry, bitter days after he left. She wanted only to make him suffer.
In the end, though, Ryan and Lucy went to camp.
They were homesick at first–so homesick Lauren was tempted, whenever she opened the mailbox to another woe-is-me letter, to drive up there and bring them both home. Now that it’s almost August, though, it’s clear from their letters that Ryan and Lucy are having a blast in the Adirondacks.
Lauren has only Sadie to worry about for the time being, while she figures out how to move on after two decades of marriage.
She has yet to come up with a long-term plan. It’s hard enough to keep her voice from breaking as she reads bedtime stories in an empty house, to fix edible meals for two–and to keep tabs on Sadie’s toys.
Find Fred.
She walks down the back porch steps, past fat bumblebees lazing in the flowers, and crosses over to the Volvo parked on the driveway.
Please let Fred be in the back seat… Please let Fred be in the back seat… Fred is not in the back seat. A lot of other crap is: crumpled straw wrappers, a dog-eared coloring book and
two melted crayons, a nearly empty tube of Coppertone Kids, a couple of fossilized Happy Meal fries, and one of Sadie’s long-missing mittens whose partner Lauren finally threw away in May.
Lauren carries it all back into the house and dumps it into the kitchen garbage before returning, empty-handed, to the living room.
Sadie, tear-stained and sucking her thumb, looks up expectantly. “Sweetie, you must have dropped him, somewhere in the city. I couldn’t find–“ Cut off by a deafening wail, Lauren helplessly sinks onto the couch. “Oh, Sadie, come here.” She gathers her daughter into her arms, stroking her downy hair–not as blonde this summer as it has been in years past.
Is it because she’s growing up?
Or because she’s been stuck hibernating with a shell-shocked mother who’s barely been able to drag herself out of bed and face the light of day…
Riddled with guilt, Lauren says, “I’m sorry, baby.” About so much more than the lost toy.
“I want Fred! I love him! Please,” Sadie begs. “I need him back”
I know how you feel.
In silence, Lauren swallows the ache in her own throat and fishes a crumpled tissue in the back pocket of khaki shorts that last August felt a size too small. Now they’re a few sizes too big, cinched at the waist with her fourteen-year-old’s belt.
The Devastation Diet. Maybe she should write a book.
Lauren wipes her daughter’s tears, then, surreptitiously, her own. “Come on, calm down. It’s going to be okay.”
“I want Fred!” Lauren sighs. “So do I.” I want a lot of other things, too. Looks like we’re both going to have to suck it up, baby girl. “Please, Mommy, please…where is he? Where? Where?” “Shh, let me think.” Mentally retracing their steps, Lauren is sure the stuffed animal was with them in
the cab from her sister Alyssa’s apartment to Grand Central, because it almost fell out of Sadie’s bag when they climbed out on Lexington. She remembers carrying both Sadie and the bag across the crowded sidewalk, through the wooden doors, along the Graybar passageway. She set Sadie down and gave the bag back to her when they stopped to buy a New York Post and some gum at Hudson News.
“You must have dropped Fred at the station or on the train. Next time we go to the city we can check Lost and Found at Grand Central,” Lauren promises.
That’s not going to cut it: Sadie opens her mouth and wails. Now what? Lauren closes her eyes and lifts her face toward the ceiling.
Where the hell is Fred? Never mind that, where the hell is Nick? Why does he get to start a new life and leave Lauren here alone to handle the fallout from the old? Lost toys, lost souls…none of it seems to be his problem anymore. No, he’s moved on to a two-bedroom condo down in White Plains–furnished with “really cool stuff,” according to Lucy. Complete with a “gi-mongous, kick-butt flat-screen,” according to Ryan. On a high floor, “close to God and the moon,” according to Sadie.
“Good for Daddy,” Lauren says whenever the kids tell her stuff like that. She tries hard to keep sarcasm from lacing her words because you’re not supposed to speak negatively about your ex to the children. That’s got to be right up there with letting them have their way, saying Why Bother? and I Told You So, and giving them apples for dinner.
Then again, as far as Lauren’s concerned, any bad parenting on her part is vastly outdone by the ultimate worst parenting on Nick’s. Walking out on three kids pretty much takes the prize, right?
Sadie sobs on. Lauren’s eyes snap open. “You know what? Daddy will get Fred for you.” That’s right. Let Daddy deal with something for a change.❖
________________________________

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Wendy Corsi Staub lives with her husband and children in New York and is the author of more than seventy novels under her own name and pseudonym Wendy Markham. Her latest New York Times bestseller, LIVE TO TELL (Avon Books, March 2010) launches a suspense trilogy that will include SCARED TO DEATH later this year and HELL TO PAY in 2011.

Wendy Corsi Staub
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Devil’s Gold by Julie Korzenko

Devil’s Gold
ISBN: 9781934755556
Price: $25.95
Medallion Press
Hard Cover
Copyright © 2010 by Julie Korzenko

Chapter 1

Gardiner, Montana

Edward Fiske stepped from the shadowed recesses of the front porch.  The worn planks of the farmhouse creaked and groaned beneath his feet as he made his way down the rickety stairs and into the sunshine.  It was a glorious morning.  He paused, inhaling the sweet scent of dew and cottonwood trees.  Emerald spears of late spring grass beckoned bare feet as they danced in the wind, ending in a graceful sweep at the banks of Yellowstone River.
The serenity of the homestead sent a warm tingle through Edward’s body, tugging his normally stern mouth into a slightly lopsided smile.  He shook his head at the irony of life.  Beauty and tranquility were nothing more than a mask for the evil that slept below.
Edward concentrated on centering his emotions.  It wouldn’t do at all to allow his technician to see the excitement that bubbled furiously in his gut.  He was an impassive man.  The itch of anticipation was not something he normally felt, but last night he had surpassed the Christmas Eve eagerness of his childhood.  Each time he had stirred from sleep, his watch had mocked him.  It had ticked through a layer of molasses, slowing the large hand to an infuriating snail’s pace.
But he’d managed.
He’d held himself in check.
His feet crushed the grass; the tender blades bent and broke beneath the soles of his sneakers.  He resisted the urge to race across the lawn but stepped up the pace and ignored the biting pain that clutched his upper chest.
After the sale, he’d lose weight.  He’d have to.  Touring the country and lecturing on his creation would take energy and a physical fitness he currently lacked.  Edward brushed a stray strand of hair over the balding area of his head, pushing on toward his dream.
He rounded a grove of quaking aspens and halted.  The dilapidated log cabin was a poor monument to the significance of what rested beneath its rotting logs and disintegrating roof.  A worn and chipped cornerstone marked the front doorway.  His eyes scanned the chiseled numbers, and he nodded to himself, puckering his lips in satisfaction.  The date-stamp on the cabin reflected an era when men battled wilderness, forging past the obstacles created by forces unimaginable.  It resembled a time of progression.  Similar to him, Lewis and Clark were men of evolution.  The success and failure they struggled through as they charted a waterway across North America coincided with Edward’s vision of his own career.  It seemed fitting to have a cabin dating back to their era acting as a shield for his baby.
Pushing on the heavy front door, he scurried within and stopped inside the darkened room, allowing his eyes to adjust.  The scent of mold and decaying flesh assaulted his senses.  A corner of the room was littered with the carcasses of small rodents killed as they ingested the poison he’d laid out to trap the menacing creatures.  Wrinkling his nose in disgust, he crossed the hard-packed earthen floor toward the far wall and opened a small metal box, punching a sequence of numbers into the lighted keypad.
A brown cloud of dust particles rose from the floor as the doorway to the lab slid open.  .  He hurried to the edge of the four-by-four opening, turned around, and began his descent down the steep metal stairs.  His pudgy fingers grasped the railing.  Concentrating on not missing a rung, Edward descended at a slow pace.
His mind whirled with visions of how he’d present his creation.  He’d have to be careful because what lay below had Satan’s signature scrawled across it in blood-red letters.  That thought stopped him.  He liked it.  It had an almost poetic tone, one that would fit nicely in his memoirs.  With a mental note to write that thought in his journal, he continued his descent into what had once been a typical cellar.
The dawning of a new era was about to take place.  His era.  It was time for Edward Fiske’s name to be written next to Albert Einstein’s.  When Isaac Newton’s principles of relativity were discussed, so would Edward Fiske’s DNA modification be expounded.
Yes, his heart beat faster.  This day brought forth endless visions of scientific recognition.
“‘bout time, Eddie,” a muffled voice called from the end of the room.
Edward pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and mopped the sweat dripping down his forehead.  He quickly surveyed the laboratory.  Black granite work surfaces were littered with an array of equipment, the far right corner more congested than normal.  The night before he’d shoved the three-sided laminar flow station against the back wall.  Its air filtration system was no longer adequate.  Stacks of unused petri dishes scattered the interior of the flow station, discarded and unnecessary.
A grin tugged at Edward’s lips.
His benefactor never questioned funding requests.  Life, the past few years, had been damn near Nirvana.  He inhaled, releasing his breath slowly to calm the excited jumble of nerves, the tinny scent of humming electrical equipment overlaid by alcohol sterilization as sweet to him as his mother’s roses in spring.
Edward’s fingers tickled the cool ceramic of a white cylindrical container.  He verified that the controls on top of the cryogenic storage tank were correct, then paused, splaying his fingers around the sides of the containment unit.  His success lay inside.
“Eddie?”
His assistant’s voice broke the moment of silent self-worship.  His lab technician was hunched over a large microscope, his hands shoved into robot-type arms that stretched beyond a thick glass pane and into the negative airflow chamber.
“Well?”  Edward moved forward to stand beside the younger man.
“Take a look, boss.”  Jason stepped away from the scope, scratching his ass.  He shuffled in place and pushed loose strands of greasy hair behind his ears.  Edward grimaced, grateful he’d soon be free of this throw-back-to-the-sixties slice of humanity.  If Jason weren’t so damned clever with DNA replication, he’d have dumped the kid years ago.
Bending forward, Edward peered into the lens.  He adjusted the microscope.  A brilliant red and green cell came into focus, moving ever so slightly within the solution smeared on the slide.  Bingo.  His version of Fifth Disease sparkled in the center of the cell.  The modified genetic composition of CPV-2 that he’d spent his entire lifetime perfecting weaved itself into the cell like Christmas lights on a tree.  He’d done it.
This human cell now sported the canine virus parvo.
All the interminable hours of waiting while Jason processed these little babies suddenly vanished.  He glanced up, taking a second to freeze this moment in time.  His technician smiled and laughed and Edward grinned, clapping him on the back.
“It’s finished.  Five years of trial and error, and we’ve finally succeeded.”
“Yep, Eddie.  We’re through.  How soon until you meet with the big guys?  I want my bonus.”
Edward narrowed his eyes.  Money wasn’t his motivation.  It was the look of astonishment from his colleagues he craved.  They wouldn’t turn their backs this year at the conference.  No.  His strain of Fifth Disease would win the National Medal of Science, maybe even the Nobel, and the accolades of his brotherhood.
“We must show our investors our results.”  Lost in thought, Edward tapped his forefinger against his mouth.  He continued speaking, not really concentrating on what he said.  “That’s what the grant outlines.  A demonstration and then final payment.”  His mind pictured rapturous applause.  Recognition and respect.  “However, we need to reverse this procedure and develop an antidote prior to releasing CPV-19.  No need to run the risk of exposure.”  The whining tenor of Jason’s voice sliced through his inner reflections, and Edward snapped his attention back to his assistant.
“Why?”  Jason asked, tugging at the edge of his shirt.
“Excuse me?”
“We’ve an entire chamber of results.  Why do we need a demonstration?  Just send a picture.”
Edward curled his lip, disgusted by the younger man’s greed.  Controlling the surge of anger, he faced the glass that separated the main part of the lab from the negative airflow chamber.  The wolf remains, bloodied and trailing gore from all extremities, were piled haphazardly against one wall.  “The results in this laboratory were never the objective.  It’s the procedure and technology that the board seeks.  This is a great leap forward in disease prevention and cure.  The steps taken to achieve CPV-19 combined with the creation of the antidote will provide our benefactors with the humanitarian rewards they desire.”  Lecture over, he crossed his arms over his chest and waited for more complaints.
Jason stopped, scratched his ass again, and sighed.  “I’ll get right on the antidote.  That is, after a few hours of shut eye.  I’m wiped.”
“Not before you dispose of the bodies.”  Edward headed back to the metal stairs.  He began to climb.  Stopping halfway up he cleared his throat and turned around, watching the younger man secure his specimen and shut down the scope.  Edward gasped for air in short, fast gulps, his nostrils flaring to draw in more oxygen.  He’d only climbed the bottom part of the ladder.  Swearing, he calmed his breathing and summoned a commanding voice.  “I noticed the wolf pens were empty.  Did you destroy the last two?”
Jason shot a quick look in his direction, then lowered his eyes and bent down to dig out the cover for the scope.  “I took care of ‘em.”  He slipped the heavy plastic over the machine and offered Edward a lopsided smile.
“Good,” Edward said and climbed the rest of the way up.  Whistling a little tune, he popped his head into the center of the log cabin.  Suddenly, the insidious scent of rotting flesh no longer bothered him.  A perfume of success now lingered in the air.  Nothing could stop him now.  Nothing.❖
________________________________

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Julie is a domestic law paralegal in Altanta. Romantic Times has nominated DEVIL’S GOLD for the best romantic suspense of 2009. Her next book, ANGEL FALLS is due for release April 2011.

Visit Julie’s website
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MEANDER SCAR By Sharon Potts 2

ISBN: 978-1-934912-23-2
Price: $16.95 paperback
Price: $8.00 Ebook (PDF format)
Pages: 226

Inspirational Romance
Copyright © 2010 by Lisa Lickel

Meander Scar
Chapter 1

Ann Ballard jerked awake, shaken by a rumble she felt clear to her bones. A dazzling flash of light burned her retinas when she glanced through the living room window. She jumped and felt her heart stutter at the resulting roll of thunder that rattled the panes of glass.
At least she’d been saved from sinking into the nightmare again. Three times in a row, whenever she had closed her eyes, she dreamed of being trapped in a swampy pool on the banks of the winding Black Earth Creek, helplessly watching her son Ritchie and Trey struggle against a current. The fact that the creek was not that big in real life didn’t seem to matter in her dream.
Ann tossed aside the afghan that had been covering her feet and stood. Only little old ladies took naps in the afternoon. What was the matter with her? The magazine she’d been reading slipped to the floor, sending the photograph she used as a bookmark spilling out. She snatched up the picture before it bent. She knew what sleeping during the day would lead to: wandering her big empty house at night, wide awake and scaring herself silly at every creak. Probably another headache, too. One that would take two days of head-banging and nausea to get over.
Another crack of lightning sent her scurrying to the kitchen. Dinner. Make dinner. Anything to distract herself from the storm.
Speaking of which…Ann stopped in front of the cupboard and rubbed her arms. Where had she stored the battery-operated lantern? Were the power cells charged and ready? She had not swept the basement all summer and hoped she would not have to wade through curtains of cobwebs if the severe weather forced her to take shelter down there.
Long ago, her first thoughts in inclement weather went to protecting her family. Since she had been alone, wondering who would come to her rescue if she became trapped like those Chinese earthquake victims was turning into a sour hobby—especially on weekends when her niece Maeve was gone.
One thing she knew for sure: her mother-in-law wouldn’t be the first in line to save her. Maybe Ritchie would care. After a few days, anyway, when she was due for supper at his and Colleen’s house in Portage and did not show up with the casserole.
The doorbell rang. Ann walked down the hall, grinning at the thought of Donna, her mother-in-law who hadn’t liked being a grandmother, becoming a great-grandmother. She fingered the colored square of paper in her hand while she pushed aside the filmy panel covering the sidelights to check out her visitor.
Bonus. A beautiful, dark-haired man stood on her step. Almost any company would be a welcome interruption. Ann opened the door to a gust of chilled wet breeze. Goose bumps rose at the sudden drop of temperature the coming storm brought. A scurrying rustle of dried leaves swirled on the unswept deck of her pillared front porch. Rain slashed at his little car on the brick drive.
Did she recognize him? Something about the nose…the photograph! Ann resisted the urge to compare her picture with her guest.
The man’s lips tilted into a practiced smile as he held out a hand. “Mrs. Ballard…Ann? Do you remember me? Mark? I’m Mark Roth. Trey’s brother? We lived next door.”
Yes…yes. That was it. He squatted at the edge of the frame in her photograph of Ritchie and Trey in fifth grade with a catch of bluegills. How could she have forgotten Mark’s eyes? Even when he had been a high-schooler, those eyes had been the talk of the neighborhood ladies. Arresting blue, the iridescent color of bluebird feathers, Patricia from across the way used to say. Patricia always had been a bit of a nature freak.
Ann put a hand to her mouth and held up the picture with the other. “Well, this is amazing. I was just cleaning Ritchie’s closet and thinking about the boys and their fishing and found this photograph.” What on earth made her say such a ridiculous thing? “Oh, you don’t care about that. Please, come in.”
Ann pulled the door wide and gestured. He had filled out from the wiry athlete who took the basketball team to a regional championship. How many years had passed since she last saw him? Ritchie’s high school graduation. Mark had gone east to college and stayed except for an occasional visit. After Trey’s accident a few years later, the Roths moved away from Wisconsin.
When Mark’s broad back was turned, Ann smoothed her hair and tugged her blouse straight, took a deep breath and prayed her deodorant was still working.
Mark preceded her into the living room and, with sweet attentiveness in enchanting smile and raised brows, waited until she had taken her own seat before he settled into a place of his own. Wow—no one had manners like that anymore. She perched on the edge of one of the oxblood club chairs on either side of the formal brocade sofa. “Well, how are you? It’s been a long time. Are you visiting friends?”
“I’m fine, thank you. I’ve moved back to town. Just a week ago, as a matter of fact.”
“You moved from Virginia? So, you quit your job? I’m afraid your parents and I haven’t kept up much, just a note once in a while, since their…retirement.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Ann saw the rumpled stack of newspapers she had left on the end table and a cobweb hanging from the lampshade. Unexpected company rarely happened. Shame! How could she have let the place go? She looked back at her guest before he answered. “I’ve accepted a position with Jung and Royce.”
A tingle of surprise made her raise her eyebrows at the name of the well-known private law firm here in Clayton. Unfortunately, she and Gene had required their services more than once to yank Ritchie out of some scrape. That, besides their general legal business. “Todd Royce was a golfing partner of my husband Gene’s. I hope it works out for you. They must think highly of your abilities.”
Mark turned his head toward the cold gas fireplace. He shrugged and faced her again. “I’ve had a few successes. I hoped to catch up on news from the old neighborhood. I heard Ritchie and Colleen are expecting a baby. And I wondered how you were doing.”
Ann nodded and smiled. “I’m well. It’s nice of you ask. And excited for Ritchie, even though that will make me a grandmother.” Ann jumped back to her feet like some excitable rabbit. “Forgive me. Why don’t I find us a something to snack on?” She started down the hall only to hear him follow her.
Her kitchen, with its seldom used gleaming copper-bottomed pots and dark flecked granite countertops, felt small and cold. She flipped a switch to light the sink area and the swag over the breakfast table set in front of the patio doors. She and Gene used to do a lot of entertaining. In fact, Ann used to do a lot of things, but it seemed that no one wanted half a couple in the spotlight. Maybe they thought her circumstances were contagious.
Snacks. Right. Ann checked the chrome refrigerator, although she knew exactly what she had in there: a quart of skim milk three days past the due date, some yogurt, old tortillas, and leftovers from the church guild lunch meeting a week ago. Drat. The refrigerator fairy had not visited. Cooking for one didn’t call for a stockpile of food. Maeve, her niece, always ate on campus. Ann closed the door with a grimace. Stalling for time she asked, “How do you like being a lawyer?”
Mark settled back against the counter and folded his arms.
Ann let her eyelids half close as she studied him. She tried to keep her breathing even, to direct her heartbeats to remain steady. Mark was definitely no longer the sweet polite young man from next door, but an adult in his…let’s see…thirties? He was nine years older than Ritchie and Trey; which made him nearly thirty-five. Eleven years younger than she. And he did not resemble any of the staid lawyers she did business with at Ballard, Gorman and Wicht, Gene’s company, where she worked as a CPA two days a week.
Eleven years…not so many. Men married much younger women all the time. In fact, just last year…stop it. Where did that come from? Ann watched Mark’s lips move, answering her question, while she stood there like a smitten idiot. Thinking ridiculous dreamy scenarios. Watching him like a lusty lonely widow—which she was not. A widow, anyway.
But he was pleasant to look at. His smooth face showed more character lines than her son’s. His deep chest and flat stomach under the soft gray dress shirt and dark pleated slacks hinted at regular workouts, something the swimmer in her appreciated. She tuned back in to his words.
“I love helping people solve their problems, especially the folks who’ve been victimized. You know, the easy targets. I worked for a grass-roots group last year who represented landowners over an Abandoned Mine Land property dispute with a reclamation company.”
Ann tore her gaze away and hunted for clean glasses in the cupboard to his right. “So, you sound like you’re settling in.” He wasn’t likely to find too many victims to help at Todd Jung’s prestigious firm, but she kept her mouth shut. “Is it hard to change firms? Or does everyone do business pretty much the same way?”
Mark took the two tumblers she grabbed and turned on the tap. “The work I do, estate planning and business law, has to work across multiple states, but every firm has its own way of handling clients.”
Ann looked for ice cubes, hoping they had not evaporated since the Fourth of July, the last time she knew she had any. They took their glasses to the kitchen table. Lightning crackled outside her patio. She gasped at the immediate report of thunder.
Mark pulled her chair out for her. “Close one.”
Ann focused on his calm expression then relaxed. “Seems like this has been going on for long enough already.”
“I listened to the radio on the way over here. Sounds like a quick-moving storm. Should be out of here soon.”
They watched the play of cloud-to-cloud lightning for a few minutes. Like Mark said, the clouds scudded along. He told her about some of the spectacular storms he had witnessed in the hills around Lynchburg. Ann circled the rim of her glass with her finger, trying to think of something witty and mature to say. It had been years since she’d had a personal conversation with a man to whom she was not related. “You must have liked it there in Virginia to have stayed so long.”
“I always planned to return to Wisconsin. I consider it home.”
“And now you’re moving up the ladder.”
“Mr. Jung knows I want to spend a certain amount of my time doing pro bono work. He thinks it will be good for the firm’s image. Plenty of folks need help around the Madison area.”
Ann read the tautness of her guest’s expression. Touchy. Okay, time to change the subject. “So, you’re back in Clayton. It’s really good to see you. I’m sure Ritchie and Colleen will be happy to know you’re nearby. And, um, your other friends. I thought you were engaged?” Ann looked for a wedding ring. Nope. Well, not all men wore one. “Did you get married? Is she with you?” Ann tried to recall the name Tiffany Roth linked him with in one of her cards of Christmas past.
“We’ll have time to catch up. I hoped you were available to celebrate my new job with me. You were one of few people from my past who always believed in me, supported me.”
Ann’s back went straight with surprise. “Me?” She shook her head, brow furrowed. “I didn’t do anything special.”
Mark smiled. “More than you know. How about we talk over dinner? I’m hungry.”
One of the few people from his past…in her opinion, Mark’s father and stepmother had shamefully neglected both Trey and Mark while they spent all their time on their Internet business. All Ann had done was attend a few of Mark’s games and make sure he had been welcome in her home.
This grown man was different from the boy next door. Ann knew Mark Roth, and yet she didn’t. Exciting? What was the matter with her? This nice young man simply wanted to be polite and touch bases with people he used to know. And maybe he was lonely if his wife had stayed in Virginia to wrap things up. The least she could do was eat a meal with him, for old times’ sake. She knew better than anyone that eating alone was not much fun. And he was obviously proud of his new job. “Of course I’ll celebrate with you. There’s a new buffet place we could try.”
Ann did not protest when Mark ushered her to his newer model metallic blue Mazda. Not that she embarrassed easily, but the little Ford she had traded for her Beemer showed its age.
She knew she had chosen wrong when they entered the crowded lobby of the restaurant. The place was a madhouse decorated in fake Wild West. Had the storm made everyone crazy to get out? Mark smiled grimly as he folded his wallet back in his pocket after paying the cashier. He picked up a cafeteria tray with their soft drinks in chipped plastic cups and flatware wrapped in a paper napkin. The cafeteria din made her clench her jaw.
Mark led the way into the main dining room and indicated a far corner with his elbow. “I think I see a free table.” They seated themselves. Ann wished the place would wash away and take her along. At least she wasn’t trying to make some kind of impression on him, as if he were a prospective client. Or a candidate for a romance. She looked at him, hoping he could see how sorry she was for choosing such a raunchy restaurant. Mark mouthed something she could not quite hear.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
A young waitress with a nose ring arrived, setting a basket of greasy-looking rolls on the table. She lingered, eyeing Mark as she might the dessert table while reminding them to take a clean plate whenever they visited the buffet. Ann wondered how Mark’s wife would have treated the girl and sat up straight, squinting with what she hoped was a disapproving frown. Now she felt more like a mother protecting her naïve son. She lost the frown when he spoke.
“You must enjoy the food here,” Mark said after the young woman left.
“I’ve never been here. Ritchie and Colleen said they liked it.” Ann took a deep breath and risked a sip of the cloudy iced tea she had ordered. She couldn’t see Mark bringing his wife here. What kind of person was he married to, anyway? “So, um, Allison,” That was her name! “Isn’t she here with you? Did you leave her to settle things in Virginia before she comes?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you.”
Ann was pretty sure he had heard, but no way was she going to shout her question again. She already sounded like a busybody grandma. “Do you…do you—”
Mark cut in. “Let’s see what they have to eat.”
Ann scavenged without much success through the commingled aromas of steaming platters and bins of canned and diced and fried-looking bits. Mark did not appear to have fared much better, she noted, when they returned to their table. Mark looked around, as if waiting for something.
Ann turned her head, too, but did not see anyone she knew. When she faced him again, his eyes were closed. Ah. Praying. That church youth group he had attended in high school must have left a lasting impression. She briefly copied him. When he looked up at her again with a peaceful expression, she picked up her fork. Dare she ask about Allison again? Ann decided on a safer topic. “How are your parents?”
“Parents?” He cocked an ear toward her. “Dad and Tiffany are well as ever, if that’s what you asked. Golfing every day.”
They gave up trying to converse through the ruckus after that. She could not think of anything to say to him on the way home. Since her ears were still ringing with the noisy chatter and clank of dishes, she appreciated the quiet. Within an hour after they left Ann’s, Mark drove back into her driveway. He stopped the car and went around to open the passenger door for her. Another of his quaint mannerisms few practiced anymore.
Ann hesitated after he closed the car door. “Thank you. I…I can’t recall the last time…well, anyway, I apologize for tonight. You must let me make amends.”
Mark accompanied her across the driveway to the dark front door. “Yes, I’d like that. Soon.” They arrived on her front step. “But I think I’ll choose the place.”
“Would you like to come in?”
What made her ask that? She stopped mid-reach with her key. “I’m sorry, never mind me. You’re tying to make connections with people you knew before. Not that I remember everyone, but maybe I can help if you’re trying to track down someone in particular.” She felt his long stare. Maybe he was just as embarrassed as she was, caught at trying to flirt. Flirt? Oh, goodness. A little old married lady chatting up a nice married young man. If there can’t be a flood to swallow her, how about an earthquake? Can things get any worse?
“Thank you, that’s kind of you,” Mark said. “I’m slowly finding my way again. But I’d like to have some coffee, if the invitation’s still open. We didn’t get much of a chance to talk back there.”
Ann clutched the key so hard she knew she’d bear the impression of it for hours. It squealed, metal on metal, as she tried to insert it into the lock with nerveless fingers. She opened the front door and turned on a light with a shaky, yet defiant, flip. She could have a harmless little talk with her former neighbor’s son. Do something more exciting than her usual trip to the Y, the monthly guild meetings, and working at Ballard, Gorman and Wicht, reminding Gene’s partners, Howie and Tim, that Gene could walk in the door any day now. As if he could. “Coffee?”
“Yes. Can I help?”
She led the way to the kitchen, and let him fill the carafe at the tap while she ground beans.
Mark flashed a smirk. “You like fresh ground, too?”
“Ah, don’t tell me you’re one of those coffee snobs,” Ann teased back as she started to measure the grounds and promptly lost count. How many scoops was that?
“I have been contemplating how an espresso machine would fit in my apartment. That was four, by the way.”
The heat of embarrassment crawled up the back of her neck. How had he known? She looked at him out of the corner of her eye.
He leaned against the countertop, arms folded the same as he had earlier. “Ann.”
Other than when she had answered her door to him earlier, she had never heard him call her anything but “Mrs. Ballard.” Did that make him a contemporary? Or her less formal? She looked up at him after ensuring a steady trickle of dark liquid entered the glass pot. “Yes?”
“There’s never been any word, no new reports or information about him? About your…about Mr. Ballard?”
Ann blinked heavily and shook her head. “No. There’s never been any more than false leads. Nothing at all now, for….”
Seven years. Sunday would mark the seventh anniversary of the disappearance of her husband. ❖
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Buy Lisa J. Lickel’s‘ MEANDER SCAR at:
Black Lyon Publishing
Amazon
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Lisa Lickel and her high-school teacher husband live in an old house in Wisconsin. Besides writing and reviewing, Lisa is active in historical societies near and far.
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Visit Lisa’s website
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IN THEIR BLOOD By Sharon Potts

In Their Blood
Hardcover
Publisher: Oceanview Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-1-933515-62-5
US $25.95
Fiction/Suspense
Copyright © 2010 by Sharon Potts

In Their Blood
Prologue
Something was off. She had the uneasy feeling of being watched.
Rachel Stroeb stepped away from the darkened portico, leaving her husband fumbling with his keys, their morose teenage daughter surrounded by a pile of winter coats and luggage.
Tall hedges and drooping palms hid their neighbors’ houses, a film of dirty clouds blocking the light of the moon. But there was no sign of anyone, or anything amiss.
“Everything okay, Rachel?” D.C. called.
“I thought—” Rachel said. “Never mind.  It’s probably just the jetlag.”
“I don’t understand why the sconces aren’t lit,” her husband said. “I can’t see a damn thing.”
The darkness—that must be why things seemed out of kilter. Or maybe it was disappointment that their family was still incomplete.
Rachel returned to the stoop, slipping her arm around Elise’s narrow shoulders. Her daughter tensed.  Rachel understood. It had been an exhausting flight, an unproductive trip.  Just the three of them had returned home to Miami Beach from Madrid. Without Jeremy.
“Here we go. Finally.” D.C. pushed open the door, depositing their coats, suitcases and laptops on the white marble floor. “I’ll replace those burned-out bulbs in the morning.”
Rachel flicked on the foyer light, reassured by the familiar arrangement of photos on the stippled wallpaper, the polished mahogany banister leading to the upstairs bedrooms. But the silence was unsettling. She was accustomed to the radio playing classical music, sounds of healthy family commotion. Their home on Lotus Island, where they’d lived the last twenty years, had mostly been a place of making wonderful memories.
Rachel took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds.  Week-old flowers on the foyer table, and dog.  No matter how frequently they bathed poor old Geezer, the smell of ripe fur like a dowager’s ancient fox wrap hung in the air.
“Geezer.” Rachel whistled.  After ten o’clock. He was probably asleep for the night in his corner of their bedroom.  Some watchdog.
Elise was twirling her long dark braid with one hand as she texted with the other. The smattering of freckles on the bridge of her upturned nose always reminded Rachel of cinnamon on vanilla pudding.
D.C. called from the kitchen.  “You wouldn’t believe how much junk mail we got in one week. And Flora left a note.  She walked Geezer before she left around four.”
“Can I go see Carlos?” Elise asked.
“Sorry, honey,” Rachel said.  “It’s late. You have school tomorrow.”
“Please, Mom. I won’t stay out long.  I promise.”  Her daughter’s pretty green eyes were bloodshot, probably from crying on the plane. It hadn’t been the winter break any of them had wanted.
“What’s that?” D.C. said, coming in from the kitchen. Two days’ whiskers covered his chiseled cheeks and chin. Jeremy had grown a beard while in Europe this past year and Rachel was taken aback by the striking resemblance between the father and son.
“I want to go to Carlos’s,” Elise said. “Just for a little bit.”
“Absolutely not,” D.C. said. “You’re not traipsing over to the Castillos’ at this hour.”
“Fine,” Elise said, eyes overflowing with tears. “I can see why Jeremy didn’t want to come home.” And she raced up the stairs, the slamming of her bedroom door echoing in the empty house.
“You didn’t have to be so harsh, D.C.”
“Jeez, Rachel. So now I have to tiptoe around both my kids?”
“You could try being a little less righteous.”  Rachel slipped off her new boots and stashed them in the closet, noticing blood on them from the nosebleed she’d had on the plane. Her tee shirt was also stained—three drops that looked like splattered tears. She pulled it over her head, hung it from a hook in the closet, and put on one of Elise’s sweatshirts.
D.C. was pacing beside their luggage and coats. In a stretched-out tee shirt and worn jeans he looked more like one of his students than a professor of international economics. “Less righteous?” he said. “I’ve got a twenty-two-year-old son who’s wasting his life and a teenage daughter who doesn’t like restrictions. What’s wrong with asking them to take some responsibility for a change?”
“I’m just saying, maybe you should lighten up. Elise is having a tough time. She’s disappointed Jeremy didn’t come home with us.”
“We’re all disappointed.”
“Elise is only sixteen.  She worships her brother.”
“Well, maybe our daughter needs to find a new hero.”
Rachel took a deep breath. Why did her husband have to be so damn stubborn?
Geezer had made it down the curving staircase, tail wagging, arthritic hind legs moving stiffly behind him.  He licked Rachel’s hand as she bent to hug him. “Stinky puppy,” she said. “Tomorrow, before I leave, you’re getting a bath.”
D.C. touched his shirt pocket, perhaps hoping to find a cigarette, but they’d both quit smoking over a year ago, at least in front of each other and the kids. “Look, honey,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m as upset as you are that he didn’t come home.”
Rachel picked a wilted chrysanthemum from the vase on the foyer table. “You know, Danny, deep down all Jeremy really wants is for you to be proud of him.”
“Hey.” Her husband reached for her. He was a foot taller than she, and his chin rested comfortably on her head.  “He’ll figure it out.”

Shortly after eleven o’clock, Rachel and D.C. climbed into their high four-poster bed.  The sheets were cool against her cheek.  So much nicer than a hotel.   Geezer was panting in his sleep in the corner of the room. D.C. slid his arms around her and Rachel pressed against his chest. He smelled like perspiration and smoke. So, he’d found a cigarette after all. She wondered where he kept his stash.
Rachel snuggled closer to her husband. In twenty-five years of marriage, there had been a few bumps and missteps, and this one, too, would pass. He kissed her hair.
Before they went to bed, they had taken Geezer for a walk around the island. When they returned home, Rachel had been surprised to get a text message from Elise. Please don’t be upset with me, Mom.  I’m over at Carlos’s for a little. He promised to walk me home.
And Rachel had been furious. But then the anger seeped out with her fatigue. Maybe their restrictiveness was what had pushed Jeremy away from them. Just this once, she’d let it go with Elise.
A key turned in the front door. Rachel glanced at the clock on the night table.  Just before midnight. Elise had to get up at 6:30 for school. She’d be exhausted. D.C.’s breathing was deep and even. Rachel hadn’t told him that Elise had gone out, preferring to keep her daughter’s secret to starting another altercation. She listened for Elise’s light footsteps running up the stairs. Rachel always left the bedroom door open a few inches to hear her kids coming and going. What was Elise doing downstairs? The thin beam that leaked in through the crack in the open door went out. Elise must have turned off the downstairs foyer light.  Why would she have done that?
There were footsteps climbing the stairs. Slow, heavy, not Elise’s.  Had Carlos come back with her?  Was Elise trying to sneak him into her room?
Rachel sat up, annoyed. This wasn’t like her daughter. She strained to see, but the room was a mass of hulking shadows. The footsteps got louder.  But only one set; where was Elise?
Rachel’s chest tightened.  Could there be an intruder with a key?
She shook her husband.  “Danny, wake up. Wake up. I think someone’s in the house.”
He groaned.
Rachel grabbed her cellphone from the night table and pressed the Contacts button. “G.”  She scrolled down to “Guardhouse.”
The footsteps were just outside the bedroom door.  Please God, don’t let Elise come home now.
She pressed Send. It rang. Once. Twice. Come on, answer.
The bedroom door opened slowly.
Geezer grunted in his sleep.
There was a shape in the doorway.  No face, just a creeping shadow.  It was holding something. Pointing it at her.
Rachel heard only the blood pounding in her head.  She dug her fingers into D.C.’s arm.  Please, take what you want, she thought, but don’t hurt us.
The shape moved closer.
Finally, a voice in her ear. “Guardhouse.”
“Help,” Rachel shouted into her cellphone. “Help us.”
Geezer was barking hysterically, wildly.
“Rachel, get down,” D.C. hollered.
The weight of her husband’s body pressed against hers, protecting her, blocking her. There was a flash of light, then a deafening noise shattered the night. A blow, like a violent wind, threw Rachel against the headboard, taking her breath away.
Something warm and wet spread over her, covering her, drowning her.
“Elise, Jeremy,” Rachel whispered as she faded from consciousness. “I promise
I’ll never leave you.”
Chapter 1
Dark, cool, silent. The thick scent in the air reminded him of the fresh flowers his mother always kept in a vase on the foyer table.
His mother.  His father.
Jeremy stared at the shiny wooden caskets.  Sealed, the man in the black suit had told him. Their ashes inside.
Their ashes inside.
Impossible.  Impossible.  His parents were back in their house on Lotus Island. Angry with him. They always seemed angry with Jeremy these days.  But that’s where they were.  Not here.  Not here in this dark, cool, silent room with a smell that didn’t belong.  Or maybe they were at work.  His dad playing big prof on campus, his mom intense and serious at the accounting firm where she was a partner.  And they’d be very busy.  Maybe too busy to be thinking about Jeremy.  About what an idiot he’d been a week ago.  But they definitely weren’t here.  They couldn’t be here.
The room had high ceilings, drapes over the windows, rows and rows of benches. Flowers everywhere. A pulpit at the front. And two caskets. Two.  Stroeb Memorial Service, the sign outside the room had read.
“Can I help you?” the man in the black suit had said when Jeremy arrived at the funeral home straight from the airport a short while before.
“I’m, I’m Jeremy Stroeb.”
“Jeremy,” the man had said, his face saddening. “Their son. I’m so sorry for your loss. We held off on the memorial service as long as we could, but your uncle said your flight had been delayed. I’m really sorry, young man.  But you’re welcome to sit for a while in the chapel with their caskets.”
With their caskets.
Jeremy touched the dark mahogany. Their caskets.  Impossible.  He rested his face against the cool smooth wood. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, everyone would jump from the shadows shouting “surprise!” A stupid terrible joke. A hoax to get him to come home.  But he was ready to forgive them for that.
Please God, let this be a big terrible joke.
A hand rested on his shoulder. Jeremy jerked up, expectantly.
The man in the black suit. “Your neighbor, Mr. Castillo, has opened his house to anyone wishing to pay their respects. I’m sure your family’s waiting for you there.  I’ve asked my limo driver to take you. Whenever you’re ready, of course.”
The man was being very nice and it made Jeremy’s throat close up. He didn’t know what he should say, even if he could speak. Thank you for your kindness, but you’ve made a mistake?

The limo stopped at the guardhouse at the entrance to Lotus Island. It had been a year since Jeremy had been home and things looked different. Darker and greener, somehow. The flag was flying at half mast.  They did that when one of the island residents died—lowered the flag.  His father used to joke that it was a signal to the real estate agents that a fresh property would be coming on the market.  He loved irony, his father. Jeremy turned to see if he was smiling.  But his father wasn’t there.  Just the driver waving to the guard.
The car took a right on Lotus Circle and Jeremy was about to correct the driver, until he remembered they weren’t going home. Would he ever be able to go home? Jeremy’s brain was clogged. So tough to process what was happening. For the last twenty-four hours, he’d refused to think about it.  His focus had been on getting home. Getting home. And now here he was.
Mansions, tall hedges and gated driveways went by in a blur. Something wasn’t right. The quiet island had turned into a carnival. Cars were parked along both sides of the street extending back as far as the guardhouse. Several had pulled onto the grass of the bayfront park. Jeremy and Elise used to play hide and seek there, near the huge banyan tree they called ‘the grotto.’
The driver continued just past the park to the Castillo mansion, stopping at the base of the circular brick driveway, which was blocked with cars. The huge ivy-covered house was just visible behind thick hedges and the tall wrought iron gate.  So different from his own house. Jeremy had never been inside this place. Enrique Castillo was a client of Jeremy’s mother and Carlos Castillo was Elise’s boyfriend, but the Castillos hadn’t been close to his parents. So why was the gathering here?
Jeremy thanked the driver and hoisted out his worn backpack and ski jacket.  The shirt he’d put on hours ago—the best one he owned—stuck to his perspiring back. The Miami air was so thick even in January he could hardly breathe. Or maybe it was something else.
He passed some people his age. The guys, in jeans and sports jackets, were leaning against a car smoking cigarettes. The girls, holding Kleenexes to their eyes, were mostly in short black dresses, though one wore tattered jeans and dilapidated army boots.   Probably his dad’s students. They eyed Jeremy as he walked up the driveway. The girl with the boots took a step toward him, a confused expression on her face. Jeremy picked up his pace so she wouldn’t try to talk to him. He pulled open the heavy front door.
Harsh whiteness struck him like the flash from an atomic bomb. The walls, marble floors, baskets of lilies, columns stretching toward the domed ceiling—everything white, as though life had been sucked out of this place.  Mingled voices, sounding like a record played backwards, floated toward him from the rooms beyond the entrance hall. The air smelled sickeningly sweet. He dreaded going in there, receiving their condolences, seeing the awkward sympathy in their eyes.
Elise, he thought.  He had to find Elise.  He stashed his backpack and jacket behind a column, the abrupt movements causing momentary dizziness. How long had it been since he’d slept?
“May I help you?” The voice was deep with a hint of accent. Enrique Castillo, tall and stiff.
Jeremy straightened up.
“My God. Jeremy.” Enrique Castillo held him by the shoulders.  “I didn’t recognize you.”
“I just got in. I didn’t…”
“I’m so, so sorry, Jeremy. What a shock for all of us. Your uncle said he didn’t know how to get in touch with you.  No address. No phone.  You weren’t responding to emails.”
“I…” Jeremy coughed to clear his throat.  “I was in Portugal.”
“Yes.  Your uncle said you finally checked your email yesterday morning. That you’d be here in time for the services.  But then we heard you wouldn’t.”  Enrique stroked his silver beard. “I suggested we have everyone gather here. Your parents’ house—well, you understand. It didn’t seem suitable.”
“I’d like to see my sister,” Jeremy said, wincing at the sharpness in his own voice.
“Of course,” Enrique Castillo said. “Of course.”
The living room was an extension of the white. Jeremy blinked from the glare of light bouncing off the bay through the French doors. He reached for the back of a chair to keep from falling.  There were people everywhere, but they were backlit and their faces no more than shadows. His friends wouldn’t be among them. Chris was with the Peace Corps in Zambia and Ben was hiking in Machu Picchu. The others he had grown apart from, and besides, they’d all migrated to New York and the west coast.  Jeremy was alone.
The dark bulk of a woman with flying blonde hair was hurrying toward him. “Jeremy. My God. You’re here.”  Liliam Castillo squeezed his arm. “We’re so sorry, Jeremy.”
“Thank you.” He tried to pull away, but she held fast. “Excuse me, Mrs. Castillo, but I really need to find my sister.”
“Elise?” She glanced around the room. Her blonde hair covered one eye. “She was sitting on the sofa with your grandfather a short while ago. But your grandfather went home.  He wasn’t well. I wonder where she’s gone. Perhaps with Carlos.” She pressed her fingers deeper into Jeremy’s arm.  “He was the first one there, you know. My Carlos.  He could have been killed himself.” She crossed herself with her other hand. “He’d walked Elise home. He knew something was wrong as soon as they stepped into the house.  And Carlos pulled Elise outside and ran to get the security guard.”
“My uncle said it was a burglary.  A surprised burglar who wasn’t expecting anyone to be home.”
“Is that what Dwight told you?”
Jeremy’s heart was racing. “The burglar thought they had a gun, so he shot them. Wasn’t that what happened?”
She released Jeremy’s arm.  “Of course. I’m sorry, Jeremy.  I’m not myself.  Let me get you a drink and something to eat.”
Jeremy sensed a blur of movement around him. Everything surreal.  It had been a foiled burglary.  What else could it have been? People touched his shoulder, shook his hand, hugged him.  And Jeremy nodded as they mumbled things.  Told him how great his parents had been, what a tragedy, what a shock.
Right, he thought, grateful for the numbness that had settled over him when he had first learned the news.  Wondering how he would survive when the numbness dissipated.  Searching the room for his sister.
A stout, ugly man in a wrinkled suit and bowtie was staring at him.  He looked familiar. One of his mother’s business partners.
Someone was talking to Jeremy.  A southern accent.  “I know you must be overwhelmed,” said the large man. He had a puffy face with small, alert eyes. His mother’s other partner. “But I wanted to tell you,” he continued, “as well as I knew your mama, I feel like you and your sister are family to me. And if there’s anything I can do, you call me, y’hear?”
“Thank you,” Jeremy said. “Thank you.” The voices in the room got louder, softer, like someone was playing with the volume.
Liliam Castillo was hurrying toward Jeremy with a platter of food and a bottle of beer. “Here you are, Jeremy.”
“Excuse me,” Jeremy said.  “I have to find my sister.”
He pushed through the crowd. Where had all these people come from? It seemed as though they were multiplying before his eyes.  Their voices bounced off the floors, echoed against the high ceilings and reverberated in his head. He bumped into a young woman with short black hair and intense blue eyes.
“You’re Jeremy, aren’t you?” she said. Her eyes and nose were red. “I worked with your mother. She was…”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I really need to go.”  Air. Beyond the French doors, the sun was setting, covering the sky and bay with bands of pink like smeared blood. A yacht at the end of the dock rocked gently, making Jeremy queasy.
It had happened.  It had really happened.
Jeremy hurried toward the water. The smell of fish and brine overwhelmed him.  He puked into the bay.
In the distance, a horn bellowed. The sky had turned red.
My mother and father, he thought.  My mother and father are dead.❖
________________________________

Buy Sharon Potts‘  IN THEIR BLOOD at:
Amazon
Barnes & Noble
Indiebound.org
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Sharon Potts is the award-winning author of IN THEIR BLOOD, a psychological thriller about an ordinary family torn apart by a violent crime.  Publishers Weekly gave IN THEIR BLOOD a starred review and called it a “red-hot suspense novel,” and best-selling author Michael Connelly said of the debut novel, “This is thriller writing the way it is supposed to be.”
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Visit Sharon’s website
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DARK SECRETS OF THE OLD OAK TREE by Dolores J. Wilson

Hardcover
ISBN # 9781605421063
Medallion Press
Copyright © 2010 by Dolores J. Wilson

CHAPTER 1

It could have been anything making its way through the Georgia underbrush.
The loud crunching of dried leaves and snapping of brittle twigs called the tiny hairs on the back of my neck to full attention. I sat perched on a huge oak limb on what was left of the floor of my childhood tree house. Fear of the unknown caused my body to tremble.  Beyond the stand of trees edging the meadow between me and my home, the early evening sun was still bright, but shadows shrouded the small clearing beneath me. The thrashing in the bushes was too close and coming too fast for me to climb down and escape to the safety of my house. I was so high up in the leaves, I felt I could stay hidden, but my sweat-soaked clothes smelled of fear, and my heart pounded so loudly, any animal would sense my presence.
Whatever I was expecting to pop into the clearing—an armadillo, a raccoon, or even a bear—would have been welcome compared to the reality of what appeared below.
The huge form of Jake Harley broke through the palmetto bushes and briar thicket. Across his broad shoulder, he carried a nude body.  He threw a shovel down, and then, with no more effort than if he’d carried a bag of chicken feed, Jake shifted what I was pretty sure was a dead woman and dropped her to the ground with a thud that rocked my teeth. Chills crawled the entire length of my body.
Jake disappeared beneath my perch in the tree and out of my line of sight. Trying to see him again, I slowly leaned forward and peeked over the side. Terror drummed through every inch of my being, and bile climbed higher in my throat. I swallowed several times, hoping to keep from throwing up.
The scene below me played out like a horrible nightmare. The corpse lay on its side. Leaves and twigs matted the woman’s long, dark blonde hair and hid most of her face. Dried blood from the corner of her mouth formed a trail across her cheek and disappeared into her stringy hair.
As Jake dug shovels full of dirt from the hard ground, I watched in horror. He made it look easy, leaving me no doubt that I couldn’t possibly defend myself against the powerful man. From the mounds of dirt, broken roots pointed like gnarly fingers to my hiding place. I prayed with all my might that Jake wouldn’t look my way.
I glanced at my watch—7:05. I’d now been trapped in my hellacious hiding place for over forty-five minutes. During that entire time, I’d sat with my legs folded. Any sense of normal feeling had long ago deserted me, and I felt nothing but painful needles stabbing every inch of my flesh. I didn’t dare move. I barely dared to breathe.  But what I really wanted to do was cry. Cry for the poor dead soul lying on the hard ground, waiting for Jake Harley to finish digging her grave.
I shivered. The painful pounding in my head was rivaled only by the raw aching in my heart. A family was missing a loved one, and I knew where that person was, but I couldn’t get to a phone to tell anyone. Even if I hadn’t left my cell at my house, it would have been too noisy to use it to call for help.
Earlier, when I had first made my way into the clearing, all I’d really wanted to do was have a moment of peace and quiet. Once there I’d wondered if I could muster the strength to climb the two-by-four planks still joined to the tree to form a ladder where Dad had nailed them. The sides of the tree house were mostly gone, but the floor, although smaller than I remembered, was still sturdy.
Oh God, I wished with everything inside me that I hadn’t tried to prove something to myself by climbing the tree. Had I done it because I’d turned forty that day or because my husband of fifteen years had traded me in for a red corvette and his legal assistant?
Was I trying to prove I was still young? Given where I was at that moment, only one thing was for certain—I was too young to die.
I needed to take another glance at the things going on under the tree house, but it had grown too dark to see anything. Panic gripped my throat, making it hard to swallow. I could hear Jake moving around. Suddenly, a light brightened a large part of the clearing.  Jake had turned on a flashlight and set it on its end with the beams shining up into the trees. I leaned back out of the glow, which kept me from seeing what was happening below.
Jake’s grunting accelerated. An alarm went off in my head. Was he climbing the tree to where I was? My pulse raced out of control.  With the beams shining through the slits in the wooden floor, I glanced around for a weapon, but found nothing. I looked down again and sighed with relief when I saw that Jake wasn’t climbing the tree. He had dragged the body to the hole. A second later, he rolled it into the grave.
The dead woman landed on her back. With her mouth and eyes frozen open, she stared up at me. Uncontrollable anguish shook me to the core. Tears flooded my eyes, blurring my vision, but not enough to close out the grotesque image. I wrapped my arms across my chest to steady my body’s violent shaking. I wanted to wake up and deal with the horrific nightmare, but that wasn’t going to happen and I knew it. I’d never experienced such torture from a nightmare.
I squeezed my eyes shut to clear away the tears. When I dared to look again, Jake was shining the flashlight into the hole. I saw her face clearly and knew for sure the woman was Denise Farrell. A pain stabbed so deeply into my heart, I almost screamed. I hadn’t seen her since we’d graduated from high school and I’d left Hyattville to go to college in Chicago, but that hadn’t mattered. Twenty years and death didn’t matter. I would have known her anywhere.
Sleeping legs, painful stiffness, sweat, and terror pounding against my tightly strung nerves weakened my whole body. Weighted with an overwhelming need to sleep or faint, I had to fight against the sensations. I had to stay alert in case Jake discovered me.
As he buried Denise, I didn’t watch, but I couldn’t close out the sounds of the heavy dirt hitting her body or the sour smell of the damp earth. Through the branches I could no longer see the meadow. Nightfall had claimed everything around me. Everything but the private little world surrounding the big oak tree.
Many times Denise and I had sat on the very boards that were keeping me hidden from Jake. The branches around me had heard our life’s dreams and secrets. A place that once held pleasant and happy thoughts was now a keeper of deadly, dark secrets.
Remorse mixed with fear. It all had to end soon. I couldn’t take much more. Suddenly, I realized I was hearing dried leaves rustling.  Was Jake leaving?
I stole a glance. No, he wasn’t leaving. He was getting handfuls of dried leaves from the edge of the clearing and dumping them onto Denise’s grave. When he had enough piled up, he scattered them evenly over the ground, camouflaging the freshly spade dirt. I would never again hear the crunch of dried leaves without remembering this night.
Finally, Jake picked up his shovel and flashlight. Before he made his way back through the overgrown thicket, he said, “Bye bye, Denise.” His deep, masculine voice contrasted starkly with the childlike words.
More tears made their way to my eyes. How had this mild-mannered man with the mind of an eight-year-old come to this juncture?  If asked before this, I’d have bet my new boutique that Jake Harley would not be capable of something so heinous. But regardless of what my heart said, my eyes told a completely different story.
The road was quite a distance from where I sat praying Jake was gone, but I faintly heard a vehicle start. Once I was sure he was out of earshot, I stretched my legs and tried rubbing them back to life. I had to wait a while before I felt ready to climb down from the tree.  I needed to have my body working properly so I could run home to call the sheriff , and I had to make sure Jake wasn’t on his way back into the clearing. I waited. Hoping to hear nothing. Hoping to hear help coming.
No help came.
I would guess I’d been sitting in that tree a good thirty minutes after Jake had left the clearing. Time was wasting. I had to get someone out there right away. Of course, nothing could bring Denise back, but the earlier the authorities were alerted, the faster they could get her out of that dark hole and make her ready for a proper burial.
I was stalling, and it wasn’t because of the weakness in my legs.  I was scared half out of my mind, and I couldn’t force my body to cooperate. Except for a small glint of moonlight hovering over the meadow, everything was hidden by pitch-blackness. Anything or anybody could be waiting at the bottom of the makeshift ladder, and I would never know until I landed in their arms on my descent from the tree. But I couldn’t just stay up there.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I heard my Grandma Carson’s sweet voice whispering in the wind that lightly rustled the leaves.  “The unknown is always scarier than reality.”
True.
Silently, I counted to three and then started down the ladder. In a matter of seconds, I was out of the tree. As soon as my feet hit the ground, I started running.
I’d only taken two steps when my foot sank into the newly spaded dirt. I landed face down, sprawled across Denise’s grave. My skin instantly turned to goosefl esh, and chills shivered through me.
As I struggled to stand, I kept apologizing. “I’m sorry, Denise.
I’m so sorry.”
Was I losing my mind? As fast as branches and briar bushes allowed, I ran toward the moonlit meadow. Once there, I could see my home standing stately on the other side of the field. I ran in the direction of the two-story farmhouse left to me by my father, who’d died two years before. It looked forever away. The high, meadow grass wiped its evening dew on my jeans, and I fought to keep from screaming. I imagined someone was chasing me. I could barely breathe, but I was afraid to stop.
Miraculously, I was able to hit the latch and shove the gate open all in one fell swoop. The tall house hid the moon and cast a black shadow from the fence to the front porch. Tall, thick branches fortified with sharp thorns snagged my clothing and tore my flesh. Blinded by darkness, I had stupidly run through Dad’s rose garden.
“Aw,” I cried and grabbed at my arm only to get my hand locked around the barbed stalk. “Damn.” I slowly unhooked myself from the rose bush and then cursed the rest of the way to the front porch.  How could I have forgotten about the garden? It had been in that very spot all my life.
I bounded up the porch steps, flung the screen door open, and sailed into my house. After slamming the heavy front door, I slid the safety chain into place and collapsed against the wall. My eyes were closed tightly. I was gasping for air, giving thanks, and, since I hadn’t locked the house before my walk across the meadow, praying I was the only one there.
When I opened my eyes, I found it dark and scary. As fast as possible, I flipped on a table lamp and then scanned the room.  Everything looked just as it had when I’d left. After grabbing the telephone, I called 9-1-1.
“Hyattville Sheriff ’s Office. Deputy Douglas speaking.” The familiar voice startled me. At that moment, my old friend Lonnie Douglas, class clown, was the last person I wanted to talk to.
“I need to talk to the sheriff . It’s an emergency,” I spoke quickly, hoping Lonnie wouldn’t recognize my voice.
“Evie? Is that you? It took you long enough to give your old buddy a call. How ya been?” he asked with his mouth obviously full of food.
“What part of emergency don’t you understand?” I choked out in heart pounding fear mixed with instant aggravation. “Denise Farrell is dead, and Jake Harley buried her in the woods on the other side of my meadow. You gotta get the sheriff and get out here,” I demanded.
“Jake buried Denise? Slow down, Evie. You’ve got to be mistaken.  Jake is just now backing out of a parking space in front of our office. He’s been in with Sheriff Beasley for the past ten minutes.”
Lonnie’s words buzzed in my head like I’d been zapped with lightning. Had there been enough time for Jake to get to Hyattville and spend ten minutes with the sheriff?  Evidently there had, because he’d done it.
“Did Jake confess?” I asked. “Why is he leaving? You have to lock him up?” Panic stole some of my voice. I wasn’t sure Lonnie could even understand what I was saying. I certainly couldn’t understand anything that had happened in the past . . . how long had it been?
As if it heard my thoughts, the grandfather clock standing in the corner of my front parlor began to bong. I jumped so hard, I nearly dropped the phone. It was eight o’clock.
“Evie? Evie?” Lonnie shouted through the phone. “Are you there? Are you okay?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know, Lonnie. Please come quick,” I pleaded, all the while trying not to sob uncontrollably.
“Okay, we’re on our way.”
I slumped into the overstuffed sofa and pulled Grandma Carson’s afghan around me. I shook so hard, the decorative crocheted roses danced. I couldn’t keep my mind on one facet of the last two hours.  It kept jumping from one detail to another. I’d always been the cool one in troubled situations—but what was I thinking? I’d never been in a situation remotely like this one.
For fifteen years, I’d been the wife of a high-flying prosecuting Chicago attorney. One who loved to toot his own horn by telling me and everyone in earshot what pieces of evidence he’d brilliantly used to bring down a killer. Some of that had sunk into my brain. I threw the blanket aside. I raced to the window facing the meadow and stared at the oak tree outlined by the glimmer of the moon.
When the sheriff arrived, he would have questions for me. Mentally, I started to outline what they would be. I grabbed a notepad and pen from Dad’s roll-top desk. While it was still fresh in my mind, I scribbled down the timeline. I wrote what Jake was wearing, but then scratched through that info. Since he’d gone directly to their office, they already knew what he was wearing.
What else could I tell them? Nothing other than that Denise was dead.
The grandfather clock sounded again—8:15. Lonnie and Sheriff Johnston Beasley should be arriving any minute. I turned on the front porch light and waited by the front window. A thick row of trees separated my front yard from the highway. I heard the sirens first, and then I saw the display of flashing lights from two sheriff ’s department vehicles, a fire truck, and an ambulance.
Hurrying out to meet them, I reached Lonnie first. Once he had been lanky, but life, or maybe a few too many doughnuts, had filled him out. On him, it looked good. He put his thick arm around me and kissed my cheek.
“Welcome home, Evie,” he said sarcastically.
“Yeah. Some party, huh?”
Sheriff Johnston Beasley took longer to get to us. He pulled his hat from the passenger seat and positioned it on his head; then he finally made his way to Lonnie and me.
“Miss Carson.” He tipped his hat. “What’s going on?”
“Jake Harley buried Denise Farrell over there in that wooded area.” I pointed at the woods beyond the meadow, and then I noticed the EMTs. “You won’t need them. She’s dead.” Sadness lodged in my throat. I must have staggered a little. Lonnie put his arm around me, led me to the porch, and urged me to sit down.
“Thanks.” I forced a wobbly smile.
“What happened?” Lonnie asked.
I told them everything I’d witnessed. My written timeline was inside, but I didn’t need it. It was blazoned in my mind forever.
“What’s the best way to get over there?” Beasley asked.
“You can’t drive across the field. Too many potholes. You’ll have to go down Miner’s Road. That’s how Jake got in there.”
“Do you think you can show us?”
“Yes.”
“You ride with Lonnie, and we’ll follow.”
I grabbed my house keys and locked my front door. In Lonnie’s car, he and I rode along in complete silence. Our parents had been best friends, so he and I had grown up almost like brother and sister.  Even though I’d been back in town a month, I hadn’t seen him since Dad’s funeral over two years before. There was much we could have talked about, but the tragedy surrounding us had shoved idle chitchat aside .
The official vehicles formed a caravan, each shining spotlights erratically swirling over the impregnable span of trees. They resembled Hollywood searchlights announcing a movie premier. But this was not Hollywood, and it wasn’t a movie. It was real life with consequences that would change lives forever.
Large live oaks canopied the road, and in some places, joined above us like locked gnarled fingers. Splashes of gray Spanish moss dripped from the branches, deepening the eeriness of the journey.
I didn’t have to point out the arched opening that would lead us to Denise’s grave. Lonnie pulled to a stop right in front of it. He knew those woods as well as I did, if not better.
It wasn’t until I’d gotten out of the squad car that I realized we’d been joined by several other vehicles. A state police SUV and patrol car, plus another Hyattville deputy, had parked on the opposite side of Miner’s Road. Quickly, they all congregated around me.
“You come with me, Miss Carson.” Sheriff Beasley took my arm and helped me jump the ditch. “The rest of you stay here until I call you.”
I looked at Lonnie. I wanted him with me, but just then, his wife, Kitty, had pulled up next to the cars. She rolled down the window and yelled to Lonnie, “Can you come here a second?”
Lonnie handed his boss a massive portable light with an extremely high beam. He went to talk to Kitty, and she and I acknowledged each other with a curt wave. We had grown up together, but our opinions were too opposite for us to be friends. She thought she was better than everyone else, and I didn’t.
Beasley and I walked to the archway to Denise’s tomb. The bright beams lit our path well. Night creatures skittered away, including a small green snake, which crossed our path. When we got into the cleared area, I stopped.
“There.” I pointed at the scattered leaves directly under the tree house floor. “Jake buried Denise right there.”
The sheriff handed me the light. He knelt and shoved some of the leaves aside. Lifting a handful of the soft dirt, he let it sift through his fingers. When he stood, he removed his hat and looked up into the tree. I shifted the light to shine up there.
“That’s a long ways up for a kid’s tree house,” he said.
“It wasn’t that high when Dad built it. The tree has grown.  Some of the branches knocked the roof and sides down, but the floor is still sturdy.”
“Thank heavens for that. You might have ended up buried with Denise.”
I clutched my fist to my chest. Beasley spoke the truth, but hearing it said aloud sent new tremors of fear flooding through me.  Denise was the best friend I’d ever had. From an early age, we were inseparable, we thought alike, and our dreams were the same. She had encouraged me to be the best at everything I did. She was afraid of nothing, and she helped me overcome my fear of things that go bump in the night.
Mostly, Denise made me laugh. We had sworn to do everything together. Ironically, had Jake discovered me, we would have died together. A shiver climbed my spine.
“Can you get her out of that dark hole? Please?” I begged.
“We have things to do first, but it’ll be done as soon as possible.  I promise. Over here, guys,” he bellowed into the night.
Quickly, the men waiting back at the roadside made their way to the cleared opening. The ground vibrated, and their movements caused a loud eruption of jingling and clanking. The clamor of their shovels, their gun belts, even the change in their pockets magnified several times in the dead of the night. I covered my ears, trying to close out the disturbing sounds.
There were so many people. Where had they come from? I was shoved away from the immediate area. I found a fallen tree, hardened, almost petrified from the elements.
That’s where I was sitting when Lonnie found me.
“Are you okay, Evie?” He sat beside me.
“I don’t know if I can ever be okay again. Poor Denise. I’d never believe Jake capable of doing something like this. And why Denise?”
“Too early for all those questions. The sheriff has gone down to the lake to get Jake. I’m sure he’ll tell Johnston everything we need to know.”
“I saw Kitty back at the road,” I said, but never took my eyes off the inner workings of the crime scene being cordoned off .  Floodlights were set up to make the area as bright as daylight. A camera licked and flashed taking pictures of every inch of the gravesite.
“When I was on the way here, I left her a message on her cell phone. She’d gone to a movie over in O’Brien. She stopped by to get some of the details so she can start spreading the news.”
Under normal circumstances, Lonnie would have laughed and I would have joined him, but that didn’t happen. He shrugged and stood. “I need to check with Johnston over the radio, and I’ll be back shortly to take you home.”
Once I was alone again in the shadows, I thought about the irony of the situation. Earlier, I’d sat on a tree limb watching my dear friend being buried, and hours later I was on another limb watching the process of getting her out of her makeshift grave. The men dug a large hole resembling an archeological dig, exposing a cross section of Denise’s grave. The officials measured each layer of sand and clay, then gauged the depth of the cavity housing her body.
Watching them reminded me how, as we became teenagers, Denise and I would measure our breasts hoping they would someday be as big as Kitty McGovern’s, who later became Mrs. Lonnie Douglas.
By the time we graduated, Denise had gotten her wish. I, on the other hand, never quite made it.  By the time Lonnie returned, I welcomed the distraction to keep from dealing with all the dreadful thoughts that kept swimming around in my mind.
“I’m going to take you home. We’re going to be out here for several more hours.” He took my arm.
“I want to wait until I’m sure Denise is out of here and on her way to Benso Mortuary.”
Lonnie sat and put his arm around my shoulder. “She’ll be going to the county morgue first. They’ll have to do an autopsy.”
I knew that, but still the words squeezed my heart. The thought of Denise’s beautiful body being cut was hard to imagine, but it would have to be done to determine any injuries she’d sustained, the cause of death, and if she’d been raped.
“Oh, Lonnie, I feel so helpless. Why has this happened? And why Denise?”
He pulled me to him until my head rested against his chest. “I don’t know. After her divorce, she separated herself from any of the old gang. Her husband was only gone a couple of months when she found out she was pregnant. I always figured raising a baby without its father, plus the hurt from her husband abandoning her . . . well, it changed her, Evie. It changed her a lot.” He paused for a long moment, then finally said, “Come on.” He rose and urged me to my feet. “Let’s go. I have to get back to the station. There’s a flood of calls coming in, and the duty clerk needs help answering them. Word does travel fast, even in the middle of the night.”
“Won’t I have to make a formal statement to the authorities?” I followed Lonnie to the path leading back to the road.
“Yeah, someone will come by in the morning and talk to you.  We don’t have a lot of manpower, so right now working the scene is the most important thing.”
We were a few feet down the path when we were met by a small group of people. Lonnie shined his flashlight on them. Denise’s mom shaded her eyes from the bright light. I stepped ahead of Lonnie.
“Mrs. Farrell.” My voice trembled.
My dead friend’s mother, Judy Farrell, leaned out of the beam so she could see, but she didn’t appear to recognize me.
“It’s me. Evie Carson.”
“Evie?” Her hoarse tone was choked with sadness.  She was being held up by her younger sister, Sarah Dupree, on one side, and on the other side by a young girl who looked a lot like Denise did when she was a teenager. Denise’s daughter.
“Is it true, Evie? Is she dead?” Denise’s Aunt Sarah asked.
All I could manage was to nod my head.
Lonnie reached out and took Mrs. Farrell’s hand. “You shouldn’t be here. This is no place for you.” He looked at her sister. “Take her home, Sarah. Let us do our job, and then we’ll talk to you.”
When she started to argue, I spoke up. “He’s right. You have to leave. Please come to my house, and we’ll wait there.”
The three women hesitated a few moments and then returned to their car. It was decided I would ride with them, and Lonnie could get back to town. He promised someone would come to my house as soon as they were through at the crime scene.
Sarah drove. Denise’s daughter, Merrilee, rode in the front with her. I sat in the back with my arm around Mrs. Farrell. Occasionally, she sighed on the wings of a ragged breath. That was the only sound that intruded into the dead silence inside the car. Being locked in that consoling embrace reminded me of another time Mrs. Farrell and I had comforted each other at the loss of a loved one—her friend, my mother.
At my house, while I made strong coffee, the others settled around the kitchen table. With the coffee brewing, I walked to the table to join them. Until then, no one talked about the circumstances that had brought us together. I believe we were all in a state of shock.  In my case, I didn’t know how much or how little I should say about what I’d witnessed.
“Who would ever want to hurt our Denise?” Sarah was the first to speak.
I swallowed hard and decided to fi nd out how much they knew.
“How did you hear the news?” I asked.
“Goldie Douglas came to the house. Her daughter-in-law, you know, Kitty, had told her and she felt, as my longtime friend, she should be there when I found out,” Mrs. Farrell said. I hadn’t laid eyes on her in twenty years, so naturally she would have aged, but the lines on her face were etched in agony, making her appear much older.
“Is she the only person you’ve talked to?”
“Yes, and she really didn’t know any more than that Denise was . . . dead and buried on your property.” Her voice trailed to a whisper.
“What can you tell us, Evie?” Sarah asked.
My world stood still. I didn’t want to tell Denise’s family what I knew about her death. To that point, her daughter, Merrilee, had not said a word. She’d only sat stone silent, staring into her folded hands.  Now she looked across the table at me. Her ice blue eyes melted, and tears streamed down her face. “How did my mom die?” she asked.
I took her hands. They were cold, and I rubbed them. “I don’tknow what happened to her. I worked at the boutique all day. When I got home, I needed to go for a walk to clear my head and, truthfully, to deal with some of the loneliness I’ve been experiencing.”
Sarah placed her hand on my back. “Divorce is hard. It’ll get easier, honey.”
Suddenly, guilt slammed through me. “I’m sorry. My problems are insignificant compared to the developments of the last few hours.  Let me just tell you what I know.”
Coffee was ready, so I used that as an excuse to not have to look at Denise’s family so lost in sadness. I pulled mugs from the cupboard and filled them with hot coffee and then set a glass in front of Merrilee along with a quart of milk and the sugar bowl. While everyone fixed their beverages, I started again.
“When I got to the old tree house where Denise and I used to play, I wondered if I could still climb up there. I did it and had only been up there a few minutes when I heard quite a racket in the bushes.  That’s when Jake Harley came into the clearing below where I was sitting.” I swallowed hard.
“He had Denise over his shoulder. He put her down on the ground and then started digging a hole.” I didn’t see the need to tell them he’d dropped her in with a thud, but I had to shake my head to dispel the image. “I was trapped up there on the few boards still left. It seemed like forever. I was afraid to move or even breathe. I didn’t want to die, too.”
Mrs. Farrell sucked back a sob. “I’m glad he didn’t find you.  One death is enough,” she said.
“It was actually two deaths.” Merrilee swiped away her tears.  “Mom was pregnant.”❖
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Buy Dolores J. Wilson’s  Dark Secrets of the Old Oak Tree at:
Amazon
Barnes & Noble
Indiebound.org
Powell’s
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Dolores J. Wilson is the author of several novels, including Barking Goats and the Redneck Mafia, Big Hair and Flying Cows, Little Big Heart and Flight to Freedom, a “recommended reading” novel for abuse victims.

Visit Dolores’s  website

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