“If we could get back on track—”
“Sweet-sharp, too,” Bea said. “Nice.”
“What about cake?” Roman asked. “Would they work in cake?”
“Um, I suppose so. Let’s begin—”
“I like cake better than pie.” Roman’s voice had gone from bantering to vague. “Cakes flutter by. Fake butterflies.”
Abby’s bemusement evaporated. Something was wrong with Roman. He was altered, subtly, but certainly.
She poured a glass of water and brought it to him.
“Here, Roman, drink this.”
He took it, drank it all down, and handed her the glass back. “Thank you, my dear.”
“Is he all right?” Bea asked.
“He’s fine.” Jon squeezed Roman’s shoulder. “Aren’t you, Dad?”
Roman nodded, blinking. He was back, Abby saw, but confused and embarrassed.
She reached behind her for a plastic tote and plunked it on the counter. “We’ll be using frozen presliced apples. Each bag contains the exact amount needed for this recipe. While they thaw, we’ll make the pastry for our double-crust pie. It’s a processor recipe, the easiest and most reliable recipe I’ve used.”
She was speaking too quickly but she had to do something to get the attention off Roman. While the students gathered their bowls and spoons, Abby took a moment to catch her breath.
“You’re very kind,” Lydia said softly. “He’s lucky to have you.”
Abby plucked at her sleeve. “Not at all. Jon was looking after him.”
Lydia’s eyes softened. She touched Abby’s hand. “I meant, Jon is lucky.”
* * *
“Way to embarrass her, Dad.”
He and Roman had brought the world’s ugliest pie back home with them. But, as Abby promised, it tasted good, especially with vanilla ice cream.
“You needed a kick in the right direction. I don’t know why you haven’t asked her out yet.”
“She was working nonstop on the festival when I got here, Dad. Spring is the start of the busy season on the ranch.”
“What’s the matter? Aren’t you interested? You’re not seeing someone else, are you?”
“Dad. Stop. Finish your pie. You’re tired and I have work to do.”
“Work, work, work. Life’s wasted on the young,” grumbled Roman. He snapped his fingers for Chaos to bring him his cane, then limped off to bed.
He’d barely eaten half of his dessert, Jon noticed. He wrapped the remainder of their hideous creation and put it in the fridge for tomorrow. Maybe he’d offer some to Abby, if she came by.
He smiled to himself. She’d find that amusing.
Jon hoped she hadn’t really been embarrassed about Roman’s teasing. In fact, he was planning to ask her out. But the timing had to be right.
He turned back to his laptop and his draft of the Arondi story. He had several police reports, all eerily similar, but without witnesses, they all boiled down to he-said, she-said. One complainant, a Ms. Cassidy, had a witness whose identity was protected by the court and was known only as Person X. Without more, he was stuck.
Learning that Abby and Quinn had worked for the producer sent chills prickling the back of his neck. She’d assured Jon that neither she nor her sister had been a victim of Arondi’s alleged bad behavior but something about the way she said it gnawed at his gut. She’d looked him in the eye when she’d said it, too. Without blinking.
The Warrens were perfect targets. Two sisters, alone in the world. Cash poor, hungry for experience, desperate for opportunities.
Jon couldn’t imagine Abby letting her little sister be in any danger. Nor could he imagine her letting Arondi off the hook, if he’d hurt Quinn.
She was more likely to find him in a dark alley and slowly and carefully relieve him of his gonads.
She was hiding something.
He tapped his pencil against his chin, looking at the material he’d collected on the story.
Roman returned to the kitchen to get a glass of water. “What are you working on that’s so important?”
Chaos stood by his side, watching with his ears cocked, as if he was expecting something.
“A story.” Jon tossed the pencil down. “Don’t know why I’m torturing myself about it. No one wants it.”
“Whitey Irving hassling you about editorial?”
There was no love lost between Roman and Irving. After the Valdez Rocks accident, when Roman had most needed friends at his back, Irving had been one of the first people to cut all ties, dropping him like a rotten apple.
“You were right about him. He is an asshole.” Jon dropped his head into his hands, figuring he might as well get it over with. “He fired me.”
He didn’t have the guts to look at his father. Surely he’d have plenty to say and Roman wasn’t one to reject an opportunity to crow.
But he was wrong.
A slow clap made him lift his head.
Roman was nodding while he applauded. “Good job, son.”
“What do you mean?”
“You must have done something to piss him off,” Roman said, “and if it pissed Whitey Irving off, then it was the right thing. You stood your ground. Am I wrong?”
Jon felt the skin around his temples loosen. A chuckle lit up his chest. He sat back in his chair, laughing. “You never fail to surprise me, Dad. You sure you’re feeling okay?”
“What? I can’t support my only son?”
“Oh,” Jon said. “You can. Absolutely. Bring it on.”
Roman wrinkled his nose. “All right. So maybe I’ve been critical in the past. Maybe it’s time I changed that.”
“You can’t afford the whiplash.”
“Don’t be smart with me.”
They were smiling at each other in an easy way Jon hadn’t felt in a long time. Years, maybe.
“I was working on a story, a good one. About Richard Arondi.”
“Ah.” Roman’s expression darkened. His jaw slid sideways. “Untouchable Richard. It was only a matter of time.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not time yet. Whitey killed the story. Absolutely refused to touch it.” Jon exhaled. “I’ve got solid leads, Dad. The rumors have been whispered about forever. Watch out for Richard, he’s a groper. Don’t let Richard get you in a corner. Ignore Richard, that’s just how he talks. He’s a sexual predator, Dad. Has been for years, and no one will call him on it.”
“No one but you.”
The pride in Roman’s voice made Jon’s heart soar, only to land in a heap a moment later.
“I took my shot and I lost. Without the magazine behind me, no one else will talk to me. I promised my sources that if they went on record, we’d expose him, make sure he wouldn’t be able to do this to anyone else, ever again. But they’re all scared now. Arondi’s goons have threatened them, shut them up, even paid some of them to keep quiet. Without them, I’ve got nothing.”
The quiet in the house was broken by a soft whine from Chaos.
Jon looked over.
“Dad?”
Roman’s head bobbed. His hand twitched. The water glass near his hand tipped and crashed onto the floor.
Chaos barked.
“Dad?” He jumped to his feet and ran to Roman’s side.
Roman’s head lurched sideways. He muttered a curse. “I’m fine, Jon.”
“What the hell was that? Are you okay?”
“It was nothing. I dropped my glass. I’m tired. Help me to my room. And bring my pills. The ones in the blue vial.”
As Jon helped his father down the hallway, he wondered if he’d overreacted. Roman seemed annoyed. Embarrassed.
He wiped up the water and went to the side table in the front room, which held Roman’s assortment of pills, ointments, and tissues.
He looked at the vials. Anti-inflammatories. Antacids to protect his stomach. Muscle relaxants. Tylenol with codeine. Topical pain reliever gel. All the accoutrements of chronic pain.
He picked up the blue container
.
Valproic acid. He didn’t recognize that one. According to the date, it was a new prescription.
He brought the pills to his father’s room but the man was already snoring gently.
Jon went back to his laptop and looked up the drug.
Valproic acid was an anticonvulsant.
Why the hell was his father on an antiseizure medication?
Chapter Thirteen
From Abby’s notebook:
Manage weeds while they are small and actively growing. Once the weed has gone to bud, control will be much more difficult.
Abby hadn’t seen Quinn since sending her to gather vegetables for Daphne to make supper, thirty minutes ago.
Quinn was supposed to come back to finish weeding, but she didn’t share Abby’s joy in the garden.
She shut off the rototiller, straightened up, and surveyed the muddy strip of earth before her. On either side, and in parallel lines throughout the garden, tiny green shoots from seeds and cuttings and corms and tubers were bursting through the rich soil. Every year it was a miracle to her that such small, ugly, broken things once buried, would transform into beauty and nourishment and life itself.
As the engine rattled to a stop and silence descended, she lifted her chin, closed her eyes, and let the fecund fragrances of compost, manure, and leaf mold tickle her lungs, pushing past the tightness in her chest.
She stretched her arms above her head, tilting from side to side to work the kinks out of her spine. Shoveling shit wasn’t for everyone but it sure beat some of the other jobs she’d had.
She’d enjoyed the garden hop more than expected, but still, it was a relief to be able to work in silence again.
She hauled the tiller over to the shed and went to the southwest-facing slope to check the greenhouse and cold frames. It was too early for new outdoor vegetables, but with the protection of glass and a little extra tender loving care, the ranch had fresh, home-grown produce almost year-round now.
As she feared, the basket sat near the door, filled with wilting beets and Swiss chard greens and crisp, crinkled kale. Her sister was nowhere in sight.
“Quinn?” Her sister had been quieter than usual lately. Even the prospect of her upcoming birthday party didn’t seem to excite her. But it wasn’t like her to forget her chores.
Quickly, she took the basket to the main house where Daphne stood at the door, her hands on her hips.
“I was about to send out a search party.” The cook narrowed her eyes at Abby. “You okay? You look pale. I keep telling you to let Ezra do the heavy work.”
“Sorry to keep you waiting.” Abby handed the basket without making eye contact and busied herself brushing dirt from her jeans. Daphne’s mothering instincts were strong and she had a knack for picking up when someone was troubled.
But Abby had long years of experience keeping her troubles to herself. Pretending was a survival skill and she’d honed it to a razor-sharp edge. She skipped off the porch, tossing a wave over her shoulder.
“Dinner’s in an hour,” the cook called. “Tell that skinny sister of yours I made her favorite for dessert, lemon meringue pie.”
“I will,” Abby promised.
She strode past the kennels, where the sound of voices and dogs barking told her a class was being held, angled around the corral, where Gideon was trotting a palomino stallion on a long line, and ducked into the first horse barn.
Sometimes Quinn liked to hide out with the rescue horses.
She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. Rustling and snorting sounded as curious horses poked their heads over stall doors.
“Quinn?” She kept her voice low. “It’s almost suppertime. I brought the veggies in for you.”
She walked from stall to stall, peering into the corners, stroking the velvety noses of the animals willing to accept human touch, keeping her distance from those that weren’t.
She came to Quinn’s favorite hideout, the stall where Apollo, an enormous and gentle draft horse, was housed when he wasn’t outside. She lifted the latch, stepped inside, and yelped as she nearly ran into a broad chest that most definitely did not belong to her sister. She stumbled backward into the rough wooden planking behind her.
The horse snorted and tossed his dappled gray head.
“Whoa,” said Jon, taking her elbow. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Hey, Jon.” She ducked sideways, pulling her arm away, her heart thumping inside her chest. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
Jon followed her out, closing the stall door behind them. “So I gathered. Do you want to try again? I suggest, ‘Hey, Jon, nice to see you.’ Or better yet, ‘Just the man I was looking for.’”
His flirting was almost as disconcerting as the warmth she felt coming off his body, too near her for comfort.
“I’m looking for Quinn.” She shivered, tugging her men’s flannel work shirt tighter over her thin T-shirt. “Have you seen her?”
He shook his head. “Sorry. I’m looking for Dad. I brought him to visit Apollo and now he’s gone. Shall we search for them together? He needs to get home.”
Abby’s mouth opened to reject his offer, but no handy excuse came to her lips. Every time she was with Jon, she felt like more of a fraud. But he was a difficult man to resist.
She exhaled softly. “Okay.”
They finished looking through the rest of the stalls without success. As they made their way back to the door, Jon stopped to give the big draft horse’s broad Roman nose one last pat.
“So Quinn loves Apollo, too, does she? Dad adores that horse.”
Abby knew that the animal had arrived at the ranch in a desperate state, his hip bones poking high above his rib-racked body, with horribly overgrown hooves, dull blank eyes, and a heartbreaking acceptance of his fate.
Love and care had returned him to vibrant health and brought out his sweet temperament. Now, Apollo earned his oats by letting people like Jon’s father visit.
“Apollo’s special,” Abby said.
Jon touched her arm. “I have a question for you. It’s about one of Dad’s medications. Valproic acid. I’ve looked it up. It’s an anticonvulsant. Do you know why he’s on it?”
Abby put her head closer to the big horse’s broad cheek, breathing in his clean, animal smell. “Have you asked him?” she said, buying time.
“He doesn’t know. Or if he does, he won’t tell me. He’s on a lot of medications and I’m worried that some of his symptoms are due to drug interactions.”
Dread filled her. “What kind of symptoms?”
“His hands tremble so badly sometimes that he can’t hold a glass. He gets headaches. He doesn’t think I know, but I see him massaging his temples. On sunny days, the light hurts his eyes. And”—he cleared his throat—“he’s losing words.”
All signs that the tumor was progressing.
“Have you looked up those signs?” she asked. Research was his thing, after all. Perhaps she could lead him to the answer he sought.
Jon made a frustrated sound. “Of course. It’s used to treat mania in bipolar patients and to prevent migraines, but mostly, for seizure disorders. As far as I know, my dad isn’t epileptic or bipolar, but when I asked him about his headaches, he said they were no big deal. I’m worried he’s got dementia and doesn’t want me to know.”
“What do the doctors say?”
“Dad won’t let me come into his appointments with him.”
Oh, Roman.
She swallowed. She was going to have to betray Roman’s confidence soon, if he didn’t tell Jon the truth himself. “I’m coming over tonight. Do you want me to talk to him then?”
“Please,” Jon said with relief. “He trusts you more than he does me. He’s hiding something and it’s starting to worry me.”
As they left the barn, Chaos loped up to them, tongue hanging out, tail wagging. Jon looked over to his car, where Roman was sitting, waiting for him.
Jon rolled his eyes. “I guess I found my missing
person. I should have known. There’s a special on CNN he wanted to watch and his DVR doesn’t work. We’d better hurry.”
Abby waved at them and continued on to the kennels. Quinn wasn’t there, but Jamie was.
“Yeah, she’s in Haylee’s old cabin, babysitting.”
Sage used to live in the main house, but when Haylee moved into town with Aiden, she’d leaped on the chance to have more space for her growing child.
“Babysitting?”
Jamie shrugged. “Haylee’s out with the therapy dogs and Sage had a class or something.”
She found Quinn sitting cross-legged on the floor of the cabin, surrounded by a sea of multicolored toys of every description. Drooling on her lap was Haylee and Aiden’s son, Matthew. Beside them, little Sal, Sage’s daughter and Haylee’s granddaughter, waded through the toys on plump little legs.
Jewel stretched out on the carpet in front of the window, snoring gently. Karma, Sage’s dog, watched them from a safe distance.
“Hey,” Abby said. “This looks like fun.”
“Aren’t they adorable?” Quinn bent down and bussed a raspberry into Matthew’s golden curls. The little boy squealed with laughter. Sal pitched a green wooden block into the air and clapped when it landed with a clatter that made the old dog lift her grizzled head.
“Ju-Ju!” she chortled.
Karma’s tail thumped the floor. Jewel blinked sleepily, then went back to her nap.
“What, um, is going on?” Quinn hadn’t babysat so much as a goldfish in her life. “You forgot to bring the veggies to Daphne.”
“Oh, geez.” Quinn brought both hands to her mouth. “I’m so sorry. Sage sent me a nine-one-one text. She didn’t realize that an exam of hers had been shifted so she had to run into town.”
“It’s okay. I brought the veggies in. Since when do you babysit?”
Sage and Haylee juggled childcare between them, but with Olivia and Daphne hovering in the wings and Aiden complaining that he needed an appointment to spend time with his son, babysitting was rarely a problem. Even Huck, the quiet wrangler, had formed a bond with Sal, though Abby guessed his crush on Sage had something to do with that.
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