by Reid, Penny
“Even if it is similar, she could always start selling eggs, milk, and honey again, even if my father were in jail. It’s not like she’d be penniless.”
“But you heard her, she doesn’t want to do that anymore. She’s tired and has no help. She wants to travel. She wants to retire, and the farm stay lets her retire and collect income.” He turned onto the road that would take us to my mother’s house.
I stared unseeingly out the windshield again. “I wish we could just ask her who hit my momma with the broom handle.”
“If we’d asked about the handle, she would’ve realized her mistake.”
Cletus was right about that. Nancy Danvish was a smart woman, if we’d pressed her on the broom handle comment, she would’ve clammed up. Unless . . .
“Maybe if I go back and talk to her on my own, if she trusted me, then she’d tell me who hit my momma over the head.”
“How’re you going to get Nancy Danvish to trust you?” He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “She’s in business with your father, and she thinks you do whatever your momma wants.”
“What if . . .” I paused, considering, “What if I was in business with my father and she thought she could trust me?”
He gave me another side-eye. “In business with your father how?”
“What if I went undercover? What if I told him I wanted to work with him and not my mother?”
Cletus made a grunting sound, pulling into my momma’s driveway and slowing the Bronco to a crawl. “He’d never believe you were sincere.”
“I don’t know . . .” I pinched my bottom lip again, thinking back on how I’d left things with my daddy earlier at the diner, all the mean-spirited sentiments I’d wanted to say, but didn’t. I also recalled all the words he’d spoken, how he truly believed I was an idiot and wanted nothing in life but to be pampered. “What did you say about Farmer Miller? ‘When folks think you’re dumber than them, they monologue.’”
He made a face like my statements smelled bad. Cutting the engine once he’d parked, Cletus turned toward me. “The person who left your mother to die is the person who killed Mr. Badcock’s chickens in a pretentious show of malevolence, and I think you’re right in thinking the guilty party is your father. Who else tied to this mess wants your momma dead? And if it is your father, that makes him dangerous, even a little sick in the head. The last place you should be is working undercover to betray a dangerous person.”
Cletus’s conclusion hit an off-note. “No. My father doesn’t know how to kill chickens. Perhaps it was his idea, but he wouldn’t be the one to actually do it. Plus, Boone said whoever dragged my momma over to the burning boxes dropped her a few times, like she was too heavy. My daddy isn’t a big man, but he could carry my momma over his shoulder easily. He wouldn’t need to drag her across a field.”
“Then maybe he’s pulling the strings and someone else—or a few other folks—are wreaking the havoc.” He exited the car, coming around to my side and opening the door.
Meanwhile, I kept on shaking my head, even when I stepped out of the Bronco. “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, my father is pulling the strings. Still, he wouldn’t be at Blount’s to burn the bees, he wouldn’t get his hands dirty that way. Someone—not him—hit my momma over the head when she showed up unexpectedly. Nancy Danvish said it was a wrong place, wrong time kind of thing. But then someone—not him, and maybe not even the person who hit her over the head—dragged my momma to the bee boxes and left her to die.”
He entwined our fingers, pressing our palms together as we walked to the porch. “You think we’re dealing with a conspiracy? Your father pulling the strings and two other folks carrying out his orders?”
“I think I need to go undercover.”
Cletus’s steps faltered midstride, his hand in mine giving a small spasm.
“Hear me out,” I continued before he could dismiss the entire idea again without listening to my thoughts.
“Your father is a very, very bad man.”
“Yes.”
“I know about bad men.” His voice lowered to just above a whisper, his eyes pointed forward, seemingly unfocused. “And bad fathers.”
“Cletus—”
“Is this about revenge?” He halted our progress to the porch, facing me abruptly, his stare searching.
“What?”
“You going undercover, exposing him for what he is, is this about getting revenge?”
“No.”
My answer seemed to disappoint him. “Are you sure? If it were, I promise I would understand. And if it’s about revenge, there are so many things we can do to make him suffer. I have ideas, lists of ideas, libraries full of ideas. No need to go undercover in order to ruin his life.”
“I don’t want to ruin his life. It’s honestly not about revenge, it’s about the truth. It’s seeing decent people like Mr. Badcock suffering and knowing his pain isn’t a priority to anyone. Mr. Badcock needs to know the truth about who murdered his chickens, he deserves to know the truth. He’s a good person.”
“But Old Man Blount isn’t a good person.”
“Maybe not, but it doesn’t matter what someone has done in their past, they don’t deserve injustice in the present.”
Cletus’s teeth slid to the side and he sighed, looking frustrated, withdrawing his hand and shoving it in his pocket. “What goes around, comes around.”
“Cletus. That way of thinking isn’t nice.”
“I never pretended to be nice. Couldn’t I just ruin your father instead?”
I decided to try a different approach. “Plus, if I go undercover, I could find out where my father put the lodge renovation money and get it back.”
“Well, I actually have an idea about that—the money.”
“Really?”
“I have a friend, I think I’ve mentioned him, in Chicago. He’s—uh—a hacker. Supremely talented.”
“You want him to hack into my father’s, what? Bank accounts?”
“No, he won’t need to hack into them, he just needs to find them. Once Alex finds the accounts, your momma’s lawyer should be able to seize the funds. According to your momma, the prenup disallows your father from touching lodge assets.”
I tilted my head to the side, my gaze searching his handsome face. “She told you that?”
“She did, during one of our morning chats this week.”
“And your friend Alex would feel comfortable doing that kind of thing? Digging around to find out where the money is?”
Cletus scratched the back of his neck, his gaze evasive. “He has more skills than scruples.”
“Hmm. Sounds like the two of you make quite a pair. How well do you know him?”
“I’d go to his birthday party, if I were invited.”
I couldn’t help but smile at that, but we were getting off track. “Okay. Let’s say Alex of skills but not scruples can find the accounts and get the renovation money returned, that still leaves Mr. Badcock. What about those dead chickens?”
“I assume Alex can’t resuscitate chickens, but I can ask.”
“You know what I mean. Fine, ask Alex to help with my momma’s money predicament, but Boone all but told me he’s been pulled from the case to deal with Iron Wraiths criminal activities. Who is going to find justice for Mr. Badcock?”
Even behind his bushy beard I could see the sharp downward curve of his lips, the rigidity behind his eyes. He looked supremely unhappy but said nothing.
“Will you at least listen to my plan?”
“What if he hurts you?” he blurted, a flash of pain, of anguish—there and gone—sparked behind his eyes.
“He can’t. I don’t care what he says to me anymore.”
“I’m not talking about words. What if he hurts you?”
I knew what he was asking. Just like earlier at the diner, he was worried about my father putting his hands on me. And in the same moment I also knew—to the depths of my soul—that Cletus kept bringing up physical viole
nce because he had, at some point in his life, experienced that kind of hurt firsthand.
“Cletus. What did Darrell—”
His eyes dropped, and his voice reminded me of gravel against stone as he spoke, “Darrell, Kip, men like them, if they can’t hurt you with words, they hurt you with deeds. What if he hurts you?”
I couldn’t go another moment without touching him. Reaching out, I encircled his wrist and tugged his hand from his pocket.
Threading our fingers together again, I pressed his knuckles to my chest. “I’ll wear a wire. You’ll hear everything that’s going on the whole time. We’ll record every moment that I’m alone with my father.”
Cletus inhaled, exhaled, gritted his teeth, his gaze penetrating, fiery, and miserable. “I don’t like this.”
“You haven’t even heard the whole plan yet.”
Eyes narrowing, he made a grumbly noise. “Fine. I’m not saying I agree to consider or otherwise contemplate your plan, but what do you have in mind?”
“I get my father to trust me. I make him think I’ve quit the bakery and am no longer working for my momma. I make him think I want to work with him on his hotel idea. I’m certain he’d jump at the chance, if only to stick it to my mother. Then, when I meet with him, I ask him about the farms, I get him to admit his part, his plan, and we—uh—I record him confessing his part. We then take the recording to Boone, my father’s arrested, boom. Done.”
“Boom. Done.” Once more, Cletus removed his hand from mine.
Without his touch, a sense of loss, of melancholy spread through me. Even so, I managed a firm, “Yes.”
He pushed his fingers through his hair, visibly agitated. “Easy as that?”
Glaring at my beloved fiancé, I folded my arms. “No. I don’t think it’ll be easy, but I do think it won’t be difficult to get him to talk. Remember, ‘When folks think you’re dumber than them, they monologue.’”
“I wish I’d never told you that,” he muttered.
“I already knew it. Everyone in town thinks I’m a bimbo, my father included. He’ll tell me everything simply because he loves to brag and thinks I’m dumb.”
“Except, what if he doesn’t trust you?”
“What do you mean?”
“How are you going to convince him to trust you? How are you going to convince him you’ve quit the bakery? You don’t think he’ll check?” Cletus’s question sounded frosty, and his demeanor grew increasingly reserved, giving me the sense he was putting more than physical distance between us.
I stopped myself from reaching out to him again, lifting my chin as I said, “I guess I’ll just have to quit the bakery.”
“You would do that?”
“Yes. It would only be temporary.”
“And what will you tell your mother?”
Without him having to explain, I understood his point perfectly, and I swallowed against a swelling tightness every time I inhaled. “I guess . . .”
Suddenly, I felt breathless. Damn.
“You’ll have to stage a fight with your mother.” Cletus’s tone was almost robotic now, his features lacking any expression.
I shivered, disliking this aloof version of him, but croaked out a believable, “You’re right, I will.”
“And it’ll have to be public, in front of many people.”
“Yes.”
“And she’ll have to believe you. You cannot tell her the truth. If Kip is to believe this is for real, Diane can’t know the truth.”
Damn. Damn. Damn.
He was right.
“I know.” I pressed my hand to my hurting abdomen.
Cletus nodded subtly, blinking once, twice, like he might have something in his eyes, then added softly, “He’ll also have to believe that you and I have called off our engagement.”
My heart skipped several beats, lurching painfully, my mouth opening as it and my brain struggled to harmonize on a response to that.
“You know I’m right,” he said, his voice completely devoid of emotion.
“I—I—I—what are you suggesting?”
“Another public fight, but with me.
“What?” I may have shrieked.
No, actually, I absolutely shrieked. I own that horrified shriek, and I meant it.
“Everyone will believe we’re broken up for good. Then and only then will Kip trust you. I’ll have to stay away, but you’ll be safe in that house.”
I would be safe in that house. Jethro had installed two safe rooms when Claire lived there; the security system was state of the art, video cameras along the outside and motion sensors inside; the doors were reinforced steel and even the windows are bulletproof.
Regardless, I didn’t think Cletus could look any unhappier about this plan than when I’d initially began explaining it. I was wrong.
“You and I have a fight, a very public breakup,” he reiterated, almost like he was psyching himself up. “The sooner the better.”
“And where would we have this theoretical fight?” My heart was beating thickly between my ears, my esophagus pressing against my tonsils. I no longer felt sick, I was sick.
“The jam session.” His tone was flat, and the typical spark of life and light behind his gorgeous eyes had all but disappeared. He looked . . . absent. And I didn’t like it. I hated it.
Just the thought, fighting with Cletus in front of a crowd? Saying hurtful things? No.
No, no, no. I couldn’t do it. This was a bad idea.
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him to forget it, that I’d been silly to suggest such a thing, but he took a step back, his shuttered gaze falling to the gravel between us. “We’ll do it at the jam session tomorrow.”
“Cletus—”
“Show up late.” He nodded at his own statement, taking another step away and turning back to the Bronco. “I’ll do the rest.”
Chapter Seventeen
“I guess that’s just part of loving people: You have to give things up. Sometimes you even have to give them up.”
― Lauren Oliver, Delirium
*Jenn*
Tonight of all nights, the irony of arriving on time was not lost on me. But here I sat, two miles from the community center, parked at a gas station, and stuck in my car for the next hour. Reaching for my bag, I pulled out my phone and scanned the messages I’d sent to Cletus during the day,
Jenn: Do you have a minute?
Jenn: Can we talk about the plan?
Jenn: Will you please call me back?
Jenn: Are you trying to freak me out?
<3 Cletus <3: No.
Jenn: Then why won’t you pick up your phone?
<3 Cletus <3: I’m doing my best and I love you.
Jenn: We need to talk about the plan.
<3 Cletus <3: Trust me. I know how important this plan is to you and I will do everything in my power to ensure everyone believes what they see and hear. Just know that whatever I say tonight will be a lie.
Cletus had only sent the three messages all day. I could only presume this was because he wanted to throw me off-kilter so our fight would look and feel real to spectators. Did he know rejecting my calls would tie me into knots? Was he feeling similar anxiety? Raw around the edges and unable to inhale deeply?
“I don’t know, he won’t pick up his phone,” I muttered to the empty car, checking the time on the dash. Fifty-five minutes remained.
If he’d answered his phone, or if he’d listened to my voicemails, he would know that I’d been having second, third, and fourth thoughts, and was inches away from changing my mind. Going undercover and helping my momma, Mr. Badcock, and even Old Man Blount had seemed like a good idea until it meant spending even more time apart from Cletus. This last week, the stolen moments few and far between, had been so much better than the several weeks before, and I didn’t care what we did, just as long as it was—
. . . Liar. You want his body.
Squirming in my seat, I checked the dash again. Fifty-four minutes.
My first fifteen years of life were spent in complete ignorance of such matters and the last seven had been spent living vicariously through my pen pal’s letters on the subject of romantic (or just plain sexual) relationships. It felt both odd and improper to contemplate that Cletus had struck a match within me with his looks, words, and touches. He’d applied flame to kindling which had apparently also been doused in gasoline.
I wanted more time exploring him. I wanted him to kiss me senseless. I wanted more of what we’d only just started back in November. Way back in November. Way, way, way back in November. What we’d done together during those short weeks haunted and plagued me.
Echoes of expectations from my upbringing whispered, You’re a weirdo and a pervert. Stop thinking about it. You shouldn’t be thinking about these things. It’s unladylike. Good women do not engage in lustful fantasies.
I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Did all women feel this way about their person? Or was it just because I’d been so inexperienced and Cletus was my first and only? It was like when I had an idea for a new recipe but lacked the ingredients to make it, except ten thousand times worse. Recipes didn’t wake me up at night, hot and bothered, tempting me to touch myself as I remembered all the ways he’d touched me.
And now, because of a situation of my own making, he and I wouldn’t be together like I wanted for days, if not weeks.
Why did I suggest this? Why must I be this way? Why can’t Mr. Badcock go undercover? What is wrong with me?!
“That’s it!” I hit the steering wheel and started the engine. “I’m not doing this. Forget it. Let people deal with their own problems.”
Checking the clock as I put the car in reverse, I realized I’d only be fifteen minutes late to the jam session, which was the earliest I’d arrived in over six weeks. I wanted—so badly—to be with him, for days, alone. Therefore, calling off the undercover nonsense was the only course of action. After that . . . maybe I’ll kidnap him.
“Billy will help,” I said, nodding to myself. “And so will Beau and Shelly.”