by Lisa Jackson
Ralph pinched out some tobacco and laid it against his gum.
Ben pointed to the tin with his pencil. “That’s the stuff that’ll kill you.”
“Yeah, but if it’s not this, somethin’ else will,” Ralph replied with a grin that showed off flecks of brown against incredibly white teeth.
“I guess you’re right.”
“What about the house on Bitner? Mrs. Hunter’s place?”
“It’s a go. I’ll start looking things over today and let you know what needs to be done. She seems to know what she wants.”
“That’s Dora for ya.”
Ben rotated his neck and heard some disquieting pops. “I’ll talk to Fitzpatrick tomorrow. There’s got to be some repair work at the camp.” Ben hated to ask for work from old Thomas. Ever since seeing him with Carlie at Nadine’s wedding... The pencil he’d been holding snapped between his fingers.
“It would be nice to get a little money out of that old skinflint.” Ralph had been out of work for nearly a year since a back injury had sidelined him from his last job with a major construction company, which was owned in part by Thomas Fitzpatrick. Since the accident, the company had laid off more people than it hired and Ralph hadn’t been offered his old job because it had no longer existed: the company had gone out of business. Since then, Ralph had worked doing odd jobs—carpentry, chopping wood, even general yard work before he’d been introduced to Ben over a beer at the Silver Horseshoe. They’d struck a deal and he’d been working for Ben ever since. Ralph was grateful for the job and Ben was sure that he’d found the best foreman in the county. A burly man with muttonchop sideburns and slight paunch that hid his belt buckle, Ralph worked hard and was honest. Ben couldn’t ask for more.
Ralph grabbed a dusty Mets cap off the rack near the door, then slung his denim jacket over his shoulder. “Well, it looks like we’re gonna be busy.”
“That’s the plan.”
“You won’t hear me complainin’.” Ralph stepped out of the old trailer and jogged to his pickup.
Ben took another swallow of bitter coffee, before dumping the rest of the foul stuff down the toilet. He’d start a fresh pot in the morning.
Stretching so that his back creaked, he thought about leaving, then sat down again in the worn swivel chair behind his metal desk. He shuffled a few papers, and wondered when he’d feel confident enough to hire a secretary. Not right away. He picked up a manila folder and let the check fall into the mess that was his desk. Fifty-thousand big ones. More money than he’d ever seen in his life and he hadn’t even had to sign for it. All because he was now related to Hayden Monroe IV. Ben shouldn’t take it—just stuff the damned piece of paper into an envelope and send it back, but he was too practical not to realize the value of this—a peace offering—from his sister’s new husband.
“I just want to set things straight,” Hayden had told him when he and Nadine had returned from their week-long honeymoon in the Bahamas. “For the past.”
“That had nothing to do with me,” Ben had replied.
Hayden’s jaw had clamped tight. “This was my idea, not Nadine’s. Hell, she doesn’t even know about it.”
“Deal with my dad.”
Hayden had leveled him a gaze that could cut through solid steel. “I did, Powell. Now this is between us. Just you and me. Think of this money as an advance or a loan or a damned gift, I don’t care, but rebuild Nadine’s cabin the way she wants it. You can take your profit off the top, then pay me back when you can.” Hayden’s gaze had brooked no argument and the nostrils of his nose—a nose Ben had nearly broken just a few weeks ago—had flared with indignation.
It was a generous offer, one Ben could hardly refuse, so he’d agreed, but he’d had the proper legal papers drawn so that it was duly recorded that he was borrowing money from Monroe and the debt would be repaid within four years.
Ben had grown up believing that a person earned his way in the world, that he couldn’t expect something for nothing, and he wasn’t going to accept Hayden Monroe’s money just to ease his new brother-in-law’s conscience. This was a business matter. And a chance to rebuild his sister’s cabin, so family loyalty was involved. However, the sooner he paid back the debt, the better he’d feel.
Satisfied, he filled out the deposit slip for his new business and stuffed the paperwork into his briefcase. His father had called him a fool, referred to Hayden’s investment as “blood money.” Well, maybe George was right. It didn’t matter. For once Ben wasn’t going to kick the golden goose out of his path.
He’d been frugal, picking up this old trailer from Fitzpatrick Logging for a song, and putting it on an empty lot on the outskirts of town zoned for commercial use. He’d bought the weed-infested lot from a man who lived in Seattle and who had once planned to retire in the area. Later, because of the downturn in the California economy, the owner had changed his mind about his retirement plans and gladly sold the piece of ground to Ben. Once the lot was paid off, Ben planned to build himself an office complex, but that dream was a long way off. First he needed to line up more work than just the construction of a lakeside cabin for his sister and the renovation of the old Victorian house on Bitner Street.
Ben’s bid for the Bitner job had been lower than any of his competitors’ because he was hungrier and he wanted a real job, not a handout from his brother-in-law. Mrs. Hunter, the owner of the building, wanted it to be brought up to date: cleaned, repaired, remodeled, “whatever it takes” to get it ready to sell. She was a sly woman who had a vacancy that she hoped to fill and she’d decided Ben would make a perfect tenant for her downstairs studio. “We could do a trade. You get free rent and I get a little knocked off the bill?” She’d smiled sweetly, bobbing her head of blue-gray curls, but Ben had declined, preferring to keep a little distance between himself and the people who hired him.
However, Dora Hunter wasn’t to be outmaneuvered. “You think about it,” she’d told him during their last conversation. “It could be mighty convenient and I could come up with a deal you’d be a fool to pass up.”
Ben had decided right then and there that there was a shrewd businesswoman with a will of iron lurking behind the grandmotherly persona of apple cheeks and rimless spectacles. At seventy-eight, Mrs. Hunter was tired of the problems associated with owning and managing an apartment building and was ready to retire to Palm Springs to be closer to her daughter and good-for-nothing son-in-law. She’d confided in Ben as she’d signed their contract. “He’s a bum, but Sonja loves him, so what does it matter what I think? Besides, there’s the grandchildren...” She’d clucked her tongue. “Hard to believe that man could father such adorable boys. Ahh, well...” She’d put down the pen, looked up at Ben with a twinkle in her blue eyes and stuck out her hand. “Looks like we have a bargain, Mr. Powell.”
“Ben.” Her grip was amazingly strong.
“Only if you call me Dora.”
“It’s a deal.”
So Ben had a contract for his first “real job,” and it felt good, damned good, even if he wouldn’t make a ton of money. He had a chance to prove himself and, if Mrs. Hunter—Dora—was satisfied with the quality of his work, word would get out. In a town the size of Gold Creek word of mouth was worth more than thousands of dollars of paid advertising in the Clarion.
The Hunter apartments and Nadine’s cabin were just the beginning of his plan. He figured there were ample opportunities in Gold Creek, Coleville and the neighboring communities. He intended to specialize in remodeling rather than developing new projects. A lot of the buildings in Gold Creek were steeped in history and charm but nearly desolate in the way of modern conveniences. Most of the commercial property in the center of town had been built in the early part of the century and though attractive and quaint, needed new wiring, plumbing, insulation, heating and cooling systems or face-lifts.
Ben was determined to find work, even if he had to swallow his pride and offer his services to Fitzpatrick Logging, though that particular thought stuck in hi
s gut. He locked the single-wide trailer behind him. In the army, he’d learned about construction and had taken enough college courses at different universities and through correspondence to graduate as a building engineer.
Now all he needed was a break or two. Hayden Monroe had given him his first. Dora Hunter had provided the second. It was just a matter of time, then maybe he’d settle down in this town, find himself a wife and... Thoughts of Carlie crashed through his cozy little dreams and he threw a dark look at the sky. Why couldn’t he get her out of his mind? Ever since the day of Nadine’s wedding, when he’d first spied her through the binoculars, he hadn’t been able to quit thinking about her. She was on his mind morning, noon and night.
And, as before, nights were definitely the worst, he thought, grimacing as he strode across the gravel to his pickup. He’d spent the past week tossing and sweating in his bed or under the spray of an ice-cold shower. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, Carlie Surrett had gotten into his blood again.
But not for long. She definitely wasn’t the kind of woman he intended to spend the rest of his life with. A hot-tempered New York model, a sophisticated photographer—an artiste, for God’s sake. No, the woman he’d finally ask to marry him would be a simple girl, born and raised in this small town with no ambitions other than to have a couple of kids and enjoy life. He knew it was an antiquated picture of the American family, but it was exactly the kind of family he’d wanted ever since he’d left the army.
He had no room for Carlie in his life.
Besides, she was the last woman he should want. He had only to remember back to that horror-riddled night of Kevin’s death....
“Don’t!” he told himself as he noticed the first fat drops of rain fall from the sky.
Muttering under his breath, he threw his briefcase onto the seat of the old truck and had started the engine when he saw the dog—a dusty black German shepherd—lying near the side of the trailer. He hesitated, knowing he was taking on more than he’d bargained for, then let the truck idle.
Whistling softly, he climbed out of the cab. The shepherd’s ears pricked forward for a second and he snarled.
Ben lowered himself to one knee and began talking softly.
The dog growled.
“This is not a way to make friends and influence people,” he told the animal.
They didn’t move for a while, each staring the other down, before Ben whistled again.
The dog didn’t respond.
“Come on, boy.” Ben inched closer and watched the shepherd. Balanced on the balls of his feet, Ben was ready to spring backward if the dog decided to lunge. “Okay, now what’s going on here?” he asked as the animal issued a low warning. The shepherd tried to get up, stumbled and Ben saw the blood, a sticky purple pool, beneath the animal’s belly. With surprising speed, the dog attacked, snapping, and Ben jumped back. Now what? He couldn’t leave the animal there to die.
Knowing he was probably making a mistake, he climbed into the truck, found his leather gloves, a shank of rope and a thick rawhide jacket. After spreading a tattered blanket in the bed of the truck, he approached the dog calmly as he worked the rope into a slipknot.
“Okay, boy, let’s see what you’ve got,” he said.
The animal lunged again, but Ben was ready for him, avoiding the sharp teeth as he slipped the noose over the dog’s head and barked out his own command. “No!”
The animal froze.
“Down!”
Still no movement.
“That’s better.” Ben fashioned a muzzle with some hemp and braved the snarling jaws to quiet the animal. For his efforts he was nipped on the sleeve. “You are a bastard,” Ben ground out, enjoying the fight a little. “I’m gonna win, you know. Whether you like it or not, I’m taking you to the nearest vet and you’re going to be stitched up so you can bite the next idiot who tries to take care of you.”
Carefully Ben carried the writhing dog to the truck and laid him, snarling and frustrated, on the tattered blanket. “Stay!” Ben commanded, knowing the dog was too weak to stand or leap from the vehicle. He climbed in the front, snapped on the wipers, threw the rig into gear and headed into town, hoping that Dr. Vance and the veterinary clinic were still on the west end of town.
What was wrong with him? Ever since he’d landed in Gold Creek, he seemed destined on some sort of collision course with fate. First his battle with Hayden Monroe, then Carlie—hell, what a mess that was—and now the dog. The damned dog. One more problem that he didn’t need.
* * *
CARLIE RUBBED THE kinks out of her neck. She’d spent a long day in the darkroom and couldn’t wait to get home to a hot shower, a glass of wine and a good book.
Just before leaving the studio, she’d called Thomas Fitzpatrick, agreed to take the photographs for the logging company’s annual report, and wondered why she felt as if she’d sold her soul to the devil. The man was just offering her work, after all; it wasn’t as if he’d committed a major sin. He’d visited her father, as promised, and broken the news to Weldon that his job couldn’t be held. Her father, always a prideful man, hadn’t fallen apart. In fact he’d been grateful that Fitzpatrick had promised to find another position for him as soon as Weldon was fit enough to spend four or five hours at the logging company. “You can work as many hours as you want, kind of ease into the job again,” Thomas had told Weldon as he’d clapped him on the back. “The logging company’s just not the same without you.”
Her father had eaten it up, but Carlie had been unsettled by Fitzpatrick’s practiced smile and easy charm. She remembered that he’d once planned a career in politics and she didn’t trust him any more than she would a king cobra. He was too smooth to be real. And then there was all that trouble and scandal concerning Jackson.
So why are you planning to do business with him? her tired mind demanded. For the money. Pure and simple. Just in case the bastard had lied to her father.
As for Ben’s insinuations about the man, they were just plain false. She’d spoken to Fitzpatrick several times, her senses on guard, and each time he’d been a gentleman. Ben, damn him, had been wrong.
But he’d been wrong about a lot of things, she thought darkly, wondering if he had an inkling of the fact that he’d nearly been a father.... The pain in her heart ached and she shoved those agonizing thoughts far away, where no one could ever find them.
She drove to her parents’ apartment and managed a smile as she opened the door. “Hi! Thought I’d stop by—” She stopped in midsentence as she felt in the air that something was wrong—dreadfully wrong.
“Carlie?” Her mother’s voice shook a little and her footsteps were quick as they carried her down the stairs. White lines of strain bracketed her mouth and she looked as if she’d been crying.
“What’s wrong?” Carlie asked, her heart knocking.
“Thank God you’re here.” Thelma’s voice cracked and she had to blink against an onslaught of tears. “It’s your father. He’s...he’s in the hospital.”
“The hospital?” Carlie whispered, her heart pounding with dread.
“He...he got that numb feeling again—you know, I told you it happened a couple of times before—and he couldn’t move very well and I called the emergency number and an ambulance took him to County General.... Oh, Lord, it was awful, Carlie. I stayed with him for a couple of hours, just to make sure he was resting, but then the doctor convinced me I should go home, that there wasn’t anything more I could do. I didn’t want to leave him—” Her voice cracked and Carlie hugged her mother tightly.
“Shh. He’ll be fine,” Carlie said, hoping for the best and knowing that her words held a hollow ring.
“They’re sayin’ it might be a stroke—a bigger one. Oh, Lord, I can’t imagine your father all crippled up. It’ll kill him, sure as I’m standin’ here.”
“Oh, come on, Mom, don’t think that way,” Carlie said, though she was smiling through her tears. A stroke?
Thelma sniffed, attempted a
smile and failed miserably. “I tried to call you, but by that time, you were already gone.”
“So what did the doctor say? What exactly?”
“A lot of things I didn’t understand,” she admitted and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “The gist of it is that your father’s out of immediate danger, whatever that means.”
“Well, it sounds encouraging.”
“I’m not so sure.” Thelma wrung her hands and walked into the kitchen with Carlie, fearing the worst, following behind. “They’ve taken more tests and well, they practically wore poor Weldon out with all their poking and prodding....” Her voice faded and she stared out the window to the rainy winter night. “All we can do is pray.”
Carlie’s heart seemed to drop to her knees. Her father couldn’t be seriously ill, could he? He’d always been so big and strapping—a man’s man. Now he was frail?
“Come on, Mom,” she heard herself saying as she walked on wooden legs. “Let’s go see how he is and I’ll talk to the doctors. Then, if we think we can leave him, I’ll buy you dinner.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Don’t be silly, Mom. I want to. Now get your coat.”
Thelma didn’t argue and Carlie ushered her out to the Jeep. The ride to the hospital took less than thirty minutes and Carlie spent the entire time willing her father to live, to be as strong as he once was.
She’d always depended upon her father. Whenever she had been in trouble, she’d turned to him, listening to his advice. He was kind and strong, not well educated, but wise to the world and she’d adored him. Even when they’d argued, which had happened more frequently in her teenaged years, they had never lost respect for each other because of the special bond they shared.