"Not when I see something I like, I don't," he answered, looking her right in the eye and enjoying the slightly shocked expression on her face. He pressed his advantage, "The band's real good. May I have this dance, Miss Lockwood?"
Jenny had a sneaking suspicion if she danced with this man once she'd never be able to be mad at him again, but right now, the risk seemed more than worth it. She took off her apron and came out from behind the table, taking the hand he offered.
They walked to the edge of the dance floor. He took his hat off, turned it crown down on the nearest table, and held out his arms. She moved into his loose embrace. He caught the two-step beat without hesitation and Jenny picked up the pattern automatically. She hadn't danced in years, but there are some things you don't forget . . . and some you do. Like how it felt to be this close to a man.
Josh was a good dancer, and a strong lead. They circled the floor and Jenny relaxed against him. She didn't object when the first dance led to the second, or the second to the third, and she didn't hesitate to lay her cheek against his when the musicians played an old song. For the first time in her life, Jenny thought she might be able to waltz across Texas with a man -- even if that man was Josh Baxter.
"Mandy, it's beautiful!" Joe said staring in disbelief at the interior of the old ranch house. Outside it still gave the appearance of a turn-of-the-century structure, but inside it was a gracious expanse of polished hardwood floors, sparkling white paint, and modern amenities.
"Come see the kitchen," she said, leading him to the back of the house.
The gleaming stainless steel appliances and new island were enough to make a cook's heart turn over, but Joe walked straight to the freshly installed picture window that looked down the sloping meadow behind the house toward the river. The breakfast table sat in front of the view, already outfitted with a vase of flowers.
"Wow."
Mandy laughed. "Is that all you can say?"
"Well, it's pretty 'wow' worthy. You've done a great job."
"You make it sound like I did all the work," she said. "I didn't drive so much as one nail on this place."
"No, but I bet you know where every one went," he said. "This is why I want you to join the revitalization project. Your eye for detail is fantastic, Mandy. We need you . . . I need you," he finished softly, glancing away.
"That's awful sweet of you, Joe," she said, coming to stand beside him. "But you need to stop being so bashful. We've been having lunch together at least three times a week since I've been back in town and you're still blushing around me."
He turned and met her eyes, making the breath catch in her chest. "Because I still can't believe a beautiful woman like you is spending time with me."
"You're not hard on the eyes yourself," she whispered.
That single heartbeat passed between them, the one that could let the moment pass or could nudge it forward. In the end, momentum won the day. Joe leaned in and softly captured her lips as Mandy brought her arms around his neck. That was all Joe needed to hold her closer and deepen the kiss, encouraged by the soft moan that escaped her throat.
Long minutes passed before Mandy pulled back and whispered, "We need to get back to the barbecue."
"I'm not hungry for barbecue," he grinned, kissing her again.
"Behave," she teased, giving him a mock push.
"Okay, fine," he relented, but he didn't let her go. "But only if you'll join me for supper tomorrow night . . . at my place?" He made the last words a question and his eyes were hopeful.
Trying not to be obvious about the fact she was already counting the hours, Mandy said simply, "I'd love to."
Jolene turned from watching Josh and Jenny on the dance floor only to catch sight of Mandy and Joe walking back from the old house hand-in-hand. She smiled. Mandy said she intended to get Joe over his case of bashful and it would seem she succeeded. Jenny was obviously giving Josh Baxter a second chance. Things appeared to be looking up for the Lockwood women.
Just then Jolene noticed Kate and John Fisk walking together up the river bank toward the crowd. Well, okay, scratch that. They were moving in the same direction and making small talk, but Jolene knew instantly "together" was not the right word for what she was seeing. She could feel the tension between them from where she sat on the other side of the river bottom.
"Rick," she said.
"Hmm," her husband mumbled from under the brim of his hat that he'd pulled down over his eyes.
"Wake up," she said, giving his shoulder a shove.
"Huh. What? I'm awake, I'm awake," he said sitting up groggily. "Are you okay? Is something wrong?"
"What do the men at the cafe say about John Fisk?"
"There you go again, making it sound like we're a bunch of gossiping fish wives," Rick grumbled. "We drink coffee and discuss politics."
"Fine, fine, whatever," she said, her eyes still on the moving figures. "What do the men say about him?"
"That he's an odd duck," Rick said, following her gaze and frowning.
"Odd how?"
"Well, he came in there with his Daddy last week. Buck Miller stood up to leave and John took his chair."
"So?"
"He wiped it off before he sat down."
Jolene turned toward him with arched eyebrows. "He did what?"
"Buck had been working sheep all morning. He smelled like it, too. John wiped off the chair before he sat down, and then when everybody gave him hell about it, he got real pissed off. He didn't say anything because his Daddy was sitting right there, but you could tell he was fit to be tied. When they left, John slammed the door of George's Caddy so hard the whole car shook. Why do you ask?"
"I don't know," Jolene said, turning her eyes back toward Kate and John. They had reached the food table again and Fisk was handing her a glass of ice tea, a smile plastered on his face. Kate, looking relieved, took it and smiled back. "There's just something about that ole boy that doesn't set right with me."
16
"Johnny, there's a rude Yankee on Line 1 who says he has to speak to you."
"Maybelle, how many times do I have to ask you not to call me Johnny?"
The dowager secretary of the law firm of Fisk & Fisk planted her diamond bedecked fists on her Spandex encased hips and scowled. "I have changed your diapers, Johnny Fisk," she snapped. "Don't you go getting high headed with me."
John passed a hand over his eyes. Some battles weren't even worth starting. "Fine. Did you call the flower shop and ask them to deliver roses out to the Lockwood's?"
"I did, but do you have any idea what that woman is charging you for delivery?" Maybelle huffed.
"I don't care." He reached for the phone, shooing Maybelle out with his free hand. "Close the door, please."
With a barely disguised "well, I never," Maybelle shut the office door. John waited until the staccato click of her heels faded toward the front of the building to punch the button for Line 1. "John Fisk," he said.
"You solved one problem and created another," the man on the other end of the line said.
"Mr. . . ."
"I told you, no names," he barked.
"Sir," Fisk corrected himself, "I'm working on resolving the situation."
"You're not billing by the hour, counselor. You know exactly what's in this for us both and I need you to make this thing happen . . . one way or another. And be a little neater this time, eh?"
"Yes, sir."
The line went dead. Fisk replaced the receiver in the cradle and put his head in his hands. None of this was working out the way he intended. His entire plan . . . his tidy, logical, business-like plan . . . unraveled because Langston Lockwood was a stubborn old son of a bitch.
That day in the barn John offered Lockwood a good solution, one that would save them both and cost the old bastard only a few hundred acres, but what did he do? Dropped to his knees and pulled out a pistol he must have tucked in the back of his jeans at the small of his back.
"Mr. Lockwood!" John cried in horror. "What are you doing?
"
"Making your problems a hell of a lot worse, Johnny Fisk. Tell your Daddy Langston Lockwood said go to hell." With those words, and with an evil grin on his lined, leathery face, he pulled the trigger.
Now John couldn't close his eyes without seeing it. That silverbelly Stetson floating back down to the ground, stained in red gore, the crown blown out. It came to rest by Lockwood's ruined head in a spreading pool of blood.
John fought the urge to turn and run. What was he going to do? "Think, damn it, think," he muttered to himself.
If he just left, would anyone be the wiser? Looking down, John saw he was standing on a littering of fresh hay. His footprints were indistinguishable from Langston's in the soft earth of the barn floor.
This was good, very good. He couldn't be found here, but first there was the matter of getting out without creating any more marks in the dirt. The barn's low hanging crossbeams gave him his answer. He'd done it on the obstacle course in high school, why not now?
John jumped up and caught the first beam, wincing when a splinter from the rough wood jammed into his palm. Time to worry about that later. Straining against the burning pain in his shoulders, he swung from beam to beam, slowly crossing the distance to the door where he dropped down on a feed sack.
Fisk held the frame of the door for support and looked out. It was an easy reach for the pen around the corral. Move along the fence rail, then off on the rocky ground between the barn and his car. He could get off this place and never leave a trace. With a 15 mph wind out of the west, the tire tracks would be gone in a matter of minutes.
Safely behind the wheel of his Accord, John threw one last hurried look around and forced himself to drive out slowly. All anyone would see was a man pulling out a client's gate under perfectly normal circumstances.
This was his lucky day. The lane was empty, and stayed that way to the main road. The smooth feel of the asphalt under his tires soothed his jangled nerves, and the shaking of his hands began to subside a little. It wouldn't do to turn up back at the office looking like he'd just committed a crime. In fact, no crime was committed. You can't be accused of failing to render aid to a man who blew his own brains out with a .45.
As long as John played his cards right, not even his own father would know his son was on the Rocking L that day, or how John overplayed his hand and elicited a . . . countermove . . . from Langston Lockwood.
"Goddamn that man to hell!" Fisk exclaimed with sudden rage, beating his palms on the steering wheel and wincing as the splinter embedded itself deeper. "He'd rather blow his own brains out than give an inch. Son of a bitch!"
With a ragged breath, John made himself run it all over in his head. Slowly a plan started to form in his mind. Surely one of the girls would get the ranch. And John Fisk would get that girl. He didn't care which one. They were all pretty enough.
Kate would be the easiest. She'd been sweet on him since high school, and from what he could tell, hadn't been on a date in years. She'd be easy pickings. Lonely spinster ranch woman. He could handle that. He could handle her. There wasn't a woman alive he couldn't handle. Most of them were stupid anyway.
Little did John Fisk realize how much he didn't know. The terms of Langston Lockwood's will. The fact that in a split second the most hated man in the county managed to kill himself in such a way none of his daughters believed he'd done it -- that damned hat, being on his knees, even the gun he used.
If Langston had been a demon to deal with in life, he was proving to be Lucifer himself in death. And he'd just put John Fisk in a very low level of hell.
17
"Can you imagine what Lenore down at the flower shop charged him to bring those roses out here?! Jenny exclaimed, eyeing the vase sitting in the middle of the kitchen table.
"Is that her name?" Mandy asked, drawing espresso shots from the machine.
"You don't remember Lenore?" Jenny asked, turning the vase to admire the blooms.
"No. Is 'DownAtTheFlowerShop' her last name? That's how everyone always says it. Lenore DownAtTheFlowerShop."
"Huh, I don't know," Jenny said. "Kate do you know Lenore's last name?"
"DownAtTheFlowerShop," she mumbled, still staring at the stiff white card in her hand. In elegant script, clearly created with an old-fashioned fountain pen, John Fisk had written, "Forgive me for being so churlish on Saturday. My mind was on a case when it should have been on you. Can we try that walk again? -- John."
Churlish? Who says "churlish?" But in spite of herself, Kate liked the courtly language, and she liked the flowing liquid of the lines. The real ink felt Old World and sincere. The sound of her sisters' laughter snapped her out of her reverie. "What?" she asked sharply, looking up.
"You haven't heard one word we said," Mandy giggled. "You're too busy thinking about John Fisk sending you a dozen red roses."
Kate made a dismissive sound in the back of her throat. "Ferguson. Lenore's last name is Ferguson. I heard every word you said."
"I'm guessing that was some walk you and John took at the barbecue," Jenny teased.
"You'd be guessing wrong," Kate said. "He was in a foul mood and we didn't say more than six words to each other. The flowers are an apology. Said his mind was on a case."
"Well, that was thoughtful of him," Mandy said, coming to join them at the table. "By the way, I'm leaving the machine for you. I bought another one."
"Great!" Kate said sarcastically. "Now your addiction is up to $14,000."
"MY addiction?" Mandy protested. "You would be the one, I believe, who shuffled in here on Day Two and said, 'So, Baby Sister, how does this thing work?'"
"Machines interest me," Kate said, but she was smiling. "And thanks. A person gets used to this high octane swill pretty fast."
All three women looked up at the sound of tires on the gravel out front. "Are you expecting anyone?” Jenny asked Kate.
"No," Kate answered, putting her cup down and standing. "I'll see who it is."
A few minutes later she came back into the kitchen with Ranger Jack Swinton, hat in hand, behind her. "Morning, ladies," he said.
"Good morning, Captain Swinton," Mandy said brightly. "Can I make you an espresso? latte? cappuccino?"
Looking a little uncertain, Swinton asked, "Just some plain old coffee?"
Jenny laughed. "Sit down. I'll make a pot."
"Do you have new information for us, Jack?" Kate said.
"Not much," Swinton said, putting his hat on the counter and taking a seat at the table. "Someone was in the barn with your Daddy, but I think he did kill himself."
"How can you be certain someone was with him?" Kate asked.
"Well, the other day before I left, I stopped to take some more pictures. It's an interesting old barn. Those low rafters are unusual."
"Those were put in when the new horse stalls were built," Kate said. "Daddy had an idea about flooring the middle section, maybe creating some storage space up off the ground. He never got around to it. Why? Is that important."
"Well, I climbed up in the hay loft to get an overhead shot of the area, and I made out some hand prints in the dust on the rafters. Looks like to me somebody jumped up and caught hold, then swung hand over hand to the door and out of the barn. But here's the good part. Whoever it was jammed a big ole splinter in his hand and left blood stains on every other rafter. I collected a sample, but all I can tell you is that it's A positive blood."
"What about fingerprints?" Kate asked.
"I checked every rafter," Swinton said, shaking his head. "The wood is too rough. Not a usable print on a single one."
Jenny frowned, "So you think someone stood there and did nothing while Daddy pulled the trigger?"
Swinton scrubbed at his jaw, "Yes. The crime scene photos show your Daddy holding the gun. That's soft dirt in there. If someone had tried to position a weapon that big in your Dad's hand there would be no hiding it."
"And the coroner is sure Daddy wasn't sick?" Mandy asked.
"I've seen more thorough
autopsy reports," Swinton admitted, "but his heart and lungs were fine. No cancer. His business affairs were in order. Not a penny of debt."
"So is it suicide or homicide?" Kate asked.
"Well, Katie," Swinton said, "officially, I can't argue with a finding of suicide."
"And unofficially?" she said.
"Something's not right," the ranger said, tapping the table for emphasis. "I can't put my finger on what. You don't just stand there and watch a man blow . . . er . . .”
"It's okay," Jenny said. "We were raised out here. We have a good idea of what a .45 does."
"It doesn't add up," Swinton said, "but unless we find the other person who was in the barn, I don't think we'll ever know what happened."
"Can we find out who it was?" Mandy asked.
"Ma’am, all we've got is a shadow on a wall and a few drops of blood on a dusty rafter. No witnesses. Not a security camera on the place. I don't see how."
After Swinton finished his coffee and drove away, the three sisters sat silently at the table until Jenny finally asked, "Now what?"
"I feed the stock, you get to your work day, and Mandy goes about getting ready for her supper with ole Just Joe," Kate said.
"We let it go?" Jenny asked in disbelief. "Just like that?"
"What else are we going to do?" Kate asked, standing up and reaching for her hat on the peg by the back door. "I'll catch you all later."
Mandy and Jenny watched her through the window as she crossed the yard with long strides, checked the deer feeders to see if they were full, and then disappeared around the corner of house.
"I can't believe she can accept all those unknowns," Jenny said, shaking her head. "Just goes off to work like this was any other day. We found out somebody was with Daddy when he killed himself and did nothing to stop him. She acts like it's nothing."
"Work makes her feel better," Mandy said. "Feeding the stock and doing that other stuff lets her think. She's like Daddy that way."
What they couldn't know was that at that moment, standing in the open door of the barn, their sister was placing a phone call.
The Lockwood Legacy - Books 1-6: Plus Bonus Short Stories Page 8