Between Dusk and Dawn

by Alfie Thompson

  She frowned. Sam's alarm clock? If so, it was awfully loud. Perhaps he still didn't feel well and had gone back to bed after he finished the chores. She pounded the door, the sound of her fist startlingly loud in the sudden silence.

  She raised her fist for a second go.

  "Hi." Sam came up behind her.

  She whirled, grabbing her chest. "You scared me."

  "I'm sorry." He was out of breath as if he'd been run­ning. He paused, one foot on the ground, the other on the step, as if wary of coming closer. Could she blame him?

  Except for his clothes, Sam had reverted to the character she'd met in this very spot two nights ago. His face was pale; dark shadows minimized the usual brilliance of his eyes.

  "You're not feeling better?" she asked, trying to decide where he had appeared from. She would have seen him come around the corner of the house from the direction of the barn.

  "Sure. The potato soup must have helped." If he'd smiled, she would have thought he was teasing her. In­stead, he was silent, watchful.

  "You sure you're up to doing the chores?"

  "Just finished."

  "I wanted to let you know I'm going into town. So if you have any questions or need anything...?" She let the words trail lamely.

  "I'll have to wait," he finished for her.

  “Or you can try to call.” She held up her cell skeptically and the smile she offered felt stiff and awkward. She’d given him her number on the way back from town yesterday. "Well, that's all I wanted to tell you." She hesitated. She'd have to pass him on the steps—steps that usually seemed plenty wide and roomy. With him and his broad shoulders occupying them, they seemed very small.

  She turned sideways to avoid brushing against him, but one of his hands closed over her shoulder. His look was as potent as his mouth had been.

  "Jonna?" He drawled her name softly. "Would you mind if I put off working on the fences one more day? I still feel a little weak," he explained. "I'd like to stay close to the house, if you don't mind."

  "I guess it doesn't matter anymore than it would have yesterday." She headed for the mini-truck.

  "Any suggestions about things that need to be done around here?" He followed her to her door.

  The list was endless. She thought of all the things that had been neglected the past few years. "No one's really looked at the equipment in the tack room since my father died. It all needs to be gone through," she said. "Some of it needs minor repairs. Some of it needs to be thrown out. Do what you know how to, and put aside anything you have ques­tions about."

  "Okay." He nodded.

  She had one foot inside the pickup before her conscience caught up with her again. "And Sam?" She draped her arm over the top of the door. "If you feel bad, go back to bed. I am really not a slave driver. You look exhausted."

  He hid some indefinable emotion behind a long slow blink. "I didn't sleep well last night," he admitted.

  "That's only fair," she said. "Me neither."

  He grinned as if he couldn't help himself and she felt a sudden, shared warmth. And she wanted to thank him ef­fusively for subtly trying to tell her it hadn't all been her, that the evening's activities had kept him tossing and turn­ing, too.

  Be careful, Jonna Sanders. You're letting him under your skin.

  And she had. She knew she had. He was there like an itch that couldn't be scratched.

  She watched him in the rearview mirror until she rounded the curve in the drive and couldn't see him anymore. He hadn't moved an inch.

  A car slowed, its turn signal came on.

  Someone wanting directions, probably.

  She glanced over her shoulder to see Sam jogging down the drive to meet the visitor. A warning scowl as dark as thunder marred his face. He really took all that you're- alone-and-unprotected nonsense seriously, she realized, and suddenly felt just the opposite. And maybe not such a fool.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Jonna's watch said a little after nine by the time she reached Whitfield. Usually, she was barely on her second cup of coffee by now. After she picked up the tickets for next Fri­day's flight, she joined the coffee crowd at Millie's.

  "Hi, darlin'," Millie greeted her from behind the cash register. "Two days in a row? How'd we get so lucky?" She glanced behind Jonna toward the door. "And you didn't bring your handsome fella," she added in mock disap­pointment.

  "Someone has to work," Jonna said, giving back Mil­lie's banter. "How else do you think I can come in to town two days in a row? Where is everyone?"

  "My! It has been awhile since you've been here at coffee time. I moved the early crowd back to the meeting room several months ago. Those old codgers were running off the paying customers, taking over all the tables and spreading out like they owned the place."

  Jonna laughed and made her way toward the private din­ing room that housed most of Whitfield's "state" dinners. Entering reminded her she'd never gotten around to join­ing the Chamber of Commerce. This was where they met once a month and Moss had been after her about it for three years.

  Moss was at the far end, engrossed in a good-natured but passionate discussion with two of the town's councilmen. He raised a hand in her direction, then dived back in to defend his argument.

  Mr. Wedman, the owner of the property next to hers, pulled out a chair, inviting her to join the group.

  The circle grew smaller as, one by one, they drifted away, back to jobs and their various responsibilities.

  "So-o-o-o, how's my Girlie," Moss finally said, scoot­ing his coffee cup and moving to the chair beside her.

  "So-o-o-o, when are you going to quit calling me that?" she asked, buzzing his grizzled old cheek with a kiss as he sank his lean, slightly bent body down next to her.

  "Soon," he said, "real soon."

  "Yeah, you said that twenty years ago." Jonna grinned.

  "I'm working on it," he said. "Now. Are you going to catch me up on all your happenings out there?"

  "I was kinda' hoping for the chance."

  "Then I'm all ears," he said.

  "Well, I'm pretty much ready for the trip to Califor­nia," she started.

  "Did you get something to really razzle-dazzle 'em at the awards ceremony when you went to Kansas City last week?"

  "I hope so," she said.

  "Nerves setting in?"

  "Yes," she answered truthfully. "I had a heck of a time choosing something to wear. You should have gone shop­ping with me. I could have used a second opinion."

  Moss chuckled. "And what I know about women's fash­ions you could fit in this." He doffed his ever present base­ball cap, smoothed the few strands of gray hair back down across the top of his head and replaced the cap, wiggling it until it settled just so into the permanent groove that cir­cled his head.

  "You could have kept me from buying two dresses."

  "You can finally afford it," Moss said.

  Jonna lifted a shoulder and sighed. "One, I'll never wear and the other I'll wear only once. Now how much sense does that make?"

  "You work hard. You deserve your rewards."

  "But this isn't a reward. It's an extravagance because I couldn't make up my mind."

  "And if that's the worst thing you ever do, you're in good shape.'' Moss covered his cup with his hand as the waitress reappeared with more coffee. "Come on. Millie's going to charge me rent." Moss slowly lifted his lanky frame. "Walk with me down to the post office."

  They both said their farewells to the few remaining drinkers as Moss dug in his pocket for his wallet. "I'll get it," he warned Jonna as she started to open her purse. He plunked down the money for both coffees and a tip on the cash register a minute later, and Millie zinged them with a few parting shots as they walked out into the warm, sunny morning.

  Moss led Jonna between a couple of parked cars to the street and they crossed to the other side, disregarding Whitfield's one traffic light half a block away. "Wish Becky would have lived a while longer," he said as they stepped onto the opposite curb.
/>   "I remember her vaguely. But I don't remember what having a mother was like," Jonna admitted. "Isn't that horrible? You'd think I would."

  "Probably because your daddy was such a strong personality," Moss assured her, stretching out his arm in front of him and rubbing his chest just below his shoulder. He eased back on his long stride and Jonna thankfully slowed the too-fast gait she'd had to use to keep up with him.

  "You're a smart and beautiful woman, Jonna." He hooked his thumbs into the tool loops of his loose overalls. "Just like your mother. It's too bad she wasn't around to give you some of her confidence."

  "But she wasn't," Jonna said. "And if you're right about me being so wonderful, I'll surely gain some someday, don't you think?"

  Moss didn't chuckle. Instead, the corner of his mouth curved up slightly. "You don't have any reason not to," he said seriously. Turning, he started up the incline leading into the post office.

  "I'll wait out here," she murmured. "The sunshine feels good." She watched his stooped shape go, a huge lump forming in her throat. God, she loved that man. He kept warning her he wouldn't be around forever, and she couldn't face the thought. She buried her hands in the pockets of her jacket and pulled the loose ends taut down over her jeans, warding off a shiver.

  He appeared a moment later with a small bundle of mail. He leafed through it as he walked, then stashed it in one of the huge pockets of his overalls.

  "I take it you hired the new man," he said as he wan­dered back toward Main Street. "Otherwise you wouldn't be in town so early.''

  "Yeah," she admitted.

  "You think he's going to be okay?"

  "I'm reserving judgment," she said after a moment.

  “Yeah, I guess it's a little early to tell," he agreed.

  "He's... different than anyone else I've hired," she said after a moment. "What's with him?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, his background. He said he didn't have a lot of experience—and I don't have a problem with that. You'd already told me—but he's so... so... private. And his atti­tude!"

  "Bad?"

  "Well, not really," she said. "He's willing enough to take initiative. He was up to do the morning chores yesterday before I even got out of bed and he's already fixed Dad's old pickup—"

  Moss stopped. "He wasn't coming until today."

  She shrugged. "I know that’s what you said, but he showed up Wednesday evening."

  Moss frowned.

  "We planned to come by the store when we were in town yesterday, then he got a touch of some kind of stomach bug," she explained. "And Stew had said you were in Em­poria anyway." She lifted one shoulder. "Having him here early was really nice. I didn't have to finish cleaning the house."

  Moss harrumphed a chuckle. He knew how little she liked that type of work.

  "I guess it's working out," she said.

  They had arrived back at Jonna's little mini, and she opened her door, took her purse off her shoulder and slung it inside. Moss closed the door and leaned back against it, studying her with a frown as he stuck the toothpick he'd picked up in the cafe in the corner of his mouth and started chewing. "But?"

  "Oh, I don't know," she said with a sigh of frustration. "I don't have anything concrete to be concerned about, but I keep imagining that... that he's watching me. It's weird, and it’s probably my problem, not his. Or yours. And I should be thrilled. He's even started fixing up odds and ends around the old house. No one has cared much about that kind of thing in a long time."

  "Probably for Carla."

  She scowled. "Carla?"

  Moss eyed her expectantly. "She probably wants the house spiffed up. And she's one who'd nag a husband to death until everything is just her way. She's real picky about things."

  A husband? "But he—" Damn. She couldn't say he wasn't married. She didn't know if he was or not. She hadn't asked, and he sure hadn't volunteered the information. A sinking, repugnant feeling landed in the pit of her stomach.

  Well, if Sam was married, it would explain why he hadn't brought much with him. His wi—she changed the word to Carla. Carla was bringing the majority of it when she came. And he was preparing the house for her arrival.

  But damn him, why had he— Besides feeling foolish, she now felt cheap and dirty.

  She tossed her hands up in the air and let them fall against her legs. "Oh, who knows, Moss. You know me, I didn't ask any of the right questions and now I'm just being my usual insecure, should-have-done-it-differently, uncertain self."

  "You quit saying stuff like that," Moss threatened gruffly, tugging at a strand of her hair as he had when he wanted to get her attention as a child.

  "Yes, sir," she replied. "And I guess when his wife gets here things—"

  "She's not with him?"

  "No. He hasn't said a word about her." She quickly looked away.

  "Well, I guess it’s understandable why they didn't stop by then. Carla would have been the one to insist."

  "Then you don't really know him?"

  Moss grinned at her. "Ah? You're starting to question my wisdom a little?" he teased. "That's a good sign. It's just what I keep telling you. I can give you advice, but you sure as heck shouldn't always take it."

  "Hogwash. You've never steered me wrong."

  "Everyone’s judgment is a little faulty from time to time." A suspicious light dawned in his kindly old eyes. "You didn't hire him just because I suggested him for the job, did you?"

  "It isn't like anyone else has expressed the least bit of in­terest," she said dryly. "And with the trip getting so close, what choice do I have?"

  Moss grasped her chin between his thumb and forefin­ger. "Well, if you're having doubts about him, you follow your heart, Jonna. All I know about him is secondhand."

  "What do you know about him?" Jonna couldn't help but ask.

  He rubbed at the gray stubble on his chin. "His wife is Marge Franklin's daughter. She worked for me...oh, 'bout five years ago... back when I first opened the store and she was in high school. She was a good worker because she is so picky and Marge says Darrell's a hard worker, a wonderful son-in—"

  "Who?"

  Moss cocked his head to one side.

  "What did you say his name was?" she prompted, an awful feeling creeping into her stomach.

  "You mean Darrell?"

  "The man I hired is Sam Barton," she said slowly.

  "Who the hell is he?" His bewildered voice said it all.

  "I hoped you could tell me."

  Moss gnawed at his toothpick as one of her cattle might chew its cud. "Well, since I don't know him, I can't help you much," he drawled.

  "Well, dammit." Jonna grabbed the door handle and started to open it.

  Moss placed his hand over hers. "Hold on, hold on. Don't do anything rash here, girlie. From what you've told me, he sounds like a fairly good guy to have around. He's fixing up the old house?"

  "Yes, but I've got to fire—"

  "Why? Who says?" Moss interrupted. "You don't have to hire anyone just because I referred him. Don't fire this guy just because I suggested Darrell," he said firmly.

  "But he said..." No, on second thought he hadn't said anything about Moss. "I guess I jumped to the conclusion that he was the man you had sent," she corrected sheep­ishly, running a hand over her nape. But Sam hadn't cor­rected her. He'd let her believe it, and in her mind that was as bad as a lie. She put a damper on her agitation and tried to concentrate on what Moss was saying.

  "So who is he?"

  She told him the little she knew.

  "And he thinks being here might help him get over los­ing his sister?"

  She nodded.

  "He may be right. There is something sane and sensible about this kind of work. And there are a lot worse places in the world," Moss agreed.

  "But what about Marge's daughter and—"

  "Darrell and Carla have been wanting to get back to this part of the country for a long time," Moss interrupted. "I just told Marge this mig
ht be a good opportunity—nothing else. I didn't give any of 'em a guarantee you'd give him the job. Besides, I just saw an ad in this week's paper for main­tenance help at the school. I noticed because I thought it was a coincidence since that's what he's been doing in Ohio. He'll have other opportunities and you've got to hire who you want to, Jonna," he said. "If you thought this Sam Barton would do all right for you, then don't get rid of him just because you think you should hire someone I refer. Trust your instincts."