by Jodi Thomas
He put his hands on her waist. “You feel so good,” he whispered, pulling her closer. “How about we forget about the just be friends part for a few minutes.”
“Fine with me. I’ve always liked breakfast passion.” Her lips brushed his ear as she whispered, “And midnight passion, for that matter. Wish I could stay around. There is something about you, Deputy, that draws me.”
Her lips touched his and he was lost. They could have been standing in the center of town where both highways crossed and he wouldn’t have been able to let her go. The kiss was white-hot, the best he’d ever had. Give it ten more seconds and he wouldn’t care if the door was locked or wide-open.
Then, just as suddenly as they’d kissed, she pulled away. “I really do have to run,” she said, as if what they’d just shared hadn’t fried half the brain cells in his head.
“If I came back...” She took a step toward the door.
“When you come back,” he corrected. “Make time for us to have a real date.”
She was five feet away. “I’ll try, but my schedule is unpredictable.”
He moved at a speed that surprised him. In a few steps, he was reaching for the doorknob first. The door was still closed. He was still alone with her.
“Before you go.” He had to think fast. Obviously this was all play to her, but he wanted her back here in Crossroads more than he’d ever wanted anything. “I’ve got a person of interest who I’d like you to check out.”
“I’m interested.”
“You need to see him. He’s one of those people who—well, the parts don’t all seem to fit together. You know, the kind folks say was a real nice guy and then find out he’s a serial killer.”
“I’m interested,” she said again. “I’ll do some digging if you’ll get me all the facts you can. I’ll call when I’m back in Wichita Falls. You think he might be somehow connected to the missing-person report?”
“He could be,” Fifth lied. “The professor looked like the kind who’d report a missing cat on a 911 call.”
She patted Fifth’s chest. “Send me any info you find and I’ll see if I can locate more. If you need me, I can be here in an hour.”
He thought of telling her how he needed her right now, but he’d probably scare her off. Fifth wasn’t the kind to come on strong.
But she was. Chances were she was the type who’d frighten him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Cadmium-yellow dawn
PARKER WOKE TO the beat of an old country song playing so low she thought, for a moment, it was in her mind.
She didn’t open her eyes. She’d heard people say that they slept the sleep of the dead, but she’d never believed it until now. Not even a dream had interfered.
Last night the storm had slowed Clint down after they left I-20, making them arrive late into the night. He’d wanted to drive her to her door but she’d insisted he drop her where the road turned off to her land. After all, it was only a few hundred yards for her to walk.
She swore the man growled and glanced down at her left leg, but he didn’t say a word. He’d done as she ordered in her business I’m the boss tone.
“It’s still sprinkling. You’ll get wet, lady,” he had grumbled as he watched her scramble for shoes she hadn’t worn for over a hundred miles.
They were back to lady. So much for first names.
“At this point I don’t think I’ll even notice the rain.” Not wanting him to know that she already had a houseguest, she added, “I need to do this alone, Mr. Montgomery. I don’t expect you to understand or care if you do.”
“Good,” he said. “I don’t.”
When Parker climbed out of his truck, she noticed that the road was in good shape, but she was too tired to thank him for that. He’d had to spend the money she was paying him on something. At least he kept the road up, and even in the cloudy night sky a dark outline indicated her house was still standing.
She should thank him for that, but Parker had been too tired to say another word last night.
The irritating man had sat in his truck and flashed his brights on her until she finally made the curve in her drive where an old oak seemed to shiver in the wind. Suddenly, she stepped from the light into total darkness. Parker heard him turning around and backtracking the quarter mile to his entrance.
Parker had realized then just how dark it was in the country. Dark, dark. Can’t-see-your-hand-in-front-of-your-face dark.
She’d just stood in the middle of the road for a few minutes, her briefcase in one hand and her Coach purse in the other. Both seemed to weigh twice what they had at noon, and gravel roads were not made for heels.
Slowly, the details of her house materialized. It was a small, two-story building with an attic banked in dormer windows. By the time her eyes had adjusted fully to the night, she was at the steps. She took them one by one, like an aging drunk maneuvering to the front door. Her left leg ached, but the sense of being free overcame all else.
The place was unlocked, thank goodness. She’d never find the single key in the huge purse, in the dark.
Parker had stumbled in and dropped her bags. The next time she bought a big Coach bag, it better come on wheels.
It had been too late to wake Tori. She must have been asleep upstairs, or a few lights would have been on. Tori had said that she worked and slept at odd hours, never knowing when the muse would find her. The last time they’d talked, Parker had promised she’d call when she knew she was arriving, but until she saw the cowboy’s pickup, she wasn’t sure she was really on her way.
Parker had taken three steps in and bumped into a couch.
Furniture?
She remembered that ten years ago the cowboy had said the furnishings went with the house, but she couldn’t recall much being inside the place, and what had been there was dull, dirt brown.
Pulling off her heels, she collapsed on what she believed was a leather cushion. She hadn’t slept in what felt like days, and the constant rain beating the windshield for hours had driven her completely mad.
Now, in the cool morning air, she lay perfectly still, letting her body wake up one muscle at a time. She must have fallen asleep sitting up and then tumbled over like a fallen tree. One shoe was off, and the other felt like it was still on.
She moved her fingers, figuring she’d have to come alive slowly or the shock would kill her.
Warm wool brushed her hand.
Hesitantly, she opened one eye. The first thing to come into view was the long windows, framing a cloudy day with wood that was a shade of light aspen pine, making the room feel almost like a cabin. Thunder rumbled in the distance as musical tings of raindrops tapped the windows and formed tiny rivers down the glass.
She opened the other eye and the full room came into view. Western, she thought, but not overdone. Sagebrush-green walls. Buckskin leather furniture. Open space, making the room look bigger than she remembered. Absolutely nothing on the walls.
Sitting up, she whispered, “My house?”
Laughter shattered the silence. “I hope so, or I’ve been squatting on someone else’s property.”
“Tori?” Parker turned and saw her little artist friend sitting at a bar behind her. With no makeup and her hair in a long midnight braid, the famous Victoria Vilanie looked totally different.
Something else was missing, Parker noticed. There were no dark circles under Tori’s blue eyes, and her pale face had tanned. She no longer wore Goth black, but a red-and-white-checked shirt and jeans rolled up at the ankle.
The girl jumped off the stool and walked toward her, carrying two mugs. “I hoped the music would wake you. I didn’t think you’d be in until today or I would have left a light on.”
All at once they were both talking and hugging like long-lost friends. Parker gave details of her
adventure and Tori gushed about loving it here in the silent, pure light.
Finally, when Tori took a breath, Parker said, “We did it! We ran away.”
“We did.” Tori smiled. “Just like you said. We fell off the face of the earth.”
The worry that had weighed on Parker was gone, and she could see peace in Tori’s eyes, as well. She didn’t seem to realize that half the world was looking for her. She was happy.
“Are you painting?”
“Come see.” Tori grabbed her hand and they ran up the stairs to the attic like two kids.
The small attic room with two huge windows was unfinished. Paint tarps lay on the floor. A table, made of sawhorses and lumber, leaned against one low ceiling. Paint and brushes were scattered across it and test blobs spotted the unfinished boards. Creativity seemed to have exploded in the room.
Parker circled. “They’re beautiful, and so different from anything you’ve ever done.” A few were oils, and others were sketched out on paper. If Tori hadn’t been standing in front of her, she could have never believed the same artist whose dark, moody paintings were in her gallery had also created the calm scenes before her.
“I know. I didn’t paint the first week. I just walked and thought. I feared I might never paint again, but lately it’s like I can’t paint fast enough. None are finished, but I wanted to get my ideas down.”
“You had enough supplies?”
Tori grinned. “No, I’m pretty much out. Thinking of cutting up the sheets for canvas.”
Parker laughed. She knew art and this work was good. Very good. “Before I left the office, I had two huge boxes of supplies shipped to the neighbor. He should get them today or tomorrow at the latest. I meant to tell him about them, but we didn’t do much talking.”
“You didn’t leave a trail?” Tori asked nervously.
“No. I paid cash for the supplies and asked the art store to ship it all as fast as possible. Apparently overnight takes two or three days in this part of the world. The kid who waited on me wasn’t too excited about the idea of boxing everything until I handed him a few extra bills, and then he said he’d pack it special.”
“I can’t wait. But I’m running out of room up here. If you hadn’t arrived soon, I was thinking of taking over the other bedroom.”
“I could cover the walls in the main room with these. With the right tools, I could even make frames. I used to do that when I started the gallery.”
Tori smiled. “We’ll have such fun, and I know just where to find the tools. Make a list of what you need and I’ll borrow them from a friend.”
“You made a friend? Does he know anything?” Parker voiced her own concern. Meeting even one person out here could be dangerous for Tori.
“No. I just happened on a man working on an old house. I offered to help. He doesn’t ask questions and I make sure he doesn’t follow me when I leave his place,” Tori explained. “It’s been nice to work with wood again. Before people decided I was gifted, I used to help my dad with his woodworking. Yancy reminds me of that time.” She giggled. “He thinks my name is Rabbit.”
Parker didn’t like that anyone knew Tori was here, but if the artist trusted the man, that was good enough for her.
As Tori showed off piece after piece, Parker studied the paintings, which were full of light and movement. “I think a very simple frame that doesn’t take anything away from the work would do best.” She’d love to show the new work in her gallery, but somehow here, in this little farmhouse, seemed just the right place for it, at least for now.
“Let’s move back downstairs and I’ll make some coffee.”
“Tea,” Parker corrected. “I rarely drink coffee.” She thought of adding “or Coke,” but yesterday she had downed thirty-two ounces.
Tori shook her head. “Out of luck there. Now that you’re here, maybe you can call the housekeeper with grocery changes. They’re due to drop by next week. Tell them no bologna or white bread. No cereal. Yogurt would be nice. Some kind of fish other than canned tuna and double the supply of fruit.”
“Has anyone been by to check on you?”
Tori shook her head. “The cabinets and refrigerator were stocked when I got here. Housekeeper left a note and a dozen moon pies on the counter. I’d never had a moon pie, but they’re like crack—eat one and you’re hooked. We’ll need boxes of moon pies if we’re to last another few weeks out here. I’ll get you hooked.”
Like two old friends entwined in each other’s lives, they talked about art and how this escape felt so right. Parker sensed that Tori didn’t want to talk about what had frightened her or made her feel so trapped. She was glad that Tori had trusted her enough to let her help. The rainy day seemed a great deal brighter.
Something hit the porch with a thud, and both women ducked behind the bar. The sound of an engine pulling away on the gravel road rustled through the thunder, then was gone.
Tori tiptoed to the door. “Probably the mailman?”
“Has he come before?” Parker leaned to look out the curtainless window, feeling foolish for being so jumpy.
“Nope. Like I said, not one person has dropped by.” Tori slowly opened the door and poked her head out a few inches. “The rancher next door yelled at me one evening while I was walking on the county road.”
Parker followed Tori a few feet behind. “What did he say?”
“‘Get out of the road, kid.’” Tori laughed. “Plus a few cusswords. Real friendly. I can see why you didn’t talk to him on the drive from Dallas.” She walked across the porch, and a moment later, she was back carrying a beat-up old box.
“Mail?”
“No. Just a box.” Tori put it on the bar, and they both unfolded the untaped top.
“Doughnuts!” Tori squealed as she pulled a bag out. The moment she opened it, the smell of hot chocolate doughnuts filled the air.
Parker tugged the second bag out while Tori ran for plates. It was nothing fancy, just a plain plastic grocery bag. One box of tea and two pairs of socks inside.
Tori’s eyebrows rose. “Strange gift.”
Parker looked at the tea. It was the kind she’d asked for at the buffet last night. Peach chamomile. Written in black on the paper holding the socks together was simply “Maybe these will keep your feet warm until I’m around again.”
Tori read the note over Parker’s shoulder. “Looks like you have an admirer, or maybe a stalker with a foot fetish? Who do you think sent them?”
Pulling one pair of socks free from the paper, she tugged them on her cold, bare feet. “The box is obviously from our neighbor. Apparently, no one ever mentioned to him that flowers or candy might be nice.”
Tori gratefully took the other pair. “Socks, tea and doughnuts. You ask me, he’s a keeper.” She took a bite of the first doughnut. “He can yell at me on the road anytime as long as he delivers doughnuts.”
Parker shook her head. She didn’t have time to keep any man. She just wanted to live the days she had left. Really live. Then, when she went back to the hospital where they could make her comfortable, she’d have an adventure to remember.
It occurred to her that her back didn’t hurt this morning and the pain in her knee that always ached was barely noticeable.
She smiled. This wouldn’t be a cane day, she thought, even if she had the cane that was probably bouncing around in the back of Clint Montgomery’s pickup.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Crossroads
YANCY DECIDED TO drop by his house while he was out running errands. He pulled into the drive, thinking soon he’d be doing this every day when he came home from work. He’d be like everyone else in the world, coming home to his own place.
When he unlocked the back door, the house was silent, as if napping in the afternoon sun. He loved just looking at the staircase he and Ra
bbit put together. It was not just beautiful; the design looked like it belonged here. A magical, one-of-a-kind piece.
He walked through the rooms picturing how everything would someday blend together. One project at a time. One night of work at a time. A few minutes later when he unloaded boxes of tiles that would eventually become the backsplash behind the sink, he glanced up and thought he saw movement on the second floor of his house.
Yancy froze. There was still a part of him that believed ghosts walked the earth. He blamed it on his gypsy blood. Folks in town had told him how there were stories about the old house. Stories of people seeing shadows and spirits drifting past the windows on cloudy nights.
He stood rooted in the afternoon shadows beside his back door, trying to think of what to do. Telling himself he wasn’t afraid, Yancy tried to decide if he was imagining things or if someone really was in his house. Maybe that man with the fedora had come back, hoping to talk him into selling the house.
Maybe kids had broken in and were just poking around inside. There had been break-ins before. Once four teenagers got hurt when they went inside. Part of the flooring gave way, sending a few of them to the hospital.
When a blink of a shadow crossed one of the upstairs windows, Yancy decided not to rule out a ghost as the third possibility. From what he’d heard about his relatives, they weren’t the type to rest in peace.
He set the tiles down and grabbed his best hammer from the tool wall. Whoever, or whatever, was inside his house, they hadn’t been invited.
As he slipped in the back door the thought crossed his mind that he should have called the sheriff. Only backtracking didn’t seem like a good idea. And calling the police was too new to his vocabulary to feel natural.
Crossing the kitchen, he headed up the stairs, for once not taking the time to admire his work. Raising the hammer, he moved slowly into the first bedroom. The floor had been repaired when he’d rebuilt the ceiling of the first floor, but on the second floor the boards were still rough and unpolished.