Garden of Her Heart (Hearts of the War Book 1)

by Shanna Hatfield

  “I better go,” he whispered, resting his forehead against hers.

  “Yes, you should.” Her eyes remained on his lips as he dropped his hand and stepped back.

  One smoldering glance later, he got into the car and closed the door. “Stay out of trouble,” he called with a wave as he drove past the house and down the drive to the road.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  A scowl plowed two deep horizontal furrows across Norman Ness’s pallid brow. He dabbed at his clammy forehead with a grayed handkerchief and stuffed it back into his shirt pocket, sinking lower into the lumpy seat of his car.

  He’d waited as the noisy, obnoxious kids and their do-gooder fathers had loaded the scrap metal in a truck and hauled it away from the old Jap’s farm.

  Normally, the pretty-faced soldier boy would already be on his way to town to peddle fresh eggs and butter. Norman knew that because he’d spent plenty of time observing the comings and goings at the farm. He also knew how good the butter tasted and how fresh the eggs were. In the last month, as he lurked around corners and learned the habits of the occupants of the place, he’d helped himself a few times.

  Thanks to Laroux reporting him to the sheriff, Norman had to leave his childhood home and rent a cheap apartment in a run-down part of town. He figured helping himself to some of the produce was a fair trade for the money the soldier cost him by making it impossible for Norman to return to his home.

  During his weeks of surveillance, he’d observed that a bunch of giggling, gangly teens descended on the farm every Wednesday through Saturday, working from early morning until the stand closed each evening.

  Sundays, Norman liked to sleep in late. After lunch, he visited a woman named Verlene who only charged two dollars for an afternoon of her services. By the time evening rolled around, he wasn’t in a mood to go anywhere. He had no idea what happened at the farm on Sundays, but he couldn’t imagine it was any different from Mondays. The man and his woman worked outside, pulling weeds and watering crops.

  Every Tuesday, pretty boy would leave midmorning and return late afternoon.

  Twice, Norman had followed him, just to see where he went for the day. He’d envisioned some tawdry dalliance, but both times Mr. Upright Citizen had dropped eggs and butter at a little grocery store owned by a man Norman greatly disliked. The nosy old coot asked too many questions and seemed incapable of minding his own business. Why should he care if Norman wanted booze and cigarettes for lunch instead of one of the smelly bologna sandwiches he offered?

  From the grocery store, soldier boy generally ran a few errands, stopping places like the telephone office, the electric company, or the bank.

  Then he made a long drive to the far side of Portland. Norman had choked on the piece of candy he accidentally swallowed when he realized the man went to the place where the government had rounded up all the Japs in the area.

  Mr. Goody Two-Shoes turned out to be a true traitor, carrying boxes of food to those stinkin’ Japs.

  Norman didn’t care a whole lot about his country and even less about patriotism, but he despised the Japs. Most of his hatred stemmed from the fact they seemed better off and happier in life than Norman had ever been.

  The reasons they were successful and cheerful never entered his narrow mind, just the notion they had something he wanted.

  And what Norman wanted, more than anything, was the Yamada farm. Oh, he’d heard the interloper had given it a new name, calling it the Double something or other. Norman didn’t care.

  He’d teach the soldier a lesson, and his Jap woman, too.

  Norman mused over his plans and sucked on a piece of his favorite sour candy, waiting across the road from the farm to see if this Tuesday would pass like the others.

  After what seemed like hours, the pretty boy and his woman walked outside. Norman sneered as they embraced and slid farther down in his seat when the soldier drove by on the road. He hoped the man was too distracted to notice his car partially hidden behind the blackberry bushes.

  Norman waited a few minutes, then followed the car into town. He parked a block away, watching as the soldier-turned-farmer carried butter, eggs, and cream into the store. More than thirty minutes passed before he left the building, waving to the crazy old goat inside.

  While he sat in the sweltering car, Norman sucked on sour candy, mopped at his forehead, and fought down a woozy feeling. Tired beyond endurance, he wanted to curl up on a soft bed and sleep for a week.

  Later, there would be plenty of time to rest. First, he had to gain control of the farm and earn money from logging the trees.

  In an effort to find out exactly the kind of money he would make off the place, he’d escorted a tree expert out there one day. He had parked well away from the house and produce stand on the far side of the property, where thick trees rose from the road up to the skyline behind the fence that surrounded the property. The expert had walked around, studying bark, staring at trees. The man nearly danced a jig when they found half a dozen trees of some rare variety. According to the fancy-suited schmuck, those trees alone would bring in enough money to make Norman very comfortable, and he’d still have the rest of the trees and property to dispose of as he chose.

  Norman wished he’d written down what type of tree the man had said they were, or even what they looked like. The past few weeks, he’d struggled to remember things. Blame for his memory loss landed squarely on the burly soldier who’d caused him so much grief by his untimely arrival at the farm Norman had eyed for his own.

  Attribution for the ache in Norman’s joints, the constant prodding pain in his stomach, and his lack of appetite went to Laroux, too. Norman hadn’t felt like himself for weeks. The root of all his problems started with the soldier who’d marched right in and purchased the farm Norman had planned to claim.

  None of it would matter after today.

  By the time evening rolled around, Laroux and his woman would no longer be an issue.

  Norman thought long and hard about the easiest way to kill them both. It wouldn’t take much effort on his part, just a little more patience.

  He wiped the beads of perspiration from his brow and spied on the soldier. The man ran a few errands, then headed north.

  Rather than follow him to the stockyard for Japs, as Norman referred to the assembly center, he turned his car in the direction of his place. He had time for a nap before implementing his plans.

  Norman awoke four hours later, drenched in sweat and fuzzy-headed. His stomach roiled, a sharp pain throbbed behind his left eye, and, for several seconds, he couldn’t remember anything except his own name.

  Eventually, he recalled returning home for a nap and drinking two beers before falling asleep. A glance at the clock on the scarred bedside stand jolted him off the rickety bed. If he didn’t hurry, he’d miss his window of opportunity and have to wait another week before taking possession of the farm.

  With shaky movements, he pulled on the shirt he’d discarded earlier and fumbled with the buttons. Tremors combined with the numbness in his hands left them barely functioning. Norman released a string of curses as he forced his fingers to cooperate and finished buttoning his shirt. He stuffed it into the waist of his trousers, shoved his swollen feet into shoes, and hurriedly picked up his ill-fitting suit jacket. After sliding it on, he settled his father’s straw panama hat on his head, picked up a box of supplies he would need, and rushed out to his car.

  Out of breath and so tired he could hardly hold himself upright, he shook his head a few times and sucked on a piece of candy. The moment the wooziness subsided, he drove out to the farm and parked his car in front of the produce stand. He popped two more pieces of candy in his mouth, took a rag from the box on the seat beside him, moistened it with liquid from a bottle, and stepped out of the car.

  Dizzy and chilled despite the heat of the day, Norman leaned against the car, sure the Jap woman would appear when he didn’t leave. A few minutes passed and he began to think she wasn’t home. His p
atience paid off when she strode out of the house and down the front porch steps disguised behind a broad straw hat and a pair of dark sunglasses.

  If he didn’t know better, didn’t know she was a worthless Jap, he’d never have guessed it from her current appearance. She just looked like a tall dame with a lovely face and legs that went on forever.

  Norman tipped his head down and continued leaning against the car as she made her way out the front gate and over to him.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” she said, offering a friendly smile. “Our produce stand isn’t open today. If you’d like to come back another time, we’re open Wednesday through Saturday.”

  Pretending he didn’t hear her, Norman remained perfectly still, waiting for her to move within his reach.

  “Sir?” Her footsteps ground against the gravel as she approached him. With his head down, he watched her feet enter his line of vision. “Are you well, sir?”

  A few more steps and she stood beside him. “Pardon me, sir? Do you…”

  Norman lifted his head and jeered at her, slapping the rag over her face before she could protest. Although she stood inches above him, Norman had the element of surprise and the strength of desperation fueling his efforts. She clawed at his fingers, trying to pull them away from her face, but Norman held fast. A satisfied smile transformed his features from those of a sullen, sallow specter to a demented lunatic when she limply fell to the ground, unconscious.

  He tossed her hat aside and looped his hands beneath her arms, dragging her across the gravel and into the yard behind the house. Uncertain how long she’d remain unconscious, he hurried back to the car for the box of supplies.

  Winded by the time he returned to her, he took a minute to allow air into his lungs, then tied her feet, bound her hands behind her back, and lashed her inert body to a tree. To make sure she remained silent, he shoved a rag in her mouth.

  All he needed now was the deed to the farm. Once it was in his hands, he’d have a little fun with Laroux’s girl, then shoot the soldier in the head when he returned home.

  He lumbered up the steps into the house and began digging through cupboards and dumping out drawers.

  Agitated and growing more anxious with each passing moment, Norman glanced up from the office desk he riffled through at the sound of an approaching vehicle.

  Slinking into the living room, he peered out the window and watched Laroux park his car out front. He stooped and picked up the woman’s hat, then eyed Norman’s car before opening the gate and jogging down the front walk.

  Norman didn’t waste any time in taking a pistol from his pocket and holding it with trembling fingers.

  Under his breath, he cussed a blue streak, willing his hands to be steady, at least long enough to put a bullet between the man’s eyes.

  The front door opened and the pretty boy stopped short, shocked to see Norman across the room, pointing a gun at him.

  “Ness! So help me, I’ll wring your scrawny neck if you —” Rock crumpled to the floor as a bullet found its mark.

  Norman pocketed the gun and hurried to the back door. He’d just have to force the girl to tell him where to locate the deed.

  In his haste to claim the farm as his, Norman didn’t take into account the arrival of Petey Phillips.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Petey whistled as he dashed across the pasture and cut through a stand of trees to come out by the storage building on the Yamada place. He knew Rock and Miko had changed the name, but he’d always think of it as Grandpa Yamada’s farm.

  Excited to tell Miko all about turning in the scrap metal and holding the record for the most collected in his troop, he raced past the outbuildings and garden, looking for her.

  He altered his course, scampering toward the house, wondering if she was inside baking chocolate cookies or a cake. He opened the back gate and stopped at the sight of Miko tied to a tree.

  Scared, Petey listened, waiting for the sound of footsteps, but heard only banging noises from inside the house. Silently, the boy crept around until he could peek in a front window. He watched Norman Ness toss papers and upend furniture in a crazed frenzy.

  Petey hurried back to Miko and took a pocketknife from the assortment of treasures in his pocket. Carefully, he cut through the ropes binding her and released the knot holding the rag over her mouth. Elated when her breath blew on his hand, even if she remained incoherent, he left her propped against the tree and formulated a plan of attack.

  With the bravery borne of one too young to know better and the fearlessness possessed by a child, Petey set out to show Norman Ness he had a thing or two to learn about resourceful little boys.

  On nimble feet, he ran out to Norman’s car and opened the back door, locating the man’s door-to-door sales cases. He carried one to the back step of the house, then raced over to the compost pile behind the pigpen. Several rotten peaches and tomatoes went into a bucket he’d grabbed on his way past the garden shed. He stopped to gather a handful of rocks from near the pump by the barn and continued on his way.

  The rumble of a car as it crunched across the gravel in front of the house gave him hope that help had arrived. He zoomed back to the house with his bucket. Making as little noise as possible, he opened the sales case of marbles and spread out the contents of every marble bag across the back steps.

  The boom of a gunshot burst around him, causing him to flinch and cover his ears. “Well, that’s that,” Petey whispered, hastening off the back step.

  Miko had yet to awaken. Her champion positioned himself several feet away from the back door, set the bucket of malodorous produce at his feet, and yanked a well-used slingshot from his back pocket.

  The boy dropped down on one knee to balance his arm, loaded a peach, and waited.

  The second Norman stepped outside, Petey let the peach fly, hitting the man smack dab in the middle of the face.

  Norman took a threatening step forward, only to have both feet fly out from beneath him on the marbles.

  “Why, you sneaky, grubby little brat! When I get my hands on you…” Norman sat up and shook a fist at Petey, shock and anger pulsing off him.

  Splat! A tomato found its mark, hitting Norman in the mouth.

  Petey reloaded and rose to his feet. “Don’t you beat your gums at me, you skunk. You’re nothing but a four-flushing, gimpy-noggin thief. If you think I’ll let you jitterbug out to your ugly ol’ jalopy, you’re even screwier than Pop says.”

  Norman’s eyes darkened in fury and he again tried to stand, his feet sliding back and forth on the sea of marbles. “You are dead, kid. Stone cold —”

  Plop! Chunks of fermenting peach joined the tomato dripping down Norman’s face, stinging his eyes. He wiped his face on his saggy suit coat sleeve and spat out a chunk of decomposing fruit. “I’ll hang you by your toes and —”

  Pop! A rock found its mark on the back of Norman’s hand as he tried to reach into his pocket. He howled in pain and shook his fingers.

  “So help me, I’ll skin you alive, kid!” Norman again attempted to gain purchase for his feet, but each time he did, the marbles rolled and he would slam down on the step.

  Encouraged by Norman’s inability to move, Petey let another tomato missile slap the man in the face. “Keep your hands where I can see ’em, you dirty, low-down cheat. If you want off that step, then crawl like the slithering snake that you are. Crawl through that juice on your slimy ol’ belly.”

  Norman reached his hand toward his pocket again. Petey darted closer and sent a plum-sized rock sailing through the air.

  Crack! The unmistakable sound of bone breaking reached the boy’s ears only a second before Norman screamed and slumped back. The wounded hand, clutched to his chest, began to swell while blasphemy poured from his lips.

  “You best button your lip or the next rock that flies will land square on that foul thing you use as a yap trap and knock out all your smelly teeth,” the boy warned.

  Norman violated the air with more curses. Petey
launched a rotten peach, followed by another tomato that hit the downed man in the mouth. Juice and rotten tomato flesh squirted up his nose and into his eyes, causing him to howl in pain.

  Miko awakened to the sound of Norman hollering. She saw him sprawled across the back step while Petey waited a few yards away with a slingshot in his hand. Slightly disoriented, she struggled to rise to her feet, weaving slightly when she finally stood.

  “Can you hold him there, Petey?” she asked. To clear the lingering fog in her mind, she shook her head.

  “You betcha I can hold him here! I can hold him from now till tomorrow if that’s what you want, Miko.” Petey cast a quick glance at her over his shoulder before he bombarded Norman with more decaying fruit, keeping the man effectively pinned in place.

  If Norman moved over a few inches, he might reach the doorknob and sneak inside the house, but Petey determined that wouldn’t happen. Not while a breath remained in his tightly wound, tension-strung little body.

  Miko took a few staggering steps, attempting to regain her balance.

  Intent on keeping the would-be murderer occupied, Petey continued to shoot rocks and rotten produce at Norman until the man curled into a cowering ball on the back step, whimpering.

  Rock staggered around the corner of the house into the backyard, head dripping blood and eyes filled with unease as he held a pistol at the ready in his hand.

  “Are you both okay?” he asked, forcing wobbly knees to carry him across the yard.

  “We’re swell, Cap! Golly, it’s a jim-dandy doozy thing to see you.” Petey fired his last tomato at Norman, hitting his exposed ear. The man yelped and curled into a tighter ball. “I thought for sure when the shot went off we’d have to bid you a final farewell. I’ll tell it to the world, Cap, I surely will, but I’m pretty keen on you and Miko. This has played out to be a real humdinger of a day.”