by Alicia Scott
Brandon wiped the sweat from his brow and took a deep breath. He didn't understand Tom Reynolds. Friend or foe? Storekeeper or crackpot? Beaverville wasn't as simple as it seemed.
And Brandon didn't have any answers. He knew Tom thought chain saws and trees weren't accidents. But who? How? Why?
In the bright spring afternoon, Brandon headed for the town library. For some reason, he was having to think hard to walk. His limbs felt weighted down, the world slightly out of step. He staggered at a corner, earned curious glances, shook his head and plunged down the street.
Beaverville's public library was in a new three-story building set behind the high school and announced by an impressive wood-carved sign. Across the street, the high school baseball team was practicing and Brandon could hear the distant cheers of pep squad girls, loud and distorted across the too-bright sky.
Only five cars were parked outside the library. Apparently, book vaults weren't a popular spot on a sunny afternoon.
Brandon climbed the steps and gripped the warm brass doorknob. His hand was shaking. He stared at it until it stopped.
There's nothing to fear but fear itself.
He felt unsettled. He opened the door and thrust himself into the cool, dim interior. For one moment, he couldn't see. His eyes blinked owlishly. But then they adjusted, Brandon looked up, and the whole world tilted off its axis.
He fell with a soft thud and never felt a thing.
* * *
"Sir, sir, are you all right?"
Brandon opened his eyes. A woman was peering at him, her thin face wrinkled like fine parchment paper, her gaze a watery blue. Glasses dangled from a chain around her neck, and she smelled like White Shoulders perfume and cedar mothballs. Librarian. The perfect librarian.
Brandon's gaze went past her, to the painting on the wall in the foyer. The oil portrait. The beautiful blond woman looked over her shoulder with a sad, ethereal smile and a delicate grace that would go forever unchanged. Brandon knew. He'd found the miniaturized picture of that painting in Max's locket.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but the image was etched into his eyelids.
"Are you all right?" the librarian quizzed again in her high, wavering voice. Her gold name tag identified her as Miss Elsie.
"Sorry," Brandon muttered. "My head. Dizzy."
He managed to sit up, and the world spun. He was on fire. Moisture poured from his skin. The librarian looked at him with concern. "I'll call Doc Matthews."
"Already saw him. Yesterday." Brandon winced. "I have a concussion. I probably pushed myself too hard."
Miss Elsie thinned her lips. "Are you Brandon Ferringer, young man? I heard all about that accident yesterday in training. Just dreadful! You should be home in bed right now, not darkening the doors—not to mention the floors—of my library."
Brandon opened his mouth to argue or apologize, he couldn't figure out which, but his stomach rolled queasily and he snapped his mouth shut, afraid he'd be ill.
Miss Elsie stood authoritatively and brushed off her hands. "Well, that's it. I'm calling Doc Matthews and I'm calling Sheriff Meese. They'll take care of you."
"Please." It was all Brandon could manage to say, but it stalled her. He gestured weakly toward the picture. "Who … who is that?"
"Ashley Jacobs, of course. The Jacobses built this library. Fine people, never deserved what happened—"
Brandon staggered to his feet. The pain was receding, the sweating, too. He seemed to be in the middle of a dream, watching himself move from somewhere high up, where he was no longer connected to his body. He was staring at the picture. Examining the brass plaque. Ashley Jacobs, 1939—.
So she was still alive. Thank goodness she was still alive.
He would find her. He would ask her about Max. It was terribly important that he ask her about Max.
He staggered toward the door.
"Mr. Ferringer—"
"I'm fine, I'm fine," he was muttering. He burst into the bright afternoon, and red lights exploded in front of his eyes, but he was running and no longer noticed.
He was at the Laundromat. His motions were hazy. He put his clothes in the dryer. He turned on the dryer. He watched the clothes begin to spin and thought he would vomit. Then he heard footsteps and figured Tom Reynolds was coming to get him. No, not Tom, crazy Bud Irving with his high-powered scope rifle and pack of Dobermans. Or maybe it would be beautiful Ashley Jacobs with her sad, sad smile.
I know why Maximillian never came back, she whispered. I know why Maximillian didn't love you enough to stay. I know why. I know why.
He left the Laundromat. He got into his rental car, started the engine, then realized he couldn't see—there were too many spots in front of his eyes. He crawled out, wavered and couldn't remember what he was doing.
Bud Irving. The name came through the red haze. Find Bud Irving.
He set off with uncoordinated footsteps, having no idea where he was going. From far away, he realized that people were staring. Then he was in front of Whiskey Jack's, and the smell of deep-fried food made his stomach roll.
He slipped down the steps, shimmied into the alley where the shadows were cool and staggered resolutely ahead.
"Oh, my Lord, call Sheriff Meese," someone said from behind him.
Brandon wondered what the sheriff had to do with it. And then he pitched forward face-first and passed out cold.
* * *
"Stupid, stupid, stubborn, stubborn, stupid, stupid."
Brandon opened his eyes. He was in Kansas, he thought blankly. "Auntie Em?"
Victoria stopped pacing at the foot of the bed. Her head shot up, her blue eyes widened, then narrowed. "It's about bloody time!"
Brandon thought that should be his line, but couldn't make his lips move. His body had melted on him. He had sunk into the mattress as if it was a porous sponge and there was no getting back. He was drenched in sweat.
Victoria stalked to the side of the bed, torn between genuine concern and the desire to throttle his reckless hide. "How are you?" she quizzed.
"Dead."
"No kidding. Jogging with a concussion. Stubborn, thick-headed… My father said he hadn't heard of anything so stupid since Charlie tried to climb to the top of a fifty-foot pine when he was four. You're lucky you're not in a coma."
Victoria grabbed a glass, dumped in some water and held his head while he drank. When he was done, she soaked a washcloth in a basin of cool water, then laid it over his forehead. He realized for the first time that it was dark outside, that his laundry was miraculously dry and folded on the floor, and that Victoria carried deep purple shadows beneath her eyes.
"Time?" he whispered. He wanted more water but didn't have the energy to ask. He felt as if he could drink a river, then request an ocean.
"Midnight."
His eyes widened. He looked at her almost fearfully.
Dear God, he'd lost the whole day. What had happened to him?
Victoria sighed. The anger left her all at once and she sat on the edge of his bed, her shoulders coming down. "You had a concussion, Ferringer," she said softly. "That's basically a fancy word for a bruised head. When you ran, you aggravated it. The bruise swelled, and a pocket of fluid pressed against your brain. You went from a mild concussion to a major concussion. Basically, you got a serious fever, became disoriented and threw up all over the back of my father's squad car when he was called to pick you up. You're going to hear about that, too, you know."
"I'm sorry."
"Doc Matthews has a few choice words for you, as well, Brandon. You need to stay in bed. Give yourself a chance." She stood abruptly, her face tight and her body edgy. "What kind of man goes running with a concussion? Just what are you trying to prove? Brandon Ferringer, you scared the living daylights outta me!"
Her voice had risen to a shout. He made no move to protect himself against it. "Thank you for picking up my laundry," he said.
"Tom did it," she growled, refusing to be mollified so easily.
"Oh."
"Tom told me I oughtta chain you to the bed with handcuffs. I thought he might be on to something."
"I shouldn't have run," Brandon said finally, turning away to look out the dark window. "I didn't feel that bad. Just a minor headache."
"Just a minor headache, says the Man of Steel. Let's see, yesterday my brother brought you home unconscious and missing half your face and we discussed trust issues. Today, my father brings you home unconscious, violently ill and worse off than yesterday. Should we revisit last night's conversation?"
"I didn't know, Victoria. I just … went for a run." He looked at her as sincerely as he could. She was standing in the middle of the room, one arm pressed against her stomach. He wished she would come back to sit on the edge of the bed. He wanted to hold her hand. He had the sudden, intense need to weave his fingers into hers and hold on tight.
"Are you okay, Ferringer?" she asked quietly. "I mean, are you okay?"
"I have too many questions and not enough answers," he whispered, and the oil portrait flashed in front of his eyes. Sad, sad Ashley Jacobs, how did you know my father?
"Is this about your investigation?"
"What?"
"Miss Elsie said you came to the library. On a Saturday afternoon?"
"I'm a geek," he whispered weakly. He wasn't ready to talk about it yet. Max, the locket, the yearbook—they were the only parts of his father he had left. It was terribly important that he solve the riddle. He had to know what had happened to Julia. He had to know what had happened to himself.
I don't want to be like my father. Victoria, Victoria, I don't. I want to be a better man. Must learn to be a better husband, brother, son, father. Victoria. Victoria…
His lips refused to form the words. The thoughts buzzed through his mind like angry, stabbing hornets, making him wince.
"You and your damned British reserve," Victoria growled but she sighed and returned to the edge of the bed. He immediately moved his fingers toward her hand.
"Ferringer, I can't keep having them bring you home on a stretcher. It's giving me gray hairs."
"I know." His fingers were very close to her now. Just an inch more. He shifted.
"For crying out loud, try to spend more hours of the day conscious. It sets a good example for Randy."
"Yes." He made contact. Slowly, he threaded his fingers through hers. She didn't pull away, and her hand was warm and her skin soft. She felt solid, the way he knew she would. She grounded him.
He looked at her wordlessly and saw the last of the defenses crash in her gaze. "You're no good for me, Ferringer," she murmured, "absolutely no good." But then she leaned over, brushing her lips over his forehead, kissing the soft sweep of his eyelashes, whispering her lips over his cheekbone. He moved his head slightly, and she kissed him gently, giving them the reassuring contact they both needed.
At last she pulled away. "I'm so sorry," he said again, and they both knew he meant it.
"Yeah," Victoria sighed. "Yeah." She feathered his hair. She wanted to be angry with him. She'd spent the last six hours stoking a pretty good rage, but now he was conscious and he looked too pale and weary to beat up. She wanted to hold him instead, feeling a tenderness she generally reserved for her horses and her son. She brushed her fingers down the flaxen beard roughing his cheeks. He exhaled lightly over her hand. He looked exhausted.
Last night, she'd vowed to keep her distance. Instead, she'd gotten to play nursemaid once again, tending his prostrate form and wondering what things made him mutter in the dark.
Something about Maximillian the Chameleon, who kissed the girls and made them cry. But then he'd stated that he wouldn't cry, couldn't cry. Must be strong for Maggie and C.J., there's a good chap.
Whatever he had been thinking, it had upset him a great deal, making him pitch and roll. Twice she'd shaken his shoulder and he'd quieted. The third time, he'd resisted and she'd finally crawled into bed and held his fevered form against her. He'd turned to her immediately, buried his head against her shoulder and whispered her name.
Whispered her name.
She doubted he remembered what he'd done, and she'd promised herself she would never tell.
"Randy told me he spoke to you this morning," she said at last.
"Did he?" Ferringer was staring at her too intensely. The fever still? Something more? She fastened her gaze on the floor.
"I hadn't realized he was awake last night, when Ronald came. What a mess."
"I'm sure you handled it well."
She made a face. "I tried, at any rate."
"What did Randy say?"
"He's worried about becoming an alcoholic. I told him that was fair. But I would help him and his uncles would help him and his grandparents would help him and he had an awful lot of people in his corner who thought he was a very special boy, so he'd be all right. The sins of the fathers don't have to be the sins of the son, or any of that garbage."
Brandon didn't say anything, but the intensity of his gaze ratcheted up another notch. Her breathing was no longer steady. The silence frayed her nerves.
"Well," she announced too brightly, "I should let you get some sleep. No moving tomorrow, Ferringer, doctor's orders. I'll send Randy in here to sit on you if I have to."
She tried to stand, but he didn't relinquish his grip on her hand. Finally, she looked at him.
His face was too lean, his cheeks hollow, his eyes smudged. This close, she could see the demons dancing in his eyes, the regret and need that flayed him bit by bit, night after night. He looked raw around the edges, and his mind was savaged and hurt. The first time she shut off the lights, the monsters would spring from their hiding places and devour him.
"Please," he said. She didn't pretend not to understand. He needed her. Really, truly needed her. She squeezed her eyes shut and felt herself being torn in half.
"Oh, God, Ferringer. My mother always told me the devil would get me in the end."
"Please," he said again.
"I … I can't. Randy."
"Of course," he whispered. "Randy. You're absolutely right. And that's important. Protect yourself from me. That's important."
He wasn't making sense, but his fingers released their grip. Victoria bounded up before she lost her resolve. She kept looking at him, though. It wasn't right to leave him like this—so vulnerable.
She did want to hold him. She wanted to be there for him when the lights were turned down and his dreams grew harsh. She wanted to stroke his cheek and tell him it would be all right, because when he said her name she felt pretty. And last night, he'd put his arm around her when she really needed to be held. And he'd told her she wasn't hard-hearted sincerely enough for her to believe him.
He gave her things he probably didn't even realize, and when he was wounded and raw, she was going to walk away. They both knew it was the only choice she had. And God, did it hurt her.
"I'll bring you breakfast in the morning," she whispered.
He nodded slowly. "That would be nice."
"Ferringer, take care of yourself, all right?"
He didn't reply.
She turned out the light and left him alone with the demons that lurked in the dark.
Chapter 7
« ^ »
"Day of the week?"
"Monday."
"Your name?"
"Smokey the Bear."
"Very cute, Ferringer. Shut up and listen to the doc." Coleton was in a bad mood. Then again, Brandon had yet to see him in a good one.
"Follow my finger. Uh-huh. Does this hurt? How about this? And this." Brandon winced sharply, which Doc Matthews took as a yes. The older man put down his clipboard, looped his stethoscope around his neck and sighed.
Brandon stiffened. It was 0620 Monday morning. The rest of the hotshots would be arriving in ten minutes for the morning run. He wanted to know, in or out. Fish or fowl.
"Yep," Doc Matthews said, "you were right, Coleton. This one's got a skull like a bowling ball. He'll take a l
ickin' and keep on tickin'."
Coleton grinned, twisting his scarred cheek grotesquely and creasing his scalp. He slapped Brandon on the shoulder. "Not bad, rich Brit. Not bad."
Brandon relaxed, but only slightly. His gaze kept going from Coleton to Doc Matthews with barely disguised wariness. He'd had all day Sunday to contemplate his "accidents" and Tom Reynolds's words of warning. Flat on his back, with only Randy as company, Brandon had replayed every detail of the chain saw and the falling tree. He'd thought of the sensation he'd had that night of being watched, the jolt of seeing Ashley Jacobs's picture hanging in the town library and the information that Bud Irving was a delusional, gun-happy, crazy man. All roads led to Beaverville.
He was on to something, he just had no idea what. Instead, he'd developed a thin glaze of paranoia that made everyone suspect—Bud Irving, Ashley Jacobs, Tom Reynolds, Coleton Smith, Doc Matthews, Sheriff Meese. As the day had gone on, his list of potential suspects had grown longer. The fact that Randy had been reading an R. L. Stine book to him probably hadn't helped.
"No running for the next few days, of course," Doc Matthews continued, making notations on the chart. "He can do light weights, mild work, but no heavy machinery just in case he has dizzy spells again."
"What about classroom training? Wouldn't want to strain anything."
"Now, Coleton, I've seen his IQ, and I've seen yours, and I can honestly say, he's in no danger from you."
Coleton grinned again. "Son of a bitch, doc."
"How can I help my team if I'm not allowed to run?" Brandon interrupted.
"You can play crew boss," Coleton said easily. "You ought to know management, rich Brit."
Brandon looked at the doctor.
"That would be best," Doc Matthews agreed. "You'll be perfectly fine, but you're going to need a few days. When does the crew post up?"
"Classroom training is complete Friday," Coleton told him. "We'll do the fit test then."
"Well, as fit as Mr. Ferringer is, a few days off from running won't keep him from qualifying. I've never seen lungs as good as his. Everest, huh? When the crew gets calls, he'll be ready."