by April Hill
“How much a board foot?” she asked suspiciously.
“Are you sure you want to know? You’ve already had kind of a rough day.”
Abigail sighed. “All right, since you seem to know everything else that happens in this place, can you at least tell me how much I owe in these supposed back taxes?”
“No, but I can take you over to county records, to find out. It’ll have to be next week, though. They only work three days a week, and right now, everything’s closing down for Christmas. You might want to leave well enough alone, though. The real estate market’s around here’s bad, and your property has a couple of problems I haven’t come to, yet.”
“Of course it does,” she groaned. “What? Is it located on an earthquake fault, or a hazardous waste dump? Littered with unexploded landmines, maybe?”
“Nope. A sacred burial ground. Apache, according to the anthropologist from the state university who checked it out.”
“How’s this for a good deed?” Abigail asked suddenly. “I hereby give it all back to whatever tribe wants it. No, I take that back. I’ll dig around a little, and open a curio shop. Genuine Native American artifacts.”
He smiled. “I’m guessing you’ve never heard of NAGPRA?”
“That North American Trade thing Congress is always arguing about?”
“The Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act. Congress passed it about twenty years back.”
“So?”
“So, anything found at an Indian burial site goes back to the tribe it belongs to.”
“Even on private property?”
He shrugged. “Well, they were here first.”
“What are you, an ACLU lawyer?” Abigail grumbled. “So, what you’re saying is that between the city, the county, the feds, and a lot of Apache ghosts, I lose everything?”
“Looks that way. Unless you’re lookin’ to stick around and raise cows, like the rest of us.”
“My ancestors built a railroad, out there, somewhere,” she said, pointing out the window.
“That’s gone, too. I have to drive my stock forty miles to ship ‘em out.”
“Why would you stay in such a godforsaken weed patch?” she asked, incredulous.
“I wouldn’t live anywhere else if you paid me. Well, not unless you paid me a lot. I was born in the same house I’m living in, today.”
“You can’t really be that stupid?” she asked.
He smiled. “Could be. On the other hand, I’m not the one stuck in Nerdville with no cash in my pocket and no prospects. And I’m not the one who’s been doing everything she can to get her tail blistered, either.”
Abigail shoved her plate away, fumbled around in her purse for what money she could find, and then pushed the two crumpled singles and assorted change across the table to him.
“I’ll pay you the rest of what I owe you in the morning,” she said coldly. “And you don’t need to bother taking me to the house. I’ll manage.”
He took the money and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. “You mind if I ask where you’re plannin’ to stay, tonight?”
“Well, Mr. McLaughlin, that would be none of your damned business,” she snapped.
When Luke simply smiled at her and stood up to leave, there was something about his smile that bothered Abigail, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was.
* * * *
Luke McLaughlin left the diner and walked back to his truck still smiling. He wasn’t normally a vengeful man, but some part of him was enjoying what was about to happen to the Chadwick woman. He’d been in enough rough spots himself to know when someone else was in one, and from what he’d learned so far, Abby Chadwick was in for a pretty rough few days. It was easy to see that she was extremely proud, and stubborn as hell. She’d been ticked off about his smart-ass remark about spanking her, yet she hadn’t even tried to pay for her own supper with one of the half-dozen cards he’d seen in her wallet. The little lady had a serious money problem.
And her next problem was going to be finding a place to sleep.
Back at Wilma’s café, Abby had already discovered a third problem. Her cell phone was dead, and she had left the recharger in the rented Mercedes. She walked over to the front counter, where Wilma was wiping down the counter, getting ready to close.
“Anything else I can get for you, honey?” Wilma asked.
“I’d like to use your phone, if it’s all right.”
Wilma shrugged. “Never put one in. Ever’body in town knows where I am and when I’m open, and I just run next door to the barbershop if I need to call anybody. Can it wait ‘til mornin’? It’s about to rain, so I’m about to head for home, to start in cookin’ for Christmas. Between this place and feedin’ everyone, that’s how I’ve spent my whole life, in front of a stove.”
“Well, then,” Abby said, “if you’ll just direct me to the nearest hotel, I’ll be on my way.”
The old woman shook her head. “Sorry, hon, but there ain’t a hotel hereabouts. There used to be a couple, ‘til the army base shut down, but now … There’s a motel up the road around forty miles or so, but it ain’t the kind most folks would want to stay.”
Abby made a face. She and Edward had passed the place earlier that day. A twelve-foot high neon cactus in the parking lot flashed on and off, advertising the availability of bargain-rate mirrored rooms and XXX movies. In what might have been seen as an attempt at whimsy or folk art, the cactus was wearing a Stetson at a rakish angle, the largest of its three prickly appendages had been designed to resemble a hugely erect, green penis—with a neon pink flower on its tip.
Wilma laughed. “Yep, I reckon you seen the place. One time right after me and Eli got married, we got into a spat, and I upped and run off. Wasn’t no place else to stay, so I rented me a room there. Damned if Eli showed up, mad as a wet hornet ‘cause I was in a place like that. Once we got home, he cut him off a couple of good switches, took down my britches, and give me the kinda bare assed lickin’ I probably had comin’.” She chuckled. “Musta worked, too. Me and Eli ain’t been apart a night since.”
“Maybe a rooming house?” Abby pleaded. “ A bed and breakfast” Anything?”
Wilma shook her head. “I’d like to take you on home with me for the night, but me and Eli got our kids and grandbabies at the house, and Eli’s brother, too. The beds and sofas are full up, and there ain’t but one bathroom. Recon you’d be better off stayin’ here.” She thought for a moment. “Tell you what. Why don’t you do that? Just sleep right here in the diner. It’s good and warm, and there’s plenty to eat.”
“Are you sure?” Abby said, astonished by the woman’s generosity. “Would you trust me to…?”
The older woman gave a hearty laugh. “Hell, there’s nothin’ in the whole place worth stealin’. Besides, Luke McLaughlin’s about the smartest fella I know. If he thinks enough of you to be buying your supper, I reckon you’re okay. It gets mighty cold at night in December, even when it’s warm all day, so I’ll send Maydeen by with a couple blankets and a good, soft pillow when she gets home. Maydeen’s that pretty little thing you seen waitin’ tables. She’s been workin’ over to the drug store two nights a week, so it’ll be a while before she can get here. Maydeen’s a little slow, but I never seen a girl as sweet, or as hard a worker.”
Abby breathed a sigh of relief. “I can pay you whatever you want, tomorrow, when I can get to the bank.” She made this promise with her fingers crossed, however. Edward had paid for everything on their trip, and though she wouldn’t know for sure until she checked at the bank, placing holds on her credit cards was her father’s preferred method of getting his errant daughter’s attention.
Wilma waved her hand. “No need for that, honey. You just make yourself to home, and tomorrow, we’ll find you somethin’ better.”
After Wilma had finally locked up and left for home, Abby explored the diner, looking for the most comfortable place to sleep. She finally settled on the same booth where she and Luke had sat
, since its sagging red vinyl seats seemed slightly less saggy than the others. It was still going to be an uncomfortable night, and an anxious one, though. She helped herself to a glazed donut from the covered plate, took a seat on one of the swivel stools, and clicked on the TV over the counter. Three channels, one of which informed her that pork bellies were down several points, but that feeder cattle were holding steady. She turned the set off, selected a Christmas doughnut with a tiny plastic Santa Claus and garish green and red sprinkles, and nibbled at it while idly wondering where Edward was. By tomorrow, at the latest, he’d be in Las Vegas. Probably at the Venetian. In a king size bed, with a Jacuzzi and room service. And HBO. Abby glanced at her watch, then put her head down on the counter and began to cry. It was almost Christmas, and she was alone, homeless, destitute, and stuffing her face with hydrogenated fats and carbohydrates.
By the time the girl called Maydeen showed up with a pile of blankets and a fat feather pillow, the rain was coming down in torrents, and Abby had progressed from depression to incipient fury. Maydeen stuttered badly, and looked like a Poor Pitiful Pearl doll that had drowned, with wet, stringy blond hair, and crooked bangs she’d obviously cut with cuticle scissors or a paring knife. Smiling sheepishly, the girl endeavored to cheer Abby up by offering her a squashed meatloaf sandwich, two rolls of quarters, a Sunday school pamphlet about Jesus, and a ratty fake fur coat that looked like it was made out of road kill. When Maydeen left in tears after her gifts were summarily rejected, Abby felt sorry for almost an hour. After that, she resumed feeling sorry for herself, which came more naturally to her.
A half an hour later, there was another knock on the front door, and she peered through the rain and smudged glass to see Lucas McLaughlin, holding an inflated air mattress and a Thermos jug. His battered pickup waited at the curb, its tailpipe chugging out clouds of vapor in the cold rain.
“What do you want?” Abby growled through the glass. In reply, Luke smiled, and pointed to the air mattress. When he held up the Thermos and mouthed the word “coffee,” Abby swore under her breath. How could anyone stay mad at someone so tall and attractive, bearing hot coffee? But in the end, it was the prospect of a night’s repose on a plump air mattress instead of a café booth that made her open the door.
“I should have told you there was no hotel,” he apologized, stepping inside to shake the rain from his broad shoulders. “And I’m sorry. Wilma called and said you could use this. If you’re not still mad at me, though, you’re welcome to come back to my place. I can run you back into town in the morning.”
Abby was making a valiant effort not to notice how deeply blue his eyes were. “Thank you for the loan of your air mattress, Mr. McLaughlin,” she said coldly. “But I’d rather sleep on the bathroom floor here than in the same house with you.”
She could see that he was suppressing a smile. “Right,” he said affably. “Well, then, I guess I’ll be on my way.” He started toward the door, but then turned back. “Probably a dumb question, but would you be interested in spending Christmas with me at my sister’s? She’s got four whining kids with chicken pox and runny noses, and she’s the world’s worst cook, but there’s always plenty to eat.”
Abby tried not to laugh at the old joke. She was determined not to like this man, even if he was making it very, very hard.
“I’ll be heading up there on Christmas Eve, most likely,” he said. “But if there’s anything I can do for you before then, Wilma’s got my number.”
Abby shook her head, yanked the air mattress inside, and started to close the door when Luke’s cell phone rang. He pulled it from his shirt pocket, and listened for close to a full minute. Even at six feet away, Abby could hear that the caller was angry. She leaned the mattress against a booth, and went behind the counter to get a glass of water while pondering a knotty question. How does one person ask to borrow another person’s phone, immediately after basically telling that other person to go screw himself? And the next question was why was she being such a bitch to begin with?
She was debating the idea of simply apologizing to McLaughlin and starting over, when she noticed him punch the “off” button on the phone and slip it back into his shirt pocket.
He closed the door, and locked it. “That was Wilma, just now,” he said. “She tells me Maydeen came by here, earlier.”
Abby blanched. “Yes,” she confessed, hoping to head off a scene. “And I imagine she told Wilma that I wasn’t very nice. I was just so tired and stressed out. Beyond stressed, actually. I’m sure you can understand, after the day I’ve had.”
“She told Wilma you called her retarded.”
“I didn’t say retarded,” Abby protested. “Not in so many words. She kept giving me all this stuff that looked like it came from the Salvation Army, and babbling about the three wisemen and the baby Jesus. All I did was ask her if something was wrong with her. I know it was a bit rude, but…”
“A bit rude?” he repeated.
“Even Wilma said that the woman was slow,” Abby explained.
Luke’s voice turned grim. “Maydeen Tucker was hit by a drunk driver when she was four years old, in a hit and run accident that killed both her parents and left her with brain damage and a useless arm. Since then, she’s managed to finish high school and hold down a steady job. She volunteers at the local hospice, takes in every stray cat she can find, and she’s one of the kindest, most decent human beings you’ll ever meet.”
Abby’s first impulse was to apologize. Humbly. And had she succumbed to that untypical impulse, the evening might have turned out differently, and very much more pleasantly. She hadn’t lied about being under stress, though, or about being tired. And what she was especially tired of was being told off by this man, and of being corrected like a little kid.
“I already said I was sorry,” she said defiantly. “I’ll apologize to the girl, if that’s what you want, and…”
“And that’ll make everything all right?”
Abby hesitated. It was clear, now, that her next words could be dangerous. Luke McLaughlin was no longer in an amiable frame of mind, and she had a strong feeling that unlike most other men she had dealt with, he couldn’t be “handled.”
“Maybe I can call my father,” Abby suggested coolly. “I’m sure he’d be willing to help out the girl and her family. How much do you think–”
“Shut up,” Luke ordered.
“What?” It was the only thing Abby could think to say, since no one had ever told her to shut up, before. Not seriously, at least, and certainly not in that tone. Her anger began to rise, but for a moment, she could only stare.
He walked over to stand by the old brass cash register. “Remember what we talked about today, when I picked you up?” he asked quietly. “About manners?”
Abby rolled her eyes. “No, Mr. McLaughlin, I don’t recall the precise details of that discussion, but I’m sure it was absolutely fascinating. I suppose I should have taken notes.”
McLaughlin gave a deep sigh, then reached down and opened the drawer next to him. He pulled out the largest wooden spoon Abby had even seen, and pointed to the counter.
“Turn around,” he ordered, “and bend over. You might want to get a good hold on something, too. This is one damned discussion you’re not going to forget.”
Abby edged away from him slowly, keeping one hand on the edge of the counter. “Don’t be ridiculous!” She used Edward’s favorite word in the most superior tone she could muster, hoping it made her sound calmer and more in control than she felt. She was trapped between the front counter and the cooking area, with no escape at hand, so she backed up even farther, until she was against the deep steel sink. Planting her feet solidly on the floor, she slipped her hands behind her, and clenched either side of the sink. If Lucas McLaughlin tried to carry through on his silly threat, he was going to have a fight on his hands.
Luke took a few moments to roll up his damp shirtsleeves, then reached behind Abby with both arms, took both her wrists in his s
trong grip, and whirled her around. The move broke her hold on the sink and forced her over its cold rim, with her left arm bent awkwardly behind her back, and her head in the sink.
“If you lay one finger on me, you son of a bitch,” she shrieked, “I’ll sue your damned ass”
Luke chuckled. “No problem,” he said. “I figure the spoon’ll do most of the work.”
Abby wasn’t frightened, but she was mad. Mad because she hadn’t been strong enough to stop this from happening, and mad because it would probably be intensely embarrassing. But it had also begun to dawn on her that being spanked with the biggest wooden spoon in the world might also hurt. A lot.
In her awkward position, she couldn’t see McLaughlin’s face, but she knew for certain that he was smiling. And then, suddenly, he flipped up her skirt, and she was in the dark, with the skirt over her head and her hair in her eyes. And when she reached back to try to pull the skirt back down, he rewarded her attempt at modesty with a stinging, open-handed smack, and a threat.
“Do that again, and I promise you’ll wish you hadn’t.” When he reinforced the threat with two hard swats with the wooden spoon to the back of Abby’s thighs, the sound bounced around the diner’s yellow-tiled walls like gunshots. Abby howled with shock and pain, and began screaming obscenities. The muffled stream of profanity that rose from inside Wilma’s old-fashioned sink was cut short, though, when Luke pushed Abby’s satin slip to her waist and delivered a rapid-fire trio of blows low to the seat of her ivory lace and satin panties. These were obviously retaliatory swats, and they were measurably more painful than the rest, but Abby was determined not to react. She gritted her teeth and waited, but the expected blows didn’t come, and a moment later, she heard the spoon drop to the floor. He had stopped. Except for the sound of Abby’s labored breathing, the diner was silent.