by Mary McBride
“I was wondering just how long it would take you to drop by and see me, Daniel,” she said. “Then I got tired of wondering, and decided the mountain might as well come to Mohammed.”
Now he felt fifteen and guilty as hell, just on general principle. His throat automatically constricted, making him sound like a kid. “Hi, Mrs. Booth.”
“Hi, yourself.” She eyed the lawn chair he’d vacated. “Do you suppose that thing will hold a woman of my stature?”
Quite honestly, Dan wasn’t sure. Mildred Booth had always been a large woman, about five nine and at least two hundred pounds. She seemed even larger now. Monumental. He steadied the chair as she lowered herself into it, and didn’t let go until both Mrs. Booth and the chair appeared secure.
For a moment she sat quietly, then calmly asked, “How are you, Daniel?” as if she’d only seen him a week or two before, as if twenty years hadn’t intervened since he’d left Moonglow and his past and Mrs. Booth behind.
Great, he started to say, but the word caught in his throat when she gave him that gray-eyed, all-knowing look he remembered so well. She didn’t brook lies.
“Not so great,” he answered, blurting out the truth almost before he realized he’d spoken.
“That’s what I’ve heard,” she said. “There aren’t many secrets around here. Some people have very big mouths.” Her tongue clucked softly. “Especially people with pink hair.”
“Yeah,” he murmured in agreement, wondering just what Raylene had told her.
“I brought something to show you,” she said.
It was only then that Dan noticed the thick, leather-bound album on her lap, nearly lost in the folds of her dress.
“Do you have another chair?” she asked, and then sighed and said, “Or why not just pull up a piece of ground and take a look at this.”
Dan sat cross-legged, opened the book, then stared at the first page where a newspaper article was carefully centered and glued. Its headline read Texas Marine Wins Corps Honors. The article, dated nearly sixteen years ago, detailed the ceremony at Camp Pendleton when he was awarded several ribbons for marksmanship and hand-to-hand combat.
He flipped the page to see another article from the Washington Post. U.S. Marshal Testifies Against Drug Lord. There were more. Page after page. There was a picture of him in Miami leaning against the front bumper of a confiscated Rolls-Royce. There he was in a crowd shot in the Rose Garden, not too far from the vice president and the attorney general. There were notices of awards and page after page of articles about his citations and successes. It was like watching his entire career flash before his eyes.
“Where did you get all these?” he asked, looking up.
Mrs. Booth was contemplating something in the distance. “I’ve subscribed to a clipping service for years,” she said matter-of-factly. “In over four decades of teaching, I only had two students whose careers I found interesting enough to follow. You and Annabeth Tate.”
“The poet?” Dan shifted on the ground. “I didn’t know she was from Moonglow.”
“Well, now you do.”
He chuckled softly at Mrs. Booth’s reluctance to waste words. His gaze dropped to the album again. “I’m sorry I didn’t stop by as soon as I got back in town.”
“You had more important things to do,” she said, clearly meaning it, for there wasn’t a hint of sarcasm in her tone.
“Yeah. Well…” He flipped to the back of the album where the headline screamed Deputy Marshal and Witness Gunned Down in Manhattan Hotel. The pages that followed were blank. He supposed they’d remain that way, or else one page would eventually be devoted to a brief obituary.
“I’m proud of you, Daniel,” the woman said quietly, reaching out a hand, liver-spotted and crooked with arthritis, to gently touch his head. Not a lingering touch. More of a tap. Then she drew back her hand, clasped it in her lap and added, “I must be getting sentimental in my old age, but I thought you ought to know that.”
In all the years she had pushed and prodded young Danny Shackelford to succeed, to make something of himself, to rise above his name and circumstances, Mrs. Booth had never given him a compliment. Not directly, anyway, even though her letter of recommendation to the Justice Department years ago had been a testimonial so glowing it fairly lit up half of Washington.
Now, out loud, the woman had said she was proud of him, and all Dan could think was that he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t know what to say in response, and even if he’d known what to say, he wasn’t sure how to say anything because of the tight knot in his throat.
Then Molly’s back door squealed open and slammed back on its frame, and Molly rounded the corner of the house, coming toward him with her hands fisted and fire in her eyes that was evident even at fifty feet. Dan was instantly grateful for the reprieve with Mrs. Booth even if it did mean Molly was mad as hell with him about something. He handed the album back to his teacher, then stood, not merely to be polite, but for self-defense.
Molly had cooled off perceptibly before she arrived, however, probably after seeing the elderly woman sitting in the lawn chair.
“Hi, Millie,” she said with a little wave. “What brings you here?”
“Oh, I was just out and about,” Mrs. Booth said almost breezily.
“You two know each other?” Dan looked from Molly to his teacher and back. Had he heard right? Had she actually called this forbidding woman, this institution-in-a-dress, Millie?
“We met at the library right after I came to town,” Molly said, “when we were both looking for Lady Chatterly’s Lover. Funny, huh?”
Both women laughed like witches in a coven while Dan felt himself breaking out in a cold sweat. They actually held hands for a moment. If there was more to this story, he really didn’t want to hear it.
“I meant to return those books you lent me, Millie. I’m sorry. Dan arrived last week to work on my house, and I totally forgot.”
“That’s quite understandable,” Mrs. Booth said. “Well, I’ll leave you two alone now.” She braced both hands on the flimsy arms of the chair in order to rise. Dan and Molly each took an elbow to assist her. The leather album slid from her lap onto the ground, and when Molly promptly picked it up, Dan snatched it from her hand.
“Don’t forget your book, Mrs. Booth,” he said, offering it to her. “And thanks. Thanks for everything. Can I drive you home?”
“You’re welcome, Daniel. And no, thank you. I enjoy the walk.” Album in hand, the big woman began her slow progress across the yard. “Come see me,” she called back. It was more of a command than an invitation. “Both of you.”
Dan watched her go, feeling an odd mix of emotions. Sadness. Nostalgia. A momentary touch of pride that gave way to regret. He sighed, then turned toward Molly, whose hands had gone to fists again as she glared at him.
“Not now, Molly. Okay?”
He grabbed the lawn chair, snapped it shut and stalked to the door of the Airstream.
“Now, Dan.”
Molly pulled the trailer’s door closed behind her. It took a minute for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior, another minute for her nose to adjust to the less-than-fresh atmosphere. The disarray around her suddenly made her even more angry with Dan. Why was he living like this?
“I just spoke with a deputy U.S. marshal in Houston by the name of Holt,” she said.
Dan was shoving the collapsed lawn chair into an overhead rack at the back of the trailer. “Never heard of him,” he answered gruffly.
“Well, he’s certainly heard of you.”
The lawn chair displaced a stack of magazines on the already crammed rack, and they tumbled to the floor in a glossy avalanche. Dan swore.
“You lied to me, Dan,” Molly said.
He swore again.
“Is that all you can say?” She repeated his curse at double the volume.
“Okay. I lied. It was part of the job. Can we stop arguing now?” He squatted down and began slapping magazines into a pile.
&nbs
p; Molly had worked up far too much of a head of steam to let it go at that. “When did you plan to tell me? Or didn’t you? Was that it? Was it just ‘Hang around the ignorant little witness for a while, Deputy, but don’t give her any information that might possibly save her life’?”
“It wasn’t like that.” He stood and shoved the magazines back in the overhead compartment. “It wasn’t like that at all.”
“Well, tell me what it was like.” Molly sat hard on the air mattress, crossing her arms, biting her lower lip to keep from crying hot, angry tears. “I’m in big trouble, and suddenly I feel like I’m all alone.” She didn’t add that she was also in love and suddenly she didn’t even know who she was in love with. Some stranger. Some lying jerk.
“You’re not in big trouble,” he said, sitting beside her, his arm touching hers. “And you’re not alone. I’m here. Hell, I’ve been here. You just didn’t know it. There was no reason to worry you when nobody had any idea whether or not you’re in any danger.”
“But am I? The deputy on the phone said—”
“I don’t care what he said. Nobody knows, Molly. That’s the bottom line. The WITSEC files were compromised. Nobody knows who did it or why. It could’ve been some kid, some hacker who just got lucky. But precautions had to be taken.”
Still chewing her lip, Molly nodded. She didn’t know if she believed him or not. She wanted to believe him.
“You were a low-priority witness, and I was close by on…” He paused for a second. “Well, I was on vacation, so they sent me. It was never any big deal.”
“I see.” The terrified witness part of her longed to believe him, but at the same time in her heart she was afraid that the no big deal label might also extend to their relationship. That was something she didn’t want to believe for a second.
“And the rest?” she asked hesitantly, fighting back tears.
“What rest?”
“Us? You and me? Was that also no big deal?”
He slid his arm around her, pressing her head against his shoulder. “Molly,” he said softly. “That was a very big deal, sweetheart. The biggest.”
“Was?” she whispered.
“There’s a lot you don’t know.” He sighed.
“That’s not exactly fair, is it? I mean, you probably know just about everything about me. About Kathryn Claiborn, anyway.”
He nodded. “Pretty much.”
“And I don’t know anything about you. Not really.”
“Sure you do. You know plenty,” he said, chuckling softly. “You know every dark detail of my wicked, misspent youth. You know I’m no great shakes as a handyman. And you know I’m a hell of a kisser.”
Molly was hard-pressed not to smile as she nestled her head closer against his shoulder, then asked only half in jest, “Yeah, but are you any good with a gun?”
Dan didn’t laugh in response. In fact, when he replied, there wasn’t a hint of humor in his voice. It was as hard as steel, nearly as cold.
“Yes, Molly. I’m very good.”
Chapter 10
“I’ll bet you know why I’m here,” Molly said to Mildred Booth, accepting the glass of lemonade the big woman handed her.
She had slipped out of the stuffy Airstream during Dan’s deep, postcoital sleep, then quickly showered and headed even more quickly toward the small bungalow next door to the high school where she found the retired teacher rocking on her shady front porch. Millie didn’t seem particularly surprised by the visit. In fact, it was almost as if she’d been expecting Molly to appear.
“This, no doubt.” Millie brought a hand from behind her back, producing the leather album that Molly had seen earlier. “Enjoy,” the woman told her while she lowered herself into a substantial wicker rocker.
Molly didn’t open the book immediately, but rather traced her fingers across the grain of the leather and the elaborate gilt scrolls at each corner. “You think a lot of Dan, don’t you, Millie?”
“Yes, I do,” she replied. One white sliver of eyebrow arched over the frame of her glasses. “Don’t you?”
“I hardly know him.” Molly’s frustration was evident in her tone.
“Well, you will. Go on. Open it. I’ll just sit here and watch the traffic while you read.”
After twenty minutes, only two or three cars had passed the little house, but Molly had learned more about Dan Shackelford than she’d learned in all of the previous week. Especially after reading the final article pasted in the album.
She knew he was brave and responsible and quite good, perhaps even the best, at his chosen profession, altogether different from his bumbling handyman persona. In several photographs, she witnessed expressions on his face that she’d never seen before. There was the cool look of mastery in one. In another, taken while he leaned against a Rolls-Royce, he wore a smile of such blazing confidence, it almost took her breath away.
“He doesn’t know how to cope with failure, does he?” she said quietly, her gaze meeting Millie’s.
“I’m not a psychologist,” the elderly woman said, continuing to rock in her chair, returning her eyes to the street, “but that would be my guess.”
Molly snapped the album closed. “Well,” she said, “I’ll just have to do something about that, won’t I?”
“I should hope so, dear.”
But what could she do?
That was the question gnawing at Molly after she left Mrs. Booth’s. When a man’s confidence was shattered, how did one put it back together? Was it even possible?
It had been a good while since the incident in Manhattan when Dan’s partner and the witness he was protecting were gunned down. If he were due for a miraculous recovery, Molly was pretty certain it would have happened by now.
He’d told her that he’d been on vacation when he was ordered to Moonglow to watch over her, but she suspected it wasn’t a vacation at all. More likely he’d taken a leave of absence from the Marshals Service and hidden out in his stupid trailer, avoiding everyone and everything. Wallowing in recriminations and self-pity and beer. Digging himself deeper and deeper into depression and despair.
She thought about the student health services back at Van Dyne College with their highly qualified counselors and psychologists, and wondered if there was a decent therapist here in Moonglow, but then decided Dan had probably already been offered the services of the best shrinks in the government, and had most likely turned them all down.
Get him back in the saddle. That’s what she had to do. Just like when somebody fell off a horse. Only how was she going to do that? Dan had already assured her she wasn’t in any danger from the Red Millennium, so there weren’t going to be any bad guys for him to fight.
Unless…
Molly smiled.
Unless she conjured up an antagonist or two to lure her fallen knight back into the fray.
Dan had no idea how long Molly had been gone, but the shower curtain was wet, along with her oatmeal soap and towel. He was fairly confident that even the most polite of assailants wouldn’t have given her time to shower before abducting her. Still, he wished she’d awakened him and let him know her plans. Dammit.
The kid wasn’t around, either, after putting up two more strips of wallpaper and replacing the leaky metal pipe under the kitchen sink with a substantial length of PVC, something Dan couldn’t have done even if it had occurred to him. Buddy hadn’t emptied the drip bucket, though, so Dan lugged it outside.
He was just about ready to jump in his car and go hunting for Molly when he saw her coming down the street with a grocery bag in her arms. The late-afternoon sun was gilding her hair and her skirt was molding itself to her long legs with every step she took. He wondered if Kathryn Claiborn had ever been even half as lovely as his Molly.
Meeting her at the end of the driveway, he took the heavy grocery bag from her arms. “What’s for dinner?” he asked. “Bricks?”
“I thought we should celebrate the new pipe under the sink, so I’m fixing linguine with my special
white clam sauce,” she said before adding, “well, sort of.”
“Sort of?”
Molly blew a strand of hair out of her eyes and laughed. “You don’t actually think they sell clams down at the Pick ’n Pay, do you?”
“I’d be surprised,” Dan said. “So, what’s for dinner, then?”
“Linguine with my special white clam sauce,” Molly repeated, “only the linguine is spaghetti and the clams will be masquerading as tuna.”
“Sounds good,” Dan said, rolling his eyes behind her back as he followed her through the door and into the kitchen.
As it turned out, though, the ersatz clam sauce was terrific, as well as the California Chablis that Molly had found to go with it.
“This is nice,” she said halfway through the meal.
“What?”
“Being able to talk about the past, not having to worry that I’m going to spill the beans about the real me.”
Dan nodded while he twisted a few strands of mock linguine around his fork. “It’s hard being in WITSEC, I know. A lot of people can’t hack it, even for a few months. Especially the people who have to leave big families behind.”
“Well, I guess I was lucky, not having a family to leave,” she said a bit wistfully. And when Dan asked, “Wasn’t there anybody?” her reply was a quiet but adamant “No, nobody.”
He took a sip of the cool Chablis. “What about your fiancé?”
Molly shrugged. Dan couldn’t tell whether the gesture was meant to indicate affection or indifference, or if it meant she just didn’t want to talk about the guy.
“What a jerk,” he said, a bit more forcefully than he’d intended.
Molly’s eyes narrowed, zapping him with two blue flames across the table. “You don’t even know him.”
“I don’t have to,” Dan countered.
“To know he’s a jerk?”
“That’s right.”
Molly drained the wine in her glass, setting it down with a little thump. “And just how do you know that?” she asked, reaching for the tall green bottle and pouring more. “Are you omniscient? Psychic? What?”