by Sandra Brown
In truth, she hadn’t known what he’d meant by his comment on Burnet’s spending too much time at war. Now, she wished she had asked him to elaborate.
Maybe war had left L. Burnet taciturn and borderline rude. Or perhaps he was standoffish by nature. But, as long as he could do the work, she didn’t care whether or not he had an engaging personality. She wasn’t hiring someone to entertain her.
His stare was piercing, but she didn’t detect any madness behind it. Quite the contrary. She sensed intelligence, acute attentiveness, and a perceptiveness sharper than an average person’s. Little would escape him, and that was a bit discomfiting. However, she was willing to take her chances that he was of reasonably sound mind.
But—and this was the bottom line—what really recommended him was that over the course of the past two months, she had interviewed many contractors, and he was the last on her list of candidates for the job.
Thanks to the trust fund her late brother-in-law had established for her, she could afford to hire anyone. However, as a matter of principle, she wanted to finance this project using money she had earned, which put a ceiling on how much she could comfortably spend.
In answer to his question, she said, “Honestly, Mr. Burnet, I’ve consulted several others who were qualified.”
“They couldn’t fit your project into their schedules?”
“I couldn’t fit them into my budget.”
“So you called me.”
“Please don’t take offense. The comments posted online said that you do good work, that you’re dependable, and that you’re a one-man operation. At first, I didn’t see that as an advantage.”
“Now you do?”
“Yes. Because you don’t have a crew, I thought perhaps you would be a good choice.”
He propped his butt against the worktable and hooked his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans. “You thought I’d work cheap.”
So much for diplomacy. His stance was challenging if not downright belligerent. The placement of his hands was a none too subtle assertion of masculinity. He seemed set on being blunt. To all of the above, Fine. “All right, yes, Mr. Burnet. I thought you might work cheap. Er.”
“No doubt I would. But I’m not the guy for the job.”
She gave a short laugh. “Before you determine that, couldn’t you at least hear me out?”
“Waste of time.”
“How do you know?”
“An extensive project that would take considerable time? Lots of hard work? Sounds like what you have in mind is a complete overhaul of your house.”
“More or less.”
“I don’t do complete overhauls.”
“Would you at least come and see—”
“I’ve seen it.”
Her heart gave a bump of alarm. She had identified herself by name on the voice mail but had said nothing about the location of her house. The vehicle that came past her house each night sprang to mind. “You know where I live?”
He bobbed his square chin.
She studied him for a moment, then said slowly, “When you turned around and saw me here, you recognized me, didn’t you?”
Another brusque nod.
“How?”
“Somebody had pointed you out to me.”
“Where?”
“I think it was in the fried pie shop.”
“I didn’t even know there was a fried pie shop.”
“Oh. Well, then it must’ve been somewhere else.”
“Why was I being pointed out to you?”
He pulled his thumbs from his pockets and pushed away from the table, then glanced aside for several seconds before coming back to her. “You’re the lady who had the…emergency…in the grocery store.”
Her breath hitched, and instinctively she took a step back. “Oh.”
The recollections swarmed her, blocking out light and sound, everything. Her mind unreeled the memories at warp speed, but they were as distinct as though it had happened yesterday instead of two months ago.
She recalled being jerkily conveyed from the ambulance into the ER, the rapid-fire questions of the medical personnel, the pervasive antiseptic smell, the biting coldness of the stirrups against the arches of her bare feet, the kindly voice of the nurse asking if she would like to hold her daughter. Her lifeless daughter.
She didn’t know how long she stood there, remembering, but, as the kaleidoscope of memories receded, she realized that she was slumped forward, hugging her elbows. Her skin had turned clammy. Self-consciously, she straightened up and swiped a strand of hair off her damp forehead with the back of her hand.
She became painfully aware of him, standing motionless and silent, watching her. To avoid eye contact, she looked around and took stock of the workshop. Fluorescent tubes augmented the natural light pouring in from four skylights. Two ceiling fans as large as airplane propellers circulated from the ends of long rods. She could identify some of the tools of his trade, while the purposes of other apparatus and pieces of machinery were unknown to her.
A large draftsman’s table occupied a far corner. A light fixture with a perforated metal shade was suspended above it. Next to it was a desk with a computer setup. Except for the sawdust on the floor beneath the table where he’d been working, everything was neatly arranged and appeared well maintained.
Finally her gaze returned to him.
He shifted his stance slightly, the soles of his boots scraping against the floor and disturbing the sawdust. “Sorry about…” He made a small hand gesture in the general direction of her midsection.
“Thank you.” She didn’t dwell on that. “So when you listened to the voice mail yesterday, you recognized my name.”
“Yeah. Rumor had been circulating for months that the youngest of the Maxwell girls was back. Living out there alone. Expecting a baby.”
In all the time she’d been back, this was the first time she had come face-to-face with the gossip about her. “Do you know the rest of it?”
“Don’t know who or where the baby’s father is.”
She ignored the implied question. “Are you acquainted with my family’s history?”
“I grew up here.” He said it as though that were explanation enough, and it was. Everybody knew her family history.
“You ever learn where your dad went, what happened to him?” he asked. “Did the money ever turn up?”
She didn’t address those questions, either. “Are you open to discussing my project, Mr. Burnet?”
“I told you. Discussion would be a waste of time.”
“You won’t even consider it?”
“Don’t know how plainer I can make it.”
“Are you afraid that being associated with the youngest Maxwell girl will dent your reputation?”
The corner of his stern mouth twitched, but it couldn’t be counted as a real smile. “My reputation is already dented. The thing is, your project would involve more work than I take on at any one time. I specialize in small jobs. Ones with a short shelf life. That way, I’m not overcommitted or overextended. I don’t like being tied down. I’d rather keep my work schedule flexible.”
She crossed her arms and looked him up and down. “That sounded like bullshit.”
“It was.”
Chapter 3
When the ball game ended in the tie-breaking tenth inning, the crowd at Burnet’s Bar and Billiards had begun to thin out. Now, only a few customers remained in the popular lakeside watering hole, which seemed on the verge of toppling into the opaque water of Caddo Lake at any given moment. But since it hadn’t slipped from its pilings in the forty years that it had been there, no one worried too much about that happening.
Of the eight pool tables, only one was currently in use. A hotly contested tournament among a group of very vocal and rowdy young men was winding down.
A man and woman, seated across from each other in one of the dark, semi-private booths, had been engaged in a hushed but heated argument for the past hour. Seeming t
o have called a tenuous truce, they left the booth and headed for the exit. The woman flounced out ahead of the man, who punched the exit door hard with the heel of his hand as he followed her.
“I think she’s got the advantage, and he’s in for a rough night,” the bartender remarked to the only drinker left seated at the bar.
Without much interest, Ledge said, “Looks like.” He remained hunched over his near-empty glass of bourbon. The color of the liquor reminded him of something he didn’t want to be reminded of. Arden Maxwell’s eyes were that color. Hair the color of corn silk. An abundance of loopy curls.
“You’re entitled to a free refill, you know.”
Ledge looked from his glass to the bartender. “How’s that?”
“Last holdout of the night gets a top-off on the house.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“New policy.”
“Since when?”
“You want it or not?”
Ledge pointed into his glass. “Make it a short one.”
The bartender refilled his glass without benefit of either ice or water. He set the bottle aside, draped his towel over his shoulder, and leaned down, setting his elbows on the bar to bring himself eye to eye with Ledge. “You rarely stay this late. Bad day?”
“It was okay.”
“Tell me another.”
Ledge took a sip of his freshened drink. The whiskey had just the right amount of sting and felt damn good going down. Real good. Too good. Which was why he always paid for his drinks, even though the Burnet who owned the place was his uncle Henry, who had reared him.
Running a tab kept track of his consumption. He had self-imposed this accounting and was afraid to suspend it. He never took a bottle of hooch home with him, either.
“You go see Henry today?”
Ledge shook his head.
“I know it was bad the last time you went.”
“And the time before that.”
The billiard balls clacked. Half the young men around the pool table reacted with groans of defeat and expletives, the other half with whoops of victory and expletives.
When they quieted down, the bartender said, “May not seem like it, Ledge, but Henry’s still in there somewhere. One of these days he may surprise you with a spark of recognition.”
Ledge didn’t agree, but he nodded as though he did. He wouldn’t shoot down Don’s wishful thinking.
Don White had worked alongside his uncle in the bar for as far back as Ledge could remember. More than merely the bartender, Don had been entrusted with the bookkeeping and other facets of the business.
When Henry’s Alzheimer’s had progressed to the point where he could no longer be relied on to carry out even routine, everyday functions, Ledge had offered to let Don buy him out. Don wouldn’t hear of it.
Ledge said now, “Changed your mind yet?”
“Since yesterday?”
“Well?”
“No. Stop asking.”
“I’ll let you pay it out over four years. Five if you need more time.”
“I’ll continue running this place like it was mine, you know that. But Burnet’s will belong to Henry Burnet for as long as he’s drawing breath. After he’s gone—”
“He is gone, Don.”
“Ask me again, after. Then we’ll see.”
Don was sixty-something. The story was that days before his wedding to his high school sweetheart, she’d been killed at a train crossing.
Ledge didn’t know the particulars, because, in all the time he’d known the man, Don had never referred to either her or the tragedy that had taken her. But the lady must have been special, and the love of Don’s life. He was friendly with women customers. Over the years, plenty had gamely encouraged more than friendliness. But if Don had ever had a date, or even a hookup, Ledge was unaware of it. His life was the bar. He had adopted Henry and Ledge as his family.
From an objective observer’s viewpoint, they must appear to be a sad, sorry trio of men.
Hell, from Ledge’s viewpoint they did.
“I miss the old cuss,” Don said of Henry. “Miss his bad jokes.”
“Me too.”
Don turned his head to look at a framed picture hanging on the back bar. “I remember the day he hung that picture of you up there. He was so proud.”
Henry might have put the photograph on proud display, but Ledge hated the damn thing. A buddy of his had taken the picture with his phone as they were preparing for a mission. Ledge had been geared up, face painted, armed to the teeth, looking like a post-apocalyptic badass.
His buddy had emailed him the picture and told him to forward it to his uncle. Maybe he’ll hang it up in his bar. Brag to his customers about his nephew, the scourge of the Taliban.
Ledge raised his glass to his mouth and spoke into it. “He didn’t come back.”
Don came around to him. “Sorry?”
“The guy who took that picture. He didn’t make it home.” Ledge tossed back what was left of the bourbon.
The subject ended there, and each became lost in his own thoughts until Don muttered, “Oh, hell. Look who just sauntered in.”
Before Ledge could turn around and check out the newcomer, he slid onto the stool next to Ledge’s. “Hey there, Don. Ledge. How’s it hanging?”
Ledge kept his expression impassive, but mentally he was swearing a blue streak. This just wasn’t his day. First that unheralded face-to-face with Arden Maxwell. Now he was having to suffer the presence of this son of a bitch.
Rusty Dyle, taking him unaware like this, was grotesquely reminiscent of a Saturday morning twenty years ago.
Spring 2000—Ledge
Friday night had been a raucous one at Burnet’s Bar and Billiards. Ledge and his uncle Henry hadn’t gotten to bed until after three o’clock, when they’d finished sweeping up.
It was a rainy morning, a good one for sleeping in, but Ledge’s seventeen-year-old stomach had growled him awake. Rather than rattle around in the kitchen and wake up his uncle, who needed the shut-eye, he drove into town to the Main Street Diner for breakfast.
He was enjoying his food and the solitude when, without invitation, Rusty Dyle slid into the other side of the booth, snatched a slice of bacon off his plate, bit into it, and crunched noisily.
Ledge’s impulse was to lash out, verbally and physically. But in juvie you learned not to react, no matter what was going on around you. You didn’t take sides in a fight that didn’t involve you. You didn’t provoke a guard who would love nothing better than to be given an excuse to whale into you. You didn’t respond when the shrink asked about your childhood, whether or not you thought you’d gotten a fair shake or had been dealt a shitty hand.
The first time the counselor had asked, Ledge had told him he hadn’t minded his unorthodox childhood at all. He couldn’t miss parents he didn’t even remember. He loved his uncle, who had taken him in and raised him as his own son. He had the highest respect for Henry Burnet.
The counselor had frowned like he didn’t believe a word of it. Ledge saw no point in trying to convince him of what was the solid truth, so he had shut down and made subsequent sessions frustrating for the counselor by not answering a single question. He hadn’t “shared” a goddamn thing with the asshole.
Reticent by nature, he had come out of juvenile detention even less inclined to reveal what he was thinking. That applied especially to his take on Rusty Dyle. Nothing would give the jerk more pleasure than knowing the extent of Ledge’s contempt for him and his spiked-up, red-orange hair.
“Big breakfast there, Ledge. Feeding a hangover?”
“I’m not hung over.” Ledge kept his attention on his short stack and fried eggs.
“Oh, right. It wouldn’t do for you to get caught drinking illegally.” He guffawed and polished off the bacon. “But you are looking a little ragged around the edges this morning. Must be on account of Crystal. She give you a hard ride last night?”
Ledge fantasized jamming his fork into the sid
e of Rusty’s neck, right about where his carotid would be.
“Hell knows she’s good at it,” Rusty said, man-to-man. “When she gets going, that gal can plumb wear you out, can’t she?”
Ledge knew for a fact that Crystal Ivers had never had anything to do with Rusty Dyle, which galled Rusty no end. His taunts were intended to get a rise out of Ledge, goad him into defending Crystal’s honor. The hell he would. Her honor didn’t need defending.
“Piss off, Rusty.”
“You’ll regret saying that when I tell you why I’m here.”
“I don’t care why you’re here.”
“You will. Finish your food.”
Though he’d lost his appetite, he wouldn’t give Rusty the satisfaction of having spoiled his breakfast. He ate. Rusty made meaningless chitchat. When Ledge pushed his empty plate aside, Rusty posed a seemingly irrelevant question.
“How much hard cash do you reckon Welch’s takes in during any given week?”
Ledge looked out the window at the rain, which had increased to a steady downpour. “No idea.”
“Quarter of a mil.”
“Good for the Welches.”
“Know how much it rakes in on a holiday week?” Leaning toward Ledge, he whispered, “At least twice that.”
Welch’s was a family-owned, sprawling warehouse of goods that had weathered the onslaught of big-box store juggernauts because of its loyal customer base. It was also a one-stop shopping outlet for tourists to the lake. The store’s inventory included everything from car jacks to Cracker Jacks, butterfly nets to Aqua Net.
“I’m going to take it.”
While gauging how wet he was likely to get if he made a dash for his car, Ledge had been only half listening. “Take what?”
“Welch’s cash till.”
He turned back to Rusty in time to catch his wink. “You heard right. And I could use a guy like you.”
Ledge listened to the rest of Rusty’s outlandish spiel, believing that he was being set up as the butt of an elaborate practical joke. He even looked around the diner to see if he could spot any of Rusty’s like-minded cronies who were in on the prank and waiting for Rusty’s signal to spring the trap.