A Shadow on the Ground

by Smith, Rebecca Lee

  “Let's go, sugar.” Peach hustled her daughter off the porch. “Hey, Gage, if you're free tomorrow night, come on down to Bad Moon Rising. It's a little roadhouse near the creek. Morgan and I work there on weekends.” She flashed him a wide smile. “First drink's on me.”

  “Thanks,” Gage said. “I just might.”

  ****

  Gage looked at Peach. His eyes crinkled. His mouth curled into a grin.

  Morgan could almost see the pheromones fly through the air.

  But that's how Peach affected men. At first, none of them minded she was thirty pounds overweight and came with more baggage than a Norwegian Cruise Line. Baggage that included a taste for expensive bourbon and three children sired by three different men. All they saw was a warm, voluptuous, slightly bawdy Earth Mother who made them feel as if they were the center of the universe. Morgan had heard about some of her other talents. Talents that steamed up the windows of Peach’s car and made it easier for the men on the receiving end to ignore the fact she was constantly on the prowl for someone to take care of her. The kinder women in Riverbirch called her “needy” or “sad”, while others whispered behind her back that she was the worst kind of gold-digger, the kind who would hook up with anybody who offered to buy her a shot and pay last month’s rent.

  “Come on, Jeremy,” Gage said. “We should leave, too.”

  “I have to use the bathroom again,” Jeremy said. “It was that disgusting steak burrito you bought me after school. It tasted like dog food. Did you know those things have 390 calories, 1090 milligrams of sodium, and 14 grams of fat?”

  “Way too much information.” Morgan laughed. “Go on, kid. We don't charge extra for two trips.”

  “We ate at Maxie’s,” Gage said after he left.

  “Then you're a brave, brave soul. Is Jeremy your only child?”

  “Yes, but I’d like to have more someday. I don’t want Jeremy to be an only child like I was. So, I guess a woman not wanting kids would pretty much be a deal breaker for me.”

  “I’ll alert the media.”

  He glanced at the dried blood on the back of her hands.

  “I need to wash up,” she said. “There's a mud sink in the barn. You can wait here.”

  “Or I can go with you.”

  She started up the sloped hill toward the barn, skirting the soggy edges of grass. She could feel his eyes boring into her back as she navigated the uneven path, and she fought the urge to smooth the flannel shirttail covering her bottom.

  She stood at the sink and glanced at her reflection in the tiny mirror glued to the front of the paper towel dispenser. Strands of dark hair curled about her face, wild and unkempt. Her cheeks had flushed as pink as if she'd run to the top of Pip's Hill. Her eyes met her own eyes, and she quickly looked away. The time for soul-searching would come later. After he was gone. She turned on the tap, squirted a glob of heavy-duty hand cleaner into her palm, and began to scrub.

  Gage leaned against the open barn door, watching her. When he spoke, his north Georgia accent caressed each word like warm honey. “This is a beautiful orchard. I bet you love it here.”

  “Not really. I’ve lived here most of my life, but I’m a city girl at heart.”

  He gestured past the cases of glass jars stacked in the corner to the rows of copper kettles lined neatly against the back wall. “So, your family makes apple butter?”

  “No, we're witches. As soon as the eye of newt shipment arrives, we'll fire up these bad boys and brew some potions. You saw the Maguire Orchard and Apple Butter Barn sign by the road? It's a cover.”

  He chuckled softly and shook his head.

  “Didn’t buy it, huh?” She ripped off a brown paper towel. “We make apple butter, apple jelly, pressed cider, even a little apple wine on occasion. But keep that to yourself. Sean thinks we'd lose the Baptist business if anyone found out.”

  “This must be quite an operation. These kettles are enormous.”

  “The big one—around 300 gallons—is outside, built into a brick vessel. We heat it with propane. You could probably go swimming in it.”

  “But would you want to?” He gazed around the cavernous room. “I see the apple cider machine, but where’s the farm equipment? Don’t tell me you still pick apples by hand.”

  “We had an apple harvester and a hydraulic tree shaker, but we had to sell them to pay my grandfather’s medical bills. It’s a small operation, and not all the trees are ready to harvest. Sean thinks we can pick them by hand this year.”

  “Where are your pickers? The fruit on the trees looks like it’s ready to drop.”

  “You know, Mr. Kirkland—”

  “Gage.”

  “You don't have to stay and make small talk with me. I’m not exactly a small talk kind of girl. And I really don’t care enough about the farm to discuss it with you. You can look around if you want. I’m not sure when Sean will be back.”

  “So, Sean is your brother?”

  “He's my twin.”

  “Really? Does he look like you?”

  “People say he does, but I can’t see it. We're both tall, but his hair is stick-straight, and mine has a life of its own. His eyes are green, mine are blue. He's laidback and good-hearted, I'm cynical and mean. Besides the same birthday, the only two things we have in common are a couple of freakishly long toes and the shared belief until the age of five that clowns were a race of people.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. His deep, rich baritone rumbled through the empty barn like thunder ricocheting off the mountain. A dimple slashed the left side of his face.

  She hadn’t expected him to laugh. Or for the sound of it to wrap around her heart like a steel band, squeezing it until the memories she'd buried clawed and scratched their way to the surface. She leaned against the door opposite him, to prop herself up more than anything else, and shoved her hands in the pockets of her jeans. She could feel them trembling against her thighs. She took a deep breath and lifted her gaze to meet his head-on.

  His eyes had aged a bit, more hollow than she remembered and framed by a tiny web of lines that crinkled when he smiled. The searing intelligence was still there, and the flickering, mischievous gleam that had drawn her to him all those years ago. The dark, greenish brown irises seemed as bottomless as ever, but haunted now, as if the things they’d seen had stamped them with a melancholy imprint he couldn’t quite erase. The last twelve years had taken their toll. But she had to admit, that standing this close and gazing into the same extraordinary eyes she had fallen into the day before she left Riverbirch to get married, still sent one hell of a shiver rocketing down her spine.

  “You said you’d been here for...how long?”

  “Two months,” he said.

  “Riverbirch is a small town. Funny I haven’t run into you before now.”

  “I’m living over the mountain in Cherokee Bluff. I’ve been busy settling in with Jeremy and planning the publicity campaign for In the Black. If I have spare time, I spend it working at my uncle’s winery.”

  “I could use a glass of wine right now.” She lifted her chin. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.” The muscle in his jaw clenched and released. “Ask me anything.”

  “All right. I would just like to know, strictly for the record.”

  “Know what?”

  “Why the hell you never called me.”

  His dark eyes melted into hers. As the seconds ticked by, she couldn’t look away.

  “So,” he said. “You do remember me.”

  “Well, yes. Hell, yes. I'm not brain dead. Yet.”

  She fought to keep her voice steady. Her insides were shaking like a freight train.

  So far, she'd held it together. Getting out of the truck, seeing Gage Kirkland standing on her front porch like something that had materialized out of thin air. For one panicked moment, she’d thought she was hallucinating. Then her heart started beating again, and the breath she didn’t realize she’d lost returned in short, sile
nt bursts.

  The man would still turn heads—lean, tall, well-built. His brown hair had been cut short, revealing a light swath of gray near the temples. Age had improved almost everything about him. Without the soft protective cushioning of early-twenties skin, his cheekbones looked more chiseled, the muscles in his arms downright powerful. Not the sculpted, twenty-hours-a-week-at-the-gym kind of powerful, but smooth and sinewy and strong. As if he actually used them. She looked at his clothes and stifled a laugh. His wardrobe choices hadn’t changed. He was wearing the same thing he'd had on the last time she'd seen him—faded jeans and a blue Oxford shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looked more solid, more grounded. And sexier than ever.

  He crossed his arms over his broad chest, ducked his head down, and peered up at her. Then he smiled his killer smile. “You look good, Morgan. Really good.”

  Her heart crashed against her ribs. “Thanks. So do you. You always did.”

  “Are you kidding? The last time you saw me, I was a twenty-two-year-old geek who thought he had all the moves. I was insufferable. I'm surprised you even spoke to me, much less let me—”

  “—get to third base?”

  He laughed again, a little nervously. “Something like that.”

  She took another breath and forced herself to push the sentiment aside. For her own self-preservation, she needed to look past his outer shell, attractive though it was, and see the real man underneath. The man who had shattered her heart.

  The shock of having him near began to evaporate, leaving the bitterness she thought she’d liberated herself from simmering below the surface. Maybe time wasn’t the great healer after all. Maybe it never wiped away the memories or the hurt. Not completely. Maybe she was destined to spend the rest of her life waking up after seeing his face in her dreams, then lying awake until dawn wondering how differently her life might have been if he hadn't been so quick to let her go.

  She wasn't thinking clearly—he'd always had that effect on her—but questions kept slamming into her brain like little sonic booms. Why was he here? What did he want? Why was he the small business consultant who had come to see Sean? What was he thinking, showing up at her house with a kid? Holy mother of—was there a wife somewhere?

  Her throat ached. He has a child. A son.

  It wasn’t fair. All those years ago, he hadn't lost anything. Not a damn thing, except her. She wanted to scream at him, demand to know why he was there, stirring everything up again—the hurt, the hope. Then she wanted to curl her hand into a fist and punch him in the face. Pain cut through her heart then blazed into anger. She welcomed it. Anger was safe. Anger was something she knew how to do.

  “Let me get this straight,” she said. “Your company—what’s it called?”

  “In the Black.”

  “In the Black. Out of the blue, In the Black sent my brother a letter saying he had won a two hour consultation to—how did you put it?—‘help revitalize and reinforce small businesses in these exciting but uncertain times.’”

  “Too wordy?”

  “Too fishy. Is it true? Did Sean win a consultation?”

  “Absolutely. I started In the Black last year. I helped my father-in-law save a friend’s interior design business.” So, there was a wife. “I didn’t do much, just came up with some fresh ideas. But I was looking for a new line of work, and I seemed to have a knack for it. Then I saved a cupcake bakery from going under, and an organic herb farm, and a landscaping business. Suddenly, I became the go-to guy in Atlanta if a small business was about to tank. Then I moved up here, and I’m having to start from scratch again. Giving away free consultations is great publicity and more cost effective than paying for ads in the newspaper.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard The Riverbirch Gazette is a goldmine when it comes to advertising. There are so many people here. So many small businesses to revitalize and reinforce.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Of course, I’m kidding. Do you really think you can make a go of business like that in a town this size? Riverbirch is a farming community, separated from Cherokee Bluff by a freakin’ mountain. The nearest Wal-mart is thirty miles away. Who are you going to help? Maxie’s Diner and Taco Bar? Spannagel’s Feed and Seed?”

  “Businesses everywhere are failing, no matter where they're located. I’m planning to expand, maybe as far as Knoxville and Asheville.”

  “How did you choose our orchard? Open the phonebook, close your eyes, and point?”

  “Pretty much.”

  She leveled her gaze at him. “And you expect me to believe that?”

  “Well...yes.”

  “You know what I think? I think you moved back here and got bored, then decided to contact my brother so you could get a look at me and make sure you did the right thing not calling me all those years ago. You went to a lot of trouble.” She stepped back and held out her hands. “You wanted to see me? Well, here I am. Good old Morgan Maguire. Except for the extra fifteen pounds I’ve packed on—and I’m chalking that up to the fact I eat ice cream instead of screaming when I’m upset, which is now—I’m the same girl. I don’t have my nose pierced, or a tongue stud, or sixteen butterflies tattooed on my ass. You'll have to trust me on that one.”

  “Morgan, I—”

  “You know what stinks most about this? How cruel you’ve become. This orchard is my brother’s life, and it’s not exactly thriving. Sean was thrilled when he got your letter. For four days he's been floating around this farm in a bubble, believing the thing he cares about most in the world might actually have a chance to survive. Because of you.”

  “I didn't think—”

  “No, you didn’t. That much hasn't changed about you. Well, you know what? I want to thank you for not calling me twelve years ago. You did the right thing. You saved me from a life of...you.” She turned and started down the path.

  “Whoa!” he cried, following her. “Hold on. I have every intention of honoring my offer to Sean. I’ll admit it’s a little bogus. But I swear, it's sincere. When I heard Maguire Orchard was ready to fold, I wanted to use my skills to find a way to help without making it look like charity.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Why would you want to help me? Because, after all this time, you’ve decided to feel guilty about dumping me? Well, don’t. You don't owe me anything.”

  “I know,” he said softly. “But I wanted to—” He took a step toward her. “Morgan, please. Okay, I’ll admit I wondered what you were like now. But that’s not the reason I set this up.” He laughed. “Come on. Haven't you ever wondered about me?”

  “Well, sure. Years ago. When I still gave a damn. Lately? Not so much.”

  Gage glanced up. His eyes caught the light. A spray of golden flecks shimmered near the dark green iris like sunlight scattered across the deep, clear water of Lacey's Pond. “I'm living in Cherokee Bluff now, and I would like it if we could be—”

  “We can’t be anything.” She held his gaze without flinching. “You understand that, right?”

  “I do now.”

  “Good. So, here’s how we’re going to do this. You can give your phony consultation prize to Sean. I want you to. He's counting on it. And it had better be good or I will sue you for false advertising. When you’re done, I want you to slink back into oblivion and leave us alone. I'm sure it won't be too much of a stretch, since disappearing seems to be something you excel at. But I do not want you near my life.”

  A white Taurus with the word Sheriff painted on the side turned into the driveway.

  “Excuse me. I have company.” She turned and hurried down the path, grateful to put some physical distance between them.

  Sheriff Teresa Stallard stepped out of the car and took off her sunglasses. The soft roll of flesh above her holster jiggled as she walked. A single salt and pepper braid, a proud tribute to her Cherokee heritage, hung down her back like a thick rope.

  Morgan met her on the flagstone walk.

  “How are you holding up?” the sheriff aske
d. “We didn't find any vomit in the slaughterhouse. Most people get sick when they stumble on a grisly scene like that.” She shook her head. “Lord, I've never seen so much blood in one place. If it had been me, I would've blown my cookies clear across the valley. I'd still be blowing them.” Her gaze shifted to Morgan’s left shoulder. “Hey, there. I’m Sheriff Stallard. I don’t think we’ve met.”

  “Gage Kirkland.” His deep baritone rumbled in Morgan's left ear.

  “Bert Kirkland’s nephew,” Morgan said. “He was just leaving.”

  The sheriff nodded. “Honey, is Sean here? I need to talk to him.”

  “Not yet. He drove over to Barkerstown to see if he could line up some pickers. Everything's running late this year because of the bee situation. The Rome Beauties are in, but our regular pickers are working for Mr. Finch.”

  “For Lawrence Finch? Doing what?”

  “Actually, he's paying them not to work here. Harlan was trying to work out a compromise, but now that he’s gone—”

  “Hey, there's a guitar in the house!” Jeremy cried, banging open the screen. “Does she give guitar lessons? Can I take them? Please?” He stopped short when he saw the sheriff.

  The sheriff squinted at Gage. “You don't look like Bert Kirkland, but you do look familiar. Have I seen you around town?”

  “My son and I have been here a few months. We moved to Cherokee Bluff after my ex-wife died.”

  “Sorry to hear it,” the sheriff said. “What happened to her?”

  Jeremy's head jerked up. He stared to the left of his father's face. “Yeah, go ahead, asshole. Tell the sheriff how you killed my mother.”

  Gage opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. Pain appeared in his eyes. The boy's words reverberated across the porch like the last jarring notes of a steel drum.