“I thought you were in pre-med.”
“Turns out I can’t stand to see people in pain.”
“Wow. I never thought you’d end up doing something so dangerous.”
“Me, either.” He grinned. “But it seems I’m one if those guys who’s addicted to adrenaline. The rush didn't come often, but when it did, it made me feel alive.”
“Your wife and son didn't do that for you? “
“I—” He stopped and blinked. As if she’d slapped him.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was out of line. I didn’t mean to—”
“No,” he said quietly. “It’s a fair question. You’re right. It was a crazy line of work for a family man. I took risks. I was fearless. But I had been systematically shut out of Jeremy’s life, and nothing else did anything for me. For a lot of years, I was so angry at the cards I’d been dealt and the choices I’d been forced to make, I didn’t care what happened to me.”
“Are you talking about marrying Suzanne? What kind of shotgun did her father have?”
“It wasn’t like that. My father and Bert encouraged me to marry her, but I could have said no. Suzanne had a difficult, high-risk pregnancy. A new crisis came up every month. She was bedridden for weeks. I couldn't leave her. Or tell her about you because of the stress it would cause. Jeremy was born two months premature, which is why he's always been physically smaller than normal. He’s catching up, though.
“Suzanne and Bert teamed up against me. They didn’t agree with my career choice. They thought it was dangerous and juvenile and selfish. They thought Jeremy would be better off if I wasn’t in the picture. After our divorce, which Bert paid for, he helped her sue me for full custody. But somehow, by the grace of God, I got the only judge in Fulton county Bert couldn’t bribe, and she ruled in my favor.”
“But you’re family. How could your Uncle Bert do this to you?”
“There are layers and layers to that man. And most of them are made out of compost.”
“So you got full custody of Jeremy?”
“Joint. Of course, when Suzanne realized she’d have to legally share our son with me, she did everything she could to sabotage the agreement—last minute changes of plans, trips to Disney World in the summer, skiing trips to Gatlinburg in the winter. All bankrolled by Bert, of course. But how could I say no? Jeremy loved doing those things.”
“Weekend Father Syndrome.”
“I tried to forge a relationship with Jeremy. I promised him I would quit my dangerous, juvenile job. I started In the Black. I pretended I was happy. And for a while, it all worked. Jeremy had gotten older, and I finally had some common ground with him. I’d begun to make real progress, feel like a real father. And then Suzanne died. And he blames me for it. He’s in therapy now, and it seems to be helping. Dr. Arlene Lloyd. Do you know her? She seems very compassionate.”
“Therapy is a good thing.”
“Bert’s right. I should have tried harder. Not being around when my son needed me is something I'll always regret. Something I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make up to him.”
“You're there now,” she said. “And he still needs you, whether he realizes it or not.”
He smiled at her. It took his eyes a few extra moments to catch up.
“Bring him over today after school,” Morgan said. “I don't have to be at Bad Moon until five. I can give him a lesson while you look around the farm. Sean believes in you, and I would really like for you to try to help him save the orchard.”
“Okay. Thanks.” He grinned, making her heart beat in slow, rolling thuds. “And I'm going to make some calls about finding Sean representation. If he goes up against a murder charge, he'll need the best lawyer we can find.”
“We?”
“We.”
He held her gaze with his while a current of electricity sliced a path through the center of her abdomen.
“I didn't want to leave you alone last night,” he said.
“I was fine.”
“Well, I wasn't.”
“Oh, come on. A big, tough, adrenaline junkie PI like you?”
“Not so tough when the bullets are flying.”
Memories of the night before slammed into Morgan’s brain—the sound of gunshots cracking the air, Gage pushing her off the flagstone walk, lying stone still beside him in the wet grass with a broken rhododendron stob biting into her neck. If she closed her eyes, she could still feel his breath crashing across her shoulder, the strong, constant pulse at the base of his throat flicking against her cheek. How long had it been since she’d touched a man? Or been wrapped like his most cherished possession in the strong, shielding warmth of his arms? Had she ever felt so safe? Would she ever feel that safe again?
Maybe she should hold on to the memory. Bury it deep. Then, when she needed comfort, she could take it out and replay it over and over in her head to drive the unbearable loneliness away. Until something that felt like contentment trickled through her bloodstream, like a double shot of apple brandy on a cold, wintry night.
A shadow fell over the table.
She lifted her eyes and gasped softly. The last thing she expected to see were the pale, twisted, angry eyes of Lawrence Finch.
****
“Gage Kirkland?”
Gage followed Morgan’s gaze to the man standing beside their table. He looked like an emaciated wolf. The scars around his eyes were disconcerting, but Gage suspected he used that to his advantage. He bared his teeth, more grimace than smile, and tucked a folded newspaper under his arm.
“I’m Gage Kirkland.” Gage automatically stiffened. Strange men showing up out of the blue calling him by name was never a good sign.
“Morning, Miss Maguire,” the man said.
Morgan nodded. “Mr. Finch.”
“Your friend and I have some business to discuss.”
Morgan glanced at Gage. “You know each other?”
“Only by reputation,” Gage said.
Finch slammed the newspaper against the table. “You got me fired today, boy.” His thin face morphed into a sneer, bunching his scars into a hard, fleshy knot. “I've worked for Bert Kirkland for two years, and today, because you moved your brat out of his house, he let me go. Cut me off. Told me he wouldn't be needing my services anymore.”
“Your services?” Morgan’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What are you talking about?”
“He works for Bert,” Gage said. “As a front man. Bert wants your farm, so he thought he’d pay the Big Bad Wolf here to persuade you to sell.”
“Oh, my God,” she whispered. “Did you know about this?”
“Not until two hours ago,” Gage said. “That’s why I moved out.”
Morgan jumped to her feet and faced Finch. “Why, you...you snake. I should have smashed your toes when I had the chance.”
Finch took a step toward Morgan. Gage grabbed the table, ready to leap.
“It's okay,” Morgan said. “This guy’s not gonna hurt me. This guy’s a sniveling little weasel. He’s not so tough without Bert Kirkland's money in his pocket. Are ya, Larry?”
“You want to see tough?” Finch snarled. “I’ll show you tough. The two of you just wait.”
“Until you have some backup?” Morgan glanced around. “Where is Mr. Mendoza? Hiding in the bushes? I mean, that’s what little weasels do, isn’t it?”
“You’d better watch your mouth,” Finch said.
“Leave her alone,” Gage said. “If you have a beef getting fired, then take it up with me.”
Finch smiled. “You know, I’d like to.” His gaze darted between the two of them. “But I think the most efficient way to get back at you would be through her. It's never a good idea to wear your heart on your sleeve, boy.”
Gage jumped to his feet and seized Finch by the arm. He shuffled him across the sidewalk to the parkway then flattened him against a telephone pole. The elderly couple at the next table huddled in fear. The man sitting behind them threw his cigarette on the gr
ound and ran into the café.
“I can promise you one thing,” Gage said evenly. His slow Georgia drawl liquefied each vowel. “If you go near Morgan again, I will personally see to it that you never bother another woman for any reason. Ever again. You get what I'm sayin’?”
“Threaten me all you want. But this is not over.” He shook off Gage's grasp. “I have bills to pay, and the people I owe expect me to pay them on time.”
“What people?” Gage asked. “People who’d just as soon see you dead as alive?” He turned to Morgan. “I think I’ve tracked down some of those people.”
Finch glared at him. “I mean it, Kirkland. This is not over.” He wiped the spittle off his mouth with the back of his hand and stalked away.
Gage turned to Morgan. She gave a quick backward glance to the patrons in the courtyard still staring and whispering, then calmly looped her purse strap over her shoulder and started down the street.
“Hey, wait a minute!” Gage threw a few bills on the table and hurried to catch up. “You can’t leave now. Where are you going?”
She walked across the street and stood beside her old blue truck, rummaging in her leather purse for the keys. Gage stood in the grassy parkway. He was afraid she would slug him if he came too close.
“Morgan, talk to me. I swear I didn't know Bert was trying to force your family into selling. As soon as I found out, I packed up Jeremy and moved us out of Bert’s house. Until today, I had no idea he was pulling the strings. I would have said something. I would have told you.”
She opened the truck door and spun around to face him. “You know what? I don't have time for this. And I don't have time for you. One of these days, I’ll learn to follow my instincts.”
“Morgan.”
“I’m so angry, I could spit.” She threw her purse past the gearshift and put her foot on the running board. But instead of ducking inside the cab, she turned back to him, eyes flashing.
He caught his breath. Jesus, she was beautiful.
The morning light shimmered across her face, making the blue part of the gold-flecked iris look green. Her perfectly shaped lips clamped together in disgust. Her right hand balled into a fist. Gage had never seen her angry before. He'd imagined it enough times, but in his head, it had never looked quite like this. Passion and revulsion all mixed together, and directed at him.
“Here’s the deal,” she said. “I will give your son guitar lessons because I feel sorry for him. And I will let you give us your exalted opinion on whether or not the orchard can be saved, because my brother—God help him—believes you know what you’re doing. But make no mistake. I want you and your uncle to stay as far away from me as possible. I don't want to see you. I don't want to hear your voice. I don't want to catch sight of your long, tall shadow slinking along the ground.”
“Why not? That’s all I am. Just a shadow on the ground. That’s all any of us are.”
“You say that like you believe it.”
“I do believe it.” He raked his hand back through his hair. “Come on, Morgan. Give me a break. I know you’re angry about Bert, but you don't think I could condone the fact that he—”
“The hell I don’t.” She slid in and slammed the door, then sat staring at the steering wheel.
He waited for her to start the motor, thrust it into first gear and peel out of the parking spot. But she made no move to go. He stood in the parkway with his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his khaki pants. And waited. Finally, he pecked on the glass. “I’m not leaving,” he said. “I’m never leaving. I’m going to stand here like Greyfriar’s Bobby in the rain and the snow and the sleet until you talk to me. For as long as it takes.”
She rolled the window down. “You really moved you and your son out of Bert’s house?”
“Yes.”
“And you swear you didn’t know what Bert was up to?”
“I swear.”
She sat for a few moments, then nodded. “All right. You get one chance.” She started the motor, still looking straight ahead. “I’ll see you at four.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Four o’clock. As soon as Jeremy gets out of his therapy session.”
She leaned down. “Can you do me a favor?”
“Anything.”
“Can you find out if Jeremy’s therapist has an opening? I think I need to have my head examined.”
Chapter 7
“My dad's outside looking around,” Jeremy said. He shuffled into the living room and stood by the piano. “I hate piano. Piano sucks.”
Morgan laughed. “Well, maybe you have the soul of an Eric Clapton or a Jimmy Page.”
“Who’s that?”
“Ever heard of Led Zeppelin?”
Jeremy's face brightened. “Sure. They're on my Guitar Hero game.”
“Then you've heard Jimmy Page play guitar.” She set his backpack on the sofa. “Are you hungry? Do you want a snack or something before we start?”
“My dad bought me a couple of burgers after therapy.” He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I'm in friggin' therapy. Just like all the kids in alternative school.”
“Do you hate it?”
Jeremy shrugged. “Nah, it's okay. I thought it would suck, but I guess it’s okay.”
“I know you’re the new kid at school. Do you ever get bullied? My brother did.”
“Not much. I figure out ways around it.” He grinned. “I may have inherited the shrimp gene, but I also got a few brains. Dr. Lloyd thinks I’m precocious.”
“I’d have to agree. I wish I'd had someone to talk to when my parents died. I mean, I had my brother, but...you know, I couldn't tell him everything.”
“You're parents died? Both of them? At the same time?”
“In a car wreck. When I was ten.”
He glanced at the floor, then lifted his head. “Kinda like me, huh?”
“Kinda like you.” She sat at the piano and patted the bench. “Come sit here. Pianos may suck, but they come in handy when you're tuning a guitar.”
They spent the next thirty minutes lost in the sweet solace of music. In addition to being whip smart, it was clear Jeremy had inherited the same dry, self-deprecating sense of humor from his father that had first attracted Morgan to him. She wondered if Gage saw himself in his son. She did. And she wondered what Jeremy would have looked like if he'd been her child. Taller, maybe. With Gage’s dark eyes and Sean’s tall, lanky body.
When they finished, Jeremy said, “My fingers look like I've been hanging on a clothesline.”
“They'll be sore tomorrow. It takes a while to build up calluses. I'm going to let you take my guitar with you to practice the four chords you learned. Just play around with them. Next time, we'll drag out some music and work on a real song.” She smiled. “You did great today.”
“Thanks.”
“I hear you’re a whiz at computers.”
“I'm okay.”
“I might need help from someone who knows his way around the Internet. Are you interested? If your dad says it’s all right, I’d pay you for your time.”
Jeremy grinned up at her, and for the first time she noticed the tiny silver wires holding his retainer in place. “For real?”
“Absolutely. I own a Civil War artifact I might need to sell. There are people who would pay a lot of money for it, but I don't know how to go about finding them.”
“What kind of artifact?”
“General Albert S. Johnston's personal battle flag.” She reached behind the piano for the guitar case. “He was shot and killed the first day at the Battle of Shiloh. The poor guy bled to death because he'd sent all the doctors off to care for Union prisoners, and no one at the camp knew how to tie a tourniquet.”
“Bummer.”
Morgan laughed. “Definitely a bummer.”
“What does the flag look like?”
“Like a Confederate flag, only smaller. It’s about thirty-four inches square, made out of wool bunting. Each regiment had their own flag. Many of the soldi
ers' wives sewed the flags for their husbands and sons. Will you help me find a buyer?”
“Sure.” He nodded vigorously.
She went to the roll top desk and wrote the information on a piece of notepaper. “I’m sadly lacking in computer skills, but I do I have an email address if you need to contact me. Here are my phone numbers. Call the house first. On this side of the mountain, cell service is iffy.”
A man's shadow loomed in the doorway, blocking the low September sun.
“Dad's here.” Jeremy turned around and stopped short. “Morgan?” he said in a small voice.
Morgan looked up. Her worst nightmare stood in the doorway with his arms crossed, grinning at her. “Hello, Denny.”
“Hey, girl.” The screen door opened and banged shut. Denny Quillen stepped into the room, filling it up. His gaze skimmed the length of her body.
“You know, this isn't a good time, Denny. I'm giving a lesson.”
“The boy won't mind.” He looked at Jeremy. “Will you, boy?”
Jeremy’s gaze jumped between Denny and Morgan. “I...I guess not.”
“See?” Denny said. “He doesn't care. Go away, kid. Your teacher and I have some grownup talking to do.”
“It's all right, Jeremy,” Morgan said. “You can wait outside for your father.”
“Down by the fence,” Denny said. “What we have to say is private.”
Jeremy hesitated, torn between not wanting to stay and afraid to leave her alone.
“It’s okay, honey,” Morgan said. “I’ll be fine. Go on, now.”
Denny stamped his foot. “Go! Lesson's over!”
Jeremy grabbed the huge guitar case and scuttled out the door.
Morgan waited until Jeremy had cleared the porch. “Still charming everyone you meet, I see.”
“Only you, Morgan.” He took a step toward her.
She always forgot what a big man Denny was, and how intimidating. A shiver traveled the length of her spine. Instinctively, she glanced around the room to determine her options.
“What’s it been?” he said. “Two years?”
“Five. It just feels like two. Every five years, you show up like clockwork asking for a handout. Like I owe you something. Well, I don’t owe you anything.”
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