“Sorry,” he said again as he sat back down.
“Why are you apologizing? It’s not like we’re on a date or something, and even if we were, I wouldn’t be offended by your taking a phone call.”
“Would you go on a date with me?”
“No,” she said without even looking at him, and he knew that she knew he was teasing. “Did you want to go on a date with me?”
“No, I was just wondering.”
“Glad that’s settled,” she said and finished off her cocoa. The silence made it simply too tempting not to say what she was thinking. “I couldn’t help overhearing.”
“And what did you figure out about me . . . Detective?”
Jackson expected to hear summary and speculation over the entire conversation, when he wasn’t certain he could even remember what he’d said. But she looked at him squarely and said, “That you’re not all right.” He looked away abruptly, not wanting her to see the echo of her words in his eyes. Then she added gently, “You obviously weren’t trying to keep me from overhearing.”
“Maybe I should have,” he said and stood up and left the room, taking his coffee with him.
CHAPTER 3
Jackson hurried up to his room and paced for twenty minutes. He could always think better when he paced. He couldn’t think of a single logical reason why he felt so utterly fascinated with and drawn to this lovely little innkeeper. But he could think of a great many practical reasons why she was a woman worthy of spending time with. She was smart, but not just smart—she was sharp. She was funny, practical, interesting, and she could see right through him. That was perhaps the part that created the greatest enigma. That was the oxymoron. The very thing that left him frequently off balance and defensive was the very thing that made him want so badly to figure her out. Maybe that was it. Maybe he just saw her as a mystery, and for him, a mystery always needed to be figured out. And yet, just figuring her out didn’t feel like enough. He wanted to know her, and he hadn’t been confronted with a desire to really know a woman since Julie had left him. How long had it been? More than twenty years. Beyond that, he’d lost count. He was obviously out of practice in communicating with a woman who could hold his attention. The women he worked with didn’t count. They had brains and brass. He respected them, but they weren’t the kind of women he would ever want to go home to.
Jackson gasped over that last thought. Go home to? He’d not even known Chas Henrie for twenty-four hours. Had he lost his mind? This was surely some part of the post-traumatic stress he’d been warned about. What was he doing? Latching onto some obscure comfort to compensate for some deep-seated, unfulfilled need? Maybe he did need a shrink. Recalling how angry he’d gotten about insisting that he didn’t need one, prior to leaving the office, he felt a little foolish.
“Okay, Leeds,” he said aloud, then groaned. Now he was talking to himself. He finished the rest of the statement silently. You’re just exhausted and traumatized. She’s a nice lady. Quit trying to analyze it and just use the vacation for what it’s meant for. Get some peace and quiet.
Peace and quiet was a good theory, but what he really needed was to expend some energy. The thought appeared at the same moment as he looked out the window to see the walks and driveway piled deep with snow. He didn’t know who was supposed to remove it, but it looked like just what he needed to clear his head and release his pent-up energy.
* * * * *
Chas checked on Granny, then cleaned up the kitchen, wondering if Jackson Leeds was all right—or more accurately, how not all right he was. And why? She tried to tell herself he was just another guest and it was none of her business. But there were too many implications laced through their conversations to ignore. He needed a friend, and if she was any kind of a decent innkeeper, she could be that friend while he was around.
She heard a scraping sound outside and wondered what on earth it could be. If the snow removal guy had arrived, she would hear the small engine of his ATV with the snow blade. Peering out the window, she checked the accuracy of her vision, then chuckled, then felt a deepening level of respect for Jackson Leeds. He was shoveling the snow off the walk with a great deal of vigor. And she knew it was a heavy snow from the little bit she’d scraped off the steps earlier with the shovel that was always left on the porch. She grabbed her own coat and dug into the chest of miscellaneous cold-weather gear before she went out to the porch. He turned for a moment when he heard the door close, then he went right back to his work while she walked down the steps and stood behind him.
“If you keep this up, I’ll have to give you a discount.”
“Not necessary,” he said with a subtle terseness that made her wonder if he was still angry over what she’d overheard—or more accurately, what she’d said about it.
“Okay, but you could pause a moment.”
He stopped and turned to face her. She held up two choices of thick knit caps. “Your coat and gloves aren’t bad for Montana, but your head and ears are going to freeze. Black or green,” she said like a game show host.
He took the black one and pulled it onto his head. “Thank you,” he said and went back to work.
“I have someone coming to clear the snow. They’re just backed up, for obvious reasons. You really don’t need to do this.”
“I need something to do,” he said.
“Fine, shovel the walks. But leave the parking lot for the snow guy. He’ll feel cheated if he doesn’t have anything to do when he gets here.”
Chas went back in the house and hovered in the parlor, not close enough to the window that he could see her, but close enough that she could see him. She’d never met anyone like him, but she wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.
Jackson shoveled all the walks and enough of the main drive so that a car could get in or out without getting stuck. He left the rest for the snow guy. The falling snow had slowed to a light sprinkle of white glittery dust, which meant that the results of his efforts might actually last a while. He went through the back door this time, where he discovered that the office was located just off the hall. While stuffing his gloves into his coat pockets he noted a rack for coats, a little bench to sit on, and a place for shoes. Since his shoes were very wet, he sat down to unlace and remove them. He hung up his coat and the hat she’d loaned him. He peered into the office and found no one there, so he took a moment to absorb its details. The large desk showed evidence of much paperwork, and a lot of busyness taking place there, but it was tidy. There was a phone with lots of buttons that obviously connected to every room in the house. The desk itself was likely a period piece, as were the chairs and the large sideboard that had a plate of pastries beneath an elaborate glass cover, and stacks of pretty paper napkins. On the shelves above were copies of novels by Charles Dickens for sale. On the opposite wall were several elaborately framed photos of the famous author at different stages of his life. How very Dickensian, he would have said to Chas if she were here.
Jackson wandered up the hall to the front of the inn where he’d come in the night before. The staircase rose from a beautiful entryway. To one side was the dining room, and off of that was the kitchen. On the other side of the entry was an inviting parlor that was obviously intended for the use of guests. There were magazines on a coffee table, and a computer on a corner table. Of course, the furnishings were all authentic or at least excellent imitations. Then his eye caught something completely out of place, but it made his heart quicken before he fully realized what it meant. On the ornate wood mantel of the fireplace was a military American flag, folded and preserved in a triangular wood and glass case that housed it perfectly. On one side of the flag sat a framed set of two military medals that he knew well. And on the other side was the framed picture of a man wearing dress uniform. Air Force. He noticed then a tiny gold plaque at the bottom of the flag case. In loving memory of Lt. Martin Henrie. He let out a weighted sigh and felt his heart tighten on behalf of this woman he was just getting to know. He cursed under his breath
and shook his head as he picked up the framed pictured of Chas’s deceased husband. He wondered what kind of man he was, and how it had happened. He hadn’t expected to get caught.
“I see the two of you have met,” Chas said from the doorway, and he turned, still holding the picture.
“How did it happen?”
Chas sighed and stepped a little farther into the room. “I wish I could say he had died defending a life or fighting for freedom. But it was meaningless. A training exercise.”
Jackson reverently set the picture back on the mantel. “He was still fighting for freedom,” he said firmly.
Chas heard an unexpected conviction in his tone and guessed with some degree of confidence, “You have a military background.”
Jackson was surprised by her perception. She had gotten that out of six words and his body language. So much for thinking he was unreadable. “Marines. Twelve years.”
Not wanting to talk about Martin, she said, “Great experience for an FBI agent.”
“Yeah.” He looked at her and wondered for the hundredth time what made him want to speak his thoughts as opposed to his habit of keeping them to himself. Instead of trying to figure out why, he just said, “I’m afraid both have given me a lot of experiences I’d rather forget.”
Chas thought about that for a moment and got a hint of why Jackson Leeds seemed so troubled and dark. She hoped she wasn’t being too obnoxious to ask, “Is that why you’re here? Trying to forget?”
“Something like that.”
A thought occurred to her, and she asked with mild alarm, “You don’t have a gun here, do you?”
“No,” he chuckled. “Are you afraid I’ll freak out and kill you in your sleep?”
“No, I was hoping you could protect me if the house gets invaded.”
“I can throw a mean left hook.”
“Oh, well, then, there’s nothing to worry about. Do you usually carry a gun?”
“Yes.”
“Why not now?”
“I’m on vacation.”
“I know, but . . . I thought . . . FBI was like . . . always on duty kind of stuff.”
“You’ve been watching too much TV. But yes, I usually carry a firearm. I feel naked without it.”
“Then why don’t you have it?”
“Why do you ask so many questions?”
“When I start asking more questions than you do, then you can ask why I ask so many questions.”
“Once I figure out what that means, I’ll let you know.”
“Why no gun?”
“How long since your husband was killed?”
“I was asking the questions.”
“Fair is fair. How long has it been?”
Chas sighed and couldn’t dispute fair being fair. She answered, if only to give her more leverage in satisfying her own curiosity. “I was notified twelve years ago yesterday. I don’t remember the date as much as I remember that it was the Sunday before Thanksgiving.”
Jackson was surprised at how long it had been, but not by the evidence in her eyes that it was still hard. Some things were just that way. He thought of how young they must have been, and it stirred memories of his own. They were more alike than she realized, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to point that out. Not yet, at least. He chose instead to point out the obvious. “Then yesterday was a difficult day for you.”
“The Sunday before Thanksgiving is always a difficult day for me.”
“Men in uniform came to your door.”
“That’s right,” she said, then silently waited for clarification of this statement.
“I used to be one of those men who showed up at the door. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Is that what you always said?”
“Yes, and I always meant it. I mean it now.”
“Thank you,” she said and looked down. “Does being an FBI agent also include such deplorable duties?”
“It does, actually.”
She looked at him. “Maybe you should consider a profession that isn’t so depressing . . . or dangerous. It is, dangerous, isn’t it?”
Jackson hated the way his mind flashed instantly through a hundred moments that verified the statement, the worst being the reason he could hardly bring himself to look in the mirror. “I suppose it is,” he said nonchalantly, “but after being a marine, danger becomes relative.”
“What you mean is that you get used to putting your life on the line.”
“I suppose that’s what it means. I’ve never really thought about it. I just do it.” Wanting to get the conversation back to her, he added, “The way your husband did it.” Her eyes turned sad, and she looked down. “You still miss him.”
“I do. We grew up together. I’ve loved him as far back as I can remember.”
“I’ve often wondered why it’s the good ones who get killed.” His words had a bite that increased when he added, “Why can’t more of the idiots and jerks get killed in training exercises?”
Rather than pondering how that bit her emotions, she chose to say to him, “Ooh, that sounds personal.”
“You bet it’s personal, but I’m not going there with someone I only met yesterday.”
“Fine,” she said and put up her hands. “Why don’t you have your gun with you?”
Jackson sighed, hoping she might have forgotten where the conversation had been leading. “I’m compulsively honest, you know. My coworkers said it wasn’t always a good thing. I’ve been told I should be a little more tactful and a little less honest.”
“Is that relevant to this conversation?”
“I either have to change the subject and avoid the question, or I have to tell you the truth.”
“So, tell me the truth.”
“I’m on administrative leave.” He checked her expression for a reaction, and couldn’t keep himself from finishing the explanation. She had that effect on him. “When a shooting occurs, the firearms involved are taken by the department until the investigation is complete.” When she only responded with silence, he asked, “Have you watched enough TV to know what I’m talking about, or do I need to spell it out for you?”
She thought for a minute. “You fired shots, and there’re some questions over what happened exactly, or there wouldn’t be an investigation.”
“Very good, Detective,” he said, only mildly sarcastic. While he was questioning his wisdom over getting into this conversation, he had to admit he was glad he’d done it. There was something liberating in having her know the truth, just as he felt better knowing what had happened to her husband. Even though both stories were ugly. But she didn’t know it all yet. Her questioning gaze let him know she soon would.
“Administrative leave? Do they think you did something wrong?”
“It’s under investigation.”
“Did you do something wrong?”
“I don’t know, Chas. I’ve gone over it in my mind a thousand times. I’m not sure what I did, or how it happened. All I know for sure are the results, and I’m not sure I can live with them.”
“That’s why you’re here. You needed distance from it.”
“That’s right.”
“How long has it been?”
“One week, three days, and nine hours.”
Jackson was thoroughly amazed at the stark compassion and understanding that appeared in Chas’s eyes, with no hint of judgment or skepticism. And she didn’t even know him. “What were the results?” she asked in a hushed whisper.
Jackson turned away. He couldn’t look into her eyes when he said it. He sighed, then he coughed. “I shot a man.”
Chas measured her words carefully. She felt sure it was far from the first time he would have needed to do such a thing with his career history. But she knew she had to ask, “Did he die?”
“Yes.”
“Did he deserve to?” she asked, and his surprise made him look at her.
“Yes,” he said again with firm resolve. “He was a horrible person. He’d taken many
innocent lives through his own greed. And he was a split second away from shooting me. It was either me or him.”
“I’m glad it was him.”
“I’m not so sure,” he said and looked away again.
“Are you giving your life the same value as such a horrible person?” She wanted to add that she knew all human beings were children of God, and she hadn’t meant her question to sound judgmental. But that wasn’t really the point of the conversation.
“No, I’m giving my life much less value than the man on my team who died while I was killing someone else. Maybe if I’d done something different, the whole thing wouldn’t have gone down the way it did. And if somebody on the team had to die, I think it should have been me. I had no one to miss me, and nothing to lose. Dave left a wife and three kids. It’s just not right.”
Chas was so stunned she could hardly breathe. She wanted to just cross the room and hug him, but she didn’t know what to say. She saw him searching her eyes, waiting for a reaction. She hurried to come up with one, if only so he wouldn’t have any reason to believe that she thought less of him for what he’d just admitted. “I think,” she was surprised at the tremor in her own voice, “that if you’re still alive, there’s a reason. If you believe that you did the best you could under the circumstances, then you’ve got to accept it and move on.”
“Like you’ve moved on from your husband’s death?” he countered.
“I have moved on,” she said. “I miss him, but I’m happy. You’re still in shock. You need to give it time, Jackson.”
He shook his head and put his hands on his hips. “How do you do it?” He put his hands in the air then back on his hips. “I don’t even know you, but you just . . . stand there and make me spill my guts like you’re some kind of psychotic shrink, or something.”
The Best of Times: A Dicken's Inn Novel Page 4