by Temple Hogan
Chapter Three
Christ! What was he doing?
Beck threw his tools into the back of his truck with a savagery he rarely showed, started the motor and roared out of the driveway. He was losing it. Of course, he could excuse himself for what he’d done back there by all the crap that had happened since he’d married Diane and she’d been found dead. Their marriage hadn’t been a good one. Almost immediately, she’d started running around with other guys. When she got pregnant, he hadn’t even been sure that the baby was his until the paternity test Diane had insisted on had proven he was the father. That was all he’d needed or maybe he hadn’t even needed the proof. For some reason, Diane had. Had she hoped he wasn’t the father, that someone else had impregnated her and she could use the baby’s paternity to get what she wanted? He’d never been able to understand her.
But the baby was his and from the first moment he’d held his tiny daughter in his arms, he’d felt such a rush of love, nothing else had mattered. Because of Emily, he’d endured his wife’s infidelities far longer than he would have otherwise. Although Diane had been an indifferent mother, at least Emily had had one, and Beck couldn’t take her away or risk the chance that he would have lost Emily to Diane. Didn’t the courts usually favor the mother, even a bad one?
The three of them had been lost in a hopeless quagmire of anger, resentment and mistrust. He’d begun to think the situation was worse for his daughter than to end the marriage, but then she’d throw herself into his arms and he’d realized he’d do anything to keep her happy. For four long years they’d gone along until one day Diane had declared she was leaving and taking Emily with her. Their divorce had been bitter and ugly. Diane had gotten everything she’d wanted from him and still won custody of Emily. Beck could still see his daughter’s stricken expression when she’d learned her daddy wouldn’t be coming home with them anymore.
Then Diane had been killed and no one believed he hadn’t done it. Diane’s mother had gotten custody, and in her belief that Beck had killed her daughter, she’d done everything in her power to take his daughter away. Sandy had been even more vicious than Diane, if that were possible.
Beck slammed on his brakes just before racing through a red light. A semi-truck blew his horn and drove through the intersection. He had to get his mind on his driving and stop beating himself up over and over again for the way things had gone. He was innocent and one day the rest of the town would know it. The real killer would be revealed and he’d get his daughter back and get his life in order. Maybe he’d get back his job as coach at the local high school.
In the meantime, he had no time for willowy blondes with questionable morals and dubious reputations. He’d heard the rumors in the community. There were whispers that she and her sisters were witches. He nearly laughed at the thought. From what he’d seen today, none of them had special powers except their cutting tongues and sensuous beauty. Phil seemed to possess more than her fair share. He thought of the way she’d looked gracefully sprawled in the lounge chair, her gold spun hair across her face, her long delicate limbs draped over one overstuffed arm.
He pushed the memory from his mind, but it wouldn’t be dismissed. He could taste her on his lips, the exotic sweetness of her mouth, the erotic softness of her body in his arms. He hadn’t had a woman in a long time, and he’d pushed aside all caution and taken what was there before him. Thank God he’d had the strength to break away before he’d reached a point of no return. She could have accused him of attacking her, although some instinct told him she wouldn’t have done that. She’d been as eager as he. He’d tasted her need and it’d matched his own.
Forget about it. It wouldn’t happen again. He wouldn’t let it.
He didn’t want to go home to an empty house, to memories that hurt too much, so he pulled his truck into the parking lot of J&B’s pub. They made great chili and burgers and no one hassled him much anymore. He took a stool at the bar, ordered an ice-cold beer and some food and sat contemplating the room. Several men were shooting pool, the jukebox was playing and a couple was moving to something slow and sexy.
“Hey, get a room,” one of the pool players yelled and the couple broke apart.
As the man went to join the men at the pool table, Beck recognized him as Rudy Tobias, a local farmhand and a bit of a troublemaker. The woman swung around, spotted Beck at the bar and moved toward him with a cat-like walk she affected.
“Hey, Beck,” she said softly, settling on a stool next to his. “Buy me a beer?”
“Sure, Tammy,” he said and motioned to Harold, the bartender.
Beck turned to the women next to him. She was young and pretty and easy. She had a reputation that she tried hard to live up to. He sat thinking about that and considering whether to take her home with him. She smiled at him and jiggled on the stool so her top dipped and he could see the smooth, pale tops of her breasts. He took a long glance and raised his gaze to meet hers.
“Like what you see, Beck?” she asked softly.
“Yeah, it’s something to be proud of,” he answered.
“I think so, too,” she said in a low intimate voice. “I got more I could show you, if you’re interested.”
“You aren’t afraid of the rumors going around?”
“That you killed your wife? I don’t think you did that to Diane, Beck. You’re not that kind of man.” Her gaze dipped just for that second it took for him to realize that she half-believed the rumors about him.
“So why would you offer yourself to a man you think might have murdered his wife?”
“Did you? I mean, I wouldn’t blame you if you had. Everyone knows how Diane was. She was down here nearly every day, talking about you and her daughter like she couldn’t stand either one of you.”
“Don’t say anymore,” Beck cautioned.
He didn’t want to hear all the ways in which Diane had betrayed him and their daughter. Harold brought the food and Beck wished he hadn’t ordered it. He’d lost his appetite.
“Are you hungry?” he asked Tammy.
“Nah, I’m watching my figure, but you could buy me another beer,” she said and drained her mug.
Beck nodded to Harold who went off to fill the order. With less enthusiasm than he’d ordered the food, he set about crumbling crackers into his chili. The first spoonful revived his appetite and he gulped it down along with half the burger. Silently, Tammy watched him.
“It’s really a shame,” she said. “You’re such a good-looking man and—”
“Tammy,” Rudy, the man she’d been dancing with earlier, called to her. “What are you doing over there with that wife killer? Get over here and give me some luck.”
Tammy looked at Beck with soulful eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I have to join them. They’re my friends.” She paused for a long moment, waiting for him to comment. When he didn’t, she said. “They’re my clients. I have to keep them happy.”
“Why don’t you get a regular job, Tammy, and quit all this?”
“I’m not good at anything else,” she said. She seemed reluctant to leave, but when Rudy shouted at her again, she slid off the stool.
“Thanks for the beers,” she said in a near whisper and made her way across the room.
Beck sat watching the men greet her with ribald remarks and careless touches. She laughed as if she enjoyed such attention and for all Beck knew, maybe she did. He left the rest of his burger, paid his bill and made his way toward the door.
“What are you running away from?” Rudy called after him.
Beck paused and looked back at him. “You got a problem, Tobias?”
His friends seemed to realize what was happening and came to pull at his arm.
“Come on, Rudy, let it go. He ain’t worth the effort.”
Tobias pulled away and snarled at Beck. “Yeah, I do have a problem,” he said, stalking across the room with that stiff-legged gait some men used to prove they weren’t drunk. “I don’t like men who kill women.
”
“Neither do I,” Beck replied evenly, not letting his gaze waver from the drunken man.
“Then you don’t like yourself much, huh?” Tobias said, pushing closer until they were almost touching.
His face was twisted in a scowl and his fists were clenched. He was spoiling for a fight. Normally Beck walked away from confrontations like this, but tonight, he wasn’t in the mood.
“I like myself just fine,” he said evenly, “but I don’t like drunks who try to pick fights.”
“I ain’t trying,” Tobias said, “I am.” He swung and Beck stepped out of the way. The momentum of Tobias’ swing carried him forward so he crashed into the door and spun around.
“Come on, Rudy, that’s enough,” one of his pals said, steadying him on his feet.
“Let me alone,” Tobias ordered, twisting away. “I ain’t afraid of him even if you are.”
His friend shrugged and walked away. Tobias rushed Beck and again Beck sidestepped. Tobias hit a line of barstools, veered away and fell to the floor with chairs and tables tipping around him. He rolled over and glared at Beck.
“Why don’t you listen to your friends,” Beck suggested. “Wait until you sober up before you try to take on someone bigger than you.”
“I ain’t afraid of your size. You’re used to picking on women, aren’t you? But I’m a man, and I’m about to show you the difference.”
He got to his feet and once again charged Beck, this time landing a blow. Beck reeled back and Tobias, emboldened by his success, came after him aggressively. Beck was ready for him. He swung his fist in a classic upper cut letting not only his own momentum but Tobias’ forward lunge work for him. His fist connected with Tobias’ chin and the man went down and lay still.
The room went quite as everyone stood looking at the downed man. Finally, one of Tobias’ friends stepped forward.
“You made your point, Crawford,” he said stonily. “The kid was drunk and obnoxious, but it’s not like you didn’t deserve it.”
Harold, the bartender, left the bar and came to the door.
“I think it’s time you went on your way, Crawford,” he said, holding the door open.
Beck turned and made his way out of the tavern.
As he passed the bartender, Harold said. “I think you’d better find another watering hole.”
Beck met the man’s gaze and nodded then was out on the sidewalk, headed for his truck. His knuckles were scraped and painful, but some of the anger inside him had dissipated.
He felt fine when he went to work the next morning. The sun was shining and he’d slept better than he had in a while, except for the dreams about a golden-haired witch who flew on a broom and called to him seductively. He laughed at the childish dreams, ate a decent breakfast and contemplated that in one more day, he’d see Emily. Even if the visitations were supervised, he looked forward to them with an intensity that kept him going on the rough days.
Now he pulled into the Spencer driveway and wondered what was in store for him today. Whatever it was, he’d handle it with greater care that he had yesterday. He rang the doorbell to let her know he’d arrived to work and was surprised when an old woman answered the door.
“Good morning, ma’am, I’m the carpenter here to work on the pergola for Miss Spencer.”
“Yes, yes, get on with your work,” the woman replied, waving him away.
Gratefully, he hurried around to the backyard. He never once looked at the French doors but concentrated on his work. By mid-afternoon, he was farther along than he’d expected. He’d be done in another day and would never have to come here again.
Just then, the patio doors opened and Phil Spencer walked across the flagstones toward him. She was dressed in white shorts again, with her slender feet shoved into flip-flops. A white T-shirt, smeared with spots of paint, outlined her trim breasts so he could barely look anywhere else. Her pale strands of hair had been pinned on top of her head and hung untidily about her ears. She wore no make-up if you didn’t count the smudges of paint on her chin and one arm. She looked mussed and sloppy and incredibly beautiful. He could smell her skin before she got to him.
He had taken off his shirt while he worked and now he grabbed it and wiped at the sweat on his brow and chest. She looked cool and untouched, making him want to touch her even more.
“Mr. Crawford,” she said in her light voice, gazing up at him on the ladder. “I’d like to talk to you about some additional projects I need done. Have you anymore time?”
Slowly, Beck draped his shirt over a wooden slat and descended, all the time reminding himself how happy he’d be when this job was done. At the bottom, he turned to glance at her and guessed his resolve shattered. She stared boldly into his eyes and he knew if he reached for her, she’d come willingly.
Her skin was flawless, the blue of her eyes clear and direct, her hair glinted gold from the sunlight. Her mouth was firm, even primly straight. He remembered it the night before when it had been soft and full and inviting. He remembered her taste and felt a hunger sweep through him.
His reaction to her must have shown because for a moment her stern demeanor slipped and a softness settled over her. She opened her mouth as if about to speak then remained silent. Or maybe the gesture was an unaware invitation on her part. A bird cried out overhead and her lips tightened and her gaze hardened and once again, her manner became impersonal.
“What did you have in mind?” he asked, scoffing at himself for what he had in mind. His libido had awakened and it refused to be ignored. He gazed at her, trying to keep his expression as noncommittal as hers.
“I’m thinking of getting some horses,” she said briskly, “and the barn in the back needs some repairs. Also the stable, which I now use as a garage, needs a new roof. Would you have the time to do those things?”
Beck leaned one arm on a step of the ladder and rubbed his jaw, pretending to be considering his schedule. The truth was, he didn’t have much of one. He took what work he could just to get by until the investigation into Diane’s death revealed the real killer and he got his coaching job back. Her offer of additional work would carry him through the rest of the summer and a further truth was that he wanted to take any job she offered just so he could be around her for a little while longer.
“I’ve got a little time before my next job. I can start on it as soon as I finish your pergola,” he said.
Her expression revealed her relief, but she drew that aloofness around herself again and said, “Good, can you give me an estimate?”
“I’ll look things over and draw up some numbers,” he said.
“I can show you the barn and garage now,” she said and turned away, expecting him to follow.
She made her way around the house and walked along a cobblestone path to the buildings he’d noticed before. The barn was warm and smelled of hay and the remembrance of animals long gone.
“The stalls along here need to be reinforced,” she said, leading him down one side of the sturdy building. “And I’ll need the hay loft to be checked for rotten boards before I have any hay delivered.” She walked from one area to the next, her movements almost jerky.
She turned quickly, and he didn’t step aside fast enough so they faced each other—up close—for a devastating moment and gazed into each other’s eyes.
“I’m a witch,” she said abruptly.
“I’ve noticed,” he answered with a slight smile. “You’ve cast a spell over me.”
“No, I mean I really am a witch. Haven’t you heard the rumors in the village?”
“I don’t listen to gossip. Why would I?”
She shrugged. “I’m sorry for your troubles,” she said softly then her tone hardened as she raised her chin. “You don’t need more problems and that’s what I would bring you.”
“What kind of problems?” he asked out of curiosity. Was there more than her trouble with men and two bossy sisters?
“I told you, I’m a witch!” She sighed. “You don’t be
lieve me. Funny when the whole town is ready to burn my sisters and me at the stake.”
“Sorry, I have dibs on the stake burning,” he said and saw by the changing shadows in her eyes when shock turned to humor, but she didn’t laugh out loud.
Her demeanor grew somber again. A wisp of hair had come loose from its fastener and curled on her neck. He wanted to take it between his fingers and feel the texture then he wanted to touch the pale, smooth skin of her neck. Hell, he wanted to touch every inch of her. She smelled good, a combination of flowers and citric that overcame the dusty, animal scents of the barn. He wanted to pull her close and bury his face against her cheek and draw in her fragrance. Instead, he tightened his fists and turned to look up at the loft.
“So you think it’s got some bad floor boards?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I haven’t been up there in years. No one has.”
“When’s your hay coming?” He stepped up on the first rung of the ladder and began to climb.
“At the end of the week.”
He felt her eyes on him as he stepped cautiously over the floorboards. “A few of them need replacing, but they’re in pretty good shape. I’ll have it ready by the time your hay gets here.” He climbed down the ladder and turned to face her, but she was already headed for the door.
“I have an account at the lumber company,” she said when they were back out in the sunlight. “And I’ll cut you a check for half when you get the estimates done for me.”
She didn’t look at him again, just nodded and headed back to the house. He watched her go, enjoying the swing of her hips and the jiggle of her round butt. Her ponytail bounced as she walked. His boiling temperature went up a few degrees. Then he forced himself to think of something else besides bedding Miss Phil Spencer.
Suddenly, it hit him. She’d claimed she was a witch. He shook his head and looked after her again, although by now she’d disappeared into the house. A lot of women claimed to be witches and belonged to a Wicca group. He didn’t believe in that sort of thing himself, but he figured to each his own. He wondered if she belonged to a cult and what part she played. What did they do, ride their broomsticks into the forests and light fires and chants wicked spells against their enemies? Their spells seemed to work because he was hooked as surely as if she’d thrown a line into the water and he’d greedily snared the bait.