by Brian Knight
“Kat knew Mr. Price wants our land, so she asked Michael what he knew about the deal. He didn’t know anything, but …,” and Penny’s power of speech abandoned her again.
Penny heard the creaking of springs as Susan rose from her recliner, the soft patting of her feet on the floor, but didn’t look up. Then Susan’s feet were in front of Penny’s, almost toe to toe, and Penny tried to brace herself … for what she didn’t know.
Shouting?
Denial?
Penny flinched back as Susan grasped her arms, firmly but gently, and guided her to her feet.
Penny closed her eyes.
“Penny,” the anger was still in her voice, but now mixed with another emotion Penny couldn’t readily identify. “Look at me.”
Penny looked into Susan’s face. Her expression was less guarded now, the hurt plain in her eyes.
Susan bent down and wrapped her arms around Penny.
“Thank you for telling me,” she said.
The embrace was short, and when Susan released her the neutral expression was back in place, but the lines on her brow were as deep as Penny had ever seen them.
Penny could almost pity Morgan Duke. Almost.
“Would you set the table? I need to call Michael.”
Penny nodded and rushed toward the kitchen, relieved to escape the tension that had built up and still lingered in the room.
Susan’s hand settled on her shoulder before she made it to the foyer.
“Set it for three,” Susan said. “We have company on the way.”
* * *
“Good evening, ladies,” Morgan Duke said, hamming it up with a deep bow to Susan and Penny.
“Come in, Morgan,” Susan said. She had her emotions under control. Her greeting was pleasant, inviting. She stepped aside and allowed him in, and gently closed the door behind him. The strain of maintaining this pleasant front showed in the rigidness of her smile, which looked almost painful. Penny thought her jaw might cramp up if she didn’t relax it soon.
Morgan swept in between them, bending a little to favor Penny with his wide, patronizing smile. “Young Miss Sinclair, always a pleasure.”
Get bent.
“It’s good to see you,” Penny said, now smiling so widely she thought her own jaw might cramp.
Morgan sniffed the air theatrically as he rose, then grinned.
Penny wished he would stop smiling. Just once, she’d like to see an honest emotion on the man’s face. She thought that tonight she might get her wish.
“Is that lasagna I smell?”
“It is,” Susan said, returning his fake grin with interest. “Penny is treating us tonight.”
“It smells fine,” Morgan said, turning that infuriating grin on Penny again. “I can hardly wait!”
“You don’t have to,” Susan said, taking his arm and guiding him into the kitchen.
Penny barely picked at her food, but Morgan demolished his first helping enthusiastically before settling back in his chair and patting his large gut.
“So,” he said at last, winking roguishly at Susan. Penny wanted to vomit. “Have you discussed your spring break plans with the young lady?”
Susan, who Penny now saw hadn’t touched her dinner at all, sipped from her water glass, then nodded. “Yes, Morgan, we’ve discussed it.”
“Good!” He clapped his hands together and leaned even further back in his chair to regard them both. “I’ve made the arrangements already. You two will have a nice condo on the beach, full service, and I’ll be right next door.”
“I do have one question,” Susan said. She picked up her water glass to take another sip and Penny saw it shaking slightly.
Morgan saw this, too, and his own manufactured cheeriness faltered.
Penny grinned, a real grin this time.
“Ask away,” Morgan said.
“How much is Ernest Price paying you to work me?”
Morgan’s eyes widened at the mention of his silent partner.
“And is our vacation purely business or were you planning on having a little fun with me too while we were away?”
Morgan Duke gaped in astonishment. He seemed frozen in place.
The dash of cold water that hit him a second later broke the paralysis. He spluttered and coughed, shoved himself away from the table and sprawled onto the floor as his chair tipped over.
Penny would not laugh—she knew that this was hurting Susan—but she did enjoy the stunned look on Morgan’s face as he rose from the floor.
“Come on now, Susan, don’t do this.”
“Don’t do what?” Susan shouted at him. Her chair flew out from beneath her as she jumped up to face him. “Don’t do this?”
Susan snatched Penny’s water glass and gave him a second dousing.
His face and the pink dome of his head shone with moisture, and the shoulders of his immaculate black suit were soaked.
“Or what about this?” Susan lunged for the utensil drawer and yanked it open, nearly spilling its contents.
For a second Penny was certain she was going for the carving knife, and the look on Morgan’s face suggested he was thinking along the same lines.
She withdrew a nicked wooden rolling pin by one handle and pointed it at him like a sword.
Or a wand, Penny thought.
Susan was awesome in her rage, and slightly terrifying.
She regarded Morgan over the formidable shaft of the rolling pin, eyes narrowed and head tilted.
Morgan watched Susan in pure terror, beads of water still running down his face.
“Susan, just … calm down. Don’t do anything ….”
“Crazy?” Susan raised a sardonic eyebrow at him. “Haven’t you ever heard what they say about a woman scorned?”
“Mr. Duke,” Penny said.
He reluctantly turned his gaze to Penny.
“I would get out of here now if I were you.”
Keeping his eyes on the business end of Susan’s rolling pin, he sidestepped toward the hallway. Once in the hall, he dashed to the front door.
“Ladies,” he said, regaining a measure of bravery as he put some distance between himself and Susan. “I did try to do this the easy way.”
He slammed the door behind him, and a few seconds later they heard him racing away down the gravel path to the highway.
Susan dropped the rolling pin onto the floor and turned to Penny.
“I’m sorry, Little Red.” Her fury was spent now. She looked drained. “I’m just not hungry.”
She straightened her chair, sagged onto it, and began massaging her temples, as if fighting off a headache.
Even after all the time with Susan, whose emotional freedom she was still getting accustomed to, Penny was surprised to find she could now give comfort as well as accept it.
She wrapped her arms around Susan’s neck, and they held each other in silence.
PART 3
The Crimson Brand
Chapter 13
Cutting Her Roots
Morgan Duke sat on the small deck beneath the awning of his camper, his home away from home, brooding over his failure of the night before and trying to ignore his son. Never in all of his years, in all of his jobs and deals and cons, had he been so badly shaken.
So humiliated.
The boy stood opposite of him, leaning against Morgan’s black truck. The new BMW motorbike Morgan had bought him stood a few feet away, the morning sun reflecting off its chrome and glass. He’d supplied the boy with this minimal transportation so that he, Morgan, could spend less time ferrying the kid around, but he wished he hadn’t now. The boy’s visits to Morgan’s solitary little patch of Grays Harbor County—one of Ernest Price’s many land purchases made possible by his continued working relationship with Morgan—were becoming too frequent.
Joseph, the smug young pup, was obviously pleased, too pleased. Morgan understood why, of course. He’d taken the boy to task too often in the past few months, held him in check and confined him to the task of
babysitting a ruin, and he was growing ever more restless.
Soon, Morgan thought. You’ll get your wish soon, Joey.
Morgan’s first and best tool, his charm, his ability to finesse, had failed.
Failed spectacularly, he had to admit, if even only to himself.
That woman, that fawning little blond pixie of a woman had shown reserves of insight and courage that Morgan had not thought she possessed. He wondered how long she’d known about his arrangement with Price and how much she knew. He wondered what that would mean for her. Whatever happened, Morgan hoped it would be bad.
That is Turoc’s decision, Morgan thought, and felt his anxiety ease a little. Sometimes he had to remind himself that he was only middle management in this strange enterprise.
Do not take it so personally. It’s only business.
Wise advice, but hard to follow. Morgan was furious beyond words.
“Joseph, why are you still here? Don’t you have a day job?”
Joseph waved the comment off. “Whatcha gonna do, fire me?”
“Son, you do not want to tempt me!”
Joseph ignored this. He could afford to. He knew they would soon have need of his particular skills.
There was still one sure way to compel Joseph’s cooperation, though.
“No, as much as the Prices would rejoice to see you gone, I have no intention of firing you.”
Joseph smirked. Morgan would have liked to slap it away.
“However, tardiness would be proper cause for, say, a dock in pay.” Morgan smiled, a genuine smile nothing like the manufactured front he kept up in his day-to-day business. It was a smile that none of the good folks of Dogwood would have recognized but that Joseph had seen before. The smile, and his words, wiped the smirk from Joseph’s face.
“You wouldn’t ….”
“You bet your butt I would, boy,” Morgan said, leaning forward in his chair toward Joseph. “If you mess this job up a dock in your pay will be the least of your troubles. The boss is not happy.”
Mention of the boss finally got Joseph moving. He knew no more about Turoc than Morgan had until the start of this business in Washington, but it was enough for the kid to be wary of angering him.
Maybe the boy wasn’t a complete idiot after all.
Joseph stomped toward his bike but turned to Morgan before mounting it.
“How much longer, pa? Can you at least tell me that?”
“Not much longer at all, son.” He thought that Turoc was tiring of this business as well. Morgan hadn’t told him about Susan’s final act of obstinacy, the insult that would force the endgame, but Turoc had an uncanny way of just knowing about things.
Joseph seemed satisfied. He mounted his bike, kicked it to life, and sped away, guiding it off-road and over the hill toward the landfill without a backward glance.
Morgan closed his eyes and sat back in his chair, trying to empty his head, to calm himself before Turoc arrived and they planned the next step in this frustrating dance.
Morgan had a feeling, a happy one, that things in Dogwood were about to heat up considerably.
* * *
“Wake up, Morgan.”
The voice cut through pleasant dreams of sailing the Gulf of Mexico at dusk, enjoying the setting sun and cool ocean breeze, enjoying some well-earned rest and solitude.
More insistent, bordering on impatient: “Master Duke.”
Perhaps not complete solitude. Perhaps as a bonus for successfully completing what was proving to be a much more difficult job than he usually involved himself personally in, Turoc could use his impressive skills of persuasion on the lovely Miss Taylor, make her forget about Dogwood and the little red-headed brat and leave with Morgan.
A disturbing possibility occurred to Morgan, as they often did when his defenses were down and his mind wandered, that Turoc was doing the same to him.
That venom of his had many uses, many powers, as Morgan well knew. To heal, to control … to kill.
“I grow impatient, Master Duke!”
The glorious gulf sunset turned dark, forbidding, and the azure waters around him boiled with sudden and frightening life. They tossed his boat, tossed him from the pilot’s seat, and he landed hard, waking up in the gravel and dust beside his camper.
Turoc hovered over him, his terrible horned head and slitted golden eyes only inches away.
“Do I have your attention now?”
Yes, he knew.
“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” Morgan shouted, his anger temporarily trumping his fear of the creature he served. He put a hand to his chest, but his heart beat as regularly, as strongly, as it ever had. Morgan knew he would die someday—hopefully a far-distant day—but it would not be of a heart attack.
“Your pardon, Master Duke,” Turoc said, bowing his head as if in apology, “but I fear the time for good manners and friendly persuasion has passed.”
I’ve been put on notice, Morgan realized.
Just as he’d thought, Turoc was ready to finish this deal, and he was giving Morgan one last chance to end it in the way he wanted.
“Agreed,” Morgan said, trying to maintain a modicum of his dignity while lifting himself from the ground. It was not easy.
Turoc waited for him to brush the dust off of his normally immaculate suit, black slacks and jacket, a white shirt that he’d have to change now. No tie today. He had had no plans to go into town today, so he had dressed casually.
“You’re aware of the situation with Miss Taylor?”
“Very aware,” Turoc said, curling himself beside Morgan’s chair.
Morgan resumed his seat, about to pose the question that had occurred to him while still half-asleep.
Turoc seemed aware that the question was coming and shook his head. “I’m afraid my powers of persuasion will work no better against Susan Taylor than yours have. There will be no happily ever after with or for her.”
Morgan had not been prepared for that answer, and his expression must have plainly said so.
“The lovely Miss Taylor and many of her old friends,” Turoc explained, “have been long inoculated against many of my most useful talents.”
“Stay out of my head,” Morgan said. He wanted to sound assertive but fell far short. He sounded feeble, fearful. “If you value my trust, then stay out of my head.”
Turoc made no reply, only continued to watch him.
“How much longer will you need Joey at the landfill?”
“My work at the landfill,” he pronounced the word carefully, as if it were something exotic, “is nearly complete. My little friends will begin soon, and they are marvelously efficient workers.”
Morgan nodded, happy for the first time that morning. He had an idea, but it would need Joey’s full attention. It would also need Turoc’s approval, but Morgan didn’t think he would object. Not this late in the game.
“Within the week,” Morgan prompted.
“Within the week,” Turoc agreed. “You have a plan?”
“I have a plan,” Morgan said.
“And your local man?”
“Ernest Price is becoming more liability than asset,” Morgan confided. “We’ve made him a rich man, and he’s repaid us with constant failure. I think the time has come to retire him from the game.”
“We are simpatico, as ever, Master Duke.” Turoc rose, unfurling the coiled length of his serpent’s body, towering over Morgan in the time it might take for Morgan to blink, and bowed low, a show of respect that eased Morgan’s troubled mind. “As always, I defer to your expertise in these matters.”
Morgan returned the bow with a polite nod of his own. “And as always, I thank you for your trust.”
“Susan Taylor is a willow,” Turoc said, gazing into the empty distance, toward Dogwood. He sounded almost admiring. “She seems fragile, but she is not. She bends in the storm but never breaks. Her roots in this place are deep. If we wish to move her from our path we must cut them, one by one, until she falls.”
She humiliated me, he almost said.
“Your anger is misplaced,” Turoc said, and backed off a few feet to allow Morgan to rise. “I warned you that the girl might be a problem, and so she has been.”
Morgan watched the track Turoc left in his wake, a wide zigzag pattern in the dust and gravel.
“The girl,” he mused. “She found out?”
“Indeed, and warned the woman of your intent.”
“How much does she know?”
“How would I be privy to that?” Turoc snapped. “However much she may know, it is too much. She and her friends will attempt to stop you if they learn of any new plans.”
Morgan considered this for a long moment. “Is she the root we’ll cut first?”
“I’ve already told you that I must not cause her intentional harm. That has not changed.”
Morgan sensed that Turoc had not finished—simpatico, indeed—and held his tongue.
“But accidents do happen. If she were to be accidentally harmed as a result of your best-laid plans … well, I believe my master would forgive us.”
“Collateral damage is always a shame,” Morgan said, endeavoring to sound somber while smiling inside. “But you know what they say about making omelets.”
“What is an omelet?”
“An omelet is dish best served with cheddar cheese and green onions,” Morgan said earnestly.
Turoc smiled, bowed. “Again, I defer.”
“As well you should, old friend,” Morgan said, returning the gesture. Morgan’s spirits were rising now. He would cut Susan’s roots to this place, and if his blade slipped and he were to sever the wrong one, accidentally, what a shame that would be.
Never in all of Morgan’s years in his dirty businesses had he hurt a child, but he was tired of this place, tired of these people, and he had been humiliated. Suddenly the thought of having young Miss Sinclair’s blood on his hands was not unthinkable.
In fact, it was almost pleasant.
“Make your plans,” Turoc said, turning from Morgan Duke and slithering toward the rise on the other side of the country road, a road Morgan was also tired of. The constant dust was killing his sinuses. “Your son will be released from his current obligations soon.”