Warm Front

by Patricia McLinn

  “Christmas? We never decora— Oh.” She turned and pointed to a wooden structure next to the garage. “The shed is over there.”

  He tipped his head toward the nearer structure. “That sure looks like a shed to me. Besides, you said you don’t raise animals.”

  “We don’t. Other than a few chickens and Grandy — who is Everett’s pride and joy.”

  “Exactly what species is Everett’s pride and joy?”

  “You can’t even recognize a goat?”

  “My image of goats is that they’re friendly and cuddly, beloved by kids at petting zoos the world over.”

  She didn’t react to the tone that he was pretty sure even Zeke and Vanessa would have recognized as joking.

  “Not this one. He’s old, and the meanest creature in three counties. And you were this close—” She held her index finger and thumb an inch apart. “—to having a close relationship with that goat.”

  “Yeah. Closest thing I’ve had to a relationship since — in a while.” He brushed down his coat. “To avoid any confusion, you are talking about the four-legged guy in the pen, aren’t you?”

  She gave him one of her heaven-preserve-me-from-fools glares.

  “Of course I am. What else could I—? Oh.” She gave herself away with a glance toward the house and a twitch of her lips, but she recovered fast. “Grandy — the goat — has been ill-tempered all his life, from what I hear. Most goats prefer company. Crave it even, because they’re herd animals. Not Grandy. He doesn’t like people or dogs or even other goats except females in season to breed. He tries to get loose every chance he gets, and if he succeeds he wreaks havoc everywhere he goes.”

  “Sounds like a lovely pet.”

  “He’s no pet. Goats can make great pets — just not Grandy. But he sires great milk givers. People breed their does to him, even though he’s a scrub — not a purebred.”

  “Providing another source of income for the farm?”

  She nodded. “It’s not huge, but we’ve been able to raise the fee some, and a number of people who make cheese and beauty products from goat milk love getting a bit of Grandy’s blood into their herd.” Her gaze returned to the shed. “Trouble is, he truly is an old goat. And he can’t last forever. Someday he’ll be gone, too…”

  For those last few words, her voice roughened. She was worried about her great uncle-in-law.

  He wondered if Anne Hooper knew how transparent she could be.

  No, or she’d do something about it. So he wasn’t about to tell her.

  “You know what they say — old goats are tough. They can surprise you,” he said. “Now, where is this shed? And while we’re at it, you better tell me what you call all these buildings so I don’t lose life or limb or more valuable parts by wandering into the wrong place again.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A moderate day in early January was a bonus not to be taken for granted.

  No snow falling, no life-threatening wind-chill, no ice on the roads … yet not mild enough to demand that it be devoted to outdoor chores.

  The perfect day to knock off a yard-long list of errands, which she hadn’t done since…

  Her mind went sideways at the thought.

  Damn him.

  Damn him and his quickly covered since and all the questions it left simmering in her head. Since when? Since what? Since — oh, and this was the one that bubbled and bubbled until it couldn’t be contained under the lid any more — who?

  None of her business. Her business now was an itinerary for her trip into town that jostled farm needs, her job, and everyday life, coalescing into a carefully plotted battle plan. No back-tracking, no wasted time or gas.

  She’d already hit the farm supply center, post office, bank, and library. After stopping here at Stenner Autos, she’d go to the grocery store last.

  Most of her work keeping Stenner Autos’ books was done through a secure network, which was so much faster since Quince’s upgrades that it seemed like a miracle.

  But even at its pre-miraculous speeds it had allowed her to work from home, while it let Jennifer access information from the dealership or her apartment. Trent’s financial consultant, who was out on the West Coast, could also check in.

  But Anne made a point of coming into the office in person periodically.

  She’d bring Jennifer backup thumb drives, make new ones to take home with her, pick up additional paperwork, get supplies, and touch base with the people.

  “Anne, how wonderful to see you.”

  Even as Jennifer spoke the welcoming words, she stood, leaving her desk — and computer — to Anne. They’d developed that routine at the start.

  It had been a necessity in Jennifer’s original, minuscule office because two people couldn’t fit behind the desk.

  But even after Trent insisted Jennifer take the big office with the window overlooking the showroom floor because she was here daily and he, though the owner, was not, they continued this routine.

  What was different this time was that Vanessa Irish was sitting in one of the guest chairs across the desk.

  Anne hesitated, but Jennifer gestured for her to take the chair behind the computer.

  “I’m glad to see you, Anne, because I have a question,” Vanessa said with her usual directness.

  It was the directness that had Anne’s shoulder’s tightening.

  “Mrs. Richards said you might be willing to give me a supply of your oatmeal. It would be for Josh’s kids. We used up all of Mrs. R’s. Are you? Willing, I mean. Topher loves it and since he forgets to eat sometimes— Why are you laughing, Jennifer?”

  Anne had a feeling her abrupt shoulder-droop of relief had drawn Jennifer’s chuckle. After New Year’s Eve, she’d been braced for the Zeke-Tech CFO to ask something far more personal.

  But Jennifer said, “Oh, uh, the idea of forgetting to eat. I wish.”

  Vanessa studied Jennifer a moment, turned that assessing look on Anne, then sighed.

  Before Vanessa followed up her sigh with any possible observations, Anne quickly said, “I’d be happy to give you oatmeal. You and Josh and the kids and Mrs. Richards.”

  “Thank you. I can come out and pick it up.”

  “You don’t need to come out, I’m in town most every week, so I can—”

  “I’d like to see your farm.”

  Surprise held Anne still and silent a moment.

  “Do you not want me to come to the farm?” Vanessa asked.

  “I… It’s not that. I don’t want to inconvenience you or—”

  “It’s no inconvenience. Do you want to schedule a time?”

  Before Anne could respond, Jennifer said, “Farms often don’t run on schedules the way a business does, Vanessa. Farmers do what needs doing when it needs to be done.”

  Thoughtfully, Vanessa nodded. “Then I will call before I consider coming out to be sure it’s a convenient time for you.”

  “Good idea,” Jennifer approved. “If I can get away, I’d like to come along, if that’s okay with both of you.”

  “Of course. You’d both be welcomed any time. You don’t need to call. But it’s nothing fancy, and I might be in work clothes, so—”

  “I’ll call,” Vanessa said firmly. “I will go now.”

  After her to-the-point good-byes, Anne and Jennifer settled into a more routine business conversation until Jennifer came out with “How’s it going with your boarder?”

  That kind of question was not part of their routine.

  “Fine.” Anne realized she’d spoken abruptly when Jennifer stopped filing, and looked over her shoulder at her.

  Anne kept her head down, watching files copy onto a fresh thumb drive she used as an added layer of back-up.

  “Quince strikes me as fairly easy-going,” the other woman ventured cautiously. “But I’m sure it means more work for you and it must be different having someone new in your home. Stopping the flow of your work when they ask for things. Needing to, uh, make accommodations for them and for t
heir ways.”

  “If I couldn’t accommodate other people’s ways, Everett Hooper would have been murdered years ago.”

  Jennifer chuckled, and Anne felt the grim compression of her own lips ease.

  They worked in silence for several minutes.

  Anne was pleased — relieved — the topic had been dropped.

  So it made no sense at all when she burst out with “It’s not that he asks for things — he doesn’t have to — it’s just there. How different he is. It’s like having an exotic animal around. Like a panther showing up when you’re used to barn cats — and a panther needs a lot more tending than a barn cat.”

  “I can understand that,” Jennifer said slowly.

  “Do you know what he did? He went in Grandy’s pen — not only in it, but he left the gate open. Wide open.”

  “Did Grandy get loose again?”

  “No. I saw it in time. In time to save Quince from getting butted in the ass, too. In the ass or other places. If he’d gone down, that coat of his that must have cost the earth would have been ruined forever, if it’s not already because of the hay bale that dropped right in front of him and covered him, his coat, and that car in a film of moldy hay dust.”

  “All that happened in one day?”

  “In about five minutes.”

  Jennifer started chuckling. Slowly at first. Then it became a full-blown laugh.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh. I know Grandy’s valuable, and it would have been awful if something had happened to him. Or Quince,” she added hurriedly. “I mean, if Quince had been hurt… He’s so pulled-together, and to think of him coated in moldy hay dust.” She sucked in a breath, laughing between the words. “What I would have given to see him with that cranky old goat…”

  Anne didn’t exactly laugh, but tension in her jaw she hadn’t realized was there released, and she smiled.

  Jennifer quit laughing, then sucked in another long breath. “You’ve got to give Quince credit for not packing up and leaving.”

  That poked something sharp into Anne’s solar plexus. Must be because she hadn’t thought about the risk of losing his rent.

  Jennifer turned thoughtful. “You know, it can’t be all that easy on Quince — being a fish out of water like that on the farm.”

  Anne snorted. “That’s the trouble right there. When you have a fish out of water living in your house, you have to keep pouring water over him or he’ll die.”

  “Who’ll die?” Darcie Barrett Zeekowsky asked, coming into the office.

  “Nobody,” Anne said quickly.

  But at the same time, Darcie added, “I thought I heard Quince’s name.”

  The unintentional duet had the effect of making Anne’s nobody sound far worse than nobody.

  “We were talking about the accommodations you make when someone else is in your house,” Jennifer said.

  Thank you, Jennifer. It was a far, far better answer than nothing. And had the added benefit of being the truth.

  Darcie looked from Jennifer to her, then back.

  Anne started to pick up her papers. “I’ll get out of your hair now, Jenni—”

  “You know, Anne,” said Darcie, “if you ever want to talk to somebody, to find out more about Quince’s past, the one to talk to is Zeke. They’ve known each other since the first day of college.”

  “Subtle as always, Darcie.” Jennifer somehow combined rolling her eyes with a smile — and without looking like a gargoyle.

  “I just thought, since his childhood sucked—”

  “Zeke told you that?” Jennifer asked.

  “Not directly. He’s said how much more fortunate he was in his parents than Quince was, but then Zeke’s parents were terrific. No, it was Brenda, Zeke’s assistant, who told me about Quince’s background. Zeke, Vanessa, and Quince are the official honchos, but Zeke-Tech couldn’t run without Brenda. What she doesn’t know doesn’t exist. Anyway, according to her, Quince’s father is a real piece of work. Sort of like Franklin Stenner, only on steroids.” She looked at Anne. “That’s Trent’s father. Were Franklin and Ella still in town when you first came here?”

  “I don’t know.” She had encountered them last summer, though not in the best of circumstances.

  “Then they were gone, because you’d definitely have remembered Franklin Stenner. And do your best to avoid him. Sorry to say that about your once and future father-in-law, Jennifer, but—”

  “It’s the truth. The only downside to being with Trent is … well, maybe it’s going to be better. Ella laid down the law. So we’ll see.”

  Jennifer had previously been married to Trent’s older brother. Anne had long heard rumbles that Eric Stenner had messed up the dealership before he walked out on it, his wife, and their child, leaving debts and employees without jobs. Last summer she’d seen how Franklin tried to bully Jennifer. And worse.

  How had the woman gotten past all that to trust her ex’s brother?

  Trent Stenner certainly seemed like a good guy, but, still, talk about a hurdle…

  “Ella’s a major advantage Franklin has over Quince’s father,” Darcie said. “From what Brenda says, the man’s divorced any woman strong enough to stand up to him. Except maybe Quince’s mother, because apparently she left on her own. And left Quince behind.”

  Jennifer winced. “Ouch.”

  “Yup. To give her the benefit of the doubt, she might not have had a choice. It sounds like one of those situations where the man was determined to mold his son in his own image.”

  “But Quince—” Anne snapped her mouth closed.

  Neither woman pounced on that, though Darcie nodded and said, “That’s right. Quince remains unmolded. Resisting that could not have meant a fun childhood for Quince.”

  “Trent once told me he considers himself lucky that his parents ignored him rather than trying to make him over.” Jennifer looked at her, then at Darcie. “That it was easier for him to find his own way because he didn’t have to fight them off first.”

  Darcie nodded. “I can see that. Which means it was even worse for Quince. He’s really a great guy, Anne. If you give—”

  “Please,” Anne interrupted firmly. “I’m sure you’re well-intentioned, Darcie, but I want it absolutely clear that Peter Quincy is a boarder in Everett Hooper’s house, and nothing more. The last thing Everett or I — or I would imagine Mr. Quincy — would want is for a rumor saying anything to the contrary.”

  A tinge of color showed in Darcie’s cheeks. Anne’s felt hot as well. She knew she’d been more emphatic than absolutely necessary, but rumors could start on far less around here.

  “I never meant to imply anything improper, Anne. I guarantee if there’s a rumor, it won’t come from me.” Her stiffness eased as she added, “I care about Quince and—”

  “Thank you, Darcie. I appreciate your understanding,” Anne interrupted again. The last of her things stowed away, she added a quick good-bye and walked out.

  Aware the other two women watched her through the office’s window to the showroom, she held her head high and kept her back straight.

  Only on the drive to the grocery store did she start to wonder if there could be repercussions from ticking off her boss’s best friend.

  Not to mention her boarder’s business partner’s wife.

  And a cop.

  Sometimes this damned county was just too small.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The temperature was dropping right along with the sun. Anne automatically looked at the dashboard clock, even though it had been showing eleven-twenty-three for a decade, then checked her watch. Almost supper time.

  The grocery shopping had taken longer than she’d expected. She was tired.

  That’s what had made her go blank so many times as she filled a bag with tomatoes, or looked at labels on canned peaches.

  She would rush Everett and Quince through supper, then tackle the books for Jennifer as well as the farm accounts tonight.

  Because if the weather fo
recaster was right, she’d be spending the next two — if she was lucky — days outdoors.

  She hooked as many bags in each hand as she could carry, then struggled to bump through the unlocked back door.

  Quince and Everett were sitting at the kitchen table.

  Quince turned when he heard her, then stood and tried to take bags from her. She shook her head. She had her system.

  “Supper’s going to be fast and simple — soup and cheese and bread.”

  But the soup was homemade, the cheese a step up from their usual value brand cheddar, and the bread a partially baked kind that she would finish off with herbs and butter.

  “No supper for me,” Everett said. “Going to Ned’s tonight for poker.”

  “Tonight? This isn’t poker night.”

  “We missed last week because Ned had the flu and it’s at his place. Now Walt is sick, so Quince is filling in. So no supper for him, either.”

  “You’re going?” She twisted around to where Quince stood in the doorway to the mudroom, holding a jacket. She turned back to Everett, trying to mask that surprise. “You’re playing this early?”

  “Nah,” Everett said. “Regular time. We’ll leave at the top of the hour,” he added to Quince.

  “Plenty of time to bring in the rest of the groceries,” Quince said, pulling his jacket closed.

  This one, unlike the beautiful gray coat, was designed for tough use.

  “No need. I can—”

  But he was gone.

  “Why’re you so sour with the boy?” Everett demanded, as if he were Mr. Welcome Wagon. And what was with calling Quince a boy? As if he were a decade or two younger than her. “He’s trying to help, you know.”

  “I don’t need help like letting Grandy loose.”

  “Done and past, woman. Let it go.” Everett tsk’d, then stumped out of the room.

  She had to admit that without the need for multiple trips to the car, it was nice to get out of her jacket and start putting away groceries.

  Quince made three trips to bring in the rest of the bags — it would have taken her more — then pulled items out, set them on the counter so she could see them, and folded the bags.