Rebel Betty

by Michaels, Carla

  A stand of apple trees bordered a split rail fence that lined the driveway. Clinging to the trees like heavy snow, blossoms perfumed the air, mingling with the fresh greenery of new spring growth. Black dots swarmed overhead, honey bees enjoying the bounty after a long winter.

  Thad drove slowly, creeping along the curving drive until the house came into view. He took the jeep out of gear and paused. The beauty of the place took his breath away. A two story, rambling brick structure with a white addition in the back, it possessed the kind of quaint charm that would have made it a perfect setting for a Norman Rockwell painting. Extensive and lovely flower beds framed the house, displaying blooms that rioted with color and fragrance: purple stalks of hyacinths, red tulips in glorious profusion, and the heavier, cloying scent of white lilacs.

  He guided the Jeep back near the closest of the enormous red barns set to the left of the house and parked. Far in the back he could see a tall woman in a pink and tan plaid shirt leading a small child by the hand.

  “Mrs. Foster!” He called, raising a hand in greeting. They had arranged this meeting via a series of email messages, his work schedule over the past week not lending itself to casual conversation. Finals, he grimaced internally, were a bitch.

  She waved and Thad walked to a gate. After closing it, he headed in her direction across the field. The grass beneath his boots was a deep, velvety green that ended at his ankles. It smelled nice, too, despite the clusters of droppings, remnants of the fluffy white sheep he could see in the distance. There were clumps of white narcissus in the tall grass, mixed with dandelions and the trees were crowded with new leaves.

  As he walked, he studied the fenced-in area, noting the position of the rise he had seen in the photo. Disguised by the grove of trees that surrounded it, the hill was not immediately apparent.

  Drawing closer, he turned his attention from the hill and focused on the child at the woman’s heels. Maybe three, he judged, with the curling golden hair and the round cheeks of a Botticelli cherub. Innocent blue eyes the color of the morning sky watched him with interest. After completing her appraisal, the child returned to her previous task of picking dandelions, stuffing her chubby, yellow stained fingers with wilted blooms. The edge of her pert nose was also dusted with pollen, matching her yellow shirt and the ribbons in her hair.

  Without looking up, the girl waved her hand in greeting when he neared. “Hi!”

  Thad crouched down and plucked a yellow blossom. With a flourish, he handed it to her, “Hi, yourself.”

  Mrs. Foster looked at him with an arched eyebrow. “An interesting strategy, Professor Gilbert. A charm offensive?”

  Thaddeus laughed, but he could feel the beginnings of a blush color his cheeks under his stubble. Should’ve shaved, he thought wryly. Or maybe worn something besides a t-shirt. “No strategy, Mrs. Foster. I am the oldest of four boys. Sometimes I think I am better at dealing with kids than I am at college students, or adults for that matter.”

  Her smile grew warmer, more genuine instead of merely polite, and had the effect of reinforcing the odd feeling of familiarity that had plagued him during the last weeks whenever he thought of her. Though he had no idea where, he was certain that he had seen her before.

  “It’s Miss, actually, but why don’t you call me Lara? And this is Mackenzie.”

  “And I am Thaddeus, or Thad,” he offered his hand, which she shook, surprising him with the firmness of her grip. “Mother a fan of Russian literature?”

  Lara laughed a husky, sensual sound that sent an echoing ripple of sensation throughout his body.

  “Yes, she loved the Doctor Zhivago book, and the movie.” Approval radiated from her. “Why don’t I show you around?”

  He nodded, and Lara stooped to pick up a basket. Next to them, the girl was still busily picking dandelions by the handfuls. Lara held her hand out to the child, who shook blond curls.

  “No. Kenzie walk herself.”

  Lara shook her head and began walking, leaving the child to trail after them.

  He surveyed the property with a practiced eye: the fields that surrounded the home in every direction looked newly tilled. Two barns that he judged to be of an age with the house were painted a deep red with black metal roofs. A newer pole barn, smaller than the others, interrupted the direct line of sight to the north. A small herd of sheep dotted the bright green grass, white as clouds against an emerald sky. Chickens with silvery feathers roamed freely, scratching at the gravel in the drive.

  The place looked well-tended and prosperous. There was no clutter, pieces of broken machinery littering the ground or old cars. The tractor he spotted in the barn was a beautifully restored Farmall, as bright red and as pristine as the day it had rolled off the line 70 years before. The truck parked in the driveway was a late model Ford, its cherry paint gleaming in the sun.

  These people were not merely struggling to get by. The farmhouse alone would have been worth a pretty penny, and land in this part of the country was at a premium.

  Although his hostess seemed content to cross the pasture in silence, Thad could not resist asking the dozen questions that her emails had raised.

  “How long have you lived here? Do you know any of the history of this farm?"

  Waves of reddish brown hair shifted as Lara shrugged. “I know almost everything there is to know about this place. I was born here. My family has owned this farm since before the Civil War.”

  Thad whistled. “Wow. That’s amazing.” Century farms were rare enough, but continuous ownership for over 150 years was practically unheard of. He stepped over a deep rut in the grass. Without thinking, he twisted and caught the little girl by the waist and twirled her as he lifted, and deposited her on the other side.

  She laughed and raised her hands high. “More, more!”

  “Maybe in a minute, sweetheart,” he said. “Let me talk to your mom for a bit more.”

  “Not Mama,” Kenzie said, and a round lip protruded in a pout. “Mama’s in heaven, with Daddy. She Mean Larry.”

  The child’s words brought him to a stop, and he could not resist a startled look at the woman who strode next to him.

  The flash of grief that stole over Lara’s face was so brief that if he had not been watching her face closely, he would have missed it. To cover her reaction, she bent down and adjusted the strap on the girl’s overalls, which were slipping off her shoulders. Although the child had obviously suffered in her young life, she was well taken care of, with clean glossy hair that was straggling out of pigtails and the glowing vitality of youth.

  “Mean Larry wants you to be good, OK? Then maybe you can watch TV after breakfast tomorrow.”

  “Okay.” Quick as a flash, her bright good humor returned, and the girl went scampering across the fields, chasing after one of the lambs that had ventured too close.

  He felt the need to apologize, and break the now-awkward silence that stretched between them. “I’m sorry,” he said, though he was conscious of a slight stirring at the thought that the very attractive woman at his side was not married or attached. In the 18 months since his divorce had become final he had dated a few times, but nothing serious. The two women he had been intimate with had left him feeling hollow. “But can I call you Larry, too?”

  Chapter 3

  Lara knew she was in trouble as soon as he made her laugh. She might have been able to resist Thaddeus Gilbert’s absent-minded professor charm when he was in the college setting, all dark jacket and coffee cup, long hair and eyes shaded behind his glasses. Something in her had always responded to the scholarly type. Strange, considering her past, but the leather-clad bad boy had never really been her thing.

  And then he had stepped out of the old Jeep in faded jeans that looked as though they had seen decades of wear, gray t-shirt and boots, and she had felt her hormones join in lock step and begin dancing. And the glasses she found entirely sexy were still in place.

  “No, you may not call me Larry,” she said, and smiled up at him, liki
ng the way his eyes were shooting warm sparks at her. He moved closer, until the distance between them no more than an arm's length. His was a face at home in the sun and the wind. There were a few lines spreading out from the corners of his eyes and the streaks in his hair looked to be the product of time spent in the open, rather than in a stylist’s chair. “My brother and his wife died ten months ago. Most of the time Mackenzie seems to be adjusting well, but today, all we have done is fight. Shutting off Bugs Bunny caused an hour-long tantrum.”

  “I am so sorry, for both of you.” They were leaning against a fence post, watching Mackenzie run through the field. “It's great that you took her, though. I know a lot of people wouldn’t have bothered.”

  Lara felt her temper begin to bubble. She had heard something along those lines many times over the last months and it never failed to piss her off. It was usually accompanied by a severe look that told her the details of her past adventures had not been forgotten in a small town that thrived on a steady diet of gossip and scandal. “How could I not have? She’s my niece.”

  Like a book closing, a veil was thrown over his face. He stepped back, his manner changing from flirtatious and sympathetic to entirely professional.

  “Naturally. Is that the site?” He asked, and they walked towards the small rise that dominated the field. The land sloped toward the creek, a clear expanse of water that tripped musically over flat rocks, forming small churning pools. Smaller grouping of pebbles formed shallow inlets where the copper tinged water sparkled.

  Moss, at once feathery and slimy looking, ran in green streamers with the current. A sycamore tree, its bark as white as fallen snow, dominated the vegetation. In the very top of the branches he could see a huge nest, cup shaped and swaying in the gentle breeze.

  “Eagles?” he asked.

  Lara nodded.

  "It's a beautiful farm, one of the nicest I have ever seen" he complimented her. "Does this creek empty into the Great Miami River?"

  Lara smiled and nodded, her annoyance dissipating. The work that she had done to this place had been both difficult and expensive, but she was proud of it, and his approval caused a warm glow of satisfaction.

  “Had this always been used as a pasture?”

  Lara gestured to the flock. “As far back as I can tell. The family has always kept sheep. Must be the Irish blood.”

  He nodded distractedly, and took out a phone. After asking permission, he began snapping pictures, pausing only to type out a quick phrase. His forehead was creased by marks of concentration.

  Lara leaned against the tree and watched him, keeping one eye on Mackenzie as she ran through the grass. The creek that bisected the field was swollen by rainfall, its banks obscured by the tall grass in places. Her Dad had always told her and Will to stay away from the creek, though as farm kids separated by only 11 months in age, they had seldom listened. It pleased her that Mackenzie was growing up on the same farm where her father had lived most of his short life. There was continuity to it, as though death had never taken her little brother away.

  “Do you mind if I leave you here?” Lara asked. “I need to start making supper.”

  The professor prowled over the field, taking dozens of pictures. He was so intent on his work that he barely looked up. “Sure, sure. Do you mind if I take a small core sample?" At her, he explained. "I will dig down about three feet with a small auger and see what comes up. I will back-fill the hole, of course."

  "Oh, a soil sample, of course. No, that would not be a problem, just stop by before you head out. I want to see if you find anything."

  “It would be my pleasure,” There was only the faintest trace of innuendo in his words, but her body responded as though he had brushed up against her. Christ, she thought, turning before her face could give her away. This is getting out of hand.

  Lara went to where Mackenzie was playing with the lambs and together they returned to the house.

  A large, brightly colored play kitchen in the sun porch kept Kenzie occupied while Lara took the two steaks out of the refrigerator to get them to room temperature. A bowl of fresh peas waited on the table, picked only that morning. Lara sat on the wicker sofa and watched the professor out of the corner of her eye as she shelled the peas and then lit the grill on the back patio.

  He looked more like an actor who played an archaeologist on TV than an actual expert on the Native American peoples of this area. When she had begun searching the web for archaeologists who specialized in the Native American history of the area, his name kept popping up. Dr. Thaddeus Gilbert. At 38 years of age, he was a rising star in the field, with two published books that had enjoyed commercial success and several appearances on television shows that chronicled Native American history. That he taught at a university not two hours from her home had seemed too good an opportunity to pass up.

  Her dad would have loved meeting him. William Foster Sr. had been a giant of a man, and the only parent she had known for most of her life, her mother having abandoned the family decades before, and his death left a void she could never fill. It made her question what had seemed a glamorous and exciting life. By then the relationship with her fiancé was on the rocks, buckling under the weight of his constant infidelities and unwillingness to change.

  The farm had always been her refuge. When the estate was settled, Lara had been generous, paying Will well above market value for his share of the property. She wanted the place kept whole, a retreat from the hectic life in California. She had spent a year working on an extensive remodel of the house while flying back and forth to LA, eventually finalizing the sale of her business after months of negotiations.

  And then Will died. She had worked through the grief over their father’s death. Will turned to heroin, although she had only suspected it at the time. The memory of his gaunt, handsome face still haunted her. Thin, because he kept forgetting to eat. Pale because he never saw the sun. She should have known, should have done something to avert the tragedy. She should have looked out for him.

  Lara turned and watched Mackenzie shaking the plastic frying pan over the burner of her toy kitchen, just as Lara did every morning, cooking eggs. Mackenzie’s parents had both been users, but they loved their daughter. Thank God Becky had been smart enough to stop while she was pregnant, perhaps the only period of sobriety since she became an adolescent. The alternative was too horrible to contemplate.

  Lara shook herself free from the memories. Life seldom worked out according to plan. In their family, Will had always been the smart one, the quiet one who had perfect grades and worked his way through the small library in the den before his 12th birthday. High school brought a broken leg from a track injury that spiraled into an addiction to painkillers. Lara had always been the troublemaker: fighting, racing, barely finishing high school because of her appalling grades.

  And yet she had survived, while her brilliant brother had not. Twenty seven was too young to die and leave his child alone in the world except for a crazy aunt who knew nothing about healing a grieving child.

  Chapter 4

  Although the trees that encircled the mound obscured its lines, as soon as Thad stepped on it to rise, he had no doubt that it was a burial mound . The angle of it was too definite, too perfectly symmetrical to be a natural occurrence. Rising more than six feet from the surrounding field, it would have seemed an annoyance to the farmers who had settled this area. Of the thousands of mounds that had once dotted the landscape, only a tiny percentage had escaped the inexorable mark of progress. The rest had been tilled under by farmers hungry for arable land.

  He surveyed the sight, scanning over the dips and rises around the elevated area, searching for the best place to take a core sample. The area between the mound and the creek seemed the most likely to yield results. After another hour of taking notes and pictures, he made the trek back to the jeep and retrieved the auger.

  He set the canvas sack with his gear at the base of the hill and pulled out a clipboard to take notes. Using a high
resolution camera, he took another set of pictures, focusing on the area that he would sample. After filling out the provenance data and forms, he plotted his location with a GPS, and then was finally able to set the corkscrew into the ground.

  The soil near the creek was clay, heavy as lead, and by the time he had reached the digging limit, his back was protesting. After pulling it out, he bagged the sample, noting with delight the dark particulates that could mean charcoal.

  By the time that he finished in the field and returned to the yard, the air was filled with the aromas of seared meat and the meaty richness of the mushrooms sautéed in butter and a little garlic. An open bottle of wine waited on the table, breathing.

  He stowed his bag in the jeep and walked toward the patio.

  “No!” Mackenzie said. “Don’t like it.”

  “Try just a little,” Lara urged, wishing there was some way to avoid the stress that was mealtime. Mackenzie turned everything into a battle, especially food. No matter how many different things Lara tried to tempt her with, Mackenzie liked pasta with butter and little else. They argued back and forth until Lara sighed and replaced the plate with the bowl of pasta she had kept waiting.

  “Knock, knock,” Thaddeus said, walking up the flagstone stairs. Mackenzie giggled.

  “Would you like to sit down?” Lara asked, and the professor nodded, his attention already focused on the bowl at the center of the table.

  “Are those morels?” he asked,

  Lara smiled and nodded. “Yes, we had a good crop of them this year,” she said. “Would you like to join me for supper? Kenzie doesn’t like steak and mushrooms.”

  “Nasty,” she piped up.

  “I'd love to.”

  She went into the kitchen and retrieved another plate and a steak that had only a little piece cut from it. “I hope you don’t mind a little pink.” She scooped up a generous portion of the mushrooms and placed them next to the peas and the still-warm beef. “I can give it a quick heat, if you’d like.”