“I heard about that,” Gideon admitted. “But the lake people are mostly adults, not a bunch of crazy kids. You know that. I can’t imagine them running around spraying graffiti on farm equipment. Why do you think it was them?”
“I caught the license plate of the van they were in as they hightailed it off my property. California plates, which points right to them crazies.”
Gideon smothered a sigh. The only thing the old-timers in this town hated more than the people living out at the lake were outsiders. Especially Californians.
“Gene, just because the plates might have said California, that doesn’t tie them in with the... lake people.”
“You can’t even say it.”
“I think it’s—”
“See, Fred, he can’t even say it.”
“Well, he’s got a point, Gene. It’s not something I like saying aloud either.”
“I’m not afraid to say anything,” Gideon snapped. Serving six years in the freaking U.S. Army should have proved that. He’d fought for his country and he’d show them what afraid was, dammit. He sucked in a deep breath to calm himself before he ended up calling a couple of old men out behind the diner to kick their asses, then continued smoothly, “I simply don’t see any point in perpetuating a stupid rumor.”
“See, that’s denial, Gideon. You’re in denial.”
“It’s not denial to disagree.”
“You mean to say you really don’t think them yahoos out by the lake are a cult? You’re kidding, right?”
“He’s right, Gideon.” Fred gave a sage nod. “Before he left town, my grandson claims he saw them doing some kind of ritual out there. They’ve laid claim to that old fairy tale, that one about free love. I hear they do quite a bit of free loving out there under the full moon.”
Gideon grimaced. Damn, he hated when conversations veered into the woo-woo area. He hated all talk of magic. But he knew the fairy tale Fred referred to. Rossdale legend had it that Gideon’s own great-great grandpa, Hiram Ross, saved a beautiful woman from a mountain slide and earned her everlasting gratitude. The woman, per the legend, was a witch who blessed the town with peace and prosperity as long as they welcomed faith, magic, and love. There was even a statue in the town square commemorating the story.
Not that anyone believed it anymore. But that didn’t stop people from using the tale as fuel for their crazy cult claims. The homestead out by the lake had been formed about forty years back by some disgruntled townspeople who objected to the legend being brushed off as a silly tale and ignored. Instead of letting the legend die, a few hardy souls had moved to the far edges of the town limits and formed their own... community, for want of a better term. Up until about five years back, they’d gotten along fine with the rest of the town.
“Gene, you go around calling them a cult, you’re gonna stir up anger and scare people. All that will do is create more problems.” And the last thing Rossdale needed was more problems. It was fast turning into a dried up town on the verge of extinction as it was. “If you have to call them anything, try... I don’t know, commune? It’s less inflammatory.”
Instead of the expected scowl, Gene beamed at him. Gideon narrowed his eyes.
“See, it’s clear headed thinking like that we need running this town, Gideon. You’ve your daddy’s brain, that’s for sure.”
Before Gideon could reply—hell before he could even modify his initial response into polite terms, Fred grunted and shook his head.
“Well, well. Here comes another one.”
They all peered out the window at the U-Haul van cruising down Main Street.
“Bets?” Fred asked. Gideon shook his head. He wasn’t much into the entertainment of betting on where the newest resident was from and how long they’d last. They got about a dozen new residents in Rossdale a year. Most didn’t last more than three months.
“Long as it isn’t California,” Gene said with a long-suffering sigh. “Them people must be bred to cause a ruckus. Movie types, rich and snooty folk and silicone boo—um, filled women. All with no respect for the way things are done.”
The van drove past and the men all gave an appreciative sigh over the Beemer it was towing. Then Fred and Gene groaned in concert when they saw the California license plates on the prime piece of machinery.
Gideon couldn’t work up the energy to care. It really didn’t matter where the people were from. They weren’t the answer. The town was sinking fast, and definitely needed new blood, but he’d learned long ago not to expect people to stick around. No, the town needed help but it wouldn’t be coming from an outside source.
Out of defense for his sanity, Gideon blocked out his companions’ continued bitching and watched the van stop at the corner gas station. The passenger door opened, and Gideon caught his breath at the sight that followed. Long, shapely, and oddly mouthwatering, given the distance and fact that he couldn’t make out anything but her height and general shape. A curtain of dark hair hid her face, but her movements and the slow, easy grace of her mile-long stride, made Gideon’s heart beat just a little faster. How long were those legs?
Well, well. Things just might be looking up around here after all. Not that he figured she’d stick around. But it was definitely worth checking to see if she was single. Maybe he’d have something other than coffee to smile about some morning soon.
“Gideon, dear? Isn’t it awfully late in the day for you to be lollygagging around?”
Nothing burst a hot sexual fantasy faster than the sound of a mother’s voice. Gideon grimaced, tucked his lustful musings away, and faced his mother.
“Morning, Mom.”
Gideon could see why most of the town figuratively bowed down to Deloris Ross. A force to be reckoned with, a strong, robust woman in her late fifties, she looked ten years older and had the energy of a lady half her age. Graying and reed thin, she wore her late husband’s wedding band on a chain around her neck for all to see. In his uncharitable moments, Gideon wondered if that was to keep the fact front and center in the townspeople’s minds that she’d been the mayor’s wife.
“Don’t you have clients or something?” she asked, her tone oddly defensive. “Is that what you learned in the Army? How to sit around on your butt all day.”
No. He’d learned to take orders, he’d learned to build things and he’d learned to kick ass. But he didn’t figure his mother cared about that. Deloris had never gotten over Gideon’s defection to the military, even if it had only been for six years. Her attitude might have something to do with his bringing home a bride, even if the bride had long since fled Rossdale and Gideon. Then again, in his brutally honest moments, Gideon had to admit he hadn’t quite forgiven himself for that part, either.
He made a show of leaning his arm along the back of the bench seat and taking a slow sip of his lukewarm coffee. “Not many people in Rossdale needing a contractor this morning.”
His official title in his one-man company was General Contractor. Sadly, it didn’t bring in diddly for income. So Gideon sidelined as a general handyman. In all truth, it was more accurate that he sidelined as a contractor, but Deloris Ross had delusions of grandeur.
“Well, don’t you have a wall to hammer or a roof to repair?” she shot back in an irate tone.
Gideon’s brows rose.
“Trying to get rid of me, Mom?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Gideon. I’m always pleased to see you. I just didn’t... expect to see you here. Now.”
Gideon narrowed his eyes when she exchanged an odd, almost guilty look with Fred and Gene. One hand clenched around the bamboo handle of her straw purse, the other clutched something behind her back.
“Whatch’ya got there?”
“Please, Gideon. Mind your own business.”
Since Deloris made a point to interfere in every aspect of the town’s—most especially her only child’s—business, Gideon figured turnabout was fair play. Whatever she was sporting was his business. Unless it was an ad she’d brought Gene to ru
n in the personals. He snickered at the idea and crooked his finger. This should be good.
With a humph of disgust, she handed him the file. Gideon paused, his fingers on the cover. Fred and Gene scurried out of the booth with quick goodbyes, leaving the seat opposite him for his mother. Her face set in rigid lines, she slid into the booth, placed her boxy little purse on the worn red vinyl beside her, and folded her hands on the table.
Uh oh. He recognized that look.
Amusement gone, Gideon pretended his pie hadn’t just turned into a ball of concrete in his stomach and flipped open the folder. He glared at the contents as the rock hard pie caught fire.
“What’s the idea, dammit? What the hell are these pictures for?”
Gideon fanned through the eight-by-ten black and white glossies she’d somehow snapped of him and... What? Morphed the photo on some computer program? He hadn’t worn a tie since Lance Pringle’s wedding. But she’d fixed that, pasting his current face on his five-year’s past suit-wearing body. Of course, the fact that his body faced left, his head faced right, and the odd, Frankenstein-esque line that attached the two parts made it rather obvious the picture had been manufactured.
Then there was his raised hand. Maybe the peace sign he was giving would have looked more genuine if it hadn’t been a woman’s hand pasted on his wrist.
“I think the nail polish clashes with my suit, don’t you?” he asked, eyeing the very same nail-polished fingers clenched together on the table in front of him.
“I had no clue you were an expert on coordinating nail color,” she snapped.
“I had no clue you were so adept with Photoshop,” he sneered, holding the pictures up to the light. “You looking to snag a job with the Enquirer?”
“Don’t be silly. I was just looking for a nice shot of you dressed up. I never see you in a suit, you know.” She pursed her lips and poked at the picture. “If you’d just dress up more often, I wouldn’t have to doctor up a picture, now would I?”
“Right. You needed a picture of me in a suit and you couldn’t just ask for one? And what’s with the peace sign? I’ve never seen anything so ridiculous. I look like a cross-dressing politician with my head screwed on backwards.”
Gideon’s gaze locked with his mother’s, her golden brown eyes so like his own. And he was sure he wore the same stubborn don’t-fuck-with-me-or-you’ll-regret-it look as she did. What a legacy. Beat the hell out of painted fingernails, though.
“Oh, Gideon, don’t be paranoid,” she finally said in a huff. “It’s not like I can declare you a candidate for mayor without your knowledge.”
“So you admit that’s your angle?”
“I admit no such thing.”
Gideon waved the pictures at her.
Deloris glared.
“I can’t believe you’re so uncaring about the state of this town, Gideon. Your father, God rest his soul, and I raised you better than that.”
Truer words were never spoken. They’d raised him—hell, groomed him—to someday step into his father’s shoes. Shoes Gideon couldn’t consider. Ever. Not if he gave a damn about the town’s survival.
“I care about the town, Mother. And I do all I can to help it. Political office isn’t my way. Why can’t you accept that?”
“Rossdale needs a strong leader, someone to help us through the difficulties.”
“It ain’t gonna happen,” Gideon vowed. Anger mixed with impotent frustration and he tossed the file of photos to the table and pushed himself out of the booth. Holding his mother’s glare, he pulled out a few bucks to cover the coffee and pie and threw them on top of the folder. “Let it go, Mom. Let him go.”
“I’m not the one pushing this, Gideon. The town’s leaders want you and they won’t give up. Just consider it.”
Briefly, Gideon contemplated confessing the reason why he’d be a lousy choice to lead the town, but knew it was pointless. She wouldn’t believe him. After all, most people didn’t believe in witches.
Instead, he just shook his head and made for the door.
Damn town. It was a total pain in his ass.
* * *
Tilda Frost rose from her lover’s bed, tingles of power shooting through her along with the aftershocks of an exceptional orgasm. The kind that mixed together magic and physical satisfaction in equal doses, like a grand sorcerer mixed an exotic potion.
“Come back to bed,” Antonio purred. He pushed himself up on one elbow, the pristine white sheets a delicious contrast against all that sleek, tanned flesh.
Pulling on her ice-blue silk robe, Tilda eyed the smooth muscles, certain he was flexing them on purpose. She was tempted, briefly. After all, the man was a god in bed. Then she glanced at the clock and shook her head.
“I can’t,” she poured regret over her words, much as a gardener might pour manure over a garden. As unpalatable as it might be in the moment, fertilizing paid off in the long run. And Tilda was all about the long run.
With a disgruntled look, Antonio threw off the sheet and slid from the bed. Tall, lean, and well-muscled, the man was gorgeous. Of course, all Tilda’s men were. None more so than her ex-husband.
Tilda gave a low growl in her throat and forced her focus to shift before she could trip down that mental garden path. The damned man always seemed to creep into her thoughts after an intense, sweaty bout of sex. Maybe because he’d been the only lover good enough to not only keep up with her, but force her to feel more than brief, superficial pleasure.
“I won’t have time for you later,” Antonio said, all macho and arrogant. “I’ve a ritual to oversee soon and a new batch of gold to conjure for the flock.”
Tilda crossed the cold tile floor and looked out the tower window at the placid lake below. Once she was sure her expression was clear, she turned back to face him. The man was so easy to manipulate. It might have taken her two years of subtle hypnosis and spellwork, but now he actually believed he was able to turn rock to gold, to conjure magic. He really believed, just as his followers did, that he was a gifted alchemist. That with the right alignment of the planets and the correct ingredients, he would make them all rich.
Before her arrival, he’d been a simple con, using sleight of hand and overt charm to convince the gullible hippie-ish residents of this little, offshoot community of his greatness. By the time she’d arrived, even though he’d managed to wean most of the people from their ties with the nearest town, there were still quite a few who’d doubted him. With her magic, the doubts had disappeared, and Antonio’s hold on his followers became absolute. Things were too precarious now, though, to remind him of that.
“You really should enjoy me while you can,” he added with a sly look under his thick lashes, “since I’ll be busy soon. The moon is climbing to full, and many of the ladies are hoping for my blessings.”
Translation, he had a sexual romp planned for that evening with a few of his followers. Tilda resisted the urge to roll her eyes, instead pasting a look of regret on her face.
“I realize you need to share your... gifts with your people, Antonio. I’m not selfish enough to expect to be your only sexual partner.”
He paused in the act of tying the drawstring of his baggy cotton pants to squint at her. With a raise of his chin, he asked, “You’re not jealous? Why not? What exactly do you do when you’re away from here, Tilda?”
She knew he was asking if she had other lovers, which was a ridiculous question. Of course she did. Despite the occasional temptation born of boredom, she’d never seduced any of his flock of sheep-like followers. Even that wasn’t out of respect for Antonio, but because she knew the image of his prowess was too important to the success of her plan.
“Jealousy is an ugly thing. Why would I deny your charms to those who so obviously worship you?”
Usually that would be enough to pacify him. But his frown didn’t fade. Instead he came forward to take her chin in a hard grip.
“You used to be here all the time. Now I barely see you.”
&nbs
p; “I do have a life of my own, Antonio. Matters have needed my attention lately. It’s enough that I’ve secured a buyer for the thorium,” she said, referring to the mineral Antonio’s witless followers had discovered. “That was much more difficult than selling off the garnets you’d been harvesting before.”
The Lights of Atlantis, as Antonio had dubbed his group, believed they were mining rocks for their leader, the exalted Alchemist of Atlantis, to turn to gold. In reality, they’d been mining enough garnets to provide both Antonio and Tilda with a tidy nest egg. Now, with the discovery of the thorium, it was time for Tilda to execute her ultimate plan. Her ultimate revenge.
“You said this buyer is willing to meet our price?” As always, the cold hard reality of profit spoke to Antonio, coaxing him from his own fit of jealous possessiveness.
“He’ll meet it. We just have to agree to his demands.”
From outside, a gong sounded, signaling the approach of the noon hour. And time for worship. Never an early riser, Antonio had dismissed the idea of dawn rituals a long time back.
As the gong’s peal faded, Antonio released Tilda and moved across the large chamber to his closet. He chose a colorful embroidered cotton vest and pulled it over his naked chest. With a lift of a brow, he indicated Tilda should ready herself for worship as well.
She eyed the skimpy black evening dress she’d arrived in the night before. Hardly suitable. With a snap of her fingers, her robe was replaced with a silk gown, draped Grecian-style to show her body’s perfection. White, as befitted the consort of the Atlantean Alchemist.
With a faint frown, Antonio peered at the corner where his sandals lay. Knowing he was trying to magic them closer, Tilda gave a subtle wiggle of her fingers. In a flash, the brown leather was on his feet. His shoulders stretching to fit his mountain-sized ego, he nodded.
“Most of the demands are easy enough,” he said as he crossed the room to take her hand. “I’m sure my children will go along with them without question.”
Holding Out For A Hero: SEALs, Soldiers, Spies, Cops, FBI Agents and Rangers Page 63