Dark River Road

by Virginia Brown

Chantry flicked a glance toward the house as if he’d see her in the doorway, and Herky noticed. He leaned close to the car.

  “S’okay, Chantry. I told her ’bout what happened. She knows you didn’ do nothin’ wrong to Cathy. Her mama told her you’d shot her, so I had to tell it the right way.”

  Great. He’d already been a hot topic. He shook his head. “Maybe I’ll just park in the alley from now on. Brad’s probably the one who slashed my tires anyway.”

  Despite Herky’s protests, he backed from the driveway and drove around the block to park in the alley close to the carriage house. Bad enough knowing she was this close again, but he didn’t want to run into her. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Damn. He should have rented that house with the lace curtains, or the one smack in the middle of screaming kids. It’d have been safer.

  It was cool and quiet in the house. He took a shower and changed into sweatpants, went into the living room to turn on the television. Nothing much on that interested him, so he settled for a Clint Eastwood movie he’d seen at least twenty times. A spaghetti western, filmed in Italy when Eastwood was still trying to make a name for himself. It was one of his favorites. He’d had a girl tell him once that he reminded her of the actor in that movie, the role he played about as unsympathetic as it could get and still be the hero. He’d never been quite sure how to take that.

  When the knock came on the door, he realized he’d been half-expecting it. He got up all stiff, the bandage around his ribs keeping them from hurting too bad most of the time, but still moving pretty slow. Cinda stood in the doorway, lantern lights gleaming on her pale hair.

  “Hey,” she said, and he stepped back to let her in. She stood just inside the doorway, gave his bandages and bare chest a swift, cursory glance. “I should be used to seeing you like that, all bruised and battered, but somehow I’m not. You look like hell.”

  “Thanks?”

  She smiled. “You know what I mean.”

  “I guess.”

  “Look, feel free to use the garage. I should have mentioned it before I left anyway. Just didn’t think of it.”

  He shrugged. “It’s okay. Brad was probably the one slashing my tires anyway, and since he seems to be on the run . . .” He let that sentence fade, and she nodded.

  “Probably. I wouldn’t put it past him. Why Chris hired him for security, I’ll never know. That’s like putting the fox in charge of the hen house.”

  “Chris seems to be pretty loyal.”

  “Hm.” She ran a hand through her hair, pushed it back from her face, looked at him with her head to one side a little. If she’d sat out on Italian beaches, she’d sat in the shade. Her skin still didn’t look tan, just creamy and maybe a bit pink. She had on a loose dress that skimmed her body and ended above her knees, a pair of some kind of strappy sandals that showed off pink nail polish on her toes, and smelled sweet and powdery like she’d just gotten out of a bath. He saw all that in a brief glance, turned away to keep from thinking about other things.

  “Want a beer?” he asked to keep the silence from feeling awkward, and she accepted.

  “Thanks.”

  He got one from the fridge and popped the top before handing it to her. She looked at it and smiled. “Mexican beer, huh. Somehow that seems about right.”

  “Goes with hot weather.” His hosting skills weren’t exactly something he practiced a lot, and he motioned to the couch. “If you want to sit . . .”

  “How about the courtyard? I always loved it out there. When the mosquitoes aren’t too bad, anyway.”

  “Herky put out some candles and a few plants that smell like candles. Says they keep them away.”

  “Citronella plants. Let’s try them out and see how well they work. Feeling brave?”

  “Not very.”

  She smiled and headed for the courtyard, and as he figured she already knew he would, he followed. Being with her felt strange. Awkward. Expectant.

  She sat down in one of the Adirondack chairs and stretched out, swinging her feet up on the matching stool so that the edge of her dress fell away some from her thighs. He looked away. He remembered things he should have forgotten—that day at Sardis dam, Cinda in her black and white bikini, body all sweet and round and soft, still damp from the lake water and so warm beneath his hands and mouth. It made his belly clench and the blood run south so that he wished he had something to put over his lap. He sat down in a chair and crossed his leg at an angle, foot resting on his opposite knee. Camouflage. Loose sweatpants put him at a distinct disadvantage.

  Cinda rested her head against the back of the chair, smiling a little. “I used to come down here sometimes just to sit. It’s private. Away from everything and everybody.”

  “You live alone in that big house and you’d come down here?”

  “When I didn’t want to get found for a while. No one ever thought to look for me here. Except Herky.”

  “He notices things.”

  “Yes, he does. He’s a lot smarter than most people give him credit for being. One of the best employees I’ve ever had.”

  “So how long have you owned the realty company?” This was safe conversational ground. Kept him from wandering into more dangerous waters with her.

  “Six or seven years now. Took me a while to figure out what I wanted to do. After getting out of college I traveled for a while, saw places I’d only read about, then went with my mother to Italy one year and fell in love with this small village at the foot of the mountains. I bought a little place near a vineyard, and try to go back as often as I can. Anyway, it keeps me off the streets.”

  “Yeah, that’s a big problem, I hear.”

  She laughed. “Speaking of running the streets—Brad’s avoiding the law and Cathy’s out of the hospital now. What are you doing?”

  “Working with Doc.” He took a sip of his beer, let the silence lay for a few minutes. It’d be impossible to explain what he didn’t know how to put into words. Tansy understood it without the words, but they’d always been like that. With Cinda it wasn’t as easy. It’d been too long. And he didn’t feel the same about her as he did Tansy. It went a lot deeper, the kind of want and need that he’d done his best to avoid but couldn’t quite seem to manage with Cinda. If he let himself think about it, his mind went in directions he never should travel. Not even in his thoughts.

  That was more intrinsically dangerous than anything he’d ever faced, even enemy soldiers.

  “So how do you like working with Doc?” Cinda asked finally, and he felt her looking at him but didn’t dare look back.

  “He’s the best. Wouldn’t want to work with anyone else.”

  “Does that mean you plan on staying permanently in Cane Creek?”

  “No.”

  Silence fell again, this time heavy with unspoken questions. There wasn’t another answer he could give right now. He didn’t plan on staying, didn’t plan not to stay. It all depended on too many variables, mainly her grandfather.

  “Why not?” she asked, but it came out a soft whisper.

  He made the mistake of looking at her, then wished he hadn’t. She’d leaned forward, the expression on her face a reminder of all the years he’d wanted her, her lips parted, eyes wide and dark in the dim light, pale hair sleek and shiny over her shoulders. He got up and didn’t think of anything but touching her, putting his hands in her hair and tasting her mouth again, pulling her against and under him like he’d done in dreams he never wanted to recall.

  Cinda looked up, unmoving, watching when he moved toward her, let him take her arm and pull her up against him. He took her beer and set it on a table, then pushed his hands through her hair, holding her face between his palms to look into her eyes. He didn’t know what he was looking for, what he wanted to see, just knew he’d recognize it if it was there.

  Her hands rested lightly on his shoulders. A pulse beat in the little shadow of her throat, her breath coming quick and kind of shallow. He rubbed the pad of his thumb over her lower lip, saw uncertainty in h
er eyes, felt the quiver in her hands.

  “Give me a reason to stay,” he said, and it came out all low and hoarse, maybe because he wanted a reason so badly.

  “Chantry—” She tightened her fingers into his muscles, held him, searching his eyes like he’d been searching hers. Like she’d find an answer, like he had one. “God, it’s . . . I don’t know.”

  It should have ended up in bed. They should have fallen asleep in each others’ arms that night. That’s the only way this day should have finished.

  But fate, as usual, had other ideas.

  “Scusi,” a man’s voice said, and Chantry let go of Cinda and turned to see a man standing just at the edge of the courtyard. He nearly blended into the shadows until he stepped into the light of one of the lanterns. “Carissima . . . it seems I have interrupted at the wrong time.”

  Cinda looked a little embarrassed, but said steadily enough, “Yes, Paolo, you certainly did. Is everything all right?”

  “Sí, of course. I just missed you, and thought perhaps . . . but I am mistaken.”

  “It’s all right. Paolo—this is Chantry Callahan. Chantry, this is Count Paolo di Savona. A family friend.” Savona was looking at Cinda with anything but friendship. She didn’t take notice, but put a hand on Chantry’s arm, fingers light. “He’s come back here to escape the heat in Italy, visit with us for a while. He’ll be staying at the house, so you may run into him occasionally.”

  Chantry took the hand Savona offered. He could have picked a better time. While he wore only his sweatpants and bandages, Savona was tricked out in a dark shirt and pants that looked expensive and perfectly creased, with Italian loafers and no socks. He looked in his mid-forties, Continental, well-groomed, and arrogant. He had those chiseled features and a dark tan that spoke of hours spent in the sun, and Chantry was willing to bet that anyone who called himself a count hadn’t gotten that tan picking grapes.

  “We have heard much about you, Signore Callahan,” he said smoothly, “and have been in Cane Creek less than six hours. You are infamous, a man of much comment here, no?”

  He shrugged, a gesture Savona correctly read as contempt of the town’s opinion. And of him for bringing it up.

  The count lifted a brow, his dark gaze shifting briefly to Cinda. He released Chantry’s hand, took a step back, then said, “Il vostro amico è molto rude.”

  “No, non volente appena essere insultato,” Chantry replied before Cinda could speak, and Savona looked amused.

  “Forgive me. I did not know you are proficient in my language.”

  “I’m not. And this isn’t my house, but you’re right—I don’t much care for a man coming in here and insulting me.”

  “Perdonilo prego.”

  “May I speak?” Cinda looked irritated. “First, I’ll be back at the house shortly, Paolo. If you don’t mind, I have a few more things to discuss with Chantry.”

  Recognizing a dismissal, Savona backed gracefully away, but with an appraising glance at Chantry before he left. He made it obvious he didn’t like it.

  “Well,” Cinda said when he’d gone, “that was awkward. But maybe we need to take this slow anyway. I don’t know where you’ve been or if there’s anyone else in your life—maybe we need to get reacquainted, see if there’s anything still there. We don’t really even know each other anymore. And when did you learn to speak Italian?”

  “Picked it up while I was in the Marines.” He had no intention of telling her he’d spent a lot of time with an Italian signorina who’d taught him a much less civilized dialect while he was stationed near Milan. That’d been a long time ago anyway.

  Cinda nodded. “See? That’s what I mean. It’s been fourteen years. So much has happened in our lives.”

  He knew exactly how long it’d been. But there wasn’t anything to say that wouldn’t be wrong. He took a step back and away from her.

  “Right.”

  “Don’t you agree?” she asked, sounding uncertain, but he knew better than to try to offer any argument.

  “Yeah. Sure I do. You’re right. It’s been a long time. Look, you better go. Paolo may come looking for you again.”

  She frowned a little, looked at him in the dim light, but he just stared back at her without moving even when she put a hand out as if to touch him. After a moment, she simply nodded and seemed to draw herself up into something stiff again, like she’d been that first time he’d seen her after so long.

  “I see. Tomorrow I’m having a barbecue. My parents will be here, but you’re welcome to join us if you feel like it.”

  “Thanks. I’d rather not.”

  “Sooner or later—”

  “Right. Let’s make that later.”

  She gave him a funny look but nodded. “I understand. And I can’t say I blame you.”

  Good thing. He had a fair idea of how it’d go if he showed up at a family barbecue. Philip Sheridan had been elected to mayor again, which had to be some kind of record since he’d only been out of office for the one term during which he’d unsuccessfully pursued a seat in the senate. Sitting across a table from Chantry would be the last thing Sheridan would want to do.

  She started to leave, then paused, turned back to look at him. “In case you’re wondering, Paolo’s just a family friend.”

  Right. Sure he was. Somebody just needed to inform di Savona of that. Chantry shrugged. “I didn’t ask.”

  “I realize that. You never do.”

  He just looked at her. She had to know why. He never liked the answers he got when he asked those kind of questions. It was easier not to care. Trouble was, this was Cinda. He did care even when he knew better.

  Cinda made an exasperated sound and shook her head. “This isn’t exactly how I thought it would be.”

  He could have told her real life never lived up to expectation.

  Instead he watched her walk away. Part of him wanted to stop her, part of him knew it wouldn’t help much if he did. Right now he had nothing to offer her. Hell, he didn’t even know if he’d be here this time next month.

  Maybe it was supposed to be like this. Mama had said that things always happened for a reason, that there were other forces at work in life that created circumstances for people to learn from by making choices. He’d made choices a long time ago that were still affecting him. Maybe he just hadn’t learned what he was supposed to yet.

  And maybe he’d be like Mama and learn too late.

  CHAPTER 36

  It was Mindy Rowan who sucked him into the dog fighting mess, going back on all she’d said, coming to Chantry in the rear of the clinic the next day. They both had weekend duty, him checking on some sick pets, her doing the feeding and cleaning. She was upset and mad as hell.

  “Billy Mac’s gone too far now. I know it was him. I don’t know who else to ask for help.”

  “What’s he done?” Chantry asked, looking up from the IV he was checking.

  “Stole my mama’s pit bull puppy. I know it was him. He saw her outside, came up to talk about Sugarpie, and now she’s gone.”

  He’d seen the pup. A sweet-natured, gangly-legged, tan and white pit bull female not quite six months old. “Maybe she just got out. Dug under the fence. Someone left the gate open.”

  “No. Mama keeps her in the house most of the time. You know how careful she is. She wouldn’t ever leave the gate open because of the kids. That’s why she got the dog, to raise her with my kids. You know how protective they are.”

  When raised under the right circumstances. Pit bulls got a bad rep because of owners most of the time. All dogs had the ability to be mean. Pit bulls were aggressive by nature, just like some breeds, like Catahoulas. It was their nature to guard their territory, drive off intruders, protect their homes and family, including the two-legged variety. Men had just corrupted them, turned the breed into one feared and reviled now, bred them for ferocity instead of family. He didn’t like it, but then he’d never much liked seeing animals or people forced into fight-or-die situations. Not in r
eal life. In real life, endings weren’t always played to soft music and closing credits, or a tidy wrap-up of loose ends just before the last chapter ended. Real life had too many messy endings.

  “What do you want me to do, Mindy?”

  “Go with me to get my dog.”

  “Right. You do know I’m not the most popular guy in town, right?”

  “That’s my point. Billy Mac ain’t no hero. He’s not likely to want to take you on. Maybe turn the dogs on us, but not confront you.”

  “What, am I supposed to be a natural born killer or something?” He stared at her, not at all sure he liked the direction this was going.

  “Look, will you go with me or not? Sorry if I hurt your feelings or ruffled your feathers, but you gotta know folks around here look at you a little chary.”

  “Yeah. I know. Okay. Against my better judgment. Maybe it’s time I found out what I can about this anyway. I’ve been meaning to do something, just hadn’t known what.”

  “All I want is Sugarpie. If you go and start something, it may not work.”

  “We’ll get Sugarpie. If he’s got her, we’ll get her.”

  He wasn’t at all sure he could keep that promise, but it worked at calming Mindy down. She sucked in a deep breath, smiled. “Thanks, Chantry. Mama said I could count on you.”

  They took his Rover out to the Stark place, bounced over a rutted driveway that wound back through trees and over a small creek forded by metal I-beams that Billy Mac had probably stolen from one of the construction sites where he infrequently worked. Mindy had her cell phone in one hand, ready to call the police if Billy Mac had her dog and gave them any trouble. It was one of Chantry’s conditions for going with her. He didn’t need any more trouble than he already had, and if the police were called in, he wanted it to be him that called them. Then it’d be on record that Stark was fighting dogs.

  Billy Mac was standing in front of his blue and white rusted-out trailer, talking to two men who stood by a new big Dodge Ram truck with lots of chrome and a scoop on the cab roof. It shouldn’t have been too big a surprise, but Chantry was still startled when he recognized them.