by J. L. Wilson
Table of Contents
Excerpt
Woulds
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
A word about the author…
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I woke once and realized groggily I was snoozing on the couch. My face hurt and I shifted position, tucking a pillow under my ear so my bruised cheek wasn’t pressed against the fabric. I drifted back into sleep, lulled by the sound of the air conditioner as it kicked on.
The brisk ringing of my phone woke me. I propped myself up on my elbow and fumbled for the receiver which sat on the end table near my head. “What?” I growled when I managed to find it.
“Tuck, I need help.”
I sat up straighter and rubbed my left eye. Luckily I remembered in time and didn’t touch my right one. “Rob? Is that you?” I asked around a yawn.
“I need help. Can you come here? Can you come to the cabin?”
“The cabin? Why are you there?” Rob had a cabin which his family owned for generations. It was situated north of town near the river in the middle of a tract of forest and near the flood plain. “I thought you went home.”
“I had John bring me here. I need help, Tuck. Can you come out?”
I peered at the clock on the wall over the dining room table. One-ten. Damn. One o’clock in the morning and Rob was calling me. “Why?” I snapped, waking up more fully.
“It’s Guy.”
“Guy? Guy Gibson? What about him?”
“I think I killed him.”
Woulds
by
J L Wilson
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Woulds
COPYRIGHT © 2018 by J L Wilson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Kim Mendoza
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Crimson Rose Edition, 2018
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2185-1
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2186-8
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
For Dora "the Explorer" Pillado, who taught me that fans come in all shapes, sizes, ethnicities, geographical regions, and ages.
Chapter 1
“I’m going to kill that bastard.” Rob Huntington’s voice was breathy and low above me. “Move aside, Tuck.”
“You’re not killing anybody, Rob.” I stood between him and Guy Gibson, one hand on each male chest, the men held arms-length apart—my arm’s length.
It wasn’t my strength keeping them separated. I’m barely five-feet tall and weigh about one-ten sopping wet and each of them were more than six-feet tall and probably topped two hundred pounds per man. “I told you guys to break it up. I won’t have my pub get a reputation as a place where drunks go to fight.”
“Get away, Tucker.” Guy didn’t sound upset, worried, or flustered. Like always, he was cool as snow and icily calm. “We’re outside. Your pub won’t suffer from our actions.”
“Shut up, Guy. You started it.” I sensed my tenuous authority slipping. I’ve been a bartender for more than thirty years and despite my size and sex, I’ve always been able to control a crowd through a mix of intimidation and humor. Tonight was an exception.
“All I did was tell the truth. Rob can’t give his wife the things she deserves.” Guy stared over my head at Rob, who looked like he was dunked in water. Sweat curled his thinning blond hair and splotched his blue cotton shirt.
In contrast, Guy appeared like an ad for Town and Country with his navy Polo shirt and crisp, creased khakis, his dark hair parted with military precision on one side. How does he do it? I wondered when sweat trickled down the side of my face in the June heat. It’s midnight and it’s still hotter than hell. He’s not even wrinkled.
“I said break it up. This is stupid.” I glanced at the parking lot behind the pub. It was half-full of cars but no people. Where was a nosey crowd when you needed one? “You guys are old enough to know better. People our age don’t have fist fights.”
“I won’t let him talk like that about my wife.” Rob’s voice was slurred and he leaned against my hand. I was pretty sure if I removed it, he’d fall flat on his face.
“Need help?”
I twisted, glimpsing the bulky man emerging from the back door of the pub. My movement caused my hands to slip just enough to allow the two fighters to shift position. Guy swung a punch over me, aiming for Rob’s chin. Rob ducked in time, but I didn’t. Guy’s elbow connected with my face and I spun back, landing on my butt near the narrow flowerbed framing the back of the building.
Guy didn’t care that I was tangled up with his leg. He moved in, landing punches on Rob’s ribs. “Damn you, Guy!” I shouted, grabbing his ankle. “Stop it!”
He shook me off, his foot connecting with the side of my face. My head hit the stone edging separating the petunias from the path, and I saw stars as blinding pain exploded in my brain. When I regained my senses, Guy lay a few feet away, stretched out on the mulch-covered path between the pub and the parking lot. He blinked at me, looking surprised and mussed. Rob leaned against the back wall of the pub, his feet planted in a flowerbed with his hands on his thighs while his head dangled.
I peered upward groggily, my vision blurred. “What the fuck . . .?”
“Come on, Tucker.” A man leaned over me, his face coming into the light from the lanterns lining the path. It was John Smalley, a local farmer who supplied me with organic produce and meat for the pub’s restaurant. He was a giant of a man, easily six-six, with shoulders broad as a doorframe. His hirsute appearance—dark hair with streaks of gray, black beard, dark eyebrows—added to his rough appearance, but John was a soft-spoken man with a kind word for everyone.
I took the proffered hand and he hauled me to my feet. I winced, my back and butt announcing the fact I was bruised. That’s when the pain in my face kicked in, too, and I put one hand over my right cheek. “Damn.” I glanced at my palm and the blood there.
John leaned over me. “I saw you leave and thought you might need some help.”
“Rob and Guy started arguing in the pub and I told them to take it outside.” I touched the skin beneath my right eye, wincing when I contacted swollen flesh. “I didn’t think they’d do it.”
John squeezed my shoulder sympathetically. “Testosterone knows no age limit.”
“Lordy, we’re almost senior citizens. What are those guys—fifty? Fifty-five?”
“They’re both fifty-five,” John said. “I went to school with them.” He moved to Rob, who shifted from the wall, revealing the plaque and the inscription there.
The Oak’s Acorn Pub and Parlor
; Barnsdale, Iowa
Established 1990
Miller Muchson, Brewmaster
Tucker Frye, Proprietress
Alan Dale, Head Chef
As though summoned by the words on the sign, the back door to our restaurant, the Parlor, opened on Rob’s left. Alan Dale peered through the clematis-covered arbor. “What’s going on?” His gaze landed on me. “Tucker, are you okay?”
“I’m not sure.” I tugged my dark gold Oak’s shirt from the waistband of my jeans and dabbed my nose.
Alan walked around the arbor and joined me. “You look like crap. If you were fighting, I think you lost.” He smoothed my thick curly black hair from my forehead and tilted my head so the light shone on my face.
“I wasn’t a willing participant, believe me,” I said in a nasal voice. I pressed my shirttail against my nose, stemming the flow of blood. “Give me an ice pack and I’ll be fine.”
Alan’s gaze shifted to Rob. “Is he drunk again?”
“Probably. I only served him one beer but he must have been tanked before he got here.” My vision began to blur when my right eye swelled shut. “What happened to Guy?”
“I hit him.” John put a hand on Rob’s arm, helping him step away from the trampled petunias and the building. “Not hard. Just enough to slow him down.”
“I’m sorry, Tuck,” Rob muttered. “I couldn’t stand to listen to him anymore.”
I went to him, still blotting my nose. “You have to get hold of your temper, Rob. You know how Guy is. You can’t let him bug you.”
Rob nodded, sweat rolling off his face when he leaned toward me. John moved to the side, giving us a bit of privacy. “Marianne told me tonight she wants a divorce.”
“Oh, Rob.” My fingers closed around his tanned forearm sympathetically. “I’m sorry.” I knew his wife was unhappy. In fact, I knew far more about his marriage than I really wanted to know because he often confided in me. Being a bartender was akin to being a priest. People tended to give me their secrets, expecting me to hold them. Of course, there were really few secrets to be held in a small town like Barnsdale, population seven thousand.
Rob straightened. He was slender but muscular with thin, baby-fine hair tumbling on his head in curls. His long, oval face was tanned and barely lined and his blue-gray eyes, big and heavily lashed, tilted downward at the corners, giving him a sad, downtrodden look. Drinking and inactivity were taking its toll, but sometimes he still appeared to be the athlete he used to be.
I had heard all about his high school glory days. He and the others grew up together in Barnsdale and graduated from high school together. Rob was captain of the football team and Guy was captain of the tennis team, indicating their athletic and their social status since Guy’s father was a banker and Rob’s father ran the local hardware store.
“Sorry, Tucker. I didn’t mean to hit you.” Guy pushed himself up from the mulch, standing cautiously until he got his balance. “I was aiming for Rob.” He brushed wood chips off his shirt and pants, frowning at the smudges.
I shot him a hate-filled glare. “If I wanted to hear from an asshole, I’d fart.” As usual when I was under stress, my Southern accent kicked in.
Alan made a snorting laugh noise. “Good one, Tuck.”
Guy smoothed his Polo shirt into his waistband, the taut knit fabric highlighting his muscular chest. “This isn’t over, Huntington. You’ve been lying to Marianne and I’ll make sure she knows it. She deserves better than you. You’re her second choice and you know it. You’ll see.” He stalked away.
A dark shadow darted in front of him. The mother cat I was attempting to befriend chose that unfortunate moment to make a break for it. She skittered from us warring humans, trying to divert us from the nesting box I made for her in an alcove between the restaurant’s arbor and our flowerbeds.
Guy drew back his foot to kick her. I started toward him, but John was faster, dragging Guy back with one massive hand on the other man’s shoulder. “You don’t pick on weaker creatures,” John said when the cat disappeared into the shadows. “Didn’t your father teach you anything?” The bitterness in his voice was at odds with the mocking smile he leveled at Guy.
Guy tried to wrest his arm free but John held him tight. “I owe you for this,” he snarled, touching the bruise on his face.
John grinned, releasing his grip and pushing slightly so Guy stumbled. “Well, that’s a change of pace, isn’t it? The banker’s boy finally owes somebody.”
“Damn it, Guy. I just got the cat to trust me. Now you come along and prove to her again that humans are jerks.” I checked the alcove, but the cat was hunkered in the darkness behind the wooden boxes I put there to give her privacy. Guy stalked off, pausing once to shoot Rob a murderous glare. “Has he always been such an arrogant son of a bitch?” I asked the world at large.
John laughed softly. “Guy’s father owned the bank in town. He loved lording over all of us and he never changed.” For one brief moment, his smile faltered but it quickly returned. I was a relative newcomer to town, having been in Barnsdale for only twenty years, but Rob, Guy, and John shared history going back more than fifty years. Who knew what memories lurked there?
“Well, thanks for stopping him from kicking her.” I gave up on finding the cat. “It’s taken me two weeks for her to let me get close enough.”
“I meant it.” John stared at the parking lot when headlights came on and an engine roared to life. “You don’t pick on weaker creatures, no matter if it’s human or animal.” His voice was soft and his dark eyes held a faraway gleam, like he was revisiting a memory. Then he turned toward the shadows, extending a hand. “She’ll forgive us.”
“She won’t let you get—” I stopped when a thin silhouette crept tentatively from the shadows and sniffed at John’s fingers. “What are you, the cat whisperer?”
John rubbed the furry black head before straightening. The cat darted back to her haven. “I like animals and they know it.” He turned to Rob, who watched the sleek gray Porsche speed from the lot. “Ready to go home, Rob? I’ll drive. You can pick up your truck tomorrow.”
“I think you should go to the hospital, Tuck.” Alan went to the restaurant’s back door.
“I’m fine, Alan. Give me a steak to put on my eye and I’ll be good as new.”
He waggled a finger at me. “I won’t waste a perfectly good steak on your eye. I’ll make sure someone can cover the bar for you. The crowd has thinned so there shouldn’t be much to do.” A triangle of light briefly highlighted Rob when Alan disappeared inside.
“I didn’t pay my tab.” John reached for his back pocket.
“It’s on the house.” I pulled my shirttail from my face then found a clean spot on the fabric and dabbed again. There was no blood this time, so the worst was probably over. “Come back tomorrow and I’ll buy you another one.”
John put a hand under Rob’s right arm and started walking slowly to the parking lot. “I’ll take you up on that. Good night.”
“Tucker, I’m sorry.” Rob leaned precariously near me. “I didn’t mean for things to get out of hand. Guy is such a dick and when he started talking—”
“It’s okay.” I took up position on Rob’s left, helping to steady him. “Somebody needs to slap Guy into next week and not give him bus fare to get home. If he’s not careful, it’ll be me.”
Rob grinned lopsidedly. “That’s a good one. You’re too little to do it, but I’d like to see you try.”
“I may be small but I’m mighty.” I gently released him to John’s care, watching them amble to the rows of cars, John nodding at something Rob said. Next to John, Rob seemed small, dwarfed by the other man’s bulk. Thank God John never gets upset. If he did, there would be hell to pay.
“Ready, Tuck?” Alan leaned through the restaurant doorway, extending a plastic bag.
I eyed the label. “Peas?”
“Frozen peas are better than an ice pack.” He gestured me ahead of him into the back hallway. “Trust me.”
I hesitated near the shadows at the door. “I should refill her water. It’s so hot.”
Alan sighed loudly. “You get cleaned up. I’ll deal with Missy Mom.” He nudged me ahead of him. “The Pub is still crowded but the restaurant is closed so you might want to use the Parlor kitchen instead of the bathroom. Use the prep sink.”
I eyed my bloody shirt and silently agreed with Alan’s advice. We had to make a lot of compromises when we turned the old glove factory into a brewpub, but it was worth it to save the beautiful limestone building with the oak floors, massive wooden beams, and the trestle tables, now the bar counter in the Pub.
The shared restrooms between the Parlor restaurant and the Pub bar were one of those compromises. We wedged in the tiny bathrooms at the back of the shared space between the two businesses, accessed via a short hallway.
I followed Alan past the wall separating the dining room and the patrons from the bustle of the cooking area. He disappeared into the walk-in cooler at the back of the kitchen and I headed left, toward the prep sink. I pulled a wad of paper towels from a roll hanging over the sink as Alan emerged with a bag of shaved ice. “I’ll fill her dish with ice and it’ll stay cool all night.” He grabbed the flashlight from a hook on the wall and left.
I leaned on the stainless steel sink, sighing when air conditioning surrounded me. It was only mid-June, but our weather continued to be crazy. Alan called it our Sweaty and Sweatered Spring, with warm temps in March, cool, wet days in April, and cold then hot days in May. Now here it was June and summer seemed to be settling in to stay. It caused headaches for farmers during planting season and now we were smack in the middle of growing season and people were anxious for rain to offset the heat.
I ran water in the basin and dabbed gingerly at my face with a damp paper towel while I regarded myself in the small mirror over the sink. My right eye was swollen and red, giving me a Christmas contrast with the green of my other eye. My face, normally somewhat oval with high cheekbones and a small pointed chin, was now puffy, the way it was four years and a hundred pounds ago, when I weighed two hundred and twenty. My thick black curls sprang in a halo around my face, tumbling to cover my ears and rest on my collar. I tried a multitude of hairstyles over the years, from waist-long to severely short, but this ear-length style suited both my new, thinner physique and my lack of time to care for something more sophisticated.