I walked Reveler through the gate and removed his bridle. He gave me one headshake and two bucks as he ran around the pasture before he dropped to roll in a patch of dirt. I latched the gate and leaned on the fence rail to watch him.
"Healthy animal," Scott said with admiration as he walked up beside me and hitched a boot on the bottom rail. A cowboy boot, I noticed.
"Do you ride?" I asked. It wasn't something I expected of a Yankee bluesman.
"Used to. There was a time when I wanted to be a cowboy." He grinned at my startled look. "I was taught to ride English, though. Cowboys were frowned upon in my family. Just about everything I was interested in was frowned upon."
There was humor in his tone, not self-pity. "I wanted to be an actress. Lucky for them, my parents weren't alive to see that fiasco."
He laughed. "From what I've heard around town, they would have supported you if you'd decided to be a sword-swallower." His smile was rueful.
In that second, I was completely charmed. The man had complimented my parents and achieved a rueful smile. He was also charged with murder, unemployed, without family or references, and had friends who should be under a jail somewhere. He spoke to my heart.
"That's a slight exaggeration, but they would have supported me in almost anything." He'd also ignited my curiosity. "Who was talking about my parents?"
"Ida Mae, for one. She had great respect for both of them. She said something about baby clothes. You were a girl, so your mother brought some boy baby clothes she'd gotten to Ida Mae." He looked over at me. "And the sheriff spoke of you. He urged me to cooperate with you."
"He did?"
"He said you were the only person in town willing to give me half a chance and that I should work with you. He said you were my only hope."
I didn't want to think about Coleman. "Why do you think Robert McBruce wanted to make your bond?"
He shrugged. "Let's get that tea. I'm about to die of thirst."
Sweetie Pie and I followed him up the back steps of the cottage and inside. The kitchen was spotless. A pitcher of tea waited on the counter. He got a bowl from the cabinet, filled it with water, and put it on the floor for Sweetie. She lapped gratefully, splashing water all over the floor.
"I'll clean it up," I said. The floor, until our arrival, had been freshly mopped.
"Forget it. It's only water." He cracked an ice tray, filled two glasses, and poured us tea. I took a sip. It was sweetened perfectly.
"You make good tea, for a Yankee," I said.
"For a Delta girl, you give good backhanded compliments," he responded.
"Touche."
He led the way into a living room that reminded me of magazine pictures of hippies. Madras throws covered the sofa. There was a brass incense burner on the coffee table, which also held a textbook on the local Indian tribes. Posters of blues musicians hung on the wall, and the floor was covered with a straw mat.
"Time warp, isn't it?" he said as he took a seat on the sofa beside me. "I always felt like I missed my era. I would have been great in the sixties."
"You would have been dead," I responded without really thinking. But it was true. "A white man playing the blues in a black club in Mississippi would have been a great target for the Klan."
"Am I a target for the Klan now?" he asked.
Scott wasn't kidding. It was a serious question, and one that deserved an answer. "I don't think so. The KKK was active in the sixties, but they were mostly thugs. They preyed on people who had no recourse, folks who didn't stand a real chance in the justice system. I don't really see you that way."
"Thanks, I think." He sipped his tea, then put his glass on a coaster on the table. He'd been brought up with good manners, and he took care of things, even if it was only a pine coffee table.
"Scott, who would want to frame you for murder?"
"That's a tough question. I didn't realize anyone around here hated me that much. They'd have to really hate me to kill Ivory just to get me."
For the first time I had an inkling of the scope of his loss. And the burden of guilt he carried. If his scenario was correct, someone had killed his friend and benefactor to set him up. He was, in a way, the instrument of Ivory's death.
"You think Ivory was just a tool to get you?"
He sighed. "What else could it be? The money and the shank were planted on me. The place was ransacked, and part of my tattoo was cut into Ivory's back. It looks to me like the entire thing was constructed to point the finger at me."
He was in anguish as he spoke, and I put a hand on his arm. "Even if that's true, it isn't your fault."
"Easy for you to say."
It was, indeed, easy for me to say. Of all the punitive emotions, guilt is the worst. And Scott was struggling under a tremendous weight of it. "You can't assume responsibility for other people's actions. Whoever did this was mean and depraved, but you can't take on their guilt."
"If I hadn't come here, this wouldn't have happened. I'm like a fatal disease. If I let anyone close to me, they suffer and die."
The pain in his voice told me as much as his words. A large part of Scott's coldness and rudeness was his desire not to be hurt, or to hurt others. "You and Ivory were great friends. You can't let what happened destroy that fact for you. The things that happened aren't your fault."
He leaned back into the sofa and closed his eyes. "That's all I think about. All I see. They beat Ivory before they killed him. He was an old man. Who would do such a thing?"
"That's the question we have to focus on. Now, I've got three suspects."
He opened his eyes. "Who?"
He wasn't going to like this, but he had to hear it. "Spider and Ray-Ban and Emanuel Keys."
"Emanuel wouldn't kill his own father. That kind of talk could destroy Ida Mae."
I was surprised on two fronts—that Scott defended Emanuel first, and that he defended him at all. Scott's stock was rising rapidly in my eyes. "I disagree. I think Ida Mae had already come to that conclusion."
He pushed his blond hair back from his eyes. When he looked at me, he was troubled. "Ida Mae loves Emanuel. She may not like him, but she loves him. And there wasn't an empty spot in her heart. Ivory was all over it. To think that her son killed her husband? That's the worst thing I can imagine for her."
"If he did it, he deserves to be punished." I sounded like Coleman, but I couldn't help it. I hadn't known Ivory, but I had met Emanuel. It was hard for me to find a soft spot for him or what he might have done. "But what about your... friends? Where are they, by the way?"
"I came home and when I saw this place, I hit the roof." His grin was a little shamefaced. "I have a temper."
"So I've seen . . . and heard." I motioned him to continue.
"I told them to leave." He looked down at his hands. "They'll be back. They just don't understand why I don't want to live like trash. It was the same in prison. I kept my things neat."
"It might be best if they didn't come back," I said.
"Maybe, but that's not what's going to happen. They'll come back. They think they're helping me. Showing support, protecting me. That kind of thing. They think they're doing good. Besides, they're the only friends I have."
"Scott, could they have killed Ivory?" I held my breath, waiting for his temper to ignite.
He leaned forward onto his knees. "I just don't see that. Why? Why would they do that? They have no reason to frame me."
"Are you sure?" I wasn't, and I didn't try to hide my doubt.
"Sarah Booth, I know you don't understand it, but there's a code in prison. Spider, Ray-Ban, and I went through some rough times. We became brothers. More than brothers."
"I've heard about the code in prison, but I've also heard about another code. 'There is no honor among thieves,'" I quoted him. "Maybe they aren't thieves, but the sentiment still applies."
"And what about me? Am I honorless, too?"
I considered that. "Scott, you got into some trouble. You said you paid your debt to society, you
weren't bitter, you saved a man's life in prison—the very life your brothers were going to ruin, I might point out—and you made something of yourself. I just don't see you in the same light I see them."
"I had advantages they didn't have. I had an education. I—"
"Don't hand me that crap." I spoke more harshly than I intended, but he'd hit a hot button. "There's not a person in this country who can't get an education if they really want it." I lifted my eyebrows, daring him to contradict me.
"If they believe they can get one, and that's a big if."
I started laughing. I couldn't help myself.
"What?" Scott asked. "What is it?"
I pointed at him. "You."
"I don't recall saying anything amusing." He was getting aggravated and trying hard not to.
"You sound like me," I said. "Bleeding-heart liberal."
He smiled, then, that electric smile. "I believe that some folks can't overcome the image of themselves they're given by their parents. You and I were lucky, Sarah Booth. Particularly you. Your folks loved you for who you were. Mine saw me as an extension of themselves. It wasn't until I was grown that I displayed my potential for disappointment. But as a kid, I had the belief that I could do anything. No one ever believed Spider and Ray-Ban would amount to anything except trouble. All they did was fulfill those expectations."
I admired him for his sentiments, and in theory, I agreed with him. But Spider and Ray-Ban were a real problem. Their behavior in the community was totally unacceptable, and their conduct at Ivory's funeral made me believe they might be causing trouble for Scott deliberately, and I told him so.
"They just don't know any better," he argued. "Like throwing trash all over the place. They don't think that's wrong."
"Don't cancel your friendship with them, just get them out of town." I had run out of steam. Scott wasn't going to be reasonable, and I didn't care if he agreed with me; I just wanted results. "Promise me."
"Let me put on some music." He got up and went to a Bose stereo system behind the sofa. I was prepared for B. B. King or Mississippi John Hurt, but what came out of the speaker was an Alabama artist, Percy Sledge.
It was a song that never failed to move me. "When a Man Loves a Wo-man," Percy came down hard on the lyrics in a voice that held back nothing.
"He's a master, isn't he?" Scott asked.
"He is." My mother and father had danced to this song in the parlor. I had great memories of them holding each other tight, laughing and kissing. I hardly ever played the song because it made me so sad.
"Sarah Booth?" Scott was looking at me. "Are you okay?"
"Sure." I tried to brush away the emotion that had suddenly trapped me.
"A good memory or bad?" he asked.
"Good."
He held his hand out to me. I took it and he pulled me to my feet. "Pick out something else?" he suggested, leading me over to a massive collection of CDs.
"No." I didn't want to stop the song. "I'm okay."
His finger was gentle as it caught a tear just hanging on my bottom eyelashes. "Yeah, you're okay," he said.
His arms wrapped around me and he held me against his chest. "You're a little more than okay, Sarah Booth."
I looked up at him and met his lips. It started out as a kiss of comfort, but in less than five seconds, it was a lot more than that. My body was on fire. His fingers, light as a whisper, stroked the inside of my arm, sending shivers throughout me.
His other hand laced in my hair, tugging my head back to reveal my throat. His lips seared down my neck, moving slowly toward my breasts.
I had no desire to stop him. My own hands were busy, moving over his body, feeling the hard muscles that sloped down his lower back to his waist and then gently swelled out again over his butt.
When he broke away from me and took my hand, I let him lead me through the bedroom and into the bath. He started the shower before he undressed me.
It took only seconds for him to slide out of his boots and jeans. When he parted the shower curtain, I stepped in, turning so that the water beat against my back as I held myself against him.
With great care he washed my hair, then took a bar of soap and washed my body. I'd never imagined he could be so gentle. When it was his turn, I did the same, my hands moving over every hard inch of him. Without bothering with towels, we walked to the bedroom. Scott sat down and pulled me to him, my thighs between his knees. When he looked up at me, his eyes held fire.
"No regrets," he said.
"No regrets," I lied. There undoubtedly would be—after all, I was sleeping with my client, a man I didn't know at all. I was doing it with bright Sunday sunlight streaming through the window and falling on the cotton chenille bedspread. I was doing it without benefit of Jack Daniel's or even Folger's. I was doing it because I wanted him so much that I didn't care what the cost would be.
His hands clasped around my waist and he lifted me over him and into the bed. As our skin touched, toe to chin, I forgot everything except the way he made me feel.
19
I don't know how long I'd been asleep. The quality of light coming in through the window had changed. I closed my eyes. Scott was pressed against my back, one arm thrown across my waist. How I'd come to be in this position could only be attributed to the Delaney womb.
I stretched, pulling the cotton sheet over my thighs and breasts. There was nothing on earth I wanted at that moment. Replete is a very underrated word.
Scott had made love to me in a way that left every cell stretched, vibrating, and now lazily comatose. With a little more exposure to his methods, I could become an addict.
I let my fingers drift across his arm, and his hand slipped up to capture a breast. He held me with just the right amount of pressure. He was, indeed, a master. The sexuality that he projected in his music was the real thing. No wonder he drove women crazy.
"Do you need anything?" he asked, his voice warm and easy.
"Not a single thing," I replied, kissing his arm. "How about you?"
"Baby, I don't know if there's anything left of me."
I opened my eyes, judging the time of day from the sunlight. It was midafternoon. Though I wanted to spend the rest of the day curled in bed with Scott, I had things I needed to do. Namely talk to Bridge.
Regret wasn't what struck me at the thought of Bridge. The proper name for it was guilt. I was dining with Bridge and sleeping with Scott.
He must have felt me tense. "Are you sure you're okay ?" he asked, leaning up on one elbow to whisper in my ear.
All thought of Bridge fled. Scott's whisper tickled my ear, sending shivers through my body and reminding me of just how well he knew how to excite me. I turned my head and offered my lips.
His kiss had just begun to deepen when we both froze. Sweetie had risen from her place at the foot of the bed. A low growl issued from her throat.
Scott broke the kiss and tilted his head slightly to listen. I sat up in bed so I could hear better. I looked at Sweetie, who was slowly walking up beside the bed, her tail straight and her teeth bared as she growled. I glanced up at the window and let a small gasp escape. Nandy Shanahan was staring in the window at us, and the look on her face held pure hatred. She said something, but I couldn't make out what it was through the glass.
"Dammit!" Scott was out of bed, jeans in his hand. As soon as he moved, Nandy took off, too.
Scott ran out of the bedroom while trying to step into his pants. I clutched the sheet to my chest and got out of bed, searching for my clothes. They were in the bathroom.
I heard the back door slam as I was pulling on my riding jeans, which were tight and still damp, and therefore clung to my thighs. Tugging with all my might as I hopped around the bedroom, I finally tripped on my paddock boot and fell sideways onto the bed.
"Nandy!" Scott was shouting in the backyard. "Nandy, get your ass over here!"
I jerked my jeans up, threw on my T-shirt, and ran barefoot out the back door. Nandy was in the pasture. She hel
d something in one hand.
"You think you've accomplished something?" she screamed at me. "He sleeps with anyone who'll drop their pants for him. And plenty of women do. You're nothing special."
Her face was pale, and her liner and mascara had smudged. She looked like a rabid raccoon. And she looked just about as dangerous. I didn't want to chance a bite. I stayed back.
"Nandy, this is none of your business." I kept my voice calm. "If you don't leave now, you're going to be in a lot of trouble."
"You're the one in trouble, you idiot." She grinned and lifted the hand holding something beside her head. "You knew I wanted Scott. You knew it. I was the one holding a vigil for him. I was the one who helped him get out of jail. But you couldn't wait. Just because I wanted him, you had to crawl in his bed. You're just a dog in the manger, Sarah Booth. That's all you are, and I'm going to make you pay for this." She brought her raised hand forward with great force and a big clod of dirt whirled through the air and struck Reveler on the hip. He whinnied loudly and started running.
I watched in horror as Reveler came straight toward the wooden rail fence. He was bred to jump. At the last minute he wheeled and ran in the opposite direction.
"You're just like all the other women who chase Scott. I'm going to make you sorry for the day you were born." Nandy bent down and picked up another dirt clod.
"Nandy, stop it!" She was in a real state, but not nearly as bad off as she was going to be if I got my hands on her. Or possibly Scott. He was circling behind her, getting ready to move in for the kill. All I had to do was keep her focused on me, which wasn't hard.
In the background I could hear Sweetie Pie howling. She was shut up in the house, and I regretted that she wasn't with me. She'd show Nandy a thing or two.
"You're a conniving little bitch, Sarah Booth. You act like you're a professional P.I., but you're just a slut. You took this case so you could jump in bed with Scott."
Now was not the time to agitate her further, but I'd had enough of her verbal abuse. "If Scott wanted you, Nandy, you'd be in his bed. Face the facts, he can't stand the sight of you and that won't ever change. If he's slept with so many women, why weren't you one of them?" It was a direct hit, but Nandy was still in her Daddy's Girl armor.
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