Instead of smiling enthusiastically, as I’d been imagining, Ruthann’s eyebrows drew together and she said, “I’m not really dressed for it.”
I glanced down at her t-shirt and jean shorts, her purple tennis shoes and anklet socks, the kind we’d always worn in the summer while working dinner rush at Shore Leave. I said, “You’re dressed just fine. Maybe not for horseback riding, but I don’t think that’s the plan anyway.”
Fifteen-year-old Wy, who had developed a sudden and comically obvious attachment to Ruthann (he’d been starry-eyed since her arrival and hung on her every word), gushed, “I’ll come along. I can show you all of our horses.”
“You know, it might do you a little good to get out of the hospital for a while,” I told her.
“Like you should talk,” Ruthie said to me, but then she looked instantly apologetic. She added quickly, “I didn’t mean that how it sounded.”
“I know,” I assured her. “We’re all overtired.”
“I would like to meet the horses,” she said, and once again her eyes roved to the door as though in search of something. Or someone. She asked, hoping she sounded casual I could tell, “So, where is Marshall?”
“Sleeping somewhere,” I said. “He’ll show up any minute.”
Fifteen minutes later he did; Ruthie, Wy, Clint and Camille were playing cards in the waiting room at the end of the hall, while I had been chatting with Clark at the bedside. Clark, who sat with his cowboy hat in his lap, let me know that the official cause of the fire had been determined.
“It started in the loft,” he said, studying me with his bushy white eyebrows pulled together in concern. “No appreciable accelerant, Tish.” I understood that this would work against me when I pushed for further investigation into arson. Clark went on, referring to the township fire chief, “Marv’s best guess is that a lantern tipped. You two didn’t…you didn’t possibly leave…”
“Absolutely not,” I said, with complete certainty. “Case is the most careful person I know.” Although we did make love in our haymow, time and again, we had never been so careless as to burn a candle lantern, let alone leave one burning unattended. I said intently, “Clark, someone crawled up there and lit the hay on fire that night, I know this.”
“Do you think it can be proven?” Clark asked gently.
“I’m going to try my damnedest,” I said with passion, just as Marshall settled in the chair to my right.
Marsh said, “If anyone can prove it, you can. But we’ll all help you. Whatever it takes.”
My eyes moved gratefully to him. I said, “Thank you. I know you will. As soon as Case wakes up and we get the hell out of this place.”
“You think Yancy?” Marshall asked. “That’s where I’d put my money.”
“Yes,” I said. “He paid someone to start that fire, I know.”
Marsh said, “What about that little piss-ant from the city, you know…”
“Robbie?” I asked with some surprise. Rob Benson, who had attended Northwestern College with me for all three years of law school, was staying in Ron Turnbull’s vacation cabin at present; though Robbie had been absent from the hospital, he had texted me numerous times to express his concern. Robbie had accepted a job offer at Turnbull and Hinckley, despite what I’d told him about Ron’s connection to the closing of the power plant in Jalesville, though that shouldn’t surprise me, as Robbie was a career ass-kisser; opportunist, for sure, but not a criminal. I said, with almost completely certainty, “No – Robbie isn’t a lowlife in that sense.”
“I don’t like the look of him,” Marshall said. “Bad vibe.”
Camille came into the room then, saying, “Tish, let me use your phone quick. I left mine at the Carters’ and I want to call home.”
“Sure,” I said, mulling over Marshall’s opinion.
“Here, take my chair,” Marshall said at once, leaping up and presenting it to my very pregnant sister. Camille smiled at him and he helped her to sit, teasing her, “You and Carter planning to stop at ten, or go for a full dozen?”
“Depends on which of us you ask,” Camille said, fanning her flushed cheeks.
“Here, my dear, we’ll give you some privacy,” Clark said, patting Camille’s knee.
“Tish, I’m gonna head home, but I’ll be back later this evening,” Marshall said to me. “I was about to go ask Ruthann if she wants to come with.”
“She said she did,” I told him, and was heartened to see a flash of what appeared to be gladness cross his features, though he didn’t so much as smile, typical Marshall. I added, “We’ll see you later.”
Clark joined the card game while I sat in my usual spot beside Case; two feet away, Camille spoke softly with Mathias and I reflected that privacy was a relative concept when it came to sisters. I hardly heard what she was saying anyway, thinking of what Clark had just told me.
Who crawled up into our haymow that night?
I didn’t believe that Derrick Yancy had the balls to do such a thing directly; it had to be someone on his payroll though, and my gut instinct did not suggest that Robbie Benson was responsible in any way. Robbie was the arrogant only child of a privileged Chicago family and prized himself on his model-caliber good looks, which had opened almost as many doors for him as his parents’ money, but I’d known him for years and did not believe he would purposely choose to hurt anyone. It was all Derrick – but to what end? Did he actually believe that this was the best way to force Case or me to back off, to quit interfering with his business in Jalesville?
Unless…
Unless Derrick suspected that Case would try to do something like save our horses. Setting our trailer on fire would have been a bolder gesture and could easily have killed us – if killing us had been the intent. Derrick himself had delivered a veiled threat just earlier this summer, in the parking lot of my old apartment at Stone Creek, suggesting to me that accidents happened to people we love. Had he plotted even then to take such drastic measures? Would Derrick be astute enough to presume that Case would risk himself by running into a burning barn and subsequently die in the blaze, leaving me forever without him?
Somehow, I knew that Derrick would most assuredly have considered there was a good chance of that.
The contents of my stomach mutated to ice water and I ran for the bathroom. I didn’t even have time to close the door and heard Camille make a noise of alarm. Into the phone she told Mathias, “Honey, I’ll call you right back.”
“No,” I said weakly. It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate that she was coming to help me, but still…
Camille made me take a shower, and there, in the steaming water, I sank to a crouch and hugged myself. Just considering that Derrick Yancy hated me badly enough to try and rob me of any happiness made my stomach lurch again; I scarcely felt capable of standing back upon my feet.
I have to know why.
It was because of something from the past, Aunt Jilly had said. I begged her to tell me more, but that was all she knew; she couldn’t force her second sight, her notions. It was something from the past that I would have to discover, somehow.
“Tish, are you all right in there?” I heard my older sister asking through the door. “Mom and Aunt Jilly are on their way.”
“I’m coming,” I managed to tell her.
Clark offered to take everyone for a late lunch once Mom and Aunt Jilly arrived, including me. But I couldn’t bear to leave, as they all well knew.
“I’ll stay here,” Camille said.
Mom and Aunt Jilly hugged me between them, and I clung to their familiar and comforting scent. Mom kissed my hair and said, “What can we bring you? What are you hungry for, honey?”
“Nothing,” I told her honestly.
“We’ll bring you a taco salad,” Mom said, as though I hadn’t responded negatively.
Clint held me close and gently knuckled my scalp, like the old days, though in those days he would not have been gentle. He said, “Tisha, I wish I could make things right for you
. I’m so worried about you.”
I drew back and studied my good-looking cousin; growing up, Clint had always been my best friend in Landon, and despite everything, I couldn’t resist teasing him, “One of the day shift nurses asked me for your number. She’s really cute. Probably about twenty-two or so.”
I still loved being able to embarrass Clint; I had tortured him during my law school years, as my roommates in Chicago had been crazy about him (or at least, all of the pictures I had of him), and had relentlessly begged me to invite him to Chicago for the weekend so they could seduce him. I had to tell them it took a lot to get him out of Minnesota, which further demonstrated my family’s concern for me; here was Clint, far from home because he was worried about me.
He rolled his eyes at me and Aunt Jilly said, “Give it to me, I’ll make sure he gets it.”
“Mom,” he complained. “When I meet the right girl, you’ll be the first to know, I promise.”
I hugged them all one last time and then sat near Camille, who took my hand in between both of hers and held tightly.
“What did you think of, just a little while ago?” my sister asked, the second we were alone.
“Motive,” I said in response, and my stomach shuddered again, but there was nothing left to exit my body. I said, “You know what we talked about a few weeks ago, about how Case and I knew each other in another life?”
Camille nodded seriously; she and Mathias had long believed this about one another too. Years ago, before they were even married, they had journeyed out here on a quest to find answers about the man they knew was related to Mathias, a man named Malcolm Carter. They had little more to work with than a couple of letters and a telegram, and instinct. Pure instinct, worth trusting.
I continued, using her nickname, “Milla, I’ve had dreams that I was married to…that bastard Derrick Yancy.” Saying his name made my mouth taste sour. “I’m sure he also has a sense of this, even though if I told him to his face what I believe, he wouldn’t take it seriously. But subconsciously he must realize something, because he was drawn to me when I first moved to Jalesville, and then he began to hate me. And not just because I was chasing business from his company. There’s a much deeper reason. And…oh God, it scares me so much…he wants to hurt me. I think that once…that in this other life, I mean, I may have been married to Derrick and cheated on him with Case. With Cole. You know, Case’s name from before…”
This sounded so crazy.
“It’s not crazy,” Camille said, echoing my thoughts. She squeezed my hand and finished quietly, “And you think that maybe Derrick, in this life, wants revenge? He wants to punish you?”
I nodded, tasting vomit. I whispered, “And what would hurt me worse than to take Case away from me? Oh God…”
“Tish,” Camille said, her voice sick with concern for me.
I stood up and leaned over Case, touching him with both hands. I said to Camille, “What can I do? I feel so helpless. I can’t do anything and I fucking hate it.”
“You can,” Camille insisted. She put her hands on my back and said, “You know your enemy, that’s something. You know where to start looking for answers. And hey, I have a bunch of letters for you to read. I think you might find them interesting.”
“What letters?” I asked, wiping my nose on the back of my wrist.
“The ones that Mathias and I came out here to get, seven years ago. Remember, we never made it to Bozeman on that trip?”
I nodded, remembering well.
Camille added, “They’re written between Malcolm Carter and a woman named Una Spicer. Does that name sound at all familiar?
I looked over at her, a spark stirring within me, replacing a little of the haunting fear. I said, “It does. That’s Henry Spicer’s wife, Cole’s mother.”
“Then you start with those,” my sister said.
Chapter Four
Marshall had asked if I wanted to ride to Jalesville with him, to meet the horses, and just like that, I found myself in the passenger seat of his truck.
We had walked out to it under afternoon sun, the mountains that ringed the city gorgeous by day’s light, Wy tagging along like an adorable puppy (though I had the impression that Marshall was not of exactly the same opinion about his youngest brother’s presence), and it was Wy who darted ahead and opened the door for me; I smiled and thanked him. Marshall’s truck was old and black, decorated with rust, and with what appeared to be a strip of twisted, heavy-duty wire holding up part of the back bumper, which also sported a red sticker advertising a Jalesville restaurant, The Spoke, and an orange one for a radio station, Z96.1 – Mountain Country.
The interior was clean but smelled faintly of smoke, and maybe a hint of cologne. The seats were upholstered in what reminded me of a print you might see painted on old pottery, white, black and red, with a triangle pattern. Wy clambered to the cramped back seats and told me, as Marshall walked around the truck to climb inside, “It’s over two hours to get back home, Ruthie, so we’ll probably stop and get some food on the way.”
“That sounds good,” I told him, then fell silent as Marshall entered the same space, and though he barely even looked my way, I felt a little tight in the chest. I shifted on the seat, as though nervous, which was ridiculous. It wasn’t as if he was going to slip an ice cube down my shirt, or try to unhook my bra; this thought made me giggle, absurdly, and both of them looked at me, clearly wondering what was funny.
I choked back any additional laughter, embarrassed, explaining quickly, “Sorry, I’m just tired,” which was true, just not as specific as I could have been.
“Yeah, there is absolutely no laughing allowed in this truck,” Marshall said in a tone that conveyed total seriousness, though I understood he was teasing me. I dared to peek over at him and found him looking at me with just a little bit of a smile lifting his mouth. His gray eyes were crinkled at the outside corners, conveying the amused look I recalled well from three years ago; this seemed much more like the Marshall I had once known. He shook his head, his smile widening, and shifted into gear, taking us out of the parking lot.
“Or absolutely no making out, I bet,” I teased him right back, and then almost bit through my own tongue, having no idea where that statement had come from.
Marshall laughed, though I could tell he was outright surprised, and Wy hooted, “You’re right about that!”
Marshall returned lazily, “No laughing, no making out, and absolutely no touching at any time.”
Wy reached and put the tip of his finger on Marshall’s right shoulder, which is just exactly what I would have done to Tish, had she declared such a thing. I giggled again, prompting Marshall to say, “That’s two strikes for you, Ruthann, and Wy, I didn’t say there was a rule about severe beatings.”
“That would violate the no touching at any time,” I pointed out with maybe a little too much syrupy-sweet emphasis, and Marshall sent another smile my way.
“You’re right,” he agreed, just as much honey in his tone. He added, “But I don’t mind violating that rule, now and again.”
A hot beat of something passed from his eyes to mine, causing my heart to unexpectedly jolt, and I realized he was back to his old ways in full force, teasing me with the hope of provoking a reaction. I supposed I should have figured, but at least this time I could dish it back. At least a little.
Before I could respond, Wy jumped in with, “Ruthie, everyone knows that Marsh hasn’t kissed a girl since the seventh grade, back when he had braces.”
Both Marshall and I laughed at this; Marshall slowly shook his head.
Wy was on a roll, continuing with relish, “See, her braces got all tangled with the rubber bands in his and they were stuck as good as if they’d been glued together, and they had to get someone to unhook them,” and then the boy yelped and evaded, as Marshall reached backward as though to clamp a hand on Wy’s leg. Wy giggled and ducked away, and Marshall left off, as he was driving.
“Keep it up,” he told Wy, loo
king at him in the rearview mirror. “We have to stop eventually.”
In a stage whisper, Wy said, “Everyone knows it’s true, Ruthie.”
Marshall rolled his eyes and clearly gave up, saying, “Yes, the fire department had to come and break us apart. It took hours. It was very romantic. No kiss has ever quite lived up to that.”
I was laughing long before he finished speaking.
“Marsh, can we get lunch, please?” Wy begged a second later.
“Are you kidding me? Do you have money?” Marshall shot back at his brother.
“Some,” Wy said. “But it’s at home. I’ll pay you back.” Wy leaned between the seats and implored, “Ruthie, I bet you’re hungry.”
“I could eat,” I said. “I didn’t really have breakfast.”
“There’s a drive-thru,” Wy said helpfully, pointing to the right. We were almost to the interstate exit that would take us east to Jalesville.
“Fine,” Marshall grumbled, as though truly annoyed, but I knew better by now. Beneath, I could tell he really loved his little brother. Just like with Clint and Tish, bickering was how they demonstrated it best.
Ten minutes later we were cruising along the four-lane, and I found myself irritatingly aware of Marshall, just a few feet to my left as he drove. He had been kind enough to pay for my lunch (I realized I had forgotten everything but my cell phone back at the hospital), and Wy’s lunch, and we were all munching burgers and fries; the cup holder in the middle contained two chocolate shakes, one for me and one for Wy, while Marshall (strawberry for him) just held his cup in his right hand, driving with his left.
From the corner of my eye and though I truly wasn’t trying, I saw him. I saw the way his jaws moved as he ate, all of us contentedly quiet for the moment, occupied with chewing. I saw the dark scruff that was nearly a beard, I saw the way his right cheekbone (closest to me) created an angle on his lean face. He did have a long nose, straight as the blade of a knife, but it suited him. I saw the sinewy, wiry muscles that made up his forearm, his long fingers holding the strawberry shake, the way his lips (which I had watched while he sang last night) pursed to take a sip from his straw. I saw the rip in his jeans, the bulge of his bicep, just as leanly sculpted as the rest of his body.
Until Tomorrow Page 5