Larger Than Life

by Alison Kent

  He didn't talk about his work in front of Spencer because he didn't want to give their son the idea that the supposed excitement that went on here was anything when compared to the rest of the world. The world she and Yancey had chosen to leave behind because of what had happened to her. Because of what had truly happened to both of them.

  "No way, really? Liberty's out at the Barn? Jase said her parents weren't into that crap about having her get married, just the religious stuff. I wonder if she knows where Jase is. That would be so weird if they both showed up out of nowhere. Anyhow," Spencer said, heading for the door, "I doubt Dad would still be out there by the time I showed up. And if he is, I'll just come home. 'Bye, Mom."

  Jeanne couldn't do anything but let him go. He knew as well as she did that the rumors of what went on at the Big Brown Barn were just that. Rumors. Though somehow in Pit Stop, the end of the road where nothing else happened, rumors easily took on the guise of fact.

  In this case, it was the gossip, the juice, the scintillating angle of polygamy and underage sex—even if the girls in Earnestine Township were consenting and legally wed. To think some allegedly went to Nevada Case, Esq., for help, an underground secretive help, especially when Neva denied any such thing happening, was too juicy not to slurp up.

  Jeanne wasn't buying it.

  She knew Neva better than many, and didn't believe it of her one and only friend. Neither did she believe Neva would keep her out of such a critical loop. Not when |eanne felt she had so little in her life to look forward to, that she might as well drop off the face of the earth.

  Candy Roman pushed the safety goggles from her face to the top of her head and swiped her forearm over her brow.

  She only minded perspiring while she worked when sweat started running into her eyes, salting up her contacts, stinging and burning until she had to stop work completely, clean the lenses, and let her eyes rest.

  She hated stopping work for something so lame as forgetting to wipe away sweat. In fact, she hated stopping at all, even to sleep. The website and catalogue for the Big Brown Barn already listed an expected shipping date of four to six weeks on her most popular jewelry designs.

  She did all that she could to cut that to three. Waiting longer than three weeks for anything she'd ordered made her crazy. Receiving items unexpectedly early had her jumping for joy. She figured most of her customers fit the same profile, and so she balanced her workload accordingly.

  When there were girls in residence, she kept them busy with straightforward assembly. Beads on filament. Fasteners attached. Tiny crystals sorted into bins by color and clarity. The more intricate pieces she constructed herself, but lately she had been doing it all. The sorting, the assembly, the finishing work.

  Neva pitched in when she had time, of course, but the tech side of the business was her baby, dealing with the site's programmers and designers, not to mention sharing the duties of supply and inventory, the catalogue layout and printing, the packing and shipping, the accounting. Then there was her law practice, which these days was run more on the side.

  How either of them managed to do all they did .. . Candy blew her bangs off her forehead, twisted side to side on her stool, and stretched her arms to the sky. That was just the way it was. And the way they were. Keeping busy seemed to be how most people managed to stay a step ahead of their demons.

  She had enough to keep her running for the rest of her life.

  Leaving the goggles on the worktable and shutting down the grinder, Candy made her way to the studio's door for a stretch and a breath of fresh air. The first floor, which had once been home to tack and animals, now served her well both as her design and living space.

  The front half was divided between her studio and the shipping center, with a walled-off and seldom visited showroom where her best pieces were displayed. The rear half had been remodeled into an efficiency that more closely resembled a converted warehouse than an apartment—one she would never have been able to afford, much less outfit, in the city. At least not with the life she used to lead.

  But thanks to Neva, going back to where she'd come from was a problem Candy wasn't going to have to face. Even if down the road they split their partnership to go separate ways, to pursue their own things, to have lives without holding one another's hands, her resume was now physical and solid instead of being one or two lines about K-Mart, McDonald's, and J.C. Penney.

  Of course, wearing herself out was not going to do her health or creativity any damn bit of good. And though she knew Neva's big heart was in the right place, what with giving the girl a job and Candy an assistant, Liberty Mitchell wasn't working out and really had to go.

  Her nails this, her hair that. Her shoes, her jewelry, her lumpy bed, and minimum wage. The girl could not do any sort of honest day's work without mouthing, and quite frankly, Candy wasn't even sure about the honest part figuring in. She hadn't caught the girl lying or stealing, but she plain didn't trust the little brat. And she couldn't even say for sure why.

  Climbing up to sit on one of the picnic tables on the patio at the side of the Barn, she braced her boots on the bench, her elbows on her knees, and her chin in the cup of her palms. A short break, a few minutes max, and she'd get back to work.

  When at least fifteen later a pair of big male hands came from behind to cover her eyes and wake her up, her gasp was more about pleasure than surprise. "Ooh, your daddy is going to kill you if he finds you here."

  "My daddy can go shoot himself in the foot," Spencer Munroe said, pulling her backwards and dropping a yummy upside-down kiss on her lips. "He doesn't have any say in what I do any longer."

  He smelled like clean skin and warm sun and the breeze off the desert. He smelled like she liked her pillows to smell. He smelled like the best times she'd had in her life. And he kissed damn good for a white boy. "You don't have to talk big to impress me, baby. You know I'm going to let you into my pants."

  "And I can't think of a better place to be," he said, coming around and hopping onto the table beside her. He looped an arm over her shoulders, and she leaned into his strong, solid body and sighed. " 'Course, you sound too tired to be getting kinky."

  "I am tired, but I'm all over you and the kink." She rubbed one hand up and down his thigh, realizing how great her mahogany skin looked against his worn denim. She could probably get close to the same contrast by working in copper and lapis lazuli rather than the turquoise she most often used.

  He held her tighter, leaned his head over onto hers, rubbed his cheek up and down. "We'd probably best stick to public displays of affection for now."

  "Why's that?" She squeezed his thigh. "You still scared of all my deep dark secrets?"

  "Nah. I can't stay long. My dad's supposed to be coming out here later."

  Candy rolled her eyes. "Neva's gonna love that."

  "Yeah, that's what I was thinking. Seems he thinks there's a girl from E.T. hiding out here."

  She pulled away, looked at him from the side, at his thick brown hair on the shaggy side of sexy, at his eyes that were never the same shade of green, shaking her head when he nodded. "Jesus Lord, I am so sick of people thinking this is some sort of sinister halfway house or something. If you're talking about Liberty Mitchell, then yes. She's here. Neva hired her. She'snot hiding her."

  "Huh," Spencer grunted. "Too bad someone didn't let her folks know. Keep the cavalry from being called out."

  Candy bit down on the bad stuff she wanted to say. "Well, maybe the little brat might've thought to do that herself and save us from being hassled by the big bad sheriff."

  The minute that followed was uncomfortable with Spencer's silence, before he took a breath and said, "Dad's not hassling you, Candy. He's just doing his job."

  Candy sighed, leaned forward and away from the cradle of his body. It was hard sometimes to remember where she was and all the reasons why. That Yancey Munroe wasn't out to bust her ass because she fit a profile, because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

&nb
sp; Because her background and situation and skin color made it hard for law enforcement to believe she wouldn't be involved in trouble.

  Because she had been in the past.

  She stared out across the dusky yellows and rich summer browns of the horizon, measuring the distance by the fence posts and lines of barbed wire. "I know, baby. I'm just reacting the way I've reacted to cops all my life. What I've been through tends to color my judgment and not in a good way."

  Spencer was silent for several minutes, his palm rubbing circles between her shoulder blades. It felt so good to have him touch her without wanting anything, without asking or demanding or forcing. He did that all the time. Made her feel so cherished. Important. Valuable.

  And then there was the fact of her back hurting from all the work she'd been doing. The bending and hunching with never enough stretching between. She pushed off the table, moved to the bench to sit between his spread legs. He took the hint and began to use his big hands the way she so loved, massaging her neck and shoulders.

  "You know, Candy, you can talk about what happened to bring you out here. It's not like I can't keep my mouth shut. I wouldn't tell any of the guys, and I sure as hell wouldn't tell my parents."

  "I know, baby. And you're sweet to care, but you'll be leaving soon and—"

  "Damn it, Candy. I'm going to school. I'm not leaving you."

  "School." She sighed with envy. "Where the whole world is going to open up to you, and you'll have the pick of any girl on campus, being the big football star that you are. I won't be the exotic fish in the sea anymore. I'll just be that black girl back home."

  He spit out a big mouthful of nasty words. "I swear, Candy, you are so full of crap sometimes."

  "Does it make you want to hit me, Spencer?" She looked over her shoulder. "Do you ever want to backhand all that crap right out of me?"

  His eyes widened beneath his frown. "What the hell are you talking about? Christ, why would I want to hit you?"

  "And that, sweet Spencer Munroe, is why I'm so out of my mind over you." She reached up, patted his chest. "Too many men in my past and my mama's past liked to talk with their hands."

  "I thought you liked me talking with my hands."

  "Oh, baby. I do." She kneeled on the bench between his knees and took his face in her hands. His eyes were like polished jade; his hair almost as dark as her own. His lashes and cheekbones were enough to make a woman cry.

  She felt her own tears threaten to fall. "You're one of a kind, baby. And down the road there is going to be some girl who deserves everything you have to offer. But I'm not crazy enough to think that girl is me."

  "Why? Because you're five years older? Because you're black?" His nostrils almost flared. "Because I'm a stupid country bumpkin from the middle of nowhere?"

  She stared, backed away. "Why the hell would you think something like that?"

  "Because you won't tell me what happened to you. Because you're blowing me off. It's like you think I'm good enough to sleep with, but that's all. That I'm not good enough for anything more."

  "That's not true, Spencer. Not true at all." She sniffed, tried to find anything she could of her usual composure. "You make me forget my past. You make me think I'm worth something. Being with you this summer has been amazing. But I'm not going to stand in the way of your future. And since we'll never agree on that, we might as well drop it."

  "Shit," he said, shaking his head. "I'll drop it for now, but only because my dad just drove up."

  Candy turned and followed the direction of his gaze, slicing off a sharp laugh. "And he's not the only one. Check out Holden Wagner's sweet ride. I'd better go find Neva and Liberry and see what's going on."

  Five

  Holden drove his white BMW 745Li past Neva's combined home and office and up to the front of the Big Brown Barn. He glanced at the Tag Heuer on his wrist. It was precisely the time he'd arranged to meet Sheriff Munroe.

  Breaking his own habit of punctuality, Holden decided, would no doubt make some sort of sense. Less disappointment. Less aggravation. More of a feeling of fitting in. The latter, of course, made no difference. He had never expected to fit in. That wasn't why he'd come to this small Texas town.

  He'd come here to find a place out of the limelight. To downplay his past, the good along with the bad. Disappointment, aggravation—those he'd learned to live with long ago. So the status quo would remain. He would be on time and no one else would bother.

  After leaving Munroe's office this morning, Holden had gone for a drive—as Sunday-after-church as that sounded— instead of going back to work or even heading home. Since he remained on the fringe of church involvement, he found no need to embrace much of the religious doctrine, especially the one espousing austere self-denial.

  The township paid him well, and the work he did for the church supplemented that income nicely. He enjoyed fine things, his clothes and his car, his home and his office—none of which bore any resemblance to the Amish-like plainness found throughout Earnestine.

  As comfortable as were the environments in which he lived and worked, however, returning to either space offered an open invitation to visitors. He had too much on his mind to countenance interruptions—his intolerance was a trait he supposed was inherited as much as ingrained.

  The same trait had, after all, been the final lapse of faith that had factored into his missionary parents' brutal, bloody end. And their end had been the determining factor in the direction he'd taken his life.

  By the time all was said and done, by the time he'd completed his education, by the time he'd reached the pinnacle of his very public career, he'd even convinced himself that they'd been martyrs for the cause of religious freedom, that they had been massacred for their beliefs.

  In reality, their deaths had been a testament to their hypocrisy. To the life they'd lived behind the scenes. To the patience and forbearance they'd presented to their audience but never practiced at home.

  He had been the only witness to the truth, the only one able to give testimony, but he'd let their good names stand in the end because it had benefited him to do so. Or it had until guilt crept in to steal away all that he had gained.

  In the early years, he'd been too frightened to speak, a cowering little boy afraid to say anything at all for fear that he'd use a word incorrectly, one with a meaning he didn't know or didn't understand. His silence had pleased his parents, as had his devotion to his studies.

  Yet it had been those very studies that had pricked at his conscience and begun to unravel his safety net of blind denial. Knowledge was like that, a big bright light shining down on the truth.

  Unfortunately, not all truth was so liberating. The truth haunting him now, in fact, presented a reversal of fortunes. All these years later, all the steps he'd taken, backtracking and sidestepping to cover his long and winding path, disappearing into the great void arid settling into Earnestine Township, and still he'd been discovered.

  He was too deeply rooted to tear up all that he'd built here and start over again. And so he'd made a choice. A decision with which he wasn't comfortable, but which offered .1 logical situational solution.

  If all went as planned, he would be losing the personal freedom he'd enjoyed for so very long. Not exactly the goal he'd been working toward, but certainly a choice he pre-ferred over the alternate.

  That of losing his life.

  At the sound of car wheels on the gravel road that ran past her house to the Barn, Neva leaned forward to look out the window over her kitchen sink. Oh, dear. Oh, my. The microwave timer dinged from the counter beside her. Oh, hell.

  She couldn't even sit down to a nice nuked dinner of chicken noodle soup without Holden Wagner ruining it for her the way he ruined so many things for so many people. She couldn't believe she was going to have to deal with him now, after hours. Seemed nothing about his cause could wait.

  Twelve hours ago, she'd been in Carlsbad, New Mexico, about to make her way home. Now it was seven o'clock, the end of a lo
ng stressful day, one she was more than ready to put to bed. But when Sheriff Munroe's car pulled in several seconds later, following Holden's down the road to the Barn, Neva accepted the fact that neither sleep nor chicken noodle soup were in her immediate future.

  She left the kitchen, soup and all, pushed open the back door of the two-story, white-framed house, and headed out into the lingering heat of the day. The screen squeaked on its hinges and slammed behind her. She loved this house and the huge pecan trees that shaded it. Her own little nutty oasis in the desert. It was too large of a house for one person, but she didn't care.

  She loved the room to roam, loved the privacy, loved the stairs when they groaned, the creaks in the hardwood floor. The sounds were her personal security system, alerting her to the wind, to shifts in the temperature, and to anyone who might be stupid enough to sneak upstairs and into her bedroom where she still slept with a Dirty Harry Colt .45.

  And until he showed up to claim it, where she'd be sleeping with Mick Savin's SIG Sauer.

  With the gravel of the road crunching beneath her boots as she walked down to the Barn, she wondered if she might've done good to bring one of the weapons with her. There was nothing about this visit from either of these men that made her feel the least bit safe—or anything but out of her element.

  And then it got worse.

  Just as Yancey stepped from his car, Candy stepped from around the side of the Barn holding hands with Spencer Munroe. At the unnecessarily heavy slam of the sheriff's car door, the pair came to a stop. Yancey didn't remove his sunglasses, didn't acknowledge his son. One hand at his hip on the butt of his gun, he headed straight for the showroom, entering through the door Holden had left wide open.

  Neva shook her head, groaned, and picked up the pace, the setting sun still cooking the ground, the heat dampening her shirt where it clung between her shoulder blades, where sweat trickled between her breasts. She really, really didn't need this tonight. Especially since the only clue she had as to what was going on here was named Liberty Mitchell.