Next to the pile he’d just gone through was the stack for the next year. The answer might be there. He took the papers down.
The reading went more quickly this time. Rance had learned to ignore the local gossip, so he just read what he needed. And, of course, distracting neighbor Maggie was gone. He skimmed through the first six months without finding much. But as the summer unfolded, Rance sensed that he was closer to his answer.
Luther and his partners had tried to sell the three extra parcels of land. When no buyers appeared, thinking that he could use the land to expand his farming interests, Luther had then borrowed the money to buy out the other investors. At the end of 1964, Luther had had all the land, and a huge debt to pay.
Rance didn’t have to read any more to figure out what happened next. Luther had been unable to repay the loan, and the bank had foreclosed.
Rance considered this new scenario. Since his father had paid off the investors, he no longer suspected that Drake was one of them. Instead, he turned his attention to the bank officer who’d worked the deal. He still didn’t know who the man was, but he would bet good money he was the one who’d taken the land. His nemesis, Drake.
He policed up his stack of papers and crossed the library again. He guessed the answer would be in the year Luther Hightower had ended his life. Rance shoved the pile he’d finished back into its niche on the shelf and grabbed the next year off its perch, displacing dust and cobwebs. He read through that stack, and went back for another.
The answer was in these papers, he just knew it. But Rance’s stomach complained again as he hefted the stack of papers off the shelf, and he sighed. He’d collected enough information to digest for one day, and if he didn’t do some other digesting, he would be a bear to be around. Reluctantly he hoisted the papers back to their position on the shelf. At least he would know where to look next time.
Chapter 3
“The nerve of that man,” Maggie muttered as she gathered up her purse and umbrella. “Leaving without even waving goodbye. I’ll show him.”
“Did you say something, Maggie?” Mrs. Larson looked up from her work.
“No. Sorry, I was just thinking out loud. I’m going to go on home now. Unless you need me for anything.”
“Just one quick thing, Maggie,” Mrs. Larson replied.
Maggie sagged against the desk. Would it really be one quick thing? She’d just made up her mind to kill Mr. Rance Montoya with kindness—her attempt at southern hospitality—and she was afraid she would change her mind if she thought about it too long. “Sure. What do you need?”
Mrs. Larson held out the application form that Rance had filled out. Maggie had forgotten about it. “Would you pop this into the file on your way past? I didn’t get to it.”
Was that all? Maggie held her breath, waiting for the rest. When no more came, she sighed with relief. “Sure.” She could look at what he’d revealed on the way across to the file cabinet. And it wouldn’t be snooping. Not really.
He’d filled in most of the blanks with routine stuff. There wasn’t much she didn’t know already. She didn’t know what she’d expected to find, but it had been more than this. The only thing that surprised her was that he’d noted that he was born in Pittsville.
She had never heard of any Montoyas there before. In a small Alabama town like Pittsville, a name like Montoya would be remembered. Maggie made a mental note of his date of birth and filed the form under M. There were no other Montoyas filed in the M section, she noted as she closed the drawer.
Maggie hung her purse over her shoulder and pushed through the door. The rain had stopped, and the sun was beginning to clear a path through the clouds. Maggie viewed the change with dismay. How could she make her world-famous spaghetti if the sun heated the house trailer to two degrees short of a steam bath? Even with air-conditioning, it was too hot for anything but the quickest recipes in her superheated trailer kitchen in July.
She would just have to risk it. If she was going to kill Mr. Montoya—Rance—with kindness, she would have to go all the way. She might want to show him southern hospitality, but she was sure his arteries wouldn’t appreciate southern-fried everything. She wanted to impress the man, and somehow she didn’t think cold tuna salad would do the trick.
By the time she had stopped off at the Winn-Dixie for the basic ingredients and driven home, Maggie wasn’t sure she’d had the right idea. She could still back out, but she remembered his about-face earlier. She wouldn’t back out now.
Rance had known he would have to split the cord of oak eventually to hasten the drying process, but he had put it off. For some reason, today seemed like a good time to get started. Maybe the cloudy, damp day had suggested cooler temperatures. Or maybe he wanted to work off some of the frustration he felt. He had finally found some of the answers to the mystery, but now that he had, they weren’t enough. Now he just had more questions. Would he ever know the whole truth?
Rance stood back and surveyed his afternoon’s work. It was amazing what a little righteous indignation could accomplish; he’d split nearly half a cord of wood in three hours’ time. And maybe he’d done about a quarter cord too much, he thought as he flexed his stiffening muscles.
He hadn’t split wood since he was a teenager back in Texas. Though he’d found his old rhythm quickly enough, he’d used muscles he hadn’t exercised in years. Muscles he’d forgotten he had. Military physical training was fine, as far as it went, but it did not take the place of hard physical labor. He was going to be sore in the morning.
Rance jammed the ax into the chopping block and headed for the house. He was tired and hungry and in need of a shower. Or a hot, soaking bath, if he could stand the temperature. Maybe if he soaked his muscles in a hot tub and had a couple of stiff drinks, he wouldn’t be too sore tomorrow.
He laughed. Nobody could be that lucky. As he strode back to the house, Rance decided to forgo the stiff drinks. He popped a couple of aspirin instead, as he ran a tub as hot as he could stand. Then he lowered his already rebelling body into the steaming liquid There was something to be said for these big, old-fashioned claw-footed porcelain tubs, he thought as the hot water began to do the trick; they offered plenty of room for soaking his legs.
The water comforted his work-fatigued body and soon lulled him to sleep. Rance woke an hour later to water that was rapidly cooling, in spite of the ninety degrees in the house. Rusty was barking. And someone was knocking on the door.
Rance submerged quickly into the tepid bath. He needed to clear his sleep-drugged head, and he knew the water would help force his hair into submission. He pulled the plug and surfaced as the water began to drain. Shaking like a huge, wet dog, he stepped from the tub.
“Keep your shirt on! I’m coming!” he shouted toward the front of the house as he hastily toweled himself dry.
Maggie stood at the door, flanked by her son, Buddy, and daughter, Jen, and waited for Rance to approach. In rural Mattison, Alabama, it was customary to yoo-hoo and walk on in, but Maggie didn’t. She had a feeling that Rance Montoya would need training before he would accept that time-honored convention.
She’d heard him holler from somewhere in the back of the house, so she knew he was home. She would just wait at the screen door until he let them in. If he did.
The house hadn’t looked frightening in the bright afternoon sun, as she came up the red dirt lane, shaded by a blooming crepe myrtle hedge. It looked shabby and neglected, but hardly intimidating. Yet, as she stood on the porch waiting for Rance, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise as she remembered her conversation with Tess. As an adult, she shouldn’t believe in ghosts. Should she?
The wicker basket containing the dinner she’d prepared grew heavy in her arms, and Maggie shifted positions, trying to ease the burden. She’d brought enough for four, though she wasn’t counting on Rance inviting them to share. There was more than enough left at home if he didn’t. She had prepared for his rejection. After Rance’s dismissal that morning, Mag
gie wasn’t even certain that he would thank her for intruding.
The tone in which Rance had bellowed for them to wait hadn’t sounded encouraging, even to Maggie’s world-traveled ears. That was why she’d brought the kids with her. For protection. Well, maybe not that, but she didn’t think it would hurt to have some backup. There was safety in numbers, after all.
Jennifer fidgeted, and Buddy scowled.
“This is boring, Mom. Can’t we just leave this on the porch and go home and eat?” It was just like Buddy to think of eating. At thirteen, and nearly six feet tall, he ate more than Maggie and Jennifer combined. Having grown more than six inches in the past year, he needed all the nutrition he could get.
And he needed more guidance than she was prepared to give him. If only Chet hadn’t died. So there Maggie was, standing at the front door of her attractive but standoffish neighbor’s house. She wasn’t really sure why it was so important that she establish a friendly relationship with Rance Montoya. She tried to convince herself that it was for her son.
“Shush, Buddy. I know people didn’t call on their neighbors like this back in Virginia, but this is the way we make new people welcome here. We’ll be finished soon enough, and we can go home.”
Buddy scowled again. He started to say something else, but stopped and stared through the screen door as Rance Montoya came into view.
Rance was barefoot, and moved slowly and deliberately, but still with the catlike grace that she had appreciated earlier in the day. He must have dressed hastily, donning jeans that were zipped but not buttoned. And he was almost wearing a shirt, which he had pulled on over a body still wet from a shower. It hung on his shoulders, open, and Maggie saw more of a healthy man than she had seen in a very long time.
His hair was damp and tousled, and he raked a long hand through it as he came to a stop in front of the door. With only the wire screen separating them, Rance looked at Maggie and then the kids. “Yes?”
Rance’s uncertain question, and his unexpected male sexuality, startled Maggie into forgetting her carefully planned speech. She stared at him for a moment, taking in the broad chest, covered with thick, dark hair that traveled down his lean torso. The opened closure of his jeans rested against his flat stomach and barely kept him decent. A shiver of excitement ran through her, and Maggie stopped herself from supplying the last detail of the imagined picture her mind was drawing. She shook herself to attention.
“I’m sorry. We’ve come at a bad time.” Maggie blushed, not because of her inarticulate response, but because of what she had been thinking. “We’re here to welcome you to our community.” She held up the basket.
Montoya smiled a huge smile that creased his dark cheeks and painted laugh lines around his eyes. “Come in.” He pushed the screen door outward.
Maggie stepped back, allowing the door to swing open, and followed her offspring inside. She couldn’t help noticing the stiff way Montoya had moved, and the grimace he hadn’t been able to hide as he reached for the door handle.
She gave him the basket. “I have everything here for a complete spaghetti dinner. I wasn’t sure you’d be set up for cooking yet.” She looked around at the room, which was newly furnished in a tasteful style that fit the character of the old house. What had she expected? Plastic furniture and a lava lamp?
Rance followed her eyes on their private inspection tour. “I’m still trying to get the place livable. The kitchen functions, but just barely. I’m afraid. I’ll have to completely rewire the house before I can modernize the kitchen. Man, I miss my microwave.” He grinned, then grimaced again, as he hefted the basket “Thanks for this.”
“Mr. Montoya, is something wrong?” He had seemed agile enough that morning. What could have happened in the short time since she saw him last?
“It’s Rance, remember? I thought we’d established that.” Then he laughed ruefully. “When I got back from town, I decided to attack a cord of firewood. The wood won. I’ve just rediscovered muscles I’d forgotten I had.”
Rance looked at Maggie and her children, standing just inside the front door. He guessed he should invite them to join him in the feast Maggie had prepared. The sauce smelled fantastic, and his afternoon had left him with a hefty appetite, as well as complaining muscles. The burger he’d gotten on the way back from town had long since worn off.
He started toward the kitchen, but the little group didn’t budge from their posts by the door. The boy, as tall and skinny as Rance remembered being at that age, wore a wary expression. He looked tense, and ready for fight or flight. The girl, a preteen version of her mother, looked downright scared. Only Maggie looked calm.
What were they afraid of? Then Rance remembered. Of course! They had heard tales of the horrible, haunted Hightower’s Haven. He’d even mentioned it himself that morning. Did the kids actually believe the tales? He grinned. “I guess you’ve heard about the ghost.”
The boy affected a fearless pose. “Yeah. But I’m sure it’s just a story.” His voice sounded brave, but his eyes said something else.
The girl made no attempt to disguise her discomfort. “Do you really have a ghost?” she asked timidly.
“I haven’t seen one since I’ve been here,” Rance answered carefully.
“Some people hear night sounds and think they’re ghosts,” Maggie explained.
The boy uttered a disgusted snort. “You won’t see me making up ghosts that aren’t there to be afraid of,” he said bravely.
“Well, I’ve got something that you’ll find more interesting and friendlier than any ghosts. Why don’t you come with me?”
Both kids looked at their mother.
“Sure, go ahead. I bet I know what it is. Remember the other day when Rance said his dog was having puppies? Well, he told me today that they had been born.”
“Is that true?” the little girl asked, interest filling her carbon-copy blue-green eyes.
“Four of them,” Rance announced heartily. “They’re in a box in the kitchen.”
Rance shifted the basket to one hand and moved his arm stiffly to point the way. He grimaced again. It would be several days before he was up to much hard labor.
“Buddy, why don’t you take the basket and carry it to the kitchen for Mr. Montoya?” Maggie suggested.
The boy took the basket and puffed up with pride at being able to do the simple task. Rance was grateful to be free of the burden. He glanced at the girl and wondered what she was called.
Maggie seemed to be reading his mind. “I’m sorry. I should have introduced my children.” She placed a hand on Buddy’s shoulder and one around the girl’s waist. “This is Buddy,” she said, indicating the boy. Then she turned to the girl. “And this is Jennifer.”
Jennifer offered her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Montoya. Now can we see the puppies?”
Rance had to laugh. He’d nearly forgotten about Rusty’s litter after looking into Maggie’s sea green eyes; obviously, Jennifer hadn’t. He led the way into the kitchen.
Jennifer spotted the battered cardboard box and scooted over to it without waiting to be shown. She squatted down and watched, wide-eyed, as four squirming balls of fuzz jostled for the best spot at their mother’s side.
Buddy deposited the basket on the table and followed his sister. He stood, trying to appear unimpressed as he looked down at the nursing pups. “What are their names?” he asked gruffly.
Rance remembered what it was like to be almost a man and yet not. Buddy was trying so hard to act mature, but Rance could see the boyish delight in Buddy’s eyes.
“Well, the mama’s name is Rusty. I haven’t named the puppies yet. I thought I’d wait until they’re bigger. I’m going to have to find homes for them, and their new owners may want to name them themselves.”
Jennifer looked at Rance with wide turquoise eyes. “Can I have one of them?”
Buddy echoed his sister. “Yeah. Can we have one?”
Maggie sighed wearily. Another mouth to feed was all she needed. He
r small home might hold one small puppy, but Rusty was a big dog. The puppies would be, too. What would they do when the puppy grew?
“I think it’s a little soon to be asking to have a puppy. They can’t leave their mother just yet” was all Maggie could manage. It was only a stall to avoid saying yes. Or no.
She looked away from her children and encountered Rance’s midnight-black eyes. He looked at her, as if he understood her predicament, and nodded slightly. Maggie looked away just as quickly and busied herself unpacking the basket of food she’d prepared.
Rance crossed back to Maggie and leaned over, his breath brushing her neck as he apologized in a low tone, not intended for the kids to hear. “I didn’t mean to get you into a jam with the kids.”
Maggie’s heart fluttered, and she drew in deep breaths of air as she tried to decide what to say. “You’ve seen where I live,” Maggie explained quietly, grateful that Rance did understand. His warm breath on her skin was more than distracting and sent chills down her spine. Chills that couldn’t be explained by the temperature in the room. “We might have room for a puppy now, but they grow,” she explained, moving away.
“I know. But what if I let them adopt one and keep it over here?”
That was an alternative, but Maggie still had doubts. She hadn’t forgotten the Jekyll-and-Hyde act that he had treated her to that morning. Would he turn on her kids the same way? She couldn’t risk it. “I’ll think about it.”
Rance seemed to accept Maggie’s answer. He lifted the lid of one of the pots. “This sauce smells great. How did an Alabama girl learn to cook Italian?” Rance set the pot on the old gas range and struck a match.
Maggie smiled. “Twelve years as an air-force wife allowed me to see more of the world than Alabama. I learned to cook Italian when we were stationed in Japan.”
Montoya's Heart Page 4