CLAY YEAGER'S REDEMPTION

by Justine Davis

  "I'm sorry," the man said quickly, lowering the screwdriver. "I didn't see a car, so I thought you'd gone."

  "It's in the barn."

  "Oh." He hesitated, then added, "I'm sorry if I woke you."

  Only then did Casey realize she hadn't stopped to brush the sleep-tangled mass of her hair, color tinged her cheeks as she lifted a hand to try to smooth it down. "Don't be sorry about that," she said, embarrassment making her voice tight. "Be sorry that you scared me to death. I thought someone was breaking in."

  He seemed puzzled. "I told you I'd be here to fix this." He gestured at the door.

  "I know. But I didn't think you really would."

  He drew back a little, and she saw that stiffness again. She saw a return of that flat deadness in his eyes before they became merely shuttered once more. "I said I would be. I owe you seventy dollars, remember?"

  Casey knelt beside the Border collie, holding her hand out to the wary animal. "I'd say it's your plundering friend here who owes me."

  The black-and-white dog pondered her overture for a moment that seemed to go on and on. Then Mud reached out his white-striped nose to nuzzle her hand. When his master didn't speak, Casey looked up to find the man studying her with an intensity that put the dog's to shame. And made her definitely uneasy. Only the touch of surprise in his expression kept her from getting up and running back inside. With a hasty pat for the black-and-white head, she straightened up just as he spoke.

  "We both owe you. Who do you think ate the rest of that roast?"

  Her eyes widened. "You ate it?"

  He shrugged. "About a third of it was still wrapped. After I cut off the chewed end for Mud, it seemed a shame to waste it."

  "So that's why I smelled smoke last night."

  "I'm sorry if it bothered you, but I didn't have any other way to cook it. I was careful with the fire."

  "It's all right," Casey said. "We had a very wet spring, so there's not much fire danger right now despite the heat. I'm just glad the meat didn't go to waste."

  "It didn't, believe me." His mouth twisted wryly. "I haven't even seen prime rib in longer than I can remember."

  Casey glanced at the truck. "You've been … traveling a long time, then?"

  "Yes."

  It was flat, emotionless, yet unmistakably a warning against any more questions. A warning that reminded Casey that she should be listening to the warnings sent out by what was left of her common sense. She backed up a step, stopping within reach of the door.

  "I have a great respect for privacy," Casey began slowly, "but—"

  "I understand," he interrupted in a quiet voice that somehow assured her he did. "You don't know me, don't know that I wouldn't ever hurt…"

  His voice trailed off, and for an instant Casey saw pain flash across his lean face, a pain so great it made her wince inwardly. But then it was gone, so swiftly that she couldn't even be sure she'd seen it.

  "I'll fix this door," he said after a moment, his voice brisk, as if in an effort to deny the break in his words.

  "If you can, I'd appreciate it." She glanced over at his truck. "You built that, the camper?" He nodded. "Then I guess the door should be a piece of cake. That's nice work."

  "Thank you. After the door, I'll do the fence. And it looks like these steps could use some work. And that porch railing, and the screen that's coming loose."

  "You only owe me seventy dollars," Casey said wryly. "If I had the local carpenter out to do all that, he'd charge me seven hundred."

  "His dog didn't steal from you."

  Casey studied him for a moment. "You're taking this very seriously, aren't you? Most people would just say that's what I get for leaving it outside where Mud—" the dog, who had gone back to his inspection of her front porch, turned at the sound of his name "—could get to it. And then they'd sue me if the dog got sick after eating it."

  Again that look, that pain flashed across his face, only this time she was watching his eyes, those heavily lashed hazel eyes that should be so beautiful yet seemed so dead, and was sure of it.

  "I learned a long time ago to take responsibility for my own actions. Or inaction." His voice was flat, again denying the pain she'd seen.

  And you learned the hard way, didn't you? Casey wasn't sure where the thought had come from, but she was somehow certain it was true. Eyes like that didn't come from sliding easily through life.

  Casey jumped at the shrill of the phone. She pressed a hand to her chest as if that could slow the sudden racing of her heart, closing her eyes as she told herself she was being silly. He never called in the daylight, anyway, she reminded herself. Her mouth quirked wryly; that gravelly, threatening voice would lose much of its effect in the sunlight, she supposed.

  When she opened her eyes again, the stranger was watching her, his dark brows slightly furrowed. When another ring came, his gaze flicked to the phone, then back to her face.

  "Excuse me," she said hastily, realizing her reaction must seem strange to him. She hurried over to the desk and grabbed the receiver. And breathed a silent prayer of thanks that the voice on the other end wasn't the one that haunted her.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  « ^ »

  One of the fates—certainly one with a better sense of humor than the one that had led Mud to her shopping bag—was with her.

  "Casey, honey, I know it's late notice, and it's awful of us, but you know, the girls and I were talking about tomorrow while we were playing cards at Mable's last night—she's such a poor loser, I just can't believe it—but anyway, we got to thinking that prime rib might be a teeny bit rich for an afternoon tea, don't you agree?"

  Casey found herself drawing in a long, deep breath; when she realized her need for air was in response to Phyllis Harrington's amazing ability to get all those words out without taking a single breath, she smothered a laugh. And managed not to point out just how long she had spent trying to convince the ladies of just that.

  "Why, I do believe you're quite right, Mrs. Harrington," she said, aware that she could still hear the sound of movement out on the porch.

  "You're not angry? I know you already bought the prime rib, because Amos told me you were in yesterday, but the girls and I decided a nice, light chicken dish would be so much better. I don't know what we were thinking of, prime rib at midday, but then Pamela remembered that lovely chicken casserole you did for little Karen's wedding, and we thought, well, we'll just call and see if there's anything else she can do with that roast, because we'd hate to see it go to waste—"

  "It won't, Mrs. Harrington. Believe me, it won't." She heard a loud pounding and nearly smiled.

  "What is that noise, dear?"

  "I, er, I'm getting my screen door fixed," Casey said, then hastily changed the subject; the last thing she needed was Phyllis Harrington , in whose dictionary the word secret was listed right before semaphore, getting wind of the fact that she had a total stranger—and one of those "awful homeless transients," to boot—working on her house. "The chicken will be fine, but I'll need to get started. I'll be there tomorrow morning right at eleven."

  "We'll have everything set up at the hall for you, dear. And you will stay, won't you? We don't get to see you nearly enough since you came home. You shouldn't keep to yourself so much, it's not—"

  "I'll be sure and see everyone tomorrow," Casey promised, cutting off another spate of breathless advice; everyone in River Bend seemed to have some for her, but only Phyllis Harrington could deliver so much in so little time.

  A knock on the door gave her the excuse she needed. "I have to go now, Mrs. Harrington. The … repairman needs something."

  When she got to the door, he was staring off into the distance, toward the fields that stretched beyond her dilapidated fence. The dog sat at his feet, plumed tail still, his attention fixed on his master as if he sensed … something.

  You're going to totally anthropomorphize that dog before long, she told herself sternly.

  She opened her
mouth to speak, then realized she had no idea what to call the man. And she felt a little shiver of misgiving that she'd never even thought to ask his name before allowing him to start working. Of course, she'd been distracted by the phone call, and she somehow doubted that he would have stopped even had she told him to, but still, it was no excuse. If something awful happened, if he did anything, she should at least have a name to give the police.

  She smothered an inward sigh, longing for a time when that wouldn't have occurred to her.

  "Did you need something?" she said.

  Although he'd obviously been lost in thought, he didn't even jump when she spoke. Exceptionally steady nerves? she wondered. Or simply a lack of them?

  He turned around, his lean face expressionless. His eyes were the same, flat and unreadable. But his voice was normal enough as he asked, "Do you have any wood screws, for the door hinges? And galvanized nails, for the fence?"

  She gave him a wry smile. "I have no idea. There are nails and screws in the toolroom, but beyond that, I couldn't tell you."

  She waited for some comment about the foolishness of living on a farm with her minimal knowledge of such things, but it didn't come.

  "And the toolroom is…?" was all he said.

  "That small door, there," she said, gesturing toward the barn. "It's not locked."

  He nodded and began to turn away. She stopped him, saying something she knew she should have made clear earlier.

  "You know, you really don't have to do this. I was just upset before."

  "Rightfully so," he muttered, glancing at the dog, who had leaped to his feet at the man's first move.

  "He thought he was … hunting. I don't generally hold it against animals when they act instinctively." She smiled. "Besides, it turns out I don't need the roast, anyway."

  He lifted a brow at her, then, rather quickly she thought, made an accurate guess. "The phone call?"

  "Yes. The ladies of the River Bend Historical Society decided they would rather have chicken for their monthly brunch."

  An odd expression crossed his face, as if he couldn't understand such a choice. Or, she thought suddenly, as if it had been a long time since he'd been faced with that kind of choice. She glanced down at the dog, who didn't seem to be lacking in energy for all his thinness, and wondered if there had been times that the dog ate when the master didn't. Somehow it wouldn't surprise her.

  "You … cook for them, these ladies?"

  "It's what I do. I'm a caterer."

  She said it proudly. When she'd first come back, she'd gotten business from some of the small town's population out of respect for Aunt Fay. The rest was probably because they felt sorry for her, having to scramble back here from the big city, or possibly out of simple curiosity about her. Or maybe it was just the novelty of having a caterer in town.

  But she'd always known that the initial rush would only carry her so long, that sooner or later she would have to stand or fall on the quality of her work. And now, three years later, she knew she had carved a place for herself. She was the caterer of choice in the county for weddings, anniversaries and parties. And when she had landed the historical society brunches, she'd known she was on her way. In a couple of months they were holding a big fundraiser; if that went well, her name would be made.

  He gave her an intent look, as if he'd heard the emphasis in her tone. But he only nodded and turned to head down the steps.

  "Wait," Casey said suddenly, remembering. He stopped and looked back over his shoulder at her. "I … don't even know your name."

  "Clay," he said.

  Her brow furrowed. "Just Clay?"

  After a moment he shrugged. "Yeager, if you need another name."

  What an odd way to put it, she thought. But he'd answered her easily enough. Not that that meant anything.

  It wasn't until he had disappeared into the toolroom that she realized he'd ignored her declaration that he didn't have to pay her back for the meat.

  She wasn't going to push it again. If he was so set on doing this work, she would let him. Lord knew the place needed it; she had little time and less knowledge when it came to household repairs. In the city she'd always paid to have things fixed.

  And in the city she'd learned that some things could never be fixed.

  She turned on her heel and strode back into the kitchen, determinedly shoving the unwelcome thoughts out of her mind.

  By the time she had the chicken casseroles prepared to be baked in the morning—a large one for the ladies and a smaller one that she herself would dine on for a couple of days—along with the trimmings and extra touches that helped spread her reputation for remembering all the little details, she was flushed from the kitchen heat. The early afternoon sun beat down on this side of the house this time of year, and it seemed it was turning out to be another hot, humid August here on the Iowa flatland. Even the inevitable thunderstorms passing through didn't help much; they only lasted long enough to make the ground—and the people—steam.

  The hammering, she realized, had stopped. It had been going on almost steadily since she'd directed Clay Yeager to the toolroom; apparently he'd found what he needed there. She'd seen little of him since, but his presence had been undeniable, with the constant noise of work being done. She'd glanced out a couple of times after he'd finished with the screen door—which now swung neatly and stayed put when asked—but he'd been out of sight, apparently working on the fence on the far side of the barn.

  She'd found the noise soothing rather than annoying, which she supposed was odd. She hadn't realized how alone she sometimes felt out here until now.

  That's not true, she told herself. You like it that way. It's one of the reasons you came here.

  When the silence continued, she wondered if Clay had quit for the day. Even if it was only one o'clock, he'd done more than enough to pay back the seventy dollars. She was sure the local man would have charged her that just for the door. And wouldn't have done as nice a job, either. He had a habit of—

  A sharp string of barks from Mud interrupted her musings. The dog sounded almost anxious, and she didn't think she was assigning him human characteristics this time. She had the thought that having a dog around might not be a bad idea. Mud might not be guard-dog big, but she had a feeling he would be tenacious and brave in defending anyone he considered his. If nothing else, he could bark a warning.

  Or a signal, she thought as she washed up—she was a hands-on cook in the literal sense—and went to see what was happening. She should offer the man something cool to drink, she supposed; it was awfully hot already. There was lemonade in the fridge. Maybe he would like—

  Her thoughts came to an abrupt halt as she rounded the corner of the barn and saw what Mud had been barking at.

  Clay was down. He was almost flat on his side against the wall of the barn, propped up only by one elbow. He was shaking his head sharply. As if he'd gotten dizzy. It wasn't unheard-of, in this kind of heat and humidity, for people to pass out, but not usually people as young and apparently healthy as Clay Yeager.

  She ran to him, kneeling beside him as he shook his head sharply again. He looked pale, and his skin was clammy and cold, even in the heat. Mud danced beside her; apparently even she was welcome if she could help.

  "Are you all right?"

  He raised one arm, motioning as if to brush her away, but instead, when his hand landed on her wrist, he held on. He went still then, as if her steadiness had been all he'd needed.

  "Have you been drinking water?" she asked, thinking first of the usual reason for such reactions to excessive heat.

  He started to nod, apparently thought better of it and muttered, "Yes," under his breath.

  She frowned; something else must be wrong, then. "Are you sick?"

  This time he shook his head slowly, as if trying out the motion. It must not have made him feel any worse, because he made an effort to push himself upright. He braced his back against the wall and let his head loll back, eyes closed.

&
nbsp; Mud whined, sounding as worried as any human she'd ever heard. She glanced at the dog, and he subsided. Then she heard another sound, low and gurgling. It took her a moment to recognize it as a growling stomach. She turned back to Clay quickly.

  "Have you had any lunch?"

  His mouth twitched slightly, and he said nothing. Suspicion spiked in her.

  "Have you eaten anything today?"

  "I thought I'd better not chance it," he muttered. "That prime rib was a little … rich."

  "It made you sick?" she guessed. His mouth twisted wryly, but again he didn't answer. "Well, no wonder you're passing out," she said, "if you lost that and haven't eaten since. And doing all this work on an empty stomach, in this heat," she added, noticing that he'd indeed made repairs on a good fifty feet of her rickety fence.

  "I'll be fine."

  His voice was low, and she thought she saw a slight tremor go through him. "You will be," she said, "as soon as you get some food in you. Can you get up? I've got plenty of things I can fix in a hurry."

  One eye flickered open. "I already owe you—"

  "You've more than paid it back," she said, cutting him off. "Can you stand?"

  Both eyes closed again, and for a moment he was silent. Then, slowly, he got to his feet. His left hand never left the side of the barn, betraying his lack of faith in his own strength.

  "Are you sure you're not ill? Maybe it wasn't just the prime rib."

  "I'm fine."

  His voice was a little tight, but steady enough. She had a sudden feeling that he'd been going without food a lot longer than just today. Short rations, he'd said. And if he shared everything with Mud…

  "Wash up and come in," she ordered, not caring that it sounded peremptory. "I'll find something for Mud, too." She turned on her heel and walked toward the house before he could argue with her.

  And she lectured herself on her too soft heart all the way. He was a complete stranger, but she was treating him like a friend. She should know better. Had she learned nothing?

  Yes, she thought rather fiercely. I did learn. I learned professed friendship is no safeguard.