by Wendy Tyson
Denver patted the Great Dane affectionately. “This one was a stray found on the side of the road. We couldn’t find him a home because of his size, so he wound up here.” As though to emphasize how fine he really was with that, the dog thumped his long, skinny tail against the hardwood.
“And how about these two?” Megan asked, pointing to the Chihuahua and the Beagle.
“They came as part of a threesome.” Denver reached out and rubbed each in turn, his face softening. “Their owner died and no one wanted them.”
“Where’s the third?”
Denver sat back up, his eyes darkening. “That would be Sarge.”
“You gave Sarge to Porter?”
Denver nodded. “He’d recently returned from overseas. I could tell Sarge had lots of training. In fact, his previous owner had epilepsy, and Sarge was used to…helping.”
“A therapy dog?”
“Not exactly, but close enough.” He smiled. “We both know that most dogs are therapy of some sort.”
Megan nodded her agreement, thinking of Sadie and the million ways that dog had kept her going after Mick’s death. “And Brick was open to that? He seemed kind of…rough. Not someone who would want help.”
Denver poured more cider into his wineglass, took a sip, and placed the glass down on the table. “You’re absolutely right, which is why I didn’t offer Sarge to help him. I appealed to Brian to help Sarge.” He tilted his head, looking thoughtful. “Didn’t take much convincing.”
Megan thought of the scene the night before, of the boy’s obvious love for the dog. “How is Sarge?”
“Recovering.”
“How about Porter?”
Denver paused. “The laddie is holding his own.”
Something tickled at the corners of Megan’s brain. She watched as Denver raised his hand slightly and three of the four dogs laid down on the floor. Only the Golden Retriever failed to obey.
“You said Sarge came to you well-trained?” Megan asked.
“Completely trained.”
“Yet he ran across the road.”
“Now that you mention it, it does seem odd, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does. Although maybe he saw a cat or a raccoon. After all the rain, the coons are active these days.”
“But ye don’t believe that.”
It was a statement, not a question. “No, guess I don’t believe that. But if the dog didn’t stray, then that means—” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.
“That someone let him out on purpose?”
“And perhaps enticed him away from the house.” Megan frowned. “I’ve been to his house. The gate was latched from the inside. Unless Porter left it open, someone must have deliberately unlatched it.”
“Porter is a careful sort when it comes to Sarge. He wouldna done that.”
Megan glanced down at her half-full bowl, suddenly not at all hungry. “Think Sarge’s escape could be related to Simon’s murder?”
“You’re thinking of the flask Sadie found?”
Megan nodded.
Denver frowned. “Brian is a loner here. He may not be the most stable man, but he doesn’t make trouble often. People give him a wide berth.”
“Is he capable of hurting someone?”
Denver’s eyes narrowed. “Are ye asking whether he might have killed Simon?”
Megan sensed his disbelief, but she held her ground, giving voice to the concern that had been bothering her since she’d met Porter. “You said yourself that he’s unstable. Alcohol addiction and mental illness can take a toll on people. What if he killed Simon and someone found out?”
“Brick had nothing to do with Simon’s murder.” When Megan only looked at him skeptically, he said, his voice softer, “Don’t forget, I was with you that night, Meg. I saw Simon’s body. It haunts me too.”
“It wasn’t on your property.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. Denver was kind and generous. He wasn’t trying to make light of her concerns. To the contrary, he was offering her empathy and a dose of reality. She could use a smidgen of both right about now. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Maybe I’m more on edge than I thought.”
“Understandable.” Denver stood. “This was supposed to be relaxing and here we are talking about murder. I’m not good at this, am I?” He smiled. “Come on, let’s go for a walk.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere I know you’ll like.”
Somewhere turned out to be across Denver’s neighborhood, down a quiet country road and up a winding, tree-lined driveway. Two of Denver’s dogs, the Golden Retriever and the Great Dane, accompanied them, and Denver let them off lead once they reached the driveway.
“A little farther,” he said.
A little farther meant a quarter mile up the hill to a looming, pristine red barn that sat on the edge of an enclosed pasture. On the other side of the pasture, next to a stone garage, a white farmhouse sat primly against the backdrop of rolling hills and patchwork farmland. The farm was the highest point for miles around, and the view in daylight was sure to be spectacular. Even in the pressing dusk, Megan held her breath.
“Oh, Denver, this is lovely.”
Denver smiled. “Ta. The house and land belongs to my aunt, Eloise Kent. Do you know Eloise?”
“Her name is familiar.”
“She’s the town pediatrician—or was, before she retired. Now she plays the organ for St. Marks and dotes over her animals. Come on, I’ll show you.”
They crossed a level, well-set stone path that led from the driveway, up a small hill, and over to the barn. A white picket fence, freshly painted, sat three feet from the path and wound around the edge of the pasture and back toward the house. Denver paused at the barn’s threshold to open one of the double doors and turn on the lights. Megan felt a shiver of anxiety race the length of her spine. The last time she and Denver entered a barn together, bad things happened.
But this time, she was met with the wide-eyed, old-soul stare of a pair of horses peeking over their stalls: one sturdy Quarter Horse with a white star on his head and a beautiful Palomino.
“Watch,” Denver whispered. He pointed to the Palomino.
At the sound of his voice, a second head appeared—a perfect Palomino colt. She was old enough to display the elegant confidence of a horse, but young enough that she still had the long-legged gawkiness of a baby.
“They’re gorgeous.” Megan rushed to the stalls. It was the Quarter Horse that met her with a spirited head nudge.
“He’ll be chewing on your hair in a moment if you’re not careful. Come this way.” Denver led the way farther into the barn, the Great Dane trailing behind. A stall had been lined with hay bales, and in the middle, on a fluffy blanket, lay a mother cat and her kittens.
“So sweet.” Megan pointed at one of the hay bales. “Mind if I sit?”
“Not at all.”
Megan settled in on the edge of a bale, relishing the peace and isolation of this barn on the hill—and the company. A moment later, Denver sat beside her, his thigh pressing against hers.
“Tell me why you stay in Winsome,” Megan said. “You went to Cornell for veterinary school and someone told me you had an offer from a prestigious university out west to teach and do research. Why here?”
“Aye, I’ve lived all over,” Denver said. “California, Georgia, Wyoming. Even did some volunteer work in Guatemala and Bangladesh.” Denver looked at Megan, his eyes lingering on her mouth. His lips, full and enticing, were dangerously close. “You reach a certain age, and the world narrows in the very best way possible. Winsome is home. It’s the only place I’ve ever felt truly myself. Does that make any sense?”
It did, and Megan said so. “It’s beautiful here.”
Denver leaned in. Megan felt his hand caress he
r arm, the press of his chest against her shoulder. Time seemed to stand still. All she wanted at that moment was to be with him, here, in this spot. She closed her eyes and felt his lips gently touch her own. She kissed back and he pressed in harder. They stood, fumbling for one another in the small, darkened enclosure.
That’s when Megan felt a canine nose against her backside. She jumped and Denver fell backwards, onto the hay bale, pulling Megan down on top of him. The dog lunged on them both, smothering the side of Megan’s face with kisses.
“I’m sorry,” Megan exclaimed, laughing. “He put his nose in…a bad spot.”
“You bloody mad dog, get down.” Denver was laughing too. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I guess next time I should take you somewhere without an audience.”
Megan started to disengage herself from Denver when she felt the veterinarian’s hand against the back of her neck. Gently, he pulled her head down toward his own. Their lips met again, full of heat and urgency. Megan’s pulse raced. She could feel his heart beating through the cool cotton of his shirt. She pressed her hand on his chest, over his heart, wanting badly to let it trail farther.
It wasn’t to be. Footsteps echoed in the barn corridor. A soft, lightly accented voice called out, “Denver?”
Megan jumped to her feet, smoothing her dress with her hands. Denver stood also, a disappointed half-smile playing on his lips. “That would be Aunt Eloise,” he whispered. “My family always has the best timing.” To his aunt, he called, “In here!”
“Ah, you startled me, Denver.” Eloise’s eyes glanced from Megan to the dog and cats on the floor to her nephew and back to Megan. “I see you brought a guest.”
Megan wished her Irish features didn’t advertise her embarrassment quite so well. She hadn’t been caught making out with a boy since she and Mick were dating in high school. One look at Denver told her he didn’t share her shame.
“Megan Sawyer, my aunt Eloise. Megan owns Washington Acres—the farm across town—and the new café and store on Canal.”
Eloise, a slender older woman with a white-blonde wedge haircut and pencil-thin eyebrows, raised those eyebrows now. “You’re Eddie’s girl. I know your family quite well.”
The tone of her voice left open the question of whether knowing her family “quite well” was a good thing or not.
“Pleased to meet you,” Megan said. She held out her hand. Eloise took it. The other woman’s touch felt bone cold. “Your farm is absolutely lovely.”
“Yes, well, I’m not sure how much of it you could see from in here.” She gave Denver a pointed look. “Tending to the kittens, were you?”
“I was showing Megan the animals. That’s all.”
Denver sounded impatient. Megan wondered what this unspoken dance was between aunt and nephew.
Eloise, composure regained, turned her attention to Megan. “As I recall, Bonnie doesn’t particularly care for cats, but if you would like a kitten, please, have one. They will be ready to be weaned in two to three weeks.” She looked to her nephew for confirmation. Denver nodded.
“I’ll ask her. Thank you.”
“Would you two like to come back to the house? For a glass of wine, perhaps?” Eloise looked hopefully at Denver. He, in turn, glanced at Megan.
“Thank you, but I should get going,” Megan said.
“Very well.” Eloise leaned in to give Denver a quick peck on the cheek. “Next time, Denver, let me know you’re coming. There’s been a murder in Winsome. I could have called the police. Or worse, come out here with a gun.”
Twelve
Back at Denver’s house, the intimate mood felt lost. Megan and Denver were standing on his front steps, an expanse of wood and concrete between them.
“Bibi’s been home alone all day. I should check on her.”
Denver nodded. “Of course. I’m sorry about that little scene with my aunt. She’s up to high doh.”
Megan laughed. “Come again?”
Denver smiled. “Aye, sorry. It means she’s all riled up. Simon’s death has everyone off-kilter.”
“I’ll say. She didn’t sound crazy about my family either.”
“She’s not crazy about most people. Don’t take it personally.”
“Is she crazy about you, Denver?” Megan regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth, but if the Scot was offended, he didn’t let on.
“It’s complicated.”
Intrigued, Megan wanted to press, but the closed look on Denver’s face stopped her. Instead she said, “Well, I hope she’s willing to give the Birch family a fresh try.”
“She’s slow to trust my judgment when it comes to women. My ex-wife was not exactly her ideal.” He flashed that boyish smile. “I’m afraid the Finn family is not always so lucky when it comes to love.”
“Eloise too?”
“She’s had more than her share of judgment issues, if that’s what you mean.” He shrugged. “Again with the serious stuff. I’m sorry. This was supposed to be a fun night.”
Megan moved closer. Standing on tiptoes, she reached up and touched her lips gently to his. “I had a lovely evening. Can we do it again?”
Denver smiled, and his face lit up. “When are you free?”
“Soon. I’ll make you dinner this time. My grandmother has Bridge from four to seven some nights. Come early enough and we can have some time alone.” She smiled. “Think of it as the early bird special of the dating world.”
“I love a good early bird special,” Denver said. “Especially when it’s served by such a pretty lassie.” His words teased, but his eyes held her own.
Megan saw Denver in her rearview mirror as she pulled away from his house. He was watching her from his front steps, his face unreadable, and his body as rigid as the columns flanking him.
Megan pulled into her driveway at nine. Her mind was still on Denver, the kiss they shared in the barn, and the feelings that overtook her when she was with him—feelings, she realized guiltily, she’d only known with Mick.
As she climbed out of the truck, Megan noticed that the lights to the back porch entryway were off. Bibi always left them on when Megan was out—a habit from Megan’s youth. Megan felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. Megan was hurrying toward the door when something caught her attention. She saw, then heard, a figure in the shrubs lining the porch steps. She was deciding whether to yell, run, or stop and confront when a voice rang from the shadows.
“Megan Sawyer?”
It took Megan a moment to place the voice as Porter’s.
Megan placed her key between two fingers, the way she’d learned in self-defense class. “Come out here,” she demanded. “And keep your hands in front of you.”
“I’m not here to hurt you. I only want to talk.” If he’d been drinking, Megan couldn’t tell. His words were sharp-edged, clear.
“Then come out here, now.”
The rustling continued until finally Porter was standing in front of her. Skinny and underdressed in a tank top and army fatigue cargo pants, he stood stock straight. His expression, not unlike Denver’s a bit ago, was unreadable, but there was fear in his eyes—fear, and something akin to desperation. Megan understood desperation. Desperate people did stupid, reckless things, and if Porter had been the perpetrator of some desperate acts recently, she wanted no part of being the next victim. She reached for her phone, keeping her key hand in front of her as a warning, as weak as it seemed now that she was standing before a trained soldier.
“Please,” Porter said. He spread his hands out in front of him. Although his posture was rigid, his eyes were as energetic as a swarm of mayflies. Finally, he settled his gaze on her. “I need to talk to you.”
Megan’s mind flashed to Simon’s inert body. “If you try anything, I will call the police.”
He looked at her incredulously. “Really—I only want to talk. That�
��s it.”
Megan hesitated. One look at Porter’s emaciated form, and she knew she would follow in her grandmother’s footsteps. “Come in,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll make you something to eat.”
After assuring herself that Porter was not an immediate threat, Megan left him in Sadie’s care and ran to check on her grandmother, whom she found snoozing soundly under half a dozen handmade quilts. She watched her grandmother’s chest rise and fall a few times, gratitude for Bonnie’s steadfast presence washing over her. Thinking of the odd conversation with Denver’s aunt Eloise, Megan closed Bibi’s door softly and returned to the kitchen.
While Porter sat at her kitchen table, hands cradling his shaved head, Megan assembled leftover salad, cheeses, bread and Danish, all of which she placed in front of Porter. He eyed the food. “Not hungry,” he mumbled.
“I can tell, and that may be part of your problem.”
“Who says I have a problem?” His chin jutted. “Dr. Finn?”
Megan sat in the seat opposite him, taking her time to slice a piece of cheddar and place it on a slice of sourdough. “Do you usually show up at women’s houses late at night, unannounced and uninvited?”
“I suppose I could ask you the same question. You came to me first.”
He had a point. With a scrunch of her nose, she said, “That was you at the window. You were home, after all.”
He nodded. “Why’d you come?”
“I found something of yours at my store. I wanted to return it.”
His eyes narrowed. “What was it?”
“A flask.”
“What was my flask doing at your store?” Puffy eyes widened to surprised orbs.
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“I want it back.”
Megan weighed whether to give it to him. If he’d had something to do with Simon’s murder, it could be evidence. On the other hand, a flask hardly made him a murderer.
Looking at him now in the bright lights of her kitchen, Megan saw the dragon tattoo that snaked its way up his scrawny neck. She saw the angry purse of his mouth and the shaking of his hands, hands far too young to be afflicted with palsy. With a suffocating feeling of empathy, Megan remembered the first time she saw Mick after he’d left for the Middle East. He’d been given a short leave, and she’d flown to Germany to meet him for three days of R&R. When she’d opened the door to their hotel room to greet him, she’d flown into his arms. It wasn’t until they parted, until she had the time to study her husband’s face, that she saw the hollows under his eyes and the emptiness in his gaze when he wasn’t looking at her. She visited with Mick twice after that, and each time the shadows had grown darker, the emptiness more pronounced. Had he lived, would he have shared Porter’s fate?