by Nora Roberts
make sure the phone's got a dial tone."
"You gonna put the chair under the doorknob again, too?"
"Nothing gets by you."
"Not a hell of a lot." Joanie carried the makeshift ashtray over to set down by the sink. "I've got sixty years under my belt, so—-"
"You're sixty? Get out"
Unable to prevent a quick smile at Reece's obvious disbelief, joanie shrugged. "I'll be sixty a year from next January, so I'm practicing. That way it won't be such a shock to my system. Now I've lost my train of thought."
"I'd've put you ten years under sixty."
Joanie gave her a long, cool look, but her lips twitched at a smile again. "You bucking for a raise before it's time for one?"
"If I can get it."
"I know good stock when I see it, that's what I was going to say. You're good stock, and you'll hold up. You held up to worse."
"I didn't."
"Don't tell me you didn't," Joanie snapped hack. "I'm standing here looking at you, aren't I? You just remember, there may be big noses and big ears in the Fist, but there are good people in this town, else I'd've taken myself out of here long ago. Bad things happen everywhere: you've got cause to know that. People around here take care of themselves and each other when it's needed. You need a hand, you ask for it."
"I will."
"I have to get back down." As she stepped back, Joanie glanced around. "You want a TV up here? I've got an extra one I can spare for now."
Reece started to say no, don't bother, too much trouble. Tune those violins, she thought. "I'd really like to have one, if you've got one you can lend me."
"You can haul it up tomorrow." At the door. Joanie stopped, sniffed. "Rain's coming in again. Expect to see you at six. sharp."
Alone, Reece got up to close the windows, lock the door, but she deliberately took her time. Like any woman, she told herself, locking up for the night. And if she braced the chair under the knob, it didn't hurt anyone.
TH E RAIN CAME just after two a.m. and woke her. She'd fallen asleep with the lights on and Brady's book in her hand. There was a muffled roll of thunder under the slap of rain on the roof, against the windows. She liked the sound of it, the windy power of it that made her feel all the more cozy and snug in her little bed.
She snuggled down, rubbing the kink out of her neck. Yawned, tugged the covers up to her chin. And in her habitual scan of the room before closing her eyes again, she froze.
The front door was open. Just a crack.
Shuddering, she wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, then gripped the flashlight beside the bed like a club. She had to get up, she had to make her legs work. Her breath wheezed in and out as she quivered her way out of bed. then ran to the door.
She slammed it, locked it. turned the handle hard to be sure it didn't give. Her pulse continued to race as she dashed to the windows, assuring herself each one was securely locked as she took quick peeks through the glass.
There was no one out in the rain. The lake was a black pool, the street slick and empty.
She tried to tell herself she'd left the door unlocked by mistake, or had managed to unlock it when she checked it that last time before she got into bed. The wind hail blown it open a bit. The storm had come in, the wind had blown.
But she got down on her hands and knees by the door and saw the faint scratches where the chair had scraped.
The wind hadn't pushed the door open hard enough to shove the chair that inch.
She sat with her back to the wall by the door, the blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
SHE MANAGED to doze, then managed to get dressed, to work. As soon as the mercantile opened for the day, she took her break and walked down to buy a dead bolt.
"You know how to install this thing?" Mac asked her.
"I thought I could figure it out."
He gave her a pat on the hand. "Why don't I do that for you? I thought I'd head up there for lunch today anyhow. Won't take me long."
Ask for help when you need it. Reece remembered. "I'd really appreciate that, Mr. Drubber."
"Next to done already. I don't blame you for being a little bit nervous. A good strong lock'll make you feel better."
"I know it will." She looked around when the door opened. "Morning. Mr. Sampson," she said when Carl came in.
"Morning. How you doing?"
"I'm okay. Um, I guess the sheriff's already talked to you, but I just wonder if either of you has seen a woman with long dark hair and a red coat in town in the last few days."
"Had some hikers,'" Mac told her. "All of them male, though two of them wore earrings. One of 'em in his nose."
"Get lots of that in the winter with the snowboarders," Carl commented. "The boys got more hardware stuck to them than the girls. Had that retired couple from Minnesota come through here in an RV couple days ago," he reminded Mac.
"The woman's hair was stone gray. Carl, and he was carrying three hundred pounds if he was carrying an ounce. That's not the sort the sheriff asked about."
"Just saying." Carl glanced over at Reece. "Could be the people you saw were just wrestling. Playing around, like. People do the damnedest things."
"Yes, they do." Reece reached for her wallet. "Should I just leave the lock with you, Mr. Drubber?"
"That'll be fine, and put your money away. I'll put this on Joanie's tab."
"Oh no, it's for me, so—"
"You planning on drilling it out of the door and taking it with you somewhere?"
"No, but—"
"I'll settle it up with Joanie. You got a soup special today?"
"Old-fashioned chicken noodle."
"That'll hit the spot. Anything else you need today?"
"Actually, I do, but I'll have to get it later. Break's over."
"Give me the list." He picked up a pencil, licked the tip. "I'll bring it up when I come for lunch."
"Some service. Ah, I need a small rump roast, a pound of new potatoes, a pound of carrots," she began.
When she'd run through it. Mac wiggled his eyebrows. "That sounds like company dinner."
"I guess it is." Where was the harm? "I'm cooking for Brody. He's helped me out with a few things recently."
"Bet he's getting the best end of that deal."
"Any leftovers, they're yours. For putting in the lock."
"There's a deal."
She headed back, drawing in air fresh and cool from the night's storm. She'd handled it. Done the sensible thing.
And when she went to bed that night—alone or otherwise—she'd have a strong new lock on the door.
LO CRUISED INTO Angel's Fist in his Ford pickup with a Waylon Jennings CD wailing on the stereo. Outside of town he'd been listening to Faith
hill, whom he considered extreme on the hot-o-meter. But even with that, and her superior pipes, a guy just couldn't be riding around in town with a girl singing in his pickup.
Unless she was alive and kicking, anyway.
He had his mind on a girl now. Actually on a couple, but he had plenty of room in his mind for females. He saw one of them in skinny jeans and a red sweatshirt standing on a stepladder painting the shutters on the little dollhouse she rented a bright, sunny yellow.
He gunned the motor, waiting for her to turn and admire the way he looked in the muscular black truck. When she didn't, he rolled his eyes, pulled over.
God knew he'd always had to work harder with this female for crumbs than he ever did with others for the whole damn cake.
"Hey, Linda-gail!"
"Hey, yourself." She kept right on painting.
"What are you doing?"
"'Having myself a facial and a pedicure. What does it look like I'm doing?"
He gave another eye roll and got out of the truck to saunter over. "Got the day off?" He'd already snuck a look at the schedule and knew she did.
"That's right. You?"
"Got some people in, but they're going on a paddling tour today. You seen Reece?"
"No."
She slapped paint on wood hard enough to splatter it and make him jump out of range.
"Watch it."
"Move it."
Ornery woman, he thought. He didn't know why he kept coming back for more abuse. "Listen, I just wondered how she was, that's all."
"Your ma said to give her room, so I'm giving her room." Still she sighed, lowered the brush. "I wish I knew, though. It's an awful thing."
"Awful," he repeated and waited a moment. "Kind of exciting, though."
"It is!" She twisted around to look down at him. "We're sick, sick people, but God, murder and all. Bebe thinks it was a couple of people who robbed a bank or something, then had a falling-out, so he killed her and now he's got all the money."
"Good a theory as any."
Lowering her brush, she leaned on the ladder. "'But I think they were having this adulterous fling and ran away together. Then she changed her mind and wanted to go back to her husband and kids, so he killed her in the heat of passion."
"Sounds good, too. Weighed the body down, then crammed it into an old beaver lodge."
"Oh, that's just awful, Lo. Worse than burying her out there."
"Probably didn't do that anyway." He leaned on the ladder as well. He could smell the paint, but standing this close, he could smell whatever she rubbed on her skin right along with it. "Have to know where to find an old beaver lodge, wouldn't he? And they couldn't have been from around here. Any way you slice it, he's long gone by now."
"I guess. Doesn't make it any better for Reece." She went back to painting, and the way he was standing, her cute butt was right at eye level.
A man only had to lean in a couple of inches to—
"I guess you're going to go by, see her."
"Who?" He blinked himself clear. "Oh, Reece. I don't know. I thought I might, if you wanted to go with me."
"Your ma told me not to pester Reece today. Besides. I've got this started. I need to finish it."
"Take you half the day the way you're going."
She looked over her shoulder. "I've got another brush, smart guy. You could do something useful instead of standing around posing."
"It's my day off."
"Mine, too."
"Shit." Damned if he wanted to paint stupid shutters. But he couldn't think of anywhere else to go, anything else to do. "Guess I could give you a hand." He reached down for a brush that still had the mercantile's price sticker on the handle. "Maybe, if we get this done before next Tuesday, we could drive out to the ranch. I could saddle us up a couple of horses. Nice day for a ride."
Linda-gail smiled to herself as she painted. "Maybe. It is a pretty nice day.
* * *
DETOURS
Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it begun, or if there were A day when it was not—
——EMILY DICKINSON
* * *
Chapter
REECE HAD TO DASH upstairs on her next break. Using the key Mac had dropped off at Joanie's, she unlocked the new, sturdy dead bolt.
Just hearing the sharp click made her feel better. She tested it a couple of times, then let out a sigh of relief.
But she had to hurry, she reminded herself, get the marinade made and the roast in it so she could zip back downstairs and finish her shift.
She found a note on her counter from Mac, written in his clear and careful hand, and held in place by the corner of the new roasting pan she'd had on her list.
Went ahead and put the groceries away for you, didn't want to leave the perishables out. Started a tab for you, so you can settle up with me at the end of the month. You enjoy your dinner. Me, I'm looking forward to those leftovers. M.D.
What a sweetie, she thought, and wondered idly why some smart woman hadn't snapped him up.
She got what she needed from the refrigerator, from the cupboard, then opened the cabinet below the counter for the mixing bowl.
It wasn't there. None of her bowls were there. In their place were her hiking boots and backpack.
She went down, slowly, to her knees.
She hadn't put them there, she hadn't. Her boots and the pack belonged in the little closet. Carefully, as if defusing a bomb, she drew them out, studied them. She unzipped the pack, found her spare water bottle, her compass, her penknife, the moleskin, the sunscreen. Everything just where it belonged.
Trembling a little, she carried them to the closet. And there were the mixing bowls, sitting on the shelf above the hangers.
It didn't mean anything, she told herself. A moment of absentmindedness, that was all. Anyone might make such a silly mistake. Anyone at all.
She set the boots on the floor, hung the pack on the hook she used for it. And could see herself doing exactly what she'd done when she returned from going out to the river with Brody: Even before she took the aspirin, before she ran her bath, she took off her boots, put them and her pack in the closet.
She would swear she did.
And the bowls. Why would she have moved them in the first place?
But she must have. The way she must have marked up the map. Just blanking it out. Lost time, she thought, resting her forehead on the closet door. She didn't want to believe she was losing time again, as she had during her breakdown. But the bowls were in the closet, weren't they?
Mac Drubber had hardly moved them around as a little joke. So that left her.
It was just stress, she assured herself. She'd had a trauma, and it plagued her mind, so she'd put a couple of things in the wrong place. It wasn't a problem, didn't have to be a problem if she recognized it for what it was.
She simply carried the bowls back, put the one she needed on the counter, set the rest where they belonged.