Praise for the novels of
JODI THOMAS

“One of my favorites.”

—Debbie Macomber

“Packs a powerful emotional punch…. Highlights the author’s talent for creating genuinely real characters…. Exceptional.”

—Booklist

“Jodi Thomas is a masterful storyteller. She grabs your attention on the first page, captures your heart, and then makes you sad when it is time to bid her wonderful characters farewell.”

—Catherine Anderson

“Fantastic… A keeper!… A beautiful story about unexpected love. An exceptional storyteller, Thomas has found the perfect venue for her talent, which is as big—and as awe-inspiring—as Texas. Her emotionally moving stories are the kind you want to go on forever.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Jodi Thomas paints beautiful pictures with her words, creates characters that are so real you feel as though they’re standing next to you, and she had a deliciously wry sense of humor… Thoroughly recommend it.”

—The Book Smugglers

“A fun read.”

—Fresh Fiction

The Secrets of Rosa Lee
Jodi Thomas

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Dedicated to Connee McAnear,

whose laughter will always live in my memories.

Special thanks to Linda Leopold

for helping me understand roses, and to

Natalie Bright and my fan club

for help and encouragement.

With fall, the wind takes voice in the Texas panhandle. It whispers through mesquite trees and hums in tall prairie grass. When winter nears, it howls down the deserted streets of Clifton Creek after midnight like a wild child without boundaries. But when it passes Rosa Lee Altman’s old place at the end of Main, the wind blows silent, no louder than a shadow crossing over forgotten graves.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

One

Sidney Dickerson fought down a shudder as she turned up the heat inside her aging Jeep Cherokee and stared at the oldest house in Clifton Creek. Rosa Lee Altman’s property. Sidney had lived in Texas for over a year, yet every time she drove down Main Street this one place drew her as if calling her home. In October’s evening shadows, the once grand dwelling looked neglected and sad. One of the gap-toothed shutters swung in the wind, making a second-floor window appear to be winking.

I’m coming inside, tomorrow. She almost said the words aloud to the house. After a year of watching and waiting, I’ll finally walk inside.

The Altman house had been built almost a hundred years ago. In its time, she guessed it had been grand sitting out on the open land by itself, with nothing but cattle grazing all the way to the horizon. Barns, bunkhouses, smoke sheds and kitchens must have sprung up like wild-flowers around a rose. A fitting house for Henry Altman, the town’s father.

When the railroad arrived a mile away, it had been natural for business to move close to the tracks. Sidney had read that Henry had donated the land for the rail station and the bank, then charged dearly for the lots nearby. The article said he thought to keep a mile between him and the town but, as years passed, folks built along the road from the train station to his mansion, developing Main Street right up to his front yard.

Sidney glanced back at the tattered little town of Clifton Creek. If it had grown to more than five or six thousand, the population would have surrounded the remaining Altman land. But, since the fifties, the town had withered with age and the Altman house sat on a rise overlooking its decline. The train still ran along the tracks but passed the abandoned station without stopping. Nowadays cattle and cotton were trucked to Wichita Falls. Eighteen-wheelers hauled in most supplies. Oil ran in pipelines.

The shadow of the old house reached the windows of her Jeep. Sidney huddled deeper into her wool blazer. She would be forty next week. The same age Rosa Lee had been the year her father, Henry Altman, had died. He had built an empire along with this house. Cattle and oil had pumped through his land and in his blood.

Sidney closed her eyes realizing the old man must have known his forty-year-old daughter would be the end of the line. He’d built the ranch and the ten-bedroom house for a spinster. She couldn’t help but wonder if he had encouraged his only child to marry, or had he kept her cloistered away?

Slipping on her glasses, Sidney stared at the house that had been Rosa Lee’s so long folks in the town called the place by her name. Wild rosebushes clung to the side walls as if protecting it. Old elms, deformed by the wind and ice, lined the property’s north border. The old maid had left the place to the town when she’d died two years ago, but it would be Sidney who would help determine the house’s fate.

Demolish or restore? The choice seemed easy, considering its condition. Even the grand white pillars that once guarded the double-door entry were yellowed and chipped. Sidney loved the historical significance of Clifton Creek’s founding father’s house, but she couldn’t ignore how desperately the town needed money. An oil company had made what seemed a fair bid for the land and the mayor had told her the crest, where the house sat, would be the ideal spot for drilling. Sacrificing a house for the town seemed practical, but she couldn’t help but wonder if anyone but her would miss the old place at the end of Main.

She flipped open her briefcase on the passenger seat beside her. Beneath stacks of freshman History papers and a file on everything she could dig up about the house, she found a wrinkled old card, water spotted, corners bent. On the front of the card, her grandmother had pasted a recipe clipped from a Depression-era newspaper of Clifton Creek. On the back was one sentence written in a shaky hand. “Never forget the secrets of Rosa Lee.”

Sidney fought frustration. How could she remember something she never knew? Once, Sidney had heard her mother say that Granny Minnie had worked in Texas as a nurse until her husband had found a job in Chicago. But, Sidney couldn’t remember the name of the town.

She flipped over the card as she had a hundred times before. Two years ago, her mother and Granny Minnie had been killed in a car wreck a hundred miles south of Chicago. Her mother’s and grandmother’s wills had been standard—except for one item. Minnie had left Sidney a safety deposit key. Locked away, Sidney had found only an old recipe box. An unorganized mixture of forgotten recipes shuffled in with cards and notices for baby showers and weddings that Minnie must have collected over years.

Sidney had looked through the box a few days after the funerals, wondering what had been so important. Why would she have left Sidney, her only grandchild, a worthless box filled with forgotten memories?

This card had to hold the answer. The secret her mother had never taken the time to pass on. A secret her grandmother had thought they must never forget.

Sidney shook her head. She’d taken a teaching job here at Clifton College because of this one card. She had moved halfway across the country in search of a secret she would probably never find.

As darkness settled, Sidney knew she would not sleep tonight. The house waited for her. Tomorrow the mayor’s handpicked committee would meet to decide what was to be done about the place.

She smiled, remembering the list of committee members. Like her, most were well-known in town…well-known and without influence. It had taken her several days to determine why the mayor had chosen them. At first, she had been honored, thinking he had noticed the articles she’d written about the house in the local paper. But when she’d met with him, she’d known the real truth.

Most folks might only see her as a middle-aged, shy professor, but behind her glasses was a sharp mind. Sidney knew enough about politics to realize that this was an election year, and Mayor Dunley didn’t plan to do anything to lose votes. If he decided the fate of Rosa Lee’s house, some group in town would be upset. But if he let a committee do it—a committee made up of people connected to everyone in town—no one would contest the outcome.

Red and blue lights blinked in her back window. Sidney glanced in the Jeep’s rearview mirror. It was too dark to make out anything but a tall shadow climbing from the police car. She didn’t have to see more. She knew who it was.

Sheriff Granger Farrington leaned near as Sidney rolled down her window.

“Evenin’, Dr. Dickerson.”

Sidney smiled. The man seemed as proper and stiff as a cardboard cutout of the perfect small-town lawman, all starch and order. She might have believed his act if she hadn’t seen him with his wife. “Good evening, Sheriff. Is there a problem?”

“No, just making sure you weren’t having car trouble.”

“I’m fine. How’s Meredith?”

A grin cracked his armor. “She’s taking it easy. Doc says another month before she’ll deliver. I’m thinking of buying stock in Blue Bell. If she eats another gallon of that ice cream, the baby will be born wearing a sweater.”

“She craves it, and you supply it.”

“Yeah, we’re in a twisted relationship. She’s a Blue Bell junkie, and I’m her contact.” He laughed, then straightened. “I’m surprised you’re here after dark; haven’t you heard the stories about this place?”

“I heard about them from a few students after I wrote the articles on the house. A madman running through the garden. Chanting in hushed tones drifting through the air, coming from nowhere. Old Rosa Lee’s ghost circling the garden, dripping blood over her roses.” Sidney laughed. “You believe any of them?”

The sheriff shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything but kids parking out here on Saturday night. Adams caught some football players smoking pot in back of the house a year ago.”

Sidney started the Jeep, guessing the sheriff wouldn’t leave until she proved the engine would turn over. He’d given her Jeep a jump twice last winter and, knowing Granger, he’d probably heard about the time one of his deputies had helped her when she’d run out of gas along Cemetery Road. She couldn’t help but wonder if she was on his duty roster. Something scribbled in among the orders, like “watch out for the dingy professor who can’t seem to keep her Jeep running.”

The sheriff tapped the canvas roof as the Jeep’s engine kicked in. “You know, Dr. Dickerson, when you get ready, Whitman will give you a good trade-in on a car. He’s got new Cadillacs, but the trade-in lot’s got a little of everything.”

“I’ll think about it.” She started to ask one more time if he would call her Sidney. They were about the same age, and he was as close to a friend as she had in this town that welcomed newcomers with the same enthusiasm as they welcomed fire ants. “Good night, Sheriff.”

He touched his hat with two fingers and disappeared back into the shadows.

Sidney glanced once more at the old house. Cloaked in shadows, it looked romantic, mysterious, haunted. She could almost believe that Rosa Lee, who’d lived all ninety-two years of her life there, still watched over the place.

“Never forget the secrets of Rosa Lee,” Sidney whispered and wondered what waited behind the solid double doors.

Doors that had kept out the world for a lifetime.

Across town in the Clifton Creek Hotel, Sloan McCormick dropped his leather duffel bag on the tiny hotel bed and growled. He hated sleeping with his feet hanging off the end. At six foot four, it was the rule rather than the exception when traveling.

He also hated small towns with their cracker-box hotel rooms, where neon signs blinked through the thin drapes all night long and sheets had the softness of cheap paper towels.

Emptying his pockets on the scarred dresser, he tried to think of one thing he liked about this assignment. He thought he’d grown used to being alone, but no place made him feel more alone than a small town, and Clifton Creek was a classic. In a town over fifty thousand or so, he could blend in, look familiar enough so that folks returned his smile or wave. But in a place this size, people knew he was a stranger and treated him as such.

“Get the job done and get out.” He repeated his rules. “Never get personally involved.”

Sloan pulled a pack of folders from his bag and walked to where one of the double lights above the headboard shone. In the dull glow, he went over the list of committee members.

The Rogers sisters would be no problem—he could probably charm them. Both were retired schoolteachers. From what he’d gathered, they were much loved in the community. Though they lived modestly—small house, used van—he was surprised to discover close to eight hundred thousand in their combined savings accounts. A nice little nest egg for the two ladies.

He flipped to the next file. The professor, Sidney Dickerson, would not be as easy to convince. He had listened outside her classroom. Facts, not dreams, would interest her. But, he wasn’t sure how to get to her. Dr. Dickerson’s interest in the Altman house was far more than mild curiosity. She’d proved that in the half-dozen articles she’d written for the paper.

He flipped to the next member of the mayor’s committee. The preacher, Micah Parker, might be convinced “for the good of the community.” Sloan had rarely seen a man above thirty so squeaky clean. The private eye he’d hired couldn’t dig up a single whisper on the widower, not even in his hometown.

The last two folders belonged to the troublemaker, Billy Hatcher, and the ad executive, Lora Whitman. Both would probably go for money if he offered. Hatcher worked at the lumberyard and did odd jobs around town. Except for one brush with the law, he’d stayed below the radar. Lora Whitman was another story. She appeared to have lived her life in the public eye ever since she was six and had posed for her father’s car ads. When Sloan had flipped through the weekly paper’s archives, he’d seen several pictures of her. Homecoming queen, cheerleader, fund-raising for one cause then another. Her wedding picture had covered half a page.

Sloan spread the members’ fact sheets across the bed. He only needed four to swing the committee. But which four?

He grabbed his Stetson and headed toward the bar he had seen a few blocks away. “Time to go fishin’,” Sloan mumbled.

Two

Micah Parker didn’t believe in ghosts. He reminded himself of this fact as he jogged toward the edge of town, but there was something strange about the old Altman house. It drew him the way ambulance lights on a highway lured curious drivers.

He caught himself circling past the place each night when he ran. Something must have occurred there years ago and left its impression on the very air—it was not sounds, or odd sightings, but more an emotion that settled on the passerby’s skin, thick as humidity just before a storm breaks.

Like most of those chosen for the mayor’s committee, he couldn’t wait to go inside and have a look. And tomorrow, he’d get his chance. Reverend Milburn had talked him into another civic committee, this one to decide what to do with Rosa Lee Altman’s place. As associate minister, Micah followed orders.

Even though a relative newcomer in town, Micah had heard the stories about the old maid who had lived to be ninety-two. She’d lost her wealth—first a section, then a block at a time until nothing had remained in her name but the house and gardens. Some said she’d never ventured beyond her gates. She had had no life outside her property, and folks said no one, not even a delivery man, had stepped beyond her porch.

Micah studied the house as he crossed the street, his tennis shoes almost soundless. Even in the streetlight he could see that weather had sanded away almost all paint, leaving the two-story colonial a dusty brown. The same color as the dirt that sifted through everything over this open land.

Smiling, he waved at the house. It seemed more than brick and board. Some places have personalities, he thought with a grin. If this one had a voice it would say, “Evenin’ Reverend Parker,” in a Texas drawl.

He slowed in the darkness and stretched before turning about and heading back through town. The temperature had dropped during his run. Time to get home.

As he stepped into the street, a movement in the gutter caught his attention. He stumbled trying to avoid a collision.

A tiny, muddy, yellow cat, not big enough to be without its mother, curled against a pile of trash the wind had swept in the grate. Its long hair stuck out in all directions, but the little thing didn’t know enough to crawl away from the pile of discarded cups and packing paper.

Micah leaned down. “Now, what have we here?” He lifted the shivering pile of bones and hair.

The animal made a hissing sound but didn’t fight as he warmed it with his hands.

“How about coming along with me, little guy?” Micah carefully tucked the kitten into his jacket pocket and turned toward home. “I’ll share the leftovers from the men’s prayer breakfast with you.”

The animal didn’t sound any more excited about the meal than he was, but their choices were limited. Thanks to his late meeting at the church tonight, his son Logan had already eaten dinner with their neighbor, Mrs. Mac. Micah could go grocery shopping at the town’s only store and probably run into half a dozen people he knew, all of whom he’d have to talk to. Or, he could eat out alone and have everyone who passed by look as if they felt sorry for him. Or, he could finish off whatever lay wrapped in the aluminum foil the breakfast cleanup committee had insisted he take. Leftovers seemed the best choice.

When Micah entered the back of the duplex he shared with his seven-year-old son, he lowered the kitten into a basket of dirty laundry and motioned for it to be quiet.

The cat just stared up at him, too frightened to make a sound.

Micah closed the utility-room door and silently moved down the hallway. Sometime during the fifty-year history of this place, someone had cut a door between the two apartments.

He leaned his head into the other apartment and whispered, “Thanks, Mrs. Mac.”

“You’re welcome,” she answered without turning away from her TV. “No trouble.”

Micah closed the door connecting the apartments without bothering to lock it, then moved down the hallway to Logan’s room. Over the past three years they’d worked out a system. He helped Mrs. Mac carry in her groceries, mowed her side of the lawn and did anything her arthritis wouldn’t let her do. She watched over a sleeping Logan while Micah ran, and babysat on the rare occasions Logan couldn’t accompany Micah to a church meeting.

Micah carefully crossed the cluttered floor of Logan’s room and knelt to pull the cover over the boy’s shoulder. He brushed sunny-blond hair away from Logan’s forehead and whispered, “We love you, son,” as if Amy were still alive and helping him raise the boy.

He backed out of the room slowly, knowing one more day of Logan’s childhood had passed.

A little after seven the next morning, Micah checked on his furry houseguest. After crying half the night, the kitten must have licked up all the warm milk in the chipped saucer Micah had left in the laundry basket. The tiny houseguest now lay curled up beside his oldest sweatshirt.

“I want that shirt back,” Micah said as he poured himself coffee. He thought of moving the basket to the garage but decided it was too cold. With luck, the cat couldn’t jump out and would be fine until he came home for lunch with kitty litter.

“I’ll stop by and get some cat food, so consider it a date for lunch.” He lifted his cup to the sleeping guest. “I promise not to try to cram any more of the church’s scrambled eggs into you.” The nuked eggs worked only slightly better than the warmed hash browns. Last night Micah had ended up making a sandwich out of a leftover biscuit and sausage. “I’ve no doubt you’re a Baptist. Any self-respecting Methodist would have downed the eggs.”

“Who you talking to, Pop?”

Micah smiled. His son had turned a corner a month ago—calling him Daddy was now too babyish.

Lifting the kitten, Micah faced his son. Logan, thin, blond and full of energy, was a miniature of himself except for one thing. The eyes. The boy had Amy’s green eyes. And right now they danced with excitement.

“Where’d it come from? Can we keep it? What’s its name? Is it a boy or a girl?”

Micah laughed. “Slow down, partner.” He laid the kitten in his son’s lap. “I found it last night when I was running. I don’t think Mrs. Mac allows pets, but she’ll probably let us keep it for a few days until we fatten it up a little and find it a home. I don’t know if it’s a boy or girl cat, but I do know its name.”

Logan wasn’t listening. He sat cross-legged on the floor with the cat in his lap.

Micah felt a tug at his heart. A boy should have pets, but after Amy had died, Micah had all he could handle taking care of Logan.

Standing, Micah washed his hands and poured Logan’s Cheerios, then sliced a banana into another bowl. “I thought we’d call him Baptist—you know, after John the Baptist.”

Logan nodded.

“Better wash your hands and eat, son. Jimmy’s mom will be here soon.” Micah poured the last of the milk in a small glass and set it beside the cereal. Logan never mixed food. Not anything. Mrs. Mac told Micah once that a mother would never put up with such nonsense.

“Will Baptist be here when I get home?” The boy put the cat back in the basket.

Micah tossed Logan a towel to dry his hands and directed him toward the table. “I’ll pick up some food today. We’ll be like a hospital and take care of him until someone adopts him.”

He didn’t miss the pain that flickered in Logan’s eyes. For the boy, a hospital was a place to die. First his mother, then his only grandparent. Micah knew he shouldn’t have said the word, but sometime Logan would have to understand and learn not to be afraid of words. Words like hospital and cancer.

Micah reached over and petted the cat as Logan downed his breakfast.

“I’m going to Jimmy’s after school, remember?” the boy mumbled between bites.

“I’ll pick you up at six.”

“Seven, please. Jimmy’s dad’s cooking out. Said it’s for the last time this year. The grill’s going into the garage for the winter. He cooks the hot dogs on a stick and lets me eat them like a corn dog without the bun or anything.”

“All right, seven.” Micah couldn’t blame Logan. His choice at home was usually a kid’s TV dinner or fast food.

Jimmy’s double tap on the door sounded and Logan was off like a racer hearing the gun. He grabbed his backpack and jacket, slapped a high five on his dad’s hand and ran for the door.

Micah scraped the half-full bowl down the disposal and reached for the old leather backpack he used as a briefcase. He knew at thirty-four it was long past time to switch to a briefcase, but the bag he had carried since college still felt right on his shoulder. He hated change. There had been so much change in his life, he clung to the familiar in small ways whenever he could.

“You need anything before I go?” He glanced toward the basket, but the cat was sound asleep.

He felt stupid talking to a cat, but it beat the silence of the house. “See you at noon, Baptist.”

If he hurried, he’d have time for breakfast at the Main Street Café before the committee meeting. No one thought it strange when a man ate breakfast alone, Micah thought. He’d be safe from sad looks, for once.

With coffee cup in hand, he grabbed his coat and headed toward his car. A blast of sunshine and cold air hit him as he ran the ten feet to the old garage. He tried to hold the coffee and pull on his coat. Brown spots plopped along the walk. By the time he got to his car, the half cup of coffee he’d managed to save was cold. He drank it anyway while he waited for the heater to warm. This time of year, by midafternoon, he’d need the air conditioner. Nothing made sense to him anymore, not even the weather.

He missed the green of East Texas, but he couldn’t return. Not yet. When he had moved to Clifton Creek and accepted the associate pastor’s position at First United Methodist Church, he’d decided to give his grief a year to mend before returning home. But Amy’s memory hadn’t faded. In a few months, she’d be gone three years. His heart and body still ached for her. Some nights, he ran miles trying to outdistance the emptiness of his life. Logan was all that gave him reason to breathe most days.

He sat at the edge of the counter at the café, ordered pancakes and strawberry pie and pretended to read the Dallas paper while he tried to figure out when he’d have time in the day to shop. When he’d finished eating, he paid out, speaking to almost everyone in the place.

He elected to walk to his meeting a few blocks away at the edge of town.

Micah smiled and waved as the plump Rogers sisters climbed from their van. He’d become an expert at smiling…at hiding…at pretending to live.

The Rogers sisters were so short they tumbled out of the Suburban like beanbag dolls. Micah thought of suggesting they drive a smaller vehicle. Since neither had children, he saw no need for six extra seats. But maybe, to them, the van was like some of the old men’s pickups around town. Farmers who moved in from their farms wound up hauling nothing more than groceries around, but they thought they still had to drive a truck. Maybe the sisters had needed the van when they’d taught school and had simply become used to it.

“Look Beth Ann, it’s that young Reverend Parker,” the smaller of the sisters whispered in a voice Micah could easily hear. “He’s so handsome it makes me think of changing religions.”

Micah fought down a laugh. He certainly wasn’t young at thirty-four, and no one but Amy had ever thought him handsome. “Morning, Miss Rogers.” He offered his hand to the one who’d spoken. If she’d called the other Beth Ann, then she must be Ada May. He turned to the other. “Miss Rogers.”

Both women smiled, but it was Ada May who spoke again. “You get on this committee, too?”

Micah nodded. As the associate, part of his job was to serve on every committee and charity board that came along. This one didn’t seem to require much. They only had to vote on what to do with the old place. He hadn’t even gone inside and had already made up his mind. They needed to tear it down before it fell. Micah envisioned a park in its place, maybe with a running track.

“Isn’t it exciting?” Beth Ann finally found her voice. “I’m sixty-four and, to my knowledge, no one’s ever been past the door of this place in my lifetime. There’s no telling what we’ll find.”

“Mice,” Ada May mumbled. “Maybe even rats and spiders. Rattlers, if it’s warm enough.”

Beth Ann shuddered and pulled a purse, big enough to use for a sleepover, from the van. “We came early, hoping to walk around the grounds before the meeting started. Would you like to join us, Reverend?”

Micah offered each an arm. “I’d love to, ladies. I planned to do the same thing.” He didn’t add that he had been early to everything for three years.

Stones still marked the path through what had once been a fine garden. Huge bushes of twisted twigs looked misshapen. Micah guessed in spring they’d bloom once more as they had for almost a hundred years. A stand of evergreens along the north property line blocked the wind and cast a shadow over part of the plants, making them appear gray and lifeless.

Ada May tugged on Micah’s arm. “The garden seems to have no order, twisting and turning, but if you stay on the path, you’ll make it back to the house. All paths turn back on themselves and lead to the rear of the house.”

“Now, how do you know that, sister?” Beth Ann asked from just behind them.

“Everyone knows that,” Ada May snapped. “Young folks bring their dates here and have for years. Lovers walk the path at twilight.”

“Well,” Beth Ann interrupted. “We’ll know if it’s fact after we walk it. I don’t go around telling anything that I don’t know to be true, until I check it out for myself. I’ve heard tell that evil roams these gardens. As a child, I heard of people being chased out of the gardens by a crazy man with long white hair flying like a sail in the wind behind him. But, I don’t know that for a fact, mind you.”

Both women paused as if waiting for him to say something, but Micah guessed it would be dangerous to come between the sisters. He wondered if any man had ever been brave enough to try. Since they weren’t sure where the path ended, he figured neither had ever made this journey at dark when lovers came out.

As they walked along, it occurred to him that he felt as dead inside as the winter gardens that hadn’t known a human touch in years. He didn’t much care as long as he could hide his feelings from everyone. Like an actor, he’d played the same role so many times that the words no longer made sense.

He couldn’t talk about his thoughts, his feelings. Couldn’t tell people how much he still missed his wife. Every day. Every minute. It didn’t matter. Years had passed since he’d kissed Amy goodbye. All he had to do was stop breathing. Just don’t take another breath, and he’d be with her.

But he couldn’t leave Logan. She wouldn’t want him to. So he’d go on walking, smiling, pretending, until Logan grew up, and one day he might get lucky and forget to breathe.

As the sisters talked of winter roses, Micah closed his eyes and thought of Amy.

Three

“Straighten up, Lora. You look round-shouldered. I swear you’ve a model’s form when you hold your head up, but when you slouch, all I see is Lurch from The Addams Family,” Isadore whined. “And hurry up or you’ll be late for the committee meeting.”

Lora Whitman pretended not to hear her mother and wondered if she could special order an ejection seat for the passenger side of her next Audi. Sometime during college, she’d become an Olympian at ignoring Isadore Whitman. Before Lora had hit puberty, her mother had thought her ideal, dressing her up like a doll and bragging to her bridge club about the perfection of her only child.

Then the awkward years had hit and perfection had slipped, never to be reclaimed, no matter how hard Lora had tried to please. Even the night she had been named homecoming queen, Isadore had leaned to hug her daughter and had reminded her how bad her nails looked. While any other mother might have been proud, Isadore had whispered another comment about how fat Lora looked in taffeta.

Lora honked as Old Man Hamm rolled through the town’s only stoplight in his rust bucket of a car. For a moment, she visualized him hitting the passenger side of her Audi, sending Isadore into terminal silence. As always, Lora colored her daydream with detail. Blood the same shade as her mother’s lipstick. The volunteer firemen trying to pull Isadore out without damaging her Escada suit.

Lora steered left toward the eyesore of a house at the end of Main. Her mother continued to rattle. The plans for what she’d wear to her mother’s funeral faded as Isadore began her list of what Lora should do at the meeting. Her mother seemed to believe that if Lora left her sight without instructions she might—even though she was twenty-four years old—wander off the face of the earth.

“I know you think this committee appointment isn’t important,” Isadore stated as if she had an audience. “But you’ll see. One thing will lead to another. You can help decide what to do with the old Altman house. The next thing you know, you’ll be moved to some important board seat. Why, in ten years you could be on the town council.”

The only goal Lora had was to accumulate enough money to get out of this place. She could see no way that serving on a civic committee would help her accomplish that. But in the six months she had been back handling advertising for her father’s car dealership, she’d learned one thing. If she didn’t play the game, she had no chance of breaking free. Her father held as tightly to his money as her mother wanted to hold to her.

“Don’t park in the dirt.” Isadore waved her hand, shooing the car as she might an animal. “There’s probably mud.”

Lora stopped in the center of the street and threw her silver Audi into Park. “You think you can drive my car home?” She opened the driver’s side door with doubts about her mother’s ability to handle anything other than a Cadillac. Lora’s ex had told her she’d picked the car just to anger her father, but in truth, Lora loved the feel of it.

Isadore tried not to look as if she were hurrying when she circled the car and took Lora’s place. “Of course I can drive this thing, but don’t you want me to pick you up? I’m just having my nails done. I could be back in an hour, provided the girl does the job right. Last time I told her I wanted a French manicure in another color. I swear she looked at me like—”

“No.” The last thing Lora wanted was to stand around like a schoolgirl waiting for her mother to pick her up. “I’ll walk over to the dealership and ride home with Dad.”

She heard her mother’s “but” as she closed the door. With Isadore, there was never an end to conversation, only abrupt halts.

It frightened Lora to think she might end up like her mother, constantly harping on something of no importance. Before the divorce, when Dan wanted to really land a blow, he’d mention how much she sounded like her mother.

With determined steps, Lora forced herself not to run as she heard the sound of the window being lowered. At five foot ten, her long legs carried her swiftly to the porch and out of reach of her mother’s final instructions. Her high heels clicked across the wood as she squared her shoulders and resigned herself to get this duty over with as quickly as possible.

Lora’s car still sat in the middle of the street as she opened the door to the old Altman house and hurried inside.

Air, cold and stale, closed around her. A wisp, thick as a sigh, rushed past. Escaping. She had the feeling she’d be wise to do so, as well. This place, or more accurately the grounds behind the house, held nothing but bad memories for her. She’d just as soon turn her vote in now to demolish the landmark. Anything, even a vacant lot, would be better than having this old mansion shadow Main.

Lora blinked, trying to adjust to the filtered light shining through dirty windows. Dark paneling, rotted in spots. Dusty floors. Silence. She fought the urge to turn and run but remembered her mother probably still waited outside and decided even a haunted house would be preferable company.

The floor creaked when she stepped into a wide hallway with doors on either side. Stairs rose from the back wall of the entry. Huge bookshelves, too large for vandals to steal, lined the corridor as if guarding long-forgotten secrets. A surprising dignity reflected in the room’s architecture, like an old soldier still standing proud in the uniform of his youth.

Lora forced another step, telling herself she’d already lived through hell being married to Dan for three years. What else could happen to her? He’d taken everything except her car, and he would have gotten that, too, if it hadn’t been in her father’s name. Dan had made it necessary for her to quit her job without references. He’d fought until she’d had no option but to do what he knew she hated most—to return home. He’d learned, in the law school she’d worked to send him to, how to cut deep and once he was set up in a practice, he’d cut her out of his life.

Straightening, Lora smiled. She might be down but she was a long way from out. What could one houseful of old stories do to her? She wasn’t some frightened fifteen-year-old. She was a battled-scarred divorcée.

At slumber parties when she’d been small, girls had told stories of how old Rosa Lee would kill any man who set foot on her property and cut him up so she could dribble his blood over her roses. In Lora’s current state of mind, she didn’t consider Rosa Lee’s actions all that terrible.

“Hey, lady,” a low male voice echoed through the passage. “This the place for the committee meeting?”

Lora fought down nerves as she spotted a kid, maybe late teens, leaning against the banister. Half his body stood in shadow, but nothing about the half she saw looked good. Dirty jeans, worn leather jacket, hair in his eyes.

“It is,” she answered. “Why?” She thought of adding, “Shouldn’t you be out robbing some quickie mart?” but held her tongue.

He shifted, stepping more into the light. The chain that held his wallet in place clanked against the rivets running along the seam of his jeans.

Lora held her ground. He was a few years older than she’d thought, a little more frightening. A three-day growth of beard darkened his chin. Angry gray eyes watched her, studying, judging, undressing her. If she’d been in Dallas, she would have reached for her Mace. But Clifton Creek didn’t have muggers, she reminded herself.

“I’m on the committee.” He turned, showing more interest in the house than in her. His hands spread wide over the paneling and caressed the grooves in the wood. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like inside here. One of the guys I spent a weekend in the drunk tank with says his grandfather told him they sent all the way to Saint Louis for the carpenters on this place. Had to bring most of the wood out on wagons.”

Lora forced her heart to slow. So much for her mother’s idea of it being an honor to be on one of the mayor’s committees. They appeared to be emptying the jails in order to fill the chairs.

“I’m on the committee, too,” she said needlessly. No one would be in this old place at ten in the morning unless they’d been asked to serve. “I’m Lora Whitman.”

“I know who you are.” He moved a scarred hand over the top of one of the massive hutches, dusting away layers of dirt. “I’ve seen you around.” He didn’t look up as he spoke. “You came back after your husband took you for a ride.”

Lora shrugged, not surprised even the town’s under-belly knew of her troubles. Keeping up with everyone was more popular than sports in this place. But she did resent his comment that made her sound as if she had been no more than a horse Dan had saddled up one day and then turned out to starve when he had gotten where he wanted to go. Which, in retrospect, was accurate.

She straightened, leveling the kid with her gaze. “That’s right. He took me for everything, and I had to come back here to work for my father.” She had no idea why she was telling this thug her life story. Maybe she just wanted to get the gossip straight for a change. “I was on my way to being an advertising executive with one of Dallas’s big five, and now I’m fighting to keep the salesmen from putting their kids in every commercial we shoot at the car lot.”

The youth surprised her by saying, “Well, at least you got an old man to run home to. And don’t knock those ads. Some folks like seeing the kids. I remember seeing you in a few of your daddy’s ads when you were little.”

She studied him more closely. “Do I know you?”

“Billy Hatcher.” Thankfully, he didn’t offer his hand. “I was in middle school when you were a cheerleader your senior year. I liked to watch you jump.”

Lora fought the urge to slap him. She tried to picture him as a half-grown boy watching her but had no memory of him. “I don’t jump anymore,” she snapped.

“Too bad.”

He grinned, and she controlled the longing to slug him this time. Much more conversation and she’d be a killer by noon. “Great!” she mumbled, “I’m on a committee with a sex-starved bully.” This might prove no different from her marriage.

“Hello?”

They both turned as a middle-aged woman wearing what looked like a Navajo blanket stepped through the door. “Are you both here for the meeting?”

Billy shrugged, but Lora offered her hand. “Yes,” she said, thankful to have someone, anyone, else in the room. “I’m Lora Whitman.”

The woman’s smile lit her makeup-free face. Her eyes sparkled with excitement behind thick glasses. “I’m Sidney Dickerson, history professor from the college. Isn’t this the most exciting thing in the world?” She pulled off the poncho and tossed it over the banister. “I couldn’t sleep last night thinking about the adventure we’re embarking upon.”

Lora caught Billy Hatcher’s gaze and realized they had something in common after all. Neither of them agreed with the professor.

As Sidney moved into what appeared to have been the dining room to set up, three more people entered. Lora knew the Rogers sisters and greeted them warmly. They spoke to her as if she were still their student in grade school. Between the two sisters, she’d bet they knew everyone in town. There hadn’t been a wedding or a funeral in forty years the old maids hadn’t attended. She wasn’t surprised when Miss Ada May Rogers took over the introductions.

“Lora, dear, do you know the new Methodist minister?” Ada May motioned with her hand for him to move closer. “This is Reverend Parker.”

Lora nodded, knowing anyone not born in Clifton Creek might be referred to as “new.” The minister had sandy-blond hair and a lean body beneath his slightly wrinkled suit. She’d guess him ten years older than she, but the sadness in his eyes made him seem ancient. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she remembered hearing he was a widower with a small kid to raise.

Micah Parker offered his hand, reminding her they’d met before at the Labor Day pancake breakfast. Then, to her surprise, he greeted Billy Hatcher warmly before Ada May finished the introductions.

Billy smiled and slapped the preacher’s shoulder as Parker complimented the kid on some work he’d done at the church.

Lora tried not to appear to be listening to the men as Ada May chatted with the professor. Glancing at the ceiling, Lora searched for cracks. It would be just her luck that the first day in years someone walked into the house the roof would collapse. The whole town would probably turn out to dig through the rubble for bodies. First, they’d uncover her hand (the one without a wedding band on it) or maybe one leg, all dusty and bloody. One of the Rogers sisters might survive. Of course she would die soon after of loneliness. The town might erect a statue on this very spot to honor the civic-minded heroes willing to serve and die on a committee.

“Are you all right, dear?” Ada May pulled Lora back to reality.

“Yes,” she mumbled. “I was just thinking how my clothes are going to get dirty in this old place.”

“That’s my fault,” Dr. Dickerson confessed from the doorway of the room she’d entered. “I only wanted the door unlocked, the boards removed from the windows and little else disturbed.” She motioned with her notebook. “Please, would everyone step into the dining room. I did have folding chairs and a table brought in and set up near the bay window so we’d have plenty of light. If we’re going to decide the fate of this house today, it’s only fitting we do it on the property.”

Everyone followed Sidney Dickerson’s lead. As Billy Hatcher passed Lora, he whispered, “Take off your clothes and leave them at the door if you’re so worried about the dirt.”

Lora flashed him her best “drop dead” look and rushed ahead. This was going to be a fine committee, she thought. Two old maids, a preacher, a sex-starved thug and a professor. And me, she thought, the total failure.

There were definitely levels in hell, even in Clifton Creek.

Four

A few minutes past ten, Sidney Dickerson had all the members of her committee sitting around a card table. Light shone through the newly unboarded bay window that stretched as high as the twelve-foot ceiling. The wide, planked floor reflected the sun even beneath years of dust. She wanted to close her eyes and spread her hands wide like she’d seen worshippers do on television. Feel the power! she thought of saying. Feel the history. In her calm, lonely life she’d known only a few times when she’d been so excited.

Judging from the group before her, if she dared do something so foolish, they would turn and run. In fact, none of them looked all that interested in being on the committee.

Billy Hatcher crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair between Lora Whitman and Reverend Parker, who wore a smile that could have been painted on a cigar-store Indian.

Lora Whitman stared out the window looking at nothing.

One of the Rogers sisters had already taken up her crochet, while the other paused with pen and paper, waiting to write down every word spoken.

“Welcome to you all,” Sidney began. “Thank you for agreeing to serve on this committee. We’re here to study the history of a house that represents the very heart of Clifton Creek. We’ve been asked to make a few decisions about the future of this building and the surrounding land…decisions that will affect not only us but generations to come. We alone will decide if the legend of the fine man who founded this town lives or dies.”

Billy yawned.

Beth Ann counted stitches under her breath.

Sidney fought back tears. This house—that was so important to her—mattered to no one else. No one. Maybe they should agree to take the oil company’s money and forget even talking about trying to save an old house.

The preacher checked his watch.

“According to my research—” Sidney knew she had to speed up “—this home was one of the first, if not the first, big ranch house built north of Dallas.” She glanced at her notes and lectured on. “Henry W. Altman must have been little more than a boy when he rode in and claimed this land. We know he paid cash for the wagon train of supplies and workers needed to build this place, but no one seems to know where his money came from. Probably an inheritance, since there’s no record of any Altman family members ever visiting the ranch. He was born in 1878, died in 1950. He fathered one child, Rosa Lee Altman, who never married.”

Beth Ann counted a little louder. Her sister elbowed her gently, signaling her to turn down the volume.

Billy leaned farther back in his chair and looked as if he were staring at Lora Whitman’s legs under the table. Considering the short length of her skirt, Sidney could only guess at the view.

She lifted her briefcase onto the wobbly card table. Sidney had to do something before someone interrupted her and asked for a final vote. They all looked as if they wanted to move on with their lives. She needed to act fast. “Before we talk about what needs to be done, I want to show you all something I’ve found. It may be a factor we need to consider.”

Pulling a worn book from her notes, Sidney’s hand shook. “This book was donated to the library when Rosa Lee died.” She beamed. “Though the book is valuable as a first edition, its true value may lie in the inscription. Which, after reading it, I think you all will agree dictates further research on our part.

“It says simply, ‘To my Rosa Lee, who promises to love no other in this lifetime. Leave with me tonight. Wait for me in the garden. I promise I’ll come before midnight. Fuller, July 4, 1933.’”

Ada May stopped writing. Billy glanced out the window. Beth Ann whispered, “darn,” as she lost a stitch. The preacher leaned forward, his smile melted as his body stiffened as if preparing for a blow.

“If this was given to Rosa Lee, then maybe all the stories about her being an old maid who never had a gentleman caller aren’t true.” Sidney moved around the table, as if circling a classroom. “Maybe there are secrets here to uncover. Secrets the town should know before we sell the land.”

“Who cares?” Billy questioned, slouching in his chair. “Secrets about folks long dead are of no interest to anyone.”

Lora looked as if she agreed.

Micah Parker stretched his hand toward the book. “May I see that, Dr. Dickerson?”

Sidney smiled, knowing she’d hooked one. “If birth records are right, Rosa Lee would have been twenty-three when she was given that book. My guess is Mr. Fuller would have been from around here, but why didn’t he meet her at midnight like he planned?”

“Maybe he did,” Billy answered.

Sidney turned to him. “Then why didn’t she leave with him if she’d promised to love no other in this lifetime?”

“Maybe her father stopped him,” Ada May chimed in. “She was his only child. Fuller might have been a no-good drifter. If she’d left with him, she’d have been poorly married.”

Sidney raised an eyebrow. “A drifter who bought a leather-bound first edition that must have cost a month’s wages during the Depression?”

No one seemed to have an answer.

Micah opened the book and ran his fingers over the words. The others in the room didn’t have to ask. They all knew the reverend thought of his wife.

“Maybe Fuller didn’t show up,” Sidney added. “And we have no idea if Fuller was his last name or first, since it was a relatively popular given name a hundred years ago.”

The minister studied the writing inside the book. “Why would a man who used such an expensive way to send a note, not show up as planned?”

Lora frowned. “She waited seventy years for a love who never returned?”

“What a martyr,” Ada May whispered.

“What a fool,” Lora mumbled. “No man’s worth more than fifteen minutes, tops.”

Reverend Parker stood slowly. He gently pushed the book across the table and took a step toward the door.

Sidney knew the words in the book had touched him. She saw it in his eyes. The preacher wore sorrow on his sleeve. But would words written seventy years ago pull him into the mystery, or push him away?

She followed Micah to the door, having no idea how she might comfort him or if he even wanted solace. It occurred to her that she’d suffered the greater loss, for she’d never, not in forty years of life, experienced such heartache. At least he’d once had someone promise to love him for a lifetime.

Her fingers brushed his sleeve a second before she heard the sound of a car braking.

She glanced outside. Sunbeams reflected off the bay window. Sidney blinked through crystal-white light a moment before the sun shattered.

An explosion of crashing glass echoed off the walls and bounced back on itself. Sunbeams splintered.

Sidney stepped back, bumping into the preacher. Chaos ricocheted into tiny slivers bouncing and sliding across the floor. She screamed.

Billy Hatcher threw his body into Lora’s as the glass blew around them like a rushing tidal wave. They hit the floor hard, sending folding chairs rattling. Ada May lifted her notebook and huddled near her sister. Glass rained across Sidney’s notes, reaching the edge of the crochet square Beth Ann had been working on. Rust-covered metal, the size of a man’s fist, tumbled to a stop at Lora’s broken chair.

Micah rushed forward. His shoes crackled on a carpet of slivers. “Is everyone all right!”

A chorus of groans and cries answered.

“What happened?” Beth Ann said in a shaky teacher’s voice. “Who threw that thing!”

Ada May’s sobs grew from tiny hiccups to full volume.

“I don’t know.” Micah placed a hand on Ada May’s shoulder. “All I got a look at was the back of a pickup.” He turned to the others. “Is anyone hurt?”

Billy lay curled over Lora. Neither answered Micah’s call.

Sydney shook as if someone had hold of every inch of her body and planned to rattle her very bones. “I’m not hurt!” she whispered. “I’m not hurt.” She tried to reach for Billy and Lora, but her legs began to give way.

She looked down at trembling hands and decided they couldn’t be hers. “I’m not hurt,” she whimpered.

The room faded. She fell into a warm, calm darkness.

Five

Lora Whitman huddled in a corner of the old dining room, her forehead resting on her knees as she tried to calm her breathing. It had all happened so fast. The sound of a car on the street. A rusty oil-field drill bit flying through the window. Glass following the missile like the tail of a comet. Billy’s body slamming into hers, knocking her to the floor. Crushing her. Protecting her.

She glanced over at the drill bit still resting on her crumpled folding chair. She’d seen ones like it all her life. The oil rigs changed bits when drilling and the used ones were often thrown in the dirt around the site, or pitched in the back of pickup trucks. This one, all rusty and dirty, seemed harmless now.

“Lora? Miss Whitman?” Sheriff Farrington knelt before her. “You calm enough to give me a statement?”

Lora shoved her mass of blond hair away from her face. “There’s not much I can add to what the others have said.” Scraped knees poked through the holes in her stockings. “Except I thought it was a rock or a football or something. I didn’t know it was a drill bit until later.” She stretched out her leg. “I guess it couldn’t have been an accident. No one tosses around something so ugly for fun.”

The sheriff glanced over at the rusty metal with teeth on one end used to dig into the rock-hard earth in these parts. “It wasn’t an accident,” he echoed. “There was a note pushed inside the bit.”

Lora stretched the other leg. “What did it say?” she asked. She wouldn’t have been surprised if it read, Kill Lora because the drill point had been aimed right at her.

The sheriff offered his hand to help her stand. “It said, Let the house fall.”

Lora managed a laugh. “I guess someone not on the committee wanted to vote. Funny thing is, I’d have given them my place if they’d only asked.”

She stumbled. The sheriff’s grip was firm. “The medic said there’s nothing broken, but if you want, I could drive you over to the hospital and have them check you out. You’ll want to be careful. There’s probably glass in your hair.” He touched her arm with a light pat as if he’d read somewhere in a manual what to do.

Lora tried to smile but couldn’t manage it. “I had my head turned toward the door where Reverend Parker and the professor were standing. Billy hit me and knocked me to the floor before I even realized what happened.”

She stared out onto the porch. Billy Hatcher sat on the steps. He’d removed his jacket. Blood spotted his shirt. The medic’s college helpers were cleaning cuts along his left hand and face. “When it happened, all I could think about was how angry I was that he knocked me down. I even fought him for a few seconds.”

“Don’t worry about it.” The sheriff smiled. “I’m sure he’s not sorry he knocked you out of harm’s way.”

“How bad is he hurt?” she asked.

“I offered to take him over to the doc’s, but he said butterfly bandages are all he needs. He’ll have a scar on his forehead worth talking about. The leather jacket protected his arm and back. His hand is bleeding from several scratches but he says they are no worse than what he gets at work. He’s lucky.”

“No, I’m lucky. That drill bit would have hit my head if he hadn’t flown into me.” For a moment, her imagination pictured the jagged iron teeth flying into the back of her head. She could almost see her mother leaning over her casket saying something like, “Thank God it hit her from behind and didn’t mess up her face.”

“Did you see or hear anything that might help me out?” The sheriff broke into her daydream. “Did anyone say anything to you before the meeting? Did you see the truck pull away?”

“Nothing. I didn’t even know it was a truck. I’d been watching the clouds a few minutes before. I didn’t even notice the traffic.” Lora closed her eyes, wishing she could cry. Billy Hatcher had been hurt. Dr. Dickerson was on her way to Wichita Falls with chest pains. The Rogers sisters were wound up tighter than speed babies. They’d told their story to everyone and were now recounting it to each other. Only the reverend appeared calm. He paced slowly around the room as if looking for a clue everyone had missed.

In fact, he’d been calm since the beginning, like some kind of robot. He’d caught the professor when she’d passed out, dialed the sheriff on his cell, talked everyone into remaining still until help came. She couldn’t help but think it strange that a brush with death didn’t affect him.

After he’d called the sheriff, in what seemed like seconds the room flooded with people. Firemen from the station two blocks away, the sheriff, campus cops from the college and the hospital’s only ambulance. Clifton Creek might be small, but they could move when needed. She had heard talk that the sheriff ran everyone through drills twice a year in case a tornado hit. Their practice paid off today.

Half the town turned out to watch. Traffic was down to one lane in front of Rosa Lee’s old place. If Lora knew them, and she did, most had already made up their minds about what had happened. A few were planning punishment for the villains when they were found.

Through the open door, she could hear Philip Price chanting like a cantor questioning why anyone would want to hurt this group of people. “Who’d want to hurt the Rogers sisters?” he asked, but didn’t bother waiting for an answer. “Or a professor? Or the preacher? Or the poor brokenhearted Whitman girl whose husband…”

Lora ducked her head. She didn’t want to go outside. Somehow, it seemed safer to stay in here. The coolness of the house felt comforting. The dusty smells settling around her seemed strangely familiar. She looked up at Sheriff Farrington. “Why?”

The sheriff shook his head. “Maybe just kids seeing the opportunity to break something. A twelve-foot window in an abandoned house would be hard to resist. Maybe someone who just wanted the house torn down and didn’t really give much thought that their note might hurt someone.”

“But you don’t think so?”

“But I don’t think so,” he echoed. “There’s no way anyone passing could have missed seeing the committee sitting in that bay window.”

“Then why?”

“Someone doesn’t want one of you, or all of you, in this house.” He stared directly into her eyes. “Whoever threw this meant harm, Lora. To you or to someone at that table.”

Lora covered her eyes with her palms, pretending to be invisible as she had as a child. She couldn’t think of anyone who would plan to harm her. Phil, the town crier, had been right. Who would want to hurt any of them? The only person she could think of who hated her was Dan, and he didn’t want her dead. He only wanted her to suffer. Their marriage, in and out of bed, hadn’t worked from the first and he’d blamed her.

“Hey, pretty lady, you going to crumble or fight?”

Lora looked up at Billy Hatcher. He didn’t seem nearly as threatening with a bandage across his forehead. “Leave me alone. I’m busy having a nervous breakdown.”

“Thought you had more grit, Whitman. Where’s that ‘Fight! Fight! Fight!’ cheerleader spirit?” He leaned closer and whispered, “You mad at me for slamming you to the floor?”

“What do you want? If it’s a thanks, you got it.” Much as she hated admitting it, she might very well owe this thug her life.

He shook his head and winked. “Wish I’d had time to enjoy climbing on top of you, but in truth, I’ll settle for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

He offered his hand. “Friendship. Looks as if all the committee members may need someone to cover our backs. When my probation officer told me to do some community service, I had no idea it would be so exciting.”

Hesitantly, Lora took his hand, convinced that the kid bordered on insane. “Thanks,” she answered honestly. “For what you did.”

He pulled her away from the wall. “Friends?”

“One condition.” She smiled. “Drop the cracks about having the hots for me.”

“Mind if I still think them?”

“Not as long as you keep them to yourself.”

“Fair enough, Whitman.” He lifted his bandaged hand. “How about giving me a ride to Wichita Falls? I’d like to check on the professor.” He picked up Sidney Dickerson’s glasses. “And take her these.”

“The hospital’s an hour away. It’ll be afternoon before we can get back.”

“I know. I figured I’d offer to buy you lunch on the way back. Just lunch, no date or anything like that.”

“I don’t have a car.” Lora watched the preacher fold up the contents of the professor’s case, carefully shaking glass from each piece.

Billy dug into his right pocket. “Then you can drive my car, but that means you buy lunch.”

Lora thought about what it would mean to go home and listen to her mother, or go back to work and have to recount what happened to every customer who walked in the door. Going to Wichita Falls with Billy Hatcher suddenly seemed like a good idea. “Want to come along, Reverend Parker?” she asked over Billy’s shoulder.

“No, thanks. I’ll see that the sisters get home. Tell Dr. Dickerson I’ll be there this evening.”

Lora lifted her purse and glanced outside. Her mother poked a manicured finger into the chest of a campus cop blocking anyone from entering the house. Lora couldn’t hear what Isadore said but guessed the cop wouldn’t hold the line for long under such an assault.

Turning back to Billy, Lora raised her eyebrow in question.

“My car’s out back,” he said, taking the cue. “Give me a minute to talk to the sheriff and I’ll be right there.”

Lora nodded and slipped out of the room. The house grew cooler as she walked into the shadows but, as she’d guessed, a hallway to the back porch lay just behind the stairs.

When she stepped outside, the wind greeted her. Leaning over the railing, Lora let her hair shake free. Tiny bits of glass hit the broken brick walk below. She straightened, quickly wiggled out of her torn panty hose and tossed them atop a pile of windblown trash at the edge of the porch.

As she slipped back into her shoes, Lora noticed Billy standing in the shadows behind her.

When she turned on him, he raised both hands. “I didn’t see a thing.”

“And?”

“And I’m not saying a word, Whitman.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“You got it, only slow down on the rules, I can only remember so many.”

Six

Micah Parker quickly found that seeing the Rogers sisters home was not an easy assignment. The pair decided they had to stop several times and let friends know they were all right. With each stop, the story, with all its frightening details, had to be told. And somehow, each time the telling took longer. Micah finally got them home long after noon. He wrote his cell-phone number on the back of an old card he found on the cluttered kitchen table and left them arguing over what to have for lunch.

He dropped by his office, but felt restless. The shock of the morning lingered with him. A renewed reminder of how one moment could shatter all calm. The possibility that someone had meant them harm haunted the back of his mind. He didn’t buy the theory that the perpetrators were youths looking for something to break.

The note in the drill bit made it obvious that someone wanted the house destroyed, but who? The oil company that turned in an offer, of course, but they didn’t need to frighten the committee into seeing things their way. Near as Micah could tell, everyone but Sidney thought getting money for the land was a great idea. All the company would have to do was wait a day or two to get what they wanted. Only, maybe they didn’t think they had the time to wait. But, why?

Micah had a feeling that whoever wanted the house to fall had another reason.

He sifted through his mail trying to think. Nothing came to mind. Signing out for the afternoon, he wrote simply hospital visit on the log. He stopped at the grocery store, an independently owned place with the shadows of HEB behind an already-fading new sign that read Clifton Creek Grocery. The produce looked limp and the meat gray, but the people were friendly. He bought milk, sandwich makings and cat food.

“Well, Reverend?” The checker grinned knowingly as she wiggled the bag of kitten food. “You got a cat living with you now?”

“No, just visiting,” Micah answered, hoping he wouldn’t have to explain more.

The lady behind him in line, a once-a-month Methodist, chimed in, “My cat won’t eat that dry food unless I pour bacon grease on it.”

Micah couldn’t conceive of a lie to thank her for sharing her knowledge, so he just smiled. The two women didn’t need him in the conversation; they continued on about their pets. Anyone passing would have thought they were talking about children and not animals. Micah couldn’t imagine getting so attached. His parents had moved around when he was growing up. Extra mouths to feed were not allowed.

He paid out and headed for home. After putting up the groceries, he checked on Baptist. The kitten had finished off the last of his saucer of milk.

“You’re looking better, little fellow.” Micah poured cat food in a corner of the laundry basket. “That should keep hunger away for a few hours.” The kitten jumped into the middle of the food. “Don’t waste time blessing it.” Micah laughed and wondered if he’d soon be telling stories about Baptist.

He stood, in a hurry to leave. The house always seemed too empty, too quiet when Logan wasn’t there. He checked on Mrs. Mac. A game show blared as he opened the dividing door. She waved him away when he asked if she needed anything. He knew better than to hang around talking. She liked knowing that he would be near if she needed him, but she wasn’t one to waste time talking when her shows were on.

Halfway to his car, his cell rang.

“Hello.” Micah paused, then smiled. “Yes, Logan, I know it’s you. What’s up, partner?”

Listening, he climbed into his car and started the engine. “Well, if she says it’s all right, I guess it’s okay with me. Be sure and brush your teeth and go to bed when Mrs. Reed says.”

He waited while Logan handed the phone to Betty Reed. A minute later, Micah said, “Thanks, Betty, for offering. It was nice of you.” He drove as he listened, then answered, “Yes, I’m a little shaken up. I’m worried about Professor Dickerson. The ambulance took her to Wichita Falls. They’re running tests. In fact, I’m on my way to the hospital now.”

Micah paused, trying not to put too much emotion in his voice. “Is it all right if I check in at eight to say good-night to Logan?” He frowned, thinking of how few times he’d been alone since Amy had died. He knew this would happen, first nights at friends’, then summer camps and overnight school trips, then college, until finally he’d be fully and truly alone.

“Thanks again, Betty,” he managed to say as if she were doing him some kind of favor.

Turning onto the interstate heading toward Wichita Falls, he shoved his phone back into his pocket. The hour passed, as time often did, with Micah lost in memories. Sometimes, when he could stand the pain, he pictured what his life would be like if Amy hadn’t died. They would have that second child they’d planned. She would probably be staying home like she always said she would, taking care of babies and working on her master’s degree. The house would be cluttered with her projects. She loved to grow things and always had some kind of craft going. She could knit, quilt and upholster furniture better than most of those experts on TV. Once, when they were first married, she’d painted stripes on one wall while trying to pick a color of paint and liked the job so much she painted the other three walls the same way.

Micah blinked away tears. Gentle, loving, soft-spoken Amy. How could God let her die when he and Logan needed her so much? He knew the answer. He’d said the words often enough to grieving families. But, his heart wouldn’t listen.

Maybe that explained why the note written in Rosa Lee’s book touched him. They were the same he’d said to Amy. I’ll love no other in this lifetime but you. If Fuller felt them as Micah had, how could the man have stood her up that midnight? Or, had Rosa Lee been the one to turn away? Had she left him waiting?

He forced his mind to think of other things. The sheriff had said someone might have been trying to harm a member of the committee. Who? Not him. He went over the members one at a time, but he drew a blank. Not one seemed the kind of person who made enemies angry enough to endanger someone’s life.

Pulling into the hospital parking lot, he reached into the back seat for the professor’s briefcase. Maybe, if she were awake, he could talk to her about the possibilities. If she found the book from Fuller to Rosa Lee, maybe she’d found other things. She might not even be aware of the importance of her research. Maybe a deep, dark secret lay hidden in the house, and whoever threw the drill bit was warning them to stay away.

When he climbed from his car, the wind whirled around him, trying to lift the briefcase from his hand. The air smelled of promised rain as he darted toward the visitor doors.

A desk nurse told him Sidney Dickerson wasn’t back from X-ray but he could wait in a small room to the left of the elevator on the CCU floor. Micah wasn’t surprised to find Lora and Billy there. Lora glanced up from her magazine when Micah walked in. Two chairs down, Billy stretched, looking as though he’d been asleep.

“Any news?” Micah asked.

Billy shook his head. “She’s been in there for almost five hours and nothing.”

“One doctor came out and asked if we were family,” Lora added. “I said no. When I suggested I could call them, he said no, not until the tests are all in. I phoned the college to get a relative’s number just in case. The clerk said Dr. Dickerson had no listing under next of kin.”

Billy stood. “We figure that makes us her next of kin, so we’re hanging around. If it’s bad news, she doesn’t need to hear it alone.”

Lora nodded her agreement and offered Micah a cup of free coffee that looked strong enough to be motor oil. “Are the Rogers sisters all right?”

Micah relaxed in the plastic chair between Lora and Billy. “I guess, I left them arguing.”

Lora laughed. “They’ve done that for as long as I can remember. My father mentioned their parents were like that. Never said a word to one another except to yell. He said when they celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary no one in town went because fifty years of fighting didn’t seem like something to celebrate.”

“Strange thing is,” Billy added, “I’ve never known either of them to say a cross word to anyone else. Even when my uncle forgot to put the cap on and oil spilled out all over her engine, Miss Ada May just patted his hand and told him accidents happen. She wouldn’t even let him pay for the damage.”

“Do you know of any reason someone would want to harm them?” Micah lowered his voice.

Lora raised an eyebrow. “You buying into the sheriff’s idea that someone was after one of us?”

“Not really. Just thinking.”

Billy paced the room. “It’s just hell-raising. Nothing else. I’d be the one with enemies if anyone in that room had them, and I can’t think of one person who wouldn’t face me if he wanted me hurt.” He sat down as a family of ten came into the room in one big huddle.

Micah’s heart ripped. Part of him didn’t want to see their sorrow, part knew offering comfort was his calling.

Before he could stand, the hospital chaplain, Bible in hand, hurried into the waiting room and directed the family to one of the semiprivate areas in the back.

A nurse stepped in to tell them that Sidney Dickerson was back in her room, and they would be limited to a fifteen-minute visit every two hours.

“You two go ahead.” Micah reached for a magazine. “I’ll catch the next time.”

“But don’t you…” Lora began.

“I’ve nowhere else to be, and it’s quieter here than back in town answering questions.”

“You’ve got a point.” Lora shrugged. “Mind if I stay? I’m not sure I can deal with my mother.”

“No way. You’re not staying here,” Billy cut in. “We’re checking on the professor and heading out for food. I haven’t eaten all day.”

Lora shrugged at Micah. “I promised the kid a meal if he let me drive his car over here.”

They started down the hallway. Micah heard Billy add, “I’m twenty. I’m no longer a kid.”

“Well, I’m twenty-four and divorced. That makes me a hundred years older than you.” When he said nothing, she added, “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

“I promised not to, remember?” They turned a corner and disappeared from sight. “But, I’m thinking it,” echoed after them.

Micah tried to get comfortable in chairs that offered little. Why were waiting-room chairs always the worst? You’d think somewhere, someone would invent a chair that offered some degree of comfort for all the people who had to wait.

A tall man about forty wearing a Stetson stepped off the elevator. He seemed lost for a moment, then strolled in and took a seat on the other side of the TV. Micah couldn’t see his face, but his expensive ostrich boots were visible.

Fifteen minutes later, Billy and Lora returned with lots of details about Sidney. The doctors thought her chest pains might have been something similar to a panic attack and not related to her heart. They would keep her the night anyway, but they seemed to think she’d be fine.

Billy mentioned how the professor had almost cried with joy when he’d handed her the glasses. Once she’d put them on, she’d demanded to see his cuts. Apparently, she’d been so blind without them, she hadn’t noticed his bandages.

Though Billy complained about the professor’s mothering, Micah sensed he hadn’t minded all that much.

Micah thanked them and suggested they get home before the rain hit. Lora offered to bring back takeout, but he refused.

After they left, Micah listened to CNN and acted as if he were reading the paper until the duty nurse returned and told everyone waiting that the fifteen-minute visitation was once again open.

As Micah walked out, he noticed the man in the boots didn’t stand. Whoever he waited to see must not be in CCU or was too far gone to bother visiting.

Micah found Sidney sleeping peacefully. Someone had combed out her hair and washed her face. She looked better than she had the few times he’d noticed her around town. The prim and proper line she always held had slipped. He couldn’t think of any way to say it but that she appeared more human.

He sat her briefcase where she could see it, guessing she’d want to work if she woke. He couldn’t remember ever seeing her when the case hadn’t been in her hand.

Leaving without waking her, Micah walked to his car as the day’s fading light glistened off the hood. Nothing waited for him at home, so he decided to visit a bookstore. Clifton Creek’s rack of top-sellers at the grocery was never enough. He liked the little bookstore on Southwest Parkway. All he had to do was tell the owner what he liked, and the man would start stacking up books he’d also love. Micah never drove over to Wichita Falls that he didn’t leave with at least half a dozen books.

He’d read all his life. When he’d been a kid, with his parents moving around, he’d learned to escape in books and now they always seemed to welcome him like old friends.

It was almost eight when he left the bookstore. The hint of rain now rode the north wind. Micah sat in his car and called to say good-night to Logan, keeping it short and cheery.

As he drove out of the parking lot, he spotted a pet store and decided to go in. A few minutes later, he was lost in the cat aisle. Toys, cages, beds and food lined the shelves. After an hour, Micah settled on one toy and a children’s book for Logan about caring for a first pet. If Baptist planned to stay around for a few days, he and Logan better learn a little about the care and feeding of cats.

When he walked back to the parking lot he wished he’d brought a coat. Even after three years, he still had trouble getting used to how fast the temperature changed in this part of the country.

Micah drove home, in no hurry to reach an empty house. At least he had a few new books. Maybe he’d read until he fell asleep. Tomorrow was Tuesday, the day he spent most of his time counseling couples planning to marry. Reverend Milburn required anyone married in the church in Clifton Creek to go through at least six sessions. Unfortunately, Milburn never had time to do the counseling himself, so it had become part of Micah’s job description. He would also have to attend the Glory Days luncheon tomorrow and teach a biblical history class at the college.

As he pulled into his drive, his cell phone buzzed. For a moment, Micah’s heart raced. Logan? Very few people knew or called his mobile number. Most waited until they caught him in his office or at home. What if something had happened at Jimmy’s house? What if Logan was homesick?

Flipping open his phone, he made up his mind. No matter what the parenting books say about sleepovers, he’d go pick up Logan and bring him home. Sleepovers could wait a few months or even years, for all he cared.

“Hello?”

“Micah Parker?” A woman’s voice yelled into the phone.

“Speaking.” He heard loud country-western music in the background. This wasn’t Betty Reed, or anyone else he knew. Logan must be fine, probably already asleep.

“I got a problem here, and your number is the one they gave me to call,” the woman yelled over the music.

Micah relaxed. Probably someone locked out of the church. Twice last year he’d had to go open the door. Once, Mrs. Beverly had left her purse in the Sunday-school room and once, the Ungers had driven off while the youngest one of their seven was still in the church restroom. They had parked in their driveway before they’d bothered counting, and by then the janitor had locked up and gone home. Micah’s cell-phone number appeared first on the emergency call list posted on the office door.

“How can I help you?” Micah waited for tonight’s problem.

“I’m Randi Howard. Randi with an i.”

He liked the way her voice sounded, thought it belonged with the country music playing in the background.

“I own the bar at the turnoff to Cemetery Road.”

Micah straightened. The conversation became more interesting. If she was doing phone soliciting, she’d dialed the wrong number. “I know where it is.” He waited for her to continue.

She hesitated. “I didn’t know who to call, but one of the old girls gave me your number and name scribbled on a flowery get-well card.”

Micah tried to remember where he’d seen such a card. “How can I help you, Mrs. Howard?”

“It’s Randi,” she said, and he’d be willing to bet that she was smiling. “Just, Randi, Mr. Parker.”

He stepped out of the car not noticing the cold. “Randi it is. How may I be of service?”

Randi took a long breath. “I need you to come down here and pick up the Rogers sisters before they start another bar fight.”

Seven

Sloan McCormick looked out on the hospital parking lot with the lights of Wichita Falls blinking in the distance. The town seemed fuzzy as if in a fog. Only a few cars remained out front. He could spot his big pickup even five floors up. Trying not to examine too closely the reason he was here, he walked back to the critical care unit doors. Standing in the shadows, he made sure no one dropped in on Sidney Dickerson during the last fifteen-minute visitation of the night.

He leaned against the wall, trying not to look so tall, so obvious. Every time someone opened the double doors, he caught sight of the entrance to her room. Not even a nurse walked near it. No visitor would call now. Not with only ten minutes left.

Still, he hesitated. He had no reason to visit the professor. She’d never met him, and this wasn’t the place to talk about a deal his company would be willing to make for the Altman place. But somehow, in the course of his research, Sloan felt as though he had grown to know her. In his line of work, he made it a point to know everyone he might need to persuade. In business, knowledge could swing the deal.

He started to walk away, guessing himself a fool for getting personally involved. Maybe it was time to take the money he’d saved traveling all over the country and start that ranch he kept dreaming about.

Sloan swore. Who was he kidding? Even with this deal, he would never have enough money to stock a ranch with anything but a few chickens. He’d be a land man for the company until he died. He was good at sizing up people, at knowing what made them react, but he’d spend the rest of his days without anyone being able to read him.

A nurse bumped a wheelchair through the door and Sloan glanced up at Sidney Dickerson’s door once more. Five minutes left.

The waiting room and hallway were deserted. On sudden impulse, he removed his Stetson and slipped into the professor’s room.

Thank goodness she slept. He’d hate to have to introduce himself to her like this. But he needed to check on her condition. He had to know she was all right. Somewhere in his paperwork, she’d slipped from being just someone he needed to win over for the company to a real person. He’d liked the sound of her voice when she’d lectured and the proper way she walked. And, like it or not, he had worried about her all day.

Silently lifting the chart at the foot of her bed, he read through the notes. From what he could tell, she hadn’t had a heart attack. Good.

Her age surprised him. He would have guessed her at least five, maybe ten years older. Not that she looked it now without her glasses and boxy clothes, but every time he’d seen her from a distance, she had the stance and walk of someone in her fifties. Now, he learned that he and Sidney Dickerson would be the same age when she celebrated her fortieth next week.

Sloan studied her more closely. She was tall and what his mother would have called healthy looking, though in today’s world she was out of style. In updated clothes, with her hair down, she might look her age. Not his type, he thought, but not all that bad. There was something about her that demanded respect. Not just the fact that she was a professor and seemed intelligent, but more that she was a lady. She was the kind of woman men of all ages opened doors for and tipped their hats to.

She seemed like the kind who should have married and had a big family. He wondered if she’d been one of those who thought school all-important, concentrating on it for so long that by the time she got out, she’d missed her window to marry. Not many men would look at a woman past her youth who had more education than they had. With her height, she’d probably eliminated three-fourths of the men to start with.

“Are you a doctor?” Her voice startled him.

He stared into sleepy blue eyes. “No,” he answered from the shadows. “I’m here to take you to dinner.” He knew he made no sense, but hopefully she was drugged enough not to care.

“Oh,” she mumbled. “That’s nice. I don’t like Chinese.”

He smiled, knowing he was safe. “Me, either. How about Mexican food?”

“With or without onions?”

“Without, of course.” He moved closer and noticed her eyelids drifting down. She was fighting to stay awake.

“Can we go now? I’m afraid of this place,” she whispered.

Her honesty surprised him. He wasn’t sure what he expected a woman with a doctorate in history to say, but owning up to being afraid wouldn’t have been his first guess. “Want me to hold your hand?”

Without opening her eyes, she raised her hand. His fingers closed around hers. For a while, he just stood there, watching her sleep and wondering how many times this woman had ever been afraid. He’d guess she’d been protected all through her life. Even out in the workforce she remained in a bubble, in the unique world of a college campus.

A nurse stepped in to check the machines. He thought of leaving, but feared he might wake Sidney. He didn’t want to face any questions with someone else in the room. So he stood his ground beside the bed, his fingers holding tightly to hers, his gaze watching her face for any sign of waking.

The nurse smiled at Sloan. “Visiting hours are over, but if you want to stay with her a little longer, no one will mind. The sleeping pills have kicked in. She’ll sleep like a baby until morning.”

He knew the nurse guessed him to be the husband or lover. “Thanks,” he said. “I’d like to stay a while longer.”

Sloan wasn’t a man who got close to people, partly by choice, partly because of his job. Staying with someone in the hospital was foreign to him. Strange. As if he were playing a role. Like somehow he’d crawled into another’s skin and gotten to feel something real people feel. So much of him had been an act for so long, he wasn’t sure there was any real left in him. Some days he thought that when he died no one would bother with a funeral. They’d just roll the credits.

He turned Sidney’s hand over in his. She was real tonight. Her hand was soft, well formed with short nails and no polish. She would be a no-nonsense woman. The kind who would have nothing to do with him.

“So, Sidney, how was your day?” he whispered, just because it sounded so normal. “I’ve been worried about you.”

Her lashes moved. Blue eyes stared up at him. “You still here?”

“Just waiting to take you to dinner.”

“I’m ready to leave. Is it raining?”

He hadn’t noticed, but rain did tap against the hospital window so softly it blended with the hum and click of the machines around her bed.

“I’m afraid so.” He smiled. “But don’t worry, I’ll see you don’t get wet.”

“I’m not fragile,” she whispered, closing her eyes once more.

Sloan grinned and leaned closer. “I’d never have guessed you were.”

Her breathing slowed as it brushed his cheek. There was something so intimate about the act, almost as if they were lovers who moved near in sleep and were unaware their breath mingled.

Sloan straightened, surprised at his own thoughts. He didn’t need to get personally involved with any of the committee. He’d come to check on her, nothing more. Maybe it was because she looked so vulnerable in sleep. Maybe it was because they were really talking. Hell, maybe this job was getting to him.

He should leave. But he hesitated. Not because he needed to know more or thought she might still be in danger.

He simply didn’t want to turn loose of her hand.

Eight

Lora Whitman pulled Billy Hatcher’s old car around to the back of the Altman house and shoved it into Park. “You sure you want to leave your Mustang here?”

Billy stretched. He’d been asleep most of the way back from Wichita Falls. “Sure,” he mumbled as he pushed hair from his eyes. “It’s as good a place as any. Safer than in front of my old man’s house.”

She didn’t comment on why he wanted to return to the old place. Maybe, like her, seeing the damage one more time made what had happened to them seem real.

“What time is it anyway?”

Lora rubbed the back of her neck. “About ten, I guess. Maybe a little later.”

“I could drive you home, if you like,” he said almost as an afterthought. “From the sound of that thunder we might get more rain.” He closed and unclosed his bandaged hand.

“I don’t mind if I get wet. After today, what could a little water hurt?” She unbuckled her safety belt. “How about walking me halfway? Maybe it will help me relax. I feel like lightning is dancing in me. I’ll never be able to sleep after all the excitement. Which doesn’t seem to be your problem.”

He grinned. “I can sleep anywhere and usually do.”

She wished they had talked on the drive back. Billy Hatcher wasn’t as frightening as she’d first thought. At dinner they’d shared an unusual conversation. Most folks felt a need to keep up small talk, follow one theme, let the discussion rock back and forth. No such rules bound Billy. He spoke his mind. In a way, it was the most honest dialogue she’d ever exchanged.

“Fair enough. We’ll walk.” He opened his door. “Thanks for the barbecue, and for driving.”

She was glad he didn’t add, “because my hand hurts.” She noticed him cradling it every chance he got. The cuts ran deep enough to be painful, but to her surprise, she noticed he refused painkillers.

“No problem.” She climbed out and caught up with him. “I wish half the new cars on our lot drove as smooth as this old Mustang.”

“Yeah. The sheriff sold it to me a few years ago when he bought his wife a new car. The engine was fine. All I had to do was work on the body.”

She took his arm to steady her steps as they rounded the back porch of Rosa Lee’s old house. Piles of tumble-weeds, broken branches and trash mounded at the corner of the porch. The blackness was almost complete at the side of the house except for faraway flashes of lightning above them.

Lora wasn’t afraid, but tightened her grip, fearing she might trip over something in the dark.

“Don’t worry,” Billy whispered. “There’s not that much to fall over back here except your panty hose.”

She laughed and relaxed a little. “I was just holding on to you in case you’re afraid of the ghost that hangs around this place.”

“I’ve never been afraid of ghosts. Never seen one wield a belt, or crash a car, or slug anyone. If you ask me it’s the living who walk this earth we need to worry about, not the dead.”

“You’re probably right.”

When they passed the side of the house where vines draped most of the windows, he slowed. “Did you see that?”

“What?”

“I thought I saw a light flicker inside the house.”

“You’d better not be trying to frighten me.” She glanced over his shoulder at the window. A light blinked only a fraction of a second and was gone.

He stopped. His arm locked her hand against him, tugging her closer. “You see that?”

“Yes.” She reached in her purse for her cell. “I’m calling the sheriff.”

He pushed her into the vines as they watched the pinpoint of light moving slowly across the room.

It blinked again near the front door. Lora couldn’t breathe. The good news was that whoever haunted the house seemed to be leaving. The bad news was it was coming outside with them. Visions flashed in her imagination of a battle in blackness against a monster they couldn’t see. She would swing wildly, fighting for her life. So would Billy. In the morning, the sheriff would find them both dead. By accident, they’d murdered one another. They’d probably have to wait until a crime-scene photographer came in from Wichita Falls. By then, everyone in town would see her bloody body lying in the mud with vines twisted in her hair and her skirt up. Her mother would be horrified.

“Let’s follow them.” Billy pulled her forward.

Lora wanted to scream, “Are you kidding?” But yelling would only attract the trespassers. All she managed was a quick nod. She had no wish to trail anyone, but he wasn’t leaving her here alone in the vines with creatures already nibbling at her bare ankles.

Billy’s undamaged hand slid down to hers as they moved around the corner of the house.

She heard footsteps hurrying across the boards of the front porch. Then a squeal and laughter.

A car drove down Main toward them. Headlights swung across the yard as it swerved to a stop facing the house.

Footsteps scrambled off the far side of the porch and vanished into the night.

A car door opened, then slammed. “Who’s out there?” a man yelled. “This is Deputy Adams. You’d better step into the light right now.”

Billy tugged her hand backward, but she stood her ground. She’d never been afraid of the deputy. “It’s me!” she yelled. “Lora Whitman.”

The shadow continued forward, shining a light in Lora’s face. “What are you doing out here?”

Billy reluctantly moved into the light.

The deputy’s stance widened. “Who are you?”

“Hatcher,” he said.

Lora didn’t miss the lack of respect in Billy’s voice.

“What the hell are you doing here, Hatcher? Doesn’t your probation officer give you a curfew?”

Billy didn’t answer.

“He’s with me, Deputy,” Lora jumped in. “We’ve been over to Wichita Falls visiting Professor Dickerson, who was hurt this morning. I rode with him, and he brought me back here. My mother took my car home after she dropped me off at the meeting this morning.” Lora knew she was rambling, but she didn’t like being questioned. After all, they weren’t doing anything wrong, she was the one who called him in the first place. They had more of a right to be here than anyone. They were on the committee.

“Well, I guess it’s all right.” The deputy lowered the flashlight beam. “There’s a storm coming in, though. Radio says there might be hail. You both should be getting home.”

He turned the light on Billy’s face. “You got anything to say?”

Billy didn’t move, but she could feel his body stiffen, his grip painful over her fingers.

“One of these days we need to have a talk about your attitude, boy.” Adams took one step closer, blinding them with his light. “The sheriff won’t always be around, Hatcher. I can smell trouble every time I get within ten feet of you.”

“He just offered to walk me home.” Lora didn’t understand Billy. He made no attempt to be friendly or even civil. No wonder Adams treated him like a criminal. If he’d tell Adams what they were doing, the deputy would surely back down. “We must be going, Deputy Adams, but you should know that we did see someone inside the Altman house.”

Adams turned the light to Billy. “You want to come down to the office and make a report?”

Billy didn’t answer.

“No,” she said for both of them. “It was too dark to see anything. Now if you’ll excuse us, I must be getting home.” She should have listened to Billy and never called the deputy.

“I can give you a ride, Miss Whitman,” the deputy said formally, as if he just remembered who Lora’s father was.

“Thanks.” Lora smiled. “But since Mr. Hatcher and I are on the same committee, we’ve got a few things to discuss. The walk will do us good.”

The deputy looked as if he might argue. Adams always thought he knew the right thing to do and didn’t mind sharing his knowledge.

“Good night, Officer.” Lora pulled Billy along. “Thank you for your concern.”

They were half a block away before Billy spoke. “I’ve never seen old Adams back down like that.”

“He didn’t have a choice,” she answered. “I’m an adult. I can walk down a public street with whomever I want. I can’t believe he talked to us like we were kids playing on private property.”

Billy laughed. “He’s probably having your commitment papers drawn up right now.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re crazy enough to want to walk down the street with me.”

Lora pictured her mother signing the documents. She wished she could be there when someone told Isadore that Lora had left town with a criminal. Her mother would probably shoot the messenger. She looked at Billy and answered honestly. “But we’re friends.”

“Damn straight,” he said. “Friends.”

Nine

Reverend Micah Parker circled Randi’s bar parking lot twice, unsure what to do. It was almost midnight and this was no place he thought he’d ever be.

He couldn’t miss the Rogers sisters’ van parked sideways in three parking slots. He had no doubt the call from Randi Howard had been real. The woman who’d phoned him must not have been aware of his occupation, since she’d called him mister and not reverend. Would she have asked him to come after the sisters if she’d known?

He thought of what Reverend Milburn would say if his assistant minister was spotted in the town’s wildest bar.

Micah smiled, realizing he didn’t much care. If the Rogers sisters needed help, he’d promised to be there. End of story. He parked next to a huge Dodge pickup covered in mud and got out, pulling his suit coat off. It wouldn’t do to go into a country bar looking like a salesman or, he laughed, like a preacher.

When Micah walked inside, familiar sounds and smells greeted him. Smoke, whiskey, sawdust. The whine of two-stepping music that had been born in this environment and the clink of glasses. Raw laughter crackled within conversations carried at full volume.

Memories flooded his mind. His third year of college Amy had miscarried and couldn’t work for six weeks. He’d taken on another part-time job so he could stay in school. Sweeping up at a bar had been the only thing that fit into his time schedule. When they’d got back on their feet financially, he’d quit. Micah had been surprised how much he missed the people he’d met and watched every night for months. He’d learned that bar lights reveal layers of truth, like a CAT scan. Weaknesses, dreams and heart-aches show up clearly in tobacco-tinted illumination.

His eyes adjusted to the mixture of smoky shadows and twinkling lights along a ceiling covered in beer posters. The place seemed bigger than it appeared to be from the outside. A long mahogany bar ran the length of the far wall. Tables circled round a dance floor on one end, pool tables on the other. Most of the chairs near the dance floor were empty. A group of men played pool. Half of the stools were occupied at the bar.

Most of the men wore Western clothes. A few others looked like oil-field workers who’d put in a full day before stopping by. Muddy boots, Western or Red Wing, were the style. Women mingled among the men. A few looked like they’d lived on murky air way too long, for their faces were pale beneath layers of makeup.

Micah remembered it was Monday night. If this place was like the one he’d worked at, the folks in at this time of night were drinkers, not partiers or fighters. He’d guess they were folks with nowhere else to be and no one waiting for them. They’d finish the night alone with only a six-pack for company.

He noticed a tall woman behind the bar watching him. She had shoulder-length red hair pulled up on one side and an honest face. “You Micah Parker?” She spoke in the same whiskey-smooth voice he’d heard on the phone.

He shook rain from his hair. “I am. Are you Randi with an i?” He felt like a paperback detective.

She nodded. “From the way you’re dressed, you’re not working the oil field or any ranch around, but town folks are welcome here, as well.”

“Correct.” He thought of introducing himself by occupation, but for a moment, he just wanted to be Micah Parker, period. “I’m the designated driver for the Rogers sisters, at your service.”

Randi probably learned a long time ago not to ask too many questions. She pointed toward a beer and raised one eyebrow.

He shook his head. “How’d the sisters end up being your problem tonight?”

“They came in about an hour ago. Appears they had quite a scare today and decided some wine would help them sleep. According to Ada May, they went through every bottle in the house and were still frightened, so they drove over here.”

“They come here often?”

She nodded toward a hairy man serving drinks at the other end of the bar. “Frankie said he’s sold them holiday wine a few times, but they haven’t been in since I bought the place last year.” Randi grinned. “One of the guys over near the pool table commented that they shouldn’t be in a place like this, being retired teachers and all. Beth Ann hit him with her bag. Before I could get around the counter, they’d landed at least a half-dozen blows on other men standing within range.”

Micah fought down a laugh. “I hope no one was hurt.”

“No one that would admit it except Shorty Brown. He claimed a crochet needle poked out of her bag and hit him in the eye.” She leaned a little closer. “If he’d wanted to press charges I’d have had to call the sheriff instead of you.”

“I guess I’d better have a talk with the ladies.” Micah tried not to smile. “Where you got them locked up?”

She lifted the walk-through and motioned him behind the bar. As he passed, he realized she stood even with him. It wasn’t often he saw a woman his height. In the crowded space, she couldn’t step more than a few inches away. He brushed against her as he passed.

Micah kept his gaze steady on her eyes. For a second, their bodies pressed against one another. From the smell of her hair to the softness of her breasts against his arm, he became very aware of her as a woman.

He thought of the bar lights and hoped she couldn’t see too deeply into his thoughts.

“I put them in my office with a bottle of their favorite apricot wine,” Randi said, as though she didn’t notice anything unusual about standing so close to a man she’d just met.

Micah followed her into a small room behind the bar. It had a one-way mirror, so anyone inside could see what was going on at the bar. Papers and notes covered a desk and the safe in one corner sat open. The sisters watched the mirror as if it were a TV. Two empty glasses sat between them.

“Evening, ladies.” Randi greeted them with a smile. “I called your friend. He’ll see you home.”

Ada May giggled. “Evening, Micah. So glad you could join us. Would you like a glass of wine?” She lifted the bottle and refilled her glass to the rim.

“Yes, do have a drink if you’re allowed,” Beth Ann added. “You’ve already seen us home once today. There’s really no need to worry about us. I’m still sober enough to drive.”

Ada May downed her glass and tried to disguise a burp by coughing. She smiled up at Micah with half-closed eyes and said, “I do love apricots.” Suddenly her head hit the desk with a thud. She was out cold.

Beth Ann shook her finger at her sleeping sister. “She’s such an embarrassment. Can’t hold her liquor any better than our father could.”

Micah knelt in front of Beth Ann. “Would you like me to help you get her home? I won’t mind. I’m already here.”

“You’re a fine man.” Beth Ann nodded, almost falling out of her chair. “I may need some assistance. Ada May is no light load when she’s out.”

A few minutes later, Micah pulled his car around to the back door. Randi guided Beth Ann. As the younger of the two old maids slid into the back seat, she noticed her clothes had gotten rained on and proceeded to take them off. Micah helped the hairy bartender named Frankie half carry, half drag Ada May to the car. Beth Ann had been accurate. Ada May was no light load when she was out cold.

Micah put her into the front seat and turned to Randi, who stood across the car from him. “I’m not driving home alone with one sister out cold and the other stripping in the back seat. You’ve got to take pity on me.”

He must have looked helpless, because Randi shoved wet hair from her face and gave in. “All right, coward.” She glanced at the man standing in the doorway. “Frankie, close up for me, would you?”

The man nodded and disappeared.

When she looked back at Micah, she laughed. “I’ll go along with you, but I got to tell you, Mr. Parker, you disappoint me. I would have thought you man enough to handle two women at the same time.”

He didn’t acknowledge her humor as he held the door open. “You ride in the back with the stripper.”

She splashed through the mud and climbed in.

Halfway home, Ada May woke up enough to vomit. Twice.

Getting the sisters inside and in bed proved to be a greater chore than Micah could have imagined. Several times, he thanked Randi for coming along. He couldn’t have done it without her. Ada May insisted on brushing her teeth before turning in, but she wasn’t stable enough on her feet to stand. They all crowded into the tiny bathroom. Micah held her up, his arms locked just below her ample breasts. Randi helped her hit her mouth with the toothbrush.

By the time they finished, Randi and he were both laughing so hard, Micah couldn’t catch his breath. They collapsed on a worn couch in the small cluttered living room.

“You think you had a problem with Ada May.” Randi slugged him with one of the dozen pillows surrounding them. “You should have tried to get Beth Ann’s support hose off.”

Micah surrendered. “You win. I haven’t put a drunk to bed since my college days, and if I don’t do it again in this lifetime it will be too soon.” He stood and offered his hand to help her up. They walked out the front door and onto an equally cluttered porch.

Two lawn chairs had been pushed close with a TV tray table in between them. An old, handmade backgammon board rested open on the table. Randi picked up a piece of the game. “Ada May told me tonight that the last thing they do every night is play one game. Whoever loses has to turn out the lights. Sometimes they argue over who won.” Randi stared at Micah. “On those nights, the lights stay on till morning.”

She tossed the chip to him. He placed it back on the board. “Stubborn women,” he said more to himself than her.

“That’s why it surprises me they were so shaken by what happened today.”

He had no answer. For a few minutes they both watched a car pass down the rain-swollen street.

Randi took a long breath. “I love the rain.” She held her hand out to touch a tiny waterfall sliding off the roof.

Micah raised his hand, almost touching her hair. Moisture sparkled in it like silver glitter.

She glanced at him with eyes the green of a dense forest. “What?”

“Your hair gets even curlier when it’s damp.” He hadn’t meant to touch it, but the mass was so beautiful, all shiny with red and brown highlights. He let the tips of his fingers brush one curl.

“It’s natural.” She winked. “All over.”

Micah turned his face to the rain. She’d done it again, he thought. Treating him like just any person—like just any man. It felt good and frightening at the same time. Since he’d buried Amy, he thought of himself as a father, a minister, a friend. He’d set all other definitions aside. Now, to be accepted for being nothing more than simply human overwhelmed him. He felt free somehow.

Randi elbowed him. “How about I clean up their place a little? No one wants to wake up with a hangover and have to face all the empty bottles sitting around.”

“I’ll help.”

“No way.” She spread her hand out across his chest stopping him from following her. “I think you should find a hose and wash out your car before you take me home. It’s too far a drive to hold my breath.”

Micah glanced out in the rain. “I’ll get wet.”

“I’m not riding back with that smell.”

“I’ll get wet,” he repeated.

Randi patted his shoulder. “You’ll dry.” Then, without warning, she shoved him into the rain.

Micah stumbled off the porch, laughing. He told himself he wasn’t attracted to her or any woman, but it felt great to have someone touch him. Just touch him. Not friendly handshakes or polite hugs, but an honest touch.

He dug around in the flower beds until he found the garden hose rolled up neatly beside a rosebush. He did his best to avoid stepping on any of the rosebushes. Everyone in town knew how the sisters loved their roses.

Turning the water on full force, he dragged the hose to his car and pulled out the mats. He hardly noticed the rain. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d been so alive. Maybe it was the excitement of this morning, or the way Randi talked to him, or maybe it was just time to start living again. He didn’t know. He didn’t care. It just felt good.

By the time he got the hose rolled back up in the mud beside the rosebush, Randi stood on the porch ready to go. He motioned for her to climb in and was surprised at how she walked slowly to the car and turned her face to the rain, as if it didn’t bother her at all.

When she closed her door, he said, “You really do like the rain.”

Randi shrugged. “I’ve been rained on a lot. It doesn’t scare me anymore.”

They drove back to the bar in silence. He thought about what she’d said, and what she hadn’t said.

The parking lot was dark when they got to the bar. The sisters’ van was the only one out front. Micah didn’t want this strange time to end, but had no idea what to say. He knew he wasn’t likely to see Randi again after tonight.

“You want to come in for breakfast?” She lifted the doorknob. “I always eat when the night’s over, then I can sleep until noon without waking up starving.”

He hadn’t had a bite since before the committee meeting that morning. “I’d love to, if you don’t mind? But I warn you, I’m starving.”

“I asked, didn’t I? I think I can fill you up.”

They walked to the back door. She reached above the frame. “Frankie kept locking himself out and we didn’t want to leave the door unlocked, so he installed a latch above the door. Lights flash in the kitchen and my office when this back door swings.” She led him down a hallway lined with boxes and mops to a tiny kitchen.

“Of course, I lock it when I head upstairs for the night. We figure only a tall drunk could reach the latch, providing they knew about it.”

He wondered if she often told her secrets so easily. Looking around the kitchen he tried to understand her. The kitchen appeared to have been added to the bar in the fifties. Nothing had been updated. The counters were red linoleum, stained and worn through in a few places. Pots and knives hung on the wall behind a stove. The refrigerator clanked out a steady beat. The place was spotless.

“Frankie used to serve hot appetizers years ago, but it got to be too much trouble.” She pulled a string on a bare light swinging from the center of the low ceiling. “I keep it open so when I’m stuck here I won’t starve.” She winked. “A girl can’t live on bar nuts alone.”

The cleanliness of the place surprised him. There was a wildness about this woman, but there was also an order.

“If you want to dry off, there’s a stack of towels by the back door.” She combed her hair with her fingers and twisted it into a wild knot behind her head. “How do you like your eggs?”

“Any way but scrambled,” he answered thinking of the thousand church breakfasts he’d eaten with scrambled eggs. He heard her banging around the kitchen while he dried his hair in the hallway between the back door and the kitchen. Using paper towels, he wiped mud off his shoes then washed his hands in a big sink that looked as if it would only be used to clean mops. The Rogers sisters’ rosebush had torn a two-inch rip in his trousers at the knee, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. Since he had no comb, he raked a hand through his hair, hoping he wouldn’t frighten her.

Then he laughed. The woman owned the roughest bar for thirty miles around. Probably nothing frightened her. In all likelihood she told him about the back door’s latch because she wasn’t the least afraid of him.

When he walked back into the kitchen, the smell of steak and onions grilling drifted across the room. She motioned for him to sit before turning back to the stove.

Micah tried not to stare but couldn’t help himself. The lean woman in tight jeans and a rain-dampened Western shirt that stopped an inch above her waist was unlike anyone he’d ever encountered. She moved with an easy grace, but everything he knew about her told him she must be made of rawhide.

“How do you know the sisters?” She didn’t turn around.

“Maybe I grew up here and they were my teachers?” he offered.

“Nope,” she answered as if being tested. “I grew up here and they were my teachers. You’re definitely a transplant.”

“That obvious?”

She grinned over her shoulder and pointed with a spatula. “It’s the shoes.” When he didn’t answer she added, “No man from West Texas wears shoes with tassels. Those are for the big cities like Dallas and Houston. And while I’m at it, any self-respecting working man lets the mud on his shoes dry, then stomps it off.”

“Anything else?”

She set two plates filled with eggs and steak on the table. “In my line of work I’ve learned to read people. You’re not married, but you were. Divorced, maybe with a kid, grade school probably. You see him often.”

“Widowed. One child, seven.”

“Sorry.” She met his eyes. “I’m the same. My husband was killed in an oil-rig accident a few years back.”

“Cancer took my wife.” He wanted to change the subject. “How’d you guess so much about me?”

She opened two beers without asking if he wanted one and sat down across from him. “Wedding band you didn’t try to hide. Socks that don’t match. No woman would let you out of the house like that.”

Micah stared at his socks. They looked like a matched pair to him. But, one might be more gray than black now that he studied them.

“And I sat on a coloring book in the back seat of your car so either you’ve got a kid, or you’re not quite as bright as I thought you might be. A boy, I’d guess, since girls usually don’t color Spider-Man.”

He smiled. “I made it too easy, Sherlock.” He cut into his steak. “Now for the big question: why did you invite me in? I could be a serial rapist for all you know.”

She laughed. “Not with those shoes.” She took a bite, then added, “I knew you were safe, first because you were a friend of the Rogers sisters. They’re not the types to hang around with dangerous men. Second, you turn red every time I get within waltzing distance. That doesn’t sound like a trait a rapist would have. You’re safe all right, Micah Parker. Safe as a crosswalk.”

Micah wished he could think of a funny comeback, but he was too busy eating. She’d cooked what he was sure must be the world’s best steak.

Randi picked at her food. Every time he raised his gaze from his plate, she watched him. He always turned away first. He didn’t want to think about what else she’d be able to guess about him.

After finishing his steak, Micah started on hers. She moved her plate toward him without comment. He stopped to take a drink of the longneck, then made himself slow down as he ate the rest of her breakfast. She probably thought he was homeless by the way he consumed food.

“I’m on a committee with the Rogers sisters. Though, I knew who they were. Everyone does.”

“The committee that got interrupted by a flying drill bit this morning?” She leaned closer.

Micah nodded. Clifton Creek didn’t need a paper. News spread faster than butter on lava.

“I heard a few of the oil guys talking about it, but I didn’t pay a lot of attention. When the sisters came in, they wanted to talk about everything but what frightened them.” She wrinkled her forehead. “One of the oilmen said there’d been a little interest in the Altman property as a drill site, but no oilman would send a drill bit as his calling card.”

Micah leaned forward and lowered his voice. “What kind of interest?”

Randi shrugged. “Just rumors. The men in the bar are always talking about where to drill next. Most of it’s speculation and guessing. Since the old house sets on a rise, it would be the prime spot to drill if anyone decided to test for oil below.” She studied him. “You think someone was trying to tell the committee something this morning? Or trying to hurt one of you?”

“It could have been an accident. Kids may have found the bit and thought it would be great for shattering windows.” He stacked the empty plates and stood. “Maybe they didn’t take the time to notice people were sitting at a table on the other side of the glass.”

She followed, sipping her beer as he scraped the dishes. “Maybe someone wanted to stop the committee. I don’t know who else serves on the panel with you, but the Rogers sisters must have been frightened half to death. They’re tough old birds, but I’m not sure they’ll be interested in going back into that house. To tell the truth I’m surprised it didn’t fall down around the committee this morning.”

Micah dried his hands. “It bothers me to think that someone could have been hurt. Really hurt.”

She put her hand on his shoulder. “It could’ve been you.” Her words were soft against his ear.

He took a long breath and for once in his life decided not to think, but to act. In half a turn his body brushed against hers and he lowered his mouth toward her lips.

She slowly molded against him, as smooth flowing as liquid passion. Then, when they were so close their breaths mingled, she smiled. A smile that told him she could read his thoughts.

“I think it’s time we call it a night,” she said as she stepped away.

She walked across the kitchen. “You know,” she said in that low voice of hers, “I was wrong about you, Mr. Parker. You’re not safe.”

He didn’t know if he should apologize or try again. It seemed a lifetime since he’d known the rules—if he’d ever known them.

He thought it best to say good-night. “Thanks for the steak.”

“Anytime,” she answered. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Parker.” The look she gave him said so much more.

“Nice to meet you,” he echoed, thinking she was a blast of fresh air in the cellar he’d been living in for years.

Ten

Lora Whitman folded her napkin and tried to give at least the appearance of paying attention to her mother. She should have pretended sleep longer and cut the time at the breakfast table in half. Working for her father was easy compared to having to live with her mother. Luckily, the house was big enough for Lora to have her own wing on the third floor with a study, a bedroom and a small workout area. Her mother rarely ventured into her rooms, claiming the stairs were too much for her.

“I can’t imagine how frightened you were, dear. I told everyone how you just couldn’t face talking about the accident yesterday. Not even to me.” Isadore Whitman finished her coffee. “Of course, you were so worried about that Professor Dickerson from the college who had a heart attack that you rode with the first car leaving for Wichita Falls to check on her.” Isadore stopped long enough to spread her lipstick just wider than her lip line. Her own private answer to BOTOX.

Trying to keep her voice calm, Lora corrected, “First, Mother, it wasn’t an accident. A ten-pound drill bit almost the size of a football isn’t something that just flies into a window. Second, Sidney Dickerson didn’t have a heart attack. We feared she had, but the hospital checked her out.”

Lora knew she was wasting her time. Isadore lived in a fairy-tale world. Oh, not with giants and dragons, but the kind of make-believe with parties and parades. In Isadore’s fairyland, streets could be named Candy Lane just because she bought the only house on the block and daughters grew up and married well. And never came back home to live.

“Morning, ladies.” Calvin Whitman’s booming voice entered the room a few seconds before he did. A large man, he leaned back a little more each year to accommodate his ever-expanding belly.

He patted Lora’s shoulder as he passed. “How’s my little girl feeling today?”

Lora nodded her hello. She’d always be her daddy’s little girl. Unlike Isadore, he hadn’t wanted to give her up to marriage and seemed happy to have her back home. In fact, Calvin would be happy if nothing ever changed in his world but next year’s Cadillac colors.

“I’m fine.” Lora stood. “I thought I’d go in early and see what landed on my desk yesterday while I was out.” She was never sure if she truly helped her father’s business, or as the boss he simply found work for her. In either case, she didn’t complain. Her ex-husband had served her with papers, cleaned out all their accounts and packed her things so fast she hadn’t been able to give notice. She was lucky to find work, period.

“This early?” Isadore glanced at the clock. “Don’t even think about work yet, Lora.”

Calvin helped himself to breakfast laid out in silver dishes along the sideboard. He rattled one of the lids and peeped in as if fearing what might be inside.

Isadore glared at him with disgust but spoke to her daughter. “Aren’t you going to have more than coffee, Lora? I know the magazines say you can never be too thin, but you’ve lost so much weight since the divorce. You look like a coat hanger. If you get any thinner, you’ll never catch another man.”

To Lora’s dismay her father joined the assault.

“That’s right, hon.” Calvin didn’t look up from his food. “Men like their barbecue and their women with just the right combination of meat and fat.”

Though Isadore slapped at his arm, he didn’t bother apologizing.

Lora thought of telling her mother that she planned to get a doughnut on the way to work, but didn’t want to hear the lecture. Isadore had set out the same breakfast for her family all her married life. Lora could go down the neat little silver servers and tell what was in them without opening the lids. Eggs, always in the first. Ham, if a serving fork rested beside the second dish. Bacon if there were tongs. Toast, if butter and jam were on the table. Muffins if only butter sat out. On weekends, pancakes, or if company was there, Belgian waffles. Always served with fruit Isadore bought frozen and never bothered to let thaw before serving.

“I really have work to catch up on.” Lora put her coffee cup on the silver tray closest to the swinging door leading to the kitchen.

Calvin set his plate at the far end of the table. “Let her go, dear,” he mumbled, giving equal support to his girls. “It’s a fact, she’s got work waiting.” He turned his attention to Lora. “I signed on as one of the rodeo sponsors yesterday. Told them you’d give the new president a hand. Real nice fellow running the show this year. Talk is he’s planning to run for the state senate next year, so being in charge of the rodeo will get him in front of the public.”

Lora wasn’t surprised. Her father had always been an easy touch for any fund-raiser. He seemed to believe a marketing degree made her an expert in the field.

In the six months she’d been home, she’d talked him into giving Cadillac Cash instead of real money. Some charity would auction off a thousand dollars in Cadillac Cash or have it as their special door prize. The clubs wrote thanking him for the donation, which the business wrote off. He honored the “cash” on any new car. Everyone won and at worst the dealership sold a new car for a few hundred less than they’d planned.

“Is he single, by any chance?” Isadore asked.

“I have to run.” Lora moved fast, knowing that if she didn’t, Isadore would snare her in meaningless conversation. Her father had already opened his paper. At least he could read while he pretended to listen.

“But—” was all Isadore got out.

Lora grabbed her case at the foot of the stairs and hurried through the side door leading to the garage. She climbed into her Audi, adjusted her seat from where her mother had played with it the day before, and backed out of the driveway as if she were auditioning for a part in a chase film.

At the café near the downtown square, Lora ordered her usual chocolate-covered cinnamon roll and black coffee before she spotted the reverend at the counter, with a worried frown wrinkling his forehead as he read the paper. Yesterday, he’d been all calm and strong. This morning he looked exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept at all.

She hesitated. He hadn’t seen her. She could grab her food and run. But, to her surprise, she wanted to talk to him. She needed to touch base, make sure he was okay, learn any news. She slid onto the swivel stool next to him and motioned for Polly to bring her order to the counter.

Polly turned away, but her head wobbled back and forth as it always did when she talked to herself about all the extra work she had to do. If friendliness determined tips, Polly would be working for pennies.

“Morning, Preacher.” Lora returned his smile as he glanced up from his paper. “How’s today treating you?” His eyes didn’t seem so sad when he smiled. He blinked as if she’d caught him deep in thought. Studious. That was the word for him.

“Morning, Miss Whitman. How are the battle scars?”

She twisted on the stool and showed him the huge Band-Aids covering her knees. “They hardly show under my hose.”

He glanced down, then looked away.

“Oh, sorry,” she mumbled and straightened.

“For what?”

“Guess I shouldn’t be showing my legs to a preacher.”

He lost his grin. “Guess not,” he answered. “After all, we’re not men. Not quite human.”

If she could have, Lora would have pulled Micah Parker to her and hugged him. She’d never heard someone sound so miserable in her life. She hadn’t thought of it before, but he was right about the way people think of men in the church. Ministers weren’t like other people.

Polly delivered Lora’s breakfast with a thud. “It’s still hot from the fryer, so be careful.”

The chocolate sauce bubbled across the top of the round cinnamon roll. Lora took a deep breath. “Chocolate and grease, my two favorite food groups.”

Micah’s smile returned. “How often do you indulge in this slow form of suicide?”

“Every Tuesday,” she answered as she cut off a bite and blew on it. “I came home on a Monday after my divorce. We moved what little I had left into storage, set me up an office next to my father’s at the dealership, and I went to sleep in the twin bed I’d slept in most of my life. The next morning I thought I couldn’t get out of bed. Nothing…nothing would make me want to face this town, this job, my failure.”

Micah winked. “And then you remembered.” He pointed to the roll.

“Right,” she laughed. “My reason to live.” She pushed the first bite in her mouth.

Micah folded up his paper as Polly slammed down his oatmeal and wheat toast. “May I have one of those rolls?” he asked politely.

Polly groaned. “Instead of this?”

Micah quickly added, “Oh, no, for dessert. I still want this order.”

Polly mumbled something about breakfast don’t have no dessert as she moved away.

“You’re very brave, Preacher. Not many locals have the nerve to change their order once Polly writes it down.”

He tasted his oatmeal. “I must be living dangerously lately.”

“I’ll say,” Lora agreed.

As they ate, they talked about yesterday. Neither had much in the way of news, but it felt comforting to rehash the details. They were like veterans in an unknown war.

After Polly delivered his roll, Micah said, “Sidney’s getting out of the hospital today. I talked with the sheriff when I came in and he said Will’s driving the ambulance over to pick her up at no charge.” He tasted his cinnamon roll and shoved the oatmeal aside. “I really don’t know her, but I feel like I do. I’d like to go check on her this afternoon and make sure she’s settled in at home, but…”

“But it might not look right.” She could see his problem. Single minister visits single teacher in her home alone. The town would fill in the blanks. Lora fought the urge to swear. Living in Clifton Creek reminded her of stepping back in time. They might have the Internet and cell phones, but sometimes she expected the theme song from Mayberry R.F.D to start playing out of thin air. She handed Micah her business card with all her phone numbers on it. “Call me when you’re heading over and I’ll meet you there.”

“Thanks.” He shoved the card into his vest pocket. “You worried, too?”

“In some way we all became a family yesterday. Billy even commented about how we need to watch one another’s backs.” She shuddered. “I’ll be glad when we can vote on what to do with that old house. Give our recommendation to the mayor. Forget about the committee. That old place has years of bad vibes. I’ve heard stories about it all my life.”

“Maybe the drill bit flying was just a onetime, freak thing that happened,” Micah mumbled between bites. “It probably had nothing to do with us, just kids playing around. Maybe they wanted the house to fall thinking there would be a park or something else put in its place?”

“Maybe. But if it wasn’t?” She pictured zombies running down Main Street all carrying drill bits as they screamed the committee members’ names. Horror movies always had a group of people on the monster most-wanted list. “What if someone singled us out?”

“Then we fight.” He plopped the last bite of the roll in his mouth and stood.

“Great,” Lora whispered as she waved him goodbye. She was going to war with a regiment from the monster appetizers menu and the preacher thought they could fight.

Ten minutes later, when Lora made it to her office, she could still hear Micah’s determined words. He surprised her. Weren’t men of the cloth supposed to be meek? He seemed kind and thoughtful, but meek wasn’t a word that fit that minister. Yesterday when he’d removed his coat and only wore a shirt and trousers, he’d definitely been relaxed. Today in his brown suit he looked more official.

As she turned toward the car dealership’s set of offices along the back wall of the showroom, Lora wasn’t surprised to see a man sitting on the corner of her desk. Her father thought the floor plan of see-through office walls and no doors except on the restrooms made the place look welcoming and honest. Lora thought it more a bother. Anyone trying to sell her anything could camp out in her office until she showed up. Dora, her father’s secretary and the unofficial hostess, would even serve them coffee.

She waved at Dora. The middle-aged greeter waved back. Her father’s statement about the right combination of fat and meat crossed Lora’s thoughts. She shook the possibility out of her head. Her mother would kill her father by slow endless conversation if he even looked at Dora.

Walking into her cage of an office, Lora ignored the young man dressed as if he had just stepped out of a line dance. She put up her purse and removed her jacket. She couldn’t miss the width of his shoulders, or his Western clothes right down to his fifteen-hundred-dollar boots and pressed jeans. He wasn’t here to try to sell her pencils and caps with the logo of the dealership.

She raised an eyebrow in interest as she shoved her briefcase under the desk. If he needed a car, he would have been waylaid by one of the salesmen before he could make it to her office.

Finally, with everything in order, she faced him. “May I help you?”

His smile seemed calculated. Not too wide, not too innocent. “I certainly hope so, Miss Whitman. I’m Talon Graham. My friends call me Tal.” He waited as if expecting her to recognize the name.

Lora had seen his type before. In fact, she’d married one of the tribe. Handsome, well-mannered, high-maintenance, used to getting his way. The kind of man who wanted a blonde on his arm. Trouble was, she’d been that blonde once before and no longer wanted the role.

Since he obviously knew her name, she asked again. “How may I help you, Mr. Graham?”

He stood. “I’m in oil exploration by profession, but I’m here as president of this year’s Rodeo Association. I’d like you to help me make next year’s rodeo the best Clifton Creek has ever seen.”

“The rodeo’s nine months away. We don’t need to plan advertising yet.” She wanted to add that, hopefully, she wouldn’t be in town nine months from now, but with what her father paid her, it was a possibility. Also, men in oil exploration weren’t known to stay long in one place.

“I know, but it may take some time.” He winked. “First I plan to organize a huge fund-raiser to improve what Clifton Creek laughingly calls a rodeo grounds. Second, I’d like to get to know everyone in town, or at least anyone who will help.” He stood, towering over her. “Your daddy told me yesterday that you wouldn’t mind introducing me around. As an outsider, I’ll need to move in the right circles fast.” He glanced down, seeming almost shy. Almost. “He said you would be at my disposal whenever needed.”

Lora swore she felt smoke coming out of her ears. She could almost hear her father telling this man that his poor daughter had nothing to do with her life and would be happy to take him around. After all, divorced women don’t have an easy time getting back on the horse.

Talon had the nerve to grin when he added, “So, we’ll be seeing a lot of each other over the next few months?”

She’d have to kill Daddy, she thought. “I’ll talk with my father,” she managed to say as she glanced through her glass walls.

He’d finally gone too far, pimping her out to a rodeo. And because Isadore would be impossible to live with as a widow, Lora would have to murder her, too. Maybe she could get a deal when buying double caskets and plots. She saw it all now, the church packed, the funeral procession long and loaded with the newest models on the lot. The coffins would be matching champagne white. Too bad the funeral home didn’t have Casket Cash.

Eleven

The afternoon rain drove Billy Hatcher’s roofing crew inside. Most of the guys called it a day. Sam Davis and Billy drove over to do cleanup on the window replacement job at the Altman house.

The sky hung low, bringing the shadows of twilight early. Billy heard more than one person say the rain might freeze after sundown. If so, there would be no work tomorrow until the sun warmed everything up. He didn’t care. Unlike the others, he had plenty to keep himself busy. Roofing was seasonal work anyway, but it paid well. He figured he had enough put away to last three months in an apartment when bad weather hit. A few inside carpentry jobs should carry him through till spring. If his plan worked, he wouldn’t have to move back in with his father and whatever old lady he had playing house with him now.

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