01 Do You Believe in Magic - The Children of Merlin (12 page)

“Hey, what’s wrong with the
windmill?” he called. “Pump not working?”

“Motor’s burnt out or
something.”

He ran his teeth over his bottom
lip. She didn’t have any money to call someone to fix it. So she
hauled water for the horses, probably twice a day. For the house,
too. A big barrel sat by the side of the porch. And the outhouse
must be in current use.

Tris pushed himself out of the
chair, arranged his crutch, and hobbled out across the dirt,
ignoring the pain in his leg. She had her back toward him, pulling
up another bucket of water.

Catching sight of him out of the
corner of her eye, she said, “You promised not to loom.”

“I’m pretty good with motors.
Maybe I could take a look.”

She pushed some hair escaping
from her rubber band back over her ear. “Needs a new one. I came
out one morning and it was sorta smoking.”

“No harm in looking.”

She shrugged and pointed to the
motor housing at the base of the windmill. “If you got time to
waste.” She heaved the bucket up and poured it into one of her
empties.

“Your faith is touching.”

“Let’s just say I won’t quit
hauling.” The bucket fell into the well with a distant slap.

Tris gazed up to the windmill
blades, twirling in the wind. There was a gearbox way up there.
Hope it isn’t a broken gear. Nothin’ I can do about that right
now.
He leaned over on his crutch and flipped the latch to the
motor housing. “Who hauls it while you’re gone?” He couldn’t
imagine Elroy hauling water or bucking hay.

“If I gotta be gone overnight
when I got stock here, I hire a high school kid to come by twice a
day. Cuts into my earnings, but dead horses don’t sell.” She hauled
hand over hand.

He peered into the housing.
Light was bad here.

“I’ll bring a flashlight.” She
didn’t miss much.

In the meantime Tris put his
hand inside and felt around. Pump was dry as a bone. He turned
around and watched her dump her pails and trudge over to the truck
for a flashlight. She detoured by the porch and slung the two
folding chairs over her shoulder, juggling the flashlight under her
arm and the two empty pails in that hand. She set down the chairs
for him in front of the motor and handed him the flashlight, then
returned to filling buckets.

Tris sat gratefully and laid his
crutch on the sandy soil, then lifted his bad leg onto the other
chair. He flicked on the flashlight and peered in. Just as he
thought. “How long since this thing was lubed up?” He pulled on the
belt. Worn, but it would do for now.

“A while.” She set her lips. He
recognized the gesture. “Guy who comes out from over by Battle
Mountain died. Pretty steep to have someone out from Elko or Ely. I
let it go too long.”

“You got any grease around
here?”

She turned to him, a question in
her eyes. It looked like hope. That made something expand in his
chest that hadn’t gotten to do that in a while. “Maybe over in the
tool shed.” Her eyes shifted to somewhere behind him.

“Tool shed. That’s good.” He
eased his leg down and shoved himself up.

“I’ll go look. You stay
here.”

“Hell, no,” Tris grinned. “Tool
shed for me is like a sale at Nordstrom’s for a woman.”

She looked nonplussed.

Uh-oh. Wrong analogy for Maggie
O’Brian. “I’m gonna need tools to take it apart,” he amended
hastily. He limped over to the shed, surprised that she followed
him. The rickety wooden door creaked open when he shoved it with
his crutch. Slats of light from between the weathered boards
slanted across a dim interior, making it swirl with glowing dust
motes. The smell of oil and metal and rust assaulted his nostrils.
Tools were scattered on a scarred workbench. Socket wrenches, vise,
pliers. An old motor half-disassembled, corroded spark plugs. A
disaster. But it felt like coming home.

“Yeah,” he breathed.

“Careful you don’t fall,” she
said gruffly from behind him.

“No danger,” he murmured,
looking around. He put a socket wrench set in the toolbox that once
had been painted red. He took a screwdriver, and … there it was, a
can of heavy-duty engine grease. She’d had the means of saving her
pump motor right here all along and just didn’t know how to use it.
Well, he did. He gathered up a crescent wrench, some Allen
wrenches, a screwdriver, and handed her the toolbox. Back at the
windmill, he sat in the chair and she handed him the toolbox. Good
thing his right hand was not the one in the sling. Now, if
only.…

“I’ll hold the flashlight,” she
said, sounding disgusted.

“Thanks.” Just what he needed. He smiled
up at her. She blinked several times. Then he turned his attention
to the ailing motor.

*****

That man had a smile that was
just … devastating. She’d seen it twice in the space of twenty
minutes, the first time as she mentioned the tool shed. She felt a
little stunned as she grabbed the flashlight. The only way she
could shine it where he indicated was to lean over his back. What
had she gotten herself into? She could see the muscles move under
his shirt as he took one of the socket wrenches and leaned into the
engine. His biceps bulged under the cloth. His forearms, bared by
his rolled-up sleeves, were so
strong
looking.…

He had to ask her to adjust the
light several times. She was having trouble concentrating. He was
lost in his task. It seemed no time at all before he had the
housing taken apart and the pump motor out where he could see it.
She was fascinated. His body felt so ... present it made her want
to scream. But his sureness, his skill, was a marvel too. He deftly
disassembled the intricate mass of metal and bolts and gears,
holding it on his lap. He was fast, even with one hand, his big
fingers almost graceful as he worked. A lock of his hair fell over
his forehead, making him look about twelve.
Dangerous. He’s
definitely not twelve.

“Okay,” he said, sitting back.
“Can you hand me that grease?” He pried open the can with a
screwdriver and took out three fingers’ full of the thick
gold-brown, shiny stuff. He began greasing the gears and parts,
almost caressing them. He was sweating in the sun, and when he ran
the back of his forearm across his forehead, he left some grease
there. Cute.

Oh, boy. You’re in deep,
girl.

The lines of pain around his
eyes had smoothed. His focus was totally on the metal. Her focus
was on him. Screw hauling water. Before she knew it the motor was
coming back together. He turned it over, examining it, grunting in
satisfaction then bolting it down, stretching the belt over the
flywheels.

“Let’s crank her up and see what
we got,” he growled in that baritone that added insult to injury,
attractiveness-wise. Maggie held her breath. Tris flipped the
switch. Nothing.

“I hope that doesn’t mean the
gearbox up there is out of commission,” he mumbled. She looked up.
A long way up. He sure wasn’t going to use her ladder. She could
climb, but how would she would she know what to do when she got
there?

Disappointment shot through her.
For a minute she’d thought that maybe.… But no. Her life wasn’t the
kind where things worked out just fine.

Tris peered at the switch,
leaned in to look at something inside the housing, fiddled.

The engine sputtered, grunted,
and began to chug, then settled into a contented hum. That engine
had
never
sounded that good. The gears, now greased and
connected to the spinning windmill through the gearbox, turned the
pump.

Tris nodded, closing the
housing. “Needed grease. Might want to get a new belt soon.”

Maggie swallowed over a lump in
her throat. Her eyes filled. She just nodded.

“Goodbye outhouse, hello,
running water.”

“Yeah,” she managed.

Tris glanced up at her, eyes
crinkling. He was proud. Must have been hard to just sit there with
his foot up. He was used to being strong, in charge. “I have my
uses.”

Oh, he should so
not
have
said that. Got her imagination going again. She cleared her throat.
“I’ll just drag the hose over and fill the water barrels.” She
turned somehow and managed not to look back at him as she hauled
the hose.

It was dusk when the horses were
watered and she finally backed the truck up to the trailer and
fastened it to the hitch. Temperature was dropping fast. She
couldn’t help but wonder why a man with such a gift for mechanical
things wasn’t doing something like designing airplanes or tuning
race cars. He’d given up restoring old cars apparently. That was
like throwing a gift at the giver. Obviously, working with machines
was what he was born to do. She found it incredibly attractive that
he had a calling and a skill. Even if he took it for granted.

She got out of the cab and
slammed the door. “That’s it. I feed and water tomorrow morning.
Then we load the horses and we’re good to go.” Maggie wasn’t sure
whether she was eager to spend that much time with this guy or was
dreading it.

Actually, she wasn’t sure of
anything right now.

“I can hardly wait,” he said. He
said it bitterly. But it wasn’t sarcastic. This guy
really
didn’t want to go home.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Kemble Tremaine sat at the
computer in his office at the Tremaine estate. He stared out the
French doors. At any other time the sight of Catalina Island under
a sky streaked with magenta would be soothing.

“Damn you, Tris,” he
muttered.

“What are you swearing about
now, Kemble?”

Kemble turned toward the aura of
power behind him. His father wandered into the room, looking over
some reports. “Hospital in Reno just submitted a claim to our
insurance for Tris.”

His father jerked his head up, a
worried frown on his face. He went to shut the door to the office
quietly. Smart man. It would do no good to worry his wife.
“Serious?” he asked.

“There’s a charge for a surgical
suite. Admitting diagnosis is multiple fractures.”

“I’ll send the helicopter for
him,” his father said, throwing the reports onto the table. “Call
Cedars Sinai.”

“He’s been discharged,” Kemble
added hastily. “Looks like it was an auto accident.”

His father sighed, whether in
relief or disgust Kemble wasn’t sure. “Driving drunk, no doubt,” he
said, wiping a hand over his face wearily.

“No doubt. You want me
to…?”’

“If he wanted us he would have
called.” His father bit the words out. “I’m sure he’s got a woman
to see to his needs. Unless.....”

Kemble knew what his father was
thinking. “First Victor, now this,” he muttered. Victor Heinemann,
the lawyer for Tremaine Enterprises since Kemble could remember,
had been found in an abandoned warehouse in Las Vegas with his
throat cut. He’d been there several days. Victor had been like an
uncle to the Brood. The whole family had been devastated by his
death.

His father looked up, his face
drawn. “Do the Las Vegas police have any leads?”

Kemble sighed. “Whoever did it
seems to have disappeared into thin air.”

“There’s something wrong,” his
father said, frowning. “Who would do that to Victor?”

Kemble turned back to the
computer screen. “Well, hello,” he said dryly. “Tris must not be
hurt that badly. He just made a charge at Wilson’s Fine Pre-owned
Vehicles in Fallon, Nevada. Looks like he put the new bike on his
Amex.”

His father sighed, relieved. “I
must be imagining things. But after what happened to Victor....”
His father shook his head. “Those bikes are twenty K. We’ll end up
paying for it.”

“We’ve never had to pay off his
cards,” Kemble noted. Fair was fair. What his father paid that
photographer, well, that wasn’t a credit card bill. It was another
kind of bill come due. Then Kemble too frowned and peered at the
screen. “Actually, Tris bought a 1981 Ford F350 pickup truck for
twenty-six hundred dollars. He wouldn’t care about restoring
anything that recent,” Kemble mused. “But he wouldn’t drive a
thirty-year-old truck either.”

“Well, he got an hour away from
the hospital and felt well enough to go car shopping.” His father
collected the scattered reports. “I don’t think we need tell your
mother.”

“Where is she?”

“Reading the tarot.” That closed
the subject, Kemble knew. He pointed to a stack of documents on the
conference table. “The messenger dropped off the agreements.”
They’d have to do the review themselves. It felt wrong without
Victor and his sound advice to guide them. But replacing Victor
would be damn near impossible, literally, or emotionally.

“Let’s get to it.” His father sat at the
table and drew the binders closer.

*****

That was one independent woman,
Tris thought. Guess she had to be. Killed her not to know how to
take care of her motor.
Well, that’s what I’m for.

But he wasn’t. He was outta here
tomorrow morning and never coming back. He sucked in a breath and
tried to feel good about that. His scratchy discontent surfaced
again. Probably just the pain in his leg and his shoulder, which
had been ramping up for a while. At least he had ten hours in the
truck with her. Minimum. Yeah. He felt good about that.

She glanced up at him. “Want
some dinner?”

Like she needed more work. “I’m
good. Big lunch.”

She snorted. “Man as big as you
are needs three squares. I think I got some steaks frozen. You
probably need some of those pretty white pills too.”

He surely did. Tris pushed
himself up and hobbled after her into the house, reassured by the
continued snoring. He’d like it just fine if Elroy slept through
dinner.

“You want a drink?” she asked.
“That’s one thing I’m sure we’ve got. Somewhere.”