Keeping Victoria's Secret (12 page)

“
So Captain Jack had ye hid away here to
keep all to himself,” he rasped. “We was wonderin’ where he’d
stowed your loveliness.” Before she could scream again, a rough
hand covered her mouth. “You’re comin’ with me now, and you’ll come
quiet, or you’ll be sorry.”

Light spilled into the tent and a voice like
gravel thrown against a tin roof growled. “Take your filthy hands
off her, McGee or I’ll blow a hole in your guts big enough to drive
a team of horses through.”

The drunken pirate swayed uncertainly and
then released her. She sank abruptly to her knees, lovely breasts
spilling out seductively towards the Captain as she knelt on the
silk pooled around her. Long red hair flowed down the smooth pale
skin of her back stopping just above the soft peach of her round
bottom. She tried franticly to cover herself by gathering the loose
silk about her, as she looked to her savior.

Just beneath Captain Jack’s thunderous scowl
was the round black muzzle of the biggest pistol she’d ever seen,
cocked and aimed at her assailant. For the moment, she was safe
from being ravaged, but for how much longer? Where did the real
danger lurk?

From "Caribbean Fire", by Tori Baxter

Alarmed at the news of Jonathan Van Winkle’s
suit, Elvira felt sure that Fred Douglas couldn’t be right.
Jonathan just couldn’t be the heir. Something nagged at the
periphery of her memory. Something her mother had mentioned to her
long ago. She recalled carefully packing away keepsakes in a drawer
when her mother passed away and hadn’t looked in there since.
Though she was gone many years, it went against Elvira’s nature to
pry into her mother’s private life, but this was good reason to do
so.

Removing her mother’s diary from her bottom
dresser drawer, she sighed, set the book on her desk and sat down
to read. Surely one of the five year diaries her mother had
faithfully kept as a young woman must reveal facts about the years
after the war when Victoria Willet had married. She opened the
book, and began to read.

While his wife searched through her mother’s
things, Doc Sweeney was rocking on his porch after dinner, nursing
a glass of local apple brandy as he contemplated Victoria and
Jack’s situation. After speaking with Fred Douglas that afternoon,
he'd returned from town with the news that Jonathan Van Winkle had
started legal proceedings to try to gain ownership of the Willet
farm. Watching the sunset, he sighed deeply as he wrestled with
their problem. There was nothing constructive he could do that Fred
wasn’t already doing.

On the other hand, he’d been a bit of a
matchmaker all his life; and Jack needed a sweet wife like his
Elvira. Vicky was such a nice young lady and he considered the pair
well suited to one another. Young folks today don’t seem very
bright about these things.

Despite the hour, Fred Douglas was still in
his office, ensconced in a deep leather chair, frowning at the
ceiling. He’d sent to the State Bureau of Vital Statistics for
birth, death, and adoption records for both names of Jonathan Van
Winkle’s father, Theodore Willet and Theodore Van Winkle. He’d sent
a letter off to Van Winkle’s attorney in Albany informing him of
their intention to contest the case. Sitting at his desk mulling
over the problem he turned it around in his mind as the sun sank
towards the western horizon. Then on impulse, he also sent for
Betsy Willet’s marriage records.

Jonathan Van Winkle sat brooding in his old
easy chair with the remote in one hand, and a can of beer at his
elbow. Damn Jack Conner and that old fart, whoever he was. His
right hand went burrowing down behind him, massaging his aching
hip, where he’d strained something when he went careening off the
porch. I can’t wait to see the look on that bastard Jack’s face,
when I walk in and kick his ass off that farm. Grandmother was a
fool to let those Willets have the place. It should have been mine
all this time. That Vicky woman’s gonna be mine too. She’ll be
begging for it when she realizes the place belongs to me. A little
bit plain, but what a nice body she’s got. Hell, if I don’t get
that farm, by God, I’ll go in some night and burn the place to the
ground. See if I don’t. The hand snaked down and kneaded his sore
muscle again. Next time he went for a beer he’d get two more
aspirin.

Jack grinned. He felt guilty, but not that
guilty. It was impossible to resist peeking out his window at
Victoria. Should I tell her that there’s a clear line of sight from
my window into her new bedroom at the back of the house? Naw! I
can’t let her know I can see directly in, that would be admitting
I’ve been a peeping Tom. Grinning again, he realized he couldn’t
stop. Didn’t want to stop.

Yesterday he’d watched as she toweled off
after her shower, patting that lovely skin all over. Then she’d
slipped into the pink bra and panties prancing around in her room,
bending over to use the blow drier. Sweet! Talk about eye
candy.

He paced around his large studio apartment
above the three-car garage, trying to cool off. The apartment room
measured about twenty by thirty feet. One side was taken up with
bathroom and closets, but there were windows on the three other
sides. In one corner was a kitchenette with two-burner stove, a
wall mounted microwave, and a toaster oven on the counter.
Underneath was a small bar refrigerator. The rest of the room was
dominated by a king-sized bed surrounded by assorted bookshelves
with a large flat screen TV centered there. Everything a single man
could want or need. Satisfied with it, he'd grown used to a
solitary existence.

He returned to the window, watching for her.
Where is she? What’s she doing? Maybe there won’t be a show this
morning. He drew back. Oh God! What’s the matter with me? He ran
his fingers through his hair making the smooth waves poke up at odd
angles.

Ever since he’d stepped out of the shower,
naked as the day he was born, and found Victoria staring at him,
there hadn’t been a dull moment in his life. He smiled again,
remembering. Yeah, she’s already seen me stark naked. And she took
a good long look too. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t take the
occasional peak into her bedroom window. Fair is fair, right?

He grinned to himself recalling the old guy
with the shotgun yesterday scaring Van Winkle off. Victoria had
related the whole story when he’d returned from Fred’s office. He
only wished that he’d been here to see it for himself. Checking on
the shotgun, he’d found it in its proper place, a rolled up note
protruding from the barrel. Removing it, he read

Jack,

Thanks for the loan of your twelve gage.

Victoria will explain.

Don’t worry about this property.

Van Winkle will never possess it, if I can
help it.

Yours,

Willet

Willet who? Puzzled Jack.

Vicky woke that morning with the sun
streaming in through her window. The knowledge that today was May
22nd and her 26th birthday brought her no particular joy. She was
alone. With Nanna gone, and no prospects of ever meeting someone
she could fall in love with and marry, she was destined to remain
alone.

Unable to afford the better nursing homes and
support herself at the same time, she’d spent the past ten years
taking care of Nanna. Her grandmother’s dementia had slowly
escalated as the years passed, making it impossible for her to
leave the old woman alone.

She’d managed to make a living for them both
by writing rather explicit romance novels and romantic short
stories that appeared in woman’s magazines. It had taken a good
deal of work and persistence to break through the wall of literary
agents and publishers, and she had a drawer full of rejection
notices to prove that. Her personal life had suffered as all her
time was devoted to writing and being full time caregiver. Every
day she became more painfully aware that she’d never had a
relationship with any man and probably never would. Her dreams of a
husband and family were just that, dreams.

Since it was her birthday, she decided to
take the day off and pamper herself. First I’ll bake myself a
little cake. Then take a long bubble bath and dress up, just for
me. I’ll make myself something extra special for dinner and maybe
open some wine.

She went down to the kitchen for toast and
coffee, and while she ate, decided to indulge herself by making one
of her decadent chocolate cakes. Tying on an apron, she set to
work, measuring and mixing.

Jack had taken the tractor from the barn at
first light to plow a few more acres and plant pumpkins. He
returned to his apartment and checked her window to see if Victoria
was doing anything interesting in her bedroom.

After showering, he made a couple of phone
calls, found his keys and wallet, and went bounding downstairs to
his truck.

Vicky glanced up as she was taking the cake
from the oven to see Jack's truck go hurtling down the drive.

She placed the cake on a wire rack and
sighed. Where’s he off to now? She’d vaguely hoped to share dessert
with him later. She didn't want to be alone. Then remembering
Jack’s arrogant statement about how women bringing him pies and
cakes were angling for something, she decided against it. I
certainly won’t give him any. If he wants cake, he’ll have to come
and ask for it. While it cooled, she made a quick stop at the
bookshelf for something to read, and then slipped back into bed
with another cup of coffee.

Propped up on pillows in her new bed, she
realized with a sigh that the only thing missing was a man in her
life. The truth was she was lonely. What’s Jack doing today and
where was he going? Why do I even care?

The four conspirators sat around their
favorite table at the back of Paulding’s Rest. Jack had called his
three friends to ask their help and now they sat together with
pints of beer before them, waiting to hear what he had on his
mind.

The dark paneled walls of the taproom and the
heavy oak tables were scarred and stained with many years of hard
use. At the other side of the room a half dozen regular late
afternoon drinkers occupied their usual places at the bar. Most of
the tables were filled with the early dinner crowd. The best
restaurant food in Pippen's Grove could be found here.

Paulding’s Rest was a tavern where, as legend
had it, John Paulding celebrated with friends after his capture of
British Major Andre’. During the American Revolution, the British
Major conspired with Benedict Arnold to obtain information about
George Washington’s forces and the fortress at West Point. While
trying to escape to New York City at night, Andre’ was apprehended
by Paulding and two other Colonial militiamen. It was very unlikely
that the three local heroes quaffed ale in this very tavern, but it
did make a good story, lending Paulding’s name to the
establishment.

Vincent Cangelosi was one of Pippen Grove’s
small force of police officers. He sat opposite Jack in the booth
with his friend John Van Wart. John owned the only service station
in town and was a member of the volunteer rescue squad. John
claimed to be a descendant of Isaac Van Wart, one of Paulding’s
fellow militia, so naturally the tavern was his favorite watering
hole. Beside Jack was Jimmy Smith. The four men often met at
Paulding’s Rest for beer and conversation.

“So Jack, you say Jonathan Van Winkle is
claiming he owns the farm because he’s related to the Willet
family?” asked Vince.

“Here’s everything I know. Uncle Charley left
me the farm, but it wasn’t his to leave and the old bastard had to
have known it. Victoria’s grandmother owned it and left everything
to her. Okay now this is where it gets confusing. Her grandmother
had an older brother named Alexander who would have inherited, but
was killed in World War II. Apparently before he left for the army,
he was married and they had a son. Who it turns out, was Van
Winkle’s father. He’s claiming he’s the grandson of Alexander and
legal heir to the Willet property. Fred Douglas is looking into
everything. Van Winkle is generally a snake about most things, so
it only makes sense that he’s trying to pull a fast one, now that
Uncle Charley is gone. Then, this old guy shows up the other night
claiming his name is Willet and he says the property belongs to
him.”

“Why do you think Van Winkle didn’t make a
claim sooner?” asked Van Wart

“It seems like he waited for Uncle Charley to
die, or maybe he wasn’t aware of the connection to the Willet
family until recently.”

“The plot persists in thickening,” said Jimmy
sipping his beer, interested.

“Right. Victoria gets this letter from Van
Winkle’s lawyer yesterday, and then Jonathan shows up in person and
threatens her. Then the old guy pops up out of nowhere again, and
with my shotgun runs Van Winkle off. He actually fired both barrels
as Jonathan was driving away. Victoria says Van Winkle had the shit
scared out of him.”

At this, the police officer raised his
eyebrows. “That’s not good Jack. Somebody could have been
hurt.”

“Yeah, but it would only have been Van
Winkle, so what would be the harm?” interjected John.

“But wait, it gets even weirder. The old guy
leaves me a note, letting me know he’s on our side, but I’m
thinking, does he just want to shove Van Winkle aside so he can get
the farm? Whole thing is just plain crazy.”

Vince looked thoughtful. “Jonathan could have
a case if he really is the grandson. The thing is, what you don’t
know is exactly who the hell is the old guy? Related to the Willet
family? He didn’t actually say how? There’s your wild card.”

John asked, “Jack, what do you want us to do?
Sounds like Fred is taking care of the legal knots and it will all
get unraveled eventually, but you realize these things never happen
quickly. Get a bunch of lawyers and government helpful types
together and they can make any job take ten times as long as it
should. They’ll make sure it costs everybody ten times as much
while they’re at it too.”