Roan (15 page)

“A recent one?” She was frankly curious to know how
long Roan had been divorced, though she wasn't sure why it mattered.

Jake gave her an odd look. “No way. She left when I was two.”

“That long ago.” She couldn't imagine leaving a child that age behind.

“It wasn't her fault. She was real depressed. The shrink she went to told her she was stifled, or something, that Dad was part of her problem and she needed out of the marriage. So she took off. Now she's got a new husband and lives in France.”

Tory wasn't sure which was more startling, that Roan's wife had opted out of marriage so easily or Jake's casual manner about it. He'd been much younger than she was when her own mother died, of course, so had fewer memories and regrets for what could have been.

In tentative tones, she said, “Sometimes a divorce can be a good thing.”

“Yeah,” Jake agreed. “My mom had a rough time growing up. Her mother was sick all the time, and her dad never kept a job more than a month or two—too high-tempered and set on doing things his way. He ran around with other women, too. One night he went out and never came home again. Her mother didn't have much of a way to make a living, so after a while she went to live with a brother. My mom didn't like it there, so she asked my dad to marry her. Then when she was pregnant with me, her mom died. That same year, they found her dad in the woods, nothing but a heap of bones—people figured he got too friendly with somebody's wife and the husband fixed the problem. Anyway, Mom got worse after I was born. They called it post-something.”

“Postpartum depression,” Tory supplied.

“Yeah. She just never got over it, not for years.”

Tory was silent as she digested this bit of family history. Somehow, it seemed odd to think of Roan with a woman who had such mental scars. He was so strong and secure within himself; surely he would have chosen someone similar? Of course, he might not have realized how disturbed Jake's mother was; clinical depression could take many forms, going unrecognized until it was too late.

“People don't get to choose their parents or the kind of life they have as a child,” she said quietly. “It's what they do afterward that counts. That's when they get to make life the way they want it to be.” It was a lesson she'd learned the hard way, and was still learning.

Jake dipped his head in agreement. “That's what Dad says, too.”

It was nice to know she and the sheriff agreed on something.

They finished their snack, and Tory helped Jake put the dishes in the dishwasher. She was replacing the pickle jar, when he said, “So, about the clothes in the attic, you want to look? Might be something up there you could wear around the house here.”

She lifted a brow, then stuck a model's pose while holding the pickle jar in one hand. “You don't like my outfit? It's hot off the Paris runways.”

“Yeah, and so becoming, too,” he quipped. “Especially the way it makes you look broad across the back.”

She twisted her head to glance over her shoulder. “Now that you mention it, I suppose there's room for improvement.”

“Also room for a herd of elephants,” he muttered.

“I heard that. But I don't know if I'm up to climbing any more stairs than it takes to get back to bed.”

“Even after resting and refueling?” Concern overlay the hopefulness in his eyes that were so like his dad's.

“I don't know. It's the first time I've been up very long, you know.”

“We'll only stay a minute then.”

His tone was so coaxing that she didn't have the heart to refuse. Besides, she thought it might be worth the extra effort to keep him friendly. It bothered her to be so calculating, but she had a lot at stake.

The costumes were wonderful. Carefully enclosed in a huge armoire placed along one wall of the open attic space and smelling of mothballs, they spanned more than a century and a half. There were elegant evening gowns with whalebone-stiffened bodices and wide skirts that would require a crinoline, straight-skirted walking dresses, long-tailed men's coats and even a smoking jacket with velvet lapels. Nothing was fake or reproduced; the satins had the burnish of age, the lace was handmade; the men's shirts were collarless, and the stiff material of the trousers had faded streaks along the creases.

It was a fascinating glimpse into the lives of the Benedict family. Tory could easily imagine Roan and his cousins sneaking up to the attic on rainy days to touch the sumptuous fabrics and play dress-up, or a mother during the hard times of the Great Depression searching among the gowns for something to re-style for a daughter's special dance. Though she asked Jake about different items, he seemed to have little idea who had worn them or for what events. It made her sad to think that his grandmother had known, perhaps, but the knowledge had been lost with her passing.

Jake soon lost interest. He wandered away from the clothes to a collection of large wood-and-leather trunks that lined the wall near the stairs. Tory followed, looking over his shoulder as he lifted the lid of one of them. It was filled with cans and tin boxes painted a dark olive green.

“Rations from the Second World War,” he told her.

“You're joking.” She leaned closer to make out the faint white lettering on the sides of the cans in the dim light from the exposed bulbs overhead. “Why do you keep them? Surely they aren't edible?”

“This stuff is nearly indestructible.” He picked up a can, throwing it up and catching it in his palm. “I don't know that I'd eat the meat ones like the beef stew, but my friend Teddy and I opened a can of chocolate cookies one time. We didn't get sick.”

Tory made a face, though more to see his swift grin than in disgust. Moving on along the line of trunks, she asked, “What else is in here?”

“Papers, lots of paper,” he answered as he lifted another lid. “Letters, receipts, farm records like the sales slips on cows and horses bought at auctions, or supplies and machinery from when Dog Trot was a working farm. It's sort of interesting to see how cheap things were seventy or eighty years ago.”

“Or longer,” Tory murmured as she saw the date on the top letter of a bundle that lay in the trunk's tray.

A collection of framed photographs left sitting on top of an old dresser next to the trunk drew her attention. She glanced over them, the children in school clothes or posing with football helmets or in karate
gi
s, young men and women enjoying picnics and vacation outings, all with similar facial shapes and large, expressive eyes. Obviously, the Benedicts had strong genes.

One photograph in particular caught her interest. She picked it up, wiping the dust from the glass to see more clearly. It showed three young men standing beside a stock car that looked like an awesome classic Plymouth Super Bird in Plum Crazy Purple. The one in the middle was definitely Roan, though he appeared leaner and more open-faced, barely twenty, if that old. The companion on his right
had darker coloring with a hint of Native American in the height of his cheekbones. An engaging grin tilted his lips, but the expression behind the intense blackness of his eyes hinted at a steady flow of thoughts both clandestine and unsettling. The man on Roan's left had more refined features, and stared at the photographer with a gaze in which confidence and intelligence mingled so thoroughly that it bordered on arrogance. This third man was dressed in a fireproof driving suit and carried a bright-yellow helmet under his arm, though the other two wore jeans and jackets with emblems on the pockets.

Jake, moving to peek over her shoulder, said, “That's Dad with Kane and Luke, back when they spent a summer on the NASCAR racing circuit.”

“Who'd have ever thought?” she murmured.

“Right,” Jake answered with humor in his voice. “The old man has a wild side that shows up now and then.”

“So I see.” Tory couldn't help smiling at the picture the three men made together. Young and full of life, they appeared ready, even anxious, for the challenge of the race that was obviously about to begin. Pride, self-reliance and conviction in their ability to win was in every line of their bodies. Vitality seemed to flow from them, along with a hint of reckless audacity. They knew who they were, those three. They also knew what they wanted and would stop at nothing to get it.

They looked like great guys to know. Too bad she wouldn't be around long enough to find out. She sighed a little, as she reached to replace the frame.

It was then that she heard the scrape of a footstep behind her. A voice boomed out from the head of the stairwell.
“What the hell is going on up here?”

“D
eputy Riggs!”

For one brief moment, as she'd caught a glimpse of the uniform, Tory had thought it was Roan standing near the stairs. A large part of the shock in her voice was for the discovery that she was disappointed it wasn't him.

“I've been looking everywhere for you two,” Cal Riggs said with a frown. “I was about ready to send out an APB. The sheriff wouldn't have been happy about that.”

The one time she'd seen Roan angry, on the night she was shot, had been more than enough. She said hastily, “We were just looking for something else for me to wear.”

“You must be feeling better. It's funny I wasn't told about that.” He tipped his head to one side as he waited for an answer.

“Funny how?” she asked with a trace of irritation.

“I'm responsible for you. I need to know where you are at all times.”

“Lighten up, Cal,” Jake recommended as he stepped closer to her. “You found us, didn't you?”

The deputy turned toward Roan's son. “No thanks to you, boy. This wouldn't have been your idea, now would it?”

Tory couldn't let Jake get in trouble for trying to help her. “It's my fault, really. I was bored with staying in bed, and decided to find something more exciting.”

“Were you now?” Cal narrowed his eyes.

He'd taken her remark, she saw, in an entirely different way from what she'd intended. “Well, it is quiet, you'll have to admit, not to mention pretty deep in the boonies.”

“Something wrong with the that?”

Now she'd offended him, the last thing she wanted. Jake also looked less than pleased with her. She needed a way out of this situation, and the one that came to mind wasn't entirely fake. Putting a hand to her head, she swayed a little where she stood. “Oh. I really don't feel well. So dizzy. All at once. I need to…lie down.”

“I knew you were overdoing it,” Cal said, starting toward her.

“Jake, please?” She reached out to Roan's son in a strategic move to forestall the deputy. Jake played up beautifully, taking her hand and draping her good arm across his shoulders, then putting his arm around her waist as if supporting fainting damsels were an everyday affair. He was going to be quite a ladies' man one day.

“Here, let me,” Cal began.

“I've got her.” Jake made clearing motions with his free arm as he began to walk her toward the narrow stairs. “You go ahead, help catch her if she starts to fall.”

It was a fine plan. It worked, too. In a few short minutes, Tory was back down on the main floor and ensconced in her bed once more. She tugged down her short hospital gown and tucked it under her thighs before slipping out of the robe and handing it to Jake. He took it, then helped her pull up the sheet.

“You think you need Doc Watkins?” Cal asked from where he hovered in the doorway.

“No, no,” she said hastily. “I'm fine.”

“Maybe I should contact Roan, let him decide.”

“No, really, it was just the heat.”

“Maybe, but it's my hide he'll nail to the barn door if I let anything happen to you.”

“Please, I know when I need a doctor,” she insisted.

She might as well have saved her breath. Swinging toward the hallway, the deputy said, “I'll call from the patrol unit.”

“Jerk,” Jake muttered under his breath as they heard the front door slam.

“Interfering idiot,” Tory said at exactly the same time.

Their eyes met and they laughed. It was a rare moment of pure agreement.

Jake sobered first. “He thinks you're something, you know.”

“The deputy?”

“Good old Cal. I saw him watching you.”

“Oh, come on!”

“Promise.” He crossed his heart, though there was a twinkle in his eyes. “He wanted to carry you down here in his manly arms. No telling what he might have done if you'd been dressed even half decent.”

“Good thing I wasn't then,” she said tartly.

He ducked his head so his hair swung over his face. “Yeah, I was thinking about that. We didn't find anything for you to wear, but shorts and T-shirts are pretty much the same whether they're made for guys or girls, aren't they? I could let you borrow some. That's if you wouldn't mind that I've worn them.”

The offer was an honor, and she knew it. “I wouldn't mind at all. In fact, I'm grateful you thought of it.”

“No problem.” His grin was brief. “I'll see about it
right now. I mean, you might rest better in something less…drafty.”

She smiled at that teasing comment. “You're really very thoughtful.”

“Nah,” he said as he moved toward the door. “Just trying to help.”

Tory stared at the door as it closed behind him. She liked Roan's son. She liked him a lot.

The black shorts Jake brought were a decent fit; the “Kickin' Country Y106” T-shirt was bright red and somewhat roomy, but that made it easier to pull over her bandaged shoulder. Still, the effort to get into them made her wound ache and took the little strength she had left. She thought about taking a pain capsule, but opted for plain aspirin instead.

She was drifting off when she heard Roan's car on the drive. Minutes slipped past, and he didn't put in an appearance. He must be talking to Cal, she thought, or else had come in the back way, through the kitchen, and stopped to question Jake. Since he wasn't, apparently, concerned enough to come and see about her, she made herself more comfortable and relaxed with a sigh.

She was almost asleep again when the bedroom door hinge gave the small creak that signaled someone had opened it. The now familiar electric charge she felt in the atmosphere told her it was Roan.

Tory didn't feel like being put on the defensive yet again. She didn't want to see disapproval in his face, or have more rules set out for where she could and couldn't go in the house. She kept her eyes closed and breathed in as deep and even a rhythm as she could manage.

The cloth of his uniform rustled as he moved closer. She could almost feel his gaze moving over her, coming to rest on her face. A small shiver of sensual awareness threatened,
and she controlled it with strenuous effort. When was the last time she'd been so attuned to a man? She couldn't remember, wasn't sure she'd ever felt such a strong connection. Not that it meant anything, of course. It would be hard not to be supremely conscious of a man on whom she was so dependent just now. Once she was up and around again, the feeling would go away.

She half expected him to say something, put out his hand to wake her. He didn't, but neither did he move away. The minutes stretched and so did her nerves. Her heartbeat increased, pounding against her chest. It was all she could do not to keep her lashes from quivering.

Then she heard him turn, heard his footsteps retreating. The door closed behind him.

Tory opened her eyes and stared at the far wall while her pulse slowed to normal again. It was a long time before she slept.

It was Jake who brought her dinner. Padding along behind him was the bloodhound, Beauregard. As Jake placed the tray on her lap, the dog reared up and put his huge feet on the bed and gazed at her plate as if starving.

“Down, boy,” she commanded hopefully as she shrank back against the pillow. “Good dog, get down now.”

The big animal only wagged his tail with his tongue lolling out.

“Jake?” She didn't look at the boy for watching the dog to be sure he wasn't going to clamber up on the bed. “Make him stop?”

“Down, Beauregard,” Jake said casually.

The dog looked shamefaced, then removed his paws and settled to the floor. Tory turned a suspicious gaze on Roan's son. “I thought that monster canine stayed outside.”

Jake shrugged. “He does, most of the time. Dad gave
old Beau a flea bath and let him in because he thought he might be company for you.”

“I'm sure.” It was far more likely that the dog was meant to help keep her confined to her room since Roan knew she was nervous of him.

“Aren't you going to eat?”

There was an odd note in the boy's voice, as if he were trying to be offhand and not quite able to carry it off. He was eyeing her tray with expectation, as well, though his nostrils flared as if he were trying not to breathe too hard. Tory glanced down at the plate he'd brought her. It appeared to be country fare: mashed potatoes with onions, boiled green cabbage, corn bread, and a large helping of something she couldn't identify.

“I don't know,” she said with foreboding as she indicated the mystery meat. “What might this be?”

“Chitterlings.” His shrug was elaborate. “Us backwoods boonies types eat 'em all the time.”

“Chitterlings,” she repeated, while dark suspicion revolved in her mind.

“You got it.”

“And what, precisely, are chitterlings?”

“You mean you've never eaten any?”

“I can't say that I have.”

“Well, after the Civil War, see, all us poor folks down here in the South had to learn to do without. Hog meat was popular because pigs could run free in the woods, eat acorns and things like that. But we didn't have anything to waste, so we learned to eat the whole hog. If you know what I mean.”

“Hog's head cheese,” she said wisely, since she'd run across that in France as well as at a soul food restaurant in New York.

“And chitterlings, which are made from the—”

“Let me guess,” she interrupted as she saw the gleeful anticipation in his face. “Intestines?”

“I was going to say guts,” he replied with relish. “But whatever.”

She gave him a dangerous smile. “And who cooked this culinary masterpiece?”

“Dad, of course. He does most of the cooking around here—except when one of the church ladies gets to feeling sorry for us bachelors and brings over a chicken casserole or a pound cake.”

“I see. Thank you very much, Jake.”

“Welcome,” he said cheerfully, and turned to leave.
“Bon appétit!”

Bon appétit,
indeed. She was being had, she was sure of it. She ate the cabbage and potatoes, but gave the chitterlings to Beau, who had remained behind after Jake's departure. The bloodhound seemed to appreciate them, though Tory shuddered as she watched him eat.

It crossed her mind to get up and go see what Roan and his smart-alecky kid were having for dinner, since she'd be willing to guess it wasn't chitterlings. The only thing that kept her from it was the disinclination to give either of the wise guys the satisfaction.

Breakfast next morning consisted of a bowl of grits.

“Well, grits grow on these bushes about as tall as your knee, the best variety, that is,” Jake said when invited to explain the origin of this latest dish. “Though I've heard about grits trees that grow so tall down around New Orleans they have to pick them with ladders. I've never seen one of those, of course, since I've never been more than ninety miles from Turn-Coupe in my whole, entire life.”

“Right.” Tory forced a smile in response to the folksy, cornpone humor in his voice. “I could have sworn grits were some kind of corn.”

“Yeah? Well, we grow ours on bushes. We have to get down on our knees and pick each one of those little bitty grains off. Talk about hard work! But it's worth it, don't you think? We do love our grits, out here in the backwoods. I hope you enjoy yours.”

Wallpaper paste would have been more delicious. Tory had seen grits on breakfast buffets at fine hotels throughout Florida, and knew for a fact that they were made from hominy, which came, in turn, from corn. They were usually served with real butter, and often with jelly. The bowl of them that made up her breakfast had no salt much less anything else to make them palatable. She tasted them, then put her plate on the floor for Beau who had spent the night in her room. At this rate, he'd soon be fat, but she was starving.

She waited until Roan left for town and she heard Jake go out the back. Stepping out of her room, she moved to the front door and peered through the glass until she'd located Cal, sitting in his patrol unit reading a newspaper. Then she made her way quickly to the kitchen. There, she scrambled two eggs, made toast, and sat down at the table with her plate and a huge glass of orange juice. As she crammed down the food, she kept watch out the back window. She could see Jake, just barely, through the trees. He had someone with him as he fed the hunting hounds down in the pen, a friend she thought, since the visitor looked about the same age and straddled a dirt bike as they talked.

As she put the dishes from her hurried breakfast in the dishwasher, she noticed pots and pans left stacked in the sink. She made dishwater and scrubbed them, then dried them and put them away. Afterward, she wiped down the cabinets and the fronts of the refrigerator and other appliances. Feeling virtuous, and amused at herself for the conceit, she started back upstairs toward her room.

She'd taken only a couple of steps when she heard the sound of not one dirt bike, but two. She reached the kitchen window in time to see Jake head out along a lakeside trail with his buddy. It was nice to see him get away for a while; still, it left her alone with Cal. Funny, but she felt like calling him back.

She was so at loose ends with nothing to do with herself, no place to go and zilch to occupy her mind. At home, she might have painted with watercolors or picked up a piece of needlework, or taken a boat out on the water, but here there was nothing. At the same time, her appetite still wasn't completely satisfied. She often ate when she was bored or upset and it didn't seem to matter that she knew the reason; the compulsion pushed her anyway. Rummaging in the refrigerator and freezer, she came upon a container of chocolate ice cream. She scooped a serving into a bowl, then took it outside to the brick-floored porch just beyond the kitchen door that was shaded by the overhang of the second-story porch.