Roan (16 page)

Nothing happened, no sirens went off, no one seemed to notice or care. She had escaped, at least for a few minutes.

Settling on the porch swing, she enjoyed the shade while she gently pushed herself back and forth with her toes. It was hot and quiet, the only sound the buzzing of bees in the overgrown kitchen garden at the edge of the brick terrace that stretched beyond the porch. Farther away, on the other side of the barns and through a small stand of cypress trees, she could see the blue-black glint of Horseshoe Lake. The water seemed to beckon, as it did when she was on Sanibel.

The annual trip to the island for the winter and spring had always made her wild with excitement. She'd loved the big, rambling old place there that had been built by her Bridgeman relatives, her mother's grandfather back in the
twenties. Paul Vandergraff had torn that house down and erected a slick, modern villa. It was one of many things she held against him.

Dog Trot reminded her of that original Sanibel house, now that she thought of it. It had the same spreading porches, same air of grace, and yet the solid strength that would allow it to weather whatever storms came its way.

It was too bad the lake was so far from the house here at Dog Trot, though. It would probably seem much closer if the view was more unobstructed. Maybe she could suggest to Roan that he cut a few trees? She sighed with a slow shake of her head. That probably wouldn't go over too well coming from his prisoner.

She wondered how deep and wide the lake stretched, but it was farther away than she wanted to walk just now. Besides, the hunting hounds were down there, and she didn't want to set them off. That would bring Cal running, no doubt, and he might feel it necessary to end her moment of freedom.

As she sat enjoying her creamy treat, she experimented with holding the bowl of ice cream with the hand on the injured side of her body for a second or two. The weight and grip caused a pulling sensation and slight ache, but no excessive pain. She was truly healing. Doc Watkins had been pleased with her progress when he'd dropped in the evening before, though she'd tried to prevent him from discovering the extent of it. Her strength was returning a little more every day. She would be well enough to go soon, though she was no closer to an answer on how to deal with Harrell. She couldn't seem to make her brain grapple with the problem.

Behind her, there came the sound of fast breathing. She stiffened, while her heartbeat accelerated to warp speed.

It was the big bloodhound that came trotting from behind
the swing and across the porch. Good old Beau, with his face like that of a woeful old man and his big nose that could sniff a sock and find the person who'd worn it among a million others.

“Beauregard, you big, dumb mutt, you nearly scared me to death,” she scolded.

The dog stopped and sniffed the air, eyed her and her bowl thoughtfully and then approached. She sat perfectly still, since she was half afraid the least movement on her part would bring on a growl like an alarm. Though she'd been feeding him, she didn't really trust him not to take a bite out of her if it crossed his mind. He was, she thought, supposed to be guarding her and Jake; she'd heard Roan instructing him in his duties in a fashion only half playful before he left for work this morning.

The snuffling sound of the dog's breathing increased as he moved closer. He swiped his large, pink tongue around his lips with a tremendous lapping. He edged nearer.

Tory's breath caught as the dog's moist, panting breath fanned her fingers. Then he dropped his head, hunched his powerful shoulders, and slurped at the melted remains of ice cream in the bowl that she held in her hand.

Tory had some idea by now of Beau's intense appreciation for food, still she smiled as she watched him polish off the ice cream, chasing the spoon around in the bowl until the last gooey drop was gone. Then he turned his attention to her fingers, licking them one after the other until he decided the job was done. Plopping in a pile of bones and loose skin at her feet, he settled his massive head between his paws and closed his eyes.

Tory wiped her fingers on her shorts with a wry grimace then echoed the dog's sigh as the quiet settled around them and the hazy heat of the morning soaked into her tense
muscles. Peaceful, it was so peaceful here. She couldn't remember when she'd ever been so relaxed.

After a while, the heat grew oppressive. She flapped at the neck of her T-shirt, but it didn't help. Perspiration gathered at her hairline. It dampened her shirt around her bandage, causing an itch that she couldn't reach. At the same time, she began to feel self-conscious, with an uneasy tingle between her shoulder blades as if she were being watched.

Tory turned her head, staring around at the woods that encroached on the barn and one side of the house, and the thick undergrowth that carpeted the ground in their shade. Anything could be hiding there, or anyone. She felt exposed. The house behind her suddenly seemed more a refuge than a prison.

Bending, she reached to run her fingers over the short, silky smooth hair of the dog's big head. “Good dog, good Beau, time to go inside, don't you think?”

She was whispering, though she didn't quite know why. It wasn't too surprising, then, that the bloodhound didn't move except to lift heavy eyelids so his forehead wrinkled.

“Really, old buddy, old pal, let's go. Don't you want to head inside where it's nice and cool? You can sleep in my room, if you want.”

The dog didn't budge, even when she pushed at him with one foot. He was so big that he left her little room to step over him without tripping, especially since her stiff shoulder affected her balance.

“I promise, Beau,” she wheedled, leaning to scratch behind his ears. “Come on, boy, move it. Hey, you can sleep anywhere you like. I'll even let you nap on my bed if you'll just let me get up.”

“Now there's an offer I wouldn't refuse if I was in his place.”

She whipped around to see Cal standing at the corner of
the house. He rested one shoulder against the old bricks of the raised basement while he hooked his thumb through a belt loop of his uniform pants. How long had he been standing there? She wished she knew. She glanced toward the woods again before she spoke, “I have a feeling Beau thinks he's on duty.”

“No doubt of it. Want me to move him for you?”

“Could you?” she asked.

The deputy looked at the dog and gave a piercing whistle. “Up, Beauregard.”

The big animal gave him a look of apparent disgust, but heaved himself to his feet and ambled off a yard or so.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice cool as she slid from the swing. For some reason, she wasn't particularly grateful.

“You seem to be getting around better today,” Cal noted as he watched her.

“A little.” She wished, suddenly, that her underwear had not been discarded at the hospital along with the rest of her blood-soaked clothes. Her breasts felt entirely too conspicuous under the loose T-shirt.

He stepped forward, indicating the kitchen door with a wave of his hand. “I was about to go inside for something to drink, myself. Shall we?”

It was couched as a courtesy, but his manner implied that he didn't trust her to remain outside without supervision. He was within his rights, of course, still, walking ahead of him back into the house made Tory feel more like a prisoner than at any time since she'd arrived at Dog Trot.

In the coolness of the kitchen, he said, “It would be mighty nice if you'd stay and talk to me.”

She almost refused, but thought better of it. It was foolish to let irritation stand in the way of gaining knowledge, and
she thought it might be easier to get answers from Cal than from Roan.

Finding an opening wasn't easy. The phone rang three times while they were pouring iced tea from a pitcher in the refrigerator. One call was for Jake; the other two for Roan. He was apparently out of the office, and might or might not be on his way home. Cal took care of one questioner, but the other got a promise that Roan would call if he came by the house.

“He never has a minute's peace,” she said as Cal replaced the receiver for the last call.

“True, but that's the way he likes it.”

“I don't believe it.”

Cal shook his head. “Folks know he has no wife or young kids, so few obligations at home. They're used to the idea that he's always available, always ready to drop everything at a second's notice and solve their problems for them. It's become a way of life.”

“There's such a thing as delegation.”

“He could do that, if he would. But he knows people want to see the Main Man coming when they've got trouble. That's Roan.”

“It doesn't leave him much of a life.”

“It
is
his life.”

It sounded bleak to Tory. Full, maybe, but bleak. “As long as he keeps it up he's not likely to find time for anything else.”

“What's it to you?” the deputy asked. “Don't tell me you're interested in the sheriff.”

“Hardly,” she answered, though she could feel heat rise in her face. “I just don't have much else to think about, I suppose.”

“I don't notice you asking about the rest of us around here. Jake, for instance. Or me.”

“I was glad to see Jake doing something this morning besides hang around the house,” she said without emphasis.

It was a moment before the deputy answered, as if he were considering forcing the issue he'd raised. Then he said, “Don't worry about Jake. He seems to get a kick out of having you around.”

“Meaning?”

“Never had much exposure to feminine company, you know. Because of the divorce.”

It was good that he didn't mind having her around, not that it mattered. “His mother doesn't have him to visit her?”

“Not so you'd notice. The boy takes after his old man too much to suit her, reminds her too much of past mistakes. At least, that's the way I hear it.”

“That's a terrible thing to do to a child.” She heard the pain in her voice, but could do nothing about it. There had been times when she'd felt her mother had been happy to see her off to some new school or visit.

“I guess we all do the best we can.”

It was an unexpected viewpoint from Cal. It made her wonder. “Did you know her?”

His smile was wry. “She was my cousin by marriage.”

Tory frowned in concentration. “But you're not a Benedict. Are you?”

“Heaven forbid! I mean she was kin on my mother's side. Hey, we're all related around here. So be careful what you say, or you may find yourself in more trouble than you know what to do with.”

It was good advice. She decided to take it. Changing the subject, she asked about the progress in finding Zits and Big Ears. They'd been reported twenty miles away in one direction and thirty in another, he said, but with no real
leads on either sighting. The sheriff's office was proceeding on the assumption that the two were hanging around the vicinity for a reason, and were taking every precaution based on that assumption. What that meant, exactly, Tory didn't know, but it sounded impressive.

Since he had her interest, Cal gave her a rundown on his accomplishments and hobbies, including a couple of unlikely fishing tales. It was less of a hardship to listen to him than she'd thought; he had an unsuspected comic streak and even a certain degree of humility beneath his outward show of confidence. By the time he finally left the kitchen to make his rounds, she was halfway resigned to having him around, after all.

It was the middle of the afternoon when Roan finally returned to the house. Tory was lying on the den sofa. She had a magazine spread out beside her. She flipped a page, now and then, when she wasn't staring at the ceiling and trying not to think about what was going to happen when she could no longer pretend to be an invalid. The first she heard of Roan was the bass rumble of his voice and Jake replying as they spoke outside the kitchen door.

They talked quite a bit, those two. It was possible that would all change as Jake got older, more into the teenage rebellion stage. For now, they seemed to genuinely like and appreciate each other beneath the surface of their daily routine. It said something for the sheriff that he was able to maintain that close relationship, given his work routine. Not that she was interested in that part of his life, of course, or in the least inclined to look for good qualities in the sheriff as well as his deputy.

A short time later, she heard the kitchen door open and close. By the time she looked up, Roan was standing in the doorway. He appeared as tired as she felt, Tory thought.
The lines around his eyes had deepened in the last few days, as if his nighttime vigil with her had taken its toll.

“How are you feeling?” he said in polite inquiry.

Her smile was rueful. “Tired of sleeping, but not quite energetic enough for anything else.”

“I understand you did a little cooking this morning.”

So she'd been found out. She should have known Jake would notice. “Yes, well, I was hungry.”

“We didn't mean to starve you, but your plate came back empty both last night and this morning.”

“You actually thought I ate that mess you served? My plate was empty only because Beau doesn't gross out very easily.”

He glanced at the big dog that lay beside the sofa. “That explains his sudden affection, then. I did wonder.”

“What it doesn't explain is why you felt called upon to ply me with pig intestines.”

“Chitterlings are considered a treat in some corners. But you made it so obvious that you considered us backward hicks that it seemed we should live up to the image.”

She looked away. “Sorry. Knee-jerk reaction, I guess.”

“Big cities have no particular magic that guarantees intelligence and culture for the people who live there,” he said evenly. “Talking faster, thinking faster, isn't a sign of superior mental activity, but often means skimming the surface, dealing with the obvious instead of looking for what's underneath. It's about jumping in with your own ideas and needs first, or tuning out and going on to the next person instead of listening to the one you're with so you hear what they mean instead of just the words they're saying.”