Roan (17 page)

“I do see the object lesson,” she returned in dry acceptance.

“Maybe, but teaching it wasn't my place. I shouldn't
have let the attitude get to me, since that makes me as—” He stopped, closed his lips tightly on the words.

“As arrogant as I was,” she finished for him without inflection.

“As judgmental, I meant to say. Because it assumes that I know why you feel the way you do.”

“I don't feel that way,” she said abruptly. “At least, I've gained a little different slant on things lately.”

They watched each other for long moments there in the cluttered, homey room. Finally, he said, “I'm glad to see that you're well enough to stay out of bed most of the day. Do you feel up to having dinner with us?”

She tilted her head to one side. “No more chitterlings, tripe, organ meats or other such delicacies?”

A tight grin curled his lips. “Promise.”

He looked so much like Jake at that moment that she couldn't help grinning back at him. It would be fun to help the two of them with the cooking and be included in the banter and laughter between them as if she were a member of the family. She answered simply, “I'd love to.”

“Good. Let me change, then we'll see about it.” He swung around and walked away. Seconds later, she heard him whistling as he went up the stairs.

She should have refused the invitation. Accepting it, getting closer to Roan and his son, was dangerous. For one thing, it was much more likely that she'd slip up. For another, it would be fatally easy to become accustomed to their warm human interaction, their companionship.

There was powerful attraction in Roan's hard strength and bedrock dependability. He represented permanence as solid and enduring as the house he lived in. Here with him was the comfort, peace and ultimate safe haven that she'd been searching for, unknowingly, since she was a child. She
wanted those things, needed them so much, that she ached with it.

That wouldn't do.

It was going to be hard to leave this temporary sanctuary, harder than she would have dreamed. There was no point in making it worse on herself by getting more involved with Roan and his son than necessary. She needed to cool it after tonight, she really did.

It was entirely possible, in fact, that she would be better off leaving Dog Trot and its owner behind as soon as possible. One way or another.

T
he call came while Roan was stretched out in his favorite chair with his eyes closed, the newspaper spread over his lap, and Jake's TV program droning in the background. Jake answered, then brought the portable phone over to the easy chair. His Honor the mayor was on the line. He and the group of good buddies who ran the town council were holding an informal bull session at Betsy's coffee shop, but they'd like his input. They wouldn't keep him long. Could he be there in a half hour?

The impulse to refuse was so strong Roan could taste it. This was bound to be another useless round of discussion about the gambling boat and its impact on the town and the parish, since they talked of little else these days. He didn't need this, didn't want it, wasn't sure he could hold on to his temper while he endured it. He was tired, and his primary obligation at the moment was to see to his son and his prisoner. He was off official duty, but still had a private responsibility. Either someone didn't know, or they'd forgotten.

If it had slipped their minds, however, it might be best not to remind them. He didn't want interference in his arrangement just because somebody got ticked off. Besides,
he told himself as he heaved out of his chair and stepped into his boots, Zits and Big Ears hadn't shown up since the move out to Dog Trot. That they'd pick the next hour to stage an offensive was about as likely as a pair of rattlesnakes showing up at the back door.

“Lock up behind me and don't let anybody in that you don't know while I'm gone,” he instructed Jake as he left the house.

“Got it,” his son answered without looking around.

“I mean it,” Roan insisted as he paused with his hat in his hand.

Jake finally gave him his attention along with a crooked grin. “I know.”

He did know, Roan thought; he'd seen to that. Jake had long ago been taught all the rules needed by a boy who often stayed alone, and he'd been reminded to stay on guard about Donna every single day. Regardless, Roan hesitated. Donna was upstairs taking a shower. He knew that because he knew every sound in the old house, but also because he'd developed mental radar where she was concerned. He really didn't think she had any intention of leaving, or that she'd be able to get too far on her own. With any luck, he'd be back before she realized he was gone. This short trip should be okay then, but he still didn't like it.

Roan whispered an oath directed at the mayor and his friends, as well as his own habit of making himself accessible. Then he crammed on his hat and headed out the door.

The motel coffee shop smelled of brewing coffee, hamburger, mustard and onions, and the vanilla-scented sweetness of the homemade pies that were a regular feature. The unofficial town council meeting was being held in a corner booth. After a semigenial start, it went just about the way Roan figured.

“What you got against gambling?”

That question, with its trace of belligerence, came from “Tubby” Michaels. The wheezing, potbellied reprobate ran the lumberyard and was known for chasing his female bookkeepers around the counter. That he stood to gain directly during the construction phase of the big gaming operation shaded his views considerably.

“Nothing,” Roan answered on a suppressed sigh. “It's not a moral issue. I don't care who plays or who doesn't. More than that, I know there's enough gambling north and south of us and across the river so any addict can get his fix without much effort—and that these folks could be leaving their money in town instead of taking it elsewhere. My concern is practical. What I care about is who we're inviting into Turn-Coupe and what the town is going to become afterward.”

“These consortium guys swear they'll keep everything nice and quiet, that we'll hardly know the boat's out there on the lake.”

“Except for the four-lane highway we're supposed to build through the courthouse square for them,” Roan answered with irony. “Or the half mile of lake frontage they want to turn into a parking lot.”

“They're only asking us to study the feasibility of those things,” the mayor put in with exaggerated patience in his voice. A tall dandy with a handlebar mustaches, he sang in a barbershop quartet on weekends and considered himself a cut above most Turn-Coupe citizens in sophistication because he'd served a large portion of his army hitch in Europe.

“But it's important enough that they're willing to fly in here to talk about it.” Roan glanced at his watch. The meeting was running too long. He should have sent a backup out to Dog Trot while he was gone. The need to get home only added to his irritability now.

“Yes, though that doesn't seem unreasonable to me,” the mayor returned with a judicious frown.

“I certainly can't stop them, but I don't think we ought to be pressured into making a decision by the fact that they'll be showing up here in their private jets and limousines.” This was the point of the meeting, that some of the gaming consortium members would be paying them a visit in an effort to stampede the council into calling a special election to decide the issue.

“He's right about that,” Jensen, president of the local bank, interjected with a slow nod.
Caution
was his watchword. It was a good, conservative attitude in a banker, one Roan was pleased to see at this moment.

“In any case,” Jensen went on, propping his elbows on the Formica coffee shop table and making a steeple of his fingers, “I thought increased tax revenue, increased jobs, was our reason for considering this venture. It makes no sense to obligate ourselves to spend big sums up-front that may take years to recoup.”

“You and the sheriff are just antiprogress,” Michaels said with a wave of one pudgy hand. “You like things exactly the way they are out on the lake and don't care what happens to the rest of us who don't have it so good.”

That had a familiar ring to it, like something Cal had said the other day, Roan thought. “I care,” he said firmly, “and so does Tom Jensen. We just don't happen to think this Florida consortium has the answer to our problems here in Turn-Coupe.”

“Could mean more patrol units and better equipment, like computerized fingerprint scanning, even a new jail,” the mayor said. “You might want to think a little harder.”

“Could be we'll need all that and more if this thing goes through. Studies show the incidence of assaults and burglaries rise dramatically about three years after a casino
goes in, as hardcore gamblers max out their credit cards and resort to illegal ways to get cash.”

“You saying you don't need to modernize down at your office?”

“Our equipment is sufficient for our current level of crime,” Roan insisted, though he felt a little beleaguered. He'd hoped that Kane and his law partner, Melville Brown, would be here. They hadn't been called for this unofficial gathering, it seemed, probably because the mayor knew they would side with Roan on this issue.

Michaels grunted. “Is that so? The way I hear it, you've got a woman prisoner out at your house because you don't want to house her in a jail that has no provision for females.”

Cal had been talking all right. “That's true, as far as it goes.”

“And how far does it go, sheriff? If our jail is so fine, why don't you put this woman in it? Or do you have other reasons for using your own house as a lockup?”

Roan rose slowly to his feet and leaned to rest the palms of his hands on the table on either side of his coffee cup. His voice was flat and gaze steady as he asked, “Just what are you suggesting?”

“Why, nothing.” Michaels glancing around the table for support. “It's a logical question, don't you think?”

“This particular Jane Doe is a special case.”

“I'm sure she is.” The man's lips formed a snide smile.

“The main problem is the injuries she sustained during her arrest.”

“Injuries you caused, right? I know things have changed, that the setup was weird and all that, but it still strikes me as downright pitiful to see a woman shot. We don't need that kind of thing around here. Why, there's no telling who
you and your deputies might go shooting next. Could be one of our kids.”

Michaels didn't have kids, but that didn't make his comment any less painful. With sardonic emphasis, Roan said, “I'll try to control the urge.”

“And another thing. You've been sending a deputy out to your house every day for special guard duty. Where does that leave us here in town? I mean, ain't you spreading your force kind of thin? What if the two that robbed Betsy decide to come back and see what the rest of us have in the till?”

“You worried about the lumberyard?” Roan asked softly as he studied the other man. “Or are you just throwing mud so no one will listen to what I have to say against this gaming venture? Either way, you have no grounds for complaint. The chief of police and I can handle it.”

“Now, Roan,” the mayor began, his tone placating.

Roan straightened, his gaze hard as he met the stares of the town officials one by one. “In case there's any doubt, let me make my position clear. I don't like this gaming invasion, and no amount of fancy equipment or fast-stepping logic is going to shift my views by so much as a millimeter. If it happens, fine. Then I'll do my job to the best of my ability. But you can leave me out of the welcoming committee for your slick visitors. I'm sure the crowd will be big enough that I won't be missed.”

“Fine,” the mayor said in stiff acceptance. “As long as we can count on you to keep security tight while they're here.”

“As I said, I'll do my job.”

Roan was still steaming when he pulled up in the driveway at Dog Trot. As he got out and headed for the back door, he heard the dogs barking in their pen down behind the barn, where they'd been relegated full-time since
Donna's arrival. He'd check on Jake and Donna, then ease down there and see what had set them off. Could be something as simple as a skunk or armadillo rambling around in the dark nearby, but it was best to be certain.

The house was empty. The lights were on, the television still played, provisions for a snack were on the kitchen table, but Jake didn't answer his call. Donna wasn't in her bedroom, and Jake's bed had not been disturbed. Beau wasn't around, either, and didn't answer when Roan whistled. But what sent a shaft of pure terror through him was that the den gun cabinet stood open and the twenty-gauge shotgun Jake's granddad had bought him for Christmas was missing.

Where the hell were they? What could have been important enough to take them out of the house and into danger. He could think of only one thing. Zits and Big Ears had shown up, and Donna had persuaded Jake to let them in.

His heartbeat was so loud it deafened him. Cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck. He paused for a moment, listening, afraid of what he might hear. He could just catch the barking of the hounds in their pen. Somebody was out there.

This was too much. Nobody invaded his property, nobody touched those who belonged to him. He didn't allow it, wouldn't allow it. He spun around and sprinted for the back door.

Once away from the house, it was clear that the barking was coming from two different directions now. The hounds yodeled from behind the barn, but he also recognized Beau's deep, distinctive baying off to the left, in the deeper woods that circled the lake. Its urgency signaled that he was on a trail.

Roan whistled through his teeth, a piercing note that all
the dogs recognized instantly. The big bloodhound's yelping picked up speed and intensity, as if he thought the hunt had turned serious. Was Beau with Jake, or did it mean the dog was following the boy and Donna and whoever had come to the house for them? One thing was certain, he was after human quarry. Beau was trained to disregard lesser game.

The urge to plunge headlong into the woods was strong, but Roan fought it back. He eased among the shadowed trees, circling toward where he'd heard Beau. He knew this land like he knew his own bedroom, could walk it blindfolded without a misstep. Whoever was out here was on foreign ground, bumbling around in the dark. Roan had the advantage and he intended to use it.

He circled a stand of tupelo, heading toward an opening thirty feet ahead. Then he halted with every muscle tensed and ready.

A shape moved in the dimness, became two people. They were coming toward him, moving with stealth and keeping close together. He couldn't be sure, but he thought one carried a weapon. He quietly released the flap of his holster.

The pair stopped. One of them turned, looked back, before swinging around and staring straight toward where he stood. For a second, he thought he'd been spotted. Then a sibilant whisper, exasperated and distinctly feminine, sounded on the still air.

“You sure you know where we're going?”

Donna. Donna's voice, Donna's outline in the dark. She was safe. She was still here.

“That was dad's whistle, I swear. I'd know it anywhere.”

Jake.

They were safe.

They were both safe.

The rush of relief was so great that Roan felt light-headed with it. Following on its heels was adrenaline-fueled rage so strong that he closed his eyes while he willed it back under control. Only then did he step from the black strip of shade cast by a cedar tree.

“Here, Jake,” he called in a hail so low it barely disturbed the night stillness. “If you can manage not to shoot me.”

The two gray shapes stiffened. Jake gave a soft exclamation. Then he released the hammer on his shotgun and started forward to meet him while Donna followed more slowly.

“Man, but we're glad to see you,” Jake said fervently.

“Ditto,” Roan said. “But what the hell are you doing out of the house?”

“Beau set up such a ruckus that I had to see what was going on.”

“You should have called me.” Beau was still yodeling in a continuous bellow, though he didn't seem to be moving as fast, if at all.