Roan (27 page)

“So?” Regina's glance in Tory's direction seemed to invite her to enjoy the joke of April's intense concentration.

“Well, you're the stand-in for the Scotswoman who came from back East, and I'm the one that was kidnapped. And Tory, here,” she ended in triumph, “was found in the woods with no memory of who she is or where she belongs, just like the Frenchwoman.”

“Stretching, honey, stretching,” Regina told her.

April took the ribbing in good part. “Maybe, maybe not. But you have to admit it's an interesting theory.”

“I'll admit no such thing. Even if I am Scots on my great-grandmother's—”

“See!” April crowed. “And my great-grandfather eight or nine generations back was a Spanish merchant who wound up in New Orleans because he offended some grandee back in Spain and decided to travel for his health.”

“All we need now is a Native American woman for one of the guys.”

“Clay,” Tory said without hesitation. She just couldn't resist. It was all a joke, anyway. Wasn't it?

“Perfect,” Regina said with satisfaction.

“If she doesn't scalp him for being such a flutter-by.”

“A what?” Tory was lost again.

“Male version of a butterfly. You know, a guy who flits from one woman to the next because he's afraid of being caught. Luke was a lot like that, once upon a time. In fact, Clay often reminds me of Luke—in his bachelor days, of course. Luke is so settled now he's practically set in concrete.”

“Which is another thing about the Benedict men you'll have to guard against,” Regina said wisely. “They are such homebodies, once they're married, that you'll be lucky if you ever leave Turn-Coupe again!”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” Tory said tightly, “but I doubt it will be my problem.”

April and Regina exchanged a quick look, but neither commented. Still, Tory, afraid they might, quickly zeroed in on the portion of what had been said that was of particular interest to her.

“Jake told me something about what happened last summer between you and Luke, but I never did hear all of it.”

With a sparkle in her eyes that indicated how important the story was to her, April regaled her with the tale of how she had decided to write a story about the Benedicts. The family had been none too happy about being put under a microscope, particularly Luke. In the meantime, another sticky situation had developed. Prank calls, midnight shootings, and life-threatening boat explosions had been the result. Finally, Luke had spirited April away against her will,
taking her far back in the swamp that lay beyond the lake, the only place he'd felt she might be safe.

The way the writer's voice softened when she talked of her days on the lake with Luke was a revelation. Tory was fairly sure this was another incidence of a Benedict hauling off a woman who wasn't terribly unhappy to be abducted as April had suggested. Or at least one who had come to appreciate it.

“I'm afraid Luke and I made life a bit hectic for Roan at the time,” April said. “He had to step in at the crucial moment to help take the shooter, who happened to be someone we'd both once known.”

“I don't suppose he minded,” Tory answered with a touch of acid in her tone, “given his dedication to his job.”

“He hasn't had much else to be dedicated to in the last few years,” April answered.

“He has been a bit more extreme about it since you and Luke married,” Regina put in with a troubled frown. “I get the feeling, sometimes, that he may be…lonely.”

“He has Jake and Pop,” Tory said shortly.

“True, but it's not the same.”

Tory refused to acknowledge that as she fidgeted with the position of a cake taken from a plastic cover. “Then I'm sure there are plenty of women who wouldn't mind being the sheriff's wife.”

“He told me once that he wasn't immune to women,” April said in musing tones, “but didn't have much time for them. Besides, I think he intimidates a lot of them, especially those a bit younger.”

“The last thing he needs is a silly young thing. She'd drive him mad in a week. Not,” Tory added in some haste, “that his love life is any of my concern.”

“Of course not,” April said, her face perfectly solemn.

“Absolutely.” The echo was from Regina.

And the two women didn't even look at each other.

A short time later, they called everyone to come and eat. A serving line formed as if by magic, and soon one and all had a plate piled high with the bounty and had spread out, seeking some corner in which to consume the food in comfort and safety. The main danger was the kids, ages four to around ten, who ran in and out of the house in a tight pack with a good half-dozen hound dogs at their heels. Harassed mothers corralled them, finally, and sent them to wash their hands before sitting down to plates that had been prepared for them. Someone called for a blessing, and abrupt silence descended for the prayer.

A period of relative calm followed as the serious business of eating got underway. The only sounds, other than the clatter of utensils and tinkle of ice in glasses, were the compliments, both wordless and fulsome, to the cooks. More than a few of these were directed toward Tory for her brisket and, later, her cobbler served with homemade vanilla ice cream.

Tory, sitting near Miss Elise and Mr. Lewis, watched Roan as he dipped his spoon into his dish of cobbler. For herself, she couldn't bear to taste it. Even the sweet berry smell of it brought a rush of memory that made her feel hot inside her skin. Then as Roan put the cobbler in his mouth, he closed his eyes. An instant later, he opened them again and looked straight toward where she sat. His gaze was opaque and his face pale. He turned and set the dish aside.

He couldn't bear it, either.

Clay was among the first to finish, mainly because he'd been first in the serving line. Setting his plate aside, he brought out a guitar with which he accompanied himself as he regaled the others with popular country-and-western ballads and old folk songs. He had a good voice, a rich bari
tone with much liveliness and underlying humor. His lengthy renditions of “Froggy Went A-Courting” and “There's a Knot on a Log” drew the children to him like flies, so they clustered around his feet and begged for more.

No one showed any inclination to leave after the dirty plates and glasses were collected and disposed of in big garbage bags. Someone went out to his vehicle and brought in a fiddle, another person produced an accordion. The parlor was cleared for dancing, with the chairs and the rug moved out to line the hall. Tory stayed in the kitchen, putting food away, as long as she could. When there was absolutely nothing else to do, she drifted back up to the upper floor and took a seat on the attic stairs, out of the way.

People came and people went. Teens holding hands whispered from a few treads above her, while a group of older women sat fanning themselves in the chairs against the hall wall. She felt conspicuous, with a crawling sensation along the back of her neck as if people were watching her, discussing her. She had no place here, and never would.

It was a relief when Clay found her again.

“Dance?” he asked, holding out his hand.

She looked up into his laughing blue eyes and was mightily tempted, if only for the sake of feeling a part of the gathering. Finally shook her head. “I don't think so.”

“Come on. Your long skirt will hide the monitor cuff, if that's what you're worried about.”

That had been the point of the matchstick skirt in rich turquoise and burgundy, of course, one that Pop Benedict had bought for her at the local discount store. She didn't remember ever wearing anything quite so thoroughly noncouturier in her life, or anything she appreciated more. Still, she shook her head. “It wouldn't be appropriate.”

“Who cares for that? Fun belongs to everybody.” He
reached to help her to her feet. “We'll stay out here in the hall, if you'd rather.”

How could she refuse in the face of such logic? In any case, she didn't want to, not really. She longed to feel a part of the day, the moment and the family in some fashion, at least for a few minutes. It was ridiculous, but she couldn't help it. She put her hand in Clay's and let him pull her to her feet.

He danced well, but she'd never expected anything else. Anyone who played and sang as he did had to have music in his soul. She complimented him on his earlier performance, and watched in bemusement as his face shaded with color. That he wasn't blasé about such things was a part of his charm, however, and she liked him better for it.

They moved to the music of a Texas-style waltz only a few seconds, however, when someone tapped Clay on the shoulder. Tory looked up to see Luke waiting expectantly.

“Oh, come on,” Clay protested as he came to a stop. “Go dance with your wife, for Pete's sake!”

“I did that,” Luke said as he stepped between them and encircled Tory's waist with a long arm. “And now she's dancing with Pop, the man of the hour.”

“Fine,” Clay warned. “I'm going to go get in line.”

Luke only laughed and whirled Tory away. After a moment, however, he glanced down at her. “I hope you don't mind. I couldn't let Clay monopolize the woman of the hour.”

“Hardly that,” Tory said in dry correction as she looked up at April's husband. “I feel more like the ghost at the banquet.”

“And a gorgeous one, too—I'm speaking, you understand, as an objective, and very much married, bystander.”

“Understood,” she said with some amusement for his worry that she might take the compliment personally.

“Not that April would ever be jealous, since she knows she has no cause. Roan, on the other hand, is a different story.”

He had her sudden and complete attention. “Did he send you to separate me from Clay?”

“Not exactly. It was my idea, since I'd rather not see two of my favorite cousins tie up and fight.”

Tory was growing a little tired of this preoccupation with her relationship with Roan. “If your cousin is concerned, it's probably because he's afraid I'll talk Clay into helping me escape.”

“And would you?”

“Why not?” she asked, drawing back enough to meet his dark eyes.

“Consideration? Gratitude?”

“Because Roan took me into his home? I didn't ask him to do it. Not that it matters. I doubt Clay would ever go against him.”

Luke's smile held approval. “Smart of you. Which leads me to the interesting conclusion that Roan must be obtuse where you're concerned, or else he's putting himself in Clay's place and none too certain he could resist.”

“I don't see that at all,” she said in flat denial. “He's just covering all the bases.”

Luke tilted is head. “That's possible, knowing Roan. But I doubt it.”

The best answer she could make to that was a dignified silence. Before the quiet between them could grow too strained, there was a movement behind her. A man spoke above her head. “My turn, Cousin. You've been dancing with the lady long enough.”

It was Kane, whom Roan mentioned more often than the others since they both worked at the courthouse.

“It's the same damn—excuse me—darned, waltz,” Luke said in exasperation.

“Sorry. Sheriff's orders.”

Luke gave Tory a crooked smile as he relinquished her. “See what I told you?”

She still held to her own opinion as to Roan's reasoning, but returned his smile anyway. Even she could see that the situation had its droll aspect.

The music ended just then. A slow ballad began, a crooning tune about a cowboy falling in love with the sound of a woman's voice. “Much better,” Kane said as he moved into the dance. “Now, which would you prefer? Shall I be discreet or fan the flames?”

“I'm not sure you have a choice,” she said without pretending to misunderstand him. “Surely Roan trusts you, of all people.”

“You'd think so, wouldn't you? I mean, if Regina doesn't present me with a son and heir in the middle of this party it will be a miracle. But I still have orders to keep it clean and make sure you turn into a wallflower again before too long.”

A slow tide of anger began to rise in Tory. “The nerve of that man! If he doesn't want other people dancing with me, why doesn't he ask me himself?”

“He's somewhat occupied with His Honor the mayor, or I'm sure he would.”

She hadn't noticed, not that she'd have recognized the official in any case. “How is that? According to Jake, they're barely on speaking terms.”

“Seems the men with the gambling consortium swept into town without advance warning, so the big parade from the airport to Turn-Coupe that His Honor had planned came to nothing. Roan was asked to provide a police escort, understand, but had more or less refused to have any part of
it. The mayor is convinced Roan either knew the men were coming and failed to sound a warning, or else he dropped the ball by not knowing.”

“This gambling consortium,” she said, her voice tight, “how many men are involved? That is, how many are here?”

“A couple, I think. They checked into the motel about noon, so Betsy tells me. That's a cousin of ours who owns the motel and convenience—but I was forgetting. You know about her, don't you?”

“We met, so to speak,” she said in distraction, hardly registering the apologetic smile Kane directed at her. Her thoughts were chaotic, a confusion of fears and impulses. If the men from the gambling consortium were here, that meant Harrell could be in Turn-Coupe already. Her time had run out.

Or had it? Maybe he wasn't here because of the report by Zits and Big Ears. Maybe he'd been coming anyway because of the gambling operation, which was why the two crooks had brought her to Louisiana in the first place. Maybe he had no idea that she had been injured and was in custody, so she was panicking for nothing.

At that moment, the front door swung open, letting in a blast of hot summer air. The late arrival was brash and beaming as she greeted everyone in sight, laughing as she made her excuses about being late. A pleasingly plump woman with streaked blond hair, she looked very different from the last time Tory had seen her behind the counter of her convenience store, passing over cash from the register with both hands. Then she turned to usher inside the man who mounted the steps behind her, saying something about a guest at the motel who'd been at loose ends on a hot Sunday afternoon.