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Chapter 7

Jake ordered Deacon, wet from one last stolen splash through the pool, to ride in the bed of his truck, but even so—even with Megan sitting all the way across the bench seat, as close to the door as she could get without seeming rude—the cab of his truck seemed filled. But with what?

Who was this woman who had disrupted the order he had painstakingly restored to his life? She certainly wasn't the spoiled child-woman he had thought her to be when Roger Hudson married her. He could no more reconcile the Megan he had so recently met with that young society girl than he could with the woman who had found the strength to walk out of a South American jungle.

Or with the woman he had first seen cringing before an insensitive deputy.

Since he had carried her into his house two night ago—God had it only been that long?—he had seen her vulnerable and angry, confused and contented, distant and much too welcoming.

And she was Roger Hudson's widow.

Roger Hudson's recent widow.

She had lived four years with a man he could barely tolerate. And then had watched him be murdered.

He forced himself to remember how fragile Megan truly was—had to be—emotionally as well as physically.

While he would not have wished that kind of death on anyone, while he could grieve for the loss of her life, his marriage and his love for Helen Hudson had been over long before he had returned to Oklahoma, long before she had left him wounded and alone in a hospital room while she returned to Washington, long before she had taken that fateful junket to Villa Castellano.

But unless Roger had shared that information with her, Megan didn't know it. And Jake was beginning to wonder if Roger Hudson had shared much of anything with his young wife. Certainly not an interest in her work.

Would she go back to Project Food? Could she go back after what had happened? Why should it matter to him?

It didn't. It wouldn't.

Just as it didn't matter that when he had walked out of the woods he had found Megan looking as though she had just taken another one of those damned vacations that were beginning to worry the hell out of him.

"That's it?" she asked in a small voice when they rounded the second turn and her house came into view. "I walked all morning and wound up no farther from my house than that?"

"Yep," he said as his truck rumbled over the last hundred potholed and eroded yards of road to the turnoff for her drive.

She glared at him, but he saw a reluctant grin trying to break through the confusion that had filled her eyes since Deacon had brought him to her.

"Yep?" she parroted. "I'll probably have terminal blisters because your dog led me on a merry chase, and all you can say is Yep?"

"Yep." He chuckled and watched a slow flush cover her delicate features when her stomach growled an unmistakable signal. "And buy you lunch, unless you've got something a lot more interesting and a heck of a lot quicker than anything I saw in your refrigerator last night."

"Oh, that's not—"

"Sure it is," he told her. There was no way he was going to go off and leave her alone, not right now anyway. Not until she had recovered, temporarily at least, from whatever haunted her. "I'm hungry, you're hungry, and I have to go into Prescott anyway." He braked to a stop in her turnaround. "Let's check out the house, grab your keys and whatever else you need, and head for the Prescott Palace."

Megan glanced down at her woods wear. "Like this?"

He shook his head in mock dismay. "Haven't you been to Prescott before?"

"Of course I have."

"And you still have to ask about dress code?"

Megan chuckled. "Sorry. Old habits. But where is the Prescott Palace?"

"At the Mall, where else?"

He watched her process that piece of information, knowing the exact moment when she identified the Prescott Mall.

"Where else?" she asked, letting her grin break free to animate her delicate features. "Come on in the house. I need about five minutes. Even the Palace requires that much grooming."

 

Jake parked in the vacant lot probably once intended for a town square across the road from the long tin-roofed building that housed Sarah North's emporium. Three gas pumps crowded up against the covered wooden porch with its long bench. That bench was now occupied by two septuagenarians in look-alike bib overalls and gimme caps. The men, strangers to Megan, nodded and smiled when Jake opened the screen door for her, and she could practically see the speculation dancing in their eyes.

Sarah North looked up from behind the counter in the alcove to the right of the front door and flashed a big smile. "Jake Kenyon! It's about time you got your body off that hill and down here. Your mail outgrew your box a week ago."

She turned to Megan and her smile softened but seemed no less genuine.

"Are you with this woods rat, or did you just happen to walk in at the same time?"

Megan grinned, succumbing to the gentle teasing that was so alien to the life she had led and yet, she knew instinctively, a necessary part of the new life she hoped to make here. "I confess. I came with him."

"Good. Thought you two would figure out who each other was a lot faster than you did."

Sarah North didn't fit Megan's idea of local gossip, wise woman, or crone; she was too young, at early fifty-something, and too wholesomely normal-looking with her gray-streaked short red curls for any of those roles, but she apparently filled at least one of them. "You knew?" Megan asked. "And you didn't say anything?"

"Why should she?" Jake asked easily as he guided Megan into the alcove that housed the lunchroom. "She had a lot more fun speculating on how we'd find out."

"Did you come in for your usual load of cholesterol and calories or just to give me a hard time?"

"Food, woman," Jake said, nodding at Megan to take a seat on one of the old-fashioned spinning stools.

Sarah produced a clean towel and wiped the already spotless counter. "He wants a double cheeseburger and fries." She looked at Megan appraisingly. "But you? How about some truly excellent chicken salad on homemade whole wheat bread?"

It was truly excellent, and Megan was still eating heartily when Sarah poured herself a cup of coffee, leaned a hip against the counter, and spoke companionably to Jake.

"So," she said. "Have you heard about Rolley P's latest foul-up?"

Jake only raised a brow before reaching for another French fry.

"Of course he has, Sarah," the woman said to herself. "Foolish question. What I should have asked is, How much more have you heard about Rolley P's latest foul-up than what Patrick put in the paper? Like, who was the poor victim his crew went in on?"

Megan had already placed her sandwich on her plate. Her stomach roiled; there was no way she could eat more. Instead, she ordered her hand not to shake as she lifted her glass of tea.

"You!" Sarah's voice sounded eminently confident in spite of the shock it carried. "Oh, you poor thing! They came in on you! You must have been terrified." She exhaled a rough sigh. "That idiot. That incompetent. Jake, if something isn't done about him soon, this county—"

"All right, Sarah," he said quietly. "I understand; you don't have to convince me. But please, the last thing Megan needs is sightseers out to look over the county's latest wonder."

"Jake, I'm not—" She turned and patted Megan's hand. "I won't say a word about this," she told her. "I promise you. But Jake has to know, and he has to have told you, that somehow someone is going to tell."

Megan dredged up a smile. "I know," she said. "Experience has already taught me that lesson. But I appreciate your concern, Mrs. North."

"Sarah."

"Sarah," Megan repeated, accepting what had to be an inevitable informality. She did appreciate the woman's concern. And she appreciated Jake's; she really did. Even if it was beginning to seem just a bit too much.

"Sarah," Jake said firmly, "can you make a couple of keys for me, or is your machine still broken?"

Sarah shot him a glare, but whether to signal to him that she knew better than to let the conversation get maudlin, or in protest against his maligning her store, Megan couldn't tell.

"Of course I can." She grinned at him. "The part came in yesterday."

Jake grinned back. "And speaking of parts," he said, taking a key from his ring and handing it to her, "can I have some delivered here for a while?"

"You know you can. What's the matter? Is that road of yours finally impassable?"

"Something like that. Are you sure it won't be an imposition?"

Sarah North shook her head. "Not as long as you have them bring anything really heavy into the storeroom and not just drop it on the loading dock like—which reminds me. While you're here . . . ?"

Jake laughed. "The loading dock, right?"

Sarah nodded. "Right. Two cartons." She busied herself with their dishes until Jake was out of hearing range and then leaned across the counter. "He's a good man."

"I thought he must be," Megan told her. "He's been good to me." And for her.

"No, I mean really a good man. The kind they don't make too many of these days."

Was that a warning in Sarah's normally friendly voice: The kind you'd better not take advantage of? How? Certainly not as a woman. Until barely three months ago, Jake had been married to Helen Hudson, a supremely beautiful, supremely confident, supremely talented woman. It seemed almost obscene that he would be interested in someone else so soon, but even if he were, surely it wouldn't be her. Not looking the way she did now. Not as confused as she was now.

"I try never to take advantage of my friends," she said evenly, answering the warning she had heard with one of her own.

"Well, of course not," Sarah stuttered. "I didn't mean, I—well, heck! That's what I get for sticking my nose in where it doesn't belong. Henry's always telling me I'm going to get myself in a mess with my meddling; I just never believed him until now."

What did you mean, Sarah North? Megan thought. But she wasn't confident enough to ask. Surely this woman hadn't been matchmaking. That seemed as improbable as thinking Megan could take advantage of Jake.

"All I meant was, you've got to be having nightmares about what happened, here and—before. Jake is a good man to call on if you need help getting through tough times. For that matter, you can call on me."

"Sarah?" Megan asked as she lifted her tea glass. She needed to change the subject, and she needed some answers. "Have you lived in this area very long?"

Apparently Sarah needed a change of subject too. "All my life, why?"

"Did you ever hear of—" Should she do this? Could she not do this? "Did you ever hear of someone named Sam Hooker?"

Surprising her, Sarah leaned against the counter and laughed. "Oh, honey, you've been hearing those old stories about buried treasure. There's no gold on your place or Jake's, trust me. Sam Hooker was a lawman. He wouldn't have robbed a train. And if he'd caught the robbers, he would have turned in the gold, not hidden it to come back to. Besides, even if he had hidden it, as much as those stories have circulated, someone would have dug it up by now."

Megan propped her elbows on the counter and stared at the woman. "Then he was a real person?"

"Maybe," Sarah told her. "And maybe the man we've heard of is more myth than truth. It's sometimes hard to tell. And of course no one's still alive who would have known him."

"But there was—"

Megan heard Jake's footsteps on the old wood floor and clamped her mouth shut and her rioting thoughts firmly in place. He came into sight, dusting his hands. Without asking, Sarah handed him a towel, and he walked behind the counter to the small kitchen sink and began washing. "Have you had a chance to make those keys yet?" he asked.

"Not yet. We've been talking."

He turned off the water and twisted around to smile at the two women. "Good. That gives me time for another glass of tea."

 

One of the keys was for her. Jake handed it to her when they reached the massive pipe gate. Megan looked at the key and slid from the truck seat to follow Jake when he went to open it.

"It isn't really heavy," he assured her, "just a little awkward. See?" He opened the padlock and slid the short length of welded chain away, then lifted on a metal bar until the tail slid out of its opening and the gate swung freely on well-balanced hinges. Jake pushed the gate to the opposite side of the road and hooked it to a post.

"Wait here," he told her. "I need to drive the truck through."

Such a lot of trouble, Megan thought. And even though he had built the gate, this was trouble he hadn't thought necessary until she had arrived.

"Is the gate the reason you're having your deliveries made to the store?" she asked, after they had closed and locked the gate, climbed back in the truck, and braked to a stop in her turnaround.

He studied her as though he didn't want to answer. "In part," he admitted.

"Why didn't you put it up before?" she asked.

"When Renfro lived at your place?" Jake shook his head. "Megan, didn't you ever hear that it isn't smart to lock the fox in the henhouse?"

"But what if Patrick and Barbara decide to visit? What if I decide to have more work done on the house?"

"Anybody welcome out here will know to contact us first. As for the other—it might be a good idea if you waited before hiring any more work done."

Megan felt a chill shudder through her. That sounded suspiciously like one of Roger's orders, softly phrased, at least in the early days of their marriage, but an order just the same.

Jake must have seen her mutiny building. "Just for a few days," he added, "until we see how Rolley P is going to treat this: whether he's going to let it die down and hope we won't take him to a grand jury, or whether he's going to roll around in his own stink. Strangers talk. They spread gossip and bring other strangers around. Neither one of us needs that right now."

Didn't Jake really mean that she didn't need that right now? She wondered.

Whatever he meant, he was right.

She looked at her house, peaceful in the shade of the huge old trees surrounding it, and suppressed another shudder. It didn't bother her to lock out the world; she'd wanted to do that for a long time. What bothered her was the nagging suspicion that, much like the farmer with the fox, she had locked something in the henhouse with her.

She nodded her agreement, opened the door, and slid out of the truck. Jake got out too and walked to her side. He hesitated for a moment, then lifted his arm to her shoulder and began walking with her toward the house. At the porch he paused again and whistled for Deacon before mounting the steps.

He'd insisted that she lock the door when they left. Now he took her key from her, opened the door, and sent Deacon into the house ahead of them.

"I still have some things to do on my own place," he said, looking down at her. "And I need Deacon for a while. Will you be all right?"

"You don't have to baby-sit me, Jake," she said, but without heat. It had been a long time since anyone had cared enough to ask about her needs.

"I know that. I also know you've been through some serious trauma and might feel a little better with someone else around to help keep the world at bay for a while."

Yes, he was a good man. And if he tended to hover a little closely, maybe that was all right too, for a while. She gave him a tired smile.

"What I've been through today is a lot of walking and an abundance of good food. I think I'll nap for a while."

"You're sure?"

Megan stifled a yawn and then a little laugh. "Do you think I really need Deacon to watch me sleep again?"

Jake chuckled too, ushered her into the house, and called for his dog. "Lock the door," he said. "And rest. I'll check on you later."

 

Rest. As welcome as it had sounded, Megan found that rest eluded her. Finally giving up on a nap, she unlocked the back door and carried a glass of tea out onto the porch. She heard the sound of sharp claws on the screen and opened the door to let the kittens out, but after a few minutes of her attention they wandered off in the direction of the side yard, leaving her alone.

Alone. Was that the problem? She hadn't been alone since the raid. Yes, Megan reminded herself. She had been. For brief periods of time. And each time, something strange had happened. She settled into one of the chairs at the wrought iron table, propped her feet on the other, and stared into the distance at the tree line of the abandoned roadway.

You've got to be having nightmares about what happened, here and—before.

Was that what was happening to her? Nightmares, while wide awake?

She'd been handling her recovery so well. Surely, if this kind of thing was going to happen, it would have happened before now. Or had the raid been the impetus her already fragile emotional state had needed to push her over the edge?

The alien sound of a ringing telephone jarred her from her musing. The telephone? No one had called her unlisted number in weeks, and she had grown comfortable with the quiet. For a moment she considered how nice it would be if she could put a gate on her phone line the way Jake had put one on the road, or at least a gadget to tell her who was on the other end of the line, friend or intruder, but that technology would be a long time coming to this small rural phone company.

For a moment she considered just ignoring the summons. But she'd been trained well; sighing, she went to answer it. It could be Jake, and he'd worry if she didn't. Megan shook her head. Worry? He'd probably come charging down the mountain.

"Please hold."

It wasn't Jake, Megan thought, as she heard the woman's impersonal voice and then canned music.

She knew only a couple of people who thought so much of themselves and their time that they didn't even realize how incredibly rude this type of summons was. One of them was her father. The other was Dr. Kent. She didn't want to talk to either of them right now. Could she just hang up?

And answer even more questions later? She held.

"Megan." She relaxed only marginally when she recognized her doctor's voice. "I've been trying to contact you all day. How are you, dear?"

Paranoid, Dr. Kent. Why are you really calling?

The thought came immediately and firmly lodged itself in her consciousness. He'd never initiated a call to her before. But he'd never been awakened in the middle of the night by another doctor about her before, either.

"I'm much better, thank you," she said pleasantly, unwilling to expose her suspicions yet. "I'm sorry you missed me earlier."

"Have you been out?"

Curious, was he? So was she.

"Oh, yes," she told him. "It's absolutely gorgeous here in the early summer. I had a nice hike in the woods today, and then I went to lunch with a neighbor and a woman I met in town." It was truth enough to salve her conscience until she explored her feelings about revealing more.

The brief silence spoke eloquently of his surprise. "You've recovered then from the—from the unpleasantness two nights ago?"

"Emotionally and physically, yes," she said, hoping that was true. "With the help of friends, I've repaired the damage to the house. As a matter of fact, I had those friends to dinner last night. I've talked through my anger, at least enough to realize that what remains is a healthy reaction to an unjust legal loophole that permits a raid of that nature."

She sighed. Showing a little angst wouldn't condemn her.

"And I realize that accidents do happen. I appreciate your talking to Dr. Phillips the other night, but I'm sorry she bothered you. After a good night's sleep, I was able to put the shock of the incident into perspective."

"I see," he said finally. "Have you spoken with your father yet?"

Was that the reason for his call? If so, he'd wasted his time and hers. From previous sessions, he already knew her answer. "And tell him what, Dr. Kent, something else for him to disbelieve? No, thank you."

"Megan. Someday you're going to have to talk with him."

"I know that. And I will. Someday when the memory of his denial, of his essentially calling me a liar, accusing me of trying to ruin his career, and then abandoning me to face alone the feeding frenzy the press made over my audacity in surviving and in daring to say what no one wanted to hear, doesn't hurt so much."

"He didn't, you know."

Didn't what? Megan wondered. "Is he still sponsoring the appropriations bill?"

At one time Dr. Kent's calm voice had seemed comforting; now, even though as soft, as quiet as always, he seemed to be screaming at her. "Are you journaling what's happening to you? Are you at least working in that way toward healing your anger and the trauma you've been through?"

The journal.

Oh, lord, the journal.

And those two condemning entries.

"Actually, no."

"Megan, it could help you immensely if you would at least try."

And no one would ever see it but her. Unless, of course, someone wanted to see it. Someone who knew without a doubt that it existed and suspected what it contained.

She knew what she had to tell him. "I tried, Dr. Kent. I made several entries, in fact. But even as a teenager, I never kept a diary. Everything I write seems stiff and forced. And to be honest, I find more healing in digging weeds or scraping paint. I'm sorry. I know you were counting on my input for your associate, but perhaps you can find someone more comfortable with the concept who can give you a more objective evaluation of its benefits."

She heard him sigh. It was the first sign he had ever given her of any emotion, and she had no way to interpret it. "Will you at least keep the notebook," he asked, "and consider the possibility of working in it? I'm not asking for a commitment, but if it's there, handy, you might find you do want to explore some things in it at some later date."

She thought quickly. Her early entries were stiff and forced and completely nonincriminating. "All right," she told him, "I'll keep it. But I'll probably never write another word in it."

As she thought it would, that promise seemed to satisfy him. After only a few more questions and comments, all inconsequential, he urged her to call him if she needed him and hung up. To call her father and report to him, Megan thought, and then released the thought as uncharitable. What Dr. Kent did or did not do was out of her control, as was any information she had already given him.

But he wanted her to keep the notebook. A doctor's concern or more? On the uncertain chance that it was more, she would keep the book. Keep it in an open and obvious place. Keep it without making any further entries. Keep it after making sure that the two incriminating cries for help were no longer contained in its pages . . .

 

Ten minutes later, she sat on her bed, not sure she'd be able to stand if she tried. Beside her, the black notebook lay open but purged of the last two entries. Those, she held in her hand.

She'd been going to tear up the pages, but some grim fascination had made her read them again.

And answer one of her questions.

The whatevers had not started after the raid; they'd started just before it.

Two consecutive entries on two consecutive nights contained semicoherent, almost hysterical pleas. The words were written in the same flowing script, in a handwriting that would have been beautiful if not for the scrawl of panic that marred it. A handwriting that didn't match any of the other words on the pages. A handwriting that wasn't hers.

 

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