A Shadow on the Ground (13 page)

“I can promise you one thing,” Gage said evenly. His slow Georgia drawl liquefied each vowel. “If you go near Morgan again, I will personally see to it that you never bother another woman for
any
reason. Ever again. You get what I'm sayin’?”

“Threaten me all you want. But this is not over.” He shook off Gage's grasp. “I have bills to pay, and the people I owe expect me to pay them on time.”

“What people?” Gage asked. “People who’d just as soon see you dead as alive?” He turned to Morgan. “I think I’ve tracked down some of those people.”

Finch glared at him. “I mean it, Kirkland. This is not over.” He wiped the spittle off his mouth with the back of his hand and stalked away.

Gage turned to Morgan. She gave a quick backward glance to the patrons in the courtyard still staring and whispering, then calmly looped her purse strap over her shoulder and started down the street.

“Hey, wait a minute!” Gage threw a few bills on the table and hurried to catch up. “You can’t leave now. Where are you going?”

She walked across the street and stood beside her old blue truck, rummaging in her leather purse for the keys. Gage stood in the grassy parkway. He was afraid she would slug him if he came too close.

“Morgan, talk to me. I swear I didn't know Bert was trying to force your family into selling. As soon as I found out, I packed up Jeremy and moved us out of Bert’s house. Until today, I had no idea he was pulling the strings. I would have said something. I would have told you.”

She opened the truck door and spun around to face him. “You know what? I don't have time for this. And I don't have time for you. One of these days, I’ll learn to follow my instincts.”

“Morgan.”

“I’m so angry, I could spit.” She threw her purse past the gearshift and put her foot on the running board. But instead of ducking inside the cab, she turned back to him, eyes flashing.

He caught his breath. Jesus, she was beautiful.

The morning light shimmered across her face, making the blue part of the gold-flecked iris look green. Her perfectly shaped lips clamped together in disgust. Her right hand balled into a fist. Gage had never seen her angry before. He'd imagined it enough times, but in his head, it had never looked quite like this. Passion and revulsion all mixed together, and directed at him.

“Here’s the deal,” she said. “I will give your son guitar lessons because I feel sorry for him. And I will let you give us your exalted opinion on whether or not the orchard can be saved, because my brother—God help him—believes you know what you’re doing. But make no mistake. I want you and your uncle to stay as far away from me as possible. I don't want to see you. I don't want to hear your voice. I don't want to catch sight of your long, tall shadow slinking along the ground.”

“Why not? That’s all I am. Just a shadow on the ground. That’s all any of us are.”

“You say that like you believe it.”

“I do believe it.” He raked his hand back through his hair. “Come on, Morgan. Give me a break. I know you’re angry about Bert, but you don't think I could condone the fact that he—”

“The hell I don’t.” She slid in and slammed the door, then sat staring at the steering wheel.

He waited for her to start the motor, thrust it into first gear and peel out of the parking spot. But she made no move to go. He stood in the parkway with his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his khaki pants. And waited. Finally, he pecked on the glass. “I’m not leaving,” he said. “I’m never leaving. I’m going to stand here like Greyfriar’s Bobby in the rain and the snow and the sleet until you talk to me. For as long as it takes.”

She rolled the window down. “You really moved you and your son out of Bert’s house?”

“Yes.”

“And you swear you didn’t know what Bert was up to?”

“I swear.”

She sat for a few moments, then nodded. “All right. You get one chance.” She started the motor, still looking straight ahead. “I’ll see you at four.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Four o’clock. As soon as Jeremy gets out of his therapy session.”

She leaned down. “Can you do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“Can you find out if Jeremy’s therapist has an opening? I think I need to have my head examined.”

Chapter 7

“My dad's outside looking around,” Jeremy said. He shuffled into the living room and stood by the piano. “I hate piano. Piano sucks.”

Morgan laughed. “Well, maybe you have the soul of an Eric Clapton or a Jimmy Page.”

“Who’s that?”

“Ever heard of Led Zeppelin?”

Jeremy's face brightened. “Sure. They're on my
Guitar Hero
game.”

“Then you've heard Jimmy Page play guitar.” She set his backpack on the sofa. “Are you hungry? Do you want a snack or something before we start?”

“My dad bought me a couple of burgers after therapy.” He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I'm in friggin' therapy. Just like all the kids in alternative school.”

“Do you hate it?”

Jeremy shrugged. “Nah, it's okay. I thought it would suck, but I guess it’s okay.”

“I know you’re the new kid at school. Do you ever get bullied? My brother did.”

“Not much. I figure out ways around it.” He grinned. “I may have inherited the shrimp gene, but I also got a few brains. Dr. Lloyd thinks I’m precocious.”

“I’d have to agree. I wish I'd had someone to talk to when my parents died. I mean, I had my brother, but...you know, I couldn't tell him everything.”

“You're parents died? Both of them? At the same time?”

“In a car wreck. When I was ten.”

He glanced at the floor, then lifted his head. “Kinda like me, huh?”

“Kinda like you.” She sat at the piano and patted the bench. “Come sit here. Pianos may suck, but they come in handy when you're tuning a guitar.”

They spent the next thirty minutes lost in the sweet solace of music. In addition to being whip smart, it was clear Jeremy had inherited the same dry, self-deprecating sense of humor from his father that had first attracted Morgan to him. She wondered if Gage saw himself in his son. She did. And she wondered what Jeremy would have looked like if he'd been her child. Taller, maybe. With Gage’s dark eyes and Sean’s tall, lanky body.

When they finished, Jeremy said, “My fingers look like I've been hanging on a clothesline.”

“They'll be sore tomorrow. It takes a while to build up calluses. I'm going to let you take my guitar with you to practice the four chords you learned. Just play around with them. Next time, we'll drag out some music and work on a real song.” She smiled. “You did great today.”

“Thanks.”

“I hear you’re a whiz at computers.”

“I'm okay.”

“I might need help from someone who knows his way around the Internet. Are you interested? If your dad says it’s all right, I’d pay you for your time.”

Jeremy grinned up at her, and for the first time she noticed the tiny silver wires holding his retainer in place. “For real?”

“Absolutely. I own a Civil War artifact I might need to sell. There are people who would pay a lot of money for it, but I don't know how to go about finding them.”

“What kind of artifact?”

“General Albert S. Johnston's personal battle flag.” She reached behind the piano for the guitar case. “He was shot and killed the first day at the Battle of Shiloh. The poor guy bled to death because he'd sent all the doctors off to care for Union prisoners, and no one at the camp knew how to tie a tourniquet.”

“Bummer.”

Morgan laughed. “Definitely a bummer.”

“What does the flag look like?”

“Like a Confederate flag, only smaller. It’s about thirty-four inches square, made out of wool bunting. Each regiment had their own flag. Many of the soldiers' wives sewed the flags for their husbands and sons. Will you help me find a buyer?”

“Sure.” He nodded vigorously.

She went to the roll top desk and wrote the information on a piece of notepaper. “I’m sadly lacking in computer skills, but I do I have an email address if you need to contact me. Here are my phone numbers. Call the house first. On this side of the mountain, cell service is iffy.”

A man's shadow loomed in the doorway, blocking the low September sun.

“Dad's here.” Jeremy turned around and stopped short. “Morgan?” he said in a small voice.

Morgan looked up. Her worst nightmare stood in the doorway with his arms crossed, grinning at her. “Hello, Denny.”

“Hey, girl.” The screen door opened and banged shut. Denny Quillen stepped into the room, filling it up. His gaze skimmed the length of her body.

“You know, this isn't a good time, Denny. I'm giving a lesson.”

“The boy won't mind.” He looked at Jeremy. “Will you, boy?”

Jeremy’s gaze jumped between Denny and Morgan. “I...I guess not.”

“See?” Denny said. “He doesn't care. Go away, kid. Your teacher and I have some grownup talking to do.”

“It's all right, Jeremy,” Morgan said. “You can wait outside for your father.”

“Down by the fence,” Denny said. “What we have to say is private.”

Jeremy hesitated, torn between not wanting to stay and afraid to leave her alone.

“It’s okay, honey,” Morgan said. “I’ll be fine. Go on, now.”

Denny stamped his foot. “
Go! Lesson's over!
”

Jeremy grabbed the huge guitar case and scuttled out the door.

Morgan waited until Jeremy had cleared the porch. “Still charming everyone you meet, I see.”

“Only you, Morgan.” He took a step toward her.

She always forgot what a big man Denny was, and how intimidating. A shiver traveled the length of her spine. Instinctively, she glanced around the room to determine her options.

“What’s it been?” he said. “Two years?”

“Five. It just feels like two. Every five years, you show up like clockwork asking for a handout. Like I owe you something. Well, I don’t owe you anything.”

Time to curb her smart tongue. She knew better than to provoke him.

She went to stand behind the sofa, feeling safer with a barrier between them. If he wasn’t too stoned, and still had a few muscles left from his track and field days, a sofa wouldn’t be much protection. His watery gray eyes, magnified twice their size behind the lens in a pair of round wire-frames, regarded the move with amusement.

“Aren't you gonna ask me to sit down?”

“I don't think so.”

He was thinner than he'd been the last time she'd seen him, although judging from the spongy bay window protruding from his midsection, he was still going through a twelve-pack of beer every night. For once, his prematurely gray goatee had been neatly trimmed, and he had pulled his straight gray hair into a ponytail. If he'd been wearing a tweed sport coat instead of a stained cotton work shirt, he could have passed for the seedy professor at some junior college.

“We were married once,” he said. “Aren’t you even gonna ask how I am?”

“We were married for two months. I’ve had relationships with cheese that lasted longer.” Morgan clutched the crocheted afghan lying across the back of the sofa. “But okay. How are you, Denny? Still the light of your family’s life?”

“Huh,” he scoffed.

“Why are you here? Do you have some personal debts, quite possibly to someone named Guido, that you need to pay off?”

“Oh, ouch.” Denny put a hand over his heart and stumbled backwards in mock agony. “Why do you always think the worst of me?”

“Because you always prove me right. If you're here to borrow money, I don't have any.”

“No, but you have something else. Something that belongs to me.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

He walked toward her and stopped. The muscles in her arms tensed. A film of perspiration broke out across the back of her neck. “The flag, Morgan. I'm talking about the flag. My father knows you have it, and he wants it back.”

“You gave it to me, remember?”

“I was drunk.”

“I don't care if you were in a coma. You said it was payment for the grief you caused me. For making me lose the—for what you did to me. You said I could have it if I didn't report what you did to the police, remember? You didn't have to go to jail, remember?” She stared at him without cringing. Five years ago she might have backed down. But not now.

“It wasn't my fault you lost the baby. Shit, it wasn’t even mine.” He took another step toward her. “I want the flag back, Morgan. And I want it back now.”

“I'm not afraid of you anymore.”

He laughed coarsely. “You never were.”

She used her peripheral vision to make sure the bat was still in the umbrella stand. She'd never been very successful using a weapon against him. The only time she'd needed one, he'd overpowered her before she could get to it. She cheated a few steps to the right and tried to gauge the distance she'd have to run if he came at her. He looked soft, out of shape. If he was still chain-smoking filterless Camels, she could probably outrun him.

She had to stay calm and
think
. Thinking had saved her before. By the time his rising exasperation crossed the line—and it always did—she had better have a plan in place.

Marrying Denny had been the worst mistake of her life. Or the second, if you counted falling in love with another man two weeks before their wedding. But she’d married Denny, in spite of the feeling of doom that had clutched her gut. In spite of pacing the church vestibule like a caged leopard, waiting for the call from Gage that never came.

Denny had hit her twice. The first time hadn’t seemed completely unjustified after confessing she'd slept with another man. Although, it had left her wary and bewildered, with an unshakable mistrust of her own judgment where men were concerned. The second time, on the day he found out she was pregnant with Gage’s child, changed her life forever, and sent her tearing out of his life for good.

“I only gave you that flag because I needed someplace safe to stash it,” he said. “I knew you’d take good care of it for me, and I could get it back anytime I wanted. Well, I want it now.”

Her gaze shot to the screen door. She hoped Jeremy had made it across the yard and was waiting for Gage at the road. She would never forgive herself if anything happened to him.