The Waterfall (8 page)

Jack seemed to relax. “Thanks, Barbara. I knew I could count on you.”

Did he? She wondered if this was a start. Or maybe this was just a way to get rid of her while he coped with blackmail. Why have her around, adding to the pressure on him? Perhaps it was an excuse to get her out of town.

Barbara felt sick. She'd thrown herself at him, poured out her soul. They were pretending nothing had happened, but he knew it had, and she knew. She'd broken the bond of trust between them by saying out loud what she knew they both were thinking. She'd hoped blackmail would jolt him out of his denial about his feelings toward her.
Barbara, I'm so sorry. I need you. You know I do!

Instead, it was off to Vermont with her.

But this was her job as his personal assistant, she reminded herself. She handled the odd details of Jack Swift's life as a senator, a grandfather and a father-in-law.

He couldn't know that by sending her to Vermont, he was sending her back into the lion's den.

She would leave Lucy alone. She
had
to. If Darren found out, he'd kill her.

“Barbara?”

She smiled. “I was just thinking that Lucy could have picked a worse place to live than Vermont. It'll be fun going up there for a few days. I'll keep you posted.”

 

Lucy plopped a colander of freshly picked green beans on her lap and sighed happily. Two normal days. She'd been to the hardware store to replace the glass in her dining room window, she'd patched the hole in the wall, she'd reported back to Rob Kiley that she hadn't found any firearms or ammunition in her son's possession or anywhere on her property. He likewise reported that Georgie was “clean.”

And after a busy day of office work, she and Madison and J.T. had picked beans.

“Do you think Daisy made Sebastian pick beans?” Madison asked, joining her mother on the porch.

Lucy grabbed a handful of fresh, tender beans and started snapping off the ends. “I don't think anyone's ever ‘made' him do anything.”

“Well, his horses were beautiful.”

That, Lucy allowed, was true. Beautiful horses, mutt dogs, no electricity, no running water. Sebastian Redwing had never been an easy man to figure out. Luckily, she didn't have to. He was in Wyoming on his hammock, coughing dust.

While Madison helped with snapping beans, J.T. was making himself scarce. It was a warm, fragrant, perfect Vermont summer evening. In a way, Lucy thought, asking Sebastian for help and having him turn her down so unceremoniously had been cathartic, forcing her to dig into her own resources. She really was on her own.

Colin couldn't have known, she thought. When he'd extracted her promise, Sebastian Redwing had been a different man from the rude burnout she'd found in Wyoming.

“Mom,” J.T. yelled from inside, “Grandpa's on the phone!”

“Bring the phone out here.”

Madison dropped a half-dozen snapped beans back into the colander. “Can I talk to him?”

Lucy nodded. “Of course.” J.T. ran out with the portable phone, deposited it in her lap and jumped off the porch, taking all the steps in one leap. Talking to their grandfather, Lucy thought, always perked up both her children. He would never let them know he disapproved of their mother's decision to move them out of Washington. But he'd let her know, in his subtle, gentlemanly way. She got the message. He hadn't lasted in Washington as long as he had by being wishy-washy.

“Hi, Jack,” she said into the phone. “What's up?”

“I had a minute and thought I'd give you a call.”

“Well, I'm glad you did.”

“How are you?”

“Madison and I are snapping beans on the front porch.”

“Sounds idyllic.”

She laughed, but she detected a slight note of criticism mixed with an unexpected wistfulness. “I don't know about idyllic. How're you? How's Washington?”

“I'm fine. Washington's hot.”

“It's summer. Let's talk again when the cherry blossoms are out there and it's mud season here.”

“J.T. said you had a good trip to Wyoming.”

“It was quick, but we enjoyed ourselves.”

“Did you stop in to see Sebastian Redwing?”

Lucy paused. Did Jack know about her promise to Colin? Was he suspicious that visiting Sebastian meant trouble? He didn't sound suspicious, but then, he wouldn't. Jack Swift knew how to keep his emotions in check better than most. “Yes,” she said carefully. “It made for an interesting field trip with the kids.”

“I gather they're not going to camp this summer.”

They hadn't gone to camp last summer, either. “I don't see the need, given where we live and what I do.”

Lucy kept her tone light, deciding to take his question at face value and not read any criticism into it. But she knew it was there. Her father-in-law would never openly criticize her parenting skills, but she knew he thought his grandchildren's upbringing lacking. That Madison and J.T. could kayak, canoe, hike, swim in an ice-cold stream, pick their own vegetables, climb trees, fish and wander in the woods of Vermont was all well and good—but they weren't learning sailing, golf, tennis. Their occasional lessons at the town rec department didn't count.

“They need their own lives, Lucy,” Jack said softly.

Lucy was taken aback, but forced a laugh. “That's what they tell me every time I insist they clean their rooms. ‘Mom, I need my own life.'”

“Do you think Colin would have wanted them raised in Vermont? Snapping beans, running through the woods—Lucy, it's a hard world out there. They need to be ready.”

“Colin's not here, Jack, and I'm doing the best I can.”

“Of course, you are. I'm so sorry.”

He
was
sorry, but he'd said what he felt. He was a man without a wife or son, and Lucy had taken his grandchildren off to Vermont. She wasn't raising them the way he and Eleanor had raised Colin. Lucy understood, but wished he could simply say he missed having them right there in Washington instead of implying she wasn't a good mother.

“Forget it, Jack. Look, Madison and J.T. would love to see you. Any chance you can get up here during the August recess?”

“I hope so.”

“We'd like to sneak down to Rhode Island for a few days, if you're available. And Madison's looking forward to her trip to Washington this fall.”

Lucy glanced at her daughter, who was listening intently to every word. If there was a way to use her grandfather to convince her mother to let her do a semester in Washington, Madison would jump at it. But as much as he might disapprove of Vermont, Lucy was confident Jack would never undermine Lucy that way.

“She'd love to stay longer than a three-day weekend,” Lucy said. “Here, would you like to talk to her?”

“Yes, thanks. Great talking to you, Lucy. Oh, by the way, Sidney Greenburg sends her best.”

Lucy interpreted this to mean Sidney and Jack were still seeing each other. She hoped a relationship might take some of the focus off her own shortcomings, and the edge off his loneliness. “Thanks. Tell her the Costa Rica trip is coming along—she wants to be the first to sign up.”

“Maybe we both will,” Jack said. “And Lucy, I didn't mean to imply—you should go on with your life. I know that.”

“It's okay, Jack. We miss you, too. We'll see you soon.”

Madison disappeared inside with the phone. Jack was good to both her children, Lucy reminded herself. And they loved him. But if she'd stayed in Washington, they'd have stayed in Colin's world—Jack's world—and Lucy knew she wouldn't have survived. She'd needed to make a clean break.

She grabbed another handful of beans. Rob joined her on the porch, flopping down on a wicker chair. “The Newfoundland trip just filled up. Do you want to start a waiting list?”

“Makes sense.”

“And J.T. told me he thinks he wants to come on the father-son trip, after all.”

“Did he? Well, good. I hope he does.”

They talked business, and Lucy snapped beans. She and her kids had a good life here, she thought. That was what mattered, not Jack's approval—or even Colin's.

 

Sebastian arrived in southern Vermont late in the day and checked into a clean, simple motel on a historic route outside Manchester. Far enough from Lucy, but not too far.

He'd made a detour to Washington first and checked with Happy Ford, a new hire Plato had put on Mowery. She was ex-Secret Service and very good, but only Plato would hire someone with a name like Happy Ford.

She said Mowery had visited Senator Jack Swift at his office this morning. And disappeared.

Sebastian warned her not to underestimate Darren Mowery. “Assume he's better at what you do than you are.”

“Do you think he knows I'm on him?”

“He knows.”

Sebastian took his cardboard cup of coffee out onto the small patio in front of his motel room and sat on an old-fashioned, round-topped metal chair. It was painted yellow. The chair for the next room was lavender, then pink, then blue. Cute.

There were brochures in his room for the sites in the area—old houses, covered bridges, Revolutionary War stuff, outlets, inns, resorts. He thought about renting a big, fat inner tube and floating down the Battenkill. It seemed like a better idea than spying on Lucy.

He'd never been much of a tourist or an historian. Or much of a Vermonter. Born here, more or less raised here, generations of family buried here. Daisy had insisted she had an ancestor who'd fought at the Battle of Bennington, which actually had occurred just over the border in New York state. Daisy had liked the aura of being a native Vermonter.

He'd left his boots and his hat in Wyoming. He was an outsider there, but he really didn't give a damn.

The evening air was warm and slightly humid, but pleasant. The rounded hills were thick with trees, and as he sat with his coffee, he felt as if they were closing in on him. Or maybe it was the memories.

He threw the last of his coffee into the grass. “Lucy, Lucy.”

He'd done a lot of dumb things in his life. Falling for Lucy Blacker on her wedding day was one of the dumbest. Coming out here was probably right up there with it. A bullet left on her car seat. It was kids. It wasn't Mowery.

Sebastian walked out into the fading sunlight. Tomorrow, he thought, would be hot.

He'd gotten rid of his guns. No point having one, seeing how he didn't hunt and had no intention of shooting anyone. People thought he was kidding when he said he'd renounced violence. He wasn't. Darren Mowery had been his last victim.

A mosquito landed on his arm. He flicked it off. Who the hell needed a gun? If he was going to find out who was intimidating Lucy, what he needed was some serious bug spray.

L
ucy grabbed her binoculars and headed across the backyard, over the stone wall and into the field. She had on shorts, a T-shirt and sneakers. The air was hot and humid for southern Vermont.

Two more days without any incidents. She was in good shape. An early start that morning had caught her up on her work, as well as freed her to agree to a local inn's request for her to lead a family on a canoe trip down the Battenkill. Madison and J.T. had gone with her, and they'd had a great time. She'd felt so…
normal.

Madison was off to Manchester to see a movie with friends, J.T. at the Kileys to play Nintendo with Georgie and spend the night.

Lucy had the evening to herself.

The field grass was knee-high, mixed with daisies and bright orange hawkweed, black-eyed Susans, frothy Queen Anne's lace. With a line of thunder-clouds moving in from the west, she couldn't go too far into the woods. The storm should, however, blow out the heat and humidity that had built up through the day.

An old stone wall marked the far edge of the field; beyond it were woods of oak, maple, hemlock, pine and beech. Lucy climbed over the wall and stood in the shade of a huge maple, her binoculars slung around her neck. It was a perfect climbing tree. Up high in its branches, she would have a tremendous view. She could perch up there and bird-watch, enjoy her solitude.

What the hell, she thought, and with both hands, she reached up and grabbed hold of the lowest branch. She'd always loved climbing trees as a kid growing up in suburban Virginia.

When she lived in Washington, she'd had a job organizing unique trips for a Washington museum, and it had seemed such a natural way to combine her degree in anthropology with her love of the outdoors. She'd discovered a passion and a talent for understanding what people wanted and translating it into trips they couldn't stop thinking about once they opened up one of her brochures, something that had served her well when she'd decided to go out on her own. Many of her Washington clients had followed her into her own business.

She swung onto a low branch and climbed higher, the maple's rough bark biting into her hands. Bark had never bothered her at twelve. She moved carefully, having no desire to fall out of a damn tree on her evening off.

She found the perfect branch and sat down, her feet dangling. Even without binoculars, the view was spectacular—woods, fields, stone walls, brook, her yellow farmhouse tucked on its narrow stretch of reasonably flat land. Not too far from here, Calvin Coolidge was buried in a hillside cemetery so as not to take up precious flat land for farms.

Balancing herself with one hand on the tree trunk, Lucy removed the binoculars from her neck. Maybe she'd see a hawk floating in the hazy sky.

But as she put the binoculars to her eyes, she heard something in the woods around her. She went very still. The noise didn't sound like a squirrel or a chipmunk, or even a deer. A moose? The pre-Wyoming incidents came back to her, making her question what she would ordinarily take in stride. A noise in the woods. Big deal.

Without making a sound, she swiveled around to see what was under and behind her. Brush. More trees.

And Sebastian Redwing.

She gulped in a breath, so startled she lost her balance. Her binoculars flew out of her hand as she grabbed the tree trunk to keep herself from falling.

The binoculars just missed Sebastian's head. He caught them with one hand and looked up. “Trying to kill me, Lucy?”

“It's a thought.” She caught her breath, but was still shaking. “Damn it, Redwing, what the hell are you doing here?”

“You wanted my help. Here I am.”

The heat and humidity must have gotten to her. She was imagining things. Sebastian was konked out in his hammock in Wyoming with his dogs and horses. He wasn't in Vermont.

She swooped down to a lower branch and swung to the ground as if she were twelve again—forgetting she wasn't. She dropped in a controlled but hard landing. Pain shot up her ankle. Her shirt flew up to her midriff. She swore.

Sebastian wrapped an arm around her lower back, steadying her. She could feel his forearm on her hot skin.

His gaze settled on her. “Easier going up than it is coming down.”

“I've been climbing trees since I was a kid.”

He smiled. “That's bravado. You almost sprained an ankle, and you know it.”

“The key word is
almost.
My ankle's fine.”

If she'd injured herself, he'd have carted her off to the emergency room. There'd be no end to her humiliation.

“What were you doing up there?” he asked mildly.

“Bird-watching.”

“Birds have all hightailed it before the storm hits.”

He still had his arm around her. “You can let go now,” she said.

“You've got your footing?”

“Yes.”

He released her and took a step back. He wasn't dusty. The dirty cowboy hat and scuffed cowboy boots were gone. He had on good-quality hiking clothes, including hiking boots. He was lean, tanned, fit—and alert, Lucy thought. That was the first thing she'd noticed when she'd met him all those years ago, just how alert he was. She could feel him taking in everything about her, from her sneakers to her wild hair.

He was worse than an ex-CIA agent. Maybe he
was
an ex-CIA agent. She suddenly realized she knew very little about him. What if she'd taken her promise to Colin out of context, and Sebastian Redwing was the last person she should have asked for help?

She adjusted her shirt. “I thought you weren't interested in helping me.”

“I'm not.”

“Then go back to Wyoming.” She stepped past him and climbed onto the stone wall. “I didn't mean I wanted your help as in you sneaking around my woods. I wanted your opinion.” She looked back at him, breathing hard, fighting for some way to assert her control over the situation. “Do note my use of the past tense.”

“Noted.”

She took a deep breath. “I sure as hell didn't want you scaring me out of a tree.”

“I didn't scare you out of your tree. You scared yourself.” He stepped over the stone wall, tall enough he didn't have to climb up over the rocks piled up by long-ago farmers, probably his ancestors. “You should find out what you're dealing with before you react.”

“Yeah, well, I'm good with canoes and kayaks and snapping beans. I'm not so good with men jumping out of the brush at me.”

He smiled. It was an unsettling smile, not meant, she felt, to reach his eyes. Which it didn't. “You nailed me with your binoculars.”

“It wasn't deliberate.”

He handed them back to her. “I used to climb that tree when I was a kid.”

His words brought her up short. He was, after all, Daisy's grandson. He'd sold this place to her. It was more his turf than hers, no matter whose name was on the deed.

Lucy went out into the field, more comfortable on open ground. “How does it feel to be back here?”

He shrugged. “I'd forgotten how pesky mosquitoes can be.”

She slung the binoculars over her neck. “I never meant for you to come here.”

“What did you mean for me to do?”

“Tell me I wasn't in any danger.”

There was still nothing she could reliably read in his eyes.

“And how was I supposed to know that without coming here?” he asked.

“Instincts and experience.”

“In other words, I was supposed to release you from all your worries from the comfort of my hammock.” He eyed her a moment, then added in a low voice, “Believe me, that would have suited us both.”

“I don't want you going to any trouble on my account—”

“Too late.”

With a groan of frustration, Lucy started across the field. She took long strides, hoping to separate herself from Sebastian Redwing as fast as possible.

He didn't say a word. He didn't come after her.

She stopped dead in her tracks and swung around. He was just a few yards behind her, as tall and immovable as an oak. And she'd all but invited him here. “You can go back to Wyoming now.”

“I can do whatever I want to do.”

“You're trying to spook me. Well, forget it. I've been living out here, just me and the kids, for the better part of three years. I don't spook easily.”

“What about the bullet through your dining room window?”

“That's over. It was nothing. I was wrong.”

He shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. No incidents since you got back from Wyoming?”

“No. None.” She frowned, wondering if she'd be less agitated if he weren't so damn calm. She was letting him get to her. She never let irritating people get to her. “When did you arrive?”

“A couple days ago.”

She held her fury in check. “Where are you staying?”

“Motel.”

“So you've had two days to spy on me.”

He smiled. “Why would I spy on you? You're not the one who shot up your dining room.”

She searched for a way to rephrase what she knew—what he
knew
she knew—he'd been up to. “You've been keeping an eye on me,” she said.

He started down through the field. “Your life's pretty goddamn boring.”

His way of saying she was right. “To someone like you, maybe.” She marched after him, her binoculars swinging on her neck with each furious step. “Did you follow me on my canoe trip?”

“Nope. Sat up here and watched the woodchucks have at your garden.”

“You did not.”

He glanced around at her. “Check your beans. You'll see.”

She bristled. “I do not need a bodyguard.”

“Good, because I'm no good at bodyguarding. I was just getting the lay of the land. Lucy goes to work. Lucy picks beans. Lucy takes care of kids. Lucy runs errands. Lucy has a glass of wine on her porch. Lucy goes canoeing.” He yawned. “There you go.”

“It's better than lying about all day in a hammock.”

“No doubt.”

She was so aggravated, she could have hit him. Thunder rumbled in the distance. The sky darkened. The wind picked up. She reined in her emotions. She didn't want to be out here alone with him when the storm hit. “Go back to Wyoming. If I catch you on my property, I'll call the police.”

“They won't arrest me.”

“They will—”

“I'm Daisy Wheaton's grandson. I'll say I'm here visiting the ancestral home. They'll probably hold a town barbecue on my behalf.”

She stared at him. “Have you always been this big a jerk?”

He grinned at her. “Nah, I'm a lot worse than I used to be. Plato didn't tell you?” He winked; he gave no indication of giving a damn what she thought or what she wanted. “See you around, Lucy Blacker.”

 

Lucy turned the shower as hot as she could stand it. She scrubbed herself with a lavender-scented gel made by a local herbalist who wasn't, she was confident, related to Sebastian Redwing.

Daisy Wheaton should have willed her place to the Nature Conservancy instead of to her miserable grandson.

Then I wouldn't be here, Lucy thought.

Maybe she'd have moved to Costa Rica with her parents, or stayed in Washington and made her father-in-law happy.

Well, Colin had never said Sebastian was a gentleman or even a reasonably nice guy. He'd said he trusted him. He'd said Lucy could go to him if she needed help. It was a mistake, obviously, but Colin couldn't have known.

She dried off with her biggest, fluffiest towel and shook on a scented herbal powder that matched the gel. The thunderstorm had subsided, but she could still hear rumbling off to the east. The air was cooler, less humid. She was calmer. Her encounter with Sebastian had left her spent, drained…and feeling more alive than she wanted to admit.

She pushed aside that uncomfortable thought and slipped into a dressing gown she'd picked up for a song at an outlet in Manchester. Black satin, edged with black lace. Quite luxurious. She'd sit up in bed and read until Madison got back from her movie.

She started into the hallway, but stopped abruptly, catching her reflection in the mirror above the old pedestal sink. She turned and stared at herself in her black satin. Since Colin's death, she had seldom taken the time to think of herself simply as a woman. As a mother, an entrepreneur, a widow, an individual getting her life back together after sudden tragedy, yes. But as a woman who might attract, and be attracted to, a man, no. Not again. Not after Colin, not after the searing grief she'd endured. Never mind that she was still only thirty-eight.

“Good Lord,” she breathed. “Where did
that
come from?”