Carla Neggers - Night’s Landing

She didn’t know what to do with him besides feed him prune cake.

She set it to cool on a pink Depression-glass plate and washed her hands, then dialed the hospital.

Her brother was awake. He could talk to her.

“Joe Collins just left here,” he said, sounding tired but agitated. “Christ, Sarah. What the hell’s going on?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m just going off the deep end.”

“The letter’s for real.” He took in what sounded like a painful breath. “You didn’t make it up. The guy in Amsterdam -I’m no help. I didn’t see him. I’m still fogged in from the meds, but I’d remember.”

“It was probably just a regular guy in Amsterdam and a regular guy in New York and all the adrenaline-” She sighed, sinking against the counter. “Rob, it’s been an awful few days. I haven’t been at the top of my game. I didn’t get a close enough look at the man in the park to be positive it was the same guy. If I hadn’t gotten the letter, I’d never have mentioned him. Part of me still wishes I hadn’t.”

“I’m sorry, Sarah. If I hadn’t got shot-”

“Don’t go there.”

“Why don’t you go back to Scotland for a week or so? Hang out with your friends. Buy me a kilt.”

She shook her head as if he could see her. “I can’t. Not now. Rob-”

“I don’t remember the shooting. I don’t even remember calling you. I just remember hoping Nate wouldn’t die because of me.”

“Maybe you were dreaming on the operating table.”

“No, Sarah. I was the shooter’s target.”

“But why? Because of your work?” She hesitated, focusing on the old kitchen, every corner of it familiar to her, although she hadn’t lived here in years. “Or because you’re a Dunnemore?”

“There’s never been anything dangerous about being a Dunnemore.”

“You’re right. Crazy, maybe, but not dangerous.” She could feel the weight of his depression, his fear that he was responsible for what was happening-and his disgust with his inability to do anything about it. “I’ve been thinking. What if all this has nothing to do with you? What if I picked up an enemy in Scotland? Maybe the guy in Amsterdam and then in Central Park was following me.”

“Come on, Sarah. You don’t have enemies. Maybe the ghost of some bones you dug up haunt you, but otherwise-no way.”

She’d known her theory would perk him up. “I don’t deal much in bones.”

“I’m fading,” he said. “Nurses had me up today. God, I’m so weak. I thought you’d be better off in Night’s Landing. Out of the fray. Now, I don’t know. Nate…make sure he knows you’re tougher than you look.”

“There’s still time for him to fly back to New York tonight.”

“Dream on. Hang in there, okay?”

“You, too.”

The kitchen seemed quiet and still after she hung up. She cut the prune cake in two chunks and wrapped half, carefully placing it in the freezer in anticipation of Rob’s return home, then headed out through the back door. She was restless, her head spinning.

She found herself on the narrow trail to the Poe house. It wound along the river, on the edge of the woods of cedar trees, limestone pits and small caves, a route she’d taken hundreds of times since she was a child.

Within five steps, Nate fell in behind her.

Sarah almost smiled. “I knew I wouldn’t get far without you.”

“Rob’s right. You are tougher than you look.”

His words registered, and she whipped around at him, furious. “You eavesdropped on my conversation with my brother?”

“Picked up the extension on the porch. Piece of cake.”

“Damn it, don’t I have any privacy?”

“Not when the same guy who shot me could be after you.”

“No one’s after me,” she said, picking up her pace, pushing aside low tree branches on the damp path. The river oozed below her on her left. The path would take her higher, onto impressive limestone bluffs.

“I didn’t listen to the entire conversation. That help?”

“Not particularly.”

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“I’m going for a walk.”

And without any warning-without even breathing-he caught one arm around her waist and drew her to him.

She gulped in a breath. “What are you doing?”

“I’m thinking about kissing you. I’ve been thinking about it for a couple of days now.”

“You’ve only known me a couple of days.”

“Plenty long enough to think about kissing you.”

His mouth found hers, and she didn’t resist, didn’t even consider it-she shut her eyes and felt the softness of his lips, the coolness of the breeze against her bare arms. She remembered his injured arm and grabbed the other one instead, holding him tightly as his mouth opened to hers, his arm dropping lower, drawing her more firmly against him. He was all hard muscle and bone, not an easy man, not the sort she’d ever imagined herself wanting to kiss. Well, wanting to, maybe. He was sexy, the kind of sexy she’d been taught to resist. Didn’t need to be taught to resist.

Only when he set her down did she realize he’d lifted her off her feet.

She cleared her throat and ran her fingers through her hair. “Well. I guess that excuses you for eavesdropping.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“We should head back. You have time to make an evening flight-”

“I checked out the upstairs while you were frosting the prune cake. I think I’ll take the blue room.” He motioned up the path with one hand. “Lead the way.”

“I had a feeling I wasn’t getting rid of you tonight. We used to get bats in the blue room.”

He grinned at her. “I’m not afraid of bats.”

“You’ve got flour on your jacket.” She brushed at the spot with her fingertips. “That would never do for a marshal, would it? Against all your dress codes, I imagine. Did I hurt your arm?”

His eyes went very dark, smoldering dark. “Sarah…”

She caught her breath. “Yes. I should lead the way.”

The Poe home was an 1868 brick Greek Revival set on three acres of yard and gardens high on a bluff above the Cumberland River. Nate remembered seeing pictures of it when Wes Poe was campaigning for the White House. On the walk over, along the river, Sarah had explained that the house was a state and national historic site, not only because of her pal the president, but because of its own unique history and near pristine condition.

“It represents almost a hundred and fifty years of middle Tennessee history,” she said. “Leola and Violet Poe made very few improvements in it over the years. There’s still no central heat and only cold running water.”

“President Poe’s a wealthy man-”

“It wasn’t about money. Leola and Violet didn’t embrace change.”

Nate followed her onto a stone path that led through the overgrown grass to the porch. “I like my hot water.”

“They had hot water. They just had to boil it.”

“Wes Poe didn’t have a typical baby boomer upbringing, did he?”

“He was born during the war, so technically he’s not a boomer, but, no, the Poe sisters weren’t exactly Ward and June Cleaver.”

Sarah trotted up the steps onto the porch, more at ease than Nate had seen her since he’d arrived in Night’s Landing. It wasn’t just being on familiar turf-it was having told someone else about the letter, calling the bluff of the asshole who’d written it. He joined her on the porch, feeling as if he’d just stepped back in time.

“When I was growing up,” she went on, “I’d sneak up here every chance I got and sit out on the porch and listen to Leola and Violet tell stories. When I was in high school, I started videotaping them.”

“Did you include some of the footage in your documentary?”