Carla Neggers - Night’s Landing

“I know.”

But there was something in his tone. Sarah frowned. “You’re not getting depressed on us, are you?”

“Dreading seeing the old man with my spleen in a garbage disposal and a scar-” He broke off, and she could hear that he was in a slump. “There’s something I’m missing. I don’t know. This guy you saw in Central Park-”

She picked at the browned edges of a fried pie. “I’m sure it’s a case of mistaken identity. I almost wish I hadn’t mentioned him.”

“You should have told Nate about him right from the start. Have you told anyone else about him?”

“Only you feds.”

“What about this note you found?”

“It was in the same pile as a note from a psychic.” She could hear the frustration building in her brother’s voice and decided to give him something new to think about. “Have you met the new property manager yet? Ethan Brooker?”

“No.”

“This reporter working on a bio of Wes, Conroy Fontaine?”

Rob was silent.

Sarah’s heart jumped. “Rob?”

“Is he in Night’s Landing?”

“He rented a cabin at the fishing camp a few weeks ago. I met him last fall-”

“Last fall? Where?”

“Here. I was on my own for a few days. He was in the area trying to decide if he wanted to do this book. Rob? Do you know him?”

“He was in Amsterdam in April before you came over from Scotland. He wanted to interview Mother and Dad and got me instead. I ran him off. I didn’t think to say anything to you. I was going to check him out-what’s he got to do with this Brooker character?”

“Nothing. Ethan went over to Conroy’s cabin last night to check him out, and they got into a bit of a scuffle. Nothing to worry about. Ethan-” She hesitated. “He’s a good ol’ boy from West Texas. I think he’s trying to break into songwriting.”

Rob gave a long-suffering sigh, almost sounding like himself. “Another of Mother and Dad’s three-legged puppies?”

“They caught him fishing on the dock.”

“Trespassing.”

Sarah smiled. “They hired him on the spot.”

“Nate’s checking out both of these guys?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“I don’t know, maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to run you out of here. I was thinking you’d be home on your own. I didn’t figure on a weird letter, all these guys-”

“Just concentrate on getting better. I’ll be fine.”

She could feel him making the effort to be cheerful. “Not if you’re eating fried apricot pies for breakfast. Put one in the freezer for me, okay?”

“Hurry home.”

“I’m trying.”

The doctors had warned her that as the anesthesia got out of his system and he started weaning off the heavy-duty painkillers, he could have an emotional letdown. Sarah hated to say goodbye.

She broke one of the half-moon-shaped pies and took it with her as she ducked out the back door, letting it shut quietly behind her so as not to wake Nate. She wanted to postpone the inevitable “morning after” awkwardness for as long as possible and hoped he didn’t regret what they’d done right to his bones. She didn’t. She’d never done anything like it, but she didn’t regret it.

At least not to her bones.

Sarah spotted Ethan working on the wood rail fence along the edge of a field they rented to a local farmer for haying and headed in that direction, taking a bite of the pie, relishing how good it tasted. Prune cake, casseroles and tea punch yesterday, and now fried apricot pies. They all tasted of home and, with the azaleas in bloom and the river coursing in front of her, the grass thick and soft underfoot, she was caught up in a wave of nostalgia that brought a tightness to her throat. As accustomed as she was to coming and going, living in different places, Night’s Landing had always been her anchor. She couldn’t imagine not having it to come back to.

When she reached him, Ethan was sweating from digging a post hole to fix a length of fence that had been rotting and sagging for as long as Sarah could remember. He stood up and leaned against his shovel. She noticed his black tattoo, the tanned muscles in his shoulders and arms. Probably, she thought, her parents should have checked him out before they gave him keys to the house.

“Good morning, Miss Sarah,” he said, ever amiable.

“Hi, Ethan.” She’d finished her fried pie on the walk across the yard and wished now she’d taken a whole one. “You have a minute?”

“You want to talk to me some more about Conroy Fontaine.”

She nodded. “It sounds like you’re lucky he didn’t call the police. What happened? What made you go over there?”

“You’re too trusting, Miss Sarah. You need to watch yourself.” He paused, his dark eyes on her, as if he were trying to tell her it was a mistake to trust him, too. “You don’t like to think there are bad people in the world.”

“Nobody does.”

He shrugged his powerful shoulders. “I don’t think about it one way or the other. It’s just the way it is.” He peeled a black bandanna from around his neck and used it to wipe the sweat off his face. “You’ll excuse my language, ma’am, but Fontaine’s a bottom-feeding piece of shit.”

Sarah took no offense at his language or his frank assessment of their temporary neighbor. “He’s a reporter trying to make a buck. Nothing’s going to come of his book. I haven’t told him anything except that my Granny Dunnemore was a good cook.”

“He’ll twist your words.”

“What would you have me do?”

“Refuse to talk to him. Go back to Scotland.” He tilted his head and looked down at her, his eyes sparking with sudden humor. “Take your deputy friend with you.”

She shifted, wondering how obvious the sparks between her and Nate had been yesterday, and felt the rich, sweet apricot pie heavy in her stomach. Ethan’s deferential manner didn’t seem as pronounced this morning-or as genuine.

“I went over to Fontaine’s cabin early this morning to apologize,” he went on. “He wasn’t around.”

“He hasn’t cleared out, has he?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Maybe he just wants to give you a chance to cool down.”

Ethan tucked the bandanna in a back pocket of his overalls. “I wasn’t upset. I was just checking up on him. Maybe I made him nervous.”

“He said you rammed him against his refrigerator.”

He picked up his shovel, as effortlessly as if it had been a switch. “Mr. Fontaine has a gift for storytelling, ma’am. He exaggerates. Imagine what kind of book he’ll write on President Poe.”

It was a fair point-not that good storytelling and exaggeration were unheard of in Night’s Landing-but Sarah could see only trouble ahead if Ethan decided to make Conroy his problem. “We have to put up with him for as long as he’s here. It’s not like we have a choice. What he’s doing is not illegal. We can be cordial.”

“You don’t have to let him onto the property.”

“That’s true, I don’t.” At least Ethan understood that letting Conroy-or anyone else-onto the property was her decision, not his. She hadn’t seen this protective side of him in the week she’d been home, but, then, there’d been no brother shot in Central Park, no feds at the door. “Conroy knows by now that I’m not going to be telling tales on an old friend.” But she could, she thought-her whole family could, and Wes on them; it was the nature of their long, close friendship. She smiled at Ethan. “He’s not unpleasant to be around. So, okay? No more ass-kicking.”

He grinned at her. “That was hardly a good ass-kicking, Miss Sarah. But don’t you worry. I’ll behave. And you’ll be careful?”

“I will. Promise.”

“Don’t be so trusting. Even that marshal friend of yours-who knows about him? He wasn’t hurt that bad in the sniper attack. That’d make me suspicious.”