Marilyn Pappano - Copper Lake Secrets

Reece smiled weakly. “Wonderful.”

Grandfather’s dead. I’m not thirteen. I can handle this.

If she repeated it often enough, maybe she would start to believe it.

Jones stopped at the grocery store to get the five major food groups—milk, cereal, bread, eggs and chips—before going to the motel to pick up his clothes and Mick. When he let himself into the room, the dog was stretched out on the bed, the pillow under his head, the blanket snuggled around him. He lifted his head, stretched, then rolled onto his back for a scratch, and Jones obliged him, grumbling all the time.

“You are the laziest animal I’ve ever seen. You eat and sleep all day, then snore all night. You’ve got it made.”

Mick just looked at him, supreme satisfaction in his big brown eyes.

“We’ll be bunking in a new place for a while. There will be room for you to run as long as you stay out of Miss Willa’s way. She doesn’t strike me as a dog-friendly person.” Jones considered it a moment. “She’s not a particularly people-friendly person, either. But we’ve dealt with worse.”

And there was the consolation prize of her granddaughter, whose own eyes were as brown as Mick’s but way less happy and a damn sight less trusting. He didn’t think it was just him, either. She didn’t seem the type to warm up to anyone quickly, if at all.

That was okay. Pretty as she was, all Jones wanted from her was information. She was still a Howard, still a part of Glen’s disappearance, and he was still the kid who’d been taught wariness and distrust of country people—anyone outside of his people, regardless of where they lived—from birth.

But she was awfully pretty, and she did have that vulnerable-damsel thing going on that neither he nor Glen had ever been able to resist.

But he would resist now.

After loading his bags and Mick into the truck, Jones slid behind the wheel and left the motel, turning west on Carolina Avenue. Catching a red light at the first intersection, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel until, beside him, Mick whined. Jones glanced at the dog, an admonishment on his tongue, then forgot it as his gaze settled on a man in the parking lot twenty-five feet away.

He was about Jones’s age, an inch or two taller, maybe thirty pounds heavier, and he wore a light gray suit so obviously well made that even Mick would recognize its quality. He was talking to a young woman, a briefcase in one hand, keys in the other, and he stood next to a Jaguar. He was fifteen years older, a whole lot softer and a hell of a lot better dressed, but Jones would have recognized him anywhere.

A horn sounded, and Jones’s gaze flicked to the traffic light, now green, then back at Mark Howard. The sound drew his attention, and he looked at Jones, their gazes connecting for an instant before Howard dismissed him and turned back to his conversation.

Hands tight on the wheel, Jones eased the gas pedal down, resisting the urge to turn the corner, pull into the lot, grab Howard by the lapels of his custom-tailored suit and demand the truth about Glen. There would be a time and a place to talk to the man, but this was neither.

By the time he’d turned north on River Road, a bit of the tension had seeped out. He liked Copper Lake. It was the quintessential small Southern town, war memorials in the square and the parks, beautifully restored antebellum homes. The people were friendly and happy to answer questions. No one had treated him with suspicion … though so far he hadn’t asked any questions that sounded suspicious. He hadn’t brought up the subject of Glen’s disappearance or the discovery of his belongings or his gut instinct that the Howard family was responsible. If he started asking that sort of question, they were likely to close ranks and protect their own.

Mick sat straighter in the seat when Jones turned off the highway onto Howard property. Shutting off the AC, Jones rolled the windows down, and the mutt immediately stuck his head out to sniff the air. When they drove through the gate, though, Mick drew it back in, let out a long, low whine and moved to the floorboard to curl up.

“Baby,” Jones accused, but Mick just laid his head on his paws. The dog knew the place was unsettled. Reece knew it. How the hell could Miss Willa not know, or if she did, how could she continue to live there?

The road continued past the cottage, leading to the other buildings. Jones drove past the small house, then pulled onto ground covered with a heavy layer of pine needles. The spot would block the view of his truck from any casual visitors to the house—maybe not a bad thing once Miss Willa’s grandson and others found out she was planning to spend a ton of money on their grand project.

“Come on, buddy, let’s get settled.” Jones climbed out and stood back, but Mick didn’t stir. “Mick. Out.”

The dog gave a great sigh, but didn’t move.

“C’mon, Mick, out of the truck now.” He stared at the dog, and the dog stared back.

He’d never had a battle of wills with an animal that he hadn’t won, and today wasn’t going to be the first. He snapped his fingers, an unspoken command that Mick always responded to, but the mutt just whined once and hunkered in lower.

“I guess we know who’s the boss in this family.”

Jones started. He’d been so intent on the dog that he hadn’t even heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel, and apparently neither had Mick. He reacted now, though, stepping onto the seat, sniffing the air that brought a faint hint of perfume and smiling, damn it, as he jumped from the truck and landed at Reece’s feet.

She offered her hand for Mick to sniff, then crouched in front of him, scratching between his ears. “You’re a big boy, aren’t you? And a pretty one. I don’t blame you for wanting to stay in the truck. I don’t much like this place, either. But we do what we gotta do, don’t we, sweetie?”

Jones watched her slender fingers work around Mick’s ears, rubbing just the way the dog liked. Hell, Jones liked a pretty woman rubbing him the same way, and Reece certainly was pretty crouched there, her khaki shorts hugging her butt, her white shirt shifting as her muscles did. For the first time since she’d climbed out of her car a few hours ago, she looked almost relaxed, and he doubted he’d ever seen her look that trusting.

Did she ever offer that much trust to a human being? To a man?

“He’s usually not that stubborn,” Jones remarked, leaning against the truck while Mick offered a toothy smile. It was almost as if the mutt was gloating: I’ve got her attention and you don’t.

“Animals are sensitive.”

“You have dogs?”

“Three. All throwaways. Like me.” The last two words must have slipped out, because her gaze darted to him, guarded and a bit anxious, and a flush colored her cheeks. He knew from Glen that she’d had abandonment issues that summer. Her father hadn’t chosen to die in that accident, but the end result was the same: he was gone. And her mother had preferred Europe with her friends over taking care of her daughter.

Jones could sort of relate, except from the other side of the matter: he was the one who’d done the abandoning. Had it cost Reece’s mother as much as it had him? Did she share even a fraction of his regret?

“Mick was dumped near a job site. When he got tired of waiting for his owners to come back, he decided to live with me.”

“Lucky you. After I fed the first stray outside the store where I work, he brought two more with him the next day. They’ve been living with me ever since.”

“Too bad you couldn’t bring them with you.” Traveling with dogs could be a hassle, but their company was worth it.

“Dogs in Grandmother’s house? And not even purebreds?” She scoffed as she stood.