Carla Neggers - The Waterfall

Madison was right behind him. “He did, Mom.”

Sebastian materialized at Lucy’s side. She’d forgotten how tall and lean he was, how uneasy she’d always felt around him. Not afraid. Just uneasy. He glanced at J.T. “Kid’s fine. It’s the dry air and the dust.”

Madison gaped at him. Lucy concentrated on her bleeding son. “May we use your sink?”

“Don’t have one. You can get water from the pump out back.” He eyed Madison. “You know how to use an outdoor pump?”

She shook her head.

“Time you learned.” He was calm, his voice quiet if not soothing. “Lucy, you can bring J.T. inside. Madison and I will meet you.”

She shrank back, her eyes widening.

Lucy said, “It’s okay, Madison.”

Sebastian frowned, as if he couldn’t fathom what about him would be a cause for concern—a dusty man in an isolated cabin with three dogs and no running water. He started down the steps. Madison took a breath and followed, glancing back at Lucy and mouthing, “Unabomber.”

Lucy got J.T. inside. The prosaic exterior did not deceive. In addition to no running water, there was no electricity. It was like being catapulted back a century to the frontier.

“It’s just a nosebleed,” J.T. said, stuffing the paper napkin up his nose. “I’m fine.”

Lucy grabbed a ragged dish towel from a hook above a wooden counter. The kitchen. There was oatmeal, cornmeal, coffee, cans of beans, jars of salsa and, incongruously, a jug of pure Vermont maple syrup.

In a few minutes, Madison came through the back door with a pitted aluminum pitcher of water. Lucy dipped in the towel. “I think you’ve stopped bleeding, J.T. Let’s just get you cleaned up, okay?” She glanced at her daughter. “Where’s Sebastian?”

“Out taming wild horses or hunting buffalo, I don’t know. Mom. He doesn’t even have a bathroom.”

“This place is pretty rustic.”

Madison groaned. “Clint Eastwood, Unforgiven. I told you.”

Sebastian walked in from the front porch. “What’s she doing watching R-rated movies? She’s not seventeen.”

“That’s without a parent or parental permission.” Lucy stifled an urge to tell him to mind his own damn business, but since he hadn’t invited her to come out here, she kept her mouth shut. “Madison’s a student of film history. I watched Unforgiven with her because it’s so violent.”

He frowned at her. “I’m not violent.”

Lucy had always considered him a man of controlled violence in a violent profession, but before she could say anything, Madison jumped in. “But you live like Eastwood in that opening scene with his two children—”

“No, I don’t. I don’t have hogs.”

That obviously settled it as far as he was concerned. Lucy shook her head at Madison to keep her from arguing her point. For once, her daughter took the hint.

“How’s J.T.?” Sebastian asked.

“He’s better,” Lucy said. “Thanks for your help.”

J.T. kept the wet towel pressed to his nose. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“Good.” Sebastian didn’t seem particularly worried. “You two kids can go down to the barn and look at the horses while I talk to your mother. Dogs’ll go with you.”

“Come on, J.T.,” Madison said, playing the protective big sister for a change. “The barn can’t be any worse than this place.”

She and her brother retreated, both getting dirtier with every passing minute. If the dry air, dust and altitude bothered Madison, she’d never admit it.

Sebastian grunted. “Kid has a mouth on her.”

“They’re both great kids,” Lucy said.

He turned to her. She was intensely aware of the silence. No hum of fans or air-conditioning, no cars, not even a bird twittering. “I’m sure they are.”

“Plato said you were on some kind of sabbatical.”

“Sabbatical? So that’s what he’s saying now. Hell. I have to remember his mother’s a professor.”

“You’re not—”

Something in his eyes stopped her. Lucy could count on one hand the times she’d actually seen Sebastian Redwing, but she remembered his unnerving capacity to make her think he could see into her soul. She expected it was a skill that helped him in his work. She wondered if it was part of why he was living out here. Perhaps he’d seen too much. Most likely, he just didn’t want to be around people.

“Tell me why you’re here,” he said.

“I promised Colin.” It sounded so archaic when she said it. She pushed back her hair, too aware of herself for her own comfort. “I told him if I ever needed help, I’d come to you. So, here I am. Except I really don’t need your help, after all.”

“You don’t?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Good. I’d hate for you to have wasted a trip.” He started back across the worn floorboards toward the porch. “I’m not in the helping business.”

She was stunned. “What?”

“Plato’ll feed you, get you back on the road before dark.”

Lucy stared at his back as he went out onto the porch. In the cabin’s dim light, she saw an iron bed in one corner of the room, cast-off running shoes, a book of Robert Penn Warren poetry, a stack of James Bond novels and one of Joe Citro’s books of Vermont ghost stories. There was also a kerosene lamp.

This was not what she’d expected. Redwing Associates was high-tech and very serious, one of the best investigative and security consulting firms in the business. Sebastian’s brainchild. He knew his way around the world. If nothing else, Lucy had expected she might have to hold him back, keep him from moving too fast and too hard on her behalf.

Instead, he’d turned her down flat. Without argument. Without explanation.

She took a breath. The dust, altitude and dry air hadn’t given her a bloody nose like they had J.T. They’d just driven every drop of sanity and common sense right out of her. She never should have come here.

She followed him out onto the porch. “You’re going to take my word for it that I don’t need help?”

“Sure.” He dropped back into his hammock. “You’re a smart lady. You know if you need help or not.”

“What if it was all bluster? What if I’m bluffing? What if I’m too proud and—”

“And so?”

She clenched her fists at her sides, resisting an urge to hit something. “Plato fudged it when he said you were on sabbatical, didn’t he? I’ll bet Madison was more right than she realized.”

“Lucy, if I wanted you to know about my life, I’d send you Christmas cards.” He grabbed his hat and lay back in the hammock. “Have you ever gotten a Christmas card from me?”

“No, and I hope I never do.”

She spun around so abruptly, the blood rushed out of her head. She reeled, steadying herself. Damn if she’d let herself pass out. The bastard would dump a pitcher of well water on her head, strap her to a horse and send her on her way.

“I’m sorry, Lucy. Things change.” She couldn’t tell if he’d softened, but thought he might have. “I guess you know that better than most of us.”

She turned back to him and inhaled, regaining some semblance of self-control. She was furious with herself for having come out here—and with Plato for having sent her when he had to know the reception she’d get. She was out of her element, and she hated it. “That’s it, then? You’re not going to help me?”

He gave her a half smile and pulled his hat back down over his eyes. “Who’re you kidding, Lucy Blacker? You’ve never needed anyone’s help.”

* * *

Plato didn’t come for Sebastian until early the next morning. Very early. Dawn was spilling out on the horizon, and Sebastian, having tended the horses and the dogs, was back in his hammock when Plato’s truck pulled up. He thumped onto the porch, his gait uneven from his limp. It’d be two years soon. He’d have the limp for life.