Читать книгу Where Love Grows - Cynthia Reese - Страница 10

“ARE YOU—DO YOU NEED to sit down? You look like you’re going to pass out. You’re not a diabetic, are you?”

Ryan’s words, as well as his hand on her shoulder, yanked her out of the swirling maelstrom of her thoughts.

Tell him. Tell him you know him.

No, you could be wrong. You’d sound like a nut, or a loser—a loser who has to go online to find someone to talk to and then doesn’t even know his name. Wait. Be sure.

But Becca was sure, to-her-bones sure. She smiled at him in what she hoped was a reassuring way. “Uh, headache. I guess…the sunset?”

“Migraine?” Ryan made sympathetic noises that triggered a flood of guilt within Becca.

“My camera…I forgot it. I’ll just…walk back and get it, okay? It’s in my car.”

He would have followed her, but she waved him off. “You feed the fish. I’ll get my camera…and some medicine.”

As if to make her words true, a headache blistered forth like a blacksmith’s red-hot poker. Whether it was stress or punishment for the lie, Becca couldn’t say, but she was grateful for the time alone.

At the car, she fumbled for her camera. The bag’s heft felt dear and familiar in her hand. The camera had been one of the small things she’d managed to salvage after the debacle at the magazine. Becca pushed aside resentful thoughts of libel suits and searched for some quick-dissolve pain medicine.

She sat in the driver’s seat and closed her eyes, praying that the medicine would kick in before the pain settled for a long stay. The inner debate raged on. With some force, she managed to tick off the pros and cons of telling him the truth.

The biggest reason was her gut. It had never steered her wrong before—well, save one biggie in the form of her countersuit, but in the end, even a jury of her peers had said her gut had been right.

Maybe, though, her instinct to blurt out “Are you Rooster?” came from her distaste of lying, even by omission. Deceit never felt right to Becca.

But this situation was different.

You don’t know if it’s Rooster. You have no way to verify it, except for some story about a willow tree. He can’t have been the only one who’s ever put a hammock under a willow tree.

Yeah, right. And just what did her dad say about coincidence?

Her dad. Becca’s stomach did a nauseating roll and twist the way it did whenever she’d topped a roller coaster and prepared for the final gut-wrenching loops. Her father would kill her. Becca could imagine the scathing words her dad would say to her if she trotted back to Atlanta to tell him some sorry tale about how she knew Ryan MacIntosh was innocent because he’d turned out to be her online buddy.

Knowing Dad, he’d say it was no coincidence at all. He’d swear Ryan had targeted Becca.

The possibility niggled at her. It would explain how Becca, who never managed to win a door prize or a lottery ticket or even a church bingo game, had hit the trifecta of coincidence.

But, no. She had six months of correspondence with Ryan, anonymous correspondence. She knew him—knew him how it counted. He couldn’t be scamming her. He couldn’t be mixed up in some complicated conspiracy to defraud the government and Ag-Sure.

Could he?

Okay, so she couldn’t say anything to her dad. She had to go forward with the investigation if she wanted to keep her job.

So…

Maybe there was no fraud. Maybe it was some wildly improbable, but still true, story about a vine that had somehow gotten transported from Texas to Georgia. Truth was stranger than fiction, right?

All she had to do was prove that the story was true. All she had to do was figure out how it got there. Then not even the insurance company could fault her.

If she did it quickly enough, Ryan wouldn’t have to know now. Plenty of time to help him anonymously. Plenty of time to tell him later. He’d understand about conflicts of interest.

The tremulous panic within her subsided as she settled on a course of action. Becca drew in an easier breath. She could do this.

A tapping at the window made her jump. She opened her eyes to see a concerned Ryan crouched down, peering at her.

Right. Well, checking on her tallied with the considerate Rooster she knew.

She gripped her camera bag and opened the car door. Time to get the show on the road.

“I got worried,” Ryan told her. “You looked so…”

“Thanks. I took some medicine. It happens, these headaches. I get stressed out and boom. A good night’s sleep will put me to rights. Fish fed?”

“Yeah. Um…you have some different shoes? Those aren’t exactly…”

She glanced down at her leather slip-ons. “Oh. Right. Let me change into the sneakers I brought.”

Ryan dropped onto the grass while he waited for her to swap shoes. Wilbur nosed up to him and flopped down beside him. She watched the two of them roughhouse while she tied her last sneaker. It felt odd to see Rooster in the flesh, see him do the things he’d described in what he’d supposed was an anonymous way. They’d revealed more than they’d realized about each other.

The trick, of course, was not to inadvertently reveal that she was Sunny. That would be a devil of a dilemma. After all, hadn’t she let Rooster—Ryan, she corrected herself—into her soul? Wouldn’t it be as easy for him to spot her as it had been for her?

Becca gave an extra hard yank to her shoelaces and stood up. The quicker she could stamp Closed on this case, the better. “Let’s take a gander at this vine, shall we?”

A FEW MINUTES LATER she was jouncing up and down behind Ryan on the back of a four-wheeler, with Wilbur running alongside them. Rows of cotton slid past them as they headed into the field.

She tightened her grip on Ryan to avoid being bounced off when they hit a rut—and was rewarded with the feel of rock-solid abs.

“Sorry!” he yelled over the roar of the two-cycle engine. “Didn’t see that one.”

His scent—a mix of soap and water, her favorite laundry detergent and the faintest trace of some sort of drive-a-woman-wild aftershave—tickled her senses. She inhaled again, this time deliberately. This was what she’d been missing all these months. Too bad e-mails didn’t come with a scratch-n-sniff option; she would have discarded the blanket of anonymity months ago if she’d had a hit of this.

All too soon, Becca felt the four-wheeler slow and then stop. She climbed off the machine, tried to tell herself that the unrelenting vibrations were what had made her knees weak.

Becca couldn’t convince herself of that one.

“Well. There it is. The giant Asian dodder vine. Ugly critter, isn’t it?”

It was ugly. Thick vines with no leaves strangled the cotton. To Becca, the vines looked like nothing so much as some sort of monochromatic python.

She fumbled in her camera bag for her reporter’s notebook and a pencil, old habits so ingrained that she never could get accustomed to using anything else. “Right. So how long has this been here? When did it first show up?”

Some of Ryan’s earlier disgust came back. “Don’t you guys even bother to read the insurance claim forms? Or are you hoping I’ll trip myself up so you can stamp Denied on my claim and then go on your merry little way?”

Ouch. His tone had hurt. She was about to snap back with something like “Hey, easy, buddy, I’m on your side,” but she stopped herself.

Don’t assume that Ryan is going to treat you like he knows you. To him, you’re the bad guy, remember?

Becca struggled for professionalism. “Yes, I have those forms—I’ve read them, I assure you. But I think it’s best if you just think of me as a glorified insurance adjuster. I’m here to help, okay? The computer’s flagged this and other similar claims for a variety of reasons. It’s in your best interest to help me so that this case is resolved quickly. Then Ag-Sure’s happy, you get your money and you’re happy, too. After all, if everything’s on the up-and-up, you’ve got nothing to hide, right?”

The color heightened in Ryan’s face, and he glanced away. Damn. She wished he hadn’t done that. It set all her alarm bells clanging.

Maybe he was still just mad.

“Right, Ryan?”

His nod lacked a certain ringing conviction of innocence. It troubled her that he didn’t enthusiastically say “Of course I’ve got nothing to hide.” But she ignored her worries and focused on doing her job.

Because doing her job would be what saved both of them.

“So, then, how you can help is to tell me, to the best of your knowledge, the time line, how this vine came to be.”

“I don’t know how this ‘came to be,’” Ryan growled at her. “All I know—all I can tell you—is that one morning, I got up to come plow my cotton and I saw this. Do you realize that I can’t even plow it? Not this section, anyway. The vines are too thick. They wrap around the implements and the discs, and I spend half a day getting them unwrapped. Forget harvesting this in any sort of mechanized way—even the good plants that aren’t affected—the vines are too close and mess up the harvester.”

But Becca had already started counting off rows…and she realized something. The knots of snakelike vines were in a pattern. Several rows would be untouched, and then one lone row or two would be taken over by the dodder. Then it would repeat—within the distance of the common width of plows.

She looked from the field to Ryan. No. It couldn’t be. But another count of the rows confirmed that the pattern was too consistent to be natural.

There’s got to be an explanation for this.

But that desperate thought vied with another.

Face it. He’s hiding something—and not very well.

Becca disguised her suspicion by taking pictures. She stepped back, steadied her pen on her pad and pressed on. “I have to admit, I know zip about this plant except what I could find online. And what the insurance company provided for me.”

“Right, of course. I’m sure they were most helpful.”

“It’s your chance, Ryan. Tell me.”

Becca willed him to come clean with whatever was so obviously on his mind. She could see something warring within him, knew instantly that he was experiencing the same inner debate she’d had earlier.

He’d tell Sunny.

For an instant, it was on the tip of her tongue to tell him the truth. Just blurt it out and see if he’d take her into his confidence. But then, maybe it was best that Ryan didn’t know who she was. The insurance company would yank her and her dad off the case for sure, and then what sort of investigator would Ryan get?

No. Better to do it the way she’d planned.

He’d come to a decision, she could see that.

“From my research—and my experience, unfortunately—this stuff grows at, like, six inches a day. It has no roots, no leaves—doesn’t need ’em. It just attaches itself to a handy plant and sucks it dry. Then it spreads to the next plant. And the next. I have no clue how it got here. A bit of a vine could have dropped here, could have been blown in by the wind from some of these other farms. It could have been trucked in. It just happened to drop in a spot, sniffed out a plant it liked and boom—suddenly I’m out of business. Bad luck. Bad timing.”

“So herbicides won’t work?”

“Sure. Kill the host plant and you kill the dodder vine. You don’t make anything on cotton even when the rains come when they’re supposed to and the weeds are the everyday garden variety. I swear to God, though, this is the scariest thing to hit cotton since the boll weevil.”

Becca’s headache came back full force. She realized that darkness had crept up on them when Wilbur came bursting out of a particularly thick patch of cotton.

“Um…look, I’ll have loads more questions than I feel up to asking about tonight. Can I bug you tomorrow after I’ve had a chance to get some rest?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Again, her heart ached. She wanted to yell at him, “Don’t hate me! It’s me! It’s Sunny! I’m here to help.”

Until she knew what was going on, though, she didn’t dare.

Ryan didn’t wait for her answer. “C’mon. I’ll take you back. We’ll go a different way so you see how far down it goes.

“Listen…maybe I came across all wrong. I’m just really frustrated by all this. All I want to do is get this harvest in some way, somehow, or else call it a loss and take my lumps. Trust me. I’ll make more money if I can get the harvest to market than I would with the insurance. All the insurance money will do is maybe pay off my seed money, my fertilizer and my pesticide bills. Diesel? Electricity? My labor? Forget that. But—”

She lay a hand on his arm. “I’m not the enemy, Ryan. I know how hard farming is, how dicey it can be. You have to trust me.”

He nodded, an abrupt jerk of his head that told her he didn’t, in fact, trust her.

Ryan seemed more rigid, less at ease, on the trip back. They left the field behind and came into the farmyard proper, whizzing past a big old barn, a grain silo, some outbuildings. Ahead, she could see the lights of the house, contrasting with the descending twilight.

They slowed as they passed a tiny but colorful vegetable garden.

“Wow! Look at the size of those tomatoes! You really know how to grow ’em!”

“That’s Mee-Maw’s. Want some? I need to pick the ripe ones for her anyway—Son of a—”

He braked suddenly, the movement jerking her forward.

“What?”

Ryan switched off the four-wheeler’s engine, stalked over to the vegetable garden and knelt down. With one hand, he began jerking up a perfectly healthy tomato vine by its roots, the careful framework of stakes tumbling to the ground.

Becca gasped. “What are you doing?”

He shoved it at her. “Pick off the tomatoes—ripe and green. Throw the vine down way over yonder—don’t put it down near the garden. I need to check the rest of these plants.”

Bemused, she did as he ordered, stacking the round red fruit on the seat of the four-wheeler. It was only as she turned the vine over in her hands that she saw what had made him yank up the bush.

Wrapped around the base of the tomato plant, as thin as a garden snake, was a young dodder vine.