Читать книгу Coming Home To You - Fay Robinson - Страница 11

LOCHEFUSCHA, ALABAMA. The name of the town was on a sign along the main road. Population: 13,402.

“What’s the origin of that word?” Kate asked the desk clerk at her motel. “Is it Indian?”

“Yeah, the Creek tribe,” the woman answered. “Means eternal sleep.”

“Death?”

“Uh-huh.”

That figured.

Her room was a green-and-blue nightmare of floral prints and cheap furniture, but the air conditioner sent out a stream of air colder than she’d ever felt. She turned it up as high as it would go and hung over the vent until her overheated body returned to normal.

She peeled off her clothes and tossed her shoes and stockings in the trash. After that, she took a long bath to soak her aching muscles. Thirty-three was too old to be climbing trees. Her legs and back were killing her, and her tailbone felt bruised where Bret Hayes had dumped her on the ground.

She was loath to admit it, but her pride was bruised, as well. Her credentials were among the best in the business, her last two books international bestsellers. She’d been so sure that if she located Hayes and spoke to him in person, she could convince him to cooperate. Being turned down, particularly in such a humiliating way, hadn’t occurred to her for an instant.

She rubbed her sore backside. Well, whining about today’s fiasco wouldn’t help. She’d simply have to come up with a better approach. He had to leave that farm sometime.

At eight o’clock she stuck her notebook in her purse and set out on foot in search of food and information. The sun was a ball of fire against the descending curtain of twilight, and a solitary star announced the coming darkness.

She walked from her motel through the center of town, an uneventful trip of no more than ten minutes that did nothing to improve her first impression of the place. Grim. Small. The narrow buildings were mostly two stories and leaned against each other like weary soldiers after a battle.

As far as she could tell, the only choices for dinner were the Burger Barn down from the motel and the Old Hickory Grill on the courthouse square. She found an empty booth at the grill and ordered the All-You-Can-Eat Pork-Rib Special. Her plate came with a quart jar of iced tea and a roll of paper towels for cleaning her hands.

The waitress was a weathered blonde named Marleen whose plump body was threatening the seams of her uniform. “Hon, need anything else?” Marleen asked when Kate had finished her second plate of ribs.

She wiped her mouth. “I’d like information about someone, but I don’t want him to know I’m asking.” She gave the waitress a wink. “You know how men are when they think a woman’s interested in them.”

“Oh, I gotcha,” Marleen said, winking back, a willing conspirator. She slipped into the seat across the table. “Hey, Tammy,” she called to the other waitress, “I’m takin’ a break.” Then to Kate, “Okay, who’s the guy?”

“His name’s Bret Hayes. He’s a horse-breeder. Owns a place out on Highway 54 west of here. Do you know him?”

“Big good-lookin’ fella, but unfriendly as all get-out?”

Kate chuckled. “That sounds like him. His late brother was a famous singer and musician.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that. The guy I’m thinkin’ of has these killer blue eyes.”

“That’s Hayes. What do you know about him?”

Marleen didn’t know much. He kept to himself, she said. He came to town every Saturday morning at eight, sat in the same booth and ate a breakfast of bacon, eggs, grits and biscuits. He always ordered a second meal to go.

“And he has this major thing for peach cobbler,” Marleen added. “Comes in a couple times a month and buys a whole one to take home.”

“What about close friends or girlfriends?” Kate asked. “Ever see Hayes with anyone?”

“No, no one except that Logan woman from Pine Acres.”

“Pine Acres? What’s that?”

“A place they send kids who don’t have anyplace to go.”

“You mean a children’s shelter?”

“Well, sort of, but it’s a ranch. The kids live there until they find homes for ’em or they’re old enough to get their own place and stuff. Kind of like an orphanage, only real nice, and they’ve got adults who live with them and watch over everything.”

“Is he dating this woman from the orphanage?”

“Don’t think so.”

“But you said you saw him with some woman named Logan who works there.”

“Jane Logan. She runs the place, but I don’t know if he’s dating her. I saw them at the movies once, but they had a bunch of the kids from the ranch, so I figured he was helping.”

“A chaperon?”

“Yeah, I reckon he does that, since he built the place.”

Kate felt the familiar surge of adrenaline that came when she had a good lead. “Bret Hayes built this children’s ranch?”

“Yeah. Didn’t I tell you? He bought the land and donated the money to get it goin’.”

PINE ACRES. Back in her motel room Kate set up her laptop computer and inserted the name into her files. She wouldn’t have difficulty getting information. Most of what she needed would likely be at the county probate office or the library. She flipped open the telephone book and copied the addresses.

Her next step was to call Marcus at home. The phone rang three times before the answering machine came on. Kate waited through the brief message. “Marcus, if you’re there, pick up.”

Instantly he was on the line. “Kate, where are you? I’ve been worried to death.”

She smiled, amused at his overprotectiveness. Marcus was two years younger, but of all her brothers he watched out for her the most. He was also the best researcher around and had worked with her for the past four years.

“I’m in Lochefuscha, Alabama.” She spelled it for him from the name on the complimentary notepad by the telephone. “I’m at an exquisite little place called the Highway Hideaway, decorated in Early American Garage Sale. A trucker’s paradise, according to the sign out front.”

“What’s going on?”

“I got a lead on Bret Hayes, so I thought I’d fly down and see if it panned out. I struck pay dirt, Marcus. He’s living here.”

“No wonder he was so hard to find. What’s he doing in Alabama?”

“Breeding horses, apparently.”

“You’re kidding. Are you sure you’ve got the right guy?”

“Positive. And he didn’t deny it.”

“You saw him already? How’d it go?”

She sighed. “Horrible. He wouldn’t even think about helping.”

“Sorry, sis.”

“Me, too, but I’m not giving up. I’ve still got four months until deadline, and I’ll spend every minute of it, if I have to, trying to get Hayes’s cooperation.”

“But what about the book on Marshall? You said you wanted to get started on that right away.”

The late Thurgood Marshall was the subject of her next biography, but she was having difficulty calling the James Hayes book complete. The research on James was solid. The writing was the best she’d ever done. But the story had gaps, unanswered questions about his life that only someone very close to him could answer.

And that was the problem. James, the band, their manager, Malcolm Elliot, the equipment handlers—all had been on the plane the night it left Rome, Georgia, on its way to Chattanooga, Tennessee. It had crashed in a thunderstorm in the north Georgia mountains, killing everyone on board.

Only Lenny Dean, the bass guitarist, was alive. If you could call it living. A drug addict, he had tripped out one too many times on PCP, and his mind was gone. He hadn’t been on the plane the night it went down. He’d been wasting away in a mental hospital for the past nine years.

James’s mother, Marianne Hayes Conner, had refused to cooperate on the book. So had his stepfather, George Conner, and his sister, Ellen Hayes. Bret, his younger brother, represented not only Kate’s best chance to get what she needed on James, but her only chance. She had to get his cooperation, and get it quickly. Otherwise, this biography would never be what she’d envisioned.

“Pull off the Marshall research for a couple of days,” she told Marcus. “I’d like you to follow up on what I found out here. Maybe we can come up with something that’ll help me when I approach Bret Hayes again.”

“What do you need me to do?”

“Find out what you can about a place called Pine Acres. It’s an orphanage or foster-care facility. And do some more digging into Hayes’s finances. I want to know why someone who inherited millions of dollars is living like a country bumpkin.”

“Bad investments? Gambling? Drugs?”

“Maybe, but his criminal record is pretty clean. A few misdemeanor convictions for brawling but nothing major. He’s supposed to have put money into this orphanage, but I don’t think that would account for all of it. And this sudden streak of generosity bothers me, anyway. From what I’ve pieced together about him, he doesn’t strike me as the type to give money away once he gets his hands on it. Lose it doing something stupid, maybe, but not give it away. Oh, that reminds me. Find out what you can about the cost of breeding quarter horses. And check with the Secretary of State’s office for public records on his business. Let’s try to estimate how much he’s invested in it and what he’s worth.”

“Why the interest in his financial situation? What difference does it make how well-off the brother is?”

“Probably none, but I sure would like to know what I’m dealing with here. If he squandered the fortune his brother left him, it would be some story for the book, don’t you think?”

“Is that what you believe happened?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t want to make any assumptions before I get the facts, but my gut tells me something isn’t right about this guy. Most of his life he walked in the shadow of an older brother who had everything—looks, money, talent, fame, some say even the woman he loved—but when he inherits money and gets his chance to live the good life he’s always wanted, what does he do? He buys a horse farm in an out-of-the-way place and spends part of the money building an orphanage. No way does that add up.”

“I see your point. I’ll get right on it. But hey, you watch yourself. He won’t like it when he finds out we’re digging around in his finances and his business records. You be careful.”

“I will.”

When Kate hung up, she went back to her computer. Tomorrow she’d spend the day asking questions, but tonight she needed to look through what she had on Bret and refresh her memory. She’d downloaded the files with his name on them into her laptop before she left, the information gleaned from interviews with childhood friends of the brothers and their high-school classmates.

She skimmed it. The stuff was pretty routine, although she’d found it useful while writing the early chapters about James’s life. Bret was five years younger than James. He’d spent less than a year at the University of Tennessee, then gone through one dead-end job after another. More than once his brother had bailed him out of trouble and supported him financially.

She got her pad and made a note to ask Marcus to call some of Hayes’s former employers. Why was he living in Alabama? Why not live in Tennessee where he could be close to his mother and sister? Because of creditors? To get away from the media? The man carried his desire for privacy to extremes, that was for sure. All those signs… That horrible little dog…

Whatever the reason, she was too tired to chase after it tonight. Tomorrow was soon enough. When she had more information from Marcus, she could start to piece things together.

She closed the file and went to bed, but she couldn’t sleep. For a long time she lay staring into the dark. She tried to close down her mind, as well, but it ran too fast, presenting her with too many questions and not enough answers.

Hayes would be attractive to the ladies, no question there. That handsome face and dark hair probably sent female hearts fluttering with little effort; that big muscular body no doubt made hormones race out of control.

Restless, she rolled over and punched up her pillow.

He had the same chin as James, slightly dimpled in the center as though someone had stuck a finger there and left a soft impression. And like James, Bret had also inherited his mother’s deep-blue eyes.

But that was where the similarity between the brothers ended. James had been tall, handsome, but thin as straw. Bret was tall and most definitely handsome, but his muscular arms and chest strained against the fabric of his shirt. When he’d dragged her down onto his horse today, his body had felt rock-hard.

An image of his quaint house and vegetable garden off to the side popped into her mind. The garden had a scarecrow dressed in sun-whitened overalls and a plastic Halloween pumpkin for a head. Flowers filled the yard. A nice little farm, but nothing elaborate. His truck was old, and his house was in need of painting and repair. The dirt driveway had potholes.

She’d expected a different lifestyle. Where were the expensive cars? The big house? He’d inherited thirty-six million dollars when his brother died. What had he done with all that money?

HE COULD SHOE a horse, dig fifty fence-post holes by hand in a single afternoon and grow a pretty fair tomato, but he was the worst cook east of the Mississippi. He knew it. Sallie knew it. Even she wouldn’t eat anything he fixed.

So once a week, when his stomach rebelled at the thought of eating another bite of his own cooking, Bret drove to town and ordered breakfast. His mouth started watering when he pulled out of the driveway, and by the time he parked the truck in front of the Old Hickory, he’d worked up a powerful hunger.

Man, oh, man, real coffee, instead of that instant stuff! And gravy that tasted like gravy, instead of lighter fluid! He could already taste it.

He sat down in his favorite booth in the back corner, the one people rarely used because one of the seats was ripped and had been mended with silver tape. He liked the corner because it was far from the jukebox and out of the stream of traffic from the kitchen. He could eat in peace. He didn’t have to nod or say, “Hey, how ya doin’?” to people who passed by his table.

He even liked the smell of this place in the morning, with bacon browning on the grill and coffee perking in aluminum coffeepots, instead of those drip machines.

He ordered his usual, opened his newspaper to the sports section and folded it so he could read and eat at the same time. When his order came and he bit into those perfectly prepared eggs, a bulldozer couldn’t have moved him out of that seat.

He hadn’t counted on a 110-pound bulldozer with a smart mouth.

She sneaked in while he was reading about the Braves, and he didn’t notice her until some guy let out a long low whistle. He looked up to see her threading her way through the tables toward him. She moved with the confidence of a woman who knows she’s beautiful and doesn’t try to pretend otherwise.

The moss-green dress was the same color as her eyes. The skirt stopped at midthigh and swished enticingly around her slender legs when she walked.

She slid into his booth with a cheery “Good morning,” as if they were old friends meeting for a pleasant breakfast. He could feel the envy of every man in the place.

He threw down his fork and it clattered on the plate. He gave her a look that said she was about as welcome as tight boots on a blood blister, but she just grinned at him and stole a piece of his bacon with her fingers.

“What are you doing?” he asked, annoyed at having the best hour of his week ruined by Kathryn Morgan.

“Eating breakfast.” She turned around and signaled to the waitress.

“Not with me.” When she reached over to get more bacon, he covered it with his hand. “And stop eating my bacon.”

She laughed at him then. Laughed at him! As if she found him amusing!

“Okay, stingy, I’ll get some of my own.” She turned to the waitress who had appeared with a menu and coffee. “Hi, Marleen. I’ll have the same thing he’s having, and bring us an extra order of bacon.”

“No,” Bret said.

“No, you don’t want extra bacon?”

“No, I don’t want to have breakfast with you.”

“Oh, don’t be such a grump. Eating with me won’t kill you.”

“Ms. Morgan, why are you bothering me again? I told you I wasn’t going to talk to you. Now leave, or I will.”

“If you want to leave, go ahead, but I’m planning to enjoy my breakfast. I’m absolutely starved.”

She poured cream in her coffee and casually stirred it with her spoon. She had the look of someone who was settling in.

Marleen waited for him to make up his mind. She glared at him, which made him feel like a first-class jerk.

“Bring her the stupid food,” he said with a growl, snatching up his folded newspaper. “And go ahead and start cooking my extra order.”

He’d ignore the pushy ratchet-jawed woman. That was what he’d do. Just pretend she wasn’t there, finish his breakfast and do his errands in town. Maybe she’d get the message and leave if he acted like she didn’t exist.

But that wasn’t easy to do. She had started watching him—no, studying him. She’d propped her elbows on the table and her chin rested on top of her clasped hands. He could almost feel her gaze touch his hair, his chin, his chest, and he didn’t like what it was doing to him.

That he found her physically attractive only increased his irritation with her. That he wondered if she found him attractive made him angry at himself.

He was glad he’d just shaved, had on a pair of his newer jeans and one of his good shirts. And yet he hated being glad. He hated that he could see, even without looking at her, the soft curve of her lips and how her eyes sparkled when she was amused—like now.

The harder he tried not to look at her, the harder it became. When he took a sip of coffee, he stole a glance over the top of the newspaper, and she smiled at him.

“You clean up real nice,” she said as if she’d read his thoughts. “But you need to learn not to grind your teeth when you’re irritated. You’ll give yourself a headache.”

He slammed down the newspaper and gave up all pretense of ignoring her. “You know, for somebody trying to get my help, you sure are going about it the wrong way.”

“Am I?” She cocked her head. “So what would work? I’ve tried asking and pleading.”

“And now you’re up to badgering and aggravating.”

“I’m sorry if you feel badgered. I honestly didn’t come here to be a pest. If I could get the information I need any other way, I’d pack up, leave and never bother you again.”

“So do it.”

She shook her head. “I can’t. I have to finish this book. The good things James did in his life are in danger of being lost. Instead of honoring him as the genius he was, most people remember him only as a drugged-out rock star killed in a plane crash.”

“And you think you can single-handedly change how people remember him?”

“I’m sure going to try. No man’s life should be defined solely by his death, particularly a man like James. Don’t you want to help me preserve his legacy?”

He didn’t answer. He picked up his newspaper and tossed a five-dollar tip on the table. He paid his bill, grabbed his second order from the cashier and went out the door, letting it slam noisily behind him.

He’d parked his truck across the street. He walked to it and opened the passenger door. As he did every Saturday morning, he unwrapped the extra bacon and eggs and spread them on the paper sack for Sallie. He didn’t have to look back to know the annoying woman was watching him out the front window of the grill.

Help her preserve the legacy of James Hayes? Now, that was a laugh. He didn’t want to preserve that legacy. He’d spent the past six years trying to destroy it.