Читать книгу Waiting Out the Storm - Ruth Herne Logan - Страница 14

The first scream brought Craig’s head up. It was followed by a second and a tirade of crude words Craig hadn’t heard since party nights in college.

“I hate you! I really, really hate you! I’ll kill you when I get my hands on you, you little worm!” The threat was followed by the slamming of a door, first once, then twice. As Craig hurried down the drive, a runner hurtled toward him, full tilt, arms pumping, an expression of half fear, half triumph lighting the boy’s face.

Behind him pounded a girl, tall and lanky, her athletic prowess outstripping that of the huskier boy. Reaching out an arm, Craig caught the boy, noted the look of surprise and confusion, then held tight while the girl barreled toward them. “What’s going on?”

“Let me go!” The boy struggled against Craig’s grasp.

Craig tightened his grip. “Be quiet. Now.” He directed a calm look to the agitated girl whose knowledge of words unsuited for God-fearing ears was most impressive. Keeping his eyes impassive, Craig stared her down. “Swearing isn’t going to help your situation. I’m not turning him over to you until I know what he did to deserve the beating you can’t wait to dish out.”

The boy squirmed. Craig sent him a look meant to quell. It did. Keeping his body between the antagonists, he angled his head. “What’d he do?”

“Besides reading my journal to his stupid friends over the phone? Even the most private parts?” The girl’s pitch heightened significantly. With good reason, it seemed.

Craig squelched the boy with a stern expression. “Her journal? You would stoop that low?”

Trying to wriggle away, the boy realized the futility when Craig’s arm clenched tighter. “It’s just a stupid old diary.”

“It’s hers.” Craig’s tone allowed no leeway. “Private. Confidential. What were you thinking?” Staring into the boy’s light eyes, he issued a challenge, man to man.

“I just wanted to see what girls write in those things.” Reading Craig’s expression, the boy turned sheepish.

“You’ve got a lot to learn about women, kid,” noted Craig. He was about to continue when a swift-moving figure emerged from the far side of the barn. Startled, he recognized the tawny skin and raised planes of the cheekbones. Huge brown eyes, deep and dark, complementing the long, thick black braid. She’d obviously been working; she bore the look and scent of barn labor.

The girl rolled her eyes as Sarah approached. Then she sniffed, unimpressed, the sound insulting. The boy stilled as if ashamed.

“What’s going on?” Sarah’s voice held the same calm, flat intonation he’d come to know. Tilting her chin, she met Craig’s eye. “You may let go.”

“Of course.” Irritation at being told what to do rose within him. “Now that I’ve saved his life, I’m expendable.”

She didn’t smile. Grim, she addressed the girl. “Who’s watching Skeeter?”

The girl flinched. “She’s watching cartoons.”

Silent, Sarah didn’t move. She used the full force of those dark, impenetrable eyes to subdue the teenager. Defeated, the girl fidgeted. “I’ll see to her.”

The teen flounced back to the small green house set in the trees, her posture indicating displeasure at life in general.

Sarah’s gaze turned to the boy while the sound of a motor bore up the rise of the hill. As a group they moved the few steps to the road’s edge, allowing room for the oncoming vehicle. “What have you done, Brett?”

Craig started at the name. Realization set in. Brett. Brett Slocum. Tom and Rita’s son. The girl must be the older daughter. Thinking back, he remembered her from her father’s funeral. She’d been in junior high then. Must be high school, now. Pretty name, too. Liddie? Tivvie? Something like that.

The approaching car drew abreast. Glancing up, Craig recognized Maggie James’ polished silver coupe. She smiled and waved, then tooted the horn before she pulled ahead, angling her car to the side of the road.

Brett’s look turned hopeful, maybe thinking his aunt wouldn’t chastise him in front of others.

No such luck.

“Brett?”

He scuffed a toe into the scrabbled dirt along the road’s edge. “I read her stupid book.”

“Her book?” Sarah’s exaggerated confusion flustered the kid. “She was upset because you read a book?”

“A journal,” Craig supplied, keeping his countenance void of emotion with no small effort. Seeing the boy writhe under Sarah’s surveillance brought back plenty of memories. Her interrogation tactics were not unlike his mother’s.

Sarah’s mouth dropped open. She gasped in righteous indignation. Her look implored the boy to set the record straight, declare the accusation untrue. Oh, yeah. Craig remembered the routine, front to back. Guilt 101. Did they teach that to women in class or was it intrinsic, inherent to the gender?

Brett’s toe scuffed harder. Head down, he refused to face the look of disappointment on his aunt’s face. Craig couldn’t resist. “There’s more.”

Brett shot him an affronted look and jammed his hands into ragged pockets. Glancing from Craig to Brett, Sarah made no acknowledgement of the approaching woman, focusing on her nephew. “Tell me.”

“I told Matt DeJoy what it said.”

“You didn’t.” Her dismay increased exponentially. “You shared your sister’s journal? Her private thoughts and dreams?”

The boy’s toe dug faster as the charges compiled. His cheeks reddened. His shoulders twitched. He jerked his head. “It’s just a stupid diary.”

“There is no such thing.” Sarah’s tone dropped to the dangerously quiet level Craig remembered all too well. Oh, yeah. That tweaked a memory or two. Times a hundred, at least. He fought a smile as Maggie reached them.

With Maggie’s intrusion, Sarah raised her gaze. Again Craig was struck by the unflappable expression. The lack of affect. He used to think her unfeeling. Unreachable.

Watching her interaction with the boy, he glimpsed the inner struggle. Saw the work it took to maintain the imperturbable appearance. She grasped the boy’s shoulder, her grip unyielding. “Get changed. You can help me in the back barn. Five minutes.” She added the last with a pointed look.

He marched off, defiant, much as his sister had done.

An awkward silence ensued. Maggie looked irked at Craig’s lack of greeting and Sarah seemed ill at ease. She nodded his way. “Thank you.”

That was it? He opened his mouth to say something trite, then paused, reading the look in her eyes. Embarrassment. Shame.

The shadow was brief, no more than a glimpse, but evident. He nodded back. “You’re welcome.” Feeling out of his element, he turned to make introduction. “Maggie James, this is Sarah Slocum. My neighbor, it seems.”

Sarah’s look swept the work site cresting the hill. Something soulful flashed in her dark eyes. Pain? Her nod to the well-dressed taller woman was polite but swift. The tone of her cheeks went a deeper bronze. “I should get back to work.”

Craig noticed Maggie’s subtle appraisal of Sarah’s appearance. Smells that clung. The dark flecks dotting her tall boots. A protective surge swept him again. He fought it off. “Of course.”

With another nod, Sarah pivoted and strode away, the set of her narrow shoulders rigid. Craig turned toward Maggie. “You came to see me?”

She swept his hillside setting a glance. “I heard you were building a house.”

“You heard right. They just finished the fourteenth course of the basement. Not much to see yet, and probably not a good idea to hill-climb in those.” He dropped his gaze to her spiky heels, about as different from Sarah’s barn boots as you could get.

And why on earth that thought occurred to him was a wonder in itself.

“Probably not,” she agreed. She hesitated, shifting her purse up. “You won’t mind the smells out here?”

Craig crinkled his forehead, then relaxed. “You mean farm smells?”

“Yes.”

He laughed. “Not at all. Especially not when farm visits are all in a day’s work. I don’t even notice it.”

“I would.” She sounded regretful, but resigned. “I just thought I’d stop by and wish you well with your building. I know it’s something you’ve been looking forward to.”

Forward to and then some. He’d had his house plans drawn up nearly three years back, then saved for the dream, living at home a year longer than originally planned.

Now his wish became reality, day by day, emergent from the adjacent hillside splendor.

And directly across from Sarah’s sheep farm. How in the world had that happened when he’d been so careful? Thinking back, he remembered querying Steve Laraby about ownership of the land to either side of him. East. West.

Not across the street. He swallowed a groan with the realization.

As he swung Maggie’s door wide, he mulled the situation. What were the odds that of all the acreage in the largest geographic county in New York State, Craig Macklin would end up building across from Sarah Slocum’s farm?

What had his mother prayed for? Hills, trees, land, good neighbors and room for dogs.

The whole “good neighbor” thing presented a notable challenge. Craig’s collar itched as he considered the situation. Every time he pulled out of his new driveway, Sarah’s presence would remind him of things he’d like to forget.

Gramps’ angst and dismay upon discovering their money gone, rifled by a scheming, two-faced investor. Grams’ sadness. Their constant worry and guilt over being a burden, an elderly couple who had never burdened anyone all their lives.

That worry hadn’t helped Gramps’ struggle with heart disease. No sir. He’d died crushed and broken under the burden of decisions he thought fiscally sound.

Craig didn’t need reminders, but here he was, building his dream home directly across from a Slocum. A band of them, if appearances could be trusted.

Craig massaged the bridge of his nose. If God had a hand in this, then he obviously had a sense of humor like Craig’s father’s. Dry. Subtle.

And not nearly as funny as he thought it to be.

“She’s your neighbor?” Deb Macklin slid a wide tray of peanut butter cookies out of her convection oven, followed by another. Replacing them with two more, she raised a brow. “A sheep farm, right?”

“I guess.”

“How big?”

Craig shrugged. “No idea. I didn’t see the animals. Well…” He hesitated, reaching for a hot cookie. “I did meet the niece and the nephew trying to kill each other. I don’t suppose that counts.”

“Craig.” His mother’s tone scolded. “She took in all three kids because Rita’s not doing well. I guess the money problems put her over the edge.”

Her phrasing caught Craig’s attention. “What money problems? The papers were full of Tom’s private insurance and made multiple mentions of his other portfolios.” He made no attempt to hide the scorn in his voice.

Deb shook her head as she set the oven timer. “They were wrong.” She straightened and met Craig’s gaze. “His major insurance policy refused the claim because of a suicide clause. His minor insurance paid, but that was a pittance compared to the cost of raising three kids. Keeping a home.” She turned back to the counter and scooped rounded spoonfuls of cookie dough onto fresh baking sheets. “Tom’s stock portfolio is tied in with his brother. Ed refuses to give Rita access to it. Rita sued for dispersal, but you know the courts. It’ll be a long, drawn-out process. Ed’s afraid his part will suffer if Rita withdraws Tom’s share, and she’s got no money to speak of without it. At least they’ve got medical insurance still. And Social Security survivor benefits.”

“That’s it? After all the papers said, I assumed Rita was swimming in cash. Free and easy, while other folks suffered.”

Deb gave him a quiet look, not unlike the gaze Sarah Slocum leveled her errant nephew the day before. “You know what they say about assumptions, Craig.”

He set his cookie down. “So the kids are living on the farm?”

“Yes. It was either that or foster care. Cade said Sarah wouldn’t hear of it, though I can’t imagine how she handles running the farm, her nighttime accounting business, and three kids. God love her, she’s an ambitious little thing. When we needed sheep for the living Nativity scene last year, Sarah was the first one there and stayed the whole while, making sure everything went smoothly.”

Craig hadn’t made it to services that December weekend. A firm thwack of guilt smacked him upside the head. Was he really all that busy? Even on call, couldn’t he set his phone to vibrate for the hour-long service and show up more regularly than he’d been lately?

Thinking back, Craig mentally scrutinized Sarah’s face. Yeah, she looked tired. More, she looked determined. Stubborn. Intent on forging ahead. His mother’s voice interrupted his reflection.

“You’re not eating your cookie.”

The oversized cookie sat on the counter, cool. Untouched. He shook his head, considering. “Not really hungry. I’ll grab some for lunch tomorrow.”

Deb nodded once more, intent on her task. “Whatever you say.”

A slight sound stopped him as he moved to the door. He turned and frowned. His mother presented a calm, serene profile, not a smile in sight. But Craig had been her son a long time. He knew what he’d heard, her distinct low chuckle that said she found the whole thing humorous.

Huh. That made one of them.