CHAPTER 5
“Stop there!” Eudora ordered, pointing toward a boutique on the upcoming street corner.
Ryder aimed the gleaming white Lincoln toward a horizontal parking space and slid into it with nothing to spare. Before Eudora could object to the fact that he’d parked several doors down and she was going to have to walk, he had opened the door and was reaching in to help her out.
Smoothing at her hair and clothes, she began to issue her standard orders. “I don’t know how long I’ll be, but…”
“No problem,” he said. “I’m coming with you,” he said, and offered her his arm.
Ignoring the shocked expression on her face, he escorted her up the street and into the store. Eudora was so stunned by his actions that she let herself be led into The Pink Boutique.
The saleslady all but fawned as she met her at the door. “Mrs. Deathridge, please accept our condolences on your recent loss. Delaney Ruban will be missed.”
“Yes, well, I thank you on behalf of the family,” Eudora muttered, casting a sidelong glance at Ryder who was still standing at her side. He was too big to ignore and seemed too determined to dissuade from accompanying her. She waved toward an overstuffed chair near the alcove where the dressing rooms were situated. “You may wait over there.”
Ryder took his seat without comment. Eudora watched as he carefully lifted the Stetson from his head. Placing it crownside down in his lap, he seemed to settle.
After that she relaxed, but only slightly. There was something about that man that unnerved her. Even though he was now across the room from her and sitting still, his presence was overpowering. Frowning, she turned away and began sorting through the garments on the racks, still conscious of his eyes boring into her back. He took up space. That’s what he did. He took up entirely too much space.
* * *
Half an hour came and went, along with the saleslady’s patience. Eudora had picked through and complained about everything the store carried in her size. It made no difference to her that Gladys was nearly in tears, or that the manager had made several pointed trips through the room, each time giving Gladys a sharp, condemning look for not being able to placate a customer, especially one from Ruban Crossing’s foremost family.
Eudora was so caught up with the seriousness of her shopping spree that she’d completely forgotten Ryder’s existence, so when he spoke, he had Eudora’s…and the saleslady’s… immediate and undivided attention.
“Take the blue one.”
Eudora spun, still holding the dress in question. “Were you speaking to me?”
Ryder tilted his head. “It matches your eyes. Always did like blue-eyed women.”
Having said his piece, he stretched, giving himself permission to take up even more of the floor space by unfolding his long legs out before him. While she watched, he locked his hands across his belly as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
Eudora wasn’t accustomed to having anyone, especially a chauffeur, give her advice on her choices of clothing, yet this man’s entrance into their world had already changed their lives. She heard herself repeating his suggestion as if it had true merit and wondered if she was finally losing her mind.
“The blue?”
He nodded, then shrugged. “Yes, ma’am, but it was just a suggestion. My father always said it never paid to rush a woman.”
“Oh, do quit calling me ma’am,” Eudora said. “It sounds too elderly.”
Ryder looked up and almost grinned. “Well, now, Dora, didn’t anyone ever tell you that age is in the mind of the beholder?”
Eudora’s mouth dropped. This man was positively impossible. Of course he should have known she.meant for him to call her Mrs. Deathridge, not Dora! The very idea, shortening her name like that.
But the deed had already been done, and the name rang in her ears. Dora. That was what her husband, Henry, had called her, and Henry had been dead for all these many years. She gave Ryder a sidelong glance and disappeared into the dressing room with the blue dress in her hand. Dora. Dora. What would Erica and Miles have to say about this?
She shut the door behind her then looked up. Her reflection looked back. For a moment, she almost didn’t recognize herself. Her eyes were bright—from shock, of course. But the glimmer did give life to her expression. Dora. She held the blue dress up beneath her chin. He was right. It brought out the true color of her eyes. She smiled. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all.
Only after he was alone did Ryder realize what he’d said. He’d actually thought of his father without coming unglued. In fact, just for a moment, it had felt damned good to remember him at all.
He jammed his Stetson on his head then pulled the brim down low across his forehead and closed his eyes. Ah God, but he missed that old man. So much that it hurt.
* * *
Lash stood on the veranda, staring at the brake lights on the plumber’s van as it slowed to take a corner. A soft, early morning breeze lifted the hair from his forehead, cooling the sweat that had beaded minutes earlier when the plumber had handed him his bill.
Despair settled a little closer upon his shoulders.
Impulsively, he walked down the steps and out into the yard, heading for the gazebo. As a child, it had been his favorite place. As an adult, it was where he went to hide.
Ivy clung to the latticed walls, crocheted by nature into heavy loops of variegated green. Inside, the air rarely moved and only the most persistent rays of sunshine were able to pick and poke their way through the dense growth.
He dropped onto the bench in a slump, then wadded the bill and tossed it into the gathering pile on the floor. Why bother to keep track if they couldn’t be paid?
Minutes passed. He looked down at his watch. It was past time to open the office. With a sigh, he shoved himself off the bench, giving the pile of unpaid bills a final glance. Poor Graystone. She was so sick—in need of too many repairs for his meager pocket to accommodate.
His eyes misted as he walked across the yard. As he entered the house in search of his suit coat and briefcase, a continuing thought kept running through his mind.
It was Casey’s fault. Casey had ruined it all. Beautiful, willful Casey who had so much, while he had nothing at all. He yanked his coat from a hook, thinking of the parties that would be given in her honor, coveting the priceless wedding gifts she would certainly be receiving as her due.
Despair fed anger. Anger fed hate. And something fell to the floor behind him with a clank. He spun in time to see a long, hairless tail disappearing beneath the cupboard. A rat. Another damned rat.
He grabbed a can of corn from the cabinet, firing it toward the place where he’d seen it last. “What the hell are you still doing here? I thought rats abandoned sinking ships.”
Several items had fallen off a low shelf and onto the floor as the door to the cupboard flew open. The sight of spilled salt sent Lash to his knees. Scrambling to regain his sense of balance in his superstitious world, he grabbed a pinch of the salt and tossed it over his shoulder. Even though one part of his brain told him that spilled salt did not bad luck make, he was too much a product of his upbringing to ignore it all now.
Still down on his knees, he set to retrieving the few family heirlooms he hadn’t sold. It wasn’t until he was setting his grandfather’s sorghum pewter pitcher back on the shelf that he noticed a small, flat box at the back of the cupboard. Frowning, he pulled it out. When he opened the lid, his eyes widened and a delighted smile lit up his somber expression. Grandfather’s letter opener! He’d completely forgotten its existence.
He ran a tentative finger down the thin, double-edged blade, remembering the hours he’d spent in Aaron Marlow’s lap, remembering the first time his grandfather had let him use it without help. For all its beauty, it was still a small and deadly thing.
A brown shadow moved to the right of Lash’s hand. He reacted without thinking. Seconds later, he rocked back on his heels in shock, staring at the carcass of the rat and the small silver dagger embedded in its body.
Bile rose, burning his throat and choking him as he scrambled to his feet and ran for the-sink just in time to keep from puking on himself. When he was able to look back without gagging, all he could see was his family honor embedded in the belly of the rat.
In Lash’s mind, it was the last and ultimate disgrace. Wildeyed and looking for someone else to blame, he stared at the salt. Bad luck. Bad luck. It was all a matter of bad luck.
In a daze, he yanked the dagger out of the rat, wiping off the bloody blade on the kitchen curtain. His hands were shaking as he laid if back in the box. So, he’d come to this, and thanks to Casey Justice, this is where he would stay.
He shuddered then sighed as he closed the lid to the box. Casey. He’d lost everything because of her. The box felt warm in his hands as he slipped it into his pocket before picking up his briefcase.
A muscle jerked in his jaw as he walked out of the house. Once again, he glanced at his watch. There was something he needed to do before he went to the office. He didn’t know where his manners had gone. He should have thought of it before.
* * *
Casey tossed her pen down on the desk and swiveled her chair to face the window overlooking the business district of Ruban Crossing. As she did, a flash of white caught her eye and she stood abruptly, searching for a glimpse of the family’s white Lincoln.
Was that Ryder? She looked until her eyes began to burn and the muscles in the backs of her legs began to knot. Disgusted with herself, she turned away from the window to return to her chair.
The high gloss on her desk was obliterated by a mountain of paperwork to her left, which was only increments smaller than the mountain of paperwork to her right. She closed her eyes and tried to relax, playing her favorite what-if game. The one that went…what if she walked out of the office and never came back? In her mind, she was halfway out of town when her secretary, Nola Sue, buzzed.
“Mrs. Justice, you have a delivery.”
The mention of her name change alone was enough to yank Casey back to reality.
“Just sign for it. I’ll pick it up later.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Justice, but the man insists on your signature only.”
Casey sighed. “Then send him in.”
Moments later, the door opened and a uniformed messenger came into the room. Brief and to the point, he handed her a clipboard and a pen.
“Sign here, please.”
Casey did as she was told, casually eyeing the flat, oblong package the man laid on her desk.
“Good day, Mrs. Justice.”
And then he was gone.
My, how word does get around in this town, Casey thought, as she slipped a letter opener between the folds of paper. A glimmer of color began to emerge from beneath the plain, brown wrapping. The second layer of paper was a thick, pure white embossed with silver doves. An obvious allusion to the wedding that hardly was. Curious now, she abandoned the letter opener for her fingers and tore through that layer to a flat black box.
It was a little over a foot in length and no more than three or four inches in width. The lid was hinged by two delicate foil butterflies. Casey gasped at the contents as a card fell out and into her lap.
Inside lay a miniature rapier on thick, black velvet. She lifted it from the case, hefting it lightly. It felt heavy, even warm in her hand, and she knew before she turned it over to view the silversmith’s mark that it was probably solid silver. It was the most elaborate letter opener she’d ever seen.
Curious, she laid it aside and picked up the card, all the while wondering who would send her such a thing. She read, “Casey, On your nuptials: You deserve this… and so much more. Lash.”
She frowned at the oddity of the phrasing, then laid the card aside and picked the small rapier up again, eyeing the double-edged blade with caution. Something near the tip caught her eye. At first, she thought it was rust, and that the letter opener must not be silver after all, because silver did not rust. Even after she ran the tip of her finger across the spot, it didn’t come off. But when she lifted it for a closer look, she suddenly shifted in her seat, making room for the unexpected sense of foreboding that swept over her.
She swiveled her chair toward the window and full light, tilting the blade for a closer look still, then tested the spot with the tip of a fingernail. It came away on her nail. Startled, she grabbed for a tissue and wiped at her finger, unprepared for the small, red stain that suddenly appeared against stark white.
She couldn’t quit staring. The spot wasn’t rust, it was blood—dried blood. But in such a small amount that it might have gone unnoticed.
Now her delight in such a gift was replaced with dismay. It seemed a travesty of something pure to receive a wedding gift with blood on it. The urge to put it out of sight was strong. She laid it back in the box, closing the lid with care, but the words on the card had now taken on a sinister meaning.
You deserve this…and so much more.
Deserve what? What did she deserve? The silver… the knife…or the blood?
The phone rang. It was the private line that only family ever used. She grabbed for it like a lifeline.
“Hello.”
“Casey, darling, it’s Erica. Have you seen Grandmother?”
For once, she was almost thankful for the whine in her half sister’s voice. It gave her something else on which to focus besides Lash’s gift.
“No, I’m sorry, but I haven’t.”
Erica sighed. “It’s nearly one o’clock. She was going to meet me for lunch, and she’s thirty minutes late. She’s never late, you know.”
Casey frowned. That much was true. Gran had a thing about being tardy.
“It’s probably all his fault,” Erica said.
“All whose fault?” Casey asked.
“Your husband…the family chauffeur…however you choose to define him. He took Grandmother shopping hours ago and no one’s seen a sign of them since.” The tone of Erica’s voice rose an octave. “We don’t know a thing about him. I can’t believe you actually brought a stranger into this household, shoved him down our throats and then expected us to accept his presence as status quo.”
Casey stifled a sigh. This was all she needed.
“Look, Erica. Nothing has happened to Gran. If it had, Ryder would have called. He is not a fiend. Besides, why didn’t you call her instead of me? There’s a phone in the Lincoln.”
“I know that,” Erica snapped. “But no one’s answering.” Casey looked at the stacks of files on her desk and wondered how her grandfather had gone so wrong. She was beating her head against a thousand brick walls and all Erica had to worry about was a late luncheon date.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Casey said. “I’m sure she’s fine. I’m sorry she’s late.”
The connection between them was broken when Erica slammed the receiver back into the cradle. For a few wonderful moments, all Casey could hear were muffled voices from the outer office. With a dogged determination of which Delaney Ruban would have been proud, Casey dropped the gift into a drawer and buzzed Nola Sue.
“Cancel my lunch with Rosewell and Associates. Reschedule for sometime next week.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Nola Sue said, making notations as she listened to Casey’s orders. “Do you want me to order you something to eat?”
“I suppose,” she said. “And call home. Tell them I’ll be working late and not to hold dinner.”
Within seconds, she’d forgotten about Lash Marlow’s present and Erica’s phone call. Her entire focus was on the figures before her and the study she would need before she could make an offer for the acquisition of the Harmon Canneries near Tupelo.
A short while later, Nola Sue set a small, plastic tub of chicken salad, a cold roll, and a melting cup of iced tea on the corner of Casey’s desk and tiptoed out without uttering a word.
It was sometime later before Casey even noticed that lunch had been served.
* * *
“Want some ketchup on those fries?” Ryder asked. Eudora poked the lingering end of a fast-food French fry into her mouth and then shook her head. Seconds later, Ryder handed her a fistful of paper napkins.
“Thank you,” she said.
When she was certain Ryder’s attention was otherwise occupied, she licked the salt from her fingers before drying them on the paper napkins he’d tossed in her lap, then leaned back against the seat, sighing with satisfaction.
She couldn’t remember the last time food had tasted this good. Stifling a small belch, she lifted her cup to her lips and latched onto the straw poking through the plastic lid, sucking with all her might. A couple of swallows later, she began to suck air.
“How about another cherry limeade?”
“No, but thank you,” Eudora said, and tossed a used napkin on the floor next to the wrapper that had been around her cheeseburger.
The food had been delicious. She wasn’t going to think about the fact that it had all been served in recycled paper. There was something about reusing paper—in any form or fashion—that smacked of poverty. Eudora Deathridge had not suffered a day of want in her entire life, and had no intentions of starting now. She belched again, then sighed. This had been worth her impending heartburn.
Ryder hid a grin. He’d given her hell this morning and knew it. From the time they’d entered the first store, to the last one they’d exited just before lunch, he’d been on her heels at every turn.
He had been nothing but respectful. It wasn’t in him to be anything else. But he figured the ‘family’ needed to know right off that while he didn’t mind driving them all over kingdom come, he was going to do it his way. And if that meant making himself a slight nuisance, then so be it. He was the best when it came to being a pain in the ass. If they didn’t believe him, then they could just ask his…
Oh, God. He’d done it again. Micah’s name kept hovering at the edge of his mind, popping out when least expected. He hated being weak, but guilt was eating him alive. No longer hungry, he began stuffing his leftovers back into the sack they’d come in.
“Here you go, Dora.” He handed the half-filled sack over the seat.
Surprised by the gesture, she took it before she thought, letting it dangle between her fingers like something foul.
“What am I to do with this?”
“Trash. Put your trash in it.”
She stared at the papers she’d tossed on the floorboard in disbelief. He was asking her to pick up trash? This time he’d overstepped his bounds.
“Now see here,” she complained. “I don’t think you…” Ryder turned. Their gazes met. His eyes were dark and filled with a pain she hadn’t expected.
“Need some help?”
“I don’t believe so,” she said quietly. “But thank you just the same.”
She opened the sack and leaned down. A few moments later, she handed it back, watching as he tossed it in a barrel on the way out of the parking lot.
“Ryder.”
He glanced up. Again, their gazes met briefly, this time in the rearview mirror.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I’m ready to go home now.”
He took the next turn, wishing he could say the same.
* * *
It was after eight o’clock. Ryder paced the small apartment like a caged bear—back and forth, from window to chair, unable to concentrate on the story on television, or eat the food congealing on his plate. Stifled by the presence of walls, he refused to admit that he was worried about Casey’s absence.
Another half hour passed. By this time, he was steaming. He knew for a fact that Miles had packed up and left for a three-day trip to New Orleans to play. Erica and her grandmother had had a fight and Erica was sulking in her room because Dora had refused to grovel for forgetting their lunch date. Even Joshua and Tilly had finished up for the night and gone home. But Casey was still on the job. Something about that just didn’t sit right with him, and his patience was gone.
He grabbed his hat on the way out the door. In a shorter time than one might have imagined, he had parked outside the Ruban Building and was on his way inside. A guard stopped him at the door.
“Sorry sir, but the offices are closed for the night.”
Ryder shocked himself by announcing, “I’m here to pick up my wife.”
“And who might that be?” the guard asked.
“Her name is—was—Casey Ruban.”
The man took a quick step back, eyeing Ryder with new attention.
“You’d be the fellow Miss Ruban married.”
Ryder nodded.
“Well, now, I might need to see some identification…just for the first time, you understand.”
Ryder opened his wallet.
“Justice…yep, that would be you, all right,” the guard said. “We heard Miss Ruban had married a man named Justice.” He reached for the phone. “Just a minute, sir, and I’ll let her know you’re here.”
“No,” Ryder said, and then softened the tone of his voice with a halfhearted grin. “I was sort of planning to surprise her.”
The guard smiled. “Yes, sir. I understand. Take the elevator to the top floor. Her office is the first one on your right.”
“Thanks,” Ryder said.
“You’re welcome, sir,” the guard said. “And congratulations on your marriage. Miss Ruban is a fine lady.”
Ryder nodded. Even though she was a little hardheaded, he was beginning to have the same opinion of her himself.
By the time he got to her office, his sense of injustice was in high form. He walked inside and past the empty secretary’s desk without pausing; his gaze fixed on the thin line of light showing from beneath the door on the far side of the room.
* * *
Casey’s head hurt, her shoulders ached, and she was so far past hungry it didn’t count. What was worse, she didn’t even know it. Realization of her condition came only after the door to her office swung open and Ryder stalked into the room.
Startled, she stood too swiftly. The room began to tilt.
Ryder saw her sway and grabbed her arm before she staggered.
All she could think to say was, “What are you doing here?” before he took the pen from her hand, and turned out the desk lamp.
“I came to take you home. Your day is over. It’s night. It’s time to rest. It’s time to slow the hell down. Do you understand me?”
He was mad. That was what surprised her most. Why should he be angry? It took a bit to realize that he wasn’t angry at her. He was angry on her behalf. At that point, lack of food and exhaustion kicked in. Damn him, he wasn’t supposed to be nice…at least, not like this.
She shrugged out of his grasp and reached for her purse. “I don’t need you telling me what to do.”
He stood between her and the doorway and once again, Casey caught a glimpse of the same man who’d come out of the shadows of Sonny’s Place and taken a dare no other man had had the guts to take.
“Then consider it a suggestion,” he said quietly, and reached for her arm.
This time she didn’t pull away. They walked all the way to the elevator without talking, then past the night guard who grinned and winked. Silence was maintained all the way out to the car. It was only after Casey felt the seat at the back of her legs that she began to relax.
Ryder slid behind the wheel, then looked at her. It didn’t take him long to make the decision. “Buckle up. You choose, but you’re not going home until you eat.”
Casey wrinkled her nose. “The car smells like French fries.”
“Dora spilled a few. I’ll clean it out tomorrow.”
It took Casey a moment for the answer to connect. Dora? French fries? In the car? She turned where she sat, staring at Ryder in sudden confusion.
“Who’s Dora?”
“You are bad off,” he said, as he put the car in gear and backed out of the parking space. “She’s your grandmother, isn’t she?”
“You called her Dora?”
He shrugged as he pulled into traffic. “Said she didn’t want me calling her ma’am.”
“Why was Dora…I mean Gran…eating French fries in the car?”
“Because they went with her cheeseburger and cherry limeade.”
Casey’s mouth dropped. “She ate fast food?”
He grinned. “Ate it real fast, too. Never saw a woman so hungry.”
Casey still didn’t believe she was getting the story straight. “She ate her meal in the back seat of a car?”
Ryder gave her a sidelong glance. “Are you still faint?”
She covered her face with her hands and groaned. “My God, why did you take Gran to a fast-food restaurant?”
“Because she was hungry, that’s why.”
“But…”
He took the corner in a delicate skid, the likes of which the Lincoln had never seen. “You know what?”
Casey clutched at her seat belt, almost afraid to ask. “What?”
“You people are too uptight. You need to loosen up a little. If you did, you might find out you-like it. Better yet, you might even live long enough to spend all that money you’re so dead set on making.”
There wasn’t a civil thought in her head as Ryder turned off the highway and into another parking lot. But when he opened the door to help her out, the odor of charbroiled meat made her forget her anger. A few moments later, she realized where he’d brought her, and if she hadn’t been so hungry, she would have laughed.
As he led her in the restaurant, she would have been willing to bet the last dollar she had in her pocket that, by tomorrow, it would be all over Ruban Crossing that Eudora Deathridge had eaten French fries in the back seat of a car. What was going to ice this piece of gossip was the fact that Casey and her honky-tonk husband had also shared a late-night dinner at Smoky Joe’s. As restaurants go, it wasn’t bad. It was Smoky Joe’s sideline that gave him, and his restaurant, such a bad reputation.
Casey lifted her chin as they walked inside. She could tell by the sounds coming from the back room that the floor show was in full swing.
“Wonder what’s going on back there?” Ryder asked, as he guided Casey to an empty booth.
“Mud wrestling,” she said. One eyebrow arched as she waited for his reaction.
His interest sparked, he had to ask. “Women or ’gators?”
“Women,” she replied.
She watched as the light in his eyes faded. She sighed. She should have known it would take more than naked women in a hot tub’s worth of red clay to get him excited.
“I think he saves the ’gators for Saturday nights.”
He handed her a menu. “Good. It’ll give us a reason to come back.”