A Shadow on the Ground (3 page)

As she rounded the fence, he took in her soft curves, her slim, square shoulders, the mud streaked, beige and blue plaid flannel shirt. Her glossy dark waves tumbled across one full breast as she bent to open the gate. Then, the moment he had been waiting twelve years for, and dreading more than any single moment of his life, came and went. She lifted her head, blinked her clear gray-blue eyes, and gazed directly at him. Without one single hint of recognition.

Something twisted in his chest. He tried to swallow the knot lodged in his throat. He glanced at the toes of his carefully shined boots and willed his pride to stop scorching a path through his insides.

Okay.

Morgan Maguire didn’t know him from a can of paint.

That was one giant blow to his ego. But in the end, it would make things easier. The street smarts he’d always relied on had pretty much flown out the window the second he’d discovered she was involved in this case. If she knew the real reason he was there, it would complicate things beyond belief. He had enough on his plate without adding humiliation and heartbreak to the mix.

He’d only agreed to take this job because he needed the money for his son, and he would do anything—
anything
—to help Jeremy. No matter what moron was paying for it.

He’d been curious to see how Morgan had turned out. Who wouldn't be? But now that his curiosity had been satisfied, it was time to jump back on the reality train and act like the professional he was. Or used to be. He'd give Morgan’s brother the two hour consultation he'd promised, do what Tyson had hired him to do, take his boy, and get the ever-lovin' hell out of Dodge. Then maybe, just maybe he could start to forget her.

“Morgan,” Peach said, “I don't think you've met—”

“Gage Kirkland,” he said. He started to hold out his hand, but as soon as it was airborne, he lost his nerve and pulled back. Not exactly the smoothest of moves, but he didn’t trust himself to touch her. “I'm...I’m from In the Black. We’re a small business salvage company, relatively new to this area. I don't know if your brother told you, but he’s won a free consultation for me to look at your operation. See if I can help get it back on track.”

“Sean isn't here.” Morgan looked at him impassively. “He thought you were coming tomorrow.”

“I was,” Gage said. “I am. But I was in the neighborhood, and I thought I might drop by and see the orchard. You know, get a head start.” Why couldn’t he stop smiling at her like an idiot? Why did he sound like he was selling used cars?

She laid her straw hat on a chair and looked right through him. As if he wasn't there.

Had he changed that much? Sure, he'd filled out, grown a muscle or two, started shaving semi-regularly. But he was basically the same guy. On the outside, anyway.

“In the neighborhood?” she said. “Way out here?”

“I had some free time,” he said, scrounging up a more plausible excuse. He blew out a short, silent breath, then settled his gaze on her face. God, he'd missed that face. He hadn't known just how much until that moment. A tiny dimple still creased the skin beside her full, perfectly shaped mouth, the same mouth that had never stopped haunting his dreams. “I had to pick up my son from school, and I thought if you didn't mind, I could—”

“You have a son?” Morgan's head jerked toward the barn. “Is he here with you?”

“We just moved from Atlanta,” Gage said. “Right now he’s—”

“He's in the can,” Peach said. She pointed to the stains on Morgan's jeans. “What happened to you?”

Crystal tugged at Peach's blouse. “Morgan found a body, Mama. A real live dead one.”

Peach clutched Crystal to her hip. “Are you serious? Oh, my God, Morgan, who?”

“Harlan Spannagel. He’s taking a blood thinner, and had some kind of hemorrhage.”

“Crystal didn't—”

“No, no,” Morgan said quickly. “I kept her away from it. That's why we're late. I tried to call on the way back, but couldn't get a signal. You know how iffy cell service is once you start around the mountain. I haven’t been able to get hold of Sean either.”

“You mean, he doesn’t know?”

Jeremy pushed his way out the screen door.

The sight of his gawky legs and arms clutched Gage's heart. Oversized jeans hung on his slight frame. The curved bill of a navy baseball cap covered the back of his neck. A black T-shirt with the message ‘Earth's Full—Go Home!’
hugged his thin collarbones. Gage had worried Jeremy's Atlanta clothes might set him apart from the other kids in Cherokee Bluff, but, except for the expensive athletic shoes supplied by his indulgent grandparents, Jeremy was a perfect clone of every other boy who stood slouching in front of the county school.

Jeremy's light brown eyes studied the people on the porch with cool indifference. His sharp chin, identical to the one Gage scraped shaving cream off every other morning, jutted out in a sullen declaration of disgust.

“I like your shirt, kid,” Morgan said softly. “I've got one that says, ‘Why are you still here? The stupid people left hours ago’. Maybe we could trade sometime.”

Jeremy's gaze flickered to life for a moment. Then it was gone.

Morgan smiled. “So, Jeremy, how do you like small town life? Must be like getting hit in the chest with a stun gun after living in Atlanta.”

Jeremy stared at the porch.

“The lady asked you a question,” Gage said.

Jeremy lifted his head and looked at Morgan. “Okay, lady. You wanna know how I like living in East Bumfuck? I don’t. I don’t like it at all. In fact, everything about it sucks a big one.”

“That’s hard to believe,” Morgan said, nonplussed. “I mean, there’s so much to do here—4-H Club, Friday night Bingo, Saturday night fish fries, square dancing. Now, you know you want to learn to square dance. Swing your partner? Allemande left and do-si-do?”

“I'd rather poke my eye out with a rusty nail,” Jeremy said.

“Yeah, me too, kid,” Morgan said. “It was a joke.”

Gage cleared his throat. “Peach said you give piano lessons. Jeremy took lessons while we were in Atlanta. Didn't you, Jeremy? He was pretty good.”

“How would you know?” Jeremy said. “You never showed up at any of the recitals.”

“How long have you been playing?” Morgan asked.

“Let's see,” Gage said. “He's eleven now. Since he was eight. Right, Jeremy?”

“Gosh,
I'm
eight,” Crystal said. “You're supposed to be eleven? You're not as big as me.”

Jeremy winced and took a step back. His frail shoulders shifted a few subtle inches upward. His gaze locked on the barn.

Gage wished Crystal had been gracious enough to keep her comments to herself. But kids didn’t care. For years, Jeremy had endured rude remarks about his lack of height, and from kids who were more of a threat to him than an eight-year-old-girl. Why were children so cruel? Gage had never met one who couldn't open its little mouth and slice a person to ribbons, zinging insults as strong as sucker punches the second they let down their guard.

“He took karate lessons, too,” Gage said. “Didn’t you, sport?”

Jeremy stared at the barn.

“Well, that’s good,” Morgan said. “Karate builds muscle, and some guys need a little help until they get their growth spurts.”

“What’s a growth spurt?” Crystal asked. “Do I get one?”

“Well, sure,” Morgan said. “But you’ll get yours sooner because you’re a girl. And if you take after your dad, Miss Chips Ahoy, you'll get drafted by a basketball team, and the stupid people will say things to you like, ‘How's the weather up there?’”

“You're making it up,” Jeremy said. “I’ve never read that in a book, and I read all the time. There's no such thing as a growth spurt.”

“Yes, there is,” Morgan said. “My brother didn't get his until he turned sixteen, then he shot up like a weed. We thought he'd sprinkled Miracle-Gro on his Cocoa Krispies.” Morgan pointed to the barn. “See that door? He can't walk under it without ducking.”

“Are you serious?” Jeremy whispered in awe.

“No,” Morgan said, laughing. “But he is six-feet.”

Jeremy grinned. Then looked at his feet and grinned again.

Gage couldn't believe what he’d witnessed. Morgan had actually managed to crack through Jeremy’s shell and engage him in conversation. Only for a minute. But it had happened. After two long months, Gage had finally glimpsed the old Jeremy again, and his heart swelled with relief. His son was still in there. Below the surface.

He caught Morgan’s eye and smiled. A lump of gratitude settled in his throat.

She didn't return the smile, but held his gaze for a full four seconds, clear and unwavering. Which was damned remarkable, since she didn’t have a clue who he was. Most of the women he’d known in Atlanta were stingy with eye contact. They liked to keep their options open, keep a man guessing whether he was on the short list or the long. He frequented upscale bars, but rarely changed out of his undercover clothes. So, unless the women he preferred were angling for free top shelf margaritas or a post last-call tumble in the sack, his old jeans and faded shirts rendered him invisible.

“Let's go, sugar.” Peach hustled her daughter off the porch. “Hey, Gage, if you're free tomorrow night, come on down to Bad Moon Rising. It's a little roadhouse near the creek. Morgan and I work there on weekends.” She flashed him a wide smile. “First drink's on me.”

“Thanks,” Gage said. “I just might.”

****

Gage looked at Peach. His eyes crinkled. His mouth curled into a grin.

Morgan could almost see the pheromones fly through the air.

But that's how Peach affected men. At first, none of them minded she was thirty pounds overweight and came with more baggage than a Norwegian Cruise Line. Baggage that included a taste for expensive bourbon and three children sired by three different men. All they saw was a warm, voluptuous, slightly bawdy Earth Mother who made them feel as if they were the center of the universe. Morgan had heard about some of her other talents. Talents that steamed up the windows of Peach’s car and made it easier for the men on the receiving end to ignore the fact she was constantly on the prowl for someone to take care of her. The kinder women in Riverbirch called her “needy” or “sad”, while others whispered behind her back that she was the worst kind of gold-digger, the kind who would hook up with anybody who offered to buy her a shot and pay last month’s rent.

“Come on, Jeremy,” Gage said. “We should leave, too.”

“I have to use the bathroom again,” Jeremy said. “It was that disgusting steak burrito you bought me after school. It tasted like dog food. Did you know those things have 390 calories, 1090 milligrams of sodium, and 14 grams of fat?”

“Way too much information.” Morgan laughed. “Go on, kid. We don't charge extra for two trips.”

“We ate at Maxie’s,” Gage said after he left.

“Then you're a brave, brave soul. Is Jeremy your only child?”

“Yes, but I’d like to have more someday. I don’t want Jeremy to be an only child like I was. So, I guess a woman not wanting kids would pretty much be a deal breaker for me.”

“I’ll alert the media.”

He glanced at the dried blood on the back of her hands.

“I need to wash up,” she said. “There's a mud sink in the barn. You can wait here.”

“Or I can go with you.”

She started up the sloped hill toward the barn, skirting the soggy edges of grass. She could feel his eyes boring into her back as she navigated the uneven path, and she fought the urge to smooth the flannel shirttail covering her bottom.

She stood at the sink and glanced at her reflection in the tiny mirror glued to the front of the paper towel dispenser. Strands of dark hair curled about her face, wild and unkempt. Her cheeks had flushed as pink as if she'd run to the top of Pip's Hill. Her eyes met her own eyes, and she quickly looked away. The time for soul-searching would come later. After he was gone. She turned on the tap, squirted a glob of heavy-duty hand cleaner into her palm, and began to scrub.

Gage leaned against the open barn door, watching her. When he spoke, his north Georgia accent caressed each word like warm honey. “This is a beautiful orchard. I bet you love it here.”

“Not really. I’ve lived here most of my life, but I’m a city girl at heart.”

He gestured past the cases of glass jars stacked in the corner to the rows of copper kettles lined neatly against the back wall. “So, your family makes apple butter?”

“No, we're witches. As soon as the eye of newt shipment arrives, we'll fire up these bad boys and brew some potions. You saw the
Maguire Orchard and Apple Butter Barn
sign by the road? It's a cover.”

He chuckled softly and shook his head.

“Didn’t buy it, huh?” She ripped off a brown paper towel. “We make apple butter, apple jelly, pressed cider, even a little apple wine on occasion. But keep that to yourself. Sean thinks we'd lose the Baptist business if anyone found out.”

“This must be quite an operation. These kettles are enormous.”

“The big one—around 300 gallons—is outside, built into a brick vessel. We heat it with propane. You could probably go swimming in it.”

“But would you want to?” He gazed around the cavernous room. “I see the apple cider machine, but where’s the farm equipment? Don’t tell me you still pick apples by hand.”

“We had an apple harvester and a hydraulic tree shaker, but we had to sell them to pay my grandfather’s medical bills. It’s a small operation, and not all the trees are ready to harvest. Sean thinks we can pick them by hand this year.”

“Where are your pickers? The fruit on the trees looks like it’s ready to drop.”

“You know, Mr. Kirkland—”

“Gage.”

“You don't have to stay and make small talk with me. I’m not exactly a small talk kind of girl. And I really don’t care enough about the farm to discuss it with you. You can look around if you want. I’m not sure when Sean will be back.”

“So, Sean is your brother?”

“He's my twin.”

“Really? Does he look like you?”

“People say he does, but I can’t see it. We're both tall, but his hair is stick-straight, and mine has a life of its own. His eyes are green, mine are blue. He's laidback and good-hearted, I'm cynical and mean. Besides the same birthday, the only two things we have in common are a couple of freakishly long toes and the shared belief until the age of five that clowns were a race of people.”