Dangerous Legacy (19 page)

“We all make mistakes,” Flint said flatly. If she hadn’t come across as so judgmental, he might not have added, “Like when you chose to marry Grandpa instead of Elwood.”

“Pshaw. That was ages ago. Ira was ready for marriage and so was I. Elwood went off to fight a war in spite of me beggin’ him to stay.”

“Why didn’t you try to make peace after he got home?”

“I was already a mama by then. What could I do? The men decided to stay mad. That was their business. It wasn’t up to me to interfere.”

“How about now?”

She made a face and folded her arms across her chest. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

Flint peered into the living room. The television was blaring, as usual, but there was no sign of Ira in his favorite recliner. “Where’s Papaw?”

“Around here somewhere.”

“What would be your best guess?”

“Why?”

“I need to talk to him.” Sober-faced, Flint touched her elbow. “And I think you know why.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Where was he the night Maggie had her so-called accident?”

“Must have been here with me, like always.”

Sighing, Flint nodded and withdrew. “All right. Have it your way. I’ll find him myself.”

Bess tried to grab his arm, but he jerked loose. “No! You leave him be, you hear. He’s just a helpless old man.”

“Old, yes. Helpless, no,” Flint countered.

He made a brief sweep through the house without locating Ira, paused long enough to don his uniform and badge and strap on his gear so he’d have a proper holster for his sidearm until he surrendered it, then headed for the barn where the old man’s truck was stored. If he couldn’t find Ira, at least he could have a closer look at the pickup and see if it was damaged.

Flint fully expected to find it beneath the tarp, as before. It was his fondest hope to see no scrapes on the right front fender.

He slid the barn door wide to let in daylight. The tractor he’d been working on sat exactly where he’d left it. To its left lay the rumpled blue plastic that had been draped over Ira’s truck.

The vehicle was not only missing, but there was a piece of broken frame from a headlight lying amid the straw litter.

Flint’s jaw clenched. So did his fists. He now had proof who had run Maggie off the road and threatened her. What else had Ira done? Was it possible the Witherspoon boys had been telling the truth about the shootings and all the other crimes against Maggie?

He looked for tire tracks in the trampled snow outside. His already heavy breathing intensified, creating puffs of condensation in the frigid air. The signs were as plain as day. Ira hadn’t driven into his own pastures to check the cattle the way he used to. He’d headed directly toward the roadway.

“Dear God,” Flint said, making it into a true prayer as he ran back to his truck. Sharp pain shot from his left ankle. He refused to slow, to coddle himself.

Ira was missing. The truck was gone.

And Maggie was home alone with Mark.

NINETEEN

B
y the time Maggie got control of her emotions she was totally spent. She fixed PBJs for herself and Mark, then let Wolfie out the kitchen door for his afternoon constitutional.

“Is he safe?” Mark asked, watching from a window as the dog gamboled and rolled in the fresh snow. “What about wolves?”

“That was just cousin Luke playing a joke on us, remember? He said he and Will thought it was funny.”

“That was mean, huh?”

Maggie nodded. “Yes, honey, that was mean.”

Thoughts of the aftermath of the dog’s injury led directly to Flint. She pictured him carrying her pet into the house and then... Moisture welled behind her lashes.

Maggie huffed in self-derision. “I thought I’d be out of tears by now.”

She didn’t realize she’d given voice to her sentiment until Mark patted her hand. “It’s okay, Mama.”

“I know it is, baby. You and I will do fine, just like we always have.” Dropping to one knee, she embraced him.

Mark hugged her neck before asking, “Are you still mad at Mamaw?”

Surprised by the question, Maggie hesitated. “I suppose not. She made a mistake, but she’s sorry. I need to forgive her, huh?”

“Uh-huh.” His arms tightened again before he released her. “Can I stay home from school some more?”

The way his young ideas jumped around made her smile. “Yes. It’s a snow day. Tomorrow probably will be, too, so you can stay home.”

“Hooray. Maybe the warden will come visit us later?”

That comment tore a new hole in Maggie’s heart. “He came to help with Wolfie and our animals,” she said. “He may not be back for quite a while.”

“Yes, he will,” Mark argued. “He’ll come see me ’cause he’s my friend. He said so.” A glance toward the living room brought further comment. “Besides, he might have to shoot more bad guys.”

“Whoa! Where did you get that idea?”

The child rolled his eyes as if he thought she was the naive one, not him. “Well, duh. I heard him.”

She sighed heavily. “You’re right. I did, too. I’m just surprised you figured it out.”

Beaming, he said, “That’s ’cause I’m smart.”

“You certainly are. And you were very good when we had to hide again. I’m proud of you.”

He flexed both biceps, arms raised. “Next time I’ll punch ’em and pound ’em.”

“No, you will
not
.” Taking him by both shoulders, she held him still, facing her. “Understand? No fighting.”

“Awww, Mama...”

“I mean it, Mark. There’s been way too much fighting around here lately and I don’t want to see any more. Got that?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Now, would you like to go watch another animal video while I rest a bit? Mama’s really tired.”

When his small hand reached to caress her cheek, he reminded her so much of his father she almost wilted.

“You can take a nap with Wolfie, like I do,” he said. “I’ll let him in.”

It took two hands for him to turn the knob. Maggie was about to offer help when he got the door open.

Her hand flew to her mouth, covering a scream.

Ira Crawford was standing on her porch—and he had a rifle in his hand.

He sneered and stepped inside. “Where’s my grandson?”

* * *

The first thing Flint saw as his truck careened down the long, slippery drive to Maggie’s was multiple ruts in the snow made during and since the storm.

There was no way to tell if this was Ira’s destination, but instinct warned that it might be. Confusion might have sent him another direction, of course. Was that too much to hope for?

Sliding the final corner and coming to a stop behind the house, Flint recognized the dark blue truck, and his heart lodged in his throat. The old man was here!

Wolfie’s bark was coming from the direction of the animal pens. Could that mean Ira had stayed outside? Hope rose, then plummeted when Flint noticed fresh boot prints leading to the kitchen door. Not only were they too big to be Maggie’s, but they were laid atop those of the dog’s paws.

Flint eased himself out of his pickup and headed for the porch, careful to be quiet yet hurrying as much as possible. Ice had formed in spots where the snow had been flattened, making walking doubly treacherous.

One stair at a time, he climbed to the top and paused to peer through the small window in the kitchen door. An open jar of jelly sat on the table. Nobody was present.

His hand closed on the knob. Tried to turn it.
Locked!

Panic filled him. If he knocked, he might startle Ira and cause him to react. If he waited, however, it might be too late to rescue his family.

The window! The screen was off the window in Mark’s room. If he hurried...

One boot slipped on ice as Flint turned. He wrenched his injured ankle. Only by the grace of God was he able to squelch a cry of pain.

Hobbling and lurching through piled snow, he peered through the first larger window he came to and was able to see Ira with Maggie. They were standing, facing each other, and he could tell she was speaking.

Mark’s window was close by. Flint reached it in seconds. Tried to raise the sash. And failed.

Momentarily stunned to have his plans thwarted, he stared at the problem. Remembered how Maggie had been unable to fasten the latch because of years of overpainting. The wood was essentially glued in place, meaning he might be able to pry it loose with a blade.

A pouch on his utility belt held a knife. He pulled it out and began to cut frantically along the joint lines. The brittle paint parted on the outside and flaked away.

Flint gritted his teeth and began to pry. Did it move? He prayed he wasn’t imagining things. “Please, Lord.”

Moving the knife blade to a different spot at the base of the stuck sash, he pried again. And again. And again. Then he recut the side edges and tried again.

His gloves kept slipping on the hilt, so he stripped to bare hands. His knuckles were white, his muscles and joints aching, but he didn’t stop trying. He couldn’t. He had to get inside before it was too late.

* * *

Maggie had backed into the living room in an effort to distance herself from Ira Crawford. Mark had taken one look at a strange man standing in the doorway and had run away, much to her relief. It was her fondest hope that the child had once more headed for his hiding place in the closet.

And stayed there,
she added, silently praying for her sweet little one.

It was impossible to tell what the elderly man was thinking by looking at him. When he first arrived he’d seemed furious, but now his expression was more a blank stare. She took advantage of his apparent confusion to treat him as if he were a normal visitor.

“Won’t you have a seat?” Maggie made herself say, hoping she sounded a lot more welcoming than she felt.

Ira didn’t answer. He merely stood in the middle of the room as if wondering where he was and how he’d gotten there.

What Maggie wanted to do was relieve him of the rifle, but she was afraid to move too fast or cause him to notice that he was armed. Instead, she reached for his opposite arm and lightly touched his elbow through his heavy jacket.

“How about sitting over here on the hearth and warming up? I love a fire on a snowy day, don’t you?”

He shuffled his feet. Snow that had clung to his boots was melting and dripping onto her floor. “Can I help you off with your coat?” she asked.

Her hand traced his sleeve from elbow to cuff and she gave a tiny tug. That did it! He held out that arm and let her pull his jacket half off.

Hoping and praying the rest would go as smoothly, she let go of that sleeve and reached for the collar on his opposite shoulder, at the same time taking hold of the rifle with her other hand.

They stood there, unmoving, while Ira’s rheumy glance searched hers.

Maggie didn’t know what to do. Should she move? Freeze? Talk to him again? What if she let go of his coat and used both hands to try to wrest the gun from him? Suppose that was enough to snap him out of whatever fog he was in and make him fight for possession of the rifle? Suppose he won!

Just as she was about to take action, she heard a thin voice behind her. “Mama?”

No, no, no!
“Go back in your special place. Now.”

“But, Mama, the warden is—”

“You heard me.
Go!
”

Instead, the child hugged the back of her leg and peeked around to get a better view. Maggie didn’t have to look to tell his emerald eyes were wide. They always got that way when he was interested in some new discovery.

The old man turned his head slowly. He released the rifle and shrugged out of his coat at the same time. All he said was, “Flint.”

A trembling, gnarled hand reached down. “What’re you doin’ here, boy? You should be home with your mamaw.”

Mark’s confused gaze darted to his mother’s face. Maggie shook her head and laid an index finger across her lips, hoping he’d understand she didn’t want him to argue.

Keeping a close eye on the now unarmed old man, she managed to untangle the rifle from his coat and toss the garment aside. The rifle she kept at hand, just in case, although at this point she was beginning to doubt she’d need it.

Ira eased down onto his arthritic knees so he was at Mark’s eye level. “I’ve missed ya, boy. Where’ve you been?” Tears began to trickle down his weathered cheeks. “You got a hug for your old papaw?”

Bewildered, Mark checked with his mother.

Again, Maggie nodded. No matter what kind of person this man had once been, he was now just a lonely figure who thought he’d lost the child he’d once loved.

Although Mark was tentative about accepting a hug from a stranger and kept his worried gaze focused on his mama for moral support, he did step closer.

Ira’s arms drew him in, and his thin shoulders began to shake as he clasped the boy.

To Maggie’s relief and amazement, her innocent, loving son began to pat his great-great-grandfather on the back and try to comfort him.

Moreover, the child stood patiently while the old man muttered endearments, then smiled when Ira cupped his shoulders. “Your mama would be so proud.”

“She is,” Mark said. “She’s—”

“Happy to have you here,” Maggie interjected, wondering how long it would be before Ira’s befuddlement cleared and he once again realized who he was. And where he was. She squelched a shiver as she tried to control her son’s speech and actions via stern looks and nods.

Such methods worked best when Mark was frightened, and unfortunately he was beginning to relax.

“I’ve got a new video about beavers,” the boy told Ira. “Wanna watch it with me?”

Light of recognition dimmed and Ira’s eyes began to glaze over as he labored to stand. Maggie saw his spine straighten and his gnarled fingers curl into fists. The instant he looked away from Mark and focused on her, his gaze seemed to radiate hate.

“You. You stole my Flint,” Ira muttered, inclining his head as if trying to sort random thoughts.

“Flint left,” she said.

“Liar!” Ira gestured at the boy. “I can see him plain as day. Well, you’re not going to get away with it. I won’t let you. I stopped you before and I can do it again.”

Keeping hold of the rifle, Maggie raised her free hand. “You have this all wrong.”

“You’re just like all the rest, like that cheater who’s tryin’ to steal my farm and my woman.”

Unsure whether it would help or not, Maggie tried to use the truth to draw him back to reason. “Elwood Witherspoon is dead,” she said flatly.

“You think I don’t know that?” Ira was shouting at her. “I shot at him myself, out in the woods. He tried to get away on one of them little scooters, but I nailed him. I know I did.”

If only Flint were here to hear this confession,
Maggie thought. Then it hit her. When Mark had left his room, he tried to tell her something about the warden. What was it? What exactly had he said?

Sidling between the old man and her little boy, Maggie spoke aside to Mark. “Did you see the warden?”

“Uh-huh. By my window.”

“Then I want you to open the back door.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

Every time Maggie moved, Ira took a counterstep. Finally, she shoved Mark by his shoulder to get him through the doorway leading to the kitchen, then spun back to block the old man.

With both hands on the rifle she angled it across her chest, realizing immediately that she’d made an error. Holding it that way was like presenting it to its owner.

He grabbed for it. Maggie fought to hang on.

Ira gave a mighty twist and the scuffle was over. The rifle was back in his possession.

He took two steps backward and pointed it directly at her chest.

* * *

Flint was still working to free the stuck window when he heard Ira shouting. That changed everything. He bolted for the back door, ready to kick it in, and found his son standing on the porch.

“Stay here,” Flint ordered, wishing he had time to stop and comfort the frightened child instead of just dashing past him. That would have to come later. Right now he had to stop his disillusioned, demented papaw from doing something unthinkable.

The sight Flint beheld when he reached Maggie’s living room was a nightmare. She was shaking like a leaf, standing in front of Ira, while the old man had the barrel of a rifle so close he couldn’t miss hitting her if he fired with his eyes closed.

Flint raised both hands to show he was unarmed, then spoke. “Stop, Ira. Think. You know this is wrong.”

“She’s a Witherspoon. She stole my grandson. I tried to steal him back, but the window was stuck shut and she tried to sic her dog on me. I have to shoot her.”

“No, you don’t. I’ll take care of everything.”

Ira glanced his way. “Who do you think
you
are?”

It occurred to Flint to try the unvarnished truth, but he could tell it wasn’t the time for too many details, so he merely pointed to his badge. “I’m the law. See? You can put down the gun and leave the woman to me.”

“Why should I?”

Lowering his voice and inching closer, Flint forced a smile. “Because you know me and you know you can trust me.”