Protecting Peggy (5 page)

“In college, whenever you mentioned Joe Colton, I got the impression you thought he walked on water.”

“I did. Do. Unfortunately, you're not the only one who formed that conclusion. My dad did, too. My going around singing Joe's praises only fed his anger. Last year his drinking got so bad that Joe forced him into retirement. That pushed Dad over the edge. On two separate occasions, he took a shot at Joe. Nearly killed him both times.”

“Jesus,” Rory said softly. “What happened to Emmett?”

“After evidence against him surfaced, he confessed. Waived a trial and pled guilty. He's at the prison in San Quentin.”

“I'm sorry.”

“So am I.” Blake shook his head. “To the people in this town, Joe Colton is a saint. My dad's in prison where no one can get to him. The water on Hopechest is contaminated—so far, it's the
only
water around with a problem. What if this is all about my dad trying to kill Joe? What if someone contaminated the water here solely to get back at me?”

“The sins of the father visited on the son?”

“Exactly.”

“Until we know what got into the water and
how
it got there, we can't discount anything.” Rory furrowed his brow. “Have you received any threatening letters about what your dad did? Any phone calls?”

“A couple of calls.”

“Did you report them to the police?”

“No. They came in at night on my private line when I was upstairs in bed. The caller didn't actually threaten me, just railed against Dad and called him names. I figured a few people needed to blow off steam.”

“There's always a chance one of those people decided you need to suffer, too.” Rory tilted his chin. “What about a family member of Joe's?”

“No. The Coltons bent over backward to help Dad after his arrest. Joe even persuaded the judge to give him a light sentence.”

“Colton does sound a little saintlike.”

“Trust me, he is. He and his wife are paying the cost of all medical expenses for anyone who drank contaminated water.”

Rory expelled a soft whistle. “That's a lot of money.”

“Right. So, I doubt Joe would have contaminated the water, then turned around and offered to pay everyone's medical expenses. You can cross off everyone close to him, too.”

“Your dad was close to him,” Rory said quietly. “Sometimes the guilty party is the last person you'd suspect.”

“Yeah. I sure as hell didn't suspect my dad of taking those potshots at Joe.”

“I need a list, Blake. I want the name of every person who stands to profit in any way if you lose your job. I also want the name of anyone who might hold a grudge against you or your family for what Emmett did. That includes all the Coltons, everyone connected with them and the people who might take offense at your father trying to kill Prosperino's favorite citizen.”

“That would be about everyone in town.”

“Doesn't matter. I'll get the list from you later today.” Rory checked his watch. “I've got my evidence kit in the trunk so I'll take samples from your well before I leave. If possible, I'd like to see Dr. Colton after I'm done here.”

“I'll set it up.” Blake sat back at his desk.

“Will he balk about releasing copies of toxicology reports on everyone who got sick?”

“No. The kids are legally in the care of Hopechest Ranch so we have access to all their medical information. I'll call Suzanne Jorgenson and have her get the reports. She's one of our counselors who's sitting
in on this morning's city council meeting.” Blake smiled. “Suzanne has a knack for keeping Mayor Longstreet on his toes.”

Blake settled into the chair behind his desk and reached for the phone. In a few minutes, he hung up. “Jason will be at his clinic all day. His receptionist said for you to just drop by and she'll squeeze you in to see him between patients. Suzanne will get the copies of the tox reports for you and drop them off at Honeywell House.”

“Fine.”

Leaning back in his chair, Blake gave Rory a tired smile across the expanse of polished desk. “You mentioned you ate breakfast at the inn.”

“That's right.” Rory retrieved his leather jacket off the chair at the front of the desk. “It is a bed and
breakfast,
you know.”

“Do I. Sometimes, when I have an early meeting in town, I drop by Honeywell House first. I always make sure I show up hungry so Peggy will take pity on me and feed me. What did she serve this morning?”

“Pecan pancakes and apple cinnamon sausage.” Rory's mouth curved. “I thought I had died and gone to heaven.”

“Wait until you taste that apricot cobbler I told you about.”

“That'll be tonight.”

“Oh, yeah? You already manage to charm the charming Mrs. Honeywell?”

“My charm, although considerable, had nothing to do with it,” Rory said dryly as he shrugged on his
jacket. “I made a deal—I test the inn's water twice a day, Mrs. Honeywell bakes me a different dessert every night.”

“That's some deal.” Blake's smile faded. “So, how is the inn's water?”

“Fine. No problems.”

“I hope we'll be saying that soon about the ranch's water. Then we can all go back to our own lives.”

“Let's hope.”

Rory slid his hands into the pockets of his jacket, fisted them. Once he identified what had contaminated the water, he would leave Prosperino, as he had left dozens of other places, hundreds of other people, and go on to the next.

That just the thought of leaving tightened his gut was something he filed away to think about later.

“I
hope he'll make a difference.”

Peggy glanced at Suzanne Jorgenson who sat sipping tea across the small polished span of the table in the alcove just off the kitchen. “Who?”

“Your scientist.”

“Mr. Sinclair is your boss's scientist. Blake hired him.” As she spoke, Peggy used her gardening shears to snip off the end of an iris stalk. Earlier, she had decided to treat her guests to a touch of spring on this gloomy January afternoon. She had headed to the greenhouse she'd had built on one side of the inn's parking lot and clipped stalks from the bulbs she forced year-round. Now the lush green stalks sporting purple and pink blooms lay like colorful blobs of paint on the newspapers spread across the table.

“Right, Blake's scientist.” Violet eyes shadowed
by fatigue met Peggy's gaze over the rim of the teacup. “I'm keeping my fingers crossed that he can figure out what contaminated the ranch's water.” Replacing the teacup on its saucer, Suzanne settled a palm on the manila envelope that contained the toxicology reports Blake had asked her to pick up and deliver to Honeywell House. “Watching so many of the kids get sick, then some of the other counselors and staff members has been a nightmare.” She shook her head. “Jason Colton still has two of our pregnant teens under observation until he knows for sure what they consumed in the water. Let's hope Sinclair figures it out fast.”

“Let's hope.” Peggy knew that Rory would immediately check out after he identified the contaminant. Leave Prosperino. She would never again be forced to gaze up into those extraordinary blue eyes while her heart pounded against her ribs. Never feel his long, firm fingers tangle with hers when he helped her to her feet. Never have to stand inches from him while a single, mesmerizing word rolled off his tongue.
Ireland.

She had never known one word could sound like that—soft and smooth and vaguely exotic. A part of her yearned to wallow in the silky feel of it. Another part cautioned her to keep her distance.

The jolting pleasure at hearing him voice that one word had been followed by a flash of heat that had shocked her by its intensity. She knew that kind of reaction, the depth and suddenness of it, held its own special danger. She had felt that same instant, flash-
fire pull to Jay. Then, she had been unable to resist the attraction, powerless to fight it.

She knew, with every instinct she possessed, that if she didn't keep her distance from Rory Sinclair, she would find herself helplessly drawn in by the aura of danger she sensed in him. The thought allured, and at the same time scared the hell out of her.

“Peggy?”

Her gaze whipped up to meet Suzanne's. “I… What?”

“Something wrong?”

“No.” Clearing her throat, Peggy forced back images of the man who had consumed her thoughts since he'd walked into her life the previous night. She had to stop fantasizing over Rory Sinclair. She
had
to.

“I'm sorry, Suzanne, I'm a little distracted. What did you say?”

Her friend pursed her mouth as she watched Peggy stab two iris stalks into a cut-glass vase. “I said, at today's city council meeting, Longstreet announced again that Prosperino's water supply is safe. Says he's sure of that because it's being tested twice a day. The mayor had a couple of pitchers of ice water on the dais that he said came right from the tap. During the meeting, he and the council members all drank their fair share.”

“I don't suppose that will stop people from stocking up on bottled water.”

“I agree. I think Longstreet is worried that history will repeat itself. Last week, when the delivery of bottled water was late getting to the grocery store, the police had a near riot on their hands.”

“I heard.” As she spoke, Peggy slid the last of the iris stems into the vase. The arrangement needed some sprigs of her homegrown baby's breath as a finishing touch, she decided. “I won't miss having to stand in the line at the store to buy my ration of bottled water.”

“You decide to put all your faith in Prosperino's water testing abilities?”

“That, and Mr. Sinclair's. He's agreed to test the inn's water twice a day.”

“Must be nice to have your own private chemist.”

“He's not
my
chemist,” Peggy blurted, then snapped her jaw shut. Suzanne hadn't meant anything by the remark, yet for reasons Peggy didn't want to acknowledge, she'd found it necessary to make instant denials about her relationship with Rory.
There is no relationship!

With embarrassment forming a hot ball in her stomach, Peggy met her friend's gaze. “But you're right, it is reassuring to have the inn's water tested daily.”

Arching a dark brow, Suzanne leaned in. “Okay, Peg, spill it. What's going on between you and the chemist?”

“Nothing. He just… Nothing.”

“Uh-huh.”

Peggy laid the shears aside. “He just…he reminds me of Jay, is all.”

“You mean, Sinclair looks like Jay?”

“No. I mean Rory…Mr. Sinclair resembles the cop side of Jay.”

“Cop side?”

“He's observant. It's like he takes in everything in one look and instantly sizes up a situation.”

“Think he might just be a scientist with the eyes of a microscope?”

“It's more than that. He moves like a shadow. Soundless. Last night I didn't hear a thing when he came through the front door—not even his footsteps on the wood floor. I had no idea he was in the foyer until I turned around and saw him. Jay had that same stealthy way about him.”

Suzanne tilted her head. “Does it upset you to be around a man who reminds you of your husband?”

“No. Jay's been gone nearly five years. It's easier now to focus on all the good times we shared.”

Silently, Peggy conceded that what having Rory around
did
do was make her feel nervous, unsettled and far more interested in him than she had a right to be. After all, the possibility still loomed that there was a Mrs. Sinclair waiting for him in D.C.

Frowning, Peggy sat the cut-glass vase aside, then rolled up the newspapers that held the pieces of stem she'd clipped. “I guess all the worrying over the water is getting to me. I don't know how many hours of sleep I've lost while I've agonized over whether I should take Samantha someplace safe until this crisis is over.”

“I think everyone in town has lost sleep over the water.” Suzanne rose, carried her cup and saucer to the sink. There, she turned and gazed at the crayon drawings attached by magnets to the refrigerator door. “Speaking of Samantha, how is she?”

“Wonderful.” Peggy smiled as she dumped the newspaper in the trash, then carried the flower arrange
ment to the center work island. “Of course, I'm prejudiced.”

“That's a mother's right.” Suzanne moved to the refrigerator, slid a fingertip along the edge of one of the drawings. “You can't always know where a safe place is for your child, can you? Until two weeks ago Hopechest Ranch fell into that category. Overnight its water supply turned into an environmental nightmare.”

“True.” Peggy paused. She saw worry and concern in Suzanne's eyes…and a wistfulness she'd never before seen. “Is something wrong? I mean, other than what you and everyone else who works at Hopechest are having to deal with?”

Suzanne opened her mouth, then closed it. Shaking her head, she retrieved the multicolored wool jacket she'd hung on the coatrack by the back door. “I've got a lot on my mind. A couple of things to figure out. Plus, all those hours I've spent with our two pregnant teens are catching up with me. My brain is toast.”

Peggy retrieved her shears off the table, then joined her friend at the door. “You'll let me know if I can help?”

“Sure.” Smiling, Suzanne squeezed Peggy's arm. “Thanks for the tea.”

“Anytime. I'll walk you out. I need to get some baby's breath from the greenhouse.”

The women stepped onto the back porch into the fog-enshrouded afternoon. The rumble of the surf at the base of the nearby cliffs permeated the thick, humid air. Beyond the porch lay the gravel lot. Peggy could barely make out the outline of her black station
wagon, which, other than Suzanne's, was the only vehicle parked there.

When she found herself wondering when Rory would return, Peggy tightened her grip on the shears. It wasn't any of her business when he would get back. Didn't matter if he
ever
returned.

Suzanne shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket while she shot a disparaging look at the gray, overcast sky. “Whoever dubbed this ‘sunny California' must have been smoking something at the time.”

Laughing, Peggy watched her friend descend the porch steps. “You're right. Come to think of it, we haven't seen the sun for a week. Maybe longer.”

“I guess the mood of the town matches the weather these days,” Suzanne observed. When she turned to look back up at Peggy, the wind whipped through her dark hair. “Are you bringing Samantha to the arts festival tomorrow night?”

“Definitely. She's been talking for days about her and Gracie making a return visit to the face painting booth. Samantha would never forgive me if we missed the festival.”

“See you there, then.” Suzanne walked the few steps to her car, slid in, then started the engine.

Peggy lingered on the porch, snipping off several wilted sprigs from the pots of orange and yellow mums that lined the rail. Satisfied, she descended the steps, gravel crunching beneath her shoes as she traversed the parking lot. With each step, the wind whipped at the red velvet ribbon that tied her hair loosely back.

The unremitting gray clouds that blocked the sun
transformed the interior of the greenhouse into a dim space where the smell of damp earth mixed with the scent of delicate blooms. Wooden, waist-high potting benches lined both sides of the greenhouse and the wall opposite the door. That bench held empty pots, packets of seeds, a long-spouted watering can and hand tools. Large bags of peat moss and potting soil shared space in a shadowy corner beside the bench.

The wind battered against the structure's walls and roof, rattling the glass panes. Beneath her gray sweater and slacks, Peggy's skin prickled from the wind's mournful howl and a sensation she couldn't identify.

Another presence? Immediately she dismissed the unsettling thought as her gaze raked the dim, tidy interior, taking in the colorful irises that burst from bulbs planted beside pots of delicate baby's breath and pink tulips. The disconcerting sensation that had suddenly descended around her no doubt came from the wind's forlorn moan.

Shaking her head, she moved to the bench that held rows of small peat pots in which she'd sown seeds the previous week. Although she'd glanced at the pots when she was there earlier, she'd been in a hurry to snip the iris stems and get back to the kitchen to take her sourdough bread out of the oven before it burned. Now that all the baking and cleaning were done for the day—and poor Bugs's head was stitched back on—she lingered over the peat pots, examining the tender sprouts that had just begun to push through the soil.

Peggy's mouth curved with the sense of pleasure she always felt amid the fragrance of loamy earth and
delicate blossoms. She could think of few things more intensely satisfying than growing things, giving them life, then watching them flourish in her care.

After a few moments, she glanced at her watch. It was nearly three o'clock. Normally, Samantha would be getting off the bus from preschool about this time. Today, however, was special. Gracie's mom had called and invited Samantha to their house for a session of cookie baking.

Samantha's absence gave Peggy a few extra minutes to linger over her plants. Still, she couldn't get any real work done since it was nearly time to prepare that evening's cheese plate and the accompanying wine to serve her guests in the study.

Turning to the bench opposite the one that held the peat pots, Peggy used the shears to clip a sprig of baby's breath. She had just laid the sprig aside when a vague noise that seemed to come from somewhere behind her sent a chill zipping up her spine. Swallowing hard, she told herself the noise had been nothing more than the wind rattling the panes of glass. Or maybe a car pulling into the parking lot. Those reassuring thoughts didn't stop her from looking across her shoulder while her heart banged against her ribs like a moth against a screen.

The only thing behind her was the bench covered with peat pots. Beyond the glass walls, the fog seemed to have grown more dense. It pressed against the panes, obscuring the parking lot, heightening her sense of isolation.

Turning her attention back to the task at hand, Peggy expelled a slow breath. The half sigh ended in
a choked gasp when a hand grabbed her hair in one hard yank that snapped her head back. The pain that stabbed into her skull was like an explosion, as clear as a star on a cold night.

From behind, thick fingers locked like a vise on the back of her neck and lifted. She was nearly on tiptoe, and bent so far backward that her spine threatened to crack.

The strength necessary to raise her almost off her feet told her that her assailant was a man.

She had a sickening half moment to think about rape while she struggled, her body twisting while her blood pounded in her ears. Her hand, still gripping the shears, flailed, stabbing futilely at the air behind her.

Fear screamed through her head, shrieked toward her throat. Before she could make a sound, she was spun toward the rear of the greenhouse then shoved forward. Staggering off-balance, she slammed sideways into the potting bench; the force of the blow sent the shears flying from her grasp. The bolt of pain that exploded in her hip blurred her vision and turned her legs as spindly as a foal's.

She fell hard on her hands and knees to the dirt floor. Dazed, she was vaguely aware of movement behind her, heard the door bang outward, felt the cool wind sweep into the greenhouse's dim recesses. Through a haze of pain and fear, she heard footsteps scrambling across the gravel lot. Then nothing.