Roan (11 page)

“Oh, hell,” Kane said with a slow shake of his head. “That's it. You're done. You're gone.”

“What are you talking about?”

“If you don't know, then far be it from me to explain it. I still wish you'd send her to the hospital ward in the Baton Rouge lockup until the judge comes back from recess. But I see that's out of the question.”

Roan shook his head. “I can't just turn my back, Kane. I have to do what's right, no matter what this town, or the family, thinks about it.”

“Fair enough,” Kane said, clasping his shoulder. “But you know you can call on the rest of us if need be. You don't have to do this alone.”

“I know.” All the same, Roan realized it was unlikely that he'd be asking his cousins for help. He had been alone much too long to relish the thought of family intervention in his life or his decisions.

Kane released him, then moved around to the driver's side of his truck. With one foot on the running board, he looked back. “You heard from your dad lately?”

Kane's tone was so casual that Roan almost missed the hint of purpose behind it. As it was, he couldn't quite figure the cause. “Pop? Still in Vegas, last I heard. You know how he is, doesn't call or write, just shows up when you least expect him.”

“He hasn't taken up a new hobby out there, has he? They had a special on TV the other night about the seniors who get hooked on gambling. Seems they start out with Bingo as a way to pass the time. First thing you know, there goes the grandkid's inheritance.”

“Dad's not that gullible.”

“I'm glad to hear it.”

“You getting around to asking about the gaming boat?” Roan said to hurry things along.

“I hear the mayor's trying to speed up the vote before the opposition can get organized.”

“Seems to be.”

“I don't much care for that idea.”

“Ditto,” Roan agreed. His dislike of the operation was not a moral stance; he'd defend to the death any man's right to throw away his money in whatever fashion he saw fit. What he objected to was any attempt to weight the
scales on one side or the other. He also cared who was behind the deal, since that could directly affect the level of criminal activity that went with legalized gambling. Turn-Coupe was a decent community where it was still possible to bring up kids in a sane and reasonable manner with fewer than average problems from alcohol, drugs and gang warfare. He'd like to keep it that way.

Kane nodded. “I had dinner with the D.A. over in Natchez the other night. Since the casinos were allowed, their crime rate has jumped several percentage points, mostly in armed robberies.”

“The town council is supposed to hold an advisory meeting a few days from now. I could use a little backup from the legal eagles in town.”

“Melville and I will be behind you. I'll see what I can do about the rest.”

Melville was Kane's law partner, and his cousin's influence with the rest of the courthouse crowd was strong. “Can't ask for more.”

“You don't have to.” Kane settled on the driver's seat of his truck, slammed the door and leaned out the open window. His gaze met Roan's for a long moment, then he grinned. “She's really beautiful, huh?”

“Unbelievable.”

His cousin laughed, then stared past him a second before returning his gaze to Roan's. “I heard Regina on the phone early this morning, talking to April. They were hatching a plan to come over and check on you. Something about a pot of chicken soup or sausage gumbo, though they thought they'd better cut down on the spices for your guest.”

Roan noted that his female prisoner had graduated to the status of company. Kane definitely knew when to shift his position. “Head them off at the pass for me, will you?
Donna's still a bit too under the weather to appreciate company. Maybe next week.”

“They're having a baby shower for Regina at Luke and April's house soon. Everyone will be there.”

Roan tipped his head. “That would play well, wouldn't it, showing up with a woman in handcuffs? I don't think so.”

“With the family habit of kidnapping our women—for their own good, of course—it might be a natural. Your Donna should fit right in.”

“She's not my Donna,” Roan answered with grim emphasis.

“Have it your way.” Kane turned on the ignition, then pulled away down the drive. But as he drove off, he was still grinning.

R
oan didn't return to town. He had no security schedule set up for Donna just yet, so he took the duty himself to avoid reassigning a deputy in the middle of a shift. Anyway, he needed to catch up on his paperwork, and this looked like a good opportunity.

He gave it a valiant try, shuffling papers from one side to the other of his desk that was set up in a corner of his bedroom. Every time he managed to gather his concentration, the mutter of the police scanner or jangle of the telephone scattered it again. Several times, it was Sherry, informing him in her usual gravelly tones of minor occurrences that had already been handled by his deputies. Once it was the duty officer with a question. That their dependence was his own fault, Roan knew; he kept too tight a rein on his staff. Today, it seemed like a great idea to delegate a little authority so he needn't be quite so mired in details.

The focal point of the room, the traditional master bedroom at Dog Trot, was a Civil War era painting of Roan's great-grandmother and great-grandfather of some five generations back. Roan let his gaze rest on that couple, posed with the lady seated in a brocade-covered slipper chair with
a hound asleep on her spreading skirts, and her husband standing stiff and protective beside her. They looked so formal and proper that it was almost impossible to imagine them unbending enough to indulge in the activity that produced descendents. Yet indisputably they had, since nine of their eleven children had survived infancy to continue his particular branch of the Benedict clan. It just went to show, Roan figured, how difficult it was to see beneath the facade that people presented to the world.

Take Donna, for instance.

He could easily imagine her in the full skirts and low-cut bodice of an antebellum ball gown and with her heavy, chestnut hair swept up in an elegant twist. She'd fit right in at the River Pirate Ball that took place every summer. Too bad it had already been held, since there wasn't a chance in hell of Donna being around for it next year. She'd be truly stunning in anything with a low-cut neckline, as he could attest with no problem after cutting away her silk top the other night. He'd barely registered the sweetly symmetrical curves of her breasts at the time, but the memory had haunted his dreams since then.

Roan swore and sat up straighter in his chair as he realized what the images in his mind were doing to his body. It had been a while since such involuntary reactions had been a real problem; he'd learned to bury his physical needs under tons of work. He went to his office at the courthouse, handled problems, rode his surveillance routes, came home to look after Jake, slept, then went back to the office. He'd got in the habit of thinking of himself as too uptight to have much of a life, much less inconvenient sexual cravings. He'd been wrong. His female prisoner had proved that without even trying.

In sudden irritation, Roan flung down his pen and scraped back his chair. What he needed was a cup of coffee.

On his way to the kitchen, he stopped to look in on Donna. She was still sleeping, lying in such unconscious grace that it made his chest ache just to look at her. The constant hassle at the hospital must have left her exhausted. Here at Dog Trot she could finally rest. It was a nice thought, even if her comfort was not his concern.

The original kitchen at Dog Trot had been in a separate cabinlike building out back, a typical arrangement in the old days when fire danger from cooking in an open fireplace was a constant threat. Roan's great-grandfather had renovated a portion of the brick-walled raised basement for kitchen facilities when wood-burning ranges became cheap and readily available in the 1890s. Nowadays, appliances were electric but the kitchen was still in the same place, at the bottom of the stairs that led down from the rear of the main hallway.

Jake was standing at the kitchen table when Roan came into the room. He was making a man-size sandwich using Texas Toast and hunks of ham carved off the shank that Roan had brought home the day before from the barbecue place in town. Glancing up, he raised an eyebrow and waggled the knife he held in a silent offer to make another sandwich. Roan declined with a shake of his head and a smile.

“She still out of it?” Jake jerked his head with its bowl-like shag of hair in the direction of the floor above.

Roan nodded as he picked up the coffeepot. “Had some catching up to do, I guess.”

“Too bad. If you wanted to talk to her, I mean.”

Roan filled his favorite mug, one Jake had given him for Christmas when he was six years old. It had a cracked handle and the slogan World's Best Dad was faded, but he still liked the familiar feel of it in his hand. Over his shoulder, he said, “We talked a little.”

“She remember anything else?”

“Not that she's admitting.” Instead of returning upstairs, Roan took a seat across from his son at the old butcher-block table that was scarred by the mealtime gatherings of generations of Benedicts. Jake had something on his mind, he thought, and was working around to it.

“She's a cool-looking lady.”

“Think so, do you?”

“Sure. Don't you?”

Roan looked up in time to catch the boy's quick grin before it disappeared behind his sandwich. “As a matter of fact,” he said deliberately, “she strikes me as a bit more than cool-looking.”

“Figured.”

“How's that?”

“Your type—high-class, independent, got problems.”

Roan looked up, startled. “I didn't know I was that obvious.”

“You're not,” Jake said easily as he slung his hair back from his face with a quick, practiced gesture. “Except maybe to me.”

It was a typical Jake observation. He was a great kid, Roan thought, though it was a mystery how he'd turned out that way. With no more idea of how to raise a child than a billy goat after Carolyn had left, he'd done the best he could, calling often on the wise older women of the clan and of course his own parents who'd lived at Dog Trot back then. Other than that, he'd applied the general Benedict theory of what turned kids into decent adults: regular work and responsibility, discipline when needed, free rein outdoors, and lots of love.

In self-defense, he asked, “So what's your type? Cyndi Frazier?” Cyndi was the daughter of the local horse trainer and breeder, and Roan had noticed that Jake usually found
an excuse to make the Saturday night livestock auction in town. He showed every sign of having inherited the Benedict talent for zeroing in on the best-looking female in the crowd.

“Aw, Dad,” Jake said in disgust.

“You know that actions count as much as looks, though?”

“Yeah, sure. Cyndi's neat, likes animals as much as I do.”

Roan let it go at that. Jake had had firsthand experience with the concept, after all. His mother had been beyond lovely, a fragile, almost fey girl who looked as if life with its problems would be too much for her. They had been, too, or very near it. Though to give her credit, Carolyn hadn't abandoned her son so much as made a gift of him to his father. Jake was a Benedict, she'd said, and deserved to be brought up as one. Roan was grateful to her for that, in spite of everything.

Now and then, he wondered if he should have provided a substitute mother for his son. Jake didn't seem to feel the lack, though he was quiet sometimes after talking or visiting with Carolyn. Other than going to school and to church on Sundays, his life was spent with animals. He'd been tending them since he was seven or eight, with the help of his granddad in the early days while Roan's dad was still living at Dog Trot, by himself since Fredrick Benedict hit the road. Right now, he had a menagerie of seven beef cows, a nag that he and his friends rode on hot summer days; a bunch of laying hens, two goats, a hog that ate the table scraps, and the pack of hounds that was Dog Trot's claim to fame. Profit from breeding, training, and selling the hounds went into his college fund. He wanted to be a veterinarian like his cousin, though Clay had veered off into nature photography in the last couple of years. The local
horse doctor had been making noises about retiring. If Jake could take up his practice, he'd be able to stay in Turn-Coupe. The long line of Benedicts living at Dog Trot would remain unbroken.

Jake swallowed a bite of sandwich and topped it off with a deep draught of milk. As he considered his next bite, he returned to the previous subject. “Now that this Donna Doe is here, how long is she staying?”

“I don't know—as long as it takes.”

“She doesn't look like a crook to me. You really charging her?”

Roan had explained the situation in detail, since Jake would be exposed to it. Now he gave the boy a straight look over the rim of his cup, before he said, “Not me, personally. It's up to the court.”

“But you're the one who'll put her in jail.”

“She was involved in a crime. The evidence is all there.”

“Right. It's your duty.” The tone of Jake's voice said he'd heard it before.

“That's about the size of it.”

Jake gave him a straight look. “What if your gut feeling says she didn't do it?”

“My feelings don't come into this.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I mean it,” Roan insisted. “My job is to uphold the law, not to twist it to fit my own ideas of what's good or bad, right or wrong. Once you start down that road, there's no place to stop.”

“Suppose she's innocent like she says? Suppose she's had all this bad stuff happen to her, and now you're going to make it worse by seeing she does time? How are you going to feel if you find out when it's too late?”

“It doesn't matter how I feel. The law protects the wel
fare of the many over the good of the few. It's not a perfect system, but it works most of the time. The court may turn her loose, either because the D.A. decides she was under duress or because he thinks he can't get a conviction, but she'll have to go through the process.”

His son watched him for a long moment. Then he shook his head so his hair fell into his eyes, hiding his expression. “Tough on you.”

“Yeah,” Roan said in tight agreement as he heard the understanding in his son's voice. “There are parts of this job I really don't enjoy.”

“But some you do? Like maybe taking care of this Donna Doe?”

The point at last: Jake wanted to know why he'd brought this particular prisoner into their home. Roan answered, “It could have its compensations.”

“Like I'm supposed to think you'd take advantage?” His son made a rude noise. “Anyhow, she seems pretty helpless to me. You'll have to fetch and carry for her, help her change clothes, maybe even help her take a bath.”

The rush of goose bumps across Roan's shoulders and upper arms at the suggestions was as uncomfortable as it was unexpected. This was getting out of hand. With deliberation, he said, “The main idea is to keep her secure and comfortable. Though I agree that it will be extra work for us.”

“Us?” Jake knew his father well, it seemed; his gaze was suddenly wary.

Roan inclined his head. “Cal will be here while I'm in town, starting tomorrow, but I don't expect him to play nursemaid. What do you think we should do?”

“Call Aunt Vivian?” The suggestion was hopeful.

Roan shook his head, a slow movement he emphasized with a steady grin.

“Aw, Dad.”

“Just think of her as you would any of your injured animals. See she has something to eat and drink, make sure she gets her antibiotics, and keep her company if she's needs it.”

“I notice you didn't mention the bath.”

“You notice too much,” Roan said with asperity. “Especially for your age.”

His son grinned, then a cunning light appeared in his eyes. “If she was really one of my animals, I'd call Clay.”

“I don't think so,” Roan said. Clay was not only unattached and passable in the looks department, he had a wild-swamp-thing air about him that drew the women like honey. He'd caused quite a stir, recently, at book signings for his tome of photographs showcasing the ecology of Horseshoe Lake and its swamplands. Besides that, he was a thoroughly nice guy. Too nice, in fact.

“Come on, he'd get a kick out of it.”

“I don't doubt it,” Roan drawled, “but we'll keep this little chore in the immediate family. She's only one woman. We can handle it.”

Jake heaved a gusty sigh. “I guess.”

A small silence fell. As it stretched, Roan felt the rise of disquiet inside him. It was an instinct he'd learned not to ignore. The source wasn't that hard to find. Setting his coffee cup on the table, he said, “All jokes aside, son, this is serious business. The guys that were with Donna may come sneaking around when they find out she's here.”

“I'll keep my eyes open and the doors locked.”

“Fine. But it may not be enough.” Though outdoor exercise had made Jake strong for his age, he'd be no match for a grown man with experience and ruthless inclinations.

“Cal will be in charge of the firepower during the day,
and you'll be here at night,” Jake argued. “I don't see the problem.”

“I don't really expect any,” Roan said candidly. “If I did, I wouldn't risk it. These guys got scared off from the hospital, and they strike me as being followers, unlikely to risk another try unless ordered to do it. But I need you to be aware of the danger.”

The boy polished off his sandwich and followed it with the last of his milk while his gaze remained fixed on the view outside the kitchen window. Giving his mouth a final swipe with his napkin, he asked, “I'm not grounded, am I? I can still ride my bike?”

Jake loved the woods and lake near the house, often hiking or riding his dirt bike through narrow trails to favorite haunts or the houses of friends and relatives. Roan nodded. “If you're careful. And if you let me or somebody else know where you're going and when you'll be back.”