The Eagle and the Fox (A Snowy Range Mystery, #1) (12 page)

His fucking gun was bigger than mine...

“You here to rob me, Kit?” There was no reaction.

Marcus wondered if the boy was right in the head. That’d be just like Petilune, to fall for a sad sack. Two peas in a pod. The only difference was, she wore a smile that lit a room. The boy packed a weapon that could drill a hole in his chest you could drive a semi through.

He asked, “You hungry? Polly sent along some nice ribs. Bet there’s mashed potatoes and gravy to go with. Probably enough to share.”

With his heart in his throat, Marcus bent down and grabbed another plate and additional eating utensils. He set them on the table and opened the boxes, arranging them so Kit could see the contents. Using his fork, he divvied the meal onto the plates, taking care to give the boy a larger portion. It hadn’t escaped his notice that the gun hand was shaking. In fact the boy’s entire body seemed to quake. It could be nerves or it could be that the teen was starving. He was rail thin, almost willowy, the skin stretched parchment thin across his knuckles.

Marcus slid the eating utensils across the table and watched warily as the boy silently debated what to do next. The gun hand wavered, then steadied. That was not encouraging. Kit placed his left hand on the table. It was then that Marcus noticed the towel was stained. It looked a lot like blood.

He asked, “How’d you hurt your hand?”

“Long story.”

“Want me to look at it?” He took a bite of mashed potatoes and swallowed. “I’m not feeding you, in case you were wondering.”

Kit puckered his full lips into the briefest of smiles and finally looked up enough Marcus could see his face more clearly. It was bruised and battered, the left eye swollen, his lower lip split and still dribbling blood. He wanted to ask how that happened, but thought better of it.

Marcus moved around the table and grabbed a stool sitting next to the shelf. He pointed to it and ordered the kid to sit, then headed toward the bathroom in search of his first aid kit. It was one of those small plastic containers for carrying in a car or keeping in the kitchen drawer for minor mishaps. He had a professional grade outfit downstairs, but he doubted the teen would take kindly to him leaving in search of it.

When he returned, the gun was on the table and Kit was shoveling food in his mouth as fast as he could.

“Slow down, son. If you haven’t eaten for a while, that won’t stay down the rate you’re going. Especially if you don’t bother chewing, know what I’m saying?” He got a grunt in reply, though the boy visibly relaxed and gnawed at a rib. If the spicy sauce stung his lower lip, the kid didn’t give any indication.

Marcus pried the towel off Kit’s left hand and hissed, “Sweet Jesus, what did you hit, a cement wall?” The knuckles were raw meat, with a long slit that looked suspiciously like a knife or razor cut running clear to the kid’s wrist. It wasn’t deep, but it had to hurt like a sonofabitch. The two remaining alcohol wipes weren’t going to make a dent in the cleanup job facing him.

He reached under the table and felt around for one of his two pots. The kid’s eyes bugged out when he glimpsed the pot and yelped, “Hey.”

“I need water from the bathroom. You got all kinds of crap embedded in your damn knuckles, kiddo. If I don’t clean it out, it’ll fester for sure.”

By the time he returned with warm water, the boy had practically licked his plate clean. The bones were lined up in a neat row in the Styrofoam container. He was looking at Marcus’ plate, mostly untouched.

“Go ahead. Finish it. I’ll fix up this mess and then you and me will have a talk.”

After doing the best he could to remove the grit and dirt, Marcus said, “Bite down on that bone for a sec, I need to use the alcohol wipes.”

The boy did as he was told, not moving a muscle or even whimpering. Marcus knew, if it had been him, he’d have been screaming bloody murder. Marcus muttered, “Tough little bastard, aren’t you?” Kit twitched his middle finger. Marcus snorted under his breath. When he’d finished bandaging the hand, he gathered his supplies and retreated once more to his bathroom.

“I have
got
to put a damn kitchen in this place. This is ridiculous.”

When he turned around, the boy stood behind him, the dirty plates and silverware in his right hand, the gun in his left. Marcus pointed to the weapon and said, “You know, I’d feel a lot better if you’d put that monster away.”

Grinning, the kid said, “Yeah, sure,” and tucked it in the waistband of his low slung jeans with a practiced motion. Then he handed over the plates and disappeared into the living area.

Discombobulated, Marcus wished he had his cell phone so he could call Josh and ask him to get his butt to the store. He wasn’t exactly equipped to deal with a delinquent who might or might not be the love of Petilune’s life.

It was fairly apparent the kid had come to get help, or to talk, but it wasn’t clear which option fit. When Marcus returned to the kitchen area, the table had been cleaned off and the food containers disposed of. Kit sat on the stool, his hands splayed on his skinny thighs, back rigid and chin tucked into his chest. Resignation, anger and fear overtook whatever bravado he’d been trying to dredge up. He looked like he’d reached the end of his rope and had no options left.

Marcus could relate. But he had to tread with care. Sympathy and compassion would get him only so far. He and Josh needed answers before the hint of trouble brewing actually blossomed into something that might get out of hand. They had no police force within thirty-five miles of the town. The state cops answered calls as fast as they could, but patrolling the interstate and far flung secondary roads took up all the resources at their command.

Josiah Foxglove was the closest thing to law enforcement they had.

The cell phone burped again. Marcus spied it on the couch but before he could make a move, Kit growled, “Leave it,” and pointed to the chair for Marcus to sit. He did so, reluctantly. The phone sat on a cushion, almost within reach but still too far away for him to make out the display.

The chills running up and down his spine seemed to fit with an intense sensation of claustrophobia, like he was a prisoner in his own house. He didn’t like it. And he was nursing a growing dislike for Kit Golden Eagle. If he managed to live through the encounter, he and Petilune were going to have a talk. If he’d been the girl’s father, she’d be grounded until she was thirty years old.

Finally getting fed up with the boy’s games, Marcus cut to the chase and demanded, “Why are you here, Giniw?”

The kid looked surprised, whether at Marcus knowing his full name or having pronounced it correctly wasn’t clear. He countered with, “Where’s Petilune? She ain’t here. Is she safe?” His shoulder twitched and the hand that had slipped the weapon out of sight moved toward the waistband of the jeans. Kit was on a short fuse, and Marcus was all too aware he was in that line of fire if he didn’t come up with answers the boy would buy.

Telling the truth usually worked so Marcus twisted it into a white lie because he didn’t trust the skinny bag of bones as far as he could throw him. “Josiah Foxglove took her to a safe house in Laramie. Friends of his.”

The kid barked, “What the fuck... Laramie? What’s she doing there?”

Leaning forward, Marcus glared at the kid. “Petilune was so upset about what happened on Sunday, she damn near had a breakdown. When we tried taking her home, she threatened to run away.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire
. Lying didn’t come easy to Marcus, but he was on a roll. “What would you have us do? Dump her with those two no account brothers of hers and a mother who doesn’t give a shit where her daughter is, is
that
what we should have done?”

He let the boy chew on that for a few minutes, then said, “That sweet girl needed a woman’s touch.” He waved his arms around, and asked, “You see any gals here who could offer that, huh?”

Kit grumbled, “I guess.” He wasn’t quite buying it, but in lieu of evidence to the contrary, he didn’t have a lot of choice. But his expression made it clear he wasn’t happy. “I want to see her.”

“No.”

“Listen, old man...”

Marcus bolted to his feet and stalked to where the kid sat on the stool. Looming over him, he shouted loud enough to rattle the rafters. “Listen, you little pissant piss of shit, that child’s barely hanging on by a thread right now. If you care about her...”

The boy cringed but his eyes lit with a fire that damn near liquefied Marcus’ gut. “I love her and if you think...”

Bingo.

“Let’s get one thing straight, Giniw, I care about Petilune and I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure that child is safe and happy.” He poked a finger at the boy’s chest. “Can you do that... keep her safe? If you could, then you wouldn’t have come around waving your fucking big gun, telling Josh Foxglove to look after her, now would you?” The kid jutted his chin, prepared to argue. Marcus leaned closer and growled, “Well, guess what, kiddo. That’s exactly what we’re doing, taking care of her.”

He stepped back, not so much because he was afraid Kit Giniw was going to shove that fucking big gun down his throat, but because of how the kid’s features had crumbled into a well of misery and despair.

Was it possible he was looking at a damn Shakespearean tragedy in the offing, with two star-crossed lovers at the whims of... of what, exactly? Goddam, he needed Josh and his law enforcement skills. He sensed all he was doing was building a wall between him and the boy—that he was letting his own feelings for the girl translate into destructive protectiveness. The fact was, Petilune was not his kin. She was his employee and his friend. And she was underage. That combination did
not
make for a comfortable situation, at least not to outside eyes.

It might take a village to raise a child, but he had no doubt the townsfolk would draw a line when it came to a middle aged gay man going all daddy dearest. Not that they knew for a fact he was gay, but his motives were already suspect, though with Polly’s help the gossip mongers had finally eased up after seeing that nothing bad had come of the arrangement.

In desperation, he asked, “Why are you here, son? You’re not from around these parts.” The boy withdrew, his face set in stone. Marcus had a million more questions and no clue which ones would matter, so he went with his gut and said, “You got yourself into a pickle, that’s pretty clear. And I think you need help getting out of it.” He laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “What can we do to help?”

Shrugging off Marcus’ hand, Kit stood up. He was nearly Marcus’ height but with a lean and stringy build. A strong wind would blow him away. Marcus saw what attracted Petilune—soft, sad, dark brown eyes, full lips in a perpetual pout, cheekbones sharp enough to slice paper, and an air of isolation that probably spoke directly to the sweet child’s heart. Petilune had mothering instincts coming out the whazoo. Where she got them from, given that useless piece of work who birthed her, was anybody’s guess.

As for Kit, the kid walked a fine line between a boy still needing adult guidance and a man making his own way in the world. Marcus wasn’t good at guessing ages, but he’d put the kid at sixteen or seventeen. There was no point in asking, the kid would lie.

The boy turned toward the door, his intention clear. Marcus moved fast, blocking his escape. He begged, “Kit, please stop and think about what you’re doing. I don’t know what the hell’s going on, but it looks to me like you’re in over your head. Let me and Josh help.”

“You can’t.”

“Then why come here? What was the point?”

Kit grimaced and looked away. Whatever the reason for showing up like he had, the kid had decided against opening up. Marcus wanted to kick himself from one end of the loft to the other. This was his doing. If he’d handled it better, he might have built some trust, gotten the boy to confide in him instead of backing off and leaving Marcus more in the dark than before.

“Kit. Give me something. Is Petilune in danger? If you love her like you say, than dammit, boy, you need to give me ammunition to fight whatever might be coming after her.”

Chewing his lip, Kit angled around Marcus and opened the door, but before tearing down the stairs, he said, “Keep her away from her brothers.”

Confused, Marcus hesitated just long enough for Kit to disappear from view. He shouted, “Her brothers? Wait, Kit...” but it was too late. The emergency exit door to the loading dock opened and closed with a solid clang, leaving Marcus teetering between fear for Petilune and anger that Kit Golden Eagle had brought discord into the young girl’s life.

What the hell did her brothers have to do with anything? And what about the four delinquents causing trouble throughout the valley? He was almost one hundred percent convinced the Goggles boys and that gang of Caucasian teens were connected. But how?

His belly growled, reminding him he’d given his dinner to Kit. He needed food, but first he needed to contact Josh and bring him up-to-speed. It wasn’t every day he got a gun waved in his face or had his home double as a triage unit.

He found his cell phone still on the couch and idly checked the numbers. They were both from Josh. For some reason, knowing the big man had called him helped calm his nerves. He tapped the number and waited for Josh to pick up.

When Josh answered, Marcus forgot about being starved. Voice shaky, he whispered, “Hey,” as the adrenalin washed away and the inevitable shakes began.

Josh hissed, “
What’s wrong
?”

“Kit was here.”

“
I’ll be right over.
”

Josh disconnected, leaving Marcus sighing with relief. He reached for his notepad and pen lying on the crate next to the couch, intending to write down everything Kit had said. He was Josh’s eyes and ears, his backup man. At least that was the plan.

The pen wavered over the notepad as Marcus listened for the uneven footfalls on the stairs, holding his breath in anticipation of Josh barging through the door and taking him in his arms...

Muttering, “Damn,” he rousted himself out of his daydream and trudged downstairs to put on the lights and wait on the porch for his rescuer to arrive.