Welcome to Harmony (20 page)

“So, what happened to the giggling Matheson girl?” she asked him as she shoved aside her thoughts of being alone again.

“When I got back from the war, she said she was more interested in a career than me. Became a grade-school teacher and lived with her sister in town until they both retired and moved out to Hank’s ranch where they grew up.”

Reagan had heard Noah say once that Hank lived with a houseful of women, but she never thought one of them might be Jeremiah’s old flame. “Did you ever go over and say hi?” Hank’s ranch was within walking distance.

Jeremiah didn’t answer, but she thought she saw him shake his head.

Finally, he said, “I didn’t have nothing to offer her. My land ain’t hardly fit for farming, and I never wanted to nurse a bunch of cattle. If it weren’t for those apple trees my father planted a hundred years ago, I would have starved by now. The government pays me to let all my grass go back to nature. Even sent me seeds years ago.” He looked out in the darkness as if he could see his land. “I like the idea that the native grasses are growing up, making my place look like no one ever settled here.”

“If you like the natural land so much, why have all those tractors?”

He laughed. “Do you wake up ever’ morning with a certain number of questions you have to ask?”

“No. What about the tractors?”

“I fixed trucks in the army; never carried a rifle all my time in the war. I got so good at it I could tell what was wrong with a motor when they pulled a truck into the garage. When I got home, old tractors were about the only thing around to work on. Working on them was easy, and it passed the time. I used to do work for everyone around, even bought all kinds of old farm equipment and fixed them up to sell, but when newer models came along, they weren’t so much fun, so I quit and just kept the old ones I liked.”

Reagan almost giggled. Jeremiah had just said more words than she’d heard him utter in weeks. “Would you show me them?”

“Sure.” He patted the dog’s head and the dog stood. “Maybe tomorrow before supper. I think we’ll turn in now.”

The old dog and the elderly man moved silently toward the house. The dog that had no name but Dog was never far from Jeremiah’s side. The few times she’d gotten up earlier than Jeremiah, she’d seen the dog on a rug just outside the old man’s door.

Reagan curled into her blanket. She loved it here. Each day a piece of her soul dug deeper into the soil of this land along Lone Oak Road. She wasn’t sure if it became more of her, or she was slowly becoming a part of it, but she knew she’d never leave this place completely no matter what happened. A part of her would always be here.

She watched a pickup turn off the main road and recognized the sound of Noah’s truck.

Jeremiah moved up the steps. “Tell that boy to change his spark plugs. Engine’s missing.”

“I will.”

“And tell him he’s welcome to a slice of leftover pie. He gets any thinner I’ll mistake him for a sapling.”

“I will.” Reagan smiled as she stood. Jeremiah liked Noah McAllen even if he did complain.

“Don’t let him talk your ear off, girl. We’ve got work in the orchard tomorrow.”

“I won’t.”

Noah’s pickup pulled to a stop just as she heard the kitchen door close. Jeremiah might like Noah, but that didn’t mean he planned to be sociable.

She saw the white of the bandage on his left hand as he walked toward her.

“Are you hurt?” As he approached, she tried to see his face beneath the shadows of his battered cowboy hat. “Did something happen?”

He stopped several feet away. “Now don’t start babying me, Rea, or I swear I’ll leave. I just got a little burn. It’s not even blistered in but a few spots. Between my sister and my mother I’ve had all I can take of being pampered. I came over to tell you about the fire at the McNabbs’ place tonight.”

“I know about it.”

“You know?”

“Sure, Uncle Jeremiah said he smelled smoke. Grass fire, right?”

“Right. What else did the old man say?”

Reagan smiled. “He said you could have some pie if you wanted.”

They moved toward the kitchen door. “You know something,” he said as he held the door with his good hand and let her pass under his arm. “Food seems to come with being hurt. I never noticed it before.”

She slid the pie tin toward him, sat down on the seat next to him, and handed him one of the forks.

The kitchen was still and silent, like the night. With no TV and a radio that got only three stations, she was glad for the company.

He told her all about the fire while they finished off half a chocolate pie.

He moved his bandaged hand to rest on the back of her chair, just above her shoulder, and she didn’t mind. Maybe she was getting used to his nearness. Maybe she knew he meant nothing when he drew closer.

“I did something good tonight, Rea, and it felt really great.”

“I wish I could have been there.”

“Me, too.” He stared at her for a few seconds and added, “Want to go with me to Dallas next week? There’s a PRCA rodeo and for once, I’d be going just to watch. Several of us are skipping school after lunch and heading down, but it’ll run too late to drive back on Friday. There’s a church that opens their doors and lets us sleep on bedrolls in their fellowship hall. Last year there were kids from all over the state sacked out on bedrolls. The rules are strict, but you’ll—”

“No,” Reagan said without hesitation.

“But—”

She didn’t give him time to try to talk her into anything. “Uncle Jeremiah is feeling bad. He’s got a cough. I’d better stay close.”

Noah nodded, but the look in his eyes was skeptical. “You’re still afraid I’m going to turn into a werewolf or some other kind of monster, aren’t you?”

“No.” The word came too fast to be complete truth. “I just don’t want to be that far away from home.”

She hated it when he got that kind of smile that said he’d read her mind. He couldn’t read her thoughts. He couldn’t know . . . he didn’t know anything about her. Yet he understood.

“All right, stay home, but you’re missing a good time.”

She’d heard those words before in another place, another time . . . and they’d been wrong.

“Well”—he tapped her shoulder—“how about watching me ride in two weeks? The rodeo is right here in Harmony, close enough for you to walk home.”

“I’ll be there.”

When she stood to wash the pie pan, she noticed him looking at a calendar on the wall by the door. “You marking off the days to something?”

“Not me, Uncle Jeremiah. Every morning he crosses one more day off.”

“It’s a long time before Christmas. What do you think he’s marking?”

“I have no idea. He hates talking at breakfast and by evening I’ve forgotten about it.” She frowned. “If I were guessing, I’d say he’s marking off the days until I leave. I don’t think he’s really gotten used to the fact that I might stay.”

She tugged Noah out of the chair by his unbandaged hand and walked him to the porch.

Just before he headed down the steps, he turned, shoved his hat back, and leaned close as if to kiss her on the cheek.

She moved away, looking down, not wanting to see his face.

Neither of them said good night. He just walked to his truck and drove away while she watched.

“Don’t get close,” she whispered to the night. “Never let anyone close.” She watched at the taillights faded. “Not even Noah.”

HANK WENT BY THE FIRE STATION WHEN HE CAME BACK from the McNabb place. He showered, then made sure all was in order.

Willie Davis was so pumped Hank almost had to peel the kid off the ceiling. He’d been around a year, but this was the first real firefight he’d been in. Luckily, Andy Daily was still at the station running off copies of pictures he’d taken when they were fighting the fire. He seemed to enjoy rehashing the details as much as Willie did. He finally had to leave to walk across the street to the city dispatcher’s desk. Hank had a feeling Andy would have no problem staying awake tonight.

Adrenaline still pounded in Hank’s blood, too, so instead of going home, he headed down North Street for no reason. The fires, or rather the fact that someone was setting them on purpose, ate away at his gut. He took the crimes personally, as though each were committed against him.

Since his father died when he was a kid, Hank had always thought he had to take care of things. His branch of the Matheson family didn’t have much money, but Hank had the original land old Harmon Ely had given his greatgranddad. Somewhere a few generations back, his ancestor had managed to buy out the others. Every other relative moved to town or away except his branch of the family tree.

He had cousins who worked in the bank and one who owned the Ford dealership. Cousins taught school at every level. One second cousin was a lawyer, one the youth minister at the Hilltop Baptist Church. Almost everywhere he looked in town, he had a relative who worked there, but none wanted to ranch, except him. Hank’s father must have handed over the last gene for ranching before he died. Maybe that’s why Hank understood Alex’s brother Noah so well; he knew how the kid felt about the land.

The day Hank graduated from college, his mother signed the ranch over to him with the understanding that the big rambling house would always be home to family. His two sisters would always have a place to come home to, but Hank held the title to the land. Which, as it turned out, was very smart, otherwise some ex-brother-in-law would now own a slice of the Matheson ranch.

His mother had been selling her pottery for as long as he could remember, but she never mixed that money with ranch funds, except once to build on to the house. Which, considering his two great-aunts and two sisters who all came home to roost, hadn’t been a bad idea. She had her studio, a low adobe-style building off the garden, and Hank had his barn out back, far enough away that the ladies didn’t smell his horses.

He’d also closed off one upstairs wing for his bedroom and study. All the women said they understood, but Hank had the feeling that if he ever left the door to his wing unlocked they’d have his socks matched and underwear folded before he was out of sight of the house.

Some years the money from the ranch barely kept the taxes and utilities paid, but Hank knew he’d never sell. In good years he’d buy a new truck, repaint the barn, and improve the stock. In bad years, he’d hang on and hope.

His mother had her business but when Hank got home from college, the ranch was all his. She took care of the house. The aunts managed the flower beds, which grew larger every year. Claire, Saralynn’s mother, painted in the attic, and no one was quite sure what Liz, his younger sister, did. She had two college degrees and had been telling people she was studying to take the bar exam, though Hank had yet to see a law book around the place.

As Hank turned around at the end of town, his thoughts turned dark. Hank liked order. He liked everything to make sense in his life. He liked reason, but this time reason told him that if the arson followed around, closing the circle, his ranch or one close might be the next target.

He laughed without humor. Right now nothing made sense; why should the arson? Hank was crazy about a woman who hated him. His two divorced sisters were settling in, planning to never leave. His niece grew weaker every day. The police thought his good friend was a person of interest.

For a man who liked order, Hank was batting zero.

When he passed the Blue Moon Diner, he noticed Alex’s Jeep parked across the street on the back row of the Buffalo Bar and Grill parking lot. She’d almost hidden it in the trees that lined the alley, but he knew it was hers.

Hank swore and pulled in beside the Jeep. Alex seemed to be determined to make his long day endless. He thought that a minute ago everything that could go wrong already had, but he’d forgotten it was Saturday night.

He walked in the smoky bar and looked around. He was hoping she’d ended her habit of coming here on Saturday nights, but that would be too much to ask. If she was drunk, she’d be wild and hard to handle, but he’d do it. He’d get her home safe, sober enough that he could leave her, and then walk away, cussing himself for caring one way or the other what happened to her.

Saturday night Buffalo’s always had a band playing, and the place was usually packed. Tonight was no exception. The bar smelled of sawdust, sweat, and beer. Lights blinked along the dance floor, offering only flashes of light. The low rattle of conversations blended amid laughter and the sound of bottles clanking.

Alexandra wasn’t at her usual place at the far corner of the bar. In fact, she wasn’t anywhere. When he finished his second lap around the place, Hank wondered if he’d been wrong about the Jeep being hers. A tall blonde wearing a sheriff’s badge wasn’t an easy person to miss.

The thought crossed his mind that she might already have left with someone. He checked his watch. Even if she’d come straight from the McNabb place, he didn’t think she’d had time to get drunk enough to go home with someone yet. Besides, one of the bartenders would have called him if she was acting out, not because they owed him any favors, but because they all respected Alex and didn’t want to see her make a fool of herself.