Wild Midnight (6 page)

Rachel opened her mouth and then shut it. It was a moment before she could say, “I don’t know that this explains why he closed the road.”
 

The lawyer stared at her, eyebrows lifted. “Land means everything to the Beaumonts, young lady. They’re raised with that idea. It’s all that boy’s ever known. Clarissa Beaumont, God rest her soul, was obsessed with hanging on to that house and not letting it get sold for taxes. Her daddy raised her with one aim in life—to hold on to Belle Haven and pass it on to her heirs. To tell you the truth,” the lawyer said, smiling slightly, “I think it’s the only reason she had Beau. I don’t think anything else would have persuaded Clarissa to become a mother. A lot of people around here thought that boy would die of neglect before he could get to school. Clarissa didn’t seem to have much empathy with small animals of any kind, even her own.”
 

Rachel digested all this in silence. It still did nothing to solve the co-op’s problem with Belle Haven’s’ owner. “But that is a public road,” Rachel said determinedly. “Surely even Beaumont Tillson knows the law.”
 

The lawyer looked at her for a long moment. Then he frowned. “Property disputes cause a peck of trouble, Mrs. Brinton. I’ve seen people get more upset over a boundary line and more violent about it than they would being accused of, say, embezzling a bank.”
 

He sat back in his chair and regarded her unblinkingly. “I expect you don’t remember much about the Vietnam war, do you? You were probably too young at the time. Beau Tillson was in a special branch called Lurps—LRRP, Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol. They went behind enemy lines and lived there for weeks, months, giving reports of enemy troop movements deep within their—the enemy’s—territory. It wasn’t unusual for the Viet Cong to pass within touching distance of Lurps in the jungle without knowing they were there. My own boy,” he said, rearranging some papers on the desk, “grew up with Beau, and they both went to ‘Nam together. Poke wanted to go into the Lurps with him, but didn’t qualify. For a while there I thought it was going to break Poke’s heart, to have them separated like that, but he got over it.”
 

He cleared his throat. “You may remember there was a lot in the newspapers and on TV at the time about what an advantage the Cong had in the jungle. But what most people didn’t know was that we had men who could go into the jungle and live cut off from their bases, existing just as covertly as the Asians. It was about as dangerous duty as you could get. When the Cong captured Lurps they didn’t die easy. Regular troops didn’t cotton to Lurps, they had a reputation for being strange and liking the jungle too much.”
 

The lawyer leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head to stare up at the ceiling. “Beau Tillson was a Lurp for more than two years in Vietnam. He served two tours of duty and wanted a third, only he was wounded and put out of action. When he came back Beau had his problems settling down, but he wasn’t the only jungle vet who did, not by a long shot. If he drank a bit, it wasn’t anything to worry about.” He smiled wryly and took down his hands. “I’ve been drunk several times in my life when there was something I needed to forget pretty bad.”
 

A buzzer sounded in the mass of papers on the desk and the lawyer reached for it. To the secretary’s indistinct voice on the intercom he merely said, “All right.”
 

The next moment the door to the office opened and a lean, broad-shouldered man in an expensively tailored gray business suit strode in. His stunning good looks were as riveting as a flash of summer lightning. But the gold-flecked eyes in a hard, chiseled face reflected impatience and sulky bad temper.
 

With a shock that brought her to her feet, Rachel recognized this startlingly well-dressed man as the horseman in the woods.
 

“Hello, Beau,” the lawyer said calmly, getting to his feet. “Mrs. Brinton, I believe you’ve met Beau Tillson.”
 

The tall man did not extend his hand. Instead his furious look swept over Rachel quickly. “I’ll offer you a cash settlement to stay off my property,” he grated. “Three hundred dollars. Non-negotiable.”
 

“Now, Beau, sit down,” the lawyer said imperturbably. He reached for the buzzer on his desk. “Let Marsha bring you some coffee.”
 

Rachel still stood with her hand outstretched, but Beaumont Tillson had turned away.
 

“I haven’t got the time for this, I’ve got to go to the bank to see about a pump.” He abruptly leaned over the lawyer’s desk, putting one long, callused hand down flat on the papers. “Get these people off my back, Poke. This woman’s egging them on. I can’t have a public road into Belle Haven—it’ll ruin me. It’s just what these damned developers are waiting for.” He straightened and ran his hand through sun-streaked hair in a harried gesture. “Hell, Poke, I had a bellyful of peaceniks and Quakers during the war. While I was out in the DMZ sleeping in mud and hiding my ass from the Cong, they were visiting Ho Chi Minh up in Hanoi, helping to put a bullet in my back.”
 

“Sit down, Beau,” the lawyer repeated mildly. “We want to talk, that’s what we’re all here for, isn’t it?”
 

Rachel looked from one man to the other. “Shouldn’t we wait for Mr. Tillson’s lawyer?” This man unnerved her; there was a violent energy in him that the lawyer seemed oblivious to, but she felt that at any moment he might explode.
 

Beau Tillson whirled on her. “Poke Screven’s my lawyer,” he snarled. “Just what the hell do you think’s going on?”
 

She stepped back a step. “But Pembroke Screven is
our
lawyer.
 

The man behind the desk said quickly, “Now just settle down, both of you. I can represent you both as long as we keep calm. Beau,” he said, ignoring the tall man’s scowl. “I’m representing the farmers’ cooperative
pro bono,
at least for the time being. I’m making my contribution to what I see as a worthy cause. I want you to approach this in the same way. Now, if you’ll—”
 

Beaumont Tillson advanced a few steps toward Rachel with his lithe leopard’s grace and glowered down at her. “Three hundred dollars, that’s my offer. From what I hear, your crowd can use it. It’ll pay your gas and oil going the long way around.”
 

Rachel backed into her chair, feeling the seat hard against her knees as she looked up. “The co-op doesn’t want your money, Mr. Tillson,” she told him in a fairly steady voice. She was determined not to be bullied; he was much too good at it. “It
is
a public road. I think you know that, even if you will not admit it. As I told you before, we are willing to negotiate. The co-op will agree to use the road at certain times if you wish, but frankly, since it is pub—”
 

“It’s closed, dammit!” He shot her a look of pure frustration. “The road’s on my property, it belongs to me.” He prodded with a tanned, forceful index finger at the middle of his chest.
“Mine
—private property, get the idea? Not peacenik communes, no Jesus freaks—just
private ... capitalist ... property
!” he shouted. “So you can stop whining at me about how the public can use it!”
 

In spite of herself Rachel glared back at him. “I am not whining at you, friend. But you have not kept the road private according to the law, and I do not like to have people yelling at me. There is no matter that cannot be worked out,” she added primly, “in harmony and cooperation.”
 

Her words only seemed to infuriate him. She saw his big hands clench in fists.
 

“Hell!” he ground out, abruptly turning on his heel.
 

The lawyer had been watching them both. “Now, Beau, you’re doing all the shouting here. The young lady’s right. Why don’t you listen to what she’s got to say? Leave the issue of public or private alone for a moment and think about letting her group come through there at specified—”
 

“Three hundred dollars, dammit,” the other man snarled. He stood with his broad shoulders hunched, the fabric of the suit drawn tightly across his back, fighting his rage. “They’re not going to get more money because I haven’t got it.” He started for the door. “I’ve got to go to the bank. I’ve got other things to worry about besides tenant farmer trash. And”—he threw Rachel a violent look—”goddamned Quakers.”
 

The door slammed thunderously behind him.
 

In the ensuing silence the lawyer sat back down again and regarded Rachel with his eyebrows lifted quizzically. Finally he said, “My apologies. He seems to feel rather strongly about this.”
 

“He wouldn’t even listen.” She was still trying to cope with Beau Tillson’s noisy exit. “He didn’t even sit down. He is a violent man,” Rachel said, almost vengefully glad to make a judgment. “He wouldn’t even listen to our offer.”
 

The lawyer sighed. “I think from now on it would be better if you let me handle Beau, see what I can do.” When Rachel looked up he continued, “I don’t know what got him started, but Beau’s got a full head of steam up. And he has got a point about not wanting to give away public access to the land he owns along the river. But he’ll simmer down.”
 

Rachel doubted it. As far as she was concerned Beaumont Tillson was dangerous. And violent. And nothing that had happened in this office had reassured her.
 

“We don’t have much time,” she reminded the lawyer. “We really must use the road, especially to bring the tractor in again to cultivate the tomato plants in a few weeks, when the weeds begin to appear.” She frowned. “It seems we’re a long way from even negotiating. And we
are
right, under the law. I have taken time to look it up, and there is no record that the road has been closed off for forty-eight hours every year to keep it private property.”
 

The lawyer looked at her oddly. “Mrs. Brinton, I hope you don’t mind my saying you are a very persistent young woman. It certainly rubs Beau Tillson the wrong way. We may go about things a little differently here in the South than, say, in Philadelphia. After you’ve been here awhile you’ll understand that at times we beat about the bush, let the dust settle, smooth things out, and talk a lot before we get back to the point.” He smiled. “Sometimes we don’t even get to the point, or so it seems to outsiders. We place a great deal of importance on letting things work themselves out. As for the matter at hand—I’m beginning to believe we might be running Beau Tillson to the wall a bit by insisting that he’s got to give in to what you people think you’ve a right to. Do you follow me?”
 

“I don’t see how,” Rachel replied.
 

He only smiled. “Until we get Beau out of that corner, he’s going to be harder to deal with than a sore-eyed bear. And just repeating that he doesn’t seem to know the law isn’t going to help matters either. I want your promise,” the lawyer said, getting up, “that you’ll let me handle this.”
 

Rachel stepped out into the lawyer’s parking lot to a warm gust of wind and a sudden, hard spring rain. She couldn’t help a little moan of dismay. She had dressed carefully for this meeting in her good tailored suit of fine moss-green wool and her one and only best pair of handmade calfskin pumps and matching handbag, but she had no umbrella. It seemed appropriate that the disastrous morning should end with this, a good soaking of her best clothes. She wore her hair tightly coiled on top of her head in its rather prim, braided coronet. At least the wet, she tried to console herself, couldn’t reduce her hair now to a banshee’s bush of wild red curls, as it usually did. It was already frizzing where it escaped in tendrils around her cheeks and the back of her neck.
 

With a sigh for the expensive leather purse she held over her head as a shield, Rachel started across the parking lot at a quick pace. She was so absorbed in hurrying, her head down, that she didn’t see the figure of a man until he stepped out from behind a battered jeep. She suppressed a yelp of sheer fright just in time.
 

“I’m not through with you,” Beaumont Tillson growled. His large hand shot out to grab Rachel’s wrist, knocking the covering pocketbook away from her face.
 

The rain trickled down through the separated strands of his sun-streaked hair and into fine, straight dark brows. Rachel caught the full impact of his narrowed glittering look as he bent his head to her.
 

“I haven’t got time to fool with you, lady.” Drops of water hung suspended in tangled dark lashes. “Three hundred dollars is my offer. You can sign a waiver when I give you the money that you won’t use my road.”
 

Was he mad? Rachel wondered. Truly crazy? At the moment he looked it. “G-get out of my way,” she said, her voice quavering. She carefully did not try to wrench her hand free from the hard grip that imprisoned it. In the rain, through the wetness of their soaked clothing, she was aware of the sharpened scent of the man’s body, his hair, the soapy aroma of clean male skin. Rachel’s nerves jumped. He was much too close, holding her, threatening her, when all she wanted was to get to her car. “What are you doing?” she cried. “Let go of me!”
 

His eyes dropped to her soft, partly opened lips. “Why don’t you go back where you came from,” he muttered, “and leave me alone?” A long moment passed, and then the look lifted to her eyes. “You’re causing me a lot of trouble, lady, and I haven’t got time to fool with you. I’m offering you three hundred dollars.”