And considering the hour, Bendix up in Winnsboro would cuss him until Sunday for hauling his butt out of bed at this hour if it meant crossing into Mike’s territory. Besides, he did want the Firebird close. But, heaven help her, Mike didn’t need this.
Once more Jared peered into the darkness toward the farm-to-market road. There wasn’t so much as a security light at the entrance to Pete’s farm. What would make Faith turn in here of all places?
“You sure you didn’t see anything or anyone while driving over here?” he asked Roy.
“Not a soul. Folks don’t frequent rural clubs the way they used to, and even less so on a weekday. It’s also too early for the milk trucks to start making the rounds to the dairy farms. I know you’re hoping the girl had car trouble and decided to walk home, but I reckon if that was the case, she’d have been more likely to grab her purse and head up to the house and ask the old guy for help.”
“Could be Pete’s dogs scared her.”
“So why not honk the horn until he came out?” He gestured toward the abandoned car. “Her keys are still in the ignition. Who leaves a vehicle like that?”
Someone who was in a hurry, or hurt…or who didn’t have a choice. Before he faced Michaele, he had to have a clue as to which it was, because one thing was for sure—Mike would demand answers.
“We have to search the woods,” he said.
With a fatalistic sigh, Roy glanced down at his shiny new boots. “Thought you’d say that. I’d hoped that since Pete’s hounds hadn’t picked up any scent, we could pretty much cancel out worrying about that.”
“With the chicken stink around here, it’s a wonder those noses can lead them to their food bowls.” He grew more sober. “Plus, we don’t know that if something is out there, it’s above ground.”
Roy stopped tucking his pants legs into his boots. Straightening, he met Jared’s unblinking stare. “I’ll keep Adams close by me,” he said quietly. “Hopefully, that way I’ll be able to stop him if he’s about to make another mistake. But I’ll tell you up front—I’d be cool if this turns out to be a waste of time.”
“Me, too,” Jared murmured as he headed to take a closer look at the car himself. “Me, too.”
10
2:40 a.m.
Garth Powers stared at the massive Southwest-style desk his wife had given him for their first Christmas in this house. It gleamed from a recent dose of lemon oil, testament to the faithful attention Jessica awarded everything in their home. He ran his fingers over and over the light pine surface, as he had been doing for some time now, when he wasn’t lifting the near-empty tumbler of scotch to his mouth. No housekeeper or cleaning woman for them, no sir. No matter how often he suggested it to her when she occasionally broke down and complained about a touch of arthritis or her overscheduled life, Jess didn’t believe anyone could care for their possessions the way she did, and he knew better than to argue when she made up her mind about something.
But they definitely would end up arguing if he didn’t get his ass up to bed. It was—he did a double take as he noticed the time—late. For that matter, where was she? It was well past time for her to be home. Had he forgotten some special thingamajig again? With all he had on his mind tonight, it wouldn’t surprise him.
He tried to remember her schedule. Wednesdays…It had been Republican Ladies night. Except that once a month she missed that session to attend Split Creek Gardeners. No, the gardening club met just a few days ago…didn’t it? Either way, no social gathering lasted this long.
Moaning, he rubbed his face. He should call her on her cellular, but how could he in his condition? She would know something was wrong straight off. He hoped to hell she hadn’t had car trouble and needed a lift. After polishing off his fifth scotch, the last thing he needed was a summons to collect her.
He was reaching for the switch on his amber-screened desk lamp when he heard a sound in the hall. Damn, he thought, self-consciously touching his sore right hand. He hadn’t even heard the garage door open.
Seconds later, Jessica tall, slim and elegant even in designer sweats, leaned in to his study. Her intelligent brown eyes immediately settled on the crystal tumbler before shifting back to him. “What’s this? You should be fast asleep by now.”
“On my way. I was just…making some notes for Commencement exercises.”
This time her gaze dropped to the cleared blotter, but her smile was sympathetic. “You always do a marvelous job, Mr. Perfectionist. I don’t know why you drive yourself crazy worrying so much.”
She waited for him to come to her, then offered her cheek. Jessica was an attractive woman at any time—forty, with vibrant hair every bit as rich as the lustrous walnut door, perfectly coiffed into a smooth swept-back style that framed a strong forehead and high cheekbones. Her somber eyes embraced him, but he didn’t miss their canniness. Jess loved hard and long—but not carelessly. Most of the time her dedication to him and his career left him beyond grateful, almost humbled. Sometimes, however, he struggled with a feeling of suffocation.
What he felt tonight, though, wasn’t her fault. No, not tonight. Not in a while. It was his doing. All him.
“How’d it go?” he asked, suddenly noticing her clothes were paint-stained. “What did you do, start early on the Christmas parade float and lose track of time?”
She lifted precisely tweezed eyebrows. “I figured you would forget—and after I only told you three times!”
“Sorry.”
“How many of those scotches did you have?”
Her Dallas-bred, SMU-educated drawl showed up most when she was ready to fuck or fight, and he gestured helplessly, wanting neither. “You threw me, that’s all. That’s not what you usually wear to a meeting of any kind.”
“I wasn’t at a meeting.”
Shit. What did I miss? “Well, Deirdre Collingwood phoned to ask about the University Women thing.” He wasn’t about to admit that he couldn’t remember squat about that one, either.
Jessica slipped her hand inside the open V of his dress shirt. “She’s been out of town. I’ll call her in the morning. What’s wrong, Garth?”
“Nothing.” But when she tugged lightly at his chest hairs, he knew evasiveness wasn’t going to work. He decided on a portion of the truth. One truth. “Waylan Ivens.”
“That’s old news. You matched that other school’s offer to Coach Ivens. Don’t tell me he’s trying to blackmail you to up the ante.”
She was his biggest fan, proud to have brought him to what had been her grandparents’ property, although they’d leveled the house and rebuilt; proud to parade her celebrated “super-jock” husband around town, and claim the prestige that won them in the community. For the past twelve years she’d made sure they built on that celebrity status, to the point where he only half joked when saying that after he died, he would be lucky if she didn’t bronze his balls to display at parades and during town elections.
With his left hand, he lifted her fingers to
