along the blacktop roads, took the turn onto the dirt-and-gravel track she indicated without a murmur or hesitation. He didn’t show off, held the bike dead straight. The only time he stopped was to look at the creek where it passed through culverts or under bridges in its winding passage toward Ivywild.
It was a decent-size stream, fed along its route by a number of springs, which kept the water fresh and clean. Several dry washes fed into it, which, he guessed, must run fairly high during spring and winter rains. It also carried the runoff from a series of low ridges that twisted and turned for quite a few miles. Dams had been built along its course for a pond or two, but they hadn’t slowed it down a great deal.
The creek would be fine for his purpose; he saw that much in short order. Tapping it for a fountain should not cause a problem with either landowners or environmentalists. And it certainly wasn’t as if Louisiana had any shortage of water. If the state could only find some way to pump it out west, it would be rich.
“I’ve seen enough,” he said as they idled beside a rusting iron culvert. “What shall we do now?”
“Go home,” she replied, the words definite.
He gave a slow nod. “Right. But first, I’d like to see where this road comes out.”
She said something in protest, he thought, but just then he gunned the bike into motion so he didn’t quite catch it.
It was a dirt road, a hard-beaten, sandy track that meandered through the woods. There were a few big old trees standing on nearly every rise, as if it had once been lined with houses. All this land had been farms back before the turn of the century, with pastures and fields stretching over the rolling hills as far as the eye could see. That was according to Grannie Callie, anyway. She could still remember a lot of the family names, could tell him who gave up and moved to town to work in the mill, who took off to Texas, who went away to the big war, World War II, and never came back. It was strange to think about all those people living and working, having children and dying here, and leaving nothing behind except the trees that had sheltered their lives.
“Turn around!” Laurel yelled into his ear. “We’ve got to go back!”
He nodded his understanding, but didn’t do it. Zipping around the tight curves of the unimproved road, passing from bright sun to dark tree shadow and into the sun again, he felt free and happy and lucky to be alive. He wouldn’t mind riding on forever. He couldn’t think when was the last time he had enjoyed anything so much as roaring along this back road with Laurel Bancroft clinging to him, bouncing against him as they hit the ruts, tethered together now and then by a long strand of her hair that wrapped around his arm like a fine, silken rope.
“Stop!” she shouted, shaking him so hard with her locked arms that the bike swerved. “This road cuts through to the main highway. We’re getting too close to town!”
She was right. There was an intersection ahead of them as they rounded the bend—one with a red octagonal stop sign. He could hit the brake right here and throw them into a skidding stop, or he could coast to a halt within spitting distance of the road where cars whizzed past. It wasn’t much of a choice with Laurel behind him. He coasted.
She was trembling; he could feel the tremors running through her and into his own body as he pulled up beside the stop sign. This fear of hers must have been coming on since they’d left her house. It was not a reasonable thing—not something she could control at will—or she would be doing just that instead of letting him know it. He grimaced, mouthing a soundless curse for his misjudgment.
“Which shall it be?” he asked over his shoulder in quiet concern. “A fast trip back to the house on the main road, or a slower one the way we came?”
There were cars passing in both directions in front of them. The occupants turned their heads to stare as they sat there. Laurel hid her face against his back. “The way we came,” she answered, her voice uneven. “Please. Right now.”
“You got it.” Swinging in a wide circle, he headed back.
She was okay by the time they pulled up in front of the house. At least she had stopped shaking. Regardless, she didn’t say a word, only jumped off the bike and stalked away. Cutting through the garden, she ran up the steps. The door slammed behind her.
Alec cursed softly as he struck the handlebar of his bike with a knotted fist. He was such an idiot. Why couldn’t he have paid attention? Why did he have to keep on when she’d said turn back? Things had been going so well.
He hadn’t realized. Even when he’d accused her of having a phobia, he hadn’t really believed it ran that deep. He had drawn her outside easily enough; somehow he had thought getting her to go the rest of the way would be the same.
But he recognized, as he sat staring at the garden in front of Ivywild, that the yard was fenced in, a small enclosed space almost like an extension of the house. She could only take that much, or so it seemed.
Seen in that light, the fact that she had gone with him on his bike at all was a near miracle. She’d trusted him more than he knew, had depended on him to take care of her, keep her hidden, secure.
He had let her down.
After today, he would be lucky if he ever got her out of that house again. Hell, he would be lucky if he still had a job.
Dear God, but he couldn’t stand it. He had been so close. Now he would have to start all over.
But he would do it. He would. His heart and mind left him no other choice.
4
Laurel stood grasping the handle of the front door, staring out the sidelight panes that surrounded it. Her husband’s mother was coming up the walk. Overweight and shaped like a pear, the older woman was graying to a color best described as “dirty mouse.” Her dress was a polyester tent, her shoes were too small for her wide feet, and she carried her mock alligator purse from the crook of her arm. She was searching the garden with darting glances. Her pale, formless lips were drawn into a tight line and mottled color lay across the grooved skin of her face.
Laurel’s heart throbbed at a suffocating tempo. Why, she wasn’t sure; it wasn’t as if the visit was unexpected. She was only surprised that her mother-in-law had waited until Maisie and Alec had gone for the day. It wasn’t like Sadie Bancroft to waste breath when there was no audience.
At that moment, Sticks came hurtling around from the back of the house, barking and growling as if at a sworn enemy. He very nearly was, since he had taken a dislike to Mother Bancroft as a puppy, after she’d kicked him for trying to chew the toes of her new shoes. There was little danger he would actually attack her, of course, but the older woman never saw it that way. She always squealed and ran from him as she was doing now, which naturally brought out the worst in the dog.
Laurel pulled the front door open and called off Sticks, then waited while her portly mother-in-law scurried up the steps and inside. As Sticks came loping up onto the veranda behind her, Laurel blocked his entrance, but gave him a reassuring scratch behind the ears to show she was not upset with him.
“Vicious animal,” Sadie Bancroft snapped from the safety of the long hallway. “I can’t imagine why you don’t have him put down!”
Laurel ignored the suggestion. Closing the door, she said as agreeably as she was able, “ How are you, Mother Bancroft? It’s been a while since you were here.”
“Too
