that without wading into dangerous water, so Nicole kept silent.
A moment later, he rounded the bed to gaze at the painting hanging on the wall. She had painted the picture of Oakhaven’s private swimming hole three years ago when she and her parents had come for a two-week visit. It was the summer before her parents had been killed in a plane crash.
“Nice picture. Someone local paint it?”
“No.” In L.A. Nicole had been a rising star on the gallery circuit. Or at least, she had been until a few months ago. Lately, painting had become as difficult as sleeping.
He turned around, reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wrinkled slip of paper. “I’ve got a supply list started.” He circled the bed, stopped less than a foot away from her and handed her the list. “They might have to order some of this, so get on it right away.”
Nicole accepted the paper, but when she glanced at it and none of it made sense, she turned and laid it on the nightstand. “I’ll call today.”
“The shingles come in different colors and styles. They’ll have some samples at the yard you can look at.” He glanced outside. “The coast is clear.”
Nicole walked to the French doors. Sure enough, Bick and Red had left for the bayou. She felt him come up behind her, brush past. She said, “Will you see Gran today? She really was in a mood last night when she finally gave up on you.”
He turned around, waited as if expecting her to say more.
Finally Nicole gave in and said, “Please?”
A lazy smile parted his lips. “Yeah, as soon as she gets her hair combed and her teeth in, I’ll come by.” He started to leave again, then hesitated. “See how easy it is, cherie? A simple ‘please,’ and already you’ve got me eating out of your hand.”
He cut down the dead tree in the front yard before noon. Officially, he had two days before he started work, but the tree was an eyesore, and, anyway, it felt good to do some physical labor.
Sweat-soaked from the day’s heat, Johnny took a good whiff of himself and wrinkled up his nose. A sour fungus growing on something rotten smelled better than he did right now. He glanced at the sky and decided it had to be around one o’clock. He hoisted the chain saw and axe and returned them to one of the sheds, then headed back to the house.
He found the old lady in the garden. He stopped just outside the gate, his chest tightening awkwardly as he assessed her asleep in her wheelchair beneath the old oak. She had always affected him strangely, touching that vulnerable part of him, that little-boy part that was attracted to someone who treated him like they cared. He still didn’t know why she had bothered with him; he’d been a wild little bastard. But if he had any good in him at all, Mae Chapman could take credit for it.
She blinked awake as if sensing he was there, her blue eyes cloudy and content as they fastened on him. Her thinning wisps of white hair were pulled back in an attempt to make a small bun at her nape. She was thinner than he remembered, her frail body lost in the fabric of her simple yellow cotton dress.
“I expected to see you yesterday—this morning at the latest,” she called out, her voice strong and lucid. “You got a reason to avoid me?”
She spoke bluntly, but without rancor. Her raspy voice sent another burst of emotion through him as Johnny swung the gate open and strolled through. He noticed the bandage on her right ankle, smiled when on further inspection, he saw her small feet tucked into a pair of modern-looking tennis shoes meant for a woman half her age. “Heard you were laid up.” He gestured to her injury. “Didn’t see any need to bother you too early.”
“My ankle’s got nothing to do with my ability to get out of bed. And it hasn’t affected my speech, either.” She spun the wheelchair around to face him.
“No, it doesn’t appear so.” Johnny grinned. “Then again, you were never short on words, as I recall.”
His teasing brought a smile to her gaunt face, exposing a row of perfect-fitting dentures. “Land sakes, look at you.” She gave him a prideful once-over. “You still got your daddy’s eyes. Kept his shiny hair, too. Delmar would have liked that.”
At the mention of his father, Johnny’s thoughts turned to the events that had lured him back to town six months ago, and what had happened since. “Are you the one?” he asked. “Have you been paying the taxes on the old farm?”
Her reaction to his question was a slow lifting of one thin white brow. “Now, why would I want to do that?”
“Beats the hell out of me,” Johnny countered, still feeling far more emotion than he liked.
“I never invest in anything that isn’t a sure thing.”
“Oh? Then why did you waste your time on me all those years ago? Or have your lawyer hammer out a deal with the parole board? If you got a reason for dragging me back here, old lady, I want to hear it.”
“Your manners are still gut rot, boy.”
“Answer the question!” Johnny demanded, his patience stretched. “I got a letter from Griffin Black six months ago wanting to buy me out. Now I was sure he was crazy, that is until I came back here and found out I still owned the farm. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
She looked crestfallen. “I had no idea this would cause so much trouble. I’m sorry.”
She looked suddenly old and vulnerable. Ashamed of himself, Johnny said, “I was coming to see you that day. After I left city hall and I’d found out about that trustee business, I stopped for a quick beer and—I guess you know what happened after that.”
“What always happens when you and Farrel get within ten feet of each other.” She shook her head. “But I’m to blame this time. If I had let you know about the farm, none of this would have happened.” She narrowed her eyes. “I would have told you if you had bothered to write, that is.”
Johnny swore. “Keeping that land for me was a foolish mistake.”
“I suppose me caring about you is foolish, too?”
Johnny ignored the question. “Virgil says you’re going to be in a financial squeeze if you don’t sell off your fields or start making a profit from them. You should be putting your money to better use than wasting it on that worthless farm on the hill.”
“Virgil’s got a big mouth. And speaking of old Big Mouth, how come you wrote to him and not me? It wouldn’t have hurt you to write me a few lines every other year, would it?” She looked him squarely in his eyes. “You didn’t have to leave, you know. Henry and me were prepared to take you in when your mother died. You could have lived here with us instead of run off like you did.”
Yes, he knew she would have taken him in. And that’s what had scared him the most. The people who had cared about him had never stayed very long in his life. It wasn’t rational thinking, but he’d been scared to death to depend on Mae and Henry after his mother had died. It had been easier just to run away. To leave all his problems behind and start over where no one looked at him twice because his name happened to be Bernard.
“What did you tell Griffin?” she asked.
“He’s
