Better a knight than a stable boy, he supposed. Why hadn’t he just said no? I’m sorry, Mrs. Vaughn, but whatever trouble Deborah has gotten herself into, you’ll have to find someone else to rescue her.
God knows he had tried to refuse, but once he’d heard that Deborah’s life was in real danger, he had wavered in his resistance. And Carol Vaughn had taken advantage of the weakness she sensed in him.
“Ashe, so good of you to come, dear boy.” The voice still held that note of authority, that hint of superiority, that tone of Southern gentility.
He turned to face her, the woman he had always thought of as the personification of a real lady. He barely recognized the woman who stood before him. Thin, almost gaunt, her beautiful face etched with faint age lines, her complexion sickly pale. Her short blond hair was streaked with gray. She had once been full-figured, voluptuous and lovely beyond words.
She couldn’t be much more than fifty, but she looked older.
Caught off-guard by her appearance, by the drastic change the years had wrought, Ashe stared at Carol Vaughn. Quickly recovering his composure, he took several tentative steps forward and held out his hand.
She clasped his big, strong hand in her small, fragile one and squeezed. “Thank you for coming. You can’t imagine how desperately we need your help.”
Ashe assisted Carol down the hallway and into the living room. The four-columned entry permitted an unobstructed view of the room from the foyer. The hardwood floors glistened like polished metal in the sunlight. A blend of antiques and expensive reproductions bespoke of wealth and good taste.
“The sofa, please, Ashe.” She patted his hand. “Sit beside me and we’ll discuss what must be done.”
He guided her to the sofa, seated her and perched his big body on the edge, not feeling comfortable in her presence. “Does Deborah know you sent for me?”
“I haven’t told her,” Carol said. “She’s a stubborn one, that girl of mine. She’s always had a mind of her own. But she’s been a dutiful daughter.”
“What if she doesn’t agree to my being here?” He had known Deborah when she was seventeen, a plump, pretty girl who’d had a major crush on him. What would she look like now? And how did she feel about him after all these years?
“Mazie, please bring us some coffee,” Carol instructed the housekeeper who stood at the end of the hallway. “And a few of those little cakes from the bakery. The cinnamon ones.”
“Refreshments aren’t necessary, Mrs. Vaughn. Really.” Ashe felt ill at ease being entertained, as if his visit were a social call. “I’m here on business. Remember?”
“Mazie, go ahead and bring the coffee and the cakes, too.” Carol turned her attention to Ashe. “Times change, but good manners don’t. Of course my mother would be appalled that I had welcomed a gentleman, unrelated to me and not a minister, into my home when I am quite alone.”
“Coffee will be fine, Mrs. Vaughn.”
“You used to call me Miss Carol. I much prefer that to the other. Your calling me Mrs. Vaughn makes us sound like strangers. And despite your long absence from Sheffield, we are hardly strangers, are we, Ashe?”
“No, ma’am, we’re not strangers.”
“Mazie has prepared you a room upstairs. I want you with Deborah at all times.” Carol blushed ever so lightly. “Or at least close by.”
“Has she received any more threats since we spoke two days ago?”
“Mercy, yes. Every day, there’s a new letter and another phone call, but Charlie Blaylock says there’s nothing more he can do. And I asked him why the sheriff was incapable of protecting innocent citizens.”
“Has a trial date been set for Lon Sparks?” Ashe asked.
“Not yet. It should be soon. But not soon enough for me. I can’t bear the thought of Deborah being in danger.”
“She just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Ashe knew what that was like. And he knew as well as anyone in these parts just how dangerous Buck Stansell and his band of outlaws could be. For three generations, the Stansell bunch, along with several other families, had cornered the market on illegal activities. Everything from prostitution to bootlegging, when the county had been dry. And nowadays weapons and drugs dominated their money-making activities.
“She insists on testifying.” Carol glanced up when she saw Mazie bringing the coffee. “Just put it there on the table, please.”
Mazie placed the silver service on the mahogany tea table to the left of the sofa, asked if there would be anything else and retreated to the kitchen when told all was in order.
“Do you prefer your coffee black?” Carol asked.
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” When his hostess poured the coffee and handed it to him, Ashe accepted the Haviland cup.
“I will expect you to stay in Sheffield until the trial is over and Deborah is no longer in danger.”
“I’ve already assured you that I’ll stay as long as is necessary to ensure Deborah’s safety.”
“And I will send the sum we agreed upon to your agency in Atlanta on a weekly basis.”
“You and I have come to an agreement on terms,” Ashe said. “But unless Deborah cooperates—”
“She will cooperate.”
Ashe widened his eyes, surprised by the vigor of Carol Vaughn’s statement. Apparently her fragile physical condition had not extinguished the fire in her personality.
The front door flew open and a tall, gangly boy of perhaps twelve raced into the living room, tossing a stack of schoolbooks down on a bowfront walnut commode.
“I made a hundred on my math test. See. Take a look.” He dashed across the room, handed Carol his paper and sat down on the floor at her feet. “And guess what else, Mother? My team beat the hel…heck out of Jimmy Morton’s team in PE today.”
Carol caressed the boy’s blond hair, petting him with deep affection. “I’m so proud of you, Allen.”
The boy turned his attention to Ashe, who stared at the child, amazed at his striking resemblance to Deborah. Ashe’s grandmother had mentioned Allen from time to time in her letters and phone calls. He’d always thought it odd that Wallace and Carol Vaughn had had another child so late in life. When Wallace Vaughn had run Ashe out of town eleven years ago, the Vaughns had had one child—seventeen-year-old Deborah.
“Who’s he?” Allen asked.
“Allen, this is Mr. McLaughlin. He’s an old friend. He and Deborah went to school together.”
“Were you Deborah’s boyfriend?” Allen scooted around on the floor until he situated himself just right, so he could prop his back against the Queen Anne coffee table.
“Allen, you musn’t be rude.” Carol shook her index finger at the boy, but she smiled as she scolded him.
“I
