Down and Dead in Dallas, page 16
“Them tea cookies with the pecans?” He squinted at her.
She nodded. “Rolled in powdered sugar. Ned made them special.”
He snorted, shuffled a wide berth around Mr. Jenkins and sat in the chair farthest from him.
Getting them to the table would take an act of Congress, so she filled tea cups and little plates with the cookies and delivered them to the men.
“Thank you.” Mr. Jenkins said, his voice stiff and cool.
“Thanks.” Speckles reached for a cookie and popped it into his mouth.
Christine retrieved napkins. “Now I know you two have a feud going, and far be it from me to interfere. I like a good feud as well as the next woman.”
“What is your point?” Mr. Jenkins said.
She looked at him, then at Speckles. “I think a good feud requires a good cause, otherwise it’s just a squabble.”
“Insulting a man’s horse is a good cause,” Speckles said, then grumbled. “Ain’t no squabble.”
Mr. Jenkins frowned. “I did not insult your horse, you old fool.”
“You called Buttercup a hag,” Speckles shot back. “If that ain’t an insult, I don’t know what is.”
“I most certainly did not call her a hag,” Mr. Jenkins said. “I said she was a fine nag, which I daresay, she certainly is.”
Speckles looked pole-axed. “A fine nag? Not a hag?” He sounded doubtful. “Is that a fact?” He chewed and swallowed. “You ain’t just saying that to end this feud, right?”
Mr. Jenkins stilled and glared at Speckles.
“A fine nag.” Speckles rubbed at the back of his neck. “Hmm, well, that there kind of changes things, don’t it? A fine nag.” Speckles looked at Christine. “I guess I’ll have me another cup of tea, then.”
“As will I.” Mr. Jenkins extended his cup.
Sweet peace. Christine smiled, and refilled their cups. “As soon as I heard Mr. Jenkins’ accent, I suspected this had all been a misunderstanding. I’m so glad it was and you two have resolved the matter.”
Mr. Jenkins’ eyebrow lifted but neither man said another word about the confusion. They chatted for a few minutes, then Mr. Jenkins announced he needed to get busy.
“Full schedule?” Christine asked.
“Um, yes.” He turned to Speckles. “Would you have time to take me back to the manor house? I walked down, but in this heat, I don’t think I dare to walk back.”
“Be happy to.” Speckles stood up.
So did Mr. Jenkins. When Speckles cleared the front door, Mr. Jenkins paused and looked at Christine. “At some point in the near future, you and I have to chat,” he whispered.
To chew her out for bringing him here under false pretenses? Uncertain, Christine asked. “About what?” No way did she want to worry about this non-stop between now and then.
“About who you really are,” he said softly, his tone flat and even, matching the look in his eyes. “You look like Caroline, but you are not.”
Christine felt her blood drain to her feet.
“I’m convinced you mean none here any harm or I’d expose you immediately and remove you myself. Should I prove to be wrong about this, I warn you, there is nothing I will not do to protect them, and that includes Jackson.”
The moment of reckoning had come more quickly than she’d expected, and from a surprising source. Denial would be just plain stupid. “You’re not wrong, Mr. Jenkins. But I swear to you, I’d never harm anyone here. Never.”
“Very well.” He looked her straight in the eye. “Because you’ve ended this feud and you’re too similar to Caroline not to be her sister, I’m going to trust you. But if at any moment I come to regret it, I will kill you.” No drama, only truth in his tone. “Are we clear?”
He meant it. Every word. She nodded, too shaken to speak.
“Good. We have an understanding, then. Thank you for your hospitality. Good day.” He walked out the door, and pulled it closed behind him.
At the window, her hand at her pounding chest, she watched Mr. Jenkins climb into the carriage and Speckles close its door. He stroked Buttercup, then climbed up top. Grabbing the reins, Speckles headed back toward the manor house.
Something rustled outside the cottage window.
Christine looked toward the sound, at the bushes to the left of the porch. The leaves shook, but she didn’t see anything. Must have been a little breeze, or a squirrel. During the night, they’d nearly scared her to death, running across the roof.
Still uneasy and emotionally torn, she turned to tidying up. Had her plan been a success or a failure?
Honestly, it was hard to say. She’d ended one feud, but clearly had started another—or the potential for one, between her and a too-sharp Mr. Jenkins. Still, he hadn’t exposed her, and he had taken a leap of faith and trusted her. Why? Only he knew. But she was grateful for the reprieve; she needed time to find the truth.
What had given her away? Why had he recognized she wasn’t Caro when none of the others had?
That didn’t make sense.
Regardless, it made her telling Jackson the truth more urgent. That set her to shaking again and had the bottom of her stomach dropping out.
Jackson might not be as accepting as Mr. Jenkins. He might expose her and boot her out of the Park and out of his life for good.
Which worried her more, she didn’t want to think about. Not now. But it ripped the option of further delay right off the proverbial table. She had to tell him today. And she would—after she found out every scrap she could about Caro… just in case Jackson did show her the gate.
Jackson kept his back flat against the cottage’s lap-siding and didn’t so much as breathe until Caroline left the window. Then he made his way to the community garden behind the row of cottages, and snitched a long, cold drink from the water-hose.
She’d taken a whale of a risk, bringing Mr. Jenkins and Speckles under her roof at the same time. Jackson filled his hand with cool water and splashed his heated face. But it’d worked. So Speckles had heard an insult when Mr. Jenkins had been complimenting Buttercup, and for that they’d been feuding for years. Who knew?
It’d taken Caroline to set things straight.
She had a knack for that. Jackson splashed his face again, then a third time. Finally, he felt a little cooler. For calming ruffled feathers and smoothing the waters—when she set out to do it. Course, she could stir them up just as fast, too. He looped the hose and hung it back on its holder, nailed to a post, then turned off the water spigot. And she hadn’t been above using Speckles’ love for tea cookies to do it.
A smart man would remember that manipulation.
Jackson plucked a ripe berry from a lush bush. And what had Jenkins been whispering to her right before he’d left? The little girl down the block had chosen just that time to begin strumming her guitar—serenading her teddy bear on her front lawn. All Jackson had been able to make out was Mr. Jenkins saying, convinced you mean them no harm and then Caroline swearing she’d never do anything to hurt anyone here. Jackson had risked a glimpse, and she’d looked scared. He had been half-a-second from interceding, but then the guitar strumming had stopped and he’d heard Jenkins thanking Caroline for her hospitality. So whatever they had been discussing couldn’t have been that bad.
Jackson popped the berry in his mouth and savored the explosion of flavor. Nothing as good as a ripe berry right off the vine. Except maybe a tomato. He walked over to the tomato plants and saw one about neck-high loaded with cherry tomatoes. Plucking a palm full, he went back to the water-hose to rinse them, and Mr. Jenkins’ comments about Caroline’s hair at the meeting this morning came rushing back.
Mr. Jenkins didn’t believe Caroline was Caroline.
Worry worms slithered through Jackson, and he paused chewing. What if Mr. Jenkins was right? What if Caroline’s memory loss wasn’t memory loss?
What if the woman stealing Jackson’s heart really wasn’t Caroline?
Chapter 23
Jackson met Christine at exactly noon. “Should I bring water or anything?” she asked, recalling how the heat had affected Mr. Jenkins.
“No, we’re good.” He stepped back rather than inside.
Christine had changed into a soft yellow sundress and sandals, and pulled her hair up into a knot to get it off her neck. A lightweight skimmer was draped over her arm, to wear to keep from getting too much sun.
She stepped off the porch and followed Jackson down the walk. “So do I get to know where we’re going?”
“To the village.” He fell into step beside her. “Little Independence Day doesn’t start until tomorrow, but there’s a pre-festival going on today during the decorating.”
“That sounds like fun. So what is it like?”
“You’ll see.” He smiled at her, but it oddly didn’t touch his eyes.
They walked down the row of cottages to a small wooden footbridge, aptly called Little Bridge, then crossed over. The village lay nestled just beyond a line of trees on a rise.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Christine said. Had something happened?
“Just enjoying the calm.” He said hello to a couple walking back from the village. When they were out of earshot, he added, “I don’t get much of that at home.”
“I know what you mean.” Her life had been anything but calm for the past eight months. Dogged by Martin’s henchmen. Worried sick and hunting for Caroline. “It feels good to not be looking back over your shoulder all the time.”
His relaxed expression faded. “You felt you had to keep watch here?”
She didn’t want to lie, but she wasn’t ready to admit she hadn’t been here. Still, she steeled herself, she would tell him the truth today. Later…today. “Look, Jackson. The kids are singing.”
The village bustled. A cluster of shops circled a town square that consisted of a fountain and a clock. The shops, like the cottages, were painted in pastels, and most had awnings that draped over sidewalks to provide shade. A general store, jewelry shop, Corner Drugs, and Candle Shoppe. A shoe store and clothes shop resided at the far end.
“I love this,” Christine said, pausing at the jewelry store. Distinct designs. All handmade. “Beautiful.”
“Your neighbor makes all that,” Jackson said.
“Really?” Christine had no idea. “Which one?”
“Jenny.” When he realized that didn’t ring a bell, he added, “Gracie’s aunt. The little girl with the guitar and the teddy bear is Gracie. I forget her bear’s name.”
Recognition lit. “Miss Dixie,” Christine said. “The bear and I have chatted. Gracie doesn’t talk to me.”
“She doesn’t talk to anyone. But she hums,” Jackson said. “She can talk. She just chooses not to do it. How about a snow-cone?”
“Sounds good.”
“What’s your flavor?” He stopped beside the stand.
“Banana. Or something red.”
“Two bananas.” He told the vendor, a young girl in her teens wearing shorts a t-shirt and a baseball cap pulled low over her eyes.
The machine ground and the teen spread syrup onto the shaved ice, then passed the cones.
“Do I need to sign?” he asked.
“I’ve got it, Jackson.”
“Thanks,” he said, then passed a cone to Christine.
She smiled her thanks.
They meandered around and ended up back near the kids’ chorus, then stopped and finished their cones while listening to the kids sing. The group performed three more songs, then shuffled off the elevated risers in formation. A large group of adults replaced them.
“They’re going to sing, too?” Christine asked.
Jackson nodded.
And they did sing, lifting their beautiful voices harmoniously on complex songs of gratitude and hope. Sweet and haunting, the melodious sounds filled the square and floated beyond. The emotional performances sent chills up Christine’s spine, lifted the fine hair on her arms and neck. When they finished, she applauded enthusiastically, realizing tears stung her eyes and blurred her vision.
“They moved you.”
She sniffed. “They did.” She looked at Jackson. “Inspired.”
His glance softened. “They always get to me, too. Miss Emily says they have the voices of angels.”
Christine grunted. “That’s exactly what went through my mind.” She tossed her snow-cone paper into a trash drum. “Boy, I wish I could sing like that.”
“You can’t?”
“No. My voice is more of the screeching cat variety.”
“Mine’s like frogs.” Jackson chuckled. “Guess we’d best leave it to them.”
“Definitely.”
They walked on, leaving the village, and entering a stretch of open land that looked like a big public park. People sitting on blankets, playing horseshoes and baseball dotted the expanse. Jackson skirted them and headed toward a cluster of old oaks. Some were bent and twisted with huge limbs close the ground.
He took a seat on a limb. “Ah, the shade feels good.”
“It does.” She sat beside him. “Isn’t this the forbidden area?”
“It’s a bit further in, down the path,” he assured her. “We’re okay here.”
She scanned and saw the path in question about twenty yards away.
Jackson eyed the tree and then scooted backward into a fork. “Ah, that’s better.”
Christine laughed. “It looks like a chair.”
“It’s a great place to snooze.” He grinned. “I’ve caught twenty winks in this spot more times than I can recall.”
“Do all the village shops decorate everything up like they are now for Little Independence Day?”
“Oh, yeah. They’re still working on it today. Tomorrow, everything you see will be decked out.”
“I get why outsiders would come to the village for this. It’s magical.”
He frowned. “Outsiders can’t come into the Park on Little Independence Day.” He rested back against the tree and let his eyes flutter closed. “It’s strictly for residents.”
“Oh, I misunderstood.” Christine said, then fell silent.
The late afternoon sun slanted across the stretch of lawn. Someone on the ball diamond started cheering, and others joined in. Horseshoes clacked against metal posts. Men, women and kids played together. And it seemed everyone got along and had a good time.
Peaceful. Serene. She glanced at Jackson. He’d dozed off.
The heat, little sleep in the previous few days, and the relaxed atmosphere had conspired against him. Deciding to leave him to it, Christine went for a walk—and headed toward the forbidden path.
It wasn’t that she intended to deliberately break the rules. It was that she had to check as many places as possible for Caro, and there’d be no better time to check this place than now.
With every step, her guilt increased. She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be putting off the inevitable, lying to Jackson. A lie by omission is still a lie. Something was definitely up with him today. He was more reserved and distant—not that anyone else would realize it, but when you’ve basked in his warmth and it’s withdrawn, you definitely know the difference. Christine knew the difference.
Had Mr. Jenkins revealed her secret anyway? Had he told Jackson she wasn’t Caroline?
She wouldn’t bet a nickel either way. He’d meant what he’d said about her causing anyone harm.
Don’t do this. Don’t.
Walking up the wooded path, she stopped suddenly. The words sounded as clearly in her mind as if someone had spoken them. Instinctively, she made a U-turn on the path and headed right back to the tree.
The sun dipped lower still and, before she returned to her seat on the limb beside Jackson’s, twilight settled in.
“Where have you been?” he asked, opening only his eyes.
“I walked a little.”
“You didn’t go—“
“Oh, no. Just a little way on the path, but not into the forbidden area.” It was time. She’d put this off as long as she dared. Moving closer to him, she cleared her throat. She’d tell him, but she couldn’t look into his eyes when she did it. “Jackson, there’s something I have to tell you.” She dug deep for courage and met his gaze, but now too many shadows fell across his face. She couldn’t read him. Whether he was calm or in turmoil, she had no idea. “It’s important.”
“Oh-oh. I’m not going to like this, am I?”
“It’s doubtful.”
“Are you going to break my heart, Caroline?”
Christine faltered. “Can I break your heart?” she asked. “What I mean is, do I matter enough to you to be able to break your heart?”
“I think you do,” he said. “And I think you know you do.”
Her heart squeezed until her whole chest hurt. “I never want to break your heart, Jackson. Doing that, well, it would break mine. Just so you know.” He started to say something, but she lifted a hand to stop him. “But the something I have to tell you…”
A loud, high-pitched siren like the ones used to signal tornado warnings at home ripped through the quiet.
People dropped what they were doing, ran, scattering in all directions.
“What’s happening?” she asked. High-powered perimeter lights swept the grounds, fanned in every direction.
Jackson scrambled off the tree. Grabbed her hand. “Come on!”
“What is it?” she asked, running alongside him.
“A breach!”
Chapter 24
Someone had gained unauthorized entry into the Park.
Martin! Dread flooded Christine. People ran all around her, carrying balls and gloves and horseshoes. Parents carried their smaller kids, the kid’s balloons bobbing overhead, anchored by strings circling their wrists. Teens ran in small packs, their faces pale, sickening fear in their eyes. “Where are we running to?”
“The cottage.” Jackson spotted a boy about six who had fallen onto the grass and scooped him up. His parents were a few strides ahead and hadn’t yet noted he lagged behind. Jackson sped past the father, then handed him his son. “He took a spill.”
