B00CZBQ63C EBOK (3 page)

A chill descended on Daniel, as if he’d stepped into a cold rainstorm.
I thought I left this all behind in Seattle.
He released the bottle’s curves, pushing his hand into his pocket and pressing the smooth-edged coin into his palm.
Give me strength, Lord.
“Raymond Burke? Is that your father’s name?”

A tiny crease puckered between her brows. “Yes.”

The woman he had spent so much time thinking about today not only associated with bootleggers, but also bought alcohol at the drugstore. Daniel frowned. “I’ll slip it in a bag for you.”

Laurie snatched the package from Mr. Shepherd’s hand, her eyes stinging.

Mr. Shepherd leaned across the counter and lowered his voice. “I’m glad to see you got home all right.”

Laurie drew in a quick breath. “I can take care of myself.”

“I see that.”

Her heart thudded in her chest. He already knew about Johnny—now he knew about her father, too.

“Tell Johnny I said hello.”

Mr. Shepherd’s gray eyes reminded Laurie of darkening storm clouds just before a lightning strike. She could still hear his words from last night:
I wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt.

Mr. Larson was such a sweet old man. Didn’t he realize his grandson was a scheming rumrunner and gangster?

As she stared into the handsome face masking the heart of a scoundrel, Laurie straightened her shoulders. If Daniel Shepherd believed she would be easily intimidated, he was dead wrong. She’d lived with her father long enough to learn a thing or two. She set the bag down, placed both palms against the counter and leaned forward. “Does your grandfather know what you are?”

The color washed from his face. “What do you mean?”

It was too late to play innocent. She recognized a crook when she saw one, and she wasn’t going to let him bully her into submission. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, you and your midnight deliveries.”

His brow furrowed, which only made his gray eyes more startling.

Laurie snatched the bag and turned away, stashing the bottle under her coat.

Chapter
3

T
he bacon hissed and bubbled, its rich scent wafting up into
Laurie’s face as she leaned over the stove. She turned it carefully with a fork, pulling back just as a splatter of grease popped free of the pan. A golden stack of pancakes waited in the oven.

Laurie swept her drawing papers into a neat stack at the end of the kitchen table, out of the reach of accidental spills and smears. Her mouth dried as she stared at the top sketch. The unsettling image had demanded to be recorded, not releasing her until she’d put pencil to paper. A shadowy stranger in the foreground gazed out over the windswept bluff and down to the straits, where two boats floated on the waves.

Heavy footsteps clomped on the back porch. Laurie dropped the paper on top of the sketchbook, scurrying back to the stove.

The back door window framed her father’s weary face, bushy brows squeezed together and low over his granite-colored eyes. Her heart skipped as he wrestled with the knob.

She sped across the shabby yellow floor and yanked the door open.

Father’s hunched shoulders straightened as he stepped over the threshold. “Why did you lock the door, girl? You knew I was on my way home.”

Laurie bit her lip. The door hadn’t been locked, but she knew better than to say so. “Dinner’s ready. You hungry?”

He grunted. “I’m so hungry that I could eat the plate and silverware along with whatever’s on them.” He sucked in a deep whiff through his nose. “Is that bacon?”

Laurie nodded. “And coffee, too.”

He set his tin lunch bucket down on the counter with a clatter and sank down in the kitchen chair. He lifted a cup. “Fill ’er up.”

Laurie relaxed. The one thing that could get her father in decent spirits was dinner—especially if she served breakfast foods. He could be in the foulest of moods and a geyser of complaints, but he rarely grumbled about hot food. Assuming she had it ready when he walked in the door, she could count on him being good-tempered—at least as long as the food lasted.

She tipped the coffeepot, sending a stream of the dark brown liquid into his cup. “How was your day?”

He pulled the cup to his lips and blew gently across the surface of the earthy-smelling brew. A grunt followed. “Don’t ask.” His grizzled brows pulled low over his eyes.

Laurie gripped the warm platter of hotcakes with a towel and set it down in front of him, adding the pile of bacon to the side of the plate. She pulled a lump of butter from the icebox and placed it on the table next to the molasses and applesauce. Stopping for a moment to lean on the back of one of the chairs, she studied her father’s face. Lines crossed his brow and circles darkened his eyes. His late night couldn’t have helped his outlook at work.

“Your brother was late, again.” He scooped up a spoonful of applesauce and slathered it on his stack of pancakes.

Laurie fetched the cinnamon from the spice rack, placing it at her father’s elbow before he thought to ask for it. Her shoulders tensed at the mention of Johnny. Did Dad know what her brother was doing?

Dad’s fingers closed around the bottle and he slid the cap off, adding a dusting to his applesauce. He set the bottle down without bothering to replace the cover. “He’d better be more careful. The big man don’t take kindly to the boys turning up late and hung over.” The edges of his eyelids were rimmed with red from his own late-night pursuits.

Her stomach leapt. “Johnny was hung over?” She dropped into the nearest chair. Even at the worst of times, Johnny rarely drank. She’d assumed he’d gotten into rumrunning for the money, not the booze.

“Most of the boys were, anyway. Don’t rightly know about him.” Her father ran a big hand through his thinning hair. “But he was late.”

Laurie leaned back, releasing the breath she held trapped in her chest. She didn’t need another drunk in her life. As long as Johnny still had some good sense in his head, maybe she could talk him out of this rumrunning business.

“That a new picture?” Dad nodded at her stack of drawings as he shoved a forkful of pancake into his mouth. “Let me see.”

She picked up the drawing and held it out.

A flash of recognition crossed his face. “Crescent Beach, ain’t it? We used to go out there for picnics, back . . . ” His voice faded and his eyes clouded.

Laurie slid the drawing back into the notebook and closed the cover.
Back when Mama was alive.

She stood and walked to the stove, her eyes glazing as she stared at the grease-filled frying pan waiting to be washed. The odor of scorched bacon fat filled the air.

The squeak of the chair legs sliding across the kitchen floor sounded behind her. Father’s voice cracked. “We should go out there again . . . sometime.” He walked from the room, leaving her in silence.

Laurie turned and faced the dishes, still half-filled with pancakes and applesauce.

It was going to be a long night.

Daniel sorted through stacks of boxes in the cluttered storeroom while his grandfather locked up. Daniel picked up one miniature glass bottle, the label so faded he couldn’t even read it. Blowing gently, he sent a puff of dust into the air. He placed it back on the shelf, making a note to talk to Granddad about some of the junk back here.

He still hadn’t broached the topic of dispensing alcohol. Daniel ran his hand through his dark hair, his throat tightening.

He closed his eyes, remembering Laurie Burke’s pursed cherry-red lips as he handed her that bag—as if she’d rather touch a dead snake. That woman was a puzzle with a few pieces missing. Her words echoed in his ear.
Does your grandfather know what you are?
Daniel shook his head. There’s no way she could know about the life he’d left behind.

He gazed at the gleaming line of bottles along the bottom shelf. His stomach churned. Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to be alone back here.

The sound of shuffling footsteps raised Daniel out of his thoughts. His grandfather swayed unsteadily under the crate of glasses.

“Here, let me get that.” Daniel rushed over to rescue the crate.

“Thank you. Those get heavier every day.” Granddad released his hold on the box, letting it sink into Daniel’s waiting arms. He squeezed his fingers into a fist and shook them loose. “My hands are aching a bit. I think I’ll grab a few aspirin.”

Daniel set the crate on an empty shelf in the storeroom. “Things were busy at the fountain today. How do you keep up with that and with the prescriptions?”

“I had a high school gal helping out for a few months, but she got behind in her studies and had to quit.” He opened a drawer filled with pain remedies and pulled out a few aspirin tablets. “Business really picked up after we added the fountain. I had my doubts when you first suggested it, but the place has been buzzing like a beehive ever since.”

Daniel stretched his back, aching after the long day of compounding prescriptions at the pharmacy counter. “You need to hire a soda jerk or two, Granddad. There’s far too much work for you to do by yourself. There’s too much for
two
of us to do. The store’s not a one-man operation anymore.”

“I know, I know. I’ve got a few young folks coming in tomorrow. Why don’t you talk to them?”

“All right.” Daniel paused, watching as his grandfather slipped the aspirin into his mouth. “How many of those are you taking a day?”

The older man frowned. “Don’t start.”

“Would you rather I ask how many bottles of liquor do you sell a week?”

“I wondered how long it would take for you to ask about that.” He leaned against the row of shelves. “Just about every drugstore in America is selling medicinal liquor, Daniel. Some are making a killing off it. I’m not fond of the idea and I don’t encourage folks to buy it. But if we refuse to sell alcohol, it will just give folks another reason to go to our competition.”

Daniel ran a dusting cloth along the newly organized shelf. “What about people who don’t have a medical reason for buying it?”

Granddad shook his head. “That’s not our place to say. Take it up with their doctors. We just fill the prescriptions, we don’t write them. Not everyone who tips the bottle has a problem with it.”

Daniel looked away, a sudden weight crushing his chest.

“Come on, son. Tell me you didn’t sell alcohol in that big fancy drugstore in Seattle.”

“Of course we did, but I still didn’t like it. And that wasn’t my store.”

His grandfather’s eyebrows rose. “And neither is this.”

“I didn’t mean—”

The older man flapped his knobby fingers like he was brushing away an annoying mosquito. “I know what you meant. But, it’s still my store and I make the decisions. I’m the responsible party—I’ll even take care of all the liquor prescriptions if it will make you sleep easier.” He crossed his arms. “And when it’s your store, you can run it into the ground with your morality if you choose. Just remember, it’s God’s place to judge. Not ours.”

Daniel went back to straightening the shelves as his grandfather left. He clenched the damp cloth and scrubbed at a dark stain on one of the back shelves.

“Laurie!” Her father’s slurred shout echoed off her bedroom walls.

Laurie shook her head, trying to clear the sleep from her mind. She’d been dreaming of walking along the beach in the dark. A man had been waiting just ahead in the moonlight.

Now a very different figure stood silhouetted in the light pouring in her bedroom door. Laurie blinked and sat up, clutching at her sheet. “Dad? What’s wrong?”

He staggered a few steps into the room. “Where’s my bottle?” His ragged voice suggested he’d already finished one.

She slid out from under the covers and snatched her robe off the end of the bed, the floorboards icy under her bare feet. “It’s late. Why don’t you get some sleep?”

He gripped the doorframe. “Don’t treat me like a child. I’m the father here and I’ll have your respect, girl. Now, where’d you hide it?”

Her thoughts raced. She’d stashed the pharmacy bottle on the back porch, hating the idea of bringing it into the house.

When she didn’t answer, he slammed his hand against the wall making Laurie jump. “I’m not asking you again!”

“I’ll go look for it.”

He stumbled backward leaving a path for her.

Laurie slipped past him and out into the bright hallway. Rather than heading for the stashed booze, she walked into the kitchen and dug through the cupboard, rattling the dishes as she stalled.

Her father sank down onto the sofa with a grunt. “Why don’t you get me a sandwich while you’re at it?”

“Sure.” She pulled out a plate. “How about a glass of milk to help you sleep?”

He yawned in response.

Quietly, she eased the mustard and leftover ham from the icebox. A little food wouldn’t hurt his mood. He’d barely touched his supper. She pushed the hair out of her face and fought the urge to yawn, herself.

Taking a quick nibble of the ham, she spread a thick layer of mustard on the brown bread and glanced over at her dad. His eyelids listed. She slowed her hands, using the knife to draw patterns in the mustard. After a few minutes, soft snores signaled her success.

Laurie set down the knife and braced her hands against the counter.
Thank you, Lord.
She finished preparing the sandwich and tucked it in the icebox next to the milk bottle, ready for the morning. Laurie turned and faced her father, licking the mustard from the tip of her finger as she gazed at him, slumped against the cushion.

Mama’s picture sat on the end table, her blue eyes smiling through the shadowy room. For a brief moment Laurie was a little girl, clutching Johnny’s hand at the funeral and listening to the hushed whispers floating above their heads.

Her father had run from his grief—straight to the Great War.

Laurie wiped her hands on the dishtowel and tiptoed across the room to pick up the tinted photograph.
So beautiful.
She ran her fingers through her own short locks with a jolt of regret.

She placed the photo back on the table and lifted Mama’s crocheted afghan from the rocking chair. Laurie unfolded the heavy blanket and draped it over her father. She crept over to the lamp and clicked it off.