Danger, Sweetheart (9 page)

If the
uunnffs
she squeaked at him from her box were cute, the
uunnffs
in his ear were enchanting. He would have to put her down soon. If she kept snuffling in his ear he might giggle.

“You two having fun?”

Blake whirled, clutching the piglet, who let out a small squeal, and beheld a short, stocky man wearing immaculate navy overalls and a short-sleeved shirt of lighter blue. He was older—about Blake's mother's age—with deeply tanned skin, a white monk's fringe circling his head like a fuzzy equator, a heroic Roman nose, and small smiling eyes so dark it was hard to tell the irises from the pupils.

“Is this your piglet? She escaped! But I recaptured her. That's what this is.”
Do not nuzzle. This is no time for nuzzling.
“A … a recapture. That is the thing you are seeing now, sir.”

“Mmm-hmm. Yeah, she's a friendly critter, i'n't she?” He spoke in a clear, calm voice and didn't seem at all bothered to behold a stranger holding his piglet. “Poor thing just drinks up affection like lemonade. Gotta keep Rose in here for a couple more days.”

Rose?
“That seems sensible.” He, of course, had no idea. Porcine husbandry was not in his skill set.

“I'm Roger.” He held out a brown weathered hand the size of a bowling ball and Blake managed to shake hands without dislodging the piglet. “You must be Blake Tarbell. You see your mom?”

“Yes.”

“Lived to tell the tale, so that's good.” Roger stepped close and tickled the White Rose of York under her fuzzy chin. “She's the one named the pig.”

On short acquaintance, I like this man. Why? Some people have enough unconscious charisma to make people like them; is Roger a man with such a gift? Is liking him an error? Need more data.

“And you went along with it? With calling her the White Rose of York?”

“I just call her Rose. Your mom settle your hash for ya, then?”

Blake frowned. “How is that your concern, Roger?”

The older man's friendly smile dropped away. “Your mom's a great lady. Real classy and she's not afraid to work, neither.”

“Either.”

“What?”

“Nothing. You were explaining to me what a great lady unafraid of work the woman who raised me is.” Unspoken:
a lady I know better than you do, sir.

“I've known Shannah since we were kids, so you can just put that thought right out of your head.”

Ye gods. A telepath!
“How did you—”

“Aw, it was all over your face; anyone could've seen.”

“Untrue. I'm told I am … I am …

a rock

a machine

a robot

you don't care

you only love your books

it's not you; it's me

it's not me; it's you

you don't care

can't you even try to care

do you care about
anything

“… difficult to read.”

Roger shrugged. “Don't think so.”

“Continue your point, please, and don't think I haven't ruled out the dark arts,” he warned, cuddling the White Rose of York closer to his chest. If Roger turned out to be a powerful warlock/farmer hybrid, he would protect the White Rose of York as best he could.

I should probably sleep soon. I am having irrational thoughts and am feeling protective of an infant pig.

Roger, meanwhile, stood his ground and continued. “I just don't like to see your mama under a bunch of grief, is all. Because of her name, the town never really gave her a chance, but that was never her fault.”

Because of her name? Because she birthed the spawn of Tarbell?
Before he could ponder further, Roger finished his thought:
“
She should be able to enjoy herself these days.”

“You and I are of one mind in this, Roger.”

“Yeah?” Dark eyes brightened and the man tried a tentative smile. “So … you're staying in town then? For a while?”

Hmmm.
“Yes. She told you her plan, obviously.”

“Toldja we go back awhile. Sure, she told me her idea. But you don't look banged up or anything.”

“No, all the brickbats were verbal.”

A puzzled blink at that, but Roger remained on point. “I'm kinda glad to see you agreed to stick around. Your mom'll really like it. I didn't think—it didn't sound like the kind of thing you'd go for. No offense to you personally. I don't think hardly anyone would go for it.”

“Behold, the exception to the sensible rule.” The White Rose of York was squirming, and when he put the small fuzzy black-and-white bundle down, she trotted around the corner, out of sight, and then he heard the unmistakable sound of litter being shuffled about in a litter box. “She's house-trained?” he asked, incredulous, all thoughts of his six-month sentence momentarily banished from his brain. “That's amazing! She's an infant!”

“Not a litter box. Too tall—look at those short legs; she'd never make it over.” The thought made Blake burst into laughter and Roger grinned in response. “Yup, never woulda worked. A cookie sheet with litter in it. Don't worry,” he confided, as if Blake had been about to roar in horrified protest. “That cookie sheet is only for the White Rose of York.”

“I am relieved, as will be the other guests.”
Refuse all offers of cookies, just to be safe.
“And I stand by my statement; that's amazing. My brother wasn't house-trained until he was four, because Rake is terrible. I, however, was trained before my second birthday.”
I must stop bragging about this, if Roger's expression is anything to go by. It's an odd thing to take pride in.
“Speaking of terrible, did my mother mention the dire fate in store for my brother?”

“Some things are best left alone,” was the solemn reply, ruined by Roger's shrill giggle. It was such an incongruous sound from the pig farmer that Blake laughed, too. The White Rose of York had finished excreting and trotted back to them, wiggling her curly tail until Blake relented (after less than two seconds) and picked her up again.

It had been an unpleasant week and an odd day, so it was ridiculous how happy he was at that moment. Perhaps he was coming down with something. And there was always the comforting thought that he could be bleeding out in a canyon somewhere, trapped under a pile of train cars.

Blake had no idea whether he was rooting for illness, a train-car pileup, or spending six months in Sweetheart.

Need more data.

 

Ten

Natalie Lane watched the rented truck cover the last half mile to Heartbreak and was not impressed. This would be the first of what promised to be weeks of awful days, and not for the first time she wondered why she didn't give up, give in, and get lost. Follow half the town
out
of town. Let Sweetheart die.

Not even if he stuck a gun in my ear.
Because it wasn't the town, it was never the town, it was always the people. Well. Most of the people. Garrett Hobbes, for example, could fuck right off. The world needed more golf courses like a diabetic needed a glucose drip.

The truck passed the last gate and pulled up between the farmhouse and Barn Main. The engine quit and she could see him in the driver's seat, moving his hands, and was he…? Was he patting the steering wheel? In a
well done, mighty steed
way? Yes. Yes he was.

Self-congratulation must run in that family,
she mused.
Oh, and look at this. He remembered to kick out the ladder this time. Too bad.
She'd have loved to see him on his ass in the dirt. Again.

“It's you!” he said as he hopped down, having the balls-out nerve to sound excited. Except where did she get off? Before she knew who he was, she'd have been happy to see him, too. If anything, she was more pissed
because
she had liked him on short acquaintance. What if he'd never seen her in her other life? When would she have found out his terrible truth? Their first date? Their first month–aversary? Their wedding night?

Wedding night? Jeez, Natalie, get a grip.

“Hello again.” He stuck out his hand, which she definitely didn't notice was large and looked strong, especially in contrast to her own teeny paws. Nor did she notice he had big hands and, as a glance at his shoes told her, big feet, and she definitely didn't form a theory about his dick based solely on his sizeable mitts. She also didn't notice how his smile took years from his face, or how his pricey clothes beautifully set off those long legs and wide shoulders, that the color of his crisp button-down shirt was the same color as his dark blue eyes, that his tan slacks

(slacks? Seriously?
Slacks?
)

fit like they were made for him

(of course they were; guy's probably got a fleet of tailors stashed somewhere)

and that his swimmer's shoulders made his waist appreciably narrow in contrast.

He was still holding out his hand, and she gave it a brief listless shake, the limp kind with the bare tips of her fingers. “You're late.”

His smile faded. “It's nine forty-seven.”

“Work around here doesn't start five hours after sunup.”

“But I had to finishing Skyping with one of the Oxford archivers.”

God.
Worse than she thought.

He seemed genuinely puzzled, which cranked her state of mind from Pissed Off to Assault a Distinct Possibility.

“We had to discuss volume six,
The Fifteenth Century,
by E. F. Jacob.”

“Had to, huh?”

“Oh yes!” To her horror he mistook sarcasm for interest, and warmed to the topic. The boring, inappropriate topic she didn't give a shit about. “Jacobs' work was invaluable, but he was a misogynist—not rare in early-twentieth-century academia—and likely a plagiarist, which of course calls his entire body of work into question. And he was a terrible driver. Illegally awful. So it's all quite a mess.”

Quite a mess.
The perfect description.

“So clearly, leaving it until later doesn't make sense. Oh, sure, you're going to suggest Mackie's
The Earlier Tudors
—”

“I really wasn't.”

“—but my area of interest is in what came before the Tudors, not the Tudors themselves.”

“Will you please shut up now? I might— I might have to stab you with something if you don't.” Ah, yes, Natalie Lane: the first Lane to lose Sweetheart and then go down for federal assault. Her ancestors would be so proud.

“You want me to shut up?” Dumbfounded incomprehension. “After I explained? I find that puzzling.”

“You find what
I'm
doing puzzling?”

“It's almost as if you don't care about what time it is in Oxford,” he huffed.

“It sure is. That's exactly right.”

“I apologize,” he said at once. “I get carried away with my work. You were kind to wait for me. It's lovely to see you again.” Then he smiled, a slow grin that she felt everywhere.
Christ, they must just fall over with their legs open for this guy.
The thought pissed her off more, which she hadn't thought possible.

“Where's your stuff?”

He blinked. “Stuff?”

“Your things, your clothes and phone and stuff,” she said, impatient. “Let's get them to your room and then we can get to work.”

“We?”

“Do you always repeat random words back to whoever's talking to you?”

“No, actually.” He tried another smile. God, the man's whole face should be outlawed. “It's just, I don't always understand you. Which is interesting and charming.”

No. He didn't call me charming, and I didn't find that charming. No.

She sighed. “C'mon. Let's get your stuff.”

Still he didn't move. Well, he didn't move his legs. He stuck his hand out again. “Blake Tarbell.”

Oh. Right. Common courtesy.
She didn't have the energy to be embarrassed, for herself or for him. “Sorry, I'm Natalie Lane.”

“It's very nice to meet you. I was really hoping to see you again, and that was before I knew I'd be staying for a while.” He endured another limp
I don't care about you and have no interest in making a good impression
handshake. “Ms. Lane, have I done something to offend you?”

Besides getting within five hundred miles of Sweetheart? Besides the knowledge that a guy in tailored clothes who Skypes the UK to talk about dead people is my best option? Besides knowing I need you if only to get some of the heat off me? And the fact that you walk and talk like sex personified just pisses me off more? Nope, not a thing.

“Not everything's about you, city guy.”
Lie.
This was all kinds of about him. But telling him so resolved nothing. “C'mon,” she said for what she hoped was the last time. “Let's get your stuff.”

 

Eleven

It was never supposed to be like this. She was supposed to
save
them. And banking was supposed to be a noble profession, not a punch line. From Renaissance Italy to Sweetheart, North Dakota. From the Medicis to the Lanes. What was the saying? From the sublime to the ridiculous in one step? Yep.

Once, Sweetheart had been a bustling midwestern town of just under ten thousand souls. Yes, they were off the beaten path a bit, but the land was lush, the hills (the few there were) were rolling, the hills were alive with the sound of music, et cetera, et cetera.

Then the state highway came, four lanes at 65 mph, set the cruise for 72 if you hadn't had a recent speeding ticket, and all at once, or so it seemed, all roads did not lead to Sweetheart. Fewer visitors meant the local B and Bs had to work harder for fewer (and fewer) guests. Less money meant … well, less money. Add a few exceptionally bad droughts, and then the farmers—in a town where every third family was in the ag biz—were in a jam. Add a shit economic downturn lasting over a decade, and everyone was in a jam. Too many young people left