The Tramp (The Bound Chronicles #1) (10 page)

It was Candy who hung up without saying good-bye. She didn’t know what she got so pissed off about, but she remembered her blood was boiling. She felt oddly panicked by being forced to go that far away to do something that…well, actually sounded fun. But, anytime she tried to reason with herself to explain why she didn’t want to go, she felt blank.

I just didn’t want to. I just don’t like to leave home.
She was confused about it but there it was.

Even though John had come to Shirley for a quick visit before the camp started, the two had avoided each other. Candy blew off efforts to unite them, and she was sure John did, too. She wondered if his grandma was as embarrassing as hers was.

“Pearl said John’s in town, honey. She invited us for lunch—don’t you two want to play together?”

“Grandma, please. We’re too old for playing.”

“Oh, is that what it is?”

“What do you mean ‘that’?”

“He’s a good looking boy, isn’t he?”

“What? Gross, Grandma.”

“Well, what? You don’t have to sleep over or anything.”

“Forget it.”

“If you want to, though, I’m sure Pearl could put you in separate rooms for the night.”

“Ugh.”

“I think it’s sweet, and it would all be very proper.”

Candy’s face still went hot just thinking about it.

John had returned for a few days at the end of the summer, right before school started, and they saw each other briefly, each of them ready to forget the fight after a few months of cooling off. Things were awkward. They kept in touch over email during the next school year but John decided to make Camp Wekeima an annual event. He said he was saving money for a car and that the Wekeima job paid well. Candy doubted John’s reason for keeping the job and jealously clicked through pictures online that were obviously his girlfriend, more often than she was proud to admit.

John and Clara, picnic at the lake.

John and Clara, fun at the derby with her family.

Clara with birthday cake on her nose, John laughing beside her.

That summer, he hadn’t come for a visit to his grandma’s at all, and hadn’t bothered to supply a reason. Candy tried to shrug it off, but she was crushed. She had pushed him out of her head, until her dad sprang the news on her. She had no idea how to feel about the prospect of his actually living in Shirley and going to school at Andrew Jackson.

Does he already know? Did he email me about it already?
Candy wasn’t too big on email after she and John had lost contact. Who else would she get mail from besides him? All the people she knew lived in Shirley and email was usually all garbage and school stuff. She often received messages weeks after they were sent, so John might have already sent something. She couldn’t wait to check.

Nearing the Eastern Mountain foothills, where her father’s shop lay in view, the road started to level out and Candy picked up speed. She rounded the last turn at an all-out run, dashing off the pavement through the trees, the slick soles of her worn sneakers slipping in the dirt. She lost her balance and caught herself on an outstretched yellow buckeye limb, upsetting a couple of its low-hanging, overripe fruit. They bonked her in the forehead and almost tripped her, the smooth balls rolling between her feet down the last stretch of hillside. Steadying herself and wiping the sweat from under her hair, she winced at the smell on her hands.
Stinky sap. Whew.
Without thinking she wiped her hands on her cargo shorts. Too late, she remembered where today’s errand would hopefully lead, and how badly she didn’t want to be wearing stinky shorts.

“Nice,” she panted and shook out her tank-top to let her armpits breathe in the breeze.

Slowing down to a walk, she glanced around the front of the gas station, expecting to see Ms. Willow. Luckily, there was no sign of her, only her father’s mechanic, manning the counter inside. She spotted her dirt-bike leaning against the side of one of the mechanics bays in the garage.

Thank you, Jo.

Candy blew her damp bangs in relief and changed direction to wait under the shade of the sprawling Magnolia tree in a neighboring yard.

“Okay…email…”

She pulled her phone out of her backpack and swiped to the home screen. Concentrating on her phone, she stumbled on a creeping tree root and, realizing she was nearing the trunk, she dumped her backpack on the ground and leaned her hand against the ancient bark. Finally opening her inbox, she scrolled through the entries logged several days earlier.

“Robinson, John,” was stamped like a beacon, twenty-something messages down. She exhaled in relief, and plopped down next to her bag to read.

“Candy. You’ll never believe it, but I am transferring to Andrew Jackson this year. Weird, right? I’m sure you’ve already heard about my grandfather, and how my dad needs to come help run things for him. I decided to come with him, but mom’s staying here. Will explain more when I get there, but I’m really looking forward to seeing you and experiencing that “quiet” country life this year. John.”

Candy savored a long, cleansing sigh, settling back against the solid tree trunk and trying not to think too much about the joy rushing over her. She let her head fall back against the old tree, looking up into its interwoven branches, the wide, oval leaves filtering the harsh sunlight overhead. Oblong, delicately scaled, green fruit that gave the Cucumber Magnolia its name were visible here and there; most of them already split open in places to reveal the bright red seeds within. John always said those seeds looked like poison jelly beans. She patted the tree above her head in reverence, always feeling more comfortable in the surety of such an old, constant presence. She closed her eyes, breathed in the sharp scent of leaves, and felt the cool earth under her hands.

“Candace?” A jarring falsetto sounded around the corner of the shop. “Candace!”

Feeling like Alice in Wonderland, she shook herself out of her fog and stood, dusting herself off and waving lazily to the frantic crafter, Ms. Willow. “Hello, ma’am. I’m here.”

At least half an hour later, after co-appraising each piece and listening to detailed instruction on how the artwork must be handled, Candy gingerly stowed Ms. Willow’s handmade treasures for transport. She really did make nice stuff, and Candy was happy to help her get it sold. Big Joe’s wasn’t an art gallery, by any means, but a fair number of tourists wandered into the grocery and the coffee shop where Mr. Robinson let artisans display their wares, and they always loved local crafts. Candy had heard the instructions many times before, however, and her patience to get on the road was nearing an end.

Come on come on come on.
She was desperate to get the morning errand over with. Her heart skipped a beat in anticipation of what hopefully awaited her at Big Joe’s, beyond Ms. Willow’s craft displays. She donned her backpack and hopped on her bike, assuring the good lady of her artwork’s safety on the ride into town.

“Now, make sure to put them in the front window and in the case, Candace.”

Yeah, yeah.
Candy fired up the engine to speed the last of the conversation along. Ms. Willow was almost as long-winded as her father.

“And don’t let Joe put pricing stickers on them—tell him to use the cards I made.” Ms. Willow launched into another repetition of her instructions. Nodding and smiling widely under her sunglasses, Candy gave her bike some gas. “Alright, thank you, Candace. You’re a dear…”

“No problem, Ma’am. Glad to help.”

Glancing toward the back door of the mechanic shop, as Ms. Willow finally took her leave, Candy wished once again for the foresight of leaving a spare of clean, sweat-free clothes inside for just such an occasion. Knowing it was her last chance to primp, she rolled her bike over to duck down and view herself in a window. She polished her teeth with the wrist of her leather jacket and ran fingers through her short hair, knowing it would just get crazy again on the ride. Looking around to make sure she was alone, she reached in her shirt and adjusted her breasts, smooshing them closer together in her sports bra to enhance her cleavage.

As she rolled away from the garage, she glanced down and saw remnants of a mud splatter on the inside of her Suzuki’s front fender and smiled. It hadn’t rained the previous night; Jo must have gone looking for trouble. At least she had attempted to wipe the bike clean after “muddin’” and Candy saw the gas gauge registered at full.

Think I might like this Jo.
Maybe I should go thank her for the gas. Candy shook her head and blew her breath out through her lips in a raspberry. Why was she so nervous? First, she was anxious to get there, and then she was stalling.
He’ll be working all day. Probably just say hi and good-bye, anyway.

She ran her fingers through her hair again.

Well, Sam likes me messy.

She pulled away from the gas station in a roar of determination. Speeding away from the mountain, along the valley road, she hoped that at least she would smell like fresh air when she showed up.

chapter twelve

“You roar in like a parade,” Sam said, hooking a finger into Candy’s belt loop and reeling her in.

It was hard to keep her thoughts together when his face was so close to hers. “A parade?”

“Dirt bike echoing off the water, red hair screaming in the wind.” He smiled, but he was watching her mouth, not her eyes. “That yellow jacket, where’d you get that?”

“This old thing?” Her lemon yellow leather jacket was her favorite vintage eBay find. “I don’t remember. You like it?”

“Yeah. I do.”

How does he make three simple words sound so naughty?
When his voice was husky like that, Candy felt it in her thighs.

“Comin’ up!” Ricky Mendez’s voice sounded the alarm on the stairs leading from the cellar, and Sam moved away from Candy with a scowl. He turned back to the pushcart he was supposed to be manning and Candy spun away to go finish setting out Ms. Willow’s display.

“Wait…” Sam stood the cart up and, keeping a grip on the handle, twisted around towards Candy to stop her hasty retreat. “Hey, if you have a minute after you’re finished, you want to come over to the Buffalo Lodge with me to drop off their shipment?”

“The Buffalo Lodge?” she stopped, surprised.

“Yeah, Ms. Collins gave me the key a while back.” Sam gave her a gleaming, heart-stopping smile. He had her complete attention and he knew it. “She got tired of meeting the supply truck when her brother couldn’t drag his hung-over ass out of bed. There’s nobody there, we could hang out for a while.”

“You’re done working?”

“Well, we don’t have much of a delivery today. Since the ‘bossman’ is in the hospital.”

“Bossman?” She couldn’t imagine Sam thinking of anyone as a bossman.

“That’s what Ricky calls Joe Robinson,” he said with obvious distaste. “Guess Shirley’s at a standstill.”

“Oh yeah, I know.” Candy grasped at her chest and made a hysterical face. Parents were so easy to ridicule out of earshot. “Everybody’s in a dither, can’t run the town without him.”

“Anyway…” Sam said, finding her hand. “Larry told me they need to overhaul the whole ordering system. I think we may have a minute.”

Candy’s pulse was racing. She tried not to squeak in astonishment when she said, “Really?”

“When you’re done with your stuff, come around to the back and we’ll walk over together.”

“Okay.”

He leaned in with warm, soft lips. His hand reached for her and she felt him touch the fringes of damp hair that still clung to the back of her neck. “Sorry,” she whispered into his mouth. “I’m a little sweaty.”

He pulled back, his eyes holding hers for several heartbeats. “I like it.” One side of his lips rose in a crooked smile; he winked, then released her and turned back to his work.

Whew.
Candy gathered her wits enough to go back to hers. She finished in record time, though she tried to slow down and pretend her little charity gig was more important than it was. She was rounding the corner at the top of the stairs, casing the scene below, when she heard Mrs. Mendez call Sam’s name and held back.

“Samuél!” She was waving a small parcel wrapped in brown wax paper over her head. Moving slowly, on joints still morning-stiff, she sent her authority ahead of her in a commanding voice and with the promise of motherly devotion.

“Yes, Mrs. Mendez?” Sam appeared from the cellar instantly. It was odd how polite he was when he wanted to be.

“You take this with you, in case I don’t see you before you leave.” She pressed a freshly assembled, fully loaded sandwich from the deli, without an identifying price label. Candy knew the wrapping well; Big Joe’s deli made killer subs and Mrs. Mendez always piled on the extras.

“You must eat—you are so skinny, Samuél,” she admonished him, shaking her head sternly when he reached in his pocket to retrieve his wallet. “No need to pay.”

“Oh. Mr. Robinson always charges me—”

“Mr. Robinson isn’t here, my boy.” Rosa Mendez pinched his cheek, and then opened her palm towards Sam’s face to thwart any further protests. She barreled away, shouting loving recriminations as she limped back toward the kitchens. “You boys work too hard. Work, work, work. You got to take care of yourselves. But since you won’t, I will.”

Sam smiled and nodded in silent agreement, letting her protective tirade wash over him.

Well, now. She must know more about Sam’s home life than I do.
Feeling like an eavesdropper, Candy pushed away from the railing and started towards him. Sam’s boss Larry was on his way out of the restaurant, and he paused to give Mrs. Mendez a kiss on the cheek. Ricky was right behind him, and he did the same, before she waddled back inside.

“We’re done, Sam. Get outta here.” Larry gestured towards the Buffalo Lodge just as Candy came trotting down the steps. “I really need you to get into the buff—I mean get this stuff into the Buffalo fast. It’s sensitive inventory.”

Sam glanced over and saw Candy, then shot Ricky a desperate look. Ricky steered Larry toward the cellar stairs, saying, “Sensitive and
private
, man.”

Candy was only a few feet away from them; she couldn’t pretend she hadn’t heard. She pursed her lips, and felt her blood quicken, but she thought she could let it slide. Whatever “it” was. She looked at Sam and was startled to find him shifting his weight awkwardly.
Awkward Sam—that’s a first.
“Ready?”

Sam waited until the guys were out of sight, then he finally ran a hand through his hair, and smiled. “Yeah, let’s go.”

They eased the heavy cart around Big Joe’s, and up a dozen or more brick steps, finally cresting the hill on the riverside and were hit with a warm Southern breeze. The Riverwalk was well-made with sand and earth filling in cracks or shifting cement. Moss filled in the details. It was a gentle uphill slope, effortless and open, with a perfect view of the mountains. Fresh air rushed through the ravine, bringing with it the earthy smell of muddy shoreline. Their fingers rubbed together around the handle of the cart, their shoulders bumping companionably.

Candy broke the silence, “So, Ms. Collins gave you her key?”

“Yeah, I think she likes me.”

She rolled her eyes; all the ladies loved the mysterious dark visitor, Sam Castle, no matter what their age.

“She calls you Candace. Do you prefer that?”

“Do you? I mean, it
is
my name, but hardly anybody calls me that. My dad does sometimes. Old people do.” It was a subtle dig. Immature, but she didn’t care. She watched the Western Mountains until Sam found her eyes. “What? My mom used to call me Candy. I was her first daughter, after three boys and a husband—even four male dogs. She said I was like candy when she kissed me.”

Sam moved one finger over on top of hers. “I agree. Your mom was right.”

Candy pulled her hand back and Sam’s eyes were wary. Intelligent. She wasn’t ready to talk about her mom, and she was wondering how long before he asked about it. He watched her, waiting or wondering. She never asked him about his own mother. Should she say that?

He seemed to read her mind, though, and finally said, “I can’t believe you’ve never been inside the Buffalo Lodge. It’s a pretty imposing building in such a small town.”

“I guess it is.” She could see the lodge, just ahead, at the end of the Riverwalk. The familiar sight of the wind-worn stone, topped by a green copper roof, was comforting, though always remote and forbidding. “I don’t know. The families don’t get along.”

“I thought your family’s been here forever.”

“My mom’s family. Yeah, they have. But not until the 1840s or ‘50s, after the Great Potato Famine.”

“Potato Famine?”

“McBride?” Candy pointed to her red hair. “Irish?”

Sam shrugged.

“You know, a lot of Irish immigrants came here back then. But the earliest frontiersmen got here first, like in the 1700s. It took a while for colonies to spread this far—hard to get over the mountains from the east and all. It was rough travel, with rough people already here. Few and far between, sure, but always ready for a fight.”

“Indians.”

“Yeah. The Sendalee’s still have a nation here, you know?”

Sam shook his head.

“Well, anyway...” There was so much to the story. So much she couldn’t remember.

“The Sendalee Nation…” he prompted.

“What? You’re bored, aren’t you? All the history.”

“I love history.”

“Yeah, right.” How did she get onto history lessons with Sam? Candy was mortified. “I don’t remember much of the history. Ms. Collins would be disgusted, tucked away in her castle on the hill—reading about Indian war ornaments or sacrificial rituals or something.” She gestured to their history teacher’s grand domicile, on the other side of the lodge, its tallest towers reaching high into the sky.

“Don’t like the old lady, huh?”

“I do. I guess, just … the point is, those first settlers had to band together, and they formed a tight bond. Unbreakable. And impenetrable to some.”

“Not that impenetrable,” Sam said, dangling the keys at his hip. “We’ll be inside in two minutes.”

“Bet they wouldn’t be too happy, either,” Candy mumbled. She was almost to the back gates of the Buffalo Lodge. It was surreal.

“‘They’. You mean the Collinses? They didn’t want to help the McBrides when they settled here?”

“The McBrides were farmers—starving, immigrant farmers—and the Wattses were horse thieves.”

“Watts? I thought we were talking about Ms. Collins.”

“We were, but the Wattses have always been Lodge members. Big time.”

“Ah, of course.” Sam made a face, to pretend he had just been gifted with vital information, and Candy shoved him on the shoulder.

She could see him thinking, “Small towns and their family squabbles,” and her face was aflame. He gave her a curious look, taken aback by her demeanor, then smiled and opened the rusted iron gate to the lodge’s side courtyard. He motioned for her to walk through first, then followed on a cobblestone path, balancing the boxes behind him. When she looked back, he had his head cocked to one side, watching her. “So, who were the bootlegger’s? You said the McBrides were Irish, right?”

“Hmph. I wish they were bootleggers.”

“We’re going in the back, over there,” Sam jutted his chin toward a second wooden gate covered with clinging vines. A rotting trestle arched overhead, with tangled jasmine fighting for sunlight, the vines twisted together in tight coils around the diminishing support. Candy breathed in their heavenly aroma as she walked underneath, fighting the urge to flinch—the whole structure looked like it was ready to collapse. It was hard to tell if the wood was supporting the vines or the other way around. Sam brought the cart to a stop next to a steel door and Candy’s gaze bore into the grimy frosted windows of the Buffalo Lodge’s backside.

She felt so wrong being there. So uninvited. “Are you sure this is okay?”

“Why not?” Sam muttered, casually sorting through a clot of keys on the end of a chain attached to his belt. When she didn’t reply, he turned to look at her with the obvious question in his eyes. “Hey.” He ran a finger up her arms. “Goose bumps? It’s got to be a hundred degrees out here.”

She shrugged and looked back at the rotting trestle.

“It’s just an old building.”

“Yeah, sure.” She met his gaze. He just didn’t get it. The Buffalo Lodge was nothing to him.

“Come on, it’s just us. I’ve done this a million times.” He held the right key up with a triumphant smirk, fit it into the lock, and turned the doorknob. The door swung open with a creek, cold, musty air spilling into their faces. Candy stepped back a pace.

“Okay, so the door creeks, don’t panic.” He reached in and flipped the light switch to reveal…an ordinary office space.

What did I expect, coffins?

Sam pulled the cart over the doormat and produced a smile that she was helpless not to follow. “See? Boring desk, ugly carpet, sappy kitten wall calendar. Oh, look—there’s even the cliché water cooler.”

“I’m fine.” Besides feeling a little childish, she actually was. There was nothing like seeing under somebody’s skirts for regaining self-possession. She looked past Sam and the mundane office room to the doorway that led deeper into the lodge. “What’s through there?”

Sam parked the pushcart next to a desk. “In there? That’s a little more interesting, I have to admit.”

“Are you just gonna leave those boxes?” She wasn’t a fool—the “shipment” was obviously booze. “Doesn’t that go in the bar?”

“I have no idea what those are.”

“Yeah, right.”

“None of my business, Candy Vale.”

Sam headed towards the inner hall and beckoned her to follow with an outstretched hand. She accepted it, and sidled up close; still a little nervous she had to admit. Her breasts bumped against his back and she tripped over his heel. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” he chuckled. He squeezed her fingers and led her out into a wide marble entryway; their steps echoing against a thirty-foot ceiling.

“Wow,” Candy breathed.

The central staircase plunged past them. It lead to a sumptuous foyer: the handrail curled around ornately carved dancing women that stood guard at the top of each stair rail. A dusty crystal chandelier hung inert over a threadbare Persian rug. Candy stepped onto the richly patterned carpet. She spun, slowly, taking in the details of the Baroque balustrade. A circular gallery ringed the room overhead before reaching back into shadows.

“I never imagined it would be so beautiful. From the outside it’s so old and crumbling. All mildewey.”

“I think there’s plenty of mildew inside, too,” Sam said. He pulled her towards the mezzanine, dark in the recesses, around the outskirts of the main hall. “Look at these.” He flicked a light switch as if he owned the place. The track-lighting ran under the entire upper gallery and the effect was instantaneous and brilliant—the bulbs shone down on half-a-dozen stoic paintings. Serious faces regarded her in disinterested surveillance.

Candy’s sneakers squeaked on the checkerboard marble floor. “The Collinses sure musta poured plenty of their money into this place over the years,” she said reverently. Whatever she felt about the history, Candy loved art. Sam flipped the lights on the other side of the expansive hallway, introducing her to the other half of the dainties. He watched her reaction, as she spun around, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise.