Safely Home (9 page)

*

It felt like a date.

Which was ridiculous because Alex Westmore ranked about dead last on her list of available creatures to cuddle, right there with the sharp-toothed opossum who liked to eat the barn cats’ food every night.

But the quiet room, the soft background voice of “Old Blue Eyes” singing of love and loss, the yellow-globed, antique-style lighting gave a sheen of romance to the moment. A sheen she brushed off as preposterous, but when the middle-aged waitress brought them a basket of fresh, warm bread ready to dip in seasoned oil, the combination of scent and song teased those romantic senses to life once more.

“There is nothing on e
arth better than Rosie’s fresh bread.” Alex broke a piece from the crusty loaf, dipped it and held it out to her. “Try this. Please.”

Accepting food from him made it seem even more like a date. And she was perfectly capable of getting her own bread, for pity’s sake, but
his offering hung between them like a peace pipe. An entreaty toward good will. Is this how he got Gran to sign off on the land? Sweet-talking her while wining and dining her to see things his way? And would he answer if asked?

Probably not, but maybe if she played along... She accepted the bread and took a bite, ready to casually delve, but the burst of flavor and texture in her mouth changed her course of action. “This is beyond amazing.”

Alex grinned as he savored a chunk across from her. “Told you so.”

“You must eat here often.”

He leaned forward as if reading her mind. “Not as often as you’re assuming, and usually with my mother and Maggie. If you’ve got questions, Cress, ask ‘em. But your grandmother’s land deal is off the table. Client privilege, and I know you’ll respect that. But my dating life?” His smile said she could ask away. “Go for it.”

“Not a bit interested, but thanks, Counselor.” Funny. Saying she wasn’t interested made her more interested. Why was that? What was it about Alex Westmore that made her wonder about his personal life? His taste in music, in sports, in women?

“How about you?”

He asked the question casually. Too casually. As if he knew something— or suspected something— and thought easy conversation would
draw her in.

The guy’s making conversation, and being nice. Lighten up. Not everyone is on an informational-gathering mission
.
“Me? Not dating anyone at present.” She directed a quick look to her leg. “Nor planning to. My current goal is to help Gran and heal. And I recently added a kind of sad, lame horse at Audra’s place to my agenda. He’s my emotional therapy while the P.T. center plagues me with pain-inducing physical therapy.”

“Emotional therapy for?”

He zeroed in on her phrase, inviting more, and a part of Cress wanted to open up to him. Talk to him. Detective instinct said Alex Westmore might understand her actions and not think she was the stupidest creature on the planet, but a buzz of his cell phone reminded her who he was. What he’d done. And so she waited as he silenced the phone, then shrugged. “When a cop takes a bullet, they feel stupid. What-if’s run through your head. Working with the horse helps me sort the stupid from the inevitable.”

“You take the blame on yourself for getting shot?” He looked genuinely puzzled. “Wasn’t the perp a three-time offender who got out on a technicality the last time?”

“You’ve done your homework.” She chunked off another piece of bread, dipped it and took a slow, mouth-watering bite, choosing her words. “I work with a great partner. A good guy, salt-of-the-earth wonderful. When your actions or inactions threaten others, you question them. So my what-ifs center around what might have happened to Carl.”

“But nothing did. You took a bullet from a long-time bad guy run amok. How is this possibly your fault, Cress?”

His heartening tone made her feel better about herself. From where Alex was sitting, it all looked mathematically simple. Her side of the table?

Cress
knew the truth. She’d been roughed up the day before and her head wasn’t in her game. Logistics grew more complex when human quotients got thrown into the mix. Still, Alex’s gaze, his words, made her feel better. “Cops can’t afford mistakes. Mine could have cost one or both of us our lives. That’s not an easy scenario to live with.”

He sat back, and his look of appraisal said she’d surprised him. She leaned in and met his gaze. “Alex, the cops who hurt your father and dumped him over the county line were pigs. They weren’t real cops, the ones who offer their safety and protection daily. They were low-lifes who thought roughing up a drunk Mexican was okay. It wasn’t. And I hate that they got off with nothing in the end, a slap on the wrist but no real consequences. But I’ve been a cop for over ten years now, and I can tell you that ninety-nine percent of us are good. And most of us aren’t afraid to have that other one percent weeded out.”

“My father wasn’t a good man.”

She
knew this. The whole town knew it, but hearing Alex say the words painted a picture for the detective side of her. A mother, at wit’s end, seeking refuge in a dingy, low-rent apartment, raising two boys on meager earnings. A father, ill-tempered and often drunk, a growing annoyance in a town that prided itself on strength, heritage and sweetness. Hector Diaz Westmore wasn’t the Mayberry image of a town drunk, humorous, sweet and docile. He was a village enigma from multiple directions, an outcast skimming the limits of the law, a man whose death spawned change and animosity among neighbors and friends.

“He was everything they said he was.
” Alex’s face said nothing of the tough emotions roiling within, but his eyes? She glimpsed the little boy lost in his eyes and her heart ached for boy and man. “A rough guy who wasn’t afraid to be mean to others. A drunk. And a big mouth that got bigger and more stupid when he was drinking, which was most of the time.”

“But—”

“But he didn’t deserve to die in a ditch,” he finished the thought for her. “The legal system offers steps they could have taken, but instead they chose a “good old boy” mentality and managed to kill a man.” He stared off to the left for long, quiet seconds, then made a face of chagrin. “And no one did a thing about it.”

“I’m sorry.” And she was.

He grimaced and his expression said he hadn’t meant to get into all of that. Her, either. But since they had— “Here’s the up side of crappy childhood drama, Counselor. We survived.” She reached out and put her hand atop his this time, and locked gazes with him. “We not only survived, we’ve thrived in many ways. So we’ve got baggage?” She shrugged, removed her hand as the waitress brought by their mixed green salads and arched a brow. “Who doesn’t? But we’ve learned to take charge and
move on, and that’s a skill to be proud of these days. We don’t need reality TV or Hollywood personality-style counseling. We’ve done it all ourselves, and that’s something to write home about.”

“You’re right, of course. And cute. And smart, although on my end I’ve gotta hand some major league credit to God. I stumbled into him when I was on a real bent for revenge and retribution. He managed to save me from being a total jerk. And just so you know, my mother and brother are quite grateful.”

“Conversion of the heart.” She appraised him openly, skeptical. “Do tell.”

“Heart and soul, very Scrooge-like,
” he admitted. “Or maybe the Grinch would be a better analogy. Anyway, it saved me a lot of stupid, old angst.”

His words trickled into her heart.

Her relationship with her father dogged her. Old anger over years lost, time gone, feeling abandoned by someone who should love her most. In their case, the man who should love all four children the most. Instead they’d had to deal with three years of alcoholic depression, three years she could never get back. “So. Was it simple? This conversion of yours? You know, lightning bolts, crashes of thunder, instant understanding of the powers that be?”

He stopped. Studied her. Then the tiny muscle on the left side of his jaw tweaked slightly. “Naw. I just hated the face I saw in the mirror and knew the only
person who could change that was me. So I did. But God helped. We’ve been on a first-name basis ever since.”

He didn’t pros
elytize. If he had, she’d have turned him off quicker than a sprinkler in a rainstorm.

He offered the statement with a casual ease she envied and respected. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been spontaneous and heartfelt. Alex’s simple declaration said more than years of ignored catechism. He spoke to her heart, as if expecting her to understand. She didn’t. Never had. But a tiny part of her longed to do just that.

“Are you going to Audra’s often?”

A change of subject. A good turn. “I’m going to try to get there twice a day when I don’t have P.T. Ginny and Mary Jenks are planning to come and do their knitting in the living room.”

“Your grandmother hates knitting.”

Cress grinned. “She does, but she’ll deal with it to have their company. And who knows? Maybe they’ll get her to pick up a crochet hook or a needle before they’re done.”

“Powers of persuasion at work. How’s your lasagna?”

“The best I’ve ever had,” she confessed. “Alex, thank you for suggesting this. It’s been,” she glanced around the small restaurant and smiled softly. “Real nice.”

“I concur. The setting, the food and the company.” He raised a glass of sweet tea in her honor. He’d taken her lead. When she refused the waitress’s offer of wine, he’d done the same. Was that because of her? Or because of his family history? She wasn’t sure, but she appreciated the gesture. “To new times, second chances and moving on.”

Moving on? To where and what?

She had no idea, but right now the animosity she’d piled up against Alex Westmore seemed to dissipate daily. Was that good? Bad? Stupid? She wasn’t sure, but today? Tonight? It felt good and for the moment she was going to roll with that.

Chapter Eight

Cress crossed Audra’s
dew-soaked pasture, pretending she was on a mission to the barn. The rain had stopped late-evening, and the overnight temps had fallen sharply. Not quite to frost levels, but cold enough to foretell the change of seasons. She stopped, mid-field, letting her gaze wander, careful not to make eye contact with the shy horse.

The
mares padded to her side, looking for handouts. Cress didn’t disappoint them. Crooning, she reassured the girls, heightening her voice just enough for the gelding to hear from his position near the fence. He perked one ear, took a tentative step forward, then skittered back, nostrils wide.

Cress kept her attention focused on the amiable mares. “He wants some, doesn’t he ladies? Sure he does, he’s just a little too chicken to head over here, but his curiosity is piqued. Yes it is. Yes it is.” The Appaloosa nodded total understanding while the bay gave C
ress a look of impatience, brushing off the gelding’s idiosyncrasies as his loss, their gain.

Cress grinned. “You and I have something in common, girl.” Smoothing her hand over the horse’s head and flank, she stayed in the pasture a good thirty minutes, giving the group time to acclimate to her sound, her scent, her presence.
When her cell phone alarm told her time was up, a wash of reluctance swept her, wishing she could elongate the visit. For a short while she’d felt relaxed and worry-free, perfectly composed, at home with the scent of morning chill, damp grass, fresh hay and horse. The feeling brought back memories of Grandpa and the farm, long days roaming the wide expanse of acreage and animals. Horses and cows, housed together or separately. Flocks of laying hens and a separate group of meat birds covered by a know-it-all rooster. She’d fled to that setting often, letting the naturalness soak into her bones.

She’d lost her mother to ovarian cancer, then her father to grie
f and the bottle. Nestling in at the farm let her pretend to be normal, for just a little while, during those crazy middle-school years when blending seemed crucial. Nothing about Cress’s life blended then, and she wasn’t doing a very good job of blending now.

When did life get so complicate
d?
She whispered a farewell to the mares and offered an easy nod to the shy guy.
When did I mess things up so completely that I forgot how to relax, to be kind, to take time for things like
— her gaze wandered the field, the barn, the enclosures, the sheep and one of Audra’s pet dogs.
This. What did I think was so all-fired important that I couldn’t take time to live? Is being in control that important? And if it is, then how did I lose sight of that with James?

“Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition. By that sin fell the angels.”

Shakespeare’s words smacked her upside the head, and she wasn’t a big fan of the Baird. She’d hated literature class, abhorred tedious English prose and the stupid opinion papers she’d been required to write, mostly because if she opined differently than the instructor, her grade got docked.

A royal pain in the butt, that old Henry VIII. And the professor.

But that particular phrase rang true, making Cress wonder when exactly she’d become a fallen angel. When had she sold her soul in the name of work, career, justice or James, making excuses for the person she’d become?

Correction: the person
you allowed yourself to be.

Heaving a deep, cleansing breath of country air into citified lungs, she
aimed for her car, not wanting to disturb Audra. The two cars parked in the drive said Audra’s paying guests at the country bed and breakfast might not like the smell of horse.

She’d hurry home, take care of Gran, spend the day with her, and get back to the horses before nightfall, creeping her way into the damaged gelding’s heart. She understood bad legs and hardened hearts firsthand. With enough patience and time, maybe they could tough this out together.

*

The highest leaves were just beginning to turn yellow again. He gazed up, wishing the green back, not wanting to spend another long, cold winter inside that horrible house.

He remembered leaves turning color. He remembered someone raking them up, into a pile, and he thought he remembered jumping into that pile, splashing into the bright-colored leaves. But maybe it wasn’t him, maybe it was a commercial on TV, a visual he wished for and never had.

An image fluttered by, soft and good, a smile, so sweet. The wind touched his face like a gentle hand, caring and loving.

“You got that table washed yet?”

The squawk of her voice dispelled the feeling. The image fled his brain so quick, he was pretty certain it never should have been there.

“Fool’s dreams” the old lady would say if he talked about anything he thought he remembered. “Don’t you be goin’ and fillin’ your head with fool’s dreams. It’s you and me, Charlie Backus, and that’s how it’s gonna stay.”

He bit his lip, determined, as he sloshed water over the worn-down picnic table alongside the back porch. She’d have her way now, most likely, but someday, oh...

Someday he’d take that walk down that drive and up that road. And he’d never, ever look back.

*

“What was all that thumping and bumping?” Gran demanded as Cress came downstairs later, showered and clean.

“You look better and sound normal.” Cress flashed her a teasing grin. “Oddly, my relief counteracts the annoyance.”

“Stupid drugs.”

Cress nodded, set a hand on Gran’s shoulder for a brief moment, but knew not to sympathize too much. “Necessary evil.”

“So.” Gran drew up an old stool, settled on it, and began shelling dried beans into a big, wooden bowl, just roughed up enough to make it serviceable, not decorative. “What was that racket upstairs?”

“You mean when I fell on my butt or when I was stomping around, muttering incorrigible words of anger because physical therapy sucks?”

That brought a smile to Gran’s face. “Sounded just like the temper tantrums you threw when you were a little girl.”

“Wrong girl.” Cress shook her head, her chin firm. “Kiera was the temperamental one. I was the good child.”

Gran snorted. “You were a corker then, you’re a corker now. Time don’t change some things.” She shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe softens them a little.”

“Not in every case, though.”

Cress turned toward Alex’s voice, hoping the jog of anticipation that jump-started her heart didn’t show in her response. “You here for coffee, Counselor, or money? I think Gran’s tapped out at the moment.”

He tossed her a look that said ‘stuff it’, then bent to give Gran a nice, big hug which made Cress more than a little bit envious. When he released the old gal, she leveled a stern look to Cress. “You leave
Alex alone. He’s a good friend.”

Cress put her hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, Gran. Whatever makes you happy.”

“Hmph.”

Alex
reached out for the box he’d set inside the door before greeting Gran. “Donuts. An assortment. I wasn’t sure what kind you liked,” he jerked his head Cress’s way, eyes down, “But they had one called an ‘attitude’ donut. Figured it would be perfect for you, Crescent.” He reached into the box and pulled out a white-frosted, chocolate donut. A scowling face topped the white glaze, piped in dark chocolate frosting, ragged eyebrows and all. Alex held the donut up, facing him, his gaze shifting from Cress to the pastry as if weighing differences. “Just what I thought.” He offered a nod of approval as Cress’s frown deepened. “Spitting image.”

“You’re not funny.”

“No?” His gaze noted the tilt of humor she couldn’t quite hide. “I think you’re wrong, Detective. I’m quite funny. And hungry. Got coffee?”

Gran stood, flapped her apron at him when he started to protest that he could get his own coffee, and moved to the counter. “Nice and fresh, just like you like it.”

“You spoil him.” Deliberately ignoring the scowling donut, Cress reached into the box for a cruller. She took a bite, savoring the delicate mix of air-filled egg cake and sweet glaze. “I love these things.”

Alex
eyed the egg-puffed pastry, disbelieving. “Mostly air.”

“Mm hmm.” She nodded around a second, more generous bite. “That way I can eat as many as I want and not feel guilty.”

“But I only got one.” Was that remorse she sensed in his voice, or heartburn? Most likely heartburn, she decided, but then he leaned closer, hands clasped against his knees. “I’d have gotten more if I knew.”

He was being nice again,
like last night, and Cress wasn’t sure how to handle that. Alex hadn’t been nice to her since, well… ever, and that was perfectly okay because she couldn’t stand him, either.

And
in the cool light of day, she couldn’t forget that he’d bedazzled Gran out of her family legacy. Cress swept her gaze to the angry-faced donut. “Oh I think you knew exactly what you were doing, Counselor.”

“Here’s your coffee,
Alex.” Gran set the steaming mug onto the table, a cloud of cream blending and softening the deeper tones of the coffee.

Without acknowledging Cress’s statement,
Alex switched his attention to Gran. “And real cream. You do spoil me.”

“Good.” Gran gave a swift nod, her hands busy setting things aside, a nervous trait when complimented.

Determined that her grandmother should open her eyes and see Alex’s true colors, Cress dove into unprotected waters. “So, Alex, when is the parkland slated to be finished? Or should I say started?” She jerked her head toward the upper back fields, the view obscured by newly-framed houses following the rise and fall of never-to-be-used-again farmland.

Alex
sipped his coffee, smiled his appreciation at Gran who reached out and patted his hand, then angled his head Cress’s way. “We’re still ironing out some unexpected details. Hopefully by spring we should be ready to put everything in place.”

“And we’re
nearly four years into this development?” Cress let her tone reflect what she thought of that. “Play space doesn’t make much money, does it, Counselor? Can’t compete with your suburban home-with-a-view upscale price-tags, huh? Not much paper in the pocket from playgrounds and swings, is there?”

He leveled a calm look her way, just to annoy her further, she was sure, then shrugged. “Actually, I think the green space development is crucial to a fine housing proposal, regardless of the house plans or lot sizes, and the parkland will be developed east and southeast of Birch Bark Trail, the latest road into the neighborhood.” He ran an easy finger around the rim of his mug, thoughtful. “Kids need a place to play. Sleigh rides in the winter. Baseball in the summer. Sounds pretty All-American to me.”

His words tweaked a memory for Cress, of Alex, working from childhood up. Alex and Cruz Westmore had never played on baseball teams, their parents cheering in unison from chilled, metal bleachers. With their father’s addiction, then death, Mrs. Westmore had little time to do anything but earn money to keep afloat. The boys had rarely joined the winter sledding groups or ice skaters, because each one had taken on odd jobs from an early age to help their mother. Their one concession to boyhood had been backyard football games, day after day, week after week, earning both boys a slot on the high school varsity team as freshman. An honor in a small town that loved the gridiron, their positions on the offensive line hard won and hard fought.

And
after seeing Alex with his mother the previous week, he clearly considered helping his mother an important task.

G
ran changed the subject. “How’s that football team of yours coming along?”

Cress puckered her brow. “
It’s barely time for football to start. Right?”

Alex
opened his mouth to respond but Gran beat him to it, proud as an old hen crossing the barnyard with a dozen new chicks. “Alex is sponsoring the youth football program here. He put up enough money so that kids whose families can’t afford the fees or uniform costs can still play. They started practicing a few weeks ago, didn’t they Alex?”

He nodded.

“And isn’t Mac’s wife coaching the little cheerleaders?”

A flash darkened his features. He worked his jaw, eyes trained on the mug before him. “Not this year.”

Gran angled her head, puzzled. “Are you sure? Mary Dumerese seemed quite certain that—”

“She’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Gone?” Cress echoed.

Alex clicked his tongue against his teeth, then gave a half-shrug, half-nod. “She left Mac and the kids to follow a former Viking to Tampa Bay, Florida.”

“You’re kidding.”  Cress had been leaning back in her chair, the front legs raised up. Her ire brought the chair down with a snap. “She left
Mac? One of the nicest guys on earth? And those two kids?”

Gran didn’t seem quite so surprised. “Always was one to look for better, in my opinion. She traded up her cars, her diamond… Why not her husband?”

“Gran, that’s awful.”

Alex
’s expression flattened. “That’s Lindi in a nutshell, Gran. How’d you get so smart and why couldn’t you have warned Mac a little earlier, say, like, oh… seven years ago?”