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Authors: Nora Roberts
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finger under his chin. “Going to have a shiner,” she predicted. “But it looked to me like he was going to have a pair of ’em. You didn’t do too bad.”
“Guess not.” Gingerly he got to his knees again. Breathing shallowly, he inched his way to his feet. It felt as if he’d been trampled by a herd of runaway horses. “I’ll do what I can with the flowers later.”
“See that you do.” She slipped an arm around his waist, and taking his weight, helped him inside.
Though he didn’t much care to get himself riled up on Edda Lou’s behalf, Tucker couldn’t quite get past the niggling sense of worry in his gut. He told himself to let crazy Austin worry about his crazy daughter—who’d more than likely gone to ground for a few days to avoid her daddy’s wrath and to stir up Tucker’s guilt. But he couldn’t forget what it had been like to find sweet little Francie floating, those bloodless wounds gaping all over her fish-white skin.
So he stuck on a pair of sunglasses to conceal the worst of the sunburst bruise on his left eye and, downing two of the painkillers Josie took for menstrual cramps, set out to town.
The sun beat down mercilessly, making him wish he’d just crawled off to bed with an ice pack and a long whiskey. That was what he was going to do once he talked to Burke.
With any luck Edda Lou would be behind the counter at Larsson’s selling tobacco and Popsicles and bags of charcoal for barbecues.
But he could see plainly through the wide front window as he drove past, and it was young, gawky Kirk Larsson at the main counter, not Edda Lou.
Tucker pulled up in front of the sheriff’s office. If he’d been alone, he would have eased himself out inch by painful inch. Whimpering. But the three old coots who always planted themselves out in front, to chew the fat, curse the weather, and hope for gossip, were in position. Straw hats covered grizzled heads, wind-burned cheeks were puffed out with chaws, and faded cotton shirts had gone limp with sweat.
“Hey there, Tucker.”
“Mr. Bonny.” He nodded to the first man, as was proper, seeing that Claude Bonny was the eldest of the group. All three had lived off social security for more than a decade and had staked out the awning-shaded sidewalk in front of the rooming house as their retirement heaven. “Mr. Koons. Mr. O’Hara.”
Pete Koons, toothless since his forties and no fan of dentures, spat through his gums into the tin bucket his grandniece provided. “Boy, looks like you ran into a mean woman or a jealous husband.”
Tucker managed a grin. There were few secrets in town, and a smart man chose his wisely. “Nope. A pissed-off papa.”
Charlie O’Hara gave a wheezy chuckle. His emphysema wasn’t getting any better, and he figured he’d die of it before another summer came, so he appreciated all of life’s little jokes. “That Austin Hatinger?” When Tucker jerked his head to the side in acknowledgment, O’Hara wheezed again. “Bad apple. Once saw him whale into Toby March—’course Toby was a black boy, so nobody paid much mind. Must’ve been in sixty-nine. Stove in Toby’s ribs and scarred his face.”
“Sixty-eight,” Bonny corrected his crony, because accuracy was important in such matters. “That was the summer we got the new tractor, so I remember. Austin said Toby’d stole a length of rope outta his shed. But that was nonsense. Toby was a good boy and never took nothing wasn’t his. He come to work out on the farm with me after his ribs healed. Never had a bit of trouble outta him.”
“Austin’s a mean one.” Koons spat again, eitherfrom need or to emphasize his point. “Went to Korea mean and came back meaner. Never did forgive your mama for marrying up when he was over there fighting slant eyes. Had his mind set on Miss Madeline, though Christ knows she never looked at him twice when he was smack in front of her.” He grinned toothlessly. “You taking him on as a daddy-in-law,
“Guess not.” Gingerly he got to his knees again. Breathing shallowly, he inched his way to his feet. It felt as if he’d been trampled by a herd of runaway horses. “I’ll do what I can with the flowers later.”
“See that you do.” She slipped an arm around his waist, and taking his weight, helped him inside.
Though he didn’t much care to get himself riled up on Edda Lou’s behalf, Tucker couldn’t quite get past the niggling sense of worry in his gut. He told himself to let crazy Austin worry about his crazy daughter—who’d more than likely gone to ground for a few days to avoid her daddy’s wrath and to stir up Tucker’s guilt. But he couldn’t forget what it had been like to find sweet little Francie floating, those bloodless wounds gaping all over her fish-white skin.
So he stuck on a pair of sunglasses to conceal the worst of the sunburst bruise on his left eye and, downing two of the painkillers Josie took for menstrual cramps, set out to town.
The sun beat down mercilessly, making him wish he’d just crawled off to bed with an ice pack and a long whiskey. That was what he was going to do once he talked to Burke.
With any luck Edda Lou would be behind the counter at Larsson’s selling tobacco and Popsicles and bags of charcoal for barbecues.
But he could see plainly through the wide front window as he drove past, and it was young, gawky Kirk Larsson at the main counter, not Edda Lou.
Tucker pulled up in front of the sheriff’s office. If he’d been alone, he would have eased himself out inch by painful inch. Whimpering. But the three old coots who always planted themselves out in front, to chew the fat, curse the weather, and hope for gossip, were in position. Straw hats covered grizzled heads, wind-burned cheeks were puffed out with chaws, and faded cotton shirts had gone limp with sweat.
“Hey there, Tucker.”
“Mr. Bonny.” He nodded to the first man, as was proper, seeing that Claude Bonny was the eldest of the group. All three had lived off social security for more than a decade and had staked out the awning-shaded sidewalk in front of the rooming house as their retirement heaven. “Mr. Koons. Mr. O’Hara.”
Pete Koons, toothless since his forties and no fan of dentures, spat through his gums into the tin bucket his grandniece provided. “Boy, looks like you ran into a mean woman or a jealous husband.”
Tucker managed a grin. There were few secrets in town, and a smart man chose his wisely. “Nope. A pissed-off papa.”
Charlie O’Hara gave a wheezy chuckle. His emphysema wasn’t getting any better, and he figured he’d die of it before another summer came, so he appreciated all of life’s little jokes. “That Austin Hatinger?” When Tucker jerked his head to the side in acknowledgment, O’Hara wheezed again. “Bad apple. Once saw him whale into Toby March—’course Toby was a black boy, so nobody paid much mind. Must’ve been in sixty-nine. Stove in Toby’s ribs and scarred his face.”
“Sixty-eight,” Bonny corrected his crony, because accuracy was important in such matters. “That was the summer we got the new tractor, so I remember. Austin said Toby’d stole a length of rope outta his shed. But that was nonsense. Toby was a good boy and never took nothing wasn’t his. He come to work out on the farm with me after his ribs healed. Never had a bit of trouble outta him.”
“Austin’s a mean one.” Koons spat again, eitherfrom need or to emphasize his point. “Went to Korea mean and came back meaner. Never did forgive your mama for marrying up when he was over there fighting slant eyes. Had his mind set on Miss Madeline, though Christ knows she never looked at him twice when he was smack in front of her.” He grinned toothlessly. “You taking him on as a daddy-in-law,
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