Read Online He's A Magic Man (The Children of Merlin) by Susan Squires - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Susan Squires
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picnic table, and went over a bridge that crossed a channel of some sort. After that there weren’t any more gates, and no visible houses.
Dowser pulled himself up with a groan. “Next dirt road,” he muttered. “On the left.”
She didn’t see anything except places where bugs and snakes might hang out. She was out here in the middle of nowhere with a drunk guy. Not smart, Drew. Her style lately. “I don’t see any road,” she said, irritated.
“Wait for it.” He leaned over the back seat now. She smelled the alcohol on his breath, the musky sweat, even the blood from his scrapes and under that, something that was just… him . Had she ever been able to distinguish scents like that? His warm breath on her neck was doing something to her she didn’t like. Well, that wasn’t really true. But it scared her.
“There,” he said.
She had to look twice. A track really, not a road, meandered off the asphalt into the foliage. A battered metal mailbox sat on a post half-buried in the vines. She slowed, thinking. She should just drop him here. Make him get out right now. At least she still had her shotgun.
“How far down this road?”
“Leave me here. You’ve done enough.”
Wow. That was the problem, wasn’t it? She was the reason he’d been beaten. He’d helped her. And stupid or not, Drew Tremaine paid her debts. “I’ll take you to your house,” she said, through tight lips. She turned down the track. Vines hung from big trees. The car jolted along the ruts. How did he get in and out when it rained? Which it did a lot here.
In about a hundred yards a weather-beaten cabin appeared in the middle of a clearing already being reclaimed by the jungle. The cabin stood on stilts about six or eight feet high, with a wide porch and a shallow shingled roof. Not much paint left, but it had once been white. Or maybe pale yellow. It looked like an ancient lady from a bygone age picking up her skirts to avoid the mud and sand. Vines were already beginning to encroach on the stilts on one side of the porch.
Pretty different than the multimillion dollar homes up in Sugarloaf proper. She pulled onto a sandy place that looked like it might support a car. A derelict boat was turned upside down off to the right, with a motor and multiple engine parts littering the ground. She could see a dock just past the boat, jutting out over a channel maybe ten or fifteen feet wide.
“Okay, home sweet home,” she announced, turning in the seat.
Boy, Dowser really looked bad. His eye was swollen almost shut. His right cheek was scraped and bruised along with his chin. He had a split lip. And that was what she could see.
He leaned forward with an effort and opened the car door. It was painful to watch him pull himself out. He made only one little grunt, but that told its own story. A guy like this wouldn’t want to admit weakness. He stood, holding on to the car door.
“You going to be okay?” she asked. This was just not feeling right.
“Sure,” he grunted. But as he took a step, his right leg gave way and he fell to the ground in a heap, groaning.
Damn. She got out of the car. Heat and the humidity engulfed her. It was hard even to breathe. She ran around the car. “Oh, my goodness,” she murmured. “Did they do something to your leg?”
“Old injury,” he said through clenched teeth. “Just needs ice.”
“Sure. You’re fine. No help needed here.” She put her hands on her hips and looked down at him. “Since you’re not asking, I’m not offering.” She reached down and took his arm. “I’m telling you. You need help into the house.”
He glared at her. “Thanks,” he half-sneered . But as she pulled, he got his good leg under himself, and allowed her to pull his arm over her shoulder.
This guy must be six-four or -five if he was an inch. She put her arm around his waist. His shirt was hanging in rags off him. His back was really scarred. Her hand touched bare skin. Drew sucked in a breath. Let it
Dowser pulled himself up with a groan. “Next dirt road,” he muttered. “On the left.”
She didn’t see anything except places where bugs and snakes might hang out. She was out here in the middle of nowhere with a drunk guy. Not smart, Drew. Her style lately. “I don’t see any road,” she said, irritated.
“Wait for it.” He leaned over the back seat now. She smelled the alcohol on his breath, the musky sweat, even the blood from his scrapes and under that, something that was just… him . Had she ever been able to distinguish scents like that? His warm breath on her neck was doing something to her she didn’t like. Well, that wasn’t really true. But it scared her.
“There,” he said.
She had to look twice. A track really, not a road, meandered off the asphalt into the foliage. A battered metal mailbox sat on a post half-buried in the vines. She slowed, thinking. She should just drop him here. Make him get out right now. At least she still had her shotgun.
“How far down this road?”
“Leave me here. You’ve done enough.”
Wow. That was the problem, wasn’t it? She was the reason he’d been beaten. He’d helped her. And stupid or not, Drew Tremaine paid her debts. “I’ll take you to your house,” she said, through tight lips. She turned down the track. Vines hung from big trees. The car jolted along the ruts. How did he get in and out when it rained? Which it did a lot here.
In about a hundred yards a weather-beaten cabin appeared in the middle of a clearing already being reclaimed by the jungle. The cabin stood on stilts about six or eight feet high, with a wide porch and a shallow shingled roof. Not much paint left, but it had once been white. Or maybe pale yellow. It looked like an ancient lady from a bygone age picking up her skirts to avoid the mud and sand. Vines were already beginning to encroach on the stilts on one side of the porch.
Pretty different than the multimillion dollar homes up in Sugarloaf proper. She pulled onto a sandy place that looked like it might support a car. A derelict boat was turned upside down off to the right, with a motor and multiple engine parts littering the ground. She could see a dock just past the boat, jutting out over a channel maybe ten or fifteen feet wide.
“Okay, home sweet home,” she announced, turning in the seat.
Boy, Dowser really looked bad. His eye was swollen almost shut. His right cheek was scraped and bruised along with his chin. He had a split lip. And that was what she could see.
He leaned forward with an effort and opened the car door. It was painful to watch him pull himself out. He made only one little grunt, but that told its own story. A guy like this wouldn’t want to admit weakness. He stood, holding on to the car door.
“You going to be okay?” she asked. This was just not feeling right.
“Sure,” he grunted. But as he took a step, his right leg gave way and he fell to the ground in a heap, groaning.
Damn. She got out of the car. Heat and the humidity engulfed her. It was hard even to breathe. She ran around the car. “Oh, my goodness,” she murmured. “Did they do something to your leg?”
“Old injury,” he said through clenched teeth. “Just needs ice.”
“Sure. You’re fine. No help needed here.” She put her hands on her hips and looked down at him. “Since you’re not asking, I’m not offering.” She reached down and took his arm. “I’m telling you. You need help into the house.”
He glared at her. “Thanks,” he half-sneered . But as she pulled, he got his good leg under himself, and allowed her to pull his arm over her shoulder.
This guy must be six-four or -five if he was an inch. She put her arm around his waist. His shirt was hanging in rags off him. His back was really scarred. Her hand touched bare skin. Drew sucked in a breath. Let it
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