into the safe. The angry surge that had carried him up the trellis sent him back into Steele’s room. He dismissed any thoughts or yearnings for immediate revenge. He debated on whether or not to contact the law, Sheriff Calhoun, his grandmother’s nemesis. What would his gram advise? leave before getting caught .
With an ear cocked for movement outside the door, Trent returned the safe to its hidey-hole, slid the floorboards into place and replaced the carpet. He didn’t know when Steele would next check the safe, but he hoped that it would be soon. Thinking of Steele finding the theft made him smile. As he eased out the window, shut the blinds, scaled the trellis, he imagined Steele opening the safe. An ordinary thief would take all the jewels and an ordinary man in Steele’s position would break into a sweat.
But Steele was no ordinary man.
A shadow loomed on the dew sparkling grass. The cloud that had been covering the moon had been chased by a cold wind. The long, hulking shadow turned in Trent’s direction. Hanging from the trellis with no place to hide, Trent swung out his boot. All his anger and aggravation slammed into Orson’s face. As Orson stumbled, Trent felt relief to see the familiar snake tattoo curling around the man’s wrist; at least he hadn’t booted an innocent man.
Orson stumbled and then regained his balance. Trent jumped down in time to take a blow to the face. What had Mercy said? Fists at the ready? Although pain clouded his vision, he saw Orson cocking his right paw for another strike. Too late, he lifted his arm to block Orson’s throw. My fists aren’t always ready , he thought as his head thundered in pain. He blinked, realizing he couldn’t see out of one eye. He ducked in anticipation, stomach muscles clenched for the expected blow. He braced his legs, lowered his head, and leaned in for the fight. Orson’s fist slammed into his gut, another landed on his chin, and as Trent reeled, he caught a fleeting glimpse of an umbrella whizzing through the air.
Rose Arbor, Washington
Like many Victorians, the Michaels’ home has a porch that wraps the front and sides. Wisteria, eons old with twisted vines as thick as my arm, clings to the porch eaves. Fat rain drops dot the purple petals. Beyond the porch the world looks shimmery green.
Locals call the Michaels’ place the big house. At one time it’d stood alone in a valley of buttercups and horses. The land had been a horse ranch for many years, but during the depression it’d been divided and sold into parcels. I live in the 1930’s craftsman’s bungalow that Gregg’s parents had built on land purchased from the Michaels.
I glance at Odious and wonder what he knows of his great-grandparents. I hold the books close to my chest as we climb the steps down to the garage. He clicks a fob, lights flicker and the car beeps.
Naturally, he drives a Mercedes. I sink into the plush leather and settle the books on my lap so that their spines face my door. The diary looks nothing like a library book. A solid piece of tanned leather binds the pages and a thong wraps around the book. If the Odor looks carefully, he’ll instantly recognize the theft. My heart beats faster when he steers towards the library.
“ I live on French and Elm.”
He gives me an apprising look and to my relief, takes the following right turn. “On the corner?” he guesses.
I nod.
“ You’ve the house with the flowers.”
“ Yes.”
“ Your garden’s gorgeous.”
“ Thank-you.” I get that a lot.
The windshield wipers beat out a staccato and the luxury car splashes through the puddles dotting the black top. Neither of us speaks until he pulls the car beside my gate. I sigh in relief. “Thank-you, Mr. Michaels, you’ve been very kind.”
“ I wish you wouldn’t call me Mr. Michaels. It makes me feel ancient and I assume I’m not that much older than you.”
I have my hand on the door. In minutes I’ll be reading the diary. The longing
With an ear cocked for movement outside the door, Trent returned the safe to its hidey-hole, slid the floorboards into place and replaced the carpet. He didn’t know when Steele would next check the safe, but he hoped that it would be soon. Thinking of Steele finding the theft made him smile. As he eased out the window, shut the blinds, scaled the trellis, he imagined Steele opening the safe. An ordinary thief would take all the jewels and an ordinary man in Steele’s position would break into a sweat.
But Steele was no ordinary man.
A shadow loomed on the dew sparkling grass. The cloud that had been covering the moon had been chased by a cold wind. The long, hulking shadow turned in Trent’s direction. Hanging from the trellis with no place to hide, Trent swung out his boot. All his anger and aggravation slammed into Orson’s face. As Orson stumbled, Trent felt relief to see the familiar snake tattoo curling around the man’s wrist; at least he hadn’t booted an innocent man.
Orson stumbled and then regained his balance. Trent jumped down in time to take a blow to the face. What had Mercy said? Fists at the ready? Although pain clouded his vision, he saw Orson cocking his right paw for another strike. Too late, he lifted his arm to block Orson’s throw. My fists aren’t always ready , he thought as his head thundered in pain. He blinked, realizing he couldn’t see out of one eye. He ducked in anticipation, stomach muscles clenched for the expected blow. He braced his legs, lowered his head, and leaned in for the fight. Orson’s fist slammed into his gut, another landed on his chin, and as Trent reeled, he caught a fleeting glimpse of an umbrella whizzing through the air.
Rose Arbor, Washington
Like many Victorians, the Michaels’ home has a porch that wraps the front and sides. Wisteria, eons old with twisted vines as thick as my arm, clings to the porch eaves. Fat rain drops dot the purple petals. Beyond the porch the world looks shimmery green.
Locals call the Michaels’ place the big house. At one time it’d stood alone in a valley of buttercups and horses. The land had been a horse ranch for many years, but during the depression it’d been divided and sold into parcels. I live in the 1930’s craftsman’s bungalow that Gregg’s parents had built on land purchased from the Michaels.
I glance at Odious and wonder what he knows of his great-grandparents. I hold the books close to my chest as we climb the steps down to the garage. He clicks a fob, lights flicker and the car beeps.
Naturally, he drives a Mercedes. I sink into the plush leather and settle the books on my lap so that their spines face my door. The diary looks nothing like a library book. A solid piece of tanned leather binds the pages and a thong wraps around the book. If the Odor looks carefully, he’ll instantly recognize the theft. My heart beats faster when he steers towards the library.
“ I live on French and Elm.”
He gives me an apprising look and to my relief, takes the following right turn. “On the corner?” he guesses.
I nod.
“ You’ve the house with the flowers.”
“ Yes.”
“ Your garden’s gorgeous.”
“ Thank-you.” I get that a lot.
The windshield wipers beat out a staccato and the luxury car splashes through the puddles dotting the black top. Neither of us speaks until he pulls the car beside my gate. I sigh in relief. “Thank-you, Mr. Michaels, you’ve been very kind.”
“ I wish you wouldn’t call me Mr. Michaels. It makes me feel ancient and I assume I’m not that much older than you.”
I have my hand on the door. In minutes I’ll be reading the diary. The longing
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