Another Man's Treasure Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Praise for ANOTHER MAN’S TREASURE

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  A word about the author...

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Another Man’s Treasure

  by

  Anna Kittrell

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Another Man’s Treasure

  COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Anna Kittrell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Kim Mendoza

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Crimson Rose Edition, 2013

  Print ISBN 978-1-61217-977-3

  Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-978-0

  Published in the United States of America

  Praise for ANOTHER MAN’S TREASURE

  “I fell in love with Anna Kittrell’s ANOTHER MAN’S TREASURE. In fact, I devoured every morsel of her pristine writing like a warm chocolate chip cookie. Ms. Kittrell brings us everyday characters in both ordinary and extraordinary situations. Her characters—including the killer—have depth and are relatable. This romantic suspense is a mystery at its core, wrapped in a deep story of friendship, love, desire, and noble intentions. The growth of the relationship between Charis and Deason is a perfect, slow-evolving love story with many passionate moments. Readers, if you are looking for a good book that screams suspense and simmers with romance, ANOTHER MAN’S TREASURE was written for you.”

  ~Vonnie Davis, Award winning author

  Dedication

  Dedicated to my husband, Tim,

  for believing there is no such thing as a stupid question,

  and for never laughing when I ask one.

  Thank you to Tianne, Dana, Paulette,

  fellow OKRWA chapter members,

  and especially to my editor, Ally Robertson,

  for making this story amazing.

  Chapter One

  Deason McKindle stopped his prehistoric garbage truck—the only manual rear loader left in the fleet—and jumped from the cab. He rounded the back of the beat up dinosaur and vaulted onto Mrs. Smith’s lawn. The relentless Oklahoma summer had scorched her grass brown.

  Mrs. Smith peeped over her newspaper and waved at him through the kitchen window. The ends of the white scarf knotted on her head stood straight up, reminding him of rabbit ears. He grinned and returned her wave before pulling the green plastic garbage bin over the curb. Exhaling sharply, he hoisted the bulky container up and turned it over, emptying the contents into the back of the truck.

  The day after Labor Day—heck of a time for Jagger to come down with a stomach virus. Almost every trash bin in the neighborhood overflowed, some surrounded with additional bulging bags, and Deason had to take the route alone, shouldering both the driving and dumping. He bumped the wheeled bin back over the curb. At the sound of raised voices, his gaze jerked to Mr. Barnaby’s yard. He listened, gloved hand still on the grimy handle.

  “How ’bout you get your skinny ass in my truck or I’ll snap your damn neck. How’d that be?”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you, Vic. You’re drunk. Go home and sober up.”

  The muscles at the base of Deason’s skull tensed as he squinted against the morning sun. Charis Locke stood on Mr. Barnaby’s lawn, dressed in blue hospital scrubs, holding a rolled newspaper. Victor Locke towered over her, fluid sloshing from the top of a red and white beer can already—or still—in his grip at seven a.m. He slung his hands threateningly close to Charis’s face.

  Deason’s heartbeat thundered in his ribs, loud and unsteady as the old truck’s idling engine. Lord knows he didn’t need more trouble. He already had a black mark on his record for punching one no-account loser in the face, a no-account loser not unlike the man shouting at Mr. Barnaby’s pretty caregiver. A second assault charge would cost him more than three days in jail and a job demotion.

  He wasn’t worried about losing the waste management position he’d been forced into. What he was worried about was losing his only chance of becoming a national park ranger, a dream that would be a reality two weeks from today in West Glacier, Montana.

  Cold, clean air, wide open spaces… And best of all, a permanent vacation from his cheating ex-wife. Next to his childhood fantasy of becoming a fireman, he wanted this career more than any he could imagine. He didn’t want to screw it up by getting himself thrown in jail, over a thousand miles away.

  “Woman, shut your mouth and get in.” Vic lunged for Charis then stumbled as she ducked beneath his arm, slipping from reach. Cursing, he hurled his beer at her, the amber liquid arcing through the air between them, the can hitting her squarely in the chest.

  “Hey! Leave her alone.” Deason charged through Mrs. Smith’s brown grass, pulling his work gloves off as he ran, clearing the neighboring lawn in four leaps.

  Vic turned his bloodshot gaze to Deason, who was now powering into the yard. “Like hell, I will,” he slurred, his wobbly legs straightening as if gaining strength from Deason’s challenge. With sudden speed Deason thought the drunk incapable of, Vic pounced on Charis, slapping her with the back of his hand, knocking her to the ground.

  Deason dived into Vic, launching him backwards onto the dew-slicked grass, landing on top of him. Crumpling the collar of his filthy shirt in one fist, he drew the other fist back, shoulder level, aiming to bring it down hard into Vic’s face.

  “Hey, I know you,” Vic garbled, his dull eyes floating over Deason’s features. “You’re Deason McKindle. SOB that punched out your supervisor and landed yourself on the trash wagon.” He threw his head back and wheezed out a beer-steeped laugh.

  Deason homed in on the oversized Adam’s apple, fighting the urge to twist the man’s collar until the stupid thing stopped bobbing.

  Vic returned his gaze to Deason, a glint in his clouded eyes. “You socked old Ricky Holland right in the mouth for screwing your old lady. Now she waits tables at Suds. Always shoving her tits in everyone’s faces.”

  Hovering above Vic’s sneer, Deason’s cocked fist quaked with anger, ready to drive the no good bum’s crooked nose straight through the back of his empty skull.

  “He’s not worth it.”

  Charis’s voice rang out stronger than Deason imagined it would, given what she’d just been through. Her words pulled him from his murderous thoughts, likely saving Vic’s life. He cut his gaze to where she stood, dusting her hands over the grass-stains on her clothes. A small, red line stamped the corner of her mouth like an exclamation point.

  Vic cackled. “You ain’t gonna do shit to me, McKindle. My buddy, Ricky, told me how it all went down. Sam, the big boss, made you promise to keep your nose clean, cause next time you screw up, it’ll be outta his hands.�
��

  Deason set his jaw and hardened his fist, cocking it back even further. “Not a problem. I know how to operate the trash compactor. By the time they find what’s left of your worthless bones, I’ll be long gone. Now close your eyes. Wouldn’t want you to get blood in them.”

  Vic widened his eyes then squeezed them shut, his smug laughter dissolving to whimpers. “Please…I didn’t mean to, man. The bitch just gets me so fired up…you should know what I’m talking about, considering Gabby, that whore of a wife you had.” He rolled his head from side to side.

  “Hold still. Let’s get this over with.” Deason tightened his grip on the sweat-soaked collar, digging his knuckles into Vic’s windpipe. “It’ll only hurt a minute.”

  “For God’s sake, no—” Vic blubbered.

  A little gasp escaped Charis.

  With a sickening crunch, Deason hammered his fist down, crushing the red and white beer can on the ground beside Vic’s contorted face. A sound, somewhere between a dog howl and a train whistle, escaped Vic as he arched his back, every muscle in his body seeming to tense up at once before going limp.

  Deason stood, gripping the crushed can, one leg on either side of Vic’s shoulders, waiting for him to come to. After a few seconds, Vic blinked up at him. “Don’t touch her again. Next time, this’ll be your face.” Deason tossed the crinkled can onto his chest before stepping away.

  Vic flung the can back into the grass and sat up, wincing as he creaked to his feet. “You’ll be sorry, trash man.” He staggered to his black pickup, sliding his hand over the oxidized hood to keep his balance. After hoisting himself into the cab, he gunned the engine, slammed into reverse and backed into Mr. Barnaby’s trash bin, knocking it from the curb. A hoarse cackle erupted as he rolled down the window and accelerated, peeling out on the mess, filling the street with garbage.

  Charis met Deason in the street. She stooped to pick up empty vegetable cans and stained coffee filters, tossing them into the bin as Deason returned it to its upright position.

  “That’s my job, Ms. Locke.” He knelt to pick up an empty mac and cheese box, his palm covering her slender fingers instead. “Sorry,” he mumbled, surprised when she molded her hand into his and stood, coaxing him to his feet.

  “You called me, ‘Ms. Locke,’ have we met?”

  Deason shook his head. “No, not officially. It’s a fairly small town. You make lots of connections in my line of work.”

  He offered a little grin, unable to tell her how he always looked forward to Tuesday, the morning he picked up bins on Kentucky Street, the single day that drove him, making all of the other days worth showing up for. How every morning he told himself, if he could just make it until Tuesday, he would glimpse Charis Locke through the kitchen window again, having coffee with Mr. Barnaby.

  She’d label him a stalker. Maybe even slap him with a protective order. His face warmed with embarrassment at the thought. Best to keep that information to himself.

  “Call me Charis. I’m in the process of getting rid of Vic’s last name—the sooner, the better.” She shook his hand.

  “Deason McKindle. Nice to officially meet you, Charis.”

  She smiled then flinched. “Seems the lip is still a little tender,” she said, ending the handshake, gesturing to the small split on the corner of her mouth.

  “Wish I would’ve stopped that from happening, but he moved pretty fast for a drunk.”

  She tilted her head. “Oh, I think you handled everything just fine. Although I could’ve held my own with him.” She gathered her blond hair into a loose bun, and used an ink pen—somehow still clipped inside her breast pocket—to hold the strands in place.

  Deason stepped on an escaping plastic bag then bent to pick it up, his pride a little bruised by her words.

  “After all, following five years of marriage, I’m a seasoned veteran in the dealings of Victor Locke.”

  Deason returned his gaze to hers, glimpsing the shadow behind her light blue eyes. Shame lowered his chin. Of course she could hold her own. No telling what that sorry sack had put her through. What he’d seen from Vic in the past few minutes alone convinced him that Charis’s marriage had been a living hell.

  He scooped up the last of the large items then wiped his hands on the thighs of his jeans. “I keep a broom on my truck. I’ll be back to take care of the rest of this in a minute.” He glanced down the block at the belching relic on wheels.

  Charis stepped from the street to the curb, crossing Mr. Barnaby’s lawn. She stooped in the middle of the yard to retrieve the newspaper from the grass. “You see what kind of trouble a girl can get herself into, just going outside to get the morning paper?” She tapped the rolled newsprint against the heel of her palm and shook her head, a little grin forming on her lips.

  Deason grinned back. “Damn shame.”

  “Thank you, Mr. McKindle, for your chivalry. Not too many guys like you around anymore.” She gazed silently at him for a moment, the sincerity in her eyes warming his heart and making him self-conscious at the same time.

  The slam of the screen door broke their gaze. “If I was your age, I would’ve killed him.” Mr. Barnaby stood on his front porch, pointing his trembling cane at Deason. “That wife beater deserves to die.”

  Charis hurried through the yard and up the front steps to Mr. Barnaby. “Don’t get yourself worked up, Mr. B. I’m just fine. Vic doesn’t scare me. Besides, Mr. McKindle came to my aid, just like a knight in shining armor.” She took Mr. Barnaby by the elbow, guiding him into the house, turning to wave at Deason before shutting the front door.

  ****

  Charis walked Mr. Barnaby to his favorite of the worn, avocado-green kitchen chairs and helped fold his stooped frame into the duct-taped upholstery. She patted his back, gathered his oatmeal bowl and juice glass from the table then stepped to the sink.

  “That McKindle is a good boy,” Mr. Barnaby said as Charis washed her hands then rinsed the dishes.

  She turned to look at him. “You know him?” Charis wasn’t sure why it surprised her. Mr. Barnaby had lived in the small town of Shaydn most of his life.

  He’d taken over the family grocery store back in the sixties, virtually running the business on his own until he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s nearly forty years later.

  Before the ink could dry on Mr. B’s medical charts, his son, Wendell, swooped in, flashing his “durable power of attorney affidavit” like a badge. Wendell had no interest in keeping the family business alive and no problem breaking his father’s heart. He sold the store to the highest bidder, town drunk Butch Locke, Victor’s father. Within a year the business went belly up.

  “Course I know Deason McKindle. Worked in my stock room twenty years back, when he was still in high school. His pop was my butcher for a while, name was Clinton. Jack of all trades. Knew a little bit about a whole lot of things. He was a good man, too. Honest as they come.”

  Charis wondered what Deason would’ve looked like then, back in high school. She dried her hands on the frayed dishtowel beside the sink, reflecting on his powerful jaw, and the intense hazel eyes flashing beneath strands of dark hair. “Good to know there are still a few nice people in the world,” she said, turning from the counter.

  Mr. Barnaby rubbed his trembling hand over his liver-spotted scalp, smoothing the unruly wisps of white cotton.

  “Would you like me to give you a haircut, Mr. B? You’re getting a little long on top.”

  He frowned as she knelt beside his chair. “Where’s Marjorie?”

  A surreal feeling crept over Charis, like it always did when Mr. Barnaby was time traveling. She couldn’t fathom how he could remember the number of years that had passed since a high school kid worked in his stockroom, but forget that the wife he’d loved for fifty years had died. He spent more and more time searching for Marjorie lately, though she’d been gone for fifteen years, now.

  “Oh, she’s just enjoying a little time alone. She’ll be back in a minute,” Charis answered, gen
tly patting his papery hands as he folded them on the table. “Let me grab the scissors and the mirror, the one with the magnified side you like to make faces at me in.” She narrowed her eyes and wiggled her finger at him. “I’ll be right back.” Mr. Barnaby smiled, his eyes brightening.

  Charis slipped from the doorway before he could see the tears slide down her cheek. She loved that old man so much her heart ached. Seven years ago, when she was fresh out of nursing school and new in town, Wendell hired her to keep his father’s medication on track. Almost instantly, Mr. Barnaby tucked her under his wing, treating her as if she was his own daughter.

  Mr. B had warned her early on against dating Vic—and a year later, against marrying him. He told her Vic was “putting on airs,” to win her over, and that the “apple didn’t fall far from the tree,” as far as Butch and Vic were concerned. But to Charis, Vic was just the nice guy who always gave her a wink and a free Hershey bar in the checkout stand at Locke’s Grocery. What harm could a couple of dates do?

  But Mr. B couldn’t have been more right and Charis couldn’t have been more wrong. Now, like many a hell-bent daughter enlightened the hard way, she wished she’d listened.

  Charis pulled the comb and scissors from the squeaky drawer in the bathroom vanity and the double-sided mirror from the cabinet below. She draped a towel over her arm and returned to the kitchen, placing the stand-alone mirror on the table in front of Mr. B, and then positioning herself behind him.

  “Ready for your haircut?” she asked, sliding the comb carefully over his age-freckled scalp, grasping the soft strands between her fingers. Not getting an answer, she paused the scissors and lowered her gaze to the mirror. In the reflection, Mr. B crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue. She shook her head and laughed.

  ****

  Deason’s old pickup truck sputtered to a stop in his gravel driveway. With his first Glacier Park paycheck, he would put a down payment on something dependable. Maybe something with a little more muscle, too. The dented door bounced open after he slammed it shut. That is, if the truck could even get him to Montana in the first place. He frowned and slammed it again.