Another Man's Treasure Read online

  He climbed the front porch steps to his outdated doublewide, already hearing the excited scratch of Kinko’s nails against the inside of the door. “I’m coming, girl,” he called, shucking his filthy coveralls, shoving them into the old rain barrel that served as a laundry hamper outside the front door. He kicked off his new leather work boots, frowning at the greasy Mickey Mouse shaped stain on the toe.

  He opened the screen and turned his key in the lock, the scratching joined by an impatient bark. Cracking the door open, he found himself barraged by a gyrating mass of black curls. “Hey, Kink. What’ve you been up to all day?” Deason knelt and scratched the little black poodle’s head as she pawed his knees, flicking her pink tongue, stealing a kiss.

  “Good girl.” He smiled, tucking the dog into the crook of his arm. She nuzzled her cold nose into his neck as he stood with her then walked to the kitchen.

  A month after their wedding, Gabriella saw an ad in the newspaper for toy poodles and begged him to buy her one. Hesitant at first, he’d gone with her to the seller’s house, an old grandmother with more dogs than she could handle. They’d watched the pups roll and play around the room, five gray and one black.

  “I want the black one,” Gabriella had insisted. “She’s one of a kind, like me.” She’d lowered her chin and fluttered her lashes. He’d kissed her cheek and agreed.

  Gabby was one of a kind, all right. A beautiful, passionate, fiery…

  …adulteress, willing to pleasure any man with a drop of warm blood in his veins.

  Deason pulled a soda from the fridge as he finished his thought then stepped to the living room and sank into his worn recliner. Settling Kinko onto his lap, he aimed the remote at the battered television across the small room.

  He and the dog had a lot in common where Gabriella was concerned. Both were creatures she’d picked out, sworn to love, and then turned her back on. Once again, he thanked the Lord she’d never gotten pregnant. Not for lack of trying. She’d started in on him right away, their wedding night, in fact, crying about how she longed to have a baby, and how she’d never received love as a child. She talked about getting pregnant as if it could somehow fill a void in her life, never once mentioning the word family.

  A vision of his own family flashed behind his eyes. His gaze swept over the cheap entertainment center, to the framed photograph of Mom, Dad, himself and baby Beth. He imagined it melting, their smiling faces charred and bubbling as the picture caught fire, leaving only him intact. He shook the image away.

  To Gabby, a child would have been just another pet to abandon on a whim. “Like us, Kink,” he said, flipping through the fuzzy channels. He stroked the dog’s head, relieved he was holding a poodle instead of a baby. It wasn’t that he didn’t want children. He loved kids. And even though after what he’d let happen to little Beth he didn’t deserve a child, he still hoped to have a couple of his own one day. Just not with a “one of a kind” woman like Gabby. And right now, he wasn’t sure any other type of woman existed.

  Charis Locke invaded his mind, her sky-blue gaze on him as she twirled her blond hair around an ink pen. Well, maybe one existed. But he’d better get that thought out of his head. Even if he wasn’t moving practically to Canada in a matter of weeks, he’d still have Victor Locke to contend with.

  Not that he was afraid—far from it—he just had no desire to waste any more time behind bars because of a piece of refuse, worth even less than the garbage he collected on the curb. The two nights he’d spent in county after thumping Ricky Holland, although worth it, had been more than enough.

  Deason swallowed the last of his soda, set Kinko on the ugly burnt-orange carpeting and rose from his chair. His fingers almost touched the popcorn-textured ceiling as he lengthened his tense muscles, body taxed by the morning’s unexpected adrenaline rush, in addition to his usual hard labor. He rubbed his forearm, massaging the ugly, eighteen-year-old scar that still tingled.

  A commercial, showing a snowcapped mountain appeared on his even snowier television set. The image of the mountain held his gaze, making him restless. Opting to ignore his aches and pains, he decided to get some packing done before bed.

  ****

  “Bubba?”

  In the bedside chair, Deason lifted his face from his hands. Had he been dozing or praying? He couldn’t remember. Little Beth’s voice, so light, a sprinkle of rain on a wind chime. He must have dreamed it.

  “Bubba.” Beth’s voice, a little louder now.

  Deason stood, leaned over the bed. Only three years old, his baby sister lay trapped in a giant web of tubes and wires. A tiny blue-eyed fly, bandaged mummy-style, waiting to be consumed. Not by spider, but by death.

  “I’m here, Beth.” He searched for a place to touch her, a patch of soft skin to caress, to reassure her, let her know it would be okay. There was none.

  She reached for him.

  God, his baby sister. Her tender skin, soft and fresh as rose petals, smelled of char, decay, infection. One blue eye stared at him from the bandages.

  “You have an owie,” she whispered, trying to point at his bandaged arm, giving up because her fingers were taped together.

  “I’m all right,” he said, biting back the tears that filled his eyes and clogged his throat.

  She turned the blue eye to his face. “Someone pulled me out. Was that you, Bub? Did you save me?”

  “No, Beth. I didn’t save you. It was a fireman who pulled you out.”

  “But you’re a fireman.”

  “No.”

  “Did you save Daddy and Mama?”

  “No.”

  “Did the fire burn them up?”

  Deason couldn’t speak. He didn’t want Beth to speak either. “Shhh.” He pressed a finger to his lips, swallowing a sob.

  He hadn’t saved Mom and Dad. He’d killed them, just like he’d killed Beth. Only Beth, the sweet baby with the rose petal skin, would suffer first.

  “I love you, Bub.”

  “Shhh, go to sleep, Beth.”

  Deason bolted upright, sweat coating his body. Kinko’s shrill barks echoed through the trailer. He jumped from the bed, knees groaning in protest as he hit the floor in a barefoot run toward the living room, pictures bouncing against the wall. He found his dog, snarling, hunched in the middle of the living room carpet, surrounded by glass, teeth bared at a hissing object.

  What the hell…

  Deason snapped on the light. An unopened, red and white can rocked on the carpet, beer spewing from around the tab on the dented top. Vic. His gaze shot to the window, the slats of the lopsided mini blinds broken and covered in glass.

  Avoiding the glass, he stepped a wide circle around the small room then walked lightly to the front door, swinging it open in time to see taillights disappear down the curved dirt road. Blood boiling, he yanked open the screen and stepped onto the porch to grab his boots.

  His gaze scanned the porch and the grass around it. His boots were gone. “Son of a bitch stole my work boots.” He reentered the house, wanting to stomp, the fear of stray shards forcing him to tread lightly. He slammed the door behind him, knocking the clock from the paneled wall. It landed face up. Four a.m. He padded to the kitchen and started the coffee, Kinko on his heels, her overgrown curls sweeping up glass.

  His only other pair of shoes, the cheap sneakers he mowed yard in, were somewhere at the bottom of a cardboard moving box.

  It was going to be a long day.

  ****

  Charis cringed as she pulled into the driveway and parked her eight-year-old Corolla behind the shiny new Audi. Wendell had arrived last night. Lucky for her, he’d been road tired, and she’d been able to make a clean getaway. Today, she wouldn’t be so lucky. He’d be rested, fresh as a daisy, and she’d be at his mercy until she finished her shift at five o’clock p.m.

  Taking a deep breath, she twisted her hair into a topknot then took her time gathering her supplies. She once again looked over Mr. Barnaby’s newest prescription information—which she�
��d already memorized—and then tested her stethoscope on herself to make sure it was operating properly. Running out of procrastination material, she pulled the earpieces from her ears and slid the clipboard into her bag, shrugging the strap onto her shoulder.

  She could tolerate Wendell for Mr. Barnaby’s sake, although most of the time Mr. B didn’t seem too fond of him either. All in all, she felt she handled Wendell’s clumsy attempts at flirting pretty well. Playing innocent, she pretended not to understand his awkward innuendoes or get his inappropriate jokes. She rather enjoyed watching the color creep from his neck to his face as she asked him exactly what he meant.

  Most times it worked nicely, and he tried to brush the remarks aside as if he’d said nothing. Only once had the tactic backfired on her. While driving him home as a favor following a tooth extraction, Wendell—still under the influence of laughing gas—made a particularly suggestive comment. Behind the wheel, Charis widened her eyes and played dumb, hoping to humiliate him. But instead of blushing, he had explained, in explicit detail, just exactly what he’d meant by the remark. Angry and embarrassed, she’d fumed all the way to Mr. Barnaby’s house as Wendell snored, fast asleep, in the passenger seat.

  A loud pop caused Charis to jump from her skin. She jerked her gaze to the windshield as Wendell repeated his knock, smiling like a goon. “Are you going to stay in there all day?” he mouthed, stepping to her locked door, tugging the handle.

  She unlocked the door and slid from the seat, the spicy scent of his cologne already overpowering the fresh morning air. “Good morning, Wendell.” She tried to sound cheerful. He folded her into an uncomfortable hug and her body repelled, sucking into itself.

  “Sorry I wasn’t up for visiting last night. The trip from Kansas City was exhausting, you wouldn’t believe the traffic. Not to mention the audit, which took two full weeks to complete. The books were a mess, nothing could be accounted for. And the bank president was a real dick—pardon my expression. I head to Colorado Springs day after tomorrow. Hope they’re ready for me. When people watch their figures…” Wendell slowly swept his gaze over Charis’s body. “…it just makes my job so much easier.”

  Charis didn’t flinch, nor did she smile. She simply stared at him, purposely blank faced until he looked away, clearing his throat.

  “Jeez, look at me, rambling out here in the driveway while you stand holding your bag. Please, come inside.”

  She followed Wendell up the porch steps and through the front door. Mr. Barnaby sat in his favorite kitchen chair looking at the newspaper. She leaned down and kissed the top of his head. “Hair looks good, if I do say so myself,” she said, smoothing the strands she’d disturbed.

  “All my blasted friends are dying.” He shoved the paper away. “Last week Phil kicked the bucket, this week Sal. Soon I’ll be the only one left, besides Peggy. Old prune’s had every condition known to man, and she’s still kicking. Probably live forever.” He ran a shaking hand over his scalp, re-smoothing his hair.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. B. You want me to read you something to take your mind off it?” Charis slid into the neighboring chair and picked up the paper. “Let’s see… Says here Shaydn’s having a town-wide garage sale this weekend. Do you want me to drive you around on Saturday, see what we can find?”

  “Now why would I want to drag more old junk into a house already filled with old junk?”

  “Father, she’s only trying to help,” Wendell said, looking down at Mr. Barnaby through his thick lenses.

  “He knows that,” Charis said, patting Mr. B’s thin shoulder then folding the newspaper. “Now, how about I fix you some scrambled eggs? I’ll even let you complain about how overcooked they are, and how I don’t put enough butter on your toast.” She nudged the old man gently, prompting a smile. “Good. I’ll get started.”

  After breakfast, Charis administered Mr. Barnaby’s medication then helped him lie down for his nap. She returned to the kitchen to wash the dishes.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute?” Wendell walked right into her personal space, standing too closely beside her.

  “Sure,” she answered, turning quickly, leaving an unwashed cup in the sink as she hurried from him and slid into a kitchen chair. She hoped he wasn’t going to ask her to work tomorrow. Her heart was set on crawling into her own bed tonight, sleeping late tomorrow then lunching with her best friend.

  “Mrs. Smith paid me a visit when I went out to get the paper this morning. What’s this I hear about Victor attacking you in the front yard yesterday?” He turned his head slightly, narrowing his eyes.

  “Well, I wouldn’t really call it an attack—more like a confrontation. Vic was drunk, as usual, and got a little sideways. No harm done.” She remained as tight lipped as possible, giving him the barest of details.

  “Should we think about a protective order?” Wendell steepled his soft hands under his weak chin.

  We? She bit her tongue, ignoring his poor word choice. “No. I don’t want to give Vic the satisfaction. His goal is to intimidate me. If I get a protective order, he wins.”

  “From what I was told, you now have your very own super hero. Trash Man. Mrs. Smith said the barbarian left his truck running in the street while he beat the hell out of Vic. Did he use a garbage can lid as a shield?” He huffed out a laugh, crossing his arms over his flaccid chest. “That’s all you need. Another testosterone riddled redneck thrown into the mix.”

  Heat simmered in Charis’s tightening chest, climbing all the way to the top of her head like mercury in a thermometer. “I don’t know how any of this is your business.” She bit out her words slowly, fighting to overcome the tremor in her voice.

  “My business? You are my father’s caregiver. We both care deeply about you. Not to mention, I don’t like the thought of my father’s front yard doubling as the Coliseum.” He reached for her hand; she snatched it from the table to her lap.

  Pressure built within her eyeballs, like steam. Her muscles shook with tension, threatening a volcanic eruption. Never had she worked so hard to hold her temper. She had to keep herself under control for Mr. Barnaby. She wouldn’t explode.

  With Mr. B fast approaching the final stages of Alzheimer’s, her love for him was the reason she didn’t do a lot of things. It was the reason she hadn’t accepted the administrative position at the hospital, even though she held a bachelor’s degree in nursing. The job paid twice as much as she made now, and she’d be able to sleep in her own bed at night. It was the reason she didn’t pack up everything she owned and put as many miles as possible between her and Vic. And it was the reason she didn’t—at this very moment—look Wendell square in the eye and tell him to take a high dive into a shallow pool. She loved the old man and wanted to see him through the end of his days. Besides, no one could take care of him like she could.

  Wendell wiped his brow with the back of his hand and loosened his collar as if sitting too close to a campfire. “I’m sorry. I can see I’ve overstepped my boundaries. I just worry about Father, about you. The thought of something happening while I’m away…”

  “We’re fine,” Charis said flatly, staring straight into his murky brown eyes.

  “Okay. I’ll drop it.” He offered a shaky little smile then adjusted his glasses. “Mind if I change the subject?”

  “Be my guest,” she replied with a shrug.

  “Well, as you know, Father’s entertainment center is overflowing with VHS tapes, even though he no longer has a VCR. Most are home movies that Mother recorded. Since his birthday is coming up next month, I thought I’d have all of the old tapes put onto DVDs for him, so he could watch them again.”

  “But he doesn’t have a DVD player, either,” Charis said, wanting to roll her eyes.

  “He does now. I bought one for him while I was in Kansas City. Guess I forgot to mention that. I plan on hooking it up today, if you think it’s a good idea.”

  “I think Mr. B would like that very much, Wendell,” Charis said, not ready to admit how impressed
she was by the thought he’d put into his father’s birthday gift.

  “Great.” he slapped his hands onto the armrests, pushing up from the chair. “I’ll get it out of the car and get it wired to the television.” He smiled, appearing somehow humble for the first time since Charis had known him. She watched him step from the kitchen door, down the porch steps and to the driveway, aiming his keychain remote, causing the car to chirp.

  Without warning, the screech of tires and smell of burning rubber filled the kitchen. Charis jumped from the chair and ran to the screen door. Vic rolled down his window, spit on the road then revved his truck, polluting the street with exhaust fumes. “Hey there, Wendell, how’s it hanging?” he yelled, a nasty grin spreading his face.

  “Victor Locke, you get off my property,” Wendell warned, shaking his fist like a flesh and blood version of Elmer Fudd.

  “Since when is the public roadway your property?” Vic snorted. “Nice ride you got there. You buy it with all that money you swindled out of my daddy?”

  “Your father bought the store fair and square, Vic. It’s not my fault he drank up all the profits.”

  Vic’s grin fell. “You lying son of a bitch, maybe I should just kick your ass, instead of suing it. One way or another, on my dead daddy’s grave, you’re gonna pay. Matter fact, Lawyer Simmons is looking over those store books you cooked right now. Won’t be long ’til everyone in town finds out how crooked you are.” His grin returned. “Might as well kiss that cushy job of yours goodbye—along with that snazzy set of wheels.”

  Wendell slipped his phone from his breast pocket then tapped the screen with big movements, as if to make sure Vic could see.

  “Go ahead, call the police. Be sure to ask for Officer Jones. I bought him a beer at Suds last Friday. He owes me one.” He revved the engine again as Wendell brought the phone to his ear, and then he peeled out, leaving black skids on the street. “I’ll be in touch!” he yelled as he turned the corner.

  Visibly frustrated, Wendell stuffed the phone into his pocket then opened the backdoor of his car to retrieve the DVD player. He trudged up the front steps, his bleak gaze meeting Charis’s through the screen door.