Outmaneuvered, Thea. Keep the peace.
"Okay. I'll stop by after I've talked to the sheriff."
"Bring your bag in case you want to stay."
"Let the girl go, Vi," Uncle Henry said. He smiled at me. "She'll be fine."
Once home, I fell into my habitual routine of showering and agonizing over what sporty pieces to wear for work on "casual Monday." Since I worked at home and rarely dressed up anymore, it was "casual Monday through Friday." The whole decision-making thing was a game I played to get into the right frame of mind for the day ahead. Today it played the additional role of comfort-by-familiarity. I settled on jeans, a long sleeved, pink t-shirt, and my pink, fuzzy bunny slippers. They were cute, and cheered me up – though only the left one still had its little tongue sticking out and the right one's crooked eyes made it look concussed. I started the coffee, then went to my office-in-the-spare-room and prepared to download files. I'd do that task first to free up my telephone by the time my clients opened for business. Without a dual connection on my phone line, calls would route directly to voice mail.
You're so technologically behind the times, Thea. Maybe it's time to part with some cash and upgrade. Yeah, yeah, I know. But small businesses have failed spending too much too soon. Better to be smart. Besides, anyone desperate to get hold of me knew to call my cell phone.
I pulled the cell phone out of my purse and sat it on my desk. It beeped. Low battery. Again. You need to spring for a new phone, too. I ignored the urge to spend, turned the phone off and plugged it into the recharger. It would be fully charged by the time I left for the sheriff's office. Probably.
The doorbell rang, but it was the pounding on the solid wood door that alarmed me. I jumped up, zipped down the hallway, and yanked the front door open. Greg Marshall loomed in the doorway, fist raised, ready to pound again. I sprang back to avoid a blow. His appearance shocked me, too. Besides the fact that I had no idea he knew where I lived, his clothes were untidy and wrinkled – a state I thought foreign to him. Dark smudges under red-rimmed eyes made him look ill – or hung over. In place of his customary, handsome smile was an ugly twist. Anyone could see Valerie's death had hit him hard.
"Greg -"
"Where is he?"
The hostility in his tone checked my sympathy and sent me back another step. "Excuse me? Who?"
"That goddamn horse of yours. He's not at Copper Creek." His unblinking blue eyes bore down on me, igniting a cold fear in my chest.
Oh crap. I should have anticipated this. "Greg, I know you're upset, and I don't blame you, but you need to leave. You should go home and get some rest. We can talk later." The tremor in my voice belied my attempt at calm.
I started to close the door, but he stepped forward and pushed it forcefully out of my hand, sending it crashing into the wall. I flinched and backed away.
"I'm so sorry about Valerie," I said.
"Yeah, well, 'sorry' won't bring her back, will it BC?"
I turned, intending to make a dash for my office and the phone, but he was faster. He caught my upper arm and pulled me back, nearly lifting me off my feet.
"Greg, you're hurting me. Stop it!"
"Where is he?" He dragged me closer, forcing me to dance on my tiptoes to keep from falling.
"I don't know." I pried at his fingers and never saw the back-handed slap that connected with my cheek. My head snapped sideways and I cried out. He grabbed my jaw and jerked my face toward him. I tasted blood.
"We were going to be married. You've taken that away from me." He spat the words at me, his voice a growl. "Where is that animal? He deserves to die like Valerie did. You're hiding him."
"No. I'm not – Greg, please, let me go, please. I don't know where he is. Only the sheriff – please." My voice shattered around the last word as he shook my arm wrenching my shoulder.
"Bullshit. You know."
His nostrils flared with rapid breaths as he released my jaw and hauled his fist back. I threw my free arm up. The blow connected with my forearm and half spun me in his grip as if I were a toy.
"Greg no, please, no. Please."
Again he gripped my face and hauled me to within an inch of his.
God no. Make him stop.
"Now, you tell me where he is."
His breath sprayed my face. It was – minty fresh? He'd remembered to brush his teeth? Surprise morphed to pissed-off. I struck at him with my fist and kicked at his legs. His fingers dug into my flesh, but the pain only fed my rage. I kicked and twisted.
"You squirmy little bitch -"
"Hey! What the hell's going on here!"
I staggered backward as Greg whirled toward the voice. Paul leapt the steps, and let fly. His fist connected with Greg's jaw and, before I could blink, Greg was flat on his back on my porch.
"Get out of here," Paul said, voice cold with authority, fists still clenched, still balanced on the balls of his feet.
Greg eyed him warily, one hand rubbing his jaw, as he struggled to get upright. Half way to his feet he paused. Paul coiled. Then Greg straightened, turned and strode down the steps. I held my breath until I heard his car door slam. The angry revving of the car's engine was followed by the squeal of tires on asphalt.
"Are you all right?" Paul's attention shifted to me.
"I – I…" My lip was wet. I dabbed at it with the back of my shaking hand and examined the red smear. Blood. Mine. I pressed my wrist against my lip.
"Here. Let me have a look."
He reached for my face and I reeled back. His eyes widened and his reach turned into a point.
"Ice. You need some ice on that."
I nodded, but as I headed for the kitchen my knees wobbled. Paul's hand on my elbow steadied me. He guided me inside to the sofa.
"Sit down. I'll get it."
I sat, listened to him rummage around in my kitchen, and swallowed down a wave of nausea as the "what ifs" began. What if Paul hadn't shown up? What if I'd broken and told Greg where Blackie was? What if he hadn't stopped beating on me? My chest constricted with emotion I couldn't contain. Tears washed down my cheeks.
A loud pounding on my front door nailed me to my seat renewing the terror. Paul strode from the kitchen at a quick walk and yanked open the front door. From where I sat I couldn't see who was there.
"Is Ms. Campbell at home?"
My heart pounded in my stomach and my teeth chattered. I clamped my hands over my mouth and listened. The man's belligerent tone and raspy twang sounded somewhat familiar, but no name or face came to me.
"She's not available. I can give her a message." Paul's cool tone didn't match the tension in his shoulders.
"You Fuentes?"
Paul made a slight shift to the balls of his feet. "No."
I stopped breathing. Oh lord, not again. My shoulders hunched against the shaking.
"You can tell Ms. Campbell that Randy Rucker stopped by. I'm on my way to pick up my wife right now, so I can't wait. But you tell her I will be having words with her."
Randy Rucker? I curled into myself, grateful Paul stood between me and him. Randy was a big man. I didn't think I was up to a second confrontation today.
Paul didn't answer him, but held his ground in the doorway until footsteps retreated across my porch. Cautiously, I shifted toward the back of the sofa and craned my neck for a peek out the window. Yeah. It was Randy, all right. Cowboy hat, broad shoulders, and swagger. The sight of him walking away from my home loosened the spring coiled inside me. A little.
Paul closed the door and clicked the dead bolt into place. He returned to the kitchen then came back to the living room a moment later with an ice pack and a tea towel. He handed me the ice. I murmured a thank you and eased the plastic bag against my bruised face.
"You heard?" he asked.
I cleared my throat twice. "Yes. Thank you for sending him away."
He frowned at me for a moment. "Is he a problem, too?"