“This baby changes everything for you and Jack.”

“I know,” Lucky told her sister. “We’re already separated. What’s a baby going to do to us?”

“Lucky, if the marriage isn’t working and you’re not happy, then file for divorce and save yourself a lot of grief. It is possible to raise a child without a man around.”

Lucky didn’t respond. At this point she didn’t know exactly what she wanted. But despite his annoying quirks, she loved Jack and didn’t want to raise their child alone. He’d never allow that anyway. He’d demand to be part of his child’s life.

“You’d better tell him as soon as possible,” her sister said.

“I will,” Lucky replied, but with little conviction.

“Lucky, do it. Don’t make things worse by having him find out some other way.”

“I will, okay?” And she would, but she dreaded it because she knew how Jack would react. He’d be thrilled. He’d want to move back in. But not for her. Not because he wanted to be with her. Only for the sake of the baby. And when that happened, she’d never be able to trust his feelings again.

This pregnancy would destroy any hope she had of saving her marriage.

Dear Reader,

In my story, Mr. and Mrs. Wrong, Jack and Erin Cahill love each other, but their differences result in a separation before their first wedding anniversary. Jack has secrets from his past that he’s unwilling to share. Lucky—as Erin has been nicknamed by her family—must let go of hurts from long ago if she and Jack are to have any chance of making their marriage work.

Lucky is a bit eccentric. Of all the characters I’ve created, I believe she’s my favorite. To do justice to her, I paired her with someone very special. Jack is a strong, sexy cop who adores her but doesn’t always understand how her mind works. That makes for some interesting conversations—and trouble. The people of Potock, Alabama, don’t call Lucky the “Body Magnet” for no reason. And her nickname “Lucky” isn’t always appropriate.

This book contains drama and laughter, suspense and romance. The setting is special to me—the Black Warrior River, where I spent many wonderful days of my childhood.

I very much enjoyed writing this story. I hope you enjoy reading it.

I’d love to hear from readers. You can write me at P.O. Box 240, Waverly, AL 36879-0240. You might also want to visit my Web site at http://www.fayrobinson.com/. Or check out the Friends and Links section at http://www.eHarlequin.com.

Sincerely,

Fay Robinson

Mr. and Mrs. Wrong
Fay Robinson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my mother, who was fearless.

And for Casey, who never minds listening to my crazy ideas.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

My deepest appreciation to the following people

for their help with research questions:

Buck Sanders, logger; Larry Hood, forestry manager;

Julie Merced and the Autism Society of Alabama;

forensic investigator Jim Sparrow and the Alabama

Department of Forensic Sciences; Larry Nichols of the IRS;

Cindy Taylor, private investigator; Robert Seidler, game

warden; and the members of the P-rock research list.

Any errors in this material are mine and not theirs.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

HE SHOWED UP without warning on a Thursday night. He said he’d left his boxing gloves behind when he’d moved out and needed them, but they both knew he kept them in his locker at the gym.

Lucky undid the latch on the screen door and the one on her heart and invited him in—again. Last time, the supposedly missing object had been his extra pistol. Before that, a basketball.

In the four months since Jack had taken an apartment in town, putting their eleven-month marriage in question, they’d searched for a “favorite” shirt he’d never worn and for tools he didn’t use. They’d turned the cabin upside down looking for a first-edition Hemingway he didn’t own and for a burglary-case file he’d never have left lying around. The only things they’d ever found were the zippers to each other’s pants.

“Whoa!” he said with a start, getting a better look at her. “What the hell did you do to your hair?”

“Whacked it all off, obviously.”

“No kidding.”

She waved back a moth that tried to follow him onto the porch, then flipped on the lights at the pier to draw the insects down to the water and away from him. The mosquitoes never bothered her. Like all the creatures who called Alabama’s Black Warrior River home, she’d accepted them as a natural part of life.

But Jack was already slapping at his skin, so she handed him the canning jar she’d learned to keep by the door. It contained a mixture of herbs and 190-proof grain alcohol. She’d inherited the recipe for the insect repellent from her granddaddy thirteen years ago, along with this cabin and eighty acres of surrounding bottom land.

Unscrewing the lid, Jack took a sniff. “You didn’t brew this in a whiskey still out here somewhere, did you, runt?”

“If I had, don’t you think I’d be drinkin’ the stuff, instead of making bug juice out of it?”

Chuckling, he dipped his fingers in the jar and dabbed a few drops of the liquid on his neck, face and below his rolled-up sleeves. He wore his dress clothes from work and, after chasing bad guys all day and being out in humidity over ninety percent, appeared wilted and tired. His tie was askew, and beggar lice and other bits of plant material clung to the hems of his pants. He needed a shave.

The gun he usually carried was probably locked inside his car’s glove compartment, but the empty shoulder holster by itself was enough to give him a dangerous look.

Much about Jack was dangerous, mysterious even, including his background. That was one of the things that had attracted her to him in the beginning. These days, though, the unanswered questions about his past only irritated her.

“So what’s the deal with your hair?” he asked. “Did you have one of those hissy fits your grandmother talks about?”

“A hissy fit is when you’re mad. I wasn’t mad.”

“What were you?”

“I don’t know. I felt like cutting it off, so I did.”

She fingered it. Three nights ago, during a depression over their crumbling marriage, she’d suddenly decided—after a lifetime of wearing her hair to her waist—that it had to go. The first crude snips she’d made with sewing scissors. A beautician had taken off most of the rest the next morning while trying to repair the damage Lucky had done. With the weight gone, it was no longer forced to behave, resulting in a riot of brown curls.

“Pretty awful, huh?” she asked him.

“No, not at all. Shocked me at first because you look so different, but it’s cute.” He reached out and playfully ran his fingers through it.

She let out a breath, exasperated. Never in a million years had she imagined he’d like it. Maybe she’d even lopped it off to spite him; she wasn’t sure. Where Jack was concerned, she had a hard time being honest with herself.

“But…you told me a million times I looked good in long hair.”

“You did. But this suits you, too.”

“Cal says I look like I had a brawl with 100,000 volts of electrical current.”

He chortled. “Want me to hurt him for you?”

“No, silly.” She tried not to smile.

“I could maim him slightly,” he teased. “Lock up one of his knee joints so he’d have to hobble around for a few weeks.”

He could, too. She’d once watched him take down three suspects in a robbery and never even draw his weapon.

“Better not,” she said. “As much as I’d love to see him in pain, he’s the only brother I’ve got.” She waved for him to follow her. “Come inside. It’s a bit cooler.”

“Have any beer?”

“I think so.”

The front room was a combination den and kitchen and even had a bed for nights when no breeze came off the river and the tiny bedroom became an oven. The old ceiling fan rattled overhead but barely stirred the air.

Her treasures—bird feathers, turtle shells, fossils, snakeskins and other objects she’d found in the woods and water—covered the walls and nearly every surface. Photographs littered the couch and chairs, leaving nowhere to sit.

“Things are a mess,” she said.

“When haven’t things been a mess?” He headed for the kitchen area.

“Try calling first to let me know you’re coming. I might clean up.”

“Like that would do any good. You need to throw away or burn some of this junk. The place is worse than a nature museum.” He opened the refrigerator, leaned in and started moving things around in search of a beer. He jumped back abruptly. “Damn! There’s a dead animal in here in a garbage bag!”

Oops. She’d forgotten about him. “That’s an otter.”

“What’s it doing in the refrigerator?”

“The poor thing drowned in one of my fish traps. I put him in there until I can give him a proper burial.”

He turned back with a pointed stare. “You’re going to have a funeral for an otter?”

“Not a funeral, Jack. Don’t make me sound like some nut. I don’t feel right simply tossing him in a hole in the ground since I caused his death, so I’m going to find a nice box for him.”

“Dead animals don’t belong in the refrigerator.”

“The next time I buy a chicken, I’ll remember that.”

“I’m serious, Lucky. Stuff like this shouldn’t be in the house, and you know it.”

She made a mental note not to let him in the bathroom if she could help it. He’d have a stroke if he saw what she was keeping in the tub.

“Let’s not argue, please.”

“Fine. It’s your place. You do what you want.” He slammed the fridge door. “I’ll pass on the beer until after the eulogy.”

Lucky bit back her retort.

He wandered over and took a cursory glance at the prints on the couch. “What’s this stuff?”

“Leigh asked me to frame two or three of my photographs to hang in her new office, now that Dad’s vacated it.”

“I’m surprised he’s taking his retirement so well. He seems really happy.”

“When did you see Dad?”

“He and Cal and I played golf the other day. He looked better than I’ve ever seen him. More relaxed.”

“I think he’ll enjoy concentrating on his weekly column and leaving the day-to-day hassle of running the newspaper to Cal and Leigh. Besides, Leigh’s managed the editorial side of things for a couple of years, anyway. She may as well have the title.” Lucky picked up some of the photographs. “I like the ones of the hummingbirds. The sunrise reflecting in the water is pretty good, too, but what do you think of this one? It’s Mr. Byrd, the old man who squeezes lemonade down at Turner’s drugstore.”

“I like it. Shows all the character lines in his face.” He chose one from a stack she’d developed that afternoon. “I’d skip this ugly thing, though. What is it?”

“A cicada. They’re courting right now.”

“That must be the racket I heard when I drove up.”

Racket. She thought of it as music.

He picked up several more prints and this time studied them. “These are pretty incredible,” he said, making her smile. “It’s a shame the public only ever sees your news photos. If you had your own studio…”

The smile vanished. “Don’t start, Jack.”

“Come on, Lucky. At least think about it. You’d get exposure for this area of your work. You could set your own hours and you wouldn’t have to be out at night. I don’t like you driving around here in the dark. It’s too isolated.”

“I’m three miles from downtown! And as far as my job goes, I couldn’t make a living freelancing. I’d have to worry about paying rent, getting equipment, setting up my own darkroom and buying chemicals—”

“Okay, I get it.”

“Not to mention having to hire someone to answer the phone and handle appointments.”

“I said I get it.”

“I like being able to take personal photos at my convenience, and Dad lets me use the Register’s dark-room after hours for nothing. That saves me a lot of money. I’d be foolish to quit my job there.”

He squeezed his forehead with one hand, his usual gesture of frustration. “I said okay. You’ve made your point.”

“Then please stop nagging me about this.”

“I would if you’d stay out of trouble. Your name’s already crossed my desk twice this week. What were you doing in the middle of that domestic dispute on Carver Avenue Monday afternoon?”

“That was purely accidental. I was taking photos there when the woman’s ex-boyfriend showed up drunk and tried to break down the door.”

“Situations like that can get you killed. What if he’d had a weapon?”

“Good grief! The story was about her doll collection. How could I have possibly known there’d be problems from that? You act like I get myself in trouble on purpose.”

“Sometimes I think you do. You thrive on the thrill of it.”

She started to respond, then let the comment slide. No, she wouldn’t talk about this anymore. Not with him. She had a job she loved and did well, and he was wrong in trying to tell her what she could and couldn’t do.

She crossed her arms and didn’t say anything. He tried to discuss it further, but she refused. Finally he gave up and dropped the subject.

He asked her about bills that needed paying. She asked him about her traitorous dog, who preferred to live with him. They talked about the weather, if she thought it might rain by morning. The conversation was stupid, purposely noncombative. But at least they weren’t arguing.

When they’d exhausted every “safe” topic, they stood staring at each other.

“Well…” He absently scratched his dark head.

“Well…” She looked away, no longer able to meet his gaze without feeling foolish. Her cheeks grew hot. Other places grew hot. They were about to engage in something she didn’t want—sex without commitment—and she couldn’t figure out why.

Because…the only time they got along was when they were horizontal. Much as she hated to admit it, that was the sad reality. He accused her of being too independent, and maybe she was. But he was too dictatorial. The one thing they had in common was their overpowering physical attraction to each other.

The anticipation thickened. She shifted from one bare foot to the other. Her pulse rose and her heart thumped so hard she imagined he could hear it. One of these nights she’d refuse to give him what he’d come here for.

But not tonight.

“I guess we should look for those boxing gloves before it gets too late,” she told him, playing the game. They never spoke the rules out loud or even acknowledged there was a game, but the result was always the same. “Where do you think you left them? The storage room?”

“The bedroom.”

Her face turned an even deeper shade of red. He was anxious tonight. He’d skipped a couple of the usual steps.

She swallowed her nervousness. “Okay, let’s go look.”

The room was tiny, dominated by the double bed, with no space left for any other furniture except a trunk she’d picked up at a garage sale and used as a table. A half-size closet built into one wall held the jeans and shirts she wore to work, the drawer under it her underwear and shorts. Her few good dresses for church hung from a hook on the back of the door. That was it. Nothing else could fit.

She made a pretense of going through the closet, anyway, even getting on her hands and knees to peer under the bed with a flashlight.

“I don’t see them. You sure you didn’t take them with you?”

When she stood, he moved closer and pressed himself against her, enveloping her in his arms. He was already aroused. “Now that I think about it,” he said, sliding one hand inside her shorts, “I guess I did.”

JACK PROMISED HIMSELF he wouldn’t do this again, because it only made the situation harder on Lucky and on himself, but his determination had deserted him the instant she’d appeared at the door. In its wake remained an aching desire that only touching her could erase.

He nuzzled the crook of her neck, catching the scent of sunblock and the metal left on her skin from the iron-contaminated groundwater. Sexy. He didn’t know how, but it was.

Lucky could smell like fish, or the vinegar she sometimes put on her sunburn, and still excite him to the point of pain. But it was the breathy little sounds of pleasure she made when he touched her that always did him in. Like now. They bubbled from her throat to heat his blood and erase whatever good intentions he’d had when he arrived.

He continued to stroke as he undressed her, taking time as he removed her top and bra to kiss the freckles on her shoulders and the line her bathing suit had made across her tanned back. Slight of build, with few curves to speak of, she wasn’t the ideal of beauty, and yet she was beautiful. To him, anyway. She possessed the kind of beauty that exists without effort or artifice.

Big brown eyes…a quick smile…even that thick drawl of hers put a twist in his gut. The new hairstyle flattered her wholesome good looks; he thought it made her resemble a water sprite.

He sat on the side of the bed and took off her shorts, sliding them down slender hips and legs until she faced him in nothing but neon-purple panties, a pair of red lips printed above the crotch. Outrageous. But that was Lucky. He peeled them off and tossed them aside.

Given her history, it was a miracle she’d even remembered to put on underwear. She often forgot it and her shoes, or she got distracted while dressing and ended up wearing something crazy, like one rubber beach shoe and one fuzzy house slipper.

Right now only the nails on her right hand had polish, and two of her left toes. She might have done it purposely. Then again, she might have spaced out in the middle of painting them and not realized she hadn’t finished. With Lucky you were never quite sure.

The bed was too small, the room too hot to be comfortable, and the air, as always, held the unpleasant odor of mildew. Outside, a tugboat—or towboat as Lucky called them—chugged upriver toward one of the inland docks, its horn blaring. The pilot checked his position by flashing a search beam back and forth between the banks. With each swoop, the light penetrated the curtains and illuminated the bedroom.

Jack wiped the annoyance from his mind as he hurriedly shrugged out of his own clothes and pulled Lucky down to lie with him. He concentrated, instead, on the taste of her mouth. Sweet. And on the taste of her breasts. Even sweeter. When he entered her it was better than the fantasy he’d been having for the past couple of nights. The fantasy about this very thing…

He began to move with almost cruel slowness, long, controlled strokes that had her writhing beneath him. Again and again he took her to the edge of madness, then withdrew.

Why couldn’t she care as much about him as she did her damn river? He’d expected her to follow when he’d made his ultimatum and rented a place in town. She hadn’t. Over him, she’d chosen mud, fish guts and noisy insects.

Still, fool that he was, he couldn’t stay away from her. And he couldn’t move back. Even if his pride allowed it, they had other problems that proximity alone wouldn’t resolve. Still…anything was better than this sham marriage they’d created.

The tugboat passed, the sizzle of the bugs again invaded the room, and he and Lucky climaxed in near-perfect unison. When he could breathe once more, he took his weight off her and gazed into her eyes. They were dark, unreadable.

“Move to the apartment with me.”

“No. You come home.”

They’d both spoken the same words a hundred times before.

“This isn’t a home, Lucky. It’s an undeclared disaster area. When we married, I never expected you’d want to live here permanently.”

“My family—”

“Hell, I know. You don’t have to tell me. I have it memorized.” Her family had settled this bend in 1837 and a Mathison had lived here every generation since. The original log cabin had long ago fallen in to decay, but this ridiculous place, erected near the same spot by her late grandfather, might as well be the original, considering its condition.

When the winter rains came, the river rose, sometimes to a level that threatened the whole area. The dam downstream couldn’t always handle all the runoff.

Jack hadn’t lived in Potock long enough to see a flood, but he’d heard the old-timers in town talk about how bad the floods could get. This bedroom told the story. The walls had water stains all the way up to the window casement.

Despite that, and even though she knew he was uncomfortable here, she refused to live in town, even for part of the week. They’d tried it for a month and even he’d had to admit the running back and forth had been inconvenient.

So he’d given in and suggested they build another house on the river—a decent house—but this land was too low, and Lucky wouldn’t hear of selling it. They were at a stalemate.

“You have to commit to this marriage if we’re going to save it,” he told her.

“I have to commit?” She sat up, so Jack did, too, propping his elbows on his raised knees. “You’re the one who ran out of here at the first sign of trouble—like a coon with hounds on his tail.” Her hick accent had thickened with her indignation. “You left me, Jack. Not the other way around.”

“Because I felt like a visitor here, or one of your specimens, packed up and put on the shelf to take down every now and then when you felt like it.”

“I never treated you like that.”

“Yes, you did. After giving up everything in Pittsburgh, including my career, to move down here and be with you, I still didn’t get a commitment. You live the way you want. You do what you want. I expected compromise when we married, but I didn’t figure I’d be the only one doing it. Hell, we’ve been married nearly a year and your photo credits in the newspaper still say ‘Mathison’ instead of ‘Cahill.’ How do you think that makes me feel?”

“This is about my job again, isn’t it.”

“Only partly.”

“It galls you that I won’t quit just because you decreed I had to. Admit it.”

“Yeah, it galls me.” And he wouldn’t apologize for it. He worried about her. She ran around at all hours and alone. And she had a bad habit of getting in the middle of the stories she photographed.

“Let me see if I have this right,” she said. “You hate my job. You hate my home. You hate my lifestyle. I guess I should count my blessings that you get along so well with my family.”

“You’re being catty now.”

“And you’re being unfair. You complain about how I treat you, yet I can’t ask you a few simple questions about your past without you shutting me out. That infuriates me.”

“You know everything there is to know. My parents died in a car accident, and I’ve pretty much been on my own since I was sixteen. End of story.”

“That can’t be all. How did you take care of yourself? Don’t you have any other family?”

“Not anyone who matters. I have an older cousin I lived with until I finished school.”

“You never told me that. Why haven’t you ever mentioned him?”

“Because we’ve lost touch. I wasn’t that close to him, anyway. He gave me a room to sleep in and that’s about it. I paid for it a thousand times over by working my ass off in his hardware store after school and on weekends.”

“You don’t have any grandparents? No other cousins? Aunts and uncles? Surely there’s someone.”

“No. The army was my family after high school.”

“What was your childhood like? I find it very odd that you never mention it unless I bring it up. It’s as if, I don’t know, it never happened. You don’t even talk about your life before you lost your parents. Why is that?”

“Because there’s nothing to tell. We were an ordinary family.”

“But why was—”

“Let’s concentrate on the present, okay? Nothing else is really important.”

She slumped and shook her head. “See? You’re closing up on me again. You do this every time and it makes me crazy.” Tears formed. “I’m terrified of what’s happening to us, Jack. We’re not making any progress toward getting back together. We’re not communicating. We talk, but we never resolve anything.”

“Then let’s not talk.”

“We have to. I have things I need to tell you.”

“Later. Let me hold you.”

He kissed her and brought her back down to lie with him spoon-fashion, his front pressed against her warm backside.

It was always the same. They made love, she cried, and he went back to his apartment to lie awake and feel guilty about her tears.

He’d tried to stay away, but he couldn’t. An hour didn’t pass when he didn’t think of her. And nights…God, nights were hell. In the dark, the regrets of his past closed in; demons with faces and names he’d tried to forget rose up to assault him, and only the hot pleasure of Lucky’s hands on his flesh drove them away.

Maybe he would bite the bullet and move back in. Living with her, even in this hellhole, was better than living without her.

He held her for a long time, until her tears ceased and her breathing began to slow. Quietly he eased from the bed, but she stirred at his movement.

“Don’t leave yet,” she said without opening her eyes, her voice sleepy.

“I’m only going to clean up.” He patted her gently. “Don’t you need to?”

She yawned. “In a minute.”

Padding to the bathroom, he flipped on the light, grabbed a towel and headed for the bathtub.

“Wait, Jack, no!”

Lucky’s panicked cry reached him at the precise moment he pulled aside the shower curtain and saw movement below.

CHAPTER TWO

IN THE GRAY of early morning, cops and firefighters wearing protective gloves searched the railroad tracks, their yellow slickers like strokes of paint on a neutral canvas.

Lucky checked her light meter, then framed a test shot in the viewfinder. She’d lose the effect of the slickers with the black-and-white film, but the rescue workers seemed ghostlike in the mist and that, along with the overcast sky, helped convey the somber tone. The composition suggested the horror of the officers’ assignment without actually showing it.

But she didn’t have the right perspective yet. She slid carefully down the steep grade of the track to where she, police and fire personnel had parked.

With the permission of the fire chief, she climbed on top of one of the pumper trucks and reevaluated the scene. From this slight overhead angle, she could include more of the track. She could also sneak a contributor to the tragedy—the Top Hat Gentlemen’s Club—into the bottom right corner of the frame.

Despite the fancy name, “The Hat,” as it was more commonly known, was little more than a shack; it owed its popularity to the two-dollar drinks served from midnight to closing and a waitress named Ginger. She’d posed for Playboy ten years ago, but her chest still had its fans.

The victim had apparently left the club drunk last night, decided to walk rather than drive, but passed out on the tracks, instead. The three-o’clock freight express to Birmingham had ended his life. Lucky had found the body when she crossed the tracks on her way to work.

Satisfied that she had a good photo for the front page of the Sunday edition, she braced her left elbow against her body, held her breath and squeezed off several shots, bracketing the exposures to compensate for the wavering light levels.

“Hey, Lucky,” called one of the police investigators. Deaton Swain picked through some weeds along the bank about ten yards away. “I dare you to get in the cab and turn on the siren.”

“I’ll pass.”

“C’mon, Lucky, don’t be a girl.”

“I am a girl, Deaton. Haven’t you figured that out in all these years?”

“Yeah, but you’re no fun anymore.”

“I grew up, Deaton. You should try it. We’re too old for pranks.”

He shook his head. “I’ll never be that old.”

Lucky finished up and rewound her film. She climbed down and stuck her camera, meter and film in the bag on the rear compartment of her Blazer.

With these two rolls, a couple waiting at the office and the roll she’d taken yesterday of the twelve-pound squash, she’d have a full morning in the darkroom.

Off in the weeds, Deaton was starting to whine.

“Oh, man, enough of this.” He yanked off his gloves. “I’m outta here. Let the uniforms handle it.” After making his way down the bank, he came over and plopped down on her tailgate. “God, I hate these messy cases. And I do mean messy.”

“Me, too. Give me a ribbon-cutting or a town-council meeting any day. At least those don’t involve dead people.”

Deaton snorted.

“Well, usually they don’t,” Lucky qualified. “That one time was a fluke.”

“Not for you. How many bodies does this make for the year? Three?”

“Four.”

He seemed to think about that. “I remember the kid who crashed his car out on River Road and the old lady who died of hypothermia last winter during that freak ice storm, but what was the third one you found?”

“The floater. You remember. I was fishing for Channel cat and pulled him up, instead. The big guy.”

“Oh, yeah. Wasn’t wearing a ski vest.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Stupid idiot. Ought to be a law against fat people going in the water, anyway.”

She didn’t comment. Deaton couldn’t possibly mean half the things he said. She’d known him since kindergarten, and he was just as crazy and amusing as he’d been back then.

“Damn, Lucky, that’s four bodies in seven months. That’s got to be a record, even for you. What’s your total?”

“Seventeen. Eighteen if you count the one before I started working for the newspaper. Nineteen if you add the one out of state.”

“Seventeen locally in how many years on the job?”

“Twelve.”

He shook his head. “I’ll bet this stuff doesn’t go over too well with the captain.”

No, it didn’t, but she wasn’t about to discuss her personal life. People speculated enough on the reason she and Jack were living apart.

“Where is he?” she asked, instead. “He’s usually one of the first on the scene.”

“We had an earlier call and he took it.”

Good. After the fiasco with Jack last night, at least she wouldn’t have to face him in person this morning.

Or maybe she would. His unmarked police sedan turned in the service road and came around the barricade the moment she counted her blessings.

“Ah, hell,” Deaton said, hastily jumping to his feet.

Lucky took a deep breath to fortify her strength, but her already queasy stomach did a major somersault.

Jack was a formidable presence when he was in a good mood, but when he was all business—like now—he seemed even bigger, his shoulders broader. Lucky felt both overwhelming joy and deep sorrow at seeing him. She’d gone thirty years without losing her heart, but then this man had come along and stolen it within seconds.

One minute she was single and accepting of it, if not content, and the next—bam! She’d looked into deep-brown eyes and started dreaming about wedding vows and waking up next to him for the next seventy-five years.

Regrettably Jack had proved to be more interested in the idea of marriage than the reality of it.

As he approached, he didn’t take his gaze off her. Even as he spoke to Deaton, he didn’t look away. “Swain, have you secured this scene?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then why is there a newspaper photographer inside the perimeter?”

“Uh, that’s Lucky.”

“I recognize her,” he said dryly, the comment so ludicrous she wasn’t sure how he kept a straight face.

She cleared her throat. “I called it in, Jack. I was already here when your people arrived.”

His expression didn’t change, telling her he already knew.

“Wait for me,” he ordered. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

He motioned for Deaton to come with him, and they walked off several yards, then stopped. Jack’s posture suggested forced control as he listened to a rundown of the incident and the procedures followed by his department since their arrival.

He asked Deaton if he’d requested an investigator from DFS, the Department of Forensic Sciences.

“No,” Deaton told Jack. “I didn’t see a need to call. The death isn’t suspicious and we have an ID on the victim from Lucky. Some old guy named Charlie Bagwell. Plus, we found his wallet. His car’s still sitting in the parking lot of The Hat with a flat tire. Guess he was too drunk to change it last night and started walking. He only lives a mile or so up the road in that subdivision on the other side of the tracks.”

“Collect the evidence and don’t speculate. Call DFS and get someone over here. Have them take possession of the remains. I don’t want the funeral home leaving with them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you get photographs before you moved anything?”

“Uh…no.”

A few seconds passed before Jack spoke again. “Get them now. And get a video of both the scene and the car. Impound the car. I also want you to send someone over to the man’s house and make sure he’s not sitting at his kitchen table eating breakfast.”

“I’ll go myself.” Deaton hurried off.

Jack turned and walked back to her, his face grim. He mumbled an expletive under his breath.

“If I caused trouble, I’m sorry,” Lucky told him. “I grew up with Deaton and most of these people out here, and they’re used to me being around with my camera. They trust me to keep out of the way.”

He shook his head. “It’s not your fault. Did he bother to get your statement?”

“Yes.”

Jack looked at her more closely, and his expression softened. “Are you okay? You’re pale.”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look it.” He lightly rubbed the back of his hand against her cheek. “And you’re distinctly green around the gills. What’s wrong?”

“It got to me, I guess.”

“I’ve never known you to let this stuff bother you.”

She shrugged. “I suppose it’s because I knew the man.”

“Do you want to sit down?”

“No, I’ll be all right.” She prayed that was true. She’d hate to embarrass herself by throwing up. Usually she could eat, drink, smell or look at any gross thing and not be bothered. A cast-iron stomach came with the job, and he knew it from experience.

“Can you tell me what you saw?” he asked. “You can come down later and give an official statement.”

“I didn’t see much. I came through about six o’clock on my way to the office and glanced down the track. At first I thought the train had hit a cow again. When I realized it was a human, I called 911.”

“Are you sure of your identification?”

“Reasonably sure. He cut some trees for me a few years ago, and I’ve run into him a few times since. Yesterday afternoon he crossed the street in front of me and waved. I noticed his shirt—pink flamingos and palm trees on a yellow background. Your victim over there has on the same shirt. I can’t imagine there’d be more than one of them around.”

She told him how he might get in touch with his daughter, an old school friend of her sister Shannon’s. Lucky thought his wife was dead, but she wasn’t certain.

“Jack, I…” She hesitated, hating to bring this up, but feeling as if it had to be repeated. “I promise I don’t intentionally get in the middle of things. Deaton said you were on another call. Did you leave it because of me?”

“Not entirely, but yes, I wanted to make sure you were okay. Besides, we haven’t found anything on the other call. They can handle it without me.”

“What was it?”

“A bomb threat at the box factory. Probably called in by some joker who didn’t have anything better to do this morning. Chief’s out there leading the search, so he can reach me if I’m needed.”

“Does he know I reported this?”

He nodded. “Yeah, he asked me what it felt like to be married to the ‘Body Magnet.’ That’s what people are starting to call you.”

She slumped, her misery increasing. “I know.”

“People at work kid me at least once a day that you’re part bloodhound. The sheriff’s department has a pool on when you’ll find the next body in their jurisdiction. I’m told it’s up to six-hundred dollars.”

“I heard.”

“I don’t get it. Why does this happen to you? When there’s trouble, you always seem to be part of it.”

“I’m out taking photos every day, and I cover the whole county. My chances of being involved in any given incident are a hundred times, maybe a thousand times, greater than the average person’s. It’s perfectly understandable.”

“Is it?”

“Of course it is.”

The argument was an old one. They’d had it many times. The irony was that the thing that had brought them together was now one of the things that kept them apart.

Last year she and her oldest sister, Leigh, had gone to Pittsburgh to be bridesmaids in their cousin’s wedding, and Lucky had found body number fifteen in the bathroom off the lounge of the Holiday Inn. Jack Cahill was the investigator on the case.

The attraction had been instant, the courtship wild and brief. Phone calls nearly every night. A couple of weekend trips to see each other. He’d come down to meet her family and visit Potock’s police department.

When the local chief, Rolly Akers, inquired if Jack was interested in relocating permanently and heading the revamped detective division, the offer had seemed like a gift from God. They’d married nine days later in the office of the probate judge.

And she’d never been happier in her life.

Until her new husband discovered she was a tiny bit eccentric. Her odd propensity to attract things that were no longer living wasn’t an asset, either.

“If you hadn’t rushed out mad last night,” she told him, “you might’ve been the one to pass through here first thing this morning and find the body.”

“Forgive me if I have a major problem with snakes in my bathtub.”

“They weren’t poisonous.”

“And you think that matters?”

Yes, it mattered, and she told him so. She’d caught the water snakes to photograph, had built an enclosure by the pier where she’d planned to put them at first light. She’d needed a way to keep them wet and contained until morning, and the bathtub had been the logical choice.

“This isn’t the place to talk about our personal problems,” he said. “I’ve got work to do.”

“So do I.”

“I want your film. I need the photographs you took before my unit got here.”

“I didn’t take any.”

He held out his hand. “Come on, Lucky. I don’t have time for games. You shot at least a roll before you called it in. I know you. You recorded every gory detail.”

“I did not!”

She tried to act indignant, but he saw right through it. He snapped his fingers with impatience. “Give it to me. No screwing around anymore. This isn’t funny.”

“No! It’s newspaper property. Leigh would skin my hide. You’ll get me in trouble.”

“I’ll make you prints and bring them over.”

“No, I’ll make you prints and bring them over.”

“I need them for evidence.”

“And I need them for the Sunday paper.”

He pinched his forehead. “Do you have to argue with me about everything? You’re too damn much work.”

His words wounded her gravely, and he had to know it. She teetered between anger and despair, settling on despair.

“I didn’t mean that,” he said immediately.

“Yes, you did.” Her voice quavered.

“No, not the way it came out.”

“Yes, you did, and that’s the root of the real problem between us. You married me thinking everything would be easy, that I’d be easy. You created this fantasy about the perfect life. House. Kids. Job. Extended family. A wife you could control. But then you found out you’d married a woman who refuses to fit your fantasy.”

“That’s oversimplifying it.”

“Maybe, but it’s still accurate.”

“I don’t want to control you, Lucky, only protect you.”

“No, you want to change me, because deep down you don’t really like who I am.” She walked to the back of the Blazer and reached into her bag. “Here.” She slapped the film into his hand. She pushed up the tailgate and closed the hatch. When she walked to the driver’s door, Jack tried to stop her, but she ignored him and got in.

“Sweetheart, wait,” he said through the open window.

“The sad part is I’m stupid enough to still love you.”

“I love you, too. That’s never been the issue.”

She wouldn’t even dignify his comment with a response. If he loved her, he would never have left her. He’d accept her for who she was. She cranked the engine and put the vehicle into gear. “Move if you don’t want to get run over.”

He didn’t budge.

“Move or I’ll show you in front of your officers what a hissy fit really looks like.”

He took a step back and raised his hands in surrender. She drove off, spewing dust and gravel behind her.

By the time she got the hundred yards to the barricade and went around it, she was weeping. Hiding her sobs from the uniformed cop was impossible, so she didn’t try.

The clock in the dash said it wasn’t even nine, and already it had been a horrible day. She blotted her tears on the sleeve of her shirt and tried to control herself, fumbling in her purse for sunglasses.

If she went into the office with red eyes, she’d have to answer a million questions, and she couldn’t handle that now. What she’d rather do was go home, sit on the pier for the rest of the day and feel sorry for herself. Unfortunately she had too much work and a noon deadline.

Worse than that, she’d have to face Jack again in a little while. It would take him about two hours to get that film over to the police lab and have it developed—and discover she’d given him photos of a twelve-pound squash.

THE BUILDING THAT HOUSED the Register had begun its life before 1870 as a pickle factory. Some days Lucky could still smell the brine that had once saturated the hardwood floor.

She loved every square inch of the place, from the elegant antique doors at the front to the ink-stained concrete in the pressroom.

She particularly loved the second floor, her own private domain. Storage took up most of it, but she had a fair-size darkroom, a bathroom and a “parlor” that overlooked the street. The natural light in the front room, filtered by the beveled glass in the windows, was exceptional.

The office was already bustling when she arrived. The newspaper published twice weekly, on Sundays and Wednesdays, so the composing room did computer pasteup for those editions on Monday and Friday mornings.

She’d called Leigh on her cell phone earlier to tell her about the train accident and the bomb threat. Pushing through the doors, Lucky headed straight for the stairs with only a wave to the office and advertising staff and down the hall past the framed copies of front pages with historic headlines:

Local Man Commands Shuttle

Plant To Bring 300 Jobs

Her favorite page was at the end. The banner headline of this special edition, from July 5, 1973, said:

Lucky Child Found Alive

She’d read the story so many times she knew it from memory. The reporter had written:

A three-year-old, who fell from a boat last night and spent more than five hours floating in the Black Warrior River, sustained only a slight case of hypothermia and no serious injuries, doctors at Riverside Community Hospital said this morning.

Erin Renee Mathison, youngest daughter of newspaper publisher Matt Mathison and his wife, Ruth, of 103 Brighton Street, was pulled from the river at 3:45 a.m. near the Gorgas steam plant on the Mulberry fork, some two miles from where she fell overboard.

The girl tumbled from her family’s pontoon boat at about 10 p.m. Monday while watching the Independence Day fireworks display with her parents, grandparents and three older siblings.

Sgt. Albert Cummings of the Walker County rescue squad said the child was wearing a life vest and had learned to swim as an infant. “But it’s a miracle she didn’t drown or get run over by the flotilla,” Cummings said, referring to the annual lighted parade of boats. “She’s one lucky kid.”

As she went by the frame, Lucky rapped lightly on the glass, something she’d done every workday as long as she could remember. Over the years she’d discovered that luck came in both good and bad varieties, and while her superstitious ritual might not help, it sure didn’t hurt.

Leigh’s office was next to the stairs, and she called out as Lucky passed. Lucky stopped, turned and stuck her head around the door frame. “What?”

“I’ve rearranged the front page for you. I need three or four shots.”

“Give me an hour and you can clip the negatives you want me to print.”

“What do you know about this? I need to put together a quick story.”

Lucky came in and gave her a rundown of the facts while Leigh typed them into her computer. They usually couldn’t cover breaking news with any success or compete with the big papers out of Jasper, Birmingham and Tuscaloosa. Aside from Leigh, they had only one other full-time reporter. Correspondents, called “stringers,” sent in news from outlying communities.

The Register carried in-depth features, follow-ups of events and local stories the dailies had no interest in pursuing. But often, like today, they had exclusive photos.

While other small newspapers were being swallowed up by chains or going bankrupt, theirs flourished because they gave readers news they couldn’t get easily anywhere else—names of hometown people serving in the military, the lunch menus for the schools, profiles of new people in the area. That meant residents subscribed to both a daily paper and the Register.

Their dad had been a good editor and publisher, but Leigh had a better instinct for what readers wanted. With input from Cal, who’d completed his master’s degree in marketing last year, Leigh had dramatically increased readership and profits.

Unlike the two of them or Shannon, Lucky hadn’t gone to college, but her photos helped keep them in the black, and she was proud of her contribution.

“That’s all I know,” Lucky told Leigh, finishing. “I wouldn’t print a name until you get it officially. I might be wrong. And I don’t know how long it’ll take them to notify family.”

“I’ll call before we go to press and see if we can release the name.” Leigh kept typing as she talked, reworking the information into a story. “If you get in a bind processing, get Cal to give you a hand. You can hold the rolls Eddie and I left. They’re for Wednesday. And the stuff you took for the food page.”

“Okay.”

“Whose case is the train accident? The Yankee with the fast feet?”

Jack, she meant. Leigh was the only one in the family who believed Lucky had made a mistake marrying someone she’d known for just a few months. Their parents, grandmother, Cal and Shannon were all crazy about him.

Leigh’s opinion about marriage was tainted by a rough divorce four years ago and lack of child support from her ex-husband. She didn’t even know his whereabouts. Most men were beasts, in her eyes, not only Jack, so Lucky didn’t take offense at her barbs.

“You can try Jack and see if he’ll give you what you’re missing,” she told Leigh, “but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“I’ll call the coroner. Jack still living in town?” she asked casually.

“For the time being. We’re working things out.”

“Uh-huh.” She stopped typing and turned in her chair. “If that’s true, how come you’ve been crying again this morning and look like death warmed over?”

Lucky took off her dark glasses, dropped her camera bag on the floor and sat down in a chair across from the desk. Nearly eight years separated her and Leigh, but despite that, they were very close. Lucky had never been able to hide much from her, not like with Shannon or Cal.

“I’m scared Jack and I are trying to repair something that can’t be repaired,” she told her, “and I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“Things aren’t going well, I take it.”

Lucky told her about the argument and her swap of the film, making Leigh roar with laughter. “It’s not funny,” Lucky said. “My marriage is going down the drain.”

“I’m sorry, kiddo, but I’d give anything to see his face when he finds out what you’ve done.”

“I’m sure you’ll get a chance. No doubt he’ll be in here later to raise hell.”

Cal walked through the door carrying doughnuts. “Who’ll be raising hell?” He extended the open box across the desk.

“Jack,” Leigh said, taking her usual lemon-filled.

“Big Guy? What for?”

“Lucky pulled a fast one on him.” She related the story. “You can run interference when he shows up, since you two are so chummy.”

Cal shook his head. “Oh, no, you’re not putting me in the middle of this.” He offered Lucky a doughnut, but she got a whiff of the sweet smell and declined, unable to hide her grimace. “Your stomach still bothering you?” he asked. “You look pretty green this morning.”

Lucky shook her head, stood quickly and grabbed her bag.

“Stomach?” Leigh asked. “I didn’t know you were really sick.”

“I’m fine. A little two-day virus or something.”

“Two days!” Cal said with a snort, opening his stupid mouth again. “You’ve been pukin’ for a week. You splattered all over one of my best shirts.”

“That was your fault, goofball. You shouldn’t eat tacos for lunch and then breathe on people.”

“Ha, ha. Seriously…you need to go to the doctor and find out what’s wrong. You’re hunched over the trash can or running to the bathroom nearly every time I see you.”

Leigh’s eyes widened and an unspoken question passed between the sisters. Rather than answer, Lucky looked away.

“Go have a checkup,” Cal added. “I’m worried about you.”

Lucky gave him a soft punch in the arm. “You’re sweet to worry, but I’m feeling much better now. Whatever I had is going away.” She backed toward the door. “I’d love to stay and gab all morning, but I’ve got a ton of film waiting for me, so I’d better get to it. See you two later.” She turned and hurried out the door and up the stairs before Leigh could question her.

In the darkroom she put on an apron and a new pair of long rubber gloves. She made sure her skin was covered and the vent open, then mixed the chemicals. She’d only gotten as far as getting the developer in the film tank before Leigh banged on the locked door.

“Let me in, you rascal. I want to talk to you.”

“I’m busy. Go away.”

“Not on your life. Now open the door.”

Lucky ignored her.

“Okay,” Leigh said after a few seconds, “you’re forcing me to call Jack and ask him what’s up.”

Damn her. “Hold on a second. I’m coming.”

She switched off the lights, loaded the film and screwed on the lid, tapping the tank on the counter to remove air bubbles. She set the timer and agitated the tank. “Okay, come in,” she said, flipping the light back on and unlocking the door.

“Are you pregnant?” Leigh asked without preamble.

“If I said no, would you believe me?”

“No.”

“Then yes, I’m pregnant.”

Leigh sat down hard on the stool, obviously stunned. “When did you find out?”

“Three weeks ago—or I suppose it’s four now.”

Leigh went wild. “A month! You’ve known for a month and haven’t said anything to me?”

“I wanted to tell Jack first.”

“Oh, God, Lucky, how far along are you?”

“About eight weeks. Nearly nine. I figure it was the basketball.”

“The what?”

She waved away the question with her hand. “Nothing. A…game between me and Jack. It’s not important.”

“Does he still not know?”

“Not yet. I’ve tried to tell him several times, but talking calmly about anything isn’t one of our strengths.”

Plus, the news had hit her like a bomb. She’d been too overwhelmed to think logically about how to handle it. She wanted a child, but not now. She hadn’t been married a year yet, and a third of that, she and Jack had spent apart.

“Cal didn’t suspect, did he?” she asked. “If he lets something slip…”

“He’s concerned you’re sick, but clueless about the reason. Nothing’s wrong, is there? He’s right, you do look green.”

“Other than my blood pressure being elevated, I’m healthy as a horse. The doctor said the morning sickness should go away pretty soon. She gave me a prescription for vitamins and told me to drink ginger tea to settle my stomach. The most important thing is she warned me I have to reduce my stress. That’s ironic, isn’t it? The pregnancy is what’s giving me stress.”

“Should you be fooling with these chemicals?”

“They’re safe. That’s the first thing I checked. As long as I don’t bathe in them, they can’t hurt me or the baby, but I am taking extra precautions.”

“I guess we should start looking for help, someone to do some of the shooting and processing for you. I’ve been thinking about that, anyway. I’ve put too much of a burden on you the last few months, with Dad retiring and me feeling my way along as editor.”

Lucky had known this was coming. “No, you haven’t. And I don’t need any help.”

“We’ll definitely need someone when you go on leave, so we should think about hiring a trainee or a part-time person. And you’ll probably want to stay home with the baby for a few months, maybe even the first year.”

Lucky didn’t even want to think about that right now. “We have plenty of time to work out the details. I’ll face those problems when they get here.”

“And what about your other problem? This baby changes everything for you and Jack.”

“I know. That’s what worries me. We’re already separated. What’s a baby going to do to us?”

“Lucky, if the marriage isn’t working and you’re not happy, then, for God’s sake, file for divorce and save yourself a lot of grief. It is possible to raise a child without a man around. I’m doing it and getting along fine. In fact, you’d probably be better off without him, if you want my honest opinion.”

Lucky didn’t respond. At this point she didn’t know exactly what she wanted. Maybe her sister was right. Leigh was certainly better off without Keith. The bastard had demoralized her, cleaned out their bank accounts and taken off with her best friend.

But Jack wasn’t Keith. And despite his annoying quirks, Lucky loved him and didn’t want to raise their baby alone. Jack would never allow that, anyway. He’d demand to be a part of his child’s life.

She thought she heard a noise, so she peeked out the door to make sure Cal hadn’t followed Leigh and might overhear them.

“If you’re worried about Cal, don’t be,” Leigh said. “I asked him to put together some projected advertising figures for the remainder of the year. That should keep him busy for an hour. He’s absolutely orgasmic about being able to run a spreadsheet. You know how he is with that stuff.”

“I want you to be careful what you say to him, Leigh. I don’t feel right that you know before Jack does. And if Mom or Mema should find out, Lord…the whole town will know.” She agitated the tank another five seconds and checked the timer. “I think I’ve given everyone enough cause for gossip for one year.”

“I doubt I’ll have to drop hints. You’re so thin it won’t be long before you start showing and everybody guesses. You’d better tell Jack as soon as possible.”

“I will,” she said, but with little conviction.

“Lucky, do it. Don’t make things worse by having him find out some other way.”

“I will, okay? Nagging me about it won’t help. I’ll tell him.” And she would, but she dreaded it because she knew how Jack would react. He’d be thrilled. He’d want to move back in. But not for her. Not because he wanted to be with her. Only for the sake of the baby. And when that happened, she’d never be able to trust his feelings again.

She put her hand to her stomach. Her elation at becoming a mother was wrapped in resentment. A part of her wanted this baby very much. Another part of her didn’t. Because she was certain, beyond a doubt, what the news of it would do. This pregnancy would destroy any hope she had of saving her marriage.

CHAPTER THREE

LEONA HARRISON stood before the security gate and stared at the house beyond. White shutters hung at the windows and wind chimes on the porch played random notes in the breeze. The yellow paint and the flowers bordering the walk gave the place a cheery look. The yard had jasmine; she could smell it even though she couldn’t see it.

She’d learned, though, that facades, just like faces, could hide something different within. That was true of Horizon House, as well as the people of Potock. That was particularly true of the man Leona was about to visit.

Her husband had refused to come, and she guessed that was a good thing, considering how he felt. He hated Terrell. Everyone in town did. Because she was Terrell’s aunt and only surviving blood relative, they hated her, too. Twenty-one years after the tragedy, some people still crossed the street to avoid having to talk to her.

No one ever said anything ugly to her face, but the seats next to her at church were always left empty and, although she’d shopped at Hanson’s market for nearly thirty years, she’d long ago quit getting decent cuts of meat from the old man or even a polite hello from his son. The good people of the town had branded her guilty by association, just as they’d branded her nephew a killer without the benefit of a trial or a body.

Leona hesitated with her finger over the call box, wanting nothing more than to get in the car and drive home, but a promise to her dead sister, Margaret, to watch over Terrell made her go ahead and push the button. She gave her name and was let in. The residence manager came to the front door and ushered her inside.

The state had moved Terrell here five weeks ago in response to some court ruling Leona didn’t really understand. Before that, since he was seventeen, he’d lived at an institution for autistic adults up in Huntsville, and she’d dutifully driven the 240-mile round trip once a month to see him.

This place was more convenient, but having him back in the community was causing problems. The anonymous hate mail had started again, and two nights ago someone had written murderer in red paint on her front door. Since Terrell’s arrival, Horizon House had reported threatening calls.

Leona talked briefly to the manager, then made her way to the common room where Terrell spent his days staring at the aquarium or working on his drawings. Today he had out a pad and pens and an assortment of colored inks and was sitting alone at one of the round tables they used for activities.

The years had not been good to him, and he appeared much older, more used up, than he should at thirty-eight. Deep lines etched his face. He’d once been a handsome boy, but now he was nearly bald on top, and the sides and back of his hair had turned the color of new tin.

He didn’t look up or acknowledge her presence, only turned to a clean page of his art pad. As he started a new picture, he rocked from side to side, a mechanism he used to comfort himself.

“Hello, Terrell,” she said, sitting across from him. “It’s Aunt Leona. I hope you’ve been well.”

She didn’t expect a response and didn’t get one. Terrell had never said a word, to her knowledge, but he could make sounds, and Margaret had told her he’d often cried all night as a child, as if life was simply too painful for him to bear.

She didn’t think he cried anymore. A few tears, the attendants said, once when they’d transferred him here and the second time when they’d drained the fish tank to clean it, and he hadn’t been able to watch the water.

The only problem they’d encountered was keeping him contained. Sometimes he scaled the wall and disappeared, not running away from the house but running to something, the irresistible something that drew him as strongly now as it had when he was a boy—the river. Years away hadn’t diminished his fascination with it.

As long as no one interrupted his routine, moved his things or tried to touch him, he was fine—almost invisible and seemingly content. He stayed closed up in his silent world and didn’t bother anyone.

He was a sweet boy, always had been. Never would she believe he had killed Eileen Olenick. Terrell didn’t have it in him to hurt anyone.

But thanks to Matt Mathison’s editorials in the Register at the time, Leona hadn’t been able to convince anyone of her nephew’s innocence. In truth, it was the Mathisons’ youngest daughter—Lucky they called her—who had really been the one to seal Terrell’s fate, and with only a few words. People had taken the unfounded fears of a child and accepted them as truth.

Leona removed her cross-stitch sampler from her purse and worked on the S of Home Sweet Home as she talked. Terrell continued to ignore her. He occasionally swapped colors. A couple of times he traded his pen for a brush and dipped it in an ink bottle or a small jar of water, swishing it lightly along the paper or painting with painstaking slowness.

Did he remember her house? she asked him. “Of course you do,” she answered for him. “Your mama used to bring you over to see me and Uncle Edwin and you’d make so many pretty pictures. Even then you had talent.”

Extraordinary talent, or so they’d discovered. He was a savant, Miss Olenick had said, because he could draw or paint anything and with the tiniest details, even things he’d only seen once.

Unfortunately, instead of being a gift that brought happiness, his art had been the catalyst for trouble. If only Miss Olenick hadn’t taken an interest in him, his life might have turned out differently.

Well, no use thinking that way, Leona told herself. What was done was done. No one could change the past.

She stayed for her usual hour, then put her needlework back in her bag. Edwin would be wanting his lunch and she still had to stop for bread.

“I’ll come back and see you again, Terrell,” she told him, standing. “You be good and Aunt Leona will bring you a plate of gingerbread next time. I remember how much you love gingerbread with apple-sauce.”

He removed the page he’d been working on and set it on the table, then packed his supplies into a plastic carrier and shuffled off in the direction of his room in that strange walk of his. He never looked back.

Leona came around the table and picked up the sheet, and her heart nearly stopped. He’d drawn a picture of Eileen Olenick as she had looked twenty-one years ago, a picture as vibrant and colorful as the woman herself had been, and so meticulously detailed it nearly resembled a photograph.

Leona might also have called it “lifelike” except for one thing. The body reclined in a pool of blood. He’d drawn her dead.

JACK CLOSED THE FOLDER on the Bagwell case and tossed it on the growing stack of files. For a town of its size, Potock had a fair share of accidents and crime. Burglaries and thefts, mostly. Husbands and wives trying to beat the crap out of each other. Every weekend some guy got drunk and showed what an idiot he was by urinating in public or pulling a knife and trying to cut one of his neighbors.

Right now they had open cases on sixteen burglaries, a weapons charge, the train death, two cases of vandalism, the bomb threat and a request for assistance from the feds on the sale of historical artifacts that might have been illegally obtained.

With only five investigators, including himself, and a jurisdiction of 24,000 residents, the workload was piling up. He needed more people, and the ones he had weren’t sufficiently trained.

Back at his old bureau, not even a first-day rookie would have screwed up like Swain had done this morning. Jack would recommend he be busted back to patrol if he didn’t need him so badly. Besides, Swain wasn’t the only one around here who didn’t know what he was doing. He, at least, had the excuse of inexperience.

Taggert and Domingo had more than fifteen years between them and were officers, yet sometimes acted as if they knew little more than Rogers and Whatley, who’d only recently passed their exams.

Sometimes Jack wondered what the hell he was doing in Potock. He’d once told Lucky that “Podunk” was a better name for it, given its backwoods atmosphere, but naturally she liked it for that very reason. The day he and Lucky ever agreed on anything, he’d probably fall over dead.

Taking his pen from his pocket, he circled a phone number on his legal pad. The call from Wes, his ex-boss in Major Crimes, had been a surprise. He’d decided to retire at the end of the year, and if Jack wanted to apply for the position, Wes would write him a recommendation. The commander and the assistant chief were also offering recommendations.

With Jack’s training and experience and the endorsements from his former superiors, he’d have an excellent shot at the job he’d coveted since he’d gone into law enforcement.

Except he was no longer in a position to go after it.

His excitement had lasted all of ten seconds before he’d thought of Lucky and how this news would go over with her. If he couldn’t get her to leave the cabin, he wouldn’t have a chance in hell of getting her to move out of state. Things were so strained right now, he didn’t dare bring it up. Talk about poor timing.

He tore off the page of notes, started to crumple it for the trash, then stopped. Wes wouldn’t announce his retirement until October, and it was only June. The selection commission needed sufficient time to take applications, do assessments of the candidates and make recommendations for the job and for various down-the-line promotions the opening would create. Nothing would be decided until January—or conceivably even as late as February or March.

He folded the paper and put it in his wallet. Maybe if he explained how much of a raise in pay it would mean and what a great opportunity it was, Lucky would go for it.

And pigs might grow wings, Cahill.

Laughter interrupted his ruminating, and he looked out the glass partition to see Taggert, Whatley and some of the patrol personnel huddled around Lucky in the division room. He glanced at his watch. Four o’clock. Somehow he’d let the time get away from him, and his growling stomach reminded him he’d again missed lunch.

No doubt they were congratulating her on the dirty trick she’d pulled on him with the film. He chuckled under his breath. The little monkey. She’d really gotten him good.

She broke away from the officers and came to the door. “Hi,” she said solemnly.

“Hi.”

“I kept waiting for you to storm the office with the SWAT team or fire tear gas into the upper story of the newspaper building. When you didn’t, I decided I’d better bring these and see how much trouble I’m in.” She shook the large envelope she carried. “Contact sheets and prints. I also typed out a statement and put it in there.”

This was awkward, and he didn’t know what he could say to repair the damage they’d done to each other this morning.

Apparently neither did she, because she didn’t come farther, but waited in the doorway with a wary look, as though she’d turn and run if he made the wrong move. Seeing her so uncertain of him put a knot in his gut. Marriage wasn’t supposed to be like this.

He picked up his own envelope from the desk. “Negatives only. I didn’t feel right wasting taxpayers’ money printing photos of produce.”

“I figured that. Will you consider an even swap?”

The small group beyond her was watching, obviously speculating on what was being said. Jack rose. “Come in,” he suggested. “We have an audience.”

She glanced over her shoulder, turned back and nodded. “I guess they’ve been giving you a hard time.”

“You could say that.”

Taggert was still snickering, the asshole. He was probably the one responsible for the stupid cartoon making its way around the building.

“You know I wasn’t trying to embarrass you by switching the film,” Lucky said, “but apparently I did. I was so mad I didn’t stop to think of the consequences.”

“I’ll live.”

He came around and closed the door behind her, and also drew the blinds for privacy. Picking up the phone, he punched in the secretary’s extension and asked her to hold his calls for a few minutes.

He and Lucky exchanged envelopes. She declined the chair he offered her, saying she preferred to stand. She moved restlessly around the room and examined the certificates on the wall as if she’d never seen them before.

Finally she stopped pacing and turned, keeping several feet between them. “I’ve been thinking a lot about this morning, and I’m wondering how two people who claim to love each other can act the way we do.”

“I’ve been wondering the same thing.”

“Did we make a mistake getting married?”

His insides seemed to drop to his knees. “Do you think we made a mistake?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes. When we fight, I do. When we aren’t fighting, I can’t imagine not being married to you. Lately, though, we fight more often than we don’t.”

“All couples fight.”

“And half of them end up divorced.”

Now it was his turn to feel restless, smothered by the topic she’d chosen. “That won’t happen to us. I’m crazy about you. You know that.”

“But it is happening to us. Don’t you get that? With this separation we’re already part of the way there. Our marriage is failing.”

“No, it isn’t. I admit we have problems, but we can fix them.”

“How? How do we fix them?”

“I can think of a couple of things for starters.” He moved toward her, intending to take her in his arms and apologize for having been such an ass earlier, but she scooted around the desk out of his reach.

“No, don’t start this, Jack. Stay over there and promise you won’t touch me.”

“Why can’t I touch you?”

“Because.”

The answer made no sense, so he came forward again. They did a little dance back and forth. He went left. She went left. He went right. She went right. “This is crazy,” he said, stopping. “I feel like I’m in first grade again, playing tag with Mary Louise McGillray. Why can’t I touch you?”

“Because for once I’d like to have a conversation with you without ending up flat on my back with my underpants around my ankles.”

“We’re in my office. That’s not going to happen.”

“Of course it will. We played a game of Toad in the Hole not more than two weeks ago on this very desk, and we’ve been downright acrobatic in that chair several times.”

He smothered his amusement at her euphemistic choice of words, knowing that if he laughed, he’d only make her mad.

She was deadly serious. Her expression told him that. And she had a point. They’d engaged in a little creative sex in his office before, and their arguments often did end with it.

But in his own defense…every time they’d made love here had been after hours and with the door locked. This was afternoon, and the building was full of people. He wasn’t about to do anything. Holding her had been the only thing on his mind.

Well…probably.

He grumbled to himself. Okay, admittedly, when he held her he usually ended up kissing her. And when he kissed her, they both had a way of coming out of their clothes. But she was his wife, dammit, and he enjoyed making love to her. In resignation, he backed up and folded his arms across his chest. “All right, I’ll stay over here. Let’s talk this out. What do you think we should do?”

“I want us to go for marriage counseling.”

“Ah, hell, no. You can forget about that.”

“Jack, please. The least you can do is consider it. Don’t be pigheaded.”

“I’m not airing our problems in front of some stranger. I categorically refuse.”

She swore under her breath. “Fine. Then you come up with something. You never go along with anything I suggest.”

“If we’d dated longer or taken the time for a real engagement, we’d probably have worked out the things we’re fighting about now. Do you agree with that?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“So is there any rule that says we can’t start over again? That makes a hell of a lot more sense to me than going to some guy we don’t know and whining about how we don’t have anything in common.”

“What exactly are you suggesting?”

“That we pretend we’re not married and do it right this time. We go out. We try stuff we haven’t tried before and take an interest in each other’s hobbies. We get to know each other better.”

He’d caught her interest. Her mouth had started a slight upward turn. “As in a real courtship?” she asked.

“Sure, if that’s what you want to call it. Dates. Movies. Picnics. All the things couples do when they meet and start to fall in love, but that we didn’t do the first time around.”

“We spent all our time together in bed.”

“I know, and it was a mistake. But to prove my sincerity, I’ll even go fishing with you.”

“You’re joking. You hate the thought of baiting a hook.”

“You can do that part for me. And in return, I’ll teach you how to play golf.”

She wrinkled her nose in distaste, then faked a smile. “Golf. Sounds…wonderful.”

“You don’t have to like it or even pretend to like it, but you do have to try it. That’ll be our new rule. We don’t discount anything, even if it doesn’t sound fun or it’s not what we’d normally do. If the other person enjoys it, we give it a shot.”

“Would you still keep the apartment?”

“For the time being.”

“Oh.” Her mouth fell a bit.

“That’s the sensible thing to do. Where we live is the biggest problem between us, and we’re not going to resolve it easily. We know that already. But we can make a commitment while we’re courting and try to mutually work out a solution.”

“Without fighting, I hope.”

“Definitely without fighting. No fighting will be allowed.”

“We could even pretend to get engaged after a few months, couldn’t we?”

“Absolutely. You could plan a real wedding this time.”

Her eyes lit up. “With a long dress and a church ceremony and everything?”

“If that would make you happy. Invitations. Reception. Flowers. The works.”

“Oh, Jack!”

“So what do you say?”

Her delight suddenly turned to obvious distress. Her whole body seemed to sag. “But we can’t. Oh, God, it would’ve been perfect, but we can’t do it. It’s too late.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is!” Pain leaped into her eyes. “Why couldn’t you have come up with this idea four months ago, instead of moving out and starting all your stupid games? Ooh, I could just kill you!”

“What the hell…” Why was she suddenly furious at him?

“We can’t have a courtship now!”

“Why not?”

“Because, Mr. ‘I forgot my basketball,’ I’m going to have a baby!”

THE WORD FLOORED suddenly made sense to Lucky as she watched Jack sway and his knees buckle. “Oh, no!” She grabbed him, but he was too heavy for her to keep upright. Muscle and bone seemed to melt and slide downward. All she could do was hold on around his middle and guide him as he sat down hard on the carpet.

He prided himself on being tough, but at the moment he looked more like a vulnerable little boy who’d gotten the shock of his life. Her anger fizzled, or maybe her love for him was stronger than her anger. She was equally responsible for this little problem, and it hadn’t been fair to put all the blame on him. And, too, this was supposed to be one of the happiest moments in a couple’s life, and she had spoiled it for him, for both of them. She’d never forgive herself for that.

“I’m so sorry.” She knelt and tried to help him regain his equilibrium. “I didn’t plan to tell you like this. I was heartless to blurt it out in anger. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, it’s just… I didn’t expect… How did this happen? The pill’s supposed to be nearly one-hundred percent effective.”

“Nearly being the problem. My doctor said that in clinical trials, the type I was taking works ninety-nine point nine percent of the time, but in the real world, the failure rate is more like five to eight percent. Even missing one pill, or varying the time you take them each day, can cause disaster.”

“Did you skip one by mistake?”

“No, I’m positive I didn’t, but apparently certain other medications can also reduce their effectiveness.”

“Sinus infection,” he said, figuring it out.

“Uh-huh. I had that bad one in the spring. I received a shot and a prescription for antibiotics. If I’d known…”

“Hey, it doesn’t matter. Whatever the cause, I’m glad. Hell, I’m thrilled.” He grinned stupidly. “I’m going to be a father!”

“I’ve been trying to tell you for a while, but the right moment never came up.” This definitely wasn’t it, either. From the first day of their marriage he’d talked about having children. This news had to mean everything to him, and she’d hurled it at him like a stew pot.

“How long?” he asked. “I mean, when will it be here?”

“Early January. I’m a little over two months pregnant.”

“Is the baby okay? Are you okay?”

“We’re both fine. My blood pressure’s a tad high, but the doctor says it’s nothing to worry about as long as I try and stay relaxed. She actually wants me to gain a minimum of thirty pounds during the pregnancy because I’m too thin.”

“Damn, Lucky, you scared me. For a minute I thought you were going to tell me you wanted to call our marriage quits.”

“I can’t pretend that I haven’t seriously thought about it.”

He stared at her, even more dumbstruck than before. “You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not. I love you. Don’t ever doubt that. But we’ve had major problems from the beginning because we’re so different. Now with a baby coming, those problems will only get worse.”

“No, they won’t.”

“Yes, they will. You know they will.”

He seemed to catch his breath, and was able to stand. Pulling her close, he slid his arms around her. “Sweetheart…” He rubbed her back with soothing motions. “This is exactly what we need. We’ll be a family now. I can’t think of anything better….”

“And I can’t think of anything worse. Babies don’t repair bad marriages. They kill them.”

He pulled his head back so he could look at her, but still kept his hands loosely on her waist. “We don’t have a bad marriage, only a temporary bad spell. There’s a big difference.”

“I hope you’re right, and not only for the baby’s sake but for ours. I refuse to allow this child to grow up listening to us constantly quarrel. I’d rather separate permanently than have that happen.”

“That sounds like Leigh talking, not you.”

“Leigh has nothing to do with this.”

“Then why are you wanting to divorce me?”

“I don’t want to divorce you. I’m only trying to be realistic about our problems and do what’s best for our child.”

“Well, divorce sure as hell isn’t the answer.”

“Then tell me what is.”

“Being together.” He rubbed his fingers lightly against her belly. “That little baby in there needs us to be a family, Lucky. I need it, too.”

Her heart went out to him. “Oh, Jack…”

“Don’t give up on us.”

“I don’t want to, but…” She sighed, feeling so uncertain, so confused. They fought over the same issues again and again, and emotionally she simply couldn’t take it anymore. “I wish…we really could start over, like you suggested. Wiping the slate clean might have given us the second chance we needed.”

“We can still do it.”

She shook her head sadly. “It’s a little late for romance, don’t you think?”

“No, it’s a great time. Perfect.”

“Oh, sure. In a few months my belly button will stick out like it’s deformed, and I probably won’t be able to find my feet. You won’t want to even look at me, much less touch me. Stretch marks and romance aren’t a very good combination.”

“You’ll be beautiful with your sticking-out belly button. I can’t wait to see that. And I’ll always want to touch you, Lucky, stretch marks or not. Hell, I think about it all the time.”

“I’m about to get very fat. You realize that, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but you’ll finally have some boobs.”

His effort to produce a smile from her worked. She chuckled despite her gloom. “You’re horrible.” She moved in closer and played with the front of his shirt and the leather of his shoulder holster, enjoying the feel of his muscles beneath them. “I thought you liked my flat chest and skinny legs,” she murmured.

“I love them. I love every part of you, from that spaced-out brain to those long, knobby toes.” He slid his hands down and over her butt. “I especially love the lower parts.”

“Oh, there you go again, trying to charm me out of my pants.”

He grinned with devilment.

She really should scold him, but Lord, he was cute when he was playful like this. And that smile… Seeing it always made her fall in love with him all over again.

“Stop worrying so much,” he suggested. “I promise you things will be better. I’ll even give more thought to marriage counseling if that’ll ease your mind. Okay?”

That lightened her mood considerably. “Okay.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes to make you happy. Now, I think what we both need more than anything is to celebrate our news. We could go out, but you look tired, so you head on home and I’ll stop at the grocery store when I get off. You can put your feet up and I’ll come over and cook.”

“That sounds wonderful, but I can’t. I’m not through working and I have an assignment tonight.”

“Lucky, you were out before six o’clock this morning.”

“And I’ve been up since four, but I’m committed to taking photos at the Lions’ Club dinner. I won’t be home until after ten. I plan to hit the mattress one minute later.”

“You don’t need to be working those kinds of hours.”

“I agree and I’d rather spend tonight with you, but I promised Leigh and it’s too late to back out. How about we celebrate tomorrow? I’m off the next two days and I told her I absolutely wouldn’t work unless the town started to burn. Which, with the way my luck usually runs, is a possibility, so don’t light any matches.”

“I need to come in for a few hours in the morning and work on this Bagwell case—try to clear up some loose ends—but I should be through by lunch. We can do it after that.”

“I thought the death was a simple accident.”

“It probably is.”

“Probably?” She cocked her head. “Did you find something suspicious?”

“No, nothing unusual.”

“Then why do you still have loose ends? I figured this would be a down-and-dirty investigation.”

He gave her that look, the one that said she knew better than to ask.

“Oh, come on, Jack. I found the guy.”

“That doesn’t mean he belongs to you.”

“I know, but I feel somehow responsible for him. I want to follow through with this.”

“That’s my job. I don’t want you sniffing around in any more of my cases. Understood? I worry enough about you as it is. Don’t make things harder on me.”

“But maybe I can help. I know people you don’t. And his daughter, Carolyn, went to school with Shannon. I bet she’d talk to me.”

“I’ve already talked to her.”

“What did she tell you?”

“Nothing you need to know. About tomorrow…maybe we should make it a family celebration. Have you told your parents about the baby?”

Reluctantly she allowed him to change the subject. “Not yet.”

“Then we’ll get them and your grandmother out to your place and share the news. Ask Leigh to come, and call and see if Shannon and Bill are free. I’ll get Cal to help me move my stuff, and then I’ll grill hamburgers for everyone.”

Lucky’s heart sank. “You’re moving back in?”

“Well…yeah, unless you want to reconsider moving to the apartment.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then I guess I’m moving back in.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. We’d better keep things the way they are and not make any drastic changes. Let’s ease back into living together.”

“Wait a minute, what gives? Five minutes ago you wanted me to come home.”

“And five minutes ago you said no because you weren’t ready. Jack, I do want you home, more than anything on earth, but for the right reason. Let’s not jump from one mistake into an even bigger one.”

“I can’t think of any better reason than having a baby.”

“How about…you love your wife and want to be with her?”

“That, too.”

“Please be sure. This is such a major decision.”

“I am sure. Look…I can’t pretend I’m thrilled about living in that cramped cabin again, but if that’s what it takes to be with you during this pregnancy, then I’ll manage until we can come up with a solution. I’ve lived in worse places.”

“When you stayed with your cousin?”

“Who?”

“Your cousin. You said last night that you lived in the back of your cousin’s store while you worked for him.”

“Oh, yeah, I stayed there for a while after high school. It was pretty awful. No shower. No kitchen.”

She frowned. Hadn’t he said it’d been after his parents died? He’d been sixteen, not out of high school. And the way he’d told it before…he’d gone into the army right out of school.

An uneasiness settled over her, the same uneasiness she felt each time his past came up. Nothing he said about his early years ever seemed to mesh. But why?

CHAPTER FOUR

ON SATURDAY AFTERNOON, Lucky guided her small fishing boat into an isolated slough, turned off the motor and let it drift. Dusk was when she was most likely to see the panthers she’d been watching the past several weeks, but she hoped at least one would appear earlier.

She took a drink from her water bottle and wiped off the sweat that had formed under the brim of her Kiss A Bug cap. Jack and Cal were probably at the cabin by now, moving Jack’s clothes. The rest of her family would arrive soon.

Looking back, she couldn’t remember ever telling Jack he could move back in, but discussing it with him wasn’t worth the stress that would undoubtedly create. Peace and calm were what she and the baby needed right now, and the river provided it. She always felt better after a few hours with her old friend.

Most people only saw the main body of the Black Warrior and its headwaters, the Locust, Mulberry and Sipsey rivers, but its heart lay in places like this, the hidden ones, where the water seemed bottomless and the adjoining land appeared virtually untouched since prehistoric times.

The area wasn’t completely virgin, but she liked to think it was. Settlers, her ancestors among them, had planted cotton and corn in the low areas, harvested trees from the forests and dug coal from the banks and shoals. Before them, the Creek and Choctaw Indians inhabited these lands, and the river, or Apotaka Hache as the Choctaw called it, had been a border between the nations.

Before the modern Indians, the land was home to mound-building people in whose culture women, fertility and the river all played major roles. Lucky sometimes dug up their flint points or pottery shards when she planted her small garden.

She’d explored extensively the river and its forks, but it would take several lifetimes to see everything. The state, federal government and the University of Alabama all owned thousands of acres of trees and swampland she’d never walked. Probably few had in modern times. A surveyor or two, perhaps, or an occasional logger or pulpwood harvester.

This was her home, but more than that, it was a vital part of who she was. Take her outside the county and nothing about her was special. But here, on the river, she could name each insect, fish and bird. Here, she felt connected to her past and the generations of Mathisons who had come before her.

Her tie to the river was strong and unbreakable, something Jack could never understand. Giving it up wasn’t an option. She’d wither if she had to live in town again. And to leave Potock altogether, as he’d suggested more than once during their arguments, would surely kill her.

Maneuvering the boat closer to the bank into the shade of the trees, she stretched out on her stomach so she could watch the insects zigzagging across the surface of the water and observe the acrobatic dragonflies. Birds rustled in the underbrush. The water lapped gently against the side of the metal boat, almost lulling her to sleep.

Far off but coming closer, the heavy crunch of leaves intruded on the stillness. Something large was moving through the woods.

As quietly as she could, she sat up and brought the camera to her eye. She’d probably get only two or three shots of the panther before the sound of the autowinder scared him off. Each shot had to count. Except…this couldn’t be an animal; it was making too much noise. Only a human thrashed around like that.

The land sloped to the water down a hill tangled with plant growth. On her way out of the cabin, Lucky had grabbed her old Canon with its zoom lens, and she used it to focus on the faintly discernible path made by the tread of deer.

A man emerged with his head down, unaware of her presence, and went straight to the water. He crouched as if to take a drink, but instead, sank his bare arms in the water to the elbows. He brought them up, then slapped the surface several times, letting out a squeal each time.

Lucky continued to watch, feeling a bit anxious at the peculiarity of it. He seemed to be almost…playing.

Suddenly he sensed her and jerked up his head. Her viewfinder framed a face that represented every nightmare she’d had since the age of nine.

Terrell Wade.

She sucked in a breath. Fear kept her frozen, unable to move. She’d known the autistic man was back in Potock. Leigh had written a story at the time of his relocation.

He wasn’t supposed to be out unsupervised. The idea of him wandering around by the river and only a couple of miles from her cabin sent a chill running along Lucy’s backbone.

No more than fifteen feet separated them. If he took a few steps to his right, he’d be close enough to the bow of her boat to get in.

She lowered her camera bit by bit so as not to startle him, until it hung heavily by the strap around her neck. If he made a move, she wanted to be able to grab something to defend herself. She might have time to get the motor cranked if he came at her, but maybe not.

For what seemed an eternity, he did nothing but stare back from his catlike position. That in itself was enough to unnerve her. She’d never seen his eyes before. She couldn’t recall him ever holding his head high enough that anyone could see his eyes. He’d always kept his face down when you came near, as if ashamed or afraid.

Did he remember what she’d done to him?

Did he even recognize her as the child who had condemned him?

He cocked his head, then sprang upright. Lucky jumped just as quickly and lunged forward, but her sudden movement upset the boat and set it rocking. For a heartbeat she held on to the paddle and her balance, but then she lost both. The paddle flew out of her hand into the water and the lens of her camera bounced up and smacked her above the left eye, nearly knocking her out.

What people said about seeing stars was true. They sparkled for a second in front of her, then gave way to pain. Blood clouded her vision.

The boat drifted. She scrambled for the motor, pushed the primer button and pulled the cord, but it didn’t crank. Desperately she hit the button again. A second and third pull of the cord produced no results.

Terrell moved, coming along the bank as she feared.

Ten feet away.

He had something in his hand.

Five feet away.

He stepped into the boat and reached out toward her.

Once, when Lucky was small, she’d picked up a pretty black-and-red-striped ant that had promptly stung her hand. She’d screamed so loud that her granddaddy had said she’d blistered his eardrums.

The scream she let out this time was louder.

WITH CAL’S HELP, Jack hauled over what personal items he needed for the next few days and set about replacing the old fan in the living room with something that actually stirred the air. He’d bought a second unit to install in the bedroom.

When he was growing up, he’d promised himself he’d never live in another dump, that when he had a house of his own, it would be a nice house, nothing too fancy, but sturdily built and roomy enough to raise kids the way they should be raised.

He never again wanted to wonder if the water was hot or the refrigerator had food. He’d had his fill of peeling paint, cast-off furniture and paper-thin walls.

He looked around and shook his head. Well, this dump, at least, was clean. No rats trying to take a bite out of him in the middle of the night. No bugs except the ones Lucky caught to photograph.

Snakes…now, that was something he’d have to talk to her about. Snakes inside were unacceptable from now on, along with any kind of animal, dead or alive, except for her dog.

With some work, he could make the cabin more livable. New plasterboard for the walls and fresh paint would help. New tin for the roof and exterior would go a long way toward making it look better.

He sincerely hoped they’d be gone before the cold weather came. He could tolerate cold, and winters here were mild compared to what he’d experienced in Pittsburgh, but he’d found out the hard way that the dampness penetrated everything on the river. The few months he’d spent with Lucky in the cabin last winter had been miserable for him.

The rent at his apartment was paid through the end of next month, so he’d decided to keep most of his clothes there and move the rest only when he had no other choice.

The cabin had an attached storage room with a rack for hangers, but Lucky had fishing poles, life jackets and God knows what else crammed in there. She’d have to clean out her junk again to make space for him to put his good shirts and suits.

“This clunker’s been here a lot of years,” Cal said from the stepladder. He loosened the last screw on the fan and together they brought it down and set it on the floor. “I was only a kid when Dad and my granddaddy put it up.”

“Did your dad grow up here?”

“Sure did. Him and my uncle Steve. My grandmother hated the place, but Granddaddy’s people had lived here for generations, so he wouldn’t budge.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“Yeah,” Cal said with a nod, “pretty much the same story as you and Lucky.”

Jack stepped back and the dog let out a yelp. He knelt and petted her. “Sorry, Beanie, but you’ve got to stay out from under my feet.” She looked up at him with big eyes that said he was forgiven, thumping her tail against the floor.

Her breed was indecipherable. She had the face of a hound, but her body seemed an amalgamation of hound and terrier. Black, shaggy hair covered all of her except her muzzle, which had turned gray with age.

Usually her hair drooped and covered her eyes, making him wonder how she could possibly see. Since today was a special occasion, he’d pinned it back with a pink bow-shaped barrette, an old one of Lucky’s from when her hair was long.

The dog wasn’t pretty, but she was the first pet he’d ever owned, and he liked the experience. Well, technically she belonged to Lucky, but Beanie didn’t understand that.

“The more time that dog spends with you, the more worthless she becomes,” Cal said. “Could she get any fatter?”

Beanie thumped her tail again, knowing they were talking about her. She seemed to smile.

“She doesn’t like dog food,” Jack explained.

“And why should she when you feed her junk all the time? Has Lucky seen her lately?”

“Not in a few weeks.”

“Oh, man, you’re going to be in big trouble.”

Jack made the dog lie down in front of the couch out of the way, then unpacked the new fan. He rechecked to make sure the power was off, then Cal helped him position the new unit and secure it.

“Did your grandfather ever consider moving away from here?” he asked, continuing their earlier conversation.

“Papa Sam?” Cal snorted. “Imagine a male version of Lucky, and that’s a pretty good description of my granddaddy. He thought the river was heaven. You couldn’t pry him out of here with a crowbar, even after he started having heart problems. He dropped dead right out there by the water.”

“I don’t understand what’s supposed to be so great about this place.”

“Me, neither, to tell you the truth. Leigh, Shannon and I used to hate coming out to visit because there wasn’t anything to do, but Lucky spent most of her time here. She would’ve lived with Papa Sam if our mom had let her. When he died, no one was surprised that he left the land and cabin to Lucky. She’s the only one who ever really appreciated them. And Mema was thrilled to move in with Mom and Dad.”

“I’ve tried to adjust, but there’s no damned space, and she has all these weird things she’s picked up and won’t throw away.”

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