Charlotte's Homecoming. Janice Johnson Kay

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      “With the farm? Heck, no! I can help take care of Dad, and maybe defend Faith from Rory, but the closest thing to retail experience I have was my part-time job at Tastee’s. Is there something we can do to draw more people, bring in more money? I can’t think of anything.”

      His nod was unsurprised. “I suppose you’re wishing you were back in front of a computer.”

      She opened her mouth to agree and realized it would be a lie. She did like her work, but she hadn’t missed it since arriving home. “Well, I’m not cut out to be a farmer or run a country store,” she said instead, which wasn’t a lie.

      “Charlotte—” Gray stopped and looked past her, and she turned to see the police chief and her sister walking out of the barn to join them.

      “Still here?” Wheeler said, faintly mocking.

      Gray made a sound in his throat that Charlotte couldn’t interpret and said, “I’m going.” His eyes meeting hers again, he said quietly, “Take care, okay?”

      “I will,” she agreed, her own voice low, as if this promise was private. The idea quickened her pulse, but he was turning away, getting into his car.

      A moment later, he’d backed out and driven off.

      She was pathetic enough to want to watch until his Prius was out of sight. Instead, she faced the police chief and, somewhat hastily, suggested, “Why don’t we talk in the kitchen? We could at least sit down and have a cup of coffee.”

      “I’d appreciate that,” he agreed, in a deep, quiet voice.

      She was less sure inviting him in had been a good idea when she realized how he seemed to shrink the farmhouse kitchen by his mere presence. Faith lost all animation once the three of them sat down and he began to ask questions.

      He concentrated on Charlotte, once Faith told him she hadn’t heard or seen a thing until her sister yelled up the stairs to her.

      “Did it cross your mind as you ran over to the barn that the arsonist might still be there watching?” he asked, those dark eyes steady on her face.

      A chill crept up her spine, raising goose bumps as it went. “I … didn’t even think about it being arson,” she said. “Not until the firefighter told us. I did notice the smell of gasoline, but not until the fire truck had already pulled in, so I thought …” She trailed off with the unpleasant realization that someone could have been watching. There had been moonlight, yes, but he could have stood in the shadow of the garage or one of the smaller outbuildings and smiled at the sight of his fire leaping toward the barn roof. Had he been angry when he saw her and then Faith, or had he enjoyed their desperate fight to save the old barn?

      Faith looked horrified, too.

      “Oh, Char,” she whispered.

      Charlotte reached out a hand to her. “It might not have been Rory.”

      She couldn’t remember the last time they’d clasped hands like this. Of course their hands were identical, with long, slender fingers. A few days ago, hers would have been paler, her nails manicured and polished. But now, she was already starting to tan, and a bandage wrapped one finger burned when she stirred the jam. Both of them had acquired scratches thanks to the berry vines.

      Charlotte gave her sister’s hand a squeeze and then let it go.

      The police chief was waiting politely, his dark eyes taking in more, she suspected, than she or her sister would have liked.

      “Rory?” he inquired.

      Faith bit her lip and gazed at the tabletop as if the pattern of the blue gingham cloth fascinated her. “My ex-husband. Um … Rory Hardesty.”

      He had taken out a small notebook when he first sat down, and now carefully wrote down the name. “I take it the divorce wasn’t amicable?”

      Faith’s hair swung when she shook her head.

      He watched her for a moment, then raised his brows at Char.

      “The divorce was final a year ago,” she explained. “He was … abusive.” Faith didn’t react in any way, so she continued, “He’s been coming around lately.”

      “How often?”

      “Once or twice a week,” Faith said softly.

      The intense, dark gaze turned back to Charlotte.

      “Faith thinks he has been drunk a few of the times. He clearly wants her back. Sometimes he’s cajoling, sometimes he’s angry. Rory was angry a lot.”

      She might have imagined the way his expression hardened, but she didn’t think so.

      “Our dad was injured recently when the tractor overturned. He’s still in the hospital. I’m just here for a visit, to help out until he’s on his feet again. My first day home, Tuesday, Rory came by and mistook me for Faith. He harangued me for looking like a slut. Apparently he doesn’t appreciate multiple piercings.” She fingered one of her ears. “Perhaps fortunately, Gray walked in right then and Rory stormed out. I’m afraid this fire is exactly the kind of thing he’d do.” She paused. “Faith doesn’t agree.”

      Her sister raised her head. “Rory’s never done anything criminal.”

      “Putting you in the hospital wasn’t a crime?” Charlotte asked.

      “Well … not in the same way.” She turned a look of appeal on Chief Wheeler. “It’s just that I think there are likelier possibilities. Gosh, this could have just been garden-variety vandalism, couldn’t it?”

      His voice sounded gentle, considering its deep, rough tenor. “Yes. That’s a good possibility. Especially if you’ve annoyed any teenagers lately.”

      Almost eagerly, Faith explained about the boy she’d fired just a few weeks back. When she got to the point of giving his name, though, the eagerness had dwindled. “Sean. Sean Coffey. The thing is, I really think he’s basically a nice kid. He’s on the football team, and his dad is a teacher. Not at my school, at Roosevelt Elementary. And I did catch Sean red-handed. He couldn’t complain that I was being unfair.”

      “You didn’t report him to the police.”

      She shook her head. “It was only twenty dollars. And yes, I know it probably wasn’t the first time he’d taken money, but it might have been, mightn’t it? I hated the idea of being responsible for him having a juvenile record.”

      “Did you tell his parents?” This wasn’t quite a question—tinged as it was with resignation, the police chief already knew the answer.

      “No.”

      His mouth twisted. “Well, just because he got lucky doesn’t mean this kid isn’t resentful. This strikes me as something a teenager would do. Impulsive and mean-spirited.”

      Rory, Charlotte thought, was also impulsive and mean-spirited. She had a suspicion his emotional maturity had stuck somewhere in the midteenage years. СКАЧАТЬ