The Renegade And The Heiress. Judith Duncan

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СКАЧАТЬ playing shuffleboard. That was why Joe liked him for a partner—they could clean the clocks of those yappy Campbell sisters without even breaking a sweat.

      The other man was already waiting at the curb, leaning on his three-legged cane, a new John Deere cap on his head, his brown jacket zipped right up to the neck. Joe leaned across and opened the passenger door. “Howdy, George. All ready for this here big tournament?”

      The other took his time climbing in, his joints stiff with arthritis. “Sure am.”

      Joe glanced across the street and saw a familiar vehicle turn into the driveway for the cemetery, then pass between the two stone cairns that supported the wrought-iron gates. George slammed the door, pointing a bony figure at the big black SUV. “See that fella over there at least once a month—big man. Ran into him once when I was out walking. Must stand six-three—black hair and eyes like a hawk. A fine-looking fella—but he has a nasty scar on his face. Solemn type, if you know what I mean.”

      His weathered face turning serious, Old Joe grasped the wheel and spoke, his tone almost reverent. “That’s Finn Donovan.”

      George’s voice had a wheezy, waspy tone to it. “And who is Finn Donovan?”

      Joe gave him a disgusted look. “You’ve lived here nearly a year and you don’t know who Finn Donovan is?”

      George looked offended and was about to respond, but Old Joe didn’t give him a chance. He saw himself as something of a storyteller as well as a poet, and he took the opportunity to show his stuff. “Finn Donovan is a legend in these here parts. And that there legend is as tall and as broad as he is.”

      Seeing he had George’s full attention, Old Joe put his battered pickup in gear and eased away from the curb. “Although I don’t expect there’s anyone who could say they know him—or would consider him a friend. But if there’s ever any kind of trouble in them mountains or in the backcountry—you know, like a plane crash or some of them hikers go missing, or if someone gets hurt real bad—Finn Donovan is the first person they call in. He has a way with danger.”

      George thumped his cane on the floor, his gnarled hand gripping the handle as he glared at Old Joe, sounding cantankerous. “Then how come you know so much about him?”

      Feeling smug, Old Joe nodded. “Well, you see, I work for him—do all kinds of odd chores. Treats me real good. He even gave me a place to live—there was a little house on his property he didn’t use no more. He’s one of them outfitters—you know, a big game guide. And I’ll tell you this. He’s the best durned tracker around. And he knows every crack and cranny in that there backcountry. That there terrain is so treacherous only a handful ever venture into it.”

      Old Joe checked the intersection, then slowly turned onto the next street, checking his rearview mirror to make sure no one was coming up behind him. These young fools nowadays drove too fast. Repositioning his hands on the wheel, he continued his story. “Some say it’s because he’s one quarter Indian that he can find his way through them gorges and canyons and all that forest. Others who’ve traveled with him swear he’s part shadow and part mountain goat, and has a compass for a brain. Others say he’s so durned good at it because there’s a darkness in him—that he’s afeard of nothing.”

      George looked at Joe, interest glinting in his eyes. “Sounds like you know all about him.”

      Carefully skirting a pothole, Old Joe shook his head. “Nope. Can’t say that I do. Figure no one knows a whole lot about Finn, and that’s the way he likes it. I know he grew up in the backcountry. Raised by an uncle who had a string of packhorses—Frank used to hire himself out as a guide to them trophy hunters. But even back then, Finn kept to himself. His teachers said he was as smart as a whip.”

      Resting both his hands on the top of his cane, George stared out the window, a frown appearing on his face. “You know. Now that you mention it, I recollect my daughter telling me about this outfitter who ended up in jail. Is that the same fella?”

      Joe slowed for the school zone, pressing on the brakes when he reached the posted sign, the bright autumn sunlight splintering through the crack in his windshield. He didn’t want another damned ticket. No siree. His pace slowed to well below the limit, he answered. “Yep. That’s the one. It’s common knowledge that he killed a man—must have been fifteen or sixteen years ago. Some say it was self-defense, others say it was done in a hard, cold rage. Didn’t know him all that well myself back then, but there was common agreement that Roddy Bracken had it coming.”

      Old Joe turned onto the street where the drop-in center was located, passed the fire hydrant, then eased into the parallel parking spot under the big old poplar tree. Putting on the emergency brake, he switched off the ignition, watching as the Campbell sisters made their way up the steps of the building. Durned old biddies. Always stirring up trouble.

      George spoke up, that same wheezy, waspy tone in his voice. “So are you going to tell me the rest of this here story or not?”

      Old Joe looked at him, puffing out his chest. He liked nothing better than telling stories, and he was pretty durned good at it. And although he’d never say so, he liked gossip as well as the next one.

      “Well,” he said, leaning back in the seat, “as the story goes, there’d always been bad blood between Finn and Roddy. Even as youngsters they had it in for one another. But as soon as Finn was old enough, he lit out.”

      He paused, trying to recollect, drawing on his trusty memory. “Seems to me he ended up working in some kind of construction—some big overseas project where the big money was. Anyhow, every once in a while, he’d turn up here, and he’d do a little guiding for his uncle.” He leaned forward and took the keys out of the ignition and dropped them in his shirt pocket, then looked at his companion. “But it wasn’t until he came back for good, with enough money to buy a place and set himself up as a guide that the bad blood between them two got stirred up again.”

      George took a bag of peppermints out of his pocket and offered Old Joe one, then nodded his head, prodding his friend to continue. Old Joe did. “Sally Logan was the kindergarten teacher—one of them sweet girls who had a kind word for everybody. She grew up here in Bolton—only child of Irene and Marvin Logan—and there wasn’t a soul who didn’t like her. Anyhow, Roddy had been after her for years, but she wouldn’t give him the time of day. Then Finn showed up back in town, and she fell head over heels, and married him instead.”

      Old Joe dragged his thumb across his mouth, his expression altering. “Everyone knew that Roddy had started packing a whole new grudge against Finn once that happened, but no one could have figured on the outcome.”

      George thumped his cane on the floor. “Now don’t leave me hanging here. What happened?”

      Joe sighed, staring out the window, then shook his head, recollecting. “Roddy came from big money, and he was spoilt rotten—had a cocky attitude. But that attitude turned mean and ugly after Sally married Finn. And one weekend…”

      Old Joe hesitated, sobered by the awful recollection. It had been bad. Real bad. Knowing his friend was waiting for the rest, he drew in a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “One weekend Finn had taken a group of rich Americans into the mountains on a fishing trip. Roddy got all fueled up on booze and drugs, and he showed up at Finn’s little house in town, and he raped that pretty young wife of his. When Finn got back and found out what had happened, he got Sally settled in the hospital, then he went after Roddy. I hear fury was like a wild thing in him. Some of them that was there testified that Roddy pulled a knife first and slashed Finn’s face. Then after there were some whisperings СКАЧАТЬ