One Good Man. Charlotte Douglas

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СКАЧАТЬ know Uncle Grant hung with lowlifes.”

      Jodie cast her a sharp glance. “Who said Jeff’s a lowlife?”

      “The whole town knows he was no good.”

      “Jeff had a tough time growing up.”

      “Yeah, tell me about it.”

      Jodie silently counted to ten. Her daughter had become a travel agent for first-class guilt trips. “Jeff’s father, Hiram, was a lowlife, no doubt about it. Never held a job and stayed stinking drunk his entire adult life. He was locked up so often Chief Sawyer named a cell after him.”

      Brittany studied her black-painted fingernails without comment.

      Jodie couldn’t tell if the girl’s boredom was real or feigned. “Jeff’s mother died when he was a baby.”

      “Who took care of him?”

      Ah, a note of interest from the blasé Miss Brittany? Would wonders never cease?

      “His drunken father,” Jodie said. “It’s a miracle Jeff survived. When he was old enough, his father forced him to make moonshine deliveries.”

      “Moonshine? Yuck.” Brittany made a face.

      Jodie hoped her daughter’s response wasn’t based on personal experience. “Hiram ran a still somewhere on the mountain behind their house.”

      Like a camera flash, a memory flared of Jeff, long dark hair blowing in the wind, black leather jacket zipped to his chin, roaring through town on his Harley, its saddlebags filled with Mason jars of white lightning cushioned with moss. The boy had been arrogant. Solitary. Lonely. With a don’t-come-close-or-I’ll-break-you-in-two expression.

      Brittany squirmed in her seat. “Will his father be at the farm today?”

      “Hiram died a year ago.”

      Brittany was silent for a moment. “Anybody my age coming?”

      “Not today.”

      Lordy, Jodie hoped not. She had enough trouble with Brittany’s current friends. She definitely didn’t want her daughter fraternizing with Jeff’s clients, kids within a hair’s breadth of going to jail for a long, long time.

      Reality check.

      When Grant had first told her of Jeff’s project, a camp to rehabilitate potentially prison-bound teens, she’d been caught up in her brother’s enthusiasm.

      “If Jeff hadn’t joined the Marines right out of high school,” Grant had explained, “he might have ended up in jail himself. So he understands where these kids are coming from. And where they might be headed.”

      Good for Jeff Davidson, Jodie had thought. But now, considering her impressionable teenage daughter, the last thing Jodie wanted for her was more bad influences. And Jeff’s rehabilitation project would bring trouble to Pleasant Valley literally by the busload.

      Jodie gripped the wheel to keep from smacking herself upside the head. Here she was, aiding and abetting, providing food and comfort to the enemy. What the heck had she been thinking?

      Damn Jeff Davidson and his Marine-recruiting-poster charm. Thanks to her scrambled senses when he’d caught her by surprise, she hadn’t been thinking at all.

      But Jeff wouldn’t have clients yet, she assured herself. The dorm wasn’t built, so the teens didn’t have a place to stay. And, thank God, the Davidson place was at the opposite end of the valley from town. When Jeff’s delinquents did arrive, they’d be too far away to interact with Brittany.

      Jodie forced herself to relax. She and Brittany would feed Jeff’s building crew and take off. Her daughter would have no further contact with Jeff or his camp. For Brittany’s sake, Jodie didn’t want the rehabilitation facility in Pleasant Valley, but she remained open-minded enough to avoid the not-in-my-backyard syndrome. Jeff’s teens needed help. A nasty job, but somebody had to do it.

      So long as the program didn’t affect her already problematic daughter, Jodie would file no objections.

      She reached the end of the valley and headed the van up the winding road, a series of switchbacks that worked their way up the steep mountainside. Halfway up, she turned onto a gravel road, almost hidden by arching branches of rhododendron ready to burst into bloom. Heavy dew clung to white clusters of mountain laurel and bowed the heavily leafed branches of the hardwood forest. Jodie observed the unfamiliar route with interest. She’d never visited the Davidson farm and knew the way only from Grant’s directions.

      Brittany peered through the shadows cast by the trees. “Are you sure this is the right road? We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

      Jodie was also wondering if she was lost when a clearing opened ahead. She stopped the van at its edge and surveyed the Davidson property. Unlike the fertile farmland of the valley, this terrain was rugged and rocky. The only structures were a run-down farmhouse, a ramshackle barn, its unpainted boards weathered gray, and a few outbuildings. To one side of the barn, a terrace had been carved out of the hillside long ago, a space barely big enough for a vegetable garden, a pond and a tiny pasture.

      On the opposite side of the farmhouse, a larger terrace had been graded recently, judging by the bare red clay. Stacks of lumber lay beside a huge concrete-block foundation, and beyond, a driver on a track-hoe worked the land, enlarging the level surface one bucketful of hard clay and rocks at a time.

      Brittany sat up straighter and peered out the windshield with interest. “Where’s the still?”

      Jodie eased the van beside Brynn’s car in front of the farmhouse and shut off the engine. “Destroyed. After his father died, Jeff told the authorities where to find it.”

      “Where does Jeff—”

      “Mr. Davidson, to you, kiddo.”

      Brittany heaved a sigh. “Where does he get the money for all this?”

      Out of the mouths of babes, Jodie thought. Hiram Davidson never had two nickels to rub together, and Marine pay hadn’t made Jeff rich. How was Jeff paying for his project?

      She started to comment, but Jeff bounded out the door of the farmhouse and sprinted down the steps toward them. Every bit of breath left her body in a whoosh.

      With his killer smile flashing, he was dressed in khaki cargo shorts that revealed muscular, tanned legs, lace-up workboots with wool socks, a cable-knit sweater in olive drab and a soft cap with USMC emblazoned across the front in proud gold letters. At ease, but with an underlying alertness that could snap to attention in a millisecond, he looked handsome enough for a starring role on one of Jodie’s favorite television programs.

      Move over, JAG Commander Harmon Rabb, and be still my heart.

      Jodie took a deep breath to clear her head. She was thirty years old, a mother and a businesswoman. She had to stop reacting to the man as if she were some teenage Marine Corps groupie.

      Four similarly attired men came out of the house behind Jeff and waited on the porch.

      “Holy beefcake,” Brittany murmured.

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