Firefly Summer Page 7

  And she surely shouldn’t have had a laugh like that. A laugh he could still hear if he thought about it.

  What he’d expected, Trey couldn’t exactly say, but Sessa Lee Chambers certainly wasn’t what he thought she’d be, so maybe Ross hadn’t been either. Maybe he hadn’t been the abused and forgotten, down-on-his-luck hard case he professed to be.

  Trey slammed his palm against the steering wheel. What an idiot he’d been.

  The belief that he could have somehow made a difference in Ross Chambers’ life had culminated in what? Prison for him and the graveyard for Ross. And all this time the kid apparently had a decent set of family and friends here in Sugar Pine.

  Vikki was right. He was too gullible. But then he’d trusted her even after their argument over Ross had culminated in the end of their engagement.

  Fresh anger shot through him at the thought of how easily she’d turned her back on him during the trial. But then Vikki Rossi had calculated the odds long before she was called to testify about the money in his safe. That’s what made her so good at what she did.

  If she had professed knowledge of the cash there, she might have found herself answering other questions about her association with the victim. Questions that might put a lingering dent in the stellar reputation the up-and-coming district attorney needed to achieve the next step in her lofty goals.

  The phone rang on the seat beside him, and he glanced down to see who was calling. Vikki. Of course. As if his thoughts had somehow summoned her.

  He climbed out of the car and slammed the door behind him, the phone’s ring barely discernable as he closed the distance to the garage exit and let himself inside the house. He’d get the phone later.

  Or maybe he’d just leave it there until tomorrow.

  Tossing his keys onto the table by the door, Trey headed down the hall to his office, where he eased into the Eames chair behind the desk. A stack of medical journals awaited him, and he’d promised himself on the way home from the counselor’s office that he’d get to that task today.

  His gaze landed on the corner of the desk where the scalpel turned murder weapon had once held a place of honor. He’d left instructions with his attorney to destroy the thing once it was returned after the trial, but he hadn’t yet filled the empty spot. Shifting the stack of journals to the empty place helped, but so did turning his back on the desk.

  The view through the floor-to-ceiling windows was still the same: a lush planting of palms and oleander ringing the pool where he used to swim laps before morning rounds at the hospital. Beyond the pool he could see the stable where he’d once kept his horses. They were gone now, sold along with all of the tack in the tack room when he believed he’d spend the rest of his life in prison.

  Trey shook off the regret and focused on the pool. The thought of seeing just how many laps he could manage sent him after his swim trunks. He’d read through the medical journals later.

  Despite the warmth of the evening, the water felt like ice as he dove in. With each lap, however, his body temperature warmed and his muscles strained. No thoughts existed except the next stroke, the turn at the end of the lap, and then the next stroke again.

  Then came the prayers. No words exactly, but rather the unspoken rumbling thoughts of a man who knew he ought to trust God with this impossible situation and yet had no idea how to do that. Charlie Dorne would say that the Lord didn’t mind a little unbelief as long as it was balanced by the hope that the Man Upstairs would rid him of it.

  Trey added that request and pushed harder to finish another lap. And another.

  Sufficiently numbed by the combination of the cold pool water and exercise, Trey finally declared his swim over. He’d forgotten how many laps he’d taken but his arms and legs told him it had been a few more than he should have.

  He took a hot shower and threw on jeans and a T-shirt to pad to the kitchen and make a sandwich out of the bacon, avocado and leftover rotisserie chicken he found there. Thoughts of his horses returned along with the idea that he just might want to fill those empty stalls in the barn again.

  For grins, he went out to the car to grab his phone—thankfully no more calls from Vikki—and then called Leon Doyle, the guy who now owned his horses.

  “You’re calling awful late, Doc.”

  Trey checked the time on his phone. A quarter to eight. Late for country folk. Almost lights out for his former cellmates in Huntsville. The reminder jarred him, and he rose to pace the thought away.

  “Sorry about that.” He moved out of the office and padded down the hall toward the kitchen. “Look, I was calling about the horses I sold you. I was wondering if you’d consider selling them back to me.”

  Leon chuckled. “Can’t blame you for asking, but I’m sorry, son. I just can’t part with them. That granddaughter of mine would be heartbroken. She’s really taken a liking to them. Wants to barrel race with the palomino. A city girl who wouldn’t give her old grandpa the time of day two years ago now spends all her free time here working with those horses. Her mama says her schoolwork has gone from poor to nearly perfect because she knows she isn’t allowed to ride unless she’s doing well in school. Isn’t that something?”

  “Yeah, that’s something.” He let out a long breath. At least some good had come from all of this.

  The silence stretched between them. “Well, thanks for taking the call, Leon. Tell that granddaughter of yours I’m happy for her.”

  “You know,” Leon said, “a friend of mine’s got a pair of fine geldings he’s looking to sell. I’d buy ’em if I thought I could get away with it, but my wife says no more horses until I buy her new living room furniture. I wouldn’t mind, but she wants to get rid of my favorite chair. Can you fathom it? A perfectly good chair put out to pasture because it doesn’t match the pillows and drapes. I just won’t have it.”

  As much as he hated having to listen to the old man ramble on about his wife’s preferences in décor, it sure was nice being treated like a normal human being and not some guy whose story had been on the news off and on for the past two-and-a-half years.

  Gradually he became aware of silence on the other end of the line. “Don’t blame you, Leon. Now about those geldings?”

  “Oh, yeah. Good blood lines and a feisty disposition. Owned by a man named Jones. Bud Jones. Are you interested?”

  A few more details, and he knew he was. Five minutes later, Trey was on the phone with Bud Jones, the owner of the geldings. “I apologize for calling so late, Mr. Jones,” he began, “but I understand you’ve got some geldings for sale. Leon Doyle gave me your number.”

  “He did, did he?”

  “Yes sir. He and I did some business together a few years ago. When I decided to buy another horse, I asked him first. He told me about your geldings.”

  There was a cough on the other end of the line that Trey knew couldn’t be simple upper respiratory congestion. He briefly wondered if the reason for selling the horse had anything to do with the man’s health.

  “Well I guess you’re all right, then,” Mr. Jones said. “Come on out and see them tomorrow. It’ll have to be early. Five’d be better than six, because I’ve got things to do, but I’ll allow for six so you can see ’em with the sun mostly up.”

  Of course the sun wouldn’t be up until nearly seven in this part of Texas, but Trey wasn’t about to argue with the man who might be selling him a horse on such a small point of fact. “I’ll take you up on that six o’clock time.”

  The older man’s harrumph was unmistakable. “All right, then. I’m on county road 43 about ten miles south of Sugar Pine. Know where that is?”

  Sugar Pine. The breath went out of him. “I do,” he managed as he wrote down the address.

  “Good, then I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

  “See you then.” Trey hung up and tossed the phone onto the chair beside him.

  Ten miles south of Sugar Pine.

  Ten miles south of any excuse to stand in front of Ross Chambers’ fam
ily and ask for forgiveness. Again.

  The next morning, Sessa sat cross-legged on the bench beneath the pecan tree and watched a pair of jaybirds fight over the remains of her cinnamon raisin bagel. A cool breeze blew from the south, and with it the pungent scent of moisture, a sure sign rain would darken the otherwise bright morning.

  No matter, Sessa decided as she dug her toes into the thick grass and closed her eyes. Like Daddy used to say, “God is in His heaven and all is right with the world. What more could a body want?”

  “Well, Daddy,” she whispered as she rose and collected her pink I love Grandma coffee cup, “this body could use a little more sleep and a lot more help.”

  Rather than taking advantage of a night alone, Sessa had spent the better part of the evening finishing her book before falling exhausted onto her bed a few hours prior to the alarm going off. Anyone else would have hit the snooze button and stolen a few minutes—or hours—of sleep, but not Sessa.

  She had work to do.

  Rounding the corner of the house at a fast clip, she ran straight into a man-sized wall covered in a white T-shirt and faded denim. The coffee cup landed at her feet splashing lukewarm coffee and cracking the pink mug in half.

  “I’m sorry,” the wall said as they both reached for the remains of the mug.

  Sessa’s fingers latched on first, but his hand quickly covered hers.

  “I should have been watching where I was going.” She looked up and stared into the eyes of yesterday’s topic of conversation—the stranger from the Lunchateria.

  Oh. Oh.

  She’d thought him easy on the eyes yesterday, but today with him standing so near?

  Well, easy on the eyes still fit, but she hadn’t realized his shoulders were so broad. And he was tall, nicely tall, and oh, those eyes. They were the color of amber with flecks of gold.

  Sessa shook away her thoughts as she realized they were both still holding the broken mug. The cowboy let go and jammed his fingers into the front pockets of his jeans. Splashes of coffee dotted the front of his shirt just above his belt buckle. “It was my fault entirely. I doubt you expected company this early.”

  She looked down at her mismatched outfit of gray sweatpants, purple Sugar Pine High T-shirt she’d bought at the cheer squad fundraiser last summer, and rainbow-striped fuzzy slippers. Then she took in the fully dressed man. Before she could respond, the stranger thrust a hand in her direction and offered a shy smile. By now, what else could she do? She took it.

  His grip was firm, his hands neither overly large nor small. They looked to be the hands of a working man. He released her fingers, and Sessa once again met his stare.

  Mama strikes again.

  She must have wasted no time tracking down the poor man through Sue Ellen’s lunch receipts. Or maybe she had called in a favor down at the police station. The sheriff had nursed a crush on Mama for the better part of six decades and would do just about anything except break the law for her.

  And that was probably negotiable.

  “Mrs. Chambers, I’m Trey Brown.” He looked off in the direction of the garage and the workshop beyond. Like he couldn’t bear to hold her gaze for too long. “Does that name mean anything to you?”

  She felt the slightest tickle of recognition as if she ought to know that name. As if somewhere in the past that snaked in and out of recollection, that name held some significance.

  “It should, I think,” she said slowly, “though I’m not sure why.”

  At his conflicted expression, Sessa paused and contemplated whether she should ask him directly if Mama had given him the address or just let him admit it on his own. She took a step back and shook the remains of her coffee off the newspaper to give the man a moment to speak.

  The stranger’s gaze locked with hers, and she tilted her chin up a notch. He seemed inordinately nervous, even for a man who had fallen under the spell of Mama. Surely he would crack under the pressure of her stare and admit Bonnie Sue sent him any minute. She could then dismiss him with a polite thanks but no thanks.

  “I’m Trey Brown,” he repeated.

  Did Mama tell him she was hard of hearing? Maybe he just assumed it. A guy with his looks probably didn’t socialize with women of her age. Poor Mama. She must have paid him handsomely in order to get him out here.

  “So you said.”

  He looked wary and yet the slightest bit relieved all at the same time. “So you’re probably wondering why I’m here.”

  Oh yes, Trey Brown, I know why you’re here. Whatever my mother’s paying you, I hope it’s worth it.

  Sessa squared her shoulders and offered her brightest smile. If he wanted to play this game, she could play right along—for now.

  “Of course, I know why you’re here,” she said evenly “You’re applying for the job.”

  Chapter Eight

  Sessa’s prospective employee ducked his head and then took a step backward. “Ma’am?”

  “Call me Sessa.”

  Understanding rose on his face, or maybe she imagined it. “Sessa.” He reached to clasp her hand in his strong grip. “Call me Trey.”

  “All right, Trey.” She snatched her hand back just quick enough to feel foolish and then nodded toward the workshop. “How about I go show you what’s involved in the work, and you see if you’re still interested.” A glance down at her feet and she amended her statement. “After I put on proper shoes, that is.”

  Once she returned with her running shoes on, Sessa didn’t figure they would make it inside the door before the truth would come out about why he was here. To her surprise, not only did they get inside, but she somehow managed to show him around the front of the workshop before his expression went from polite to serious.

  Mama must have paid him well. She’d see just how well.

  “Something wrong?” She watched him carefully.

  He was staring at the table where she did her larger repairs and most of her carving. It was an old surgical table bought for almost nothing when Doc Easley closed his practice, just the right height for the detail work her horses required.

  The table gleamed a dull silver in the morning sunlight, a dusting of fine sawdust attesting to the work she’d done last night. On one end of the table was her toolbox, open as usual to reveal hammers, larger chisels, and the other tools of her trade. At the opposite end were the tools she used for finer work. There, sitting upright in a wooden block made specifically for the purpose were her smaller chisels, gouges, and carving blades.

  Trey’s attention seemed to be drawn to the blades, though when he caught her watching, he immediately jerked his gaze away. “You’ve got a nice set-up here.” He moved toward her workbench, where a series of Sol Stein and Harry Goldstein horse photos chased one another across the rough wood surface.

  He picked up one from the middle and studied it. “These look …”

  “Spirited?” she supplied. “That’s a hallmark of a Stein and Goldstein design.”

  “I had a horse that used to wear this same expression.” He carefully returned the photograph to its place in line. “Seems like he was always looking to bolt.”

  Ironically the man Mama had sent to court her currently wore the same expression. He must have heard about her record of awful first dates.

  “If I had to pick a favorite breed of horses, it’d be Arabians,” he continued.

  “My husband had Arabians.” The rare mention of Ben was made all the more uncomfortable by the realization that she’d said it in front of this man.

  “Takes an expert horseman to handle an Arabian,” he said with a deferential nod.

  “Or horsewoman,” she quickly replied. “Ben never could ride either of them for longer than a few minutes.”

  “He was your husband?”

  Mama must’ve told him.

  “Yes.” She smiled at the memory and then allowed her smile to fade. Thankfully he had turned his attention back to the workbench.

  Mr. Brown nodded toward two black and white or
iginal photographs she’d situated next to their colorized mates on the wall above the workbench. “What’s going on with those colors?” He turned toward her again. “That horse is purple.”

  “Those are Parker horses. You’d be surprised how hard it is to get the color to match Charlie’s originals. I’ve had several suppliers make the attempt, but so far no one’s managed to replicate the correct shade in this one or the other.”

  When he looked away, she studied his profile. And then it hit her. This was not a man sent to her by Mama, nor was he a man who was looking for the job she’d advertised in the classifieds.

  Oh.

  The profile, the same one as his mug shot, stilled her hands and jolted her heart.

  She should have recognized him the minute the sun slanted across those eyes. The eyes of an innocent man.

  Sessa stuffed her hands into her pocket to hide their shaking. No wonder he’d seemed unsure when she hadn’t recognized him immediately.

  And now she just wanted him gone. He’d say something in a minute, reveal the true reason he’d shown up uninvited.

  Instead, he straightened his posture and gave her a curt nod. “So tell me about this job.” The warmth and depth of his Texas drawl surprised her.

  She allowed her gaze to travel the length of him. She’d already noticed his height. A longer perusal meant she also noticed he was lean at the waist and broad across the shoulders with ropes of muscles in his arms and chiseled cheekbones that could have landed him on the page of a fashion magazine.

  His golden-brown hair was cut short, but not so short that his curls were hidden, and he was clean-shaven. He looked nothing like the slender man with the fashionably long hair, expensive suit, and trimmed beard she’d seen on television.

  Was that why she hadn’t recognized him immediately?

  Or had she ignored a beat of familiarity because of the spark of connection she’d felt at the diner?

  She could hardly believe the man who had every reason to expect an apology from her was here, in her barn. Calling her bluff about the job.

  She struggled to collect her thoughts as she watched him pick up a nag’s head painted vivid green. The horses. They’d been talking about the horses. “You know President Eisenhower was once employed as a sander in Charlie Parker’s Kansas factory. Of course that was before he got into politics.”