Page 67 of The Daring Times of Fern Adair
Vinny cleared his throat and slipped back inside the house. Rod stared a little longer at Cal than necessary before answering.
“Tom squealed about a pickup going down tonight.”
Cal let out a long exhale. “We got enough men?”
“Vinny, Tink, and Francis. With you and me, that’ll be more than enough.”
Tonight? They were coming tonight, and they were going to lie in wait? Her vision swam. Rod’s hand came toward her face again, and she jerked her head back. He’d tried to hitch her chin, but she’d moved just out of his grasp. Cal laid his arm over Fern’s shoulder and nudged her closer to his side.
“Don’t look so scared, dollface,” Rod said. “You won’t break.”
He chuckled, his eyes lingering on her scars. His nostrils flared, and the shake of his head left no room for doubt as to his feelings on Cal’s choice to bring her here. But he turned around and went back inside, as if accepting Cal’s decision.
Finally, with Rod’s back turned, Fern chanced a look up at Cal. His deep brown eyes met hers, then shifted toward the open door.Go in, they said. He kept his arm draped over her shoulders and led them over the threshold.
Despite the almost oppressive summer heat outside, it was cold inside the farmhouse. A chill streaked down her arms as they followed Rod into the kitchen. Dust-covered linoleum peeled up at the doorframe, showing a worn wooden floor underneath. Dishes filled the sink. A plate sat on the counter with food still on it. Magnets on the refrigerator held newspaper clippings and a few drawings, done by a child. Her heart cramped at the drawings, but it was thepoorly mopped floor near the kitchen table that closed off her throat.
Dark brown streaks, tinged with pink, swirled into the rough stubble of the linoleum pattern. On the wall behind the table, a forgotten spray of blood.
“Where are Tink and Francis?” Cal asked.
Rod pulled out a chair and sat, unperturbed. “Putting the mister and missus in the ground.” He picked up a coffee mug and drank from it. “Hungry? There’s bacon.”
He’d made himself at home, helping himself to food while his men took care of two bloodied bodies.
Cal shook off the offer. “We’ll be upstairs.”
A whistle from behind pierced Fern’s ears. Vinny chuckled from where he stood within the kitchen entry, leaning against the doorframe.
Rod set down his mug and sat back, hooking an ankle over his opposite knee. “Now you’re on the trolley,” he said, winking at Vinny and grinning. “Get some rest with your moll, or whatever gets you ready for tonight.”
Vinny snorted with laughter. A flush lit her cheeks and ear tips. Cal ushered Fern from the kitchen, through another door that led to the back of the front hall. The stairs were narrow and steep, and as they took them to the second floor, the air turned stale and humid.
They entered the first room they came to upstairs, and Cal closed the door. A bed, a trunk, a chair, and a desk were the only pieces of furniture. Curtains of yellowed lace absorbed the setting sunlight. A closet door stood open, showing a narrow space. Dirty, patched overalls had been slung overthe door, and a few flowered dresses hung on a bar inside. On the desk was a small jewelry box, a brush, and a tube of lipstick.
Hands settled on her shoulders from behind. Fern spun and leapt away.
“Fern,” he started to say, but she held up her hands. She closed her eyes and breathed.
“They’re dead?” she whispered. She opened her eyes and stared up at Cal.
He nodded.
“You told me you were just going to talk to him.”
“I was.” He held her stare. “I had no idea Rod would come down here. That wasn’t the plan.”
Fern wrapped her arms around herself and went toward the window. Through the lace, she could see the cars parked haphazardly in the yard; the sagging roof of the barn; and beyond it, the black line of the road, flanked by acres upon acres of corn in every direction.
“We can’t stay,” she said, softer than before, worried her voice might carry.
The floorboard creaked behind her. Cal took off his coat and loosened his shirt collar. He tossed the long coat onto the unmade bed.
“We can’t leave,” he replied. “He’s already pissed I went to get you instead of coming here first.”
She looked at him over her shoulder. “You would have helped him?”
Cal raked his fingers through his hair, the dark strands loose and tousled from the open car windows. Fern turned to face him, no longer afraid. Not of Cal. Though maybe that had been her biggest mistake of all. “Do you kill for him?”
