Summer Shadows Page 3

  What a cutie! Just like Maddie in a few years.

  No, she caught herself. Just like Maddie would look right now. She always forgot that Maddie wouldn’t be two anymore. Three long years had passed. She would’ve been five, just about the age of the pixie in pink. The barb of bereavement twisted in her heart and her vision blurred.

  The little girl on the corner looked at the stoplight, saw she had the green signal, looked both ways as an extra precaution, and started across Central Avenue, skipping and singing.

  At the same time a car roared down Thirty-fourth Street, trying to make the light before it went red.

  “Idiot,” Abby muttered as she reflexively grasped her wheel more tightly. But she was safe. She wasn’t in the intersection. No one could hit her. No one could hurt her.

  At the last minute the car flicked on a left turn signal and squealed around the corner onto Central.

  Abby screamed.

  The little girl in pink never had a chance.

  Three

  MARSH SLID INTO his red Adirondack chair on his porch and sighed with pleasure. He couldn’t imagine things turning out any better than they had. He stared across the beach at the ocean. The haze of a humid June day caused the horizon to blend with the sea, and a couple of ships miles out in the water looked like a pair of misty toys. Much closer to shore a catamaran sailed by at a snail’s pace in the sluggish breeze.

  He studied the pair sitting on the catamaran. Maybe he should learn to sail now that he was a shore resident. He’d enjoy flying across the water on a pair of those sturdy hulls with their colorful sails puffed out with wind. He, of course, would be wise enough to sail only on days with brisk breezes.

  Buying this house had been a major financial commitment, but he didn’t regret it for a minute. The realtor with whom he’d worked had been wonderful, making it possible for the whole process to be handled long distance. Marsh hadn’t actually seen the house except in pictures until he arrived for the summer last week, a full two months after the April date on which he’d signed the sales agreement.

  But the pictures hadn’t lied. His new house was exactly what he wanted, the perfect place to hide from the world and write. Granted, the furniture that came with the place left a bit to be desired, but he could live with conflicting plaids until he found time to replace a couple of the easy chairs.

  His tenant had arrived a day early, leading to a most interesting contretemps, but with that misunderstanding behind him, he relaxed. A children’s librarian, her rental form had said. He thought of Doc Forbes, the librarian at the seminary where he taught. If Abby were anything like Doc, she wouldn’t say a word all summer.

  Which was fine with him. Silence was what he’d paid all that money for, was what he craved. Silence and privacy.

  He shimmied in his Adirondack chair, marveling again at how something that looked so uncomfortable could be just the opposite. He stretched out his legs, resting them on the second rung of the porch railing in front of him. Just beyond the railing the low dunes began, sliding gracefully into the flat beach which in turn slid into the sea. He breathed in the tangy air, laced his fingers behind his head, and looked up.

  It doesn’t get any better than this, God. Thanks! You have been more than gracious, and I am most appreciative.

  He looked at his dog, who sat staring at him from his resting spot under the picnic table. “Happy, Fargo?”

  Fargo woofed, a sound Marsh chose to hear as affirmative. “Me too.”

  He reached to the table beside him and picked up his laptop. He’d spent the last few hours finishing a hard copy edit of his next book, Rocky Mountain Midnight, due out in October, just in time for the Christmas trade. The corrected galleys were all packaged, lying on the table by the door, ready to overnight back to his publisher.

  Now it was time to move on to his next project, the one he’d come here to write. He booted the laptop and went to the file called Frost Spring, the preliminary title for his work in progress. He had to squint a bit to follow the cursor in the outside brightness, but the porch above gave enough shadow that he could manage. He’d already adjusted the brightness level to get the most he could from the machine. So what if he had to squint a bit. No weak cursor was going to send him inside. Writing on the porch while listening to the sea was a major part of his dream.

  He began to type.

  Randall Craig looked up at the woman with a frown. She sat atop her horse with ease and authority, her back straight, her heels down, her hands loose on the reins. Though she wore a split-leather skirt and a cream Stetson, her boots were eastern with laces up the front, her saddle English.

  Bridle trails back East—that was doubtless the extent of her riding experience. Greenhorn. More trouble than she was worth in spite of her air of competence and her heart-stopping beauty.

  “I’m sorry,” Craig said. “This is private property.” He didn’t bother to tell her that it was soon to be the site of a range war too. “You’d best go back to town.”

  The woman looked at him with barely concealed contempt. “I am aware of everything about this property.”

  Well, she wasn’t aware that he was foreman. Anyone who knew anything knew that by now. So what did her ignorance say about her and her claim to knowledge?

  She was slim—too slim—fine-boned, and regal. Her black hair was pulled back into a knot at the nape of her neck, and her great black eyes reflected the sun in two small spots. Her skin was creamy and pale. She was far and away the most stunning thing he’d ever seen. He was very thankful he’d never set eyes on her again, once he got her turned around and headed back to town.

  Marsh stopped typing and stared at that last paragraph. It was the third time he’d tried to write it. Once again he’d described that irritating woman upstairs. He closed his eyes and saw Abby Patterson, all skin and bones and glowing black eyes. Even the coolness between Craig and Marguerite—now where had he gotten that name?—was a replica of the frost between himself and Abby. Too weird.

  He reached for the delete key, then hesitated. He’d leave it for now. It’d be easier to make changes later when she wasn’t so much on his mind.

  Snotty, irritating, fascinating woman. Silent woman.

  “Can you tell me your business?” Craig asked.

  He watched her face freeze with disdain. “My business is certainly not your business.”

  He felt his temper spike and struggled to control it. “If you’re riding this road it is.”

  “Are you telling me that a person cannot ride this road?”

  “We’ve been having some trouble around here. The road is open only to those going to Frost Spring Ranch.”

  “And those going there are only those you approve?”

  He smiled with one corner of his mouth and dipped his head in acknowledgment. Where had she learned haughtiness? She could give a queen lessons.

  She eyed him like he was a worm left too long in the sun and urged her horse forward until its nose almost touched his chest. He had to admire her nerve, foolish though it was. It took more than a horse knocking into his chest to move Randall Craig.

  He reached out, running a gentle hand down the animal’s forehead, patting him softly on the cheek. The horse whinnied its approval. Craig smiled up at the woman. It was time to try diplomacy.

  “This is a fine horse. Someone knew what he was doing when he bought it for you.”

  Her dark eyes flashed with anger. “I selected this horse, not that it’s any of your business. I am more than competent at recognizing and obtaining good horseflesh.”

  Uh-huh, I’m sure you are—or at least you think you are. “Well, ma’am, you shure done good with this here boy. I bet you might could teach me a thang or two.”

  She rolled her eyes at his sudden transformation into the uneducated cowboy and urged her horse another step forward. One more, Craig knew, and he’d be forced to step back.

  “Please get out of my way.” When he didn’t move, she ordered, “Now.”
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br />   “Go back to town where it’s safe, Miss—?” He waited for her name, but she did not offer it. He took hold of the bridle. If she wouldn’t turn on her own, he would turn her himself.

  “Unhand my horse,” she hissed.

  “Look, Miss,” he began in his most reasonable voice.

  “Don’t look Miss me.” She glared, red flags flying in her cheeks. “I’m going to Frost Spring Ranch and nowhere else.”

  “Marguerite! Margie!”

  They both looked toward the ranch house a half mile down the road. A young girl in braids was running toward them, her arms waving, her face wreathed in a smile.

  Craig frowned as the haughty princess became human. Her smile was luminous as she waved wildly back. “Addie! Oh, Addie!”

  A chill settled around Craig’s midsection. “Just who are you?” he asked, his voice abrupt.

  When she looked down at him, the haughtiness was back in full force. “Frost,” she said, her voice and demeanor as chilly as her name. “Marguerite Frost of Frost Spring Ranch.”

  Craig closed his eyes and sighed. When he woke up this morning with Snelling’s gun barrel at his temple, he should have known it would be one of those days.

  Marsh’s hands stilled as he stared at the screen of his laptop. Now where had Snelling and the gun come from? Even more basic—who was Snelling? Did he have a first name? Did he live locally, or was he some kind of hired gunslinger? How was he involved in the coming range war?

  And what was Marsh to do with this twist in the story line?

  He laid his head against the back of his Adirondack chair, staring out at the blue sky. He lowered his legs from the railing, stretching them out in front of him. Fargo rose and nudged his hand. The dog always sensed when it was safe to bother him. Marsh absently scratched the animal behind his ears. Fargo moaned and laid his great head on Marsh’s thigh.

  One of the wonderful things about writing fiction was the sense of surprise when people like Snelling, whoever he was, showed up on the pages. Now all Marsh had to do was figure out the secret of the man’s identity. It was undoubtedly rattling around somewhere deep in his subconscious.

  Okay, God, he thought, help me figure out who Snelling is and why he had a gun at Craig’s head. In the meantime, I’ll check my e-mail.

  He minimized his text and went to his AOL screen. He made certain his modem was connected, then clicked on all the right icons for automatic mail. In a moment, he had a filing cabinet of letters to read, and his phone line was open again, not that he was expecting anyone to call. Still, he tried to keep it free until he had a second line brought in.

  He loved e-mail. Every day he talked to people all over the country, often all over the world. Courtesy of the Internet, the narrow life of a writer/academic broadened exponentially even as he sat on his deck in New Jersey or hid in his office back in Ohio.

  He glanced down the list of messages, checking who had sent them. Maybe there’d be something from his agent about that new series he wanted to tackle—Trails of the West, generational stories of the Strong family that took place on the great pathways to the frontier, on great waterways like the Erie Canal and the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers, on land trails like the Oregon Trail, the Overland Trail, and the Santa Fe Trail. So far three houses had expressed strong interest. He shook his head at the wonder that he might be the object of a bidding war.

  Who’d ever have thought!

  It was because of the TV movies made from two of his earlier books and the knowledge that the third one was now in preproduction. With Rick Mathis as the lead in both and signed to do the third, Shadows at Noon, the publishers smelled money, big money. He grinned, looked out at the beach, and took a deep breath of salty air. The money smelled very good indeed, if more than slightly briny.

  He stopped scrolling his messages at one from rickmathis.com. He clicked it open with anticipation. He liked this actor who played his heroes with a world-weary attitude balanced against a strong moral and ethical core. The fact that Rick was also the producer of all the films helped protect Marsh’s high standards for plot and character.

  At first Marsh hadn’t been sure how he’d like working with Hollywood. He’d heard horror stories galore, but he was willing to take the risk of writing the screenplays from his novels so he could exercise at least some control over the content. Rick had not only agreed to Marsh’s participation but had encouraged him in it. Because Marsh had admired Rick’s work in his weekly series about a cowboy named Duke Beldon, he was predisposed to trust Rick.

  “I like the moral core of your heroes, and I don’t want that quality lost,” Rick had said. “I don’t see that kind of integrity in a lot of material today.”

  “I write from a Christian worldview,” Marsh told him. “Sometimes Christian things are spelled out, like when a verse is quoted or a doctrine is debated. Other times it’s more subtle, but everything I write is seated within the framework of the Bible.”

  Three years ago Rick had said, “Yeah, whatever. I just know I like it.” Today he was a believer in Jesus, trying to be real in the land of make-believe.

  Hey, guy!

  I just finished reading the latest version of the script of Shadows at Noon. Almost good. The director and the studio honchos didn’t wreck all your hard work too much. Did they ship you a copy? I’m coming to see you so we can rassle this thing through. Besides I want to see what a New Jersey beach house looks like. I’ve become so California that it’s hard for me to believe there’s another ocean. Sunday, dude.

  Marsh smiled. Sunday. The day after tomorrow. If he didn’t stop to rewrite, he could get Craig and Marguerite another chapter or two along before Rick got here. Then the fun would begin as he and Rick ripped apart the script of Shadows at Noon, then put it back together again. He never ceased thanking God that he worked with a producer and star who valued words as much as action, who loved the sound of a good phrase.

  He closed Rick’s letter and scanned on down the long list. His smile tightened when he came across his father’s address. At one time his mother had been the family correspondent, keeping the three of them connected. She had died many years ago, a fact that Marsh still had trouble grasping. When Dad had remarried four years ago, his new wife understandably didn’t correspond much with her grown stepson. Now any messages came directly from his formidable father and made him—what? Uncomfortable? Defensive? Angry? He shrugged. Pick any negative emotion and you were on the money.

  Marsh clicked the message open. Might as well get the bad news over with. Then he’d be free to enjoy the rest of his correspondence, especially ChiLibris, the novelists’ loop that he loved so much. Talk about great conversations! These writers were some of the most interesting people he’d ever encountered, thoughtful as in full of thought.

  Marshall,

  So you have bought a house at the New Jersey shore. I find that very interesting. We’ll be up to visit you next week. I want to see whether you’ve made a wise investment.

  Dad

  Senator Marcus Winslow

  United States Senate

  Washington, D.C.

  Marsh stared at the screen, trying to determine what about the note irritated him most. Was it the Marshall? Dad was the only one who called him by his full name.

  “A name is given for a purpose, Marshall, and a nickname destroys it by rendering it weak. As no one calls me Marc, so no one shall call you Marsh.”

  Well, no one called Dad anything but Marcus, not even Marsh’s mother, but everyone called him Marsh. He couldn’t stand Marshall. It made him feel like a western lawman.

  A thought streaked across his mind. Is that why I write Westerns? He shifted with discomfort. Hadn’t he chosen Westerns because of his love for history and the chance to ponder the good guys and the bad guys outside the formal trappings of academia and the treatises on theology and philosophy that ruled most of his life? Surely he didn’t owe his father this clandestine career?

  That is, if it stayed clandestine after D
ad discovered Rick Mathis in residence. The very thought made Marsh shudder. He’d just have to make Rick disappear on Tuesday. He’d understand. He knew all about Marsh Winslow aka Colton West. In fact, he was one of only three who knew: Rick, Marsh, and Bettina Harley, Marsh’s agent.

  Marsh wanted it to stay that way with an intensity that never failed to surprise him. He glared at the computer screen as his father had glared at him for years. Look at that full signature: Senator Marcus Winslow, United States Senate, Washington, D.C. As if he didn’t know who Dad was.

  Even as he understood that the Senator had set an automatic signature for all his electronic correspondence, it still irritated Marsh that he couldn’t turn it off for a personal message to his own son.

  But by far the most aggravating thing was the last line in the message: I want to see whether you’ve made a wise investment.

  Translation: I don’t trust your judgment.

  Translation: I want to know where you got the money to buy an oceanfront property.

  Translation: What are you up to this time that will embarrass me?

  Wouldn’t the good senator just die if he found out? Marsh Winslow, holder of a Doctor of Ministry in practical theology and a Ph.D. in philosophy, tenured professor at Tyndale Theological Seminary, holder of the James Goodwin Chair of Practical Theology, son of Senator Marcus Winslow, wrote Westerns under a pseudonym and was making a small fortune by doing so.

  And just like that, Marsh knew who Snelling was. He was the overbearing cattleman whose property adjoined the Frost Spring Ranch and who was trying to control all water rights. He wanted to make the whole valley jump at his command. Mr. Frost, ill though he was, was unwilling to jump.

  Marsh minimized AOL and pulled up his text screen. Fargo, schooled to the ways of a writer, lifted his head from Marsh’s leg and slumped to the floor. Marsh began entering ideas and questions as fast as they came to him.