Danger, Sweetheart Part 6

Thus did Blake find himself back in his room at the UR A B and B, trying not to gulp his whiskey. Normally he took it with a splash of soda; tonight he needed it neat. And he needed a lot of it.

There was only one bright spot. He would not be tortured solo. His mother had sworn it to be so, and she never lied.

He took another sip, collapsed on the overstuffed bed, which instantly deposited him in the middle of a growing quilt crater (like a sinkhole! with quilts!), and fumbled in the bedside drawer for his laptop. He withdrew the dull silver rectangle, opened it, and was pleased to find the battery at 89 percent. He hit the Messages icon and gave silent thanks for iChat; it was the only way he could rage-text with accuracy and speed.

Loathsome brother,

I am being held hostage in our mother's hometown and cannot escape the observation that this is ALL YOUR FAULT. She controls the keys to the kingdom, the money, and the nuclear option. Take a moment and think about what that means.

Send. Off it went, winging its way to wherever Rake was holing up having unG.o.dly amounts of casual intimacy with women he would never see again. Blake knew he was just as bad with his flings, but at least he took the trouble to learn their names.

Now. The rest. He thought of the look on their mother's face ("This isn't the movies, Son. You don't get points for trying.") and continued.

You'll recall we felt the best way

("No. The fastest way, and there's a difference. You wanted a quick fix so you slapped a Band-Aid over a crack in the dike.")

to a.s.sist Mom would be to pay off the bank holding all the paper. This solved the immediate problem, but as a long-term tactic it was brought to my attention that it will prove to be a disaster. And so, though we are equally culpable in our mother's perceived crimes against Sweetheart, I am the only one exiled. Because you are terrible.

His gla.s.s didn't have enough whiskey in it. Minutes later, fortified, he returned to his texting.

The terms of my atonement are as follow: 1) No more selling people's homes/farms to the bank. 2) The remaining farm, scheduled for closing next week, is off the market. 3) Said farm must be made profitable within six months. 4) By me. 5) Without my fortune, which she has pulled off the table. (You'll recall that though she allowed access to our inheritance on our eighteenth birthday, we are not legally ent.i.tled to it until we are thirty, which is twenty-three months and seventeen days from today.) 6) I cannot terminate anyone or sell anything. 7) Resistance is futile. 8) If condition #7 is ignored, she'll activate the nuclear option.

Sound nigh impossible? I quite agree, but our mother ("You don't get to be the hero with an attempt. So if you're in it, for G.o.d's sake be in it. If you're in it, here's what that means.")

does not.

For this, in addition to many other crimes you have perpetuated upon me since our birth, you will be made to pay and pay. I warn you only as a courtesy as dictated by the bonds of family.

Good night.

Later, when Rake hadn't responded to his text missive (to be expected, because Rake was terrible, but it was annoying all the same), Blake admitted the truth about why he agreed to remain in Sweetheart for a minimum of 181 days: his mother was a guilt ninja. Annoying how, even though you knew how and why you were being manipulated, it was still difficult to resist. And though he would never feign understanding of some people's unreasonable attachment to particular plots of land over others, he wasn't so clueless he could dismiss their feelings about such things.

Meanwhile, he had to spend only one night in the bed-and-breakfast, after which he would move to (m.u.f.fled groan) Heartbreak Farm. Only one night surrounded by chintz wallpaper, chintz overstuffed chairs, and chintz drapery.

At once it was too much, and he needed to be away from the chintz. Or surrounded by different chintz. So with one thing and another, he found himself in some sort of porch/tearoom, which had only one inhabitant.

To his astonishment, the lone inhabitant was an infant pig.

She was standing in a small box stuffed with clean straw, looking up at him with bright eyes (he would discover later pigs had poor eyesight) and making small squeaks in greeting.

"h.e.l.lo," he said as he set his empty gla.s.s down on a nearby table. "No more whiskey for me tonight." Was this common in Sweetheart bed-and-breakfasts? Were guests expecting to bed down with infant pigs, or required to? Heartbreak Farm would likely not demand he bed down with livestock, right?

These are the questions I should have asked before agreeing to this.

"Er, h.e.l.lo. Have you eaten? Or nursed? Whatever it is you do at your age?" Why am I talking to her? Do I expect her to answer back? He recalled his mother blurting something about the White Rose of York hours ago ... could she have been referring to the pig?

She uunnffed at him in response; he had no interpretation but chose to see it as the porcine equivalent of "come forth, fascinating stranger." After a quick peek over his shoulder to ensure they were alone, he scooped her up in the palm of one hand, then settled her against his shoulder, one hand under her tiny fuzzy rump, the other securely against her back. "You are quite personable," he told the White Rose of York, if that was her real name. "It's close to irresistible. Then again, I may be drunk."

If the uunnffs she squeaked at him from her box were cute, the uunnffs in his ear were enchanting. He would have to put her down soon. If she kept snuffling in his ear he might giggle.

"You two having fun?"

Blake whirled, clutching the piglet, who let out a small squeal, and beheld a short, stocky man wearing immaculate navy overalls and a short-sleeved s.h.i.+rt of lighter blue. He was older-about Blake's mother's age-with deeply tanned skin, a white monk's fringe circling his head like a fuzzy equator, a heroic Roman nose, and small smiling eyes so dark it was hard to tell the irises from the pupils.

"Is this your piglet? She escaped! But I recaptured her. That's what this is." Do not nuzzle. This is no time for nuzzling. "A ... a recapture. That is the thing you are seeing now, sir."

"Mmm-hmm. Yeah, she's a friendly critter, i'n't she?" He spoke in a clear, calm voice and didn't seem at all bothered to behold a stranger holding his piglet. "Poor thing just drinks up affection like lemonade. Gotta keep Rose in here for a couple more days."

Rose? "That seems sensible." He, of course, had no idea. Porcine husbandry was not in his skill set.

"I'm Roger." He held out a brown weathered hand the size of a bowling ball and Blake managed to shake hands without dislodging the piglet. "You must be Blake Tarbell. You see your mom?"

"Yes."

"Lived to tell the tale, so that's good." Roger stepped close and tickled the White Rose of York under her fuzzy chin. "She's the one named the pig."

On short acquaintance, I like this man. Why? Some people have enough unconscious charisma to make people like them; is Roger a man with such a gift? Is liking him an error? Need more data.

"And you went along with it? With calling her the White Rose of York?"

"I just call her Rose. Your mom settle your hash for ya, then?"

Blake frowned. "How is that your concern, Roger?"

The older man's friendly smile dropped away. "Your mom's a great lady. Real cla.s.sy and she's not afraid to work, neither."

"Either."

"What?"

"Nothing. You were explaining to me what a great lady unafraid of work the woman who raised me is." Unspoken: a lady I know better than you do, sir.

"I've known Shannah since we were kids, so you can just put that thought right out of your head."

Ye G.o.ds. A telepath! "How did you-"

"Aw, it was all over your face; anyone could've seen."

"Untrue. I'm told I am ... I am ...

a rock a machine a robot you don't care you only love your books it's not you; it's me it's not me; it's you you don't care can't you even try to care do you care about anything "... difficult to read."

Roger shrugged. "Don't think so."

"Continue your point, please, and don't think I haven't ruled out the dark arts," he warned, cuddling the White Rose of York closer to his chest. If Roger turned out to be a powerful warlock/farmer hybrid, he would protect the White Rose of York as best he could.

I should probably sleep soon. I am having irrational thoughts and am feeling protective of an infant pig.

Roger, meanwhile, stood his ground and continued. "I just don't like to see your mama under a bunch of grief, is all. Because of her name, the town never really gave her a chance, but that was never her fault."

Because of her name? Because she birthed the sp.a.w.n of Tarbell? Before he could ponder further, Roger finished his thought: "She should be able to enjoy herself these days."

"You and I are of one mind in this, Roger."

"Yeah?" Dark eyes brightened and the man tried a tentative smile. "So ... you're staying in town then? For a while?"

Hmmm. "Yes. She told you her plan, obviously."

"Toldja we go back awhile. Sure, she told me her idea. But you don't look banged up or anything."

"No, all the brickbats were verbal."

A puzzled blink at that, but Roger remained on point. "I'm kinda glad to see you agreed to stick around. Your mom'll really like it. I didn't think-it didn't sound like the kind of thing you'd go for. No offense to you personally. I don't think hardly anyone would go for it."

"Behold, the exception to the sensible rule." The White Rose of York was squirming, and when he put the small fuzzy black-and-white bundle down, she trotted around the corner, out of sight, and then he heard the unmistakable sound of litter being shuffled about in a litter box. "She's house-trained?" he asked, incredulous, all thoughts of his six-month sentence momentarily banished from his brain. "That's amazing! She's an infant!"

"Not a litter box. Too tall-look at those short legs; she'd never make it over." The thought made Blake burst into laughter and Roger grinned in response. "Yup, never woulda worked. A cookie sheet with litter in it. Don't worry," he confided, as if Blake had been about to roar in horrified protest. "That cookie sheet is only for the White Rose of York."

"I am relieved, as will be the other guests." Refuse all offers of cookies, just to be safe. "And I stand by my statement; that's amazing. My brother wasn't house-trained until he was four, because Rake is terrible. I, however, was trained before my second birthday." I must stop bragging about this, if Roger's expression is anything to go by. It's an odd thing to take pride in. "Speaking of terrible, did my mother mention the dire fate in store for my brother?"

"Some things are best left alone," was the solemn reply, ruined by Roger's shrill giggle. It was such an incongruous sound from the pig farmer that Blake laughed, too. The White Rose of York had finished excreting and trotted back to them, wiggling her curly tail until Blake relented (after less than two seconds) and picked her up again.

It had been an unpleasant week and an odd day, so it was ridiculous how happy he was at that moment. Perhaps he was coming down with something. And there was always the comforting thought that he could be bleeding out in a canyon somewhere, trapped under a pile of train cars.

Blake had no idea whether he was rooting for illness, a train-car pileup, or spending six months in Sweetheart.

Need more data.

Ten.

Natalie Lane watched the rented truck cover the last half mile to Heartbreak and was not impressed. This would be the first of what promised to be weeks of awful days, and not for the first time she wondered why she didn't give up, give in, and get lost. Follow half the town out of town. Let Sweetheart die.

Not even if he stuck a gun in my ear. Because it wasn't the town, it was never the town, it was always the people. Well. Most of the people. Garrett Hobbes, for example, could f.u.c.k right off. The world needed more golf courses like a diabetic needed a glucose drip.

The truck pa.s.sed the last gate and pulled up between the farmhouse and Barn Main. The engine quit and she could see him in the driver's seat, moving his hands, and was he...? Was he patting the steering wheel? In a well done, mighty steed way? Yes. Yes he was.

Self-congratulation must run in that family, she mused. Oh, and look at this. He remembered to kick out the ladder this time. Too bad. She'd have loved to see him on his a.s.s in the dirt. Again.

"It's you!" he said as he hopped down, having the b.a.l.l.s-out nerve to sound excited. Except where did she get off? Before she knew who he was, she'd have been happy to see him, too. If anything, she was more p.i.s.sed because she had liked him on short acquaintance. What if he'd never seen her in her other life? When would she have found out his terrible truth? Their first date? Their first monthaversary? Their wedding night?

Wedding night? Jeez, Natalie, get a grip.

"h.e.l.lo again." He stuck out his hand, which she definitely didn't notice was large and looked strong, especially in contrast to her own teeny paws. Nor did she notice he had big hands and, as a glance at his shoes told her, big feet, and she definitely didn't form a theory about his d.i.c.k based solely on his sizeable mitts. She also didn't notice how his smile took years from his face, or how his pricey clothes beautifully set off those long legs and wide shoulders, that the color of his crisp b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt was the same color as his dark blue eyes, that his tan slacks (slacks? Seriously? Slacks?) fit like they were made for him (of course they were; guy's probably got a fleet of tailors stashed somewhere) and that his swimmer's shoulders made his waist appreciably narrow in contrast.

He was still holding out his hand, and she gave it a brief listless shake, the limp kind with the bare tips of her fingers. "You're late."

His smile faded. "It's nine forty-seven."

"Work around here doesn't start five hours after sunup."

"But I had to finis.h.i.+ng Skyping with one of the Oxford archivers."