Chapter Three

"What were you doing in Jacobsville?" Cal asked Edie later in the week, while they had cocktails at her fancy apartment in downtown San Antonio.

"I was looking for you, of course," she replied in her softly accented voice. She threw down her cocktail and poured herself another. She drank more than he did, but he didn't pay it much attention. People in her social class drank more than most people.

"You met Amelia."

"Well, yes." She looked at him from under her lids. She was wearing a sketchy green outfit that left her midriff bare and outlined her pretty breasts. "I was curious."

He just stared at her.

"I thought she was competition," she purred. "But she's just a schoolgirl. I didn't know she was so young."

He sipped his own drink. "I don't like being checked up on," he said flatly.

"Oh, don't be mad, Cal," she chided softly, dropping down onto the arm of the chair he was sitting in. "I wasn't prying. I really did go down there just to see you," she lied. It wouldn't do to let him know how possessive she really was.

"Don't do it again," he cautioned, and the threat was in his dark eyes.

"I won't," she said at once. "I promise."

"I'm a free agent," he added. "And I have no plans to involve myself with anyone at the moment. I'm in a high-risk profession. I can't afford personal complications."

She sighed. "In other words, no sex?" she probed delicately.

"That's more blunt than I would have put it, but yes." He finished his drink. "The missions I'm on lately are intricate and involved. I don't want distractions."

"But that won't last forever, right?" she asked, toying with a thick strand of his pale blond hair.

"I don't know. I'm not sure what I want to do with the rest of my life."

"I could suggest some things," she said, about to move down into his lap.

He stood up. "Don't push," he cautioned quietly.

She made a face and filled another glass. "Well, it's hard not to," she said. "You're very attractive."

"So are you. But we're friends. That's all."

He was making a point. And she didn't want to lose him, so she agreed.

"I'm going out to the firing range. Want to come along?"

She made a horrible face. "Of course not! I hate guns!"

He raised an eyebrow and she flushed. She was feeling the alcohol and antsy because she needed something more than alcohol, needed it badly. She didn't dare let him see that.

"Sorry," she said at once. "I know they're important to your profession. I'm afraid of them, that's all."

"Okay. No problem."

"There's a fashion show at the civic center Saturday," she began.

"I'll be out of town."

"Ah, well, I'll go alone, then," she said.

"I don't do fashion shows," he chuckled. "We could go fishing when I get back...?"

She made a worse face. "Honestly, that's the most disgusting hobby of all. Nasty worms." She shuddered.

"You are not an outdoor person."

"Of course not," she replied. "I spent my youth in boarding schools, learning how to be graceful and fit into society."

Which emphasized the gulf between them. She was upper class, he was middle class. Besides that, he suspected that she was already in her midthirties, while he was just twenty-seven. He didn't think much about the age or social differences, however, because he had no intention of getting serious about her. She was just somebody to take around town when he was in the mood.

"How about Fernando's Friday night?" he asked as he got ready to leave.

"Oh, Cal, that's such a common place," she muttered.

"I'm a common man," he replied, and he wasn't smiling.

She went to him, smiling apologetically. "I didn't mean it like that. I just don't like Spanish music, or dancing, that's all. The symphony orchestra is performing next week, though. Debussy."

"I could stomach Debussy, I suppose," he said.

"It will do you good. Culture is important."

He made a face. "Culture."

"Yes. It's what makes us all civilized," she teased. "So. Go with me? I'll get tickets."

"When?"

"A week from Saturday night."

He thought about it. "I should be back by then. All right."

"You'll text me, yes?"

"I'll text you," he said easily.

She reached up to kiss him softly. She drew back at once, not wanting to push her luck. He'd been really irritated. "Have a safe trip home."

"Sure. Good night."

She watched him go. He never returned her caresses. But then, he was in a dangerous profession. He was also loaded. He hadn't told her, but she had friends who knew the sort of work he did and what it paid. She had social background, but she'd blown most of her inherited fortune gambling. She had an expensive habit, and although she'd tried to quit, it had become harder. She needed bankrolling.

Of course, Cal was also attractive, there was that. But it was as easy to care about a rich man as a poor one, and she was good at pretending. She finished the cocktail and went to her room to get what she needed to add a jolt to the liquor.

Cal, meanwhile, was still irritated at Edie's obvious possessive attitude toward him. He didn't want a woman hanging on him, trying to own him. He liked his own space.

He thought about how different Amelia was. She never pried or stalked him. She was funny and gentle, and she loved the outdoors. He wondered if she liked to fish. He'd have to remember to ask.

Fishing, Amelia thought, was one of the most relaxing sports there was. Especially when it was shared with a drop-dead gorgeous man who also loved it. They'd found a deep, wide stream, almost a river, under a bridge on a little-traveled dirt road that was known locally for bigmouth bass.

Amelia sighed. "This is great fun."

"Yeah, and the yellow flies just adore it," he muttered as he slapped another one.

"Your hair is yellow. They think you're a relative," she teased.

He chuckled. He laughed more with her than he'd ever laughed in his life. She made life seem uncomplicated. His had never been that, especially not now.

"They don't bite you, I notice," he pointed out.

"That's because I know simple, secret homemade solutions to keep them away."

"Such as?" he asked.

"I told you. They're secret ones."

"Might you share them with a friend who loaned you his spinning reel?"

She glowered at him. "A cane pole is just better for these things," she said with a sigh. She got up and handed him back the spinning reel. She then picked up her old cane pole with its hook, line and lead sinkers. She baited the hook and threw it in.

"Primitive," he pointed out.

She felt a tug on the line, but she let it run until the nice fish hooked himself. Then the battle began. She pulled and let the line slack, pulled again, slacked again, going up and down the bank.

"Wow, what a fighting fish!" she exclaimed happily.

"Can you tell what it is?"

"It's a fish. I told you...oh!" She drew back and jerked. The fish soared out of the water and landed at Cal's feet.

He picked it up with a finger through the gill. "A bigmouthed bass. About three pounds unless I miss my guess," he chuckled.

"Supper," she said, smacking her lips. She took the fish and put him in the bucket. Then she baited her hook again. "I'll catch one for you, too," she teased.

He sighed, looking at his spinning reel with disdain. "I think I'm losing my touch," he said.

"It's just that the fish in this creek are sort of primitive," she chuckled. "I don't think they like fancy equipment."

"So next time we come here, I'll bring a cane pole," he said with resignation.

"Might save that spinning reel for a trout stream," she said.

"Good idea. And where would we find one, in this heat?"

"Canada."

He glared at her. "I'm not going to Canada to catch a fish."

"Then get a cane pole and fish for... Oh, I've got another one!"

Cal let out a word that her grandfather often used if he hit his thumb with a hammer. Amelia burst out laughing. Cal just shook his head.

When they got back to her house, they had five big bass. Hers were four of them.

"I think I'll give up fishing and go in for surfing," Cal told her grandfather.

Harris laughed. "You can't ever compete with her at fishing, trust me," he told the other man. "It's an ego-smasher."

"I noticed."

"There, there, you were just fishing for trout instead of bass," Amelia said soothingly.

"Way too hot for trout fishing," her grandfather said. "Going to stay for fish? She makes homemade french fries."

"Wow," Cal said. He looked at Amelia. "Can I?"

"Sure," she chuckled. "There's plenty to go around. And I cooked some butterbeans with fatback last night, right out of the garden. I made fresh rolls, too."

Cal just sighed. "I really did the smartest thing in my life, moving across the street from you two."

"I'll bet you can cook," Amelia said cagily.

"I can," he replied. "Snake, turtle, crocodile..."

"I mean regular food," she laughed.

"I can if I have to," he conceded. "But no way can I make fresh rolls, and I love them."

"In that case, I'll make extra so you can take some home."

"If we only had real butter," he mused.

"But we do," she said, grinning. "I went to the Mennonite store early this week. We have real butter to go on them."

Cal sat down on the sofa near her grandfather's recliner. "I'll have to be dragged out," he threatened with a laugh.

"We won't do that," Amelia promised and went to work.

They walked him out to the steps after supper, which included an apple pie with homemade ice cream.

"I've never eaten better in my whole life," Cal told Amelia. "Thank you."

"Thanks for going fishing with me," she replied. "Granddaddy hates fishing."

"Yes, I know it sounds odd, but I really do. I used to hunt when I was younger, but I was never a fisherman."

"There's a good reason," Amelia volunteered.

Her grandfather looked sheepish. "I threw my line out too hard in a rowboat, capsized it and almost drowned my father. That was after I'd hooked his pants with another bad throw. He said that the only safe way to fish was to tie me to a chair and leave me at home. I took him at his word. I've never gone fishing since!"

They all laughed.

Amelia walked back inside with her grandfather. He was giving her strange looks.

"Something wrong?" she asked gently.

He went into the living room with her and sat down. So did she.

"There are men who are suited to small-town life," he said gently. "To picket fences and babies. That man across the street isn't one of them. He feeds on danger. He likes it. He won't settle, not for years. And quite frankly, if he does, it will be for somebody like that fancy woman who turned up at his house. She's the kind of woman who attracts such men."

She flushed. "I didn't realize it showed," she said sadly.

"It won't, to him. Only to somebody who knows you. But you can't afford to let him see it, not if you want him to keep coming here for friendship. If he sees it, he'll not come back, for pitying you."

She ground her teeth together. "I guess I knew that."

"It's harsh to say it, but always better to face an unpleasant fact than to ignore it. He's a handsome man, and he's got a way with him. But you're not his sort of woman, and there's that age difference. He's twenty-seven. You're eighteen. It wouldn't matter so much if you were in your twenties. But now it would."

She nodded. "I knew that."

"I'm sorry. I like him, too. But you have to keep those longings under control. He's at ease here. If you're careful, someday..."

She grinned. "Someday."

"Now go study those chemistry books," he said, waving her away. "You have to learn to blow up stuff if there's ever a war down the road."

She laughed out loud. "Roll on the day. I'm dangerous!"

"Yes, you are. And my treasure," he added with a warm smile. "I'm so lucky to have you for company."

"I'm the lucky one," she replied. She kissed him on the head and went on to her room.

But she didn't study. She brooded. She was very attracted to Cal. She ached when she looked at him. Her grandfather was right, it would never do to let him see it. She would have to play a waiting game, be careful and secretive, and never let Cal see how much she cared for him. But could she?

Yes, she could, she thought doggedly. Because as hard as it was to pretend not to care, it would be harder to never see him again. Or, worse, to have him pity her for the feelings she couldn't help. That would smother her pride.

So she would keep her secret hidden and never let Cal know that she treasured him. Even if the fancy lady came calling again, and she might. She opened her chemistry book and turned to the page her lessons were on.

The summer went by slowly. Cal was home on and off, but mostly off on hush-hush assignments overseas for Eb. Autumn came, with colored leaves and harvest festivals and hayrides and turkey shoots.

One of the ongoing events in Jacobsville was a turkey shoot with frozen turkey prizes. The competition was stiff, but Amelia went every year. This year, a recently returned, and very surprised Cal, went with her.

"I can't believe that you shoot a shotgun," he said again as they stood waiting for their turns. "I've never known a woman who'd even pick up one."

She shrugged. "I've always loved weapons," she said.

"Yes, and she can shoot!" one of the other contestants added, glaring at her. "And much too well!"

"Sour grapes, Andy, you had the same chances I did," she replied with a grin.

The old man wrinkled his nose. "First, we had old man Turner, and he won every year. Then it was Rick Marquez, who's a detective in San Antonio. Now, it's you," he muttered. "A good man hasn't got a chance around here!"

"Yes, you do, Andy, you just have to outshoot me!" she replied. "And him," she added, jerking her thumb toward Cal, who grinned.

"Who's he?" he asked.

"He works for Eb Scott..."

"Oh, damn the luck!" Andy exclaimed and threw his hat on the ground.

"Eb sort of wins any shooting competition going, or his men do," she explained to Cal. "So most people know what's going to happen when one of them competes."

"Cheer up," Cal told the man brushing off his hat, "I do miss. Sometimes."

"Name the last time you missed," Amelia asked him.

He frowned. "Let's see, I was ten, and my uncle had taken me to a turkey shoot."

"And you missed?"

"I missed dead center in the bull's-eye," he explained. "It was just a hair off."

"I am never going to win a turkey," Andy muttered.

"The grocery store has lots of them," she pointed out. "And there's a contest downtown for six of them that are giveaways. It's a raffle."

"Got a better chance of being carried off by one of them UFOs than I have of winning a contest. And I hate buying turkeys!"

"Then send Blanche," she suggested.

Andy sighed. "Well, that's not a bad idea, I suppose." He grinned at her. "If I'd known you were coming this year, I'd have stayed home."

She laughed. "That's sweet."

"Nope. Just the truth. I'd wish you good luck, but the other people are going to need that," he said, nodding toward the assembly of hopefuls. "See you, honey."

"See you."

"Nice old guy," Cal said. "I hope he won't go hungry," he added suddenly.

"Andy drives a new Jaguar," she pointed out. "Every year," she added.

"Oh." He scowled. "Then why was he here?"

"Because he's cheap," she said, and grinned.

He chuckled. "Okay. I get the idea. I didn't want to think we were going to hustle some poor guy out of Thanksgiving dinner."

"That would never happen here. We have two charities that do nothing except feed the poor, especially at holidays. There are rumors that one of our local citizens pays to bus poor homeless people down here from San Antonio, so they get a good hot meal. We had several whole families last year," she added quietly, and her voice almost broke.

He patted her on the shoulder. "It's good that you care that much," he said, and he smiled at her. "I've become cynical about people. I'm always wary of being played."

"I'm hard to play," she replied, looking up. "And whole families, Cal," she added softly. "Just imagine how that must feel. You lose your job, your home, your car..." She ground her teeth together. "What a nightmare that would be, especially if you had children."

He just stared at her thoughtfully. It hadn't occurred to him. But then, she had no idea what his background really was, how he'd been brought up. He hoped she'd never know. It wasn't a pretty tale.

"Maybe I'm too cynical," he said after a minute.

She smiled. "It's the job you do," she said simply. "I know guys from high school who went to work for Eb. It changes you, changes the way you look at the world."

"I suppose it does." He glanced down at her. "Who do you know that works for Eb, besides me?" he asked suddenly, shocking himself and her, because it wasn't a question he had any right to ask. She was eighteen, for God's sake!

"Ty," she blurted out.

His eyebrows arched. "Ty Harding?"

She nodded.

He averted his gaze. "He's Native American. Different culture, language, religion, the works."

"I know. He and a girl I knew almost got engaged. Her people found out and actually came down here from the Northwest to talk him out of it. They even talked to his parents. They said that not only would it not work, but that he'd be an outcast in their family. There had never been a mixed marriage in the family, you see," she added.

"Not you?" he asked, frowning.

"Heavens, no," she laughed. "Ty and I are just friends."

"Oh."

It was hard to hide the joy welling up inside her, but she managed. Before Cal could notice the sudden glow, her name was called, and she stepped up to face the target.

She and Cal took home a turkey.

Cal was out of the country until the day before Thanksgiving. He came over for dinner the next day, having been invited by Amelia's grandfather. Amelia had been working nonstop in the kitchen for two days, which is what it took to bring all the food together, and she couldn't leave the stove. So Jacob Harris had to go over with the invitation.

He found a man who was worn to the bone and limping just a little.

"You're not in the easiest profession," he told the younger man.

Cal shrugged. "Sometimes we don't duck fast enough," he said with a forced grin.

Harris put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm an interfering old coot, and I should keep my mouth shut. But eventually, you're going to see something or be forced to do something that will shatter your life," he added quietly. "And when that happens, you'll have to live with the nightmares for the rest of the days you're on this earth."

Cal was quietly belligerent. "And you know this for a fact?"

"Didn't Amelia tell you? I was spec ops overseas," he added.

Cal felt his face tauten. He hadn't known that.

"And the nightmares," Harris concluded softly, "are horrendous." His eyes as he spoke were almost black with pain.

"I didn't know," he said.

"I lived and came home," he said. "But my poor granddaughter had to listen to me when I was bursting with the need to tell somebody, anybody, what I'd been through. I was almost crazy," he added. "They wanted to send me to a shrink at the VA, but I'd heard all about that from a buddy of mine." His expression was eloquent. "It was a guy who'd never shot a gun, never been in combat and knew nothing about war. He said it was all he could do not to deck the guy on his way out."

Cal drew in a breath. "You might get luckier than he did."

"I might not." He searched the other man's dark eyes. "I don't know what demons are driving you, but I suspect they're pretty formidable. It takes that to send a man into wet work."

Cal scowled.

"Yes, I know. Most of what you do is classified, and you aren't officially attached to any government. Plausible deniability. But the people who hire you don't have to live with what you do to accomplish a mission." He studied the other man's face. "For you to go into this," he added quietly, "you must have a pretty raw background to start with—something that you don't want to face, that you put yourself at risk so that you don't have to deal with it."

"You see too much," Cal bit off.

He sighed. "I've been where you are," he replied. "I don't talk about my past, either. Even my late wife, Doris, God rest her soul, wasn't told. I thought doing special assignments in the service would be exciting enough to put the bad things away, so that I didn't see them." He drew in a breath. "But what happened was that the exciting things were a hundred times worse than what I'd already had to live through. When I came home, I was a mental basket case."

"How did you cope?"

"I had a friend who'd been in combat for half his life, a mercenary. He talked me down. You remember that," he added. "If you don't want to go to a shrink, even though there are some really good ones, have somebody close who'll just listen and let you pour it all out. It might save you from trying to eat a bullet. In my case, it did just that."

"It's early days yet, but I don't think I'll run into anything I can't handle," Cal said quietly. "I'm not the type to commit suicide."

"Nobody thinks they are, until there's a good reason."

Cal was unconvinced, but he didn't say so. "Thanks for the pep talk," he said quietly.

"You're welcome. Now. How about a huge Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow that promises to throw your cholesterol so high that your doctor will feel it even before you get to his office?"

Cal chuckled. "I'd love it."

"Fine. You're invited. Oh, and it's informal. You can leave off the tuxedo," he joked.

Cal made a face. "Spoilsport."

Harris just laughed.

So Cal came for Thanksgiving dinner, and produced a perfectly cooked apple pie to go with all of Amelia's efforts.

"Nice pie," she commented, noting the way it was made with a fancy fluted crust all around. "Did you go all the way to San Antonio to find a bakery?"

Cal glared at her. "I made it myself, I'll have you know," he said with mock indignation. "Snake isn't the only thing I can cook!"

She burst out laughing. "Oh. Well, it's beautiful," she said, admiring it. "I can't even do a crust like that. It's elegant."

"I'll teach you how. It's not hard. That," he indicated the perfect homemade rolls she'd just taken out of the oven, "is hard!"

"It's not," she said. "Only a handful of ingredients, and the mixer does most of the kneading. It doesn't even take long."

"Fine. You can teach me to make rolls, and I'll share my pie decorating tips with you," he said with sparkling black eyes.

She chuckled. "It's a deal."

"But meanwhile, when do we eat?" he asked, admiring all the food she'd dished up on the big table that was used for cooking.

"In about ten minutes," she said.

"Can I help?" Jacob asked.

"Yes! If you'll start carrying things into the dining room," she told him, "I'll finish carving the turkey."

"You should let me do that," Cal protested. "I'm great with knives."

"You're hired," she said, handing him a sharp butcher's knife. "Go for it!"

He grinned. "Do you want boring flat slices of turkey, or something artistic, like leaves or unicorns?" he asked, deadpan.

The other two just shook their heads.