“With Mr. Raymond.”

“Oh. Well, she’ll need a drink or two tonight. When I left Rusty’s office, she looked ready to cry, said she’d put me on her prayer list. Rusty must’ve called courthouse security the second my back was turned. Two deputies stopped me right there.” He used his nose to point out a spot just beyond the grill of his truck.

“I was arrested for assaulting a public official. Mirandized. Hand restraints. The whole shebang. The chickenshit didn’t have the guts to do it while I was there in his office, looking him in the eye.”

“He’s a son of a bitch.”

Ledge huffed a laugh. “That’s what he called me.”

“He’s wrong,” Don said, his vexation back. “You’re a stupid son of a bitch.”

“If I’m so undesirable, why did you even bother coming down here?”

“Because although I haven’t made even the short list of your friends, I was worried about you.”

“Well, you can stop worrying. I’m out.”

“For the time being.” Don paused to take a breath and rein in. “Tending bar, I hear stuff, you know. Rusty Dyle has it in for you. He’s a snake. You know it. Why do you let him get to you? He goads you with a bouquet; you play right into his hands. My advice—”

“I didn’t ask for any—”

“—would be to have it out with him once and for all. Settle whatever it is between you two. Rumor is it’s Crystal.”

Even hearing her name set his teeth on edge. “She’s part of it, but it’s way more complicated than that.” Don didn’t say anything, but Ledge sensed his interest. He turned his head toward him. “You’ll have to take my word for it, Don.”

“Can’t talk about it?”

“No. But I will tell you this. Rusty isn’t fucking around. We’re not in a pissing contest for playground dominance. He had me locked up today so I would have time to think about all the ways he could hurt me if he took a mind to, and his weapons of choice are the people close to me. So keep that shotgun loaded and handy.”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“I do.” He gave him a wry grin. “You are a friend.”

“And you are a pain in the ass,” Don grumbled, but with evident love. “Unfortunately, when Henry hired me, he told me that you came with the job.” He opened the passenger door and climbed out. “See you at the bar?”

“Since you’ve got backup, I think I’ll call it a day and go home.”

Don regarded him with concern. “Ledge—”

“I’m good.”

“No, you’re not. I haven’t seen you this low since just after you got back from Afghanistan, and I had to tell you about Henry’s frequent memory lapses. Tough time for you.”

That was putting it mildly. He had survived two bloody wars with barely a scratch, only to come home and be felled by that news. As soon as they’d swept up after his welcome-home party, he’d gone on his first bender. He’d stayed away for days, finally stumbling home like the proverbial prodigal.

Henry had met him with a heavy heart but open arms, hugging him tightly, weeping with relief, telling him over and over again that he would do whatever it took to heal Ledge’s wounded spirit. But in the cruel game of give-and-take that Fate often played, as Ledge had improved, his uncle had declined.

“That was a tough time,” he said. “But I didn’t know how good I had it. I’d give anything if Uncle Henry was half as cognizant now as he was then.”

“Me too, Ledge.”

Both were quiet, then Don asked, “You gonna be all right?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re sure?”

Ledge assured him with a nod, but only because he didn’t want to lie to his friend out loud.

“Ya know,” the guy working the cash register drawled, “you can get this for free out at your own place.”

Ledge fixed his iciest stare on him. “I like to support the local economy.” He didn’t wait for a sack but grabbed the bottle of bourbon by the neck and carried it out to his truck, which he’d kept running while he went into the liquor store.

He was breaking all kinds of rules today. Even self-imposed ones.

The trees along the curving lake road were cloaked in Spanish moss, which could look either beautiful or bleak. This evening it resembled tattered winding-sheets hanging heavily from the branches. The surface of the lake was as still as death. The cypresses growing up out of it, looking like life-forms from fantasy fiction, made for stark silhouettes against a glowering dusk.

The entire landscape appeared haunted and forbidding, adjectives that also described his frame of mind.

Gravel peppered the underbelly of his truck as he took the turnoff to his house at an unsafe speed. The potholes seemed to have deepened since he’d driven over them at dawn on his way out. He hit them deliberately now, punishing the shocks on his truck. He narrowly missed flattening an armadillo stupid enough to cross the road in his path.

He rounded the last curve, his house came into view, and he braked suddenly, causing the seat belt to catch across his chest.

Her car was in his driveway.

“Fucking perfect.”

Chapter 15

Ledge turned in. Arden had parked to the side of the drive, so as not to block his spot. Thoughtful of her.

She wasn’t inside the car.

It had grown dark enough for him to realize that as he’d headed out this morning, he hadn’t left any lights on inside the house, but there was a glow coming from behind it. He took the bourbon with him as he got out of his truck and followed the path around to the back. The workshop’s garage door was up, but no overhead lights were on.

Because it was partially dark inside, it took him a moment to spot her. She was standing with her back against the drafting table, silhouetted against the shaded bulb suspended above it. It made a halo of her hair.

He went over to a table where he kept a coffee machine and fixings. He broke the seal on the bottle and poured a goodly portion of sour mash into a coffee mug, then shot it.

“The deadline was noon,” she said.

“Time got away.” He poured another drink and shot that one, too.

“I called you several times.”

He poured more liquor, looked down into it, then turned and raised the mug. “Drink?”

“Yes, please.”

He was surprised she accepted, but she didn’t come over and take it. She made him walk all the way across the shop to deliver it to her. He extended her the mug, handle toward her. She hooked it with her fingers. “Thank you.” She took a sip. “You must’ve had a full day?”

“You could say.”

She used the mug to point out the raw wound on his cheekbone. “What happened there?”

“Bee sting.” He ignored the look she gave him and tried to keep his focus off her plush, whiskey-damp lips. “You came all the way out here to give me your answer in person?”

“You gave me no choice. I’m a woman of my word, and I had promised that you would have my decision by noon. But you didn’t answer your phone or return my calls. I called the bar and was told by the person who answered that you hadn’t been in all day. There’s no email address on your business card. I didn’t know how else to reach you.”

She took another sip, then ran her finger ’round and ’round the rim of the mug. He felt that spiraling touch low in his belly and had to stifle the groan that tried to push its way from his throat. He told himself it was the booze hitting rock bottom on an empty stomach, but he knew better.

She was saying, “I don’t get the impression that you’ve been on tenterhooks to hear my decision. On the contrary, you’ve led me to believe that you don’t give a damn one way or the other.”

“Not really, no.”

She looked up at him with challenge. “You’re a liar.”

“Busted. It wasn’t a bee sting.”

“You’re lying about not giving a damn.” She indicated the table behind her. “These drawings are of my house.”

Going through his mind was a litany of military-born, illustrative obscenities. But he made a motion of indifference. “Couldn’t sleep last night. I did some doodling.”

She set the mug down with a thump on the most convenient level surface, which was his computer desk, then turned to the drafting table and began sorting through his drawings.

She selected two of them and positioned them side by side. “Variations on how to widen the upstairs hallway. This one, turning it into more of a gallery. Very detailed, down to the molding around the recessions cut into the walls.

“This,” she said, pointing to the other, “takes out a wall altogether, and, by doing so, opens up the extra bedroom and converts it into a sitting area/TV room. These aren’t doodles at all.”

She slid forward a sketch. “The front elevation. The windows enlarged. The porch expanded. Or, as you’ve designated it here, the veranda.” She looked at him for comment. He didn’t say anything, but she wasn’t deterred.

She pulled another drawing to the forefront. “Reconfigured master bath. There’s another for the layout of a modernized kitchen.” She ran her fingertips over the drawing, then faced him. “They’re brilliant.”

“Thanks.”

“When did you study architecture?”

“I didn’t.”