“Consider it your welcome-to-town present. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you back here.”
Sloane wasn’t as certain, since once she found Samson, she planned to return to D.C. During her long drive here and last night’s stay at a small motel an hour outside of Yorkshire Falls, she’d had a lot of time to think. She didn’t know what kind of threat Samson posed beyond his mere existence. But after twenty-eight years, he’d obviously decided he wanted something. Sloane had to find out what and diffuse that threat. She hoped that if he was just looking to meet his daughter, that by giving him that, he wouldn’t go public and ruin Michael Carlisle’s campaign.
Before Sloane could reply, Izzy continued. “Wait till the single men get a look at you.” She whistled loud, so some of the patrons’ heads whipped around. “Isn’t that right Norman? A new face and one as pretty as this one will make heads turn.”
But Norman had already disappeared back into the kitchen, thank goodness, sparing Sloane additional embarrassment.
As it was, heat rushed to her cheeks. “Thanks.” She couldn’t bring herself to tell the woman she might not be around a second time. “It was nice meeting you,” she said to Izzy instead.
“Same here.”
Good-byes exchanged, Sloane finally made it back to the street. She glanced around at the beautiful gardens across the way and the fountain drizzling water in the center. There was also a gazebo tailor-made for romance rising above the surrounding bushes. She experienced a brief twinge of regret that she wasn’t here to visit and get to know the place where her mother had grown up.
She wondered if Jacqueline had liked it here. If she’d had many friends. Would Samson know? Have stories to share about the years her mother spent before leaving him?
She rested a hand over her jumping stomach. “Nothing to do but get into the car and head out of town,” she said to herself.
Minutes later, Sloane turned onto Old Route 10, as Norman had instructed. Soon, clusters of homes gave way to a long stretch of trees lining either side of the road. Heavy fall foliage covered the perimeter in varying degrees of red, yellow, and brown, a sight that under other circumstances she’d love to take in and admire.
But a sense of urgency beckoned. One she hadn’t felt earlier. When she’d walked into Norman’s to ask about Samson, anxiety had filled her, but now fear accompanied the nervous energy that had propelled her so far. And it wasn’t fear for herself or fear of the man who was her father. Rather, she was experiencing a more amorphous dread that bordered on panic, one she couldn’t define but encompassed her anyway.
Without warning, the trees dissipated and an open field stretched in front of her. Sitting dead center, all alone on the empty land, was a pathetic-looking, dilapidated house. The closer she got, the more evident the disrepair. The roof was old and missing shingles, while the paint on the outside had cracked and peeled.
She’d never considered where or how Samson lived. And as she pulled the car to a stop in front of the house, an overwhelming sense of sadness filled her for what looked like a lonely, pathetic existence.
She walked up the graveled driveway. If blacktop had ever covered the long stretch, no remnants remained now. Halfway to the house, she was startled by a yipping sound. She glanced around as a small dog that resembled a pug came running toward her on short, chubby legs. Jumping up and down on his hind legs, he shamelessly begged for a pat on the head.
Sloane leaned down and ran a hand over his short fur. Grubby-looking, he needed a bath as much as he apparently needed attention, and despite her better judgment, she picked him up.
He was heavier than she’d anticipated. “You’re a hefty one,” she told him, and carried him to the house. She couldn’t deny having her arms full gave her a more secure, comfortable feeling and she clutched the dog’s warm body tighter against her chest.
At the front door, she paused, nerves overtaking her. Before she could back out and run to the car, she rang the bell. She wasn’t surprised when no sound came out, and after trying once more, she started to bang loudly on the door. To her shock, the door pushed wide open. The dog squirmed and jumped out of her arms, running inside.
“Hello?” she called out, uncomfortable just walking in. But no one answered and so she cautiously stepped over the threshold. The jitters in her stomach were now uncontrollable, but so was her determination to find Samson, as she walked into a dark hallway.
The smell of rotten eggs hit her immediately. Though she lived in an apartment, she’d grown up in a house and Sloane knew a gas leak when she smelled one. The odor that assaulted her senses couldn’t be anything else.
Wisdom dictated she get out and have someone call the gas and electric company, but what if Samson was inside? She called out once more. “Hello? Samson?”
No response.
She glanced around, but from the darkened rooms and obvious smell, the house had to be empty. Anyone home would have gotten out by now, though why they’d leave their pet was beyond her. And said pet had decided to act like a tough guy, running to the top of the basement stairs and yapping like crazy.
“Come on, pooch.” She patted her thighs, calling him with enthusiasm.
He wasn’t impressed.
And she wasn’t leaving without him.
She walked slowly toward him. The closer she came, the more distinct the gas odor became. Get out. The mantra started to run through her head. She intended to heed it, but she had to get the dog first.
“Come on, Mr. Dog, let’s go.” She knelt down, and though his yapping didn’t subside, he did run to her on his stubby legs.
Get out. The thought repeated itself as Sloane grabbed the still-barking dog and started for the exit. She made it outside, as far as the front lawn, when a loud explosion sounded, knocking her to the ground.
* * *
Chase figured he’d missed Sloane’s visit to Norman’s by a matter of minutes. Izzy couldn’t stop raving about the new redhead in town, one gorgeous enough to stop traffic on First and one looking for the town loner and eccentric, Samson Humphrey.
This last bit of information took Chase by surprise. The town kids called Samson “the duck man,” because he spent most of his days in the center gazebo talking to and feeding the ducks and geese. No one paid him any mind except for Chase’s mother and Charlotte, both women with big hearts and soft spots for the sullen old man.
He couldn’t imagine what the hell Sloane was doing looking for Samson, but he intended to find out. According to Izzy and Norman, they’d given her directions to the old man’s run-down house on the edge of town. It wasn’t a place any woman should venture alone. Not because Samson was dangerous. Heck, the older man was as harmless as he was nasty, but the area where he lived was a vacant place where bikers hung out. More than once, his cop brother, Rick, had arrested delinquents or bikers for vagrancy and loitering. The area was no place for a lady.
No place for Sloane.
Sloane, not Faith. Sloane, the woman he’d picked up in a bar and had hot, wild sex with all night long, before being asked by her stepmother, and wife of a vice presidential candidate, to look after her.
Damn.
When Chase Chandler gave up his quiet life, he did it in a big way. The hell of it was, he still had no regrets.
Plenty of questions, but not one regret. He had a hunch Sloane wouldn’t want the word to get out that she’d picked up a stranger in a bar any more than he’d be publishing his memoirs in the morning’s paper.