Page 43 of Thick as Thieves

“Oh, I’ll bet,” she said with disgust.

“Can I ask you a question now?”

“If it’s about my baby, no.”

“About that chat with your sister.”

“What about it?”

“You didn’t tell her about going to my uncle’s bar to conduct your own recon. You didn’t tell her about Lois what’s-her-name and the shocking secret she had revealed. You didn’t tell her that I was standing six feet from you. How come?”

“I didn’t want her to panic.”

“Why aren’t you?”

“Why aren’t I what?”

“Panicked.”

“I don’t know.” Her bafflement appeared to be genuine and self-directed. “I really don’t. You have a criminal record. You break into my house looking like Rambo. You’ve piled lie upon lie, until I don’t trust anything you say. God knows what other secrets you’re harboring. Honestly, I don’t know why I didn’t shoot you when I had the chance.”

She took a firmer stance in the ridiculous slippers. “But I warn you that if there’s a next time, I will. I’ll act on my own animal instinct.”

She had just as well formed a fist around his cock. He tried to talk himself out of what was a really, really bad idea. But himself wasn’t listening.

He covered the distance between them in two strides, cupped her jaw with one hand and the back of her head with the other, tilted her face up, and melded her mouth with his.

His tongue slid past her lips and burrowed deep. Somehow, God knew how, he kept his hands where they were instead of exploring the hollows and hills he’d charted through the thin cotton nightgown.

He ended the kiss long before he wanted to and while he was still able.

Angling his head back, he looked deeply into her eyes, then released her abruptly and turned away. He yanked open the door through which he’d entered and, as he went out, said, “By noon tomorrow.”

Chapter 10

The memory care center in Penton hadn’t met Ledge’s rigid standards, and, besides, he hadn’t wanted his uncle to be an object of curiosity or pity with townsfolk who had known him before his affliction. Instead, he’d placed him in a highly rated facility in Marshall.

The days began early there. Ledge arrived as the sun was just clearing the treetops. He was greeted by a staff member who told him that Henry was up and dressed.

“He’s watching the news until breakfast is served, which isn’t for another ten minutes.”

“Can I trouble you to bring a tray to his room?”

“Of course, Mr. Burnet.”

Every day of Henry’s life that Ledge could remember, he’d worn Levis, western-cut shirts, and cowboy boots. These days it was pull-up polyester pants, a zippered jacket, which, as often as not, didn’t match his pants, and slip-on sneakers.

He was sitting in the La-Z-Boy that Ledge had given him for his birthday, staring vacantly at the small flat-screen TV that Ledge had had installed last Christmas. The audio was muted.

“Morning, Uncle Henry.” He dragged a chair nearer the lounger and, as he sat down, asked if anything interesting and worth repeating had occurred in the world overnight. Of course no reply was forthcoming, but while Henry continued to stare unresponsively into the TV, Ledge chatted on about nothing consequential.

One of the catering staff delivered the breakfast tray. “Need any help?” the lady asked Ledge.

“We’re good. Hey, do we have you to thank for the flowers?” He’d noticed a fresh-looking bouquet on top of Henry’s bureau.

“Wish I could say so. They’re sure pretty. Buzz if you need anything.”

Despite Henry’s illness, he still had a good appetite. When he reached for a slice of toast, Ledge stayed his hand. “I haven’t buttered it yet.” Henry yanked his hand free, picked up the toast, tore off a bite, and crammed it into his mouth. Wryly, Ledge muttered, “Butter’s bad for your cholesterol, anyway.”