Page 54 of Thick as Thieves

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?”