SLOW PLAY (7-Stud Club #4) - Christie Ridgway Page 0,65
teenage paradise had been invaded, gathered around a table with three-and-a-half legs, the group pawing through the new fast-food bags. Mad took one step toward them, then his gaze caught on a stash of metal in one corner and stacked bins and open burlap bags in another. Avocados, oranges, and tomatoes. Herbs.
“The catalytic converter caper, part two,” he murmured. And the culprits of the recent agriculture crimes seem to have been found as well.
“Wait, what?” One of the teens started, then stared at the newcomers, clutching a taco wrapped in greasy paper to his chest. “What are you doing here, dudes?”
“Dudes are calling the cops,” Mad said, withdrawing his phone from his pocket.
The cops came, observed, and then took the teenagers away. Mad had Shane drive him home where he debated for forty seconds before climbing into his car and heading for the house at Sunnybird Farm.
Upon arrival, gravel crunched under his tires, warning the occupants of a visitor, and making his second thoughts too late to save him. He squared his shoulders, then headed for the front entrance. As he reached toward the bell, Eugene Hill opened the door.
“Maddox,” he said, coming onto the porch. “Too bad, you just missed lunch.”
“Hey, Eugene.” They shook hands. “I didn’t come for a meal. There’s news.”
“Global, national, or local?”
“Local.” Mad gestured to the nearby chairs. “Can we sit?”
When they were comfortable, he told the older man about the amateur crime syndicate they’d broken up that morning. “Looks like they’re responsible for what we knew was happening or suspected was happening around here. Upon their second arrest, the boys spilled that they have a relationship with a shady recycler outside of town for the metal they’ve been taking. There’s a pair of girls who hawk the stolen produce and such at farmers markets in the area.”
“But you’ve stopped them.”
“I believe we have,” Mad said. “You shouldn’t have any more problems.”
“Glad to hear it. Harper will be too.” He stood. “I suppose now she’ll go back to the desert.”
“Right.” Mad ignored the blow to his chest and got to his feet too. He’d known it was coming so it shouldn’t hurt so damn bad. “I—”
“Want to tell her the news yourself, I’m sure,” Eugene said. “Otherwise you would have called.”
Oh. Yeah. He could have communicated the information with a device that did not require being face-to-face with Harper. But that would have been the coward’s way out and while he avoided baring his feelings, he wasn’t a complete candy ass.
“She’s in the kitchen garden,” Eugene said now. “Around the side of the house.”
Mad resolutely followed direction, even as he held out the small hope that he’d find himself lost, thus putting off the delivering of information that would likely prove to be today’s equivalent of the birthday globe. But Eugene’s instructions were sound and there was a garden where expected and inside it a person in cut-off overalls, standing among sunflowers nearly six feet tall. She was bent over a leaf, her hair covered by a bandanna, and her feet bare.
Farm girl.
Temporarily, he reminded himself. When he told her about stopping the criminal ring, she’d be back in her car so fast, nose pointed toward Las Vegas, that like an elastic bandage being ripped off skin, he wouldn’t have time to feel the sting.
Still, he reconsidered leaving without speaking, but then she straightened, her head turned his way. “Mad?”
“Uh, yeah.” He couldn’t see her clearly among the forest of large yellow flowers, but he didn’t move.
“You’re here.”
“Right.” Tell her, he urged himself, then be prepared for her exodus.
Tell her fast, like ripping off that elastic bandage. You won’t feel the sting.
“I had pneumonia,” she suddenly said. “When I was living in Portugal.”
Okay. “You mentioned that before.”
“I put off going to the doctor. I dosed myself with whatever the pharmacist handed me over the counter but I wasn’t getting any better.”
“Harp—”
“And then I was so sick that I had to be hospitalized.”
His throat went dry. “Harp.”
“And I didn’t want to call my mom and tell her…until the night I thought I was going to die.”
“Harp.”
“She flew to Portugal, nursed me back to health, and after that I made the decision to come back to the States.”
“Bless your mom.”
“I do,” Harp said. “Every day. But it seems I didn’t learn my lesson. Turning to another person, asking for help…it’s still hard for me.”
“Yeah, well, I’m a cop. I have a tendency to think I should always be in charge.”