The Law of Moses (The Law of Moses, #1)(68)

I had never wanted to pound my friend’s face in more than I wanted to at that moment. And there had been several times in our travels when we’d come to blows. I wanted to slap the smirk right off Tag’s face, and I wasn’t the only one. Sheriff Dawson’s ears were red and his concerned, public-servant face had slipped into something else.

“Seems a little weird to me, Sheriff. But I’ve seen stranger things. Small-town connections are like that. Hell, everybody’s related to everybody. Everybody knows everybody. I’m not even from here, and I know way too much.”

The sheriff’s blue eyes were narrowed in on Tag’s face, and though he kept a benign smile in place, I could see he wasn’t overly pleased with Tag’s two cents. Tag just sat slumped against the SUV, totally relaxed, completely unbothered by the enemy he had just made.

We all turned as a delivery truck rounded the corner and bounced along from pot hole to pot hole. The carpet had arrived. Sheriff Dawson slid into his SUV and pulled his door shut as the delivery truck pulled in with a jerk and a belch.

“If you paid half as much attention to those pot holes as you’re payin’ to Moses, the whole town would be happier, I’m thinkin’.” Tag continued to talk, only stepping away from the SUV as Sheriff Dawson started it up, put it in reverse, and began backing out.

“You’re right about one thing, Mr. Taggert,” Sheriff Dawson called out his window. “Everybody knows everybody. And everybody knows all about Georgia and Eli. And Georgia deserves a whole helluva lot better.” He met my gaze through his windshield, shook his head as if he couldn’t believe I’d had the gall to return, and drove away.





Moses




THE CLEANING LADY—who turned out to be a cleaning girl—couldn’t come until the next day, though I tried to bribe her with more pay. She was seventeen, and her boyfriend had a football game she didn’t want to miss. I’d torn her name from a flyer hanging on a bulletin board in the country mall, the little gas station that sat at the crossroads where the old highway forked, one road leading south to Gunnison, the other leading west to the old coal mine and a dozen other little spots on the map that could hardly be called towns anymore.

We threw our sleeping bags on the new carpet in anticipation of spending our first night in the house—and last night if things went as planned. We’d slept out on the grass the three previous nights, and it had been a little colder than either of us liked. Tag had made a teasing comment about us sleeping in Georgia’s barn to keep warm, but the look I’d sent him had shut him up immediately. I’d told Tag about the morning my grandmother died. He knew I’d spent the night with Georgia in the barn that final night. He knew I’d come home and found my grandmother dead on the kitchen floor. The night in the barn had been the last moments of Before. They’d been my last moments with Georgia. Sleeping in the barn was no laughing matter.

It was after we’d eaten a couple cans of soup and almost a loaf of bread between us that the doorbell rang, clanging through the empty house and jarring us both. I almost expected Sheriff Dawson to be standing outside with assorted townspeople armed with torches, but Georgia stood on the doorstep, her face drawn with indecision, clutching a big book to her chest.

“I thought . . . thought . . .” she tripped over the words and stopped. Then she took a deep breath and met my eyes. She said each word crisply, not allowing herself to stumble again.

“I have pictures of Eli. I thought maybe you’d like to see them.” She held out the big book, and I realized it was a photo album. It was at least five inches thick with the pages overflowing and the binding bulging around them. I stared at it, not taking the book, and her arms slowly lowered. Her jaw was tight and her eyes were hard when I finally lifted my eyes. She thought I was rejecting her. Again.

“I do. I would like to see them. But will you look at them with me?” I asked softly. “I want you to tell me about him. I want stories. I want details.”

She nodded and took a hesitant step inside when I opened the door wider and ushered her in. Her eyes took in the bare walls and the new carpets and she visibly relaxed.

“I wanted her clock,” she said.

“What?” I was staring at the smooth length of her hair and the way it fell from her shoulders, down her back and ended only a few inches above her waist.

“That cuckoo clock she always had in here. I loved it,” she explained.

“Me too.” I wondered where it had ended up. I hoped it wasn’t in a box somewhere.

“Was there anything left in the house?”

I shook my head. “Just the paint.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I wished I hadn’t spoken them. I don’t know what it was about Georgia, but she’d always had that effect on me. She breached my defenses and my truths started spilling out with all their warts and garish colors.

Georgia just looked at me in that same frank way, as if trying to peel back my layers. But then she shrugged and let it go. We traipsed through the kitchen, and I apologized for the lack of furniture. We ended up sitting with our backs to the wall in the dining room, the book on our laps. Tag busied himself in the kitchen and greeted Georgia with a smile and a question about Cuss.

“You get thrown today, Georgia?”

“Nah. I rarely get thrown anymore. I’ve gotten better at waiting them out.”