Night Mares in the Hamptons (12 page)

I took the big dogs for a walk, Little Red for a carry. He'd have to stay by himself at the house later. He'd be overwhelmed and underfoot at the block party, which was dangerous for him and everybody else's ankles.

Then I made some refrigerator slice-and-bake chocolate chip cookies to bring. I only ate five of them, testing for quality. They were so good I kept half a dozen before wrapping the rest for the party.

I showered, put on my favorite flowery sundress and strappy heeled sandals. I even blow-dried my hair. Funny to be dressing for a man old enough to be my grandfather, but I sure as hell didn't put on mascara for Baitfish Barry.

Grandma and Doc were going in her car so they could leave early. Even if the party was in Doc's honor, he wasn't strong enough for a long night's celebrating. From the militant look in Grandma's eyes, I figured she'd have him back in fighting shape before he left. I didn't think he'd mind some home cooking and coddling. I followed in Mom's Outback, and ate two more cookies.

The town square was already crowded when we got there. Plank tables lined one end, quickly filling with potluck offerings. The fire department had two big grills going, and Susan was ladling out chowder. People carried blankets and babies, and I set up the beach chairs I'd brought for Grandma and Doc. Pretty soon two lines formed, one for the food, the other to greet Doc, like excited children waiting to talk to Santa. Even people who'd seen him earlier wanted to shake his hand, introduce him to their kids, tell him how happy they were to see him.

They were happier when they went back to their blankets and beer.

I was too full of cookies to eat much.

Some of “them”—as in “us vs. them,” Paumanok Harbor residents who didn't have the Paumanok Harbor propensities—looked a little confused at all the hubbub over a retired shrink. They enjoyed the music and the small town camaraderie anyway. Dante and Louisa Rivera waved to me as they herded their children back toward the parking lots, some of the first to leave. The grocery store owners were noticeably absent. They hadn't sent any food either. And they wondered why the locals shopped elsewhere whenever they could.

When the sun lowered, volunteers started to pack up the leftover food, fill the trash bags, and fold the tables. Despite the feeling of well-being, no one much wanted to be on the road after dark. No one wanted to chance seeing the mares. Besides, Uncle Henry had confiscated the fireworks before some idiot blew off his fingers or set the downtown on fire, so there was no reason to linger. Doc was yawning.

The noise level was still high for the cleanup and the good-byes, with a few latecomers still shaking his hand. The high school jazz band had been replaced by a loud rock trio that played for local weddings and cocktail parties. They'd go on as long as anyone was listening.

The music stopped mid-note. The chatter stopped. The cursing from the firemen's truck stopped. Even the whining from kids who didn't want to leave stopped. Everyone turned to stare up the street, where a man on a white horse rode toward the commons.

“It's one of them,” a woman cried, turning her head into her husband's chest.

“Nah, the mares wouldn't let anyone put a saddle on them.”

“Maybe he got lost on his way to the dude ranch at Montauk.”

“Maybe it's the horse whisperer we need.”

“Maybe I've died and gone to heaven,” Susan said from beside me as we watched the horse and rider come closer.

Elegant white high-stepping horse, effortless straight-backed rider, orange-and-pink setting sun. Magnificent, and the horse and the sun were nice, too.

Another horse and rider came out of the shadows behind the first pair. This horse was brown and white. A pinto? A paint? I wasn't up on horse jargon. The second rider was smaller, hatless, with dark hair in a braid down his shoulder, tied with a rawhide thong and a feather. He kept his distance from the grass commons while the first man dismounted at the edge and led his horse forward.

The idiots from the party band swung into “Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys” while the obvious head honcho strode forward. He took long steps, but with an almost bow-legged stride.

“Now that's a real cowboy,” someone near me said. “You can tell he's spent his life on a horse.”

A woman answered: “Either that or he's got more between his legs than you've got between your ears.”

The laughter was a little subdued. We all knew this guy was special, and we all knew we needed him.

Then one of the local studs said he thought that walk looked gay.

“Trust me,” Micky from the fire department said with a sigh of regret, “that dude's not gay.”

With the cowboy's hat shielding his face and the dying light, it was hard to judge his age or his coloring or his looks, only his height—impressive—and his build—kind of lanky but solid. He wore a cream-colored Stetson, a faded blue chambray shirt and jeans tucked into high cowboy boots. Mostly what he wore was confidence, mixed, I thought, with a little arrogance. Or maybe that was my jealousy talking; I could never have sauntered so calmly into a crowd of staring strangers, not even with a prancing horse at my side.

When he got nearer, Susan started singing Big Eddie's song about saving a horse, riding a cowboy. “Hush,” I snapped at her. “He's old enough to be your father.”

“So?”

This close, I saw the weather and the years etched on his face. He was about forty, I guessed. A crooked nose kept him from being handsome, though he did have a firm chin, high cheekbones, and not an ounce of extra flesh that I could see.

“Your father never looked like that,” Susan's mother said.

Grandma murmured, “Oh, my,” and Reverend Shankman's wife added, “Amen to that.”

The cowboy headed straight for me. I looked to either side to be certain he wasn't looking for Uncle Henry, but the police chief wasn't that close.

The crowd parted. They might have disappeared, for all I knew. I didn't notice when the band stopped playing. I watched the man. He watched me, then stopped and touched the brim of his hat.

“I reckon you're Miss Willow Tate, ma'am. I'm Tyler Farraday. Folks call me Ty.” He jerked a thumb back toward the other rider. “That's Connor Redstone, the Condor.”

The Condor? The younger man nodded his head from the pinto's back, still keeping his distance. I nodded back.

Mr. Farraday reclaimed my attention. “His lordship sent us to y'all.”

“Grant?”

“Brit with a poker up his—” He looked over my shoulder to Grandma Eve. “Sorry, ma'am.” He turned his attention back to me. “With English reserve, I reckon you call it.”

“You know Grant? Lord Grantham, that is?”

“We shared some classes a few years back.” He didn't sound as if they shared a friendship. But I should have known there was a Royce Institute connection. Or the Department of Unexplained Events. I didn't think I should ask which or what classes he'd taken, not in front of half the village. “Well, thank you for coming, Mr., ah, Farraday.”

“My pleasure, ma'am. His nibs said if I wanted to see some rare magic I had to haul my ass—sorry, ma'am—that is, hightail it north.”

“The white night ma—” I started.

“Then he said that if I laid a hand on her, he'd have my guts for guitar strings.”

Me? Rare magic? Thank goodness the light was fading so the stranger couldn't see me blush. He smiled as if he knew I was rattled, though. The smile started at one corner of his mouth and then widened, showing even white teeth. I heard Susan sigh.

Grandma, of all people, announced, “Agent Grant has no claim on my granddaughter. Not since yesterday, anyway.”

“Oh, I wasn't worried, ma'am. The jackass's threats just added to the challenge. A cowboy never backs down from a dare.”

Had I become invisible while Farraday planned my seduction and Grandma planned my wedding? I cleared my throat. “Mr. Farraday, I'd like to introduce you to my grandmother, Eve Garland.”

He tipped his hat. “I've heard of your skills, ma'am.”

“Our guest, Doctor Lassiter.”

“Glad to meet you, sir. I've heard a great deal about you also. All good.”

Doc and Grandma both looked pleased . . . because some dusty old cowboy had heard of them?

I quickly pointed to my aunt, uncle, cousin, and Chief Henry, who'd joined us. “You can meet everyone else tomorrow.”

After nodding to acknowledge my introductions, Farraday turned to his horse, whose reins he held loosely in one hand. “This is Paloma Blanca, the White Dove. Bow to the lady, Pal.”

The horse bent one foreleg and leaned forward, muscles gleaming and moving smoothly until her head nearly touched the grass, the long white mane flowing over her shoulder.

A little girl—Janie's niece Ronnie, I thought—clapped. The band's drummer played a fanfare.

“Where did you say you came from, Mr. Farraday?” Uncle Henry asked. “You got here awfully fast.”

“We were performing in Atlantic City.” He looked at me. “Trick riding.”

My heart sank. A rhinestone cowboy, just what we needed.

“Can we see?” Ronnie begged.

“Not tonight, sweet pea. Pal's tired and we still have to find our bunks.”

Before I could send him to one of the stables in Montauk—or back to Atlantic City—he said arrangements had been made for them to stay at a place called Rosehill. The Royce Institute, on Grant's recommendation, had bought the Paumanok Harbor estate as a conference center and outreach extension for the university. The renovations hadn't been done yet or any bureaucrats moved in, waiting on permits that Martha at the real estate office was working on, so there was plenty of space. My mother's widowed cousin Lily was housekeeper there and acting as caretaker. I could only imagine what care she'd take of the snake-oil salesman.

“There's no stable or paddock at Rosehill, or whatever you call a place to put a horse.”

“There will be by morning, along with whatever supplies we need. His Highness runs an efficient organization, and I already spoke to Miss Lily about having Agway deliver. Paloma Blanca and Lady Sparrow can bed down in the horse trailer tonight. They're used to sleeping there. Con and I'll be happy for hot showers and cool sheets.”

“I'll show you the way,” Susan offered.

“No need, miss. Pal knows the way.” He smiled at little Ronnie's awed expression. “And I have a GPS.”

Susan wasn't giving up. “It's early still. Maybe I'll ask the Condor if he'd like to go out later, see the sights, such as they are.”

I didn't know if Connor Redstone was partner, friend, or hired help, but his nickname sounded like he was part of the act. I could imagine Grandma's reaction to Susan's hooking up with a fly-by-night circus performer or rodeo clown.

“I'm certain Mr. Redstone must be tired, too,” I tried.

Ty looked back at the other man, now half hidden by shadows. “Darlin',” he said to me, “Connor's twenty-three. Boys that age are never tired.” Then he told Susan she could ask, but Con wasn't much for talking or for crowds.

She winked at him. “That just makes it more of a challenge. We Paumanok Harbor girls don't back down from a dare either.”

She sidestepped the big white horse and headed toward where Connor Redstone sat slouched in his dappled horse's saddle, like a Remington painting of an early Native American.

“We need to talk, Mr. Farraday.”

“Of course we do, darlin'. But I need to tend the horses first.”

I appreciated that he gave his animals precedence. My mother would approve. My mother would
not
approve of my offering to go to Rosehill with the cowboy and his horses. Then again, maybe she would. “We need to make plans.”

He gave me one of those smiles again, as slow as his drawl, which I suspected was as fake as his ability to read a horse's mind. “I already have plans, darlin'.”

I didn't want my grandmother to hear me tell the pseudo cowpoke where to poke his plans, so I tried to show my annoyance with a set-down stare.

He took another step closer, took off his hat and stared right back. His eyes were green, and insolent and knowing all at once. He rudely looked me up and down, undressing me with those devil's eyes.

So I did a rude appraisal, too, up and down.

He had longish fair hair with sun streaks, and wasn't quite as old as I'd thought. His shirt had frayed edges at the collar. His belt buckle was as big as his ego, and his jeans were tight in all the right places. His cowboy boots were soft and well worn and . . . and made out of alligator skin.

Thanks for the warning, Dad. I already figured Ty Farraday was trouble.