Tempting Taine (24 page)

Dirt
flew
up
onto
the
grave
edge
followed
a
few
minutes
later
by
the
shovel.
The
job
was
done
.
Everyone
smiled
at
everyone
else.

Foster
leaned
over
to
Dixie.
‘
Who
is
he?
’

Dixie
shifted
closer
to
Foster
so
she
wouldn't
have
to
yell
in
his
deaf
ear
and
inadvertently
nudged
the
shovel
lying
at
her
feet,
sending
it
slithering.

Clunk.
Silence.

They
edged
forward
and
peered
over
again.
Jaws
dropped
and
eyes
bulged
on
the
ring
of
faces
at
the
sorry
sight.
There
was
their
savior,
lying
at
the
bottom
of
the
grave,
splattered
with
wet
mud,
out
cold,
the
shovel
on
top
of
his
chest.

Dixie
just
managed
to
turn
an
explosive
giggle
into
a
cough.
Really
she
was
appalled
by
the
accident
she
had
caused.

No
one
spoke;
everyone
was
shocked
into
silence.

The
only
sound
was
the
low
moan
of
the
wind
in
the
pines
bordering
the
cemetery.
As
Dixie
looked
down
into
the
grave,
her
long
hair
whipped
across
her
face.
She
raised
her
head
and
tucked
her
hair
behind
her
ear
and
saw
Reverend
Brown,
neck
stretched
forward,
white
hair
flying
and
black
vestments
flapping,
looking
like
a
distressed
crow.

‘
Tch
,
tch
,
tch
,
’
he
muttered
as
he
swiveled
round
and
explained
in
hushed
tones
to
the
person
behind
him.
A
wave
of
whispering
and
tittering
ran
through
the
mourners.

Dixie
stared
down
on
the
rugged
face
of
a
man
who
looked
as
though
he
had
really
lived
life,
not
let
it
roll
by
since
she'd
seen
him
last.
That
dark
unruly
hair,
that
generous
mouth
above
a
slight
cleft
in
the
chin,
and
that
aquiline
nose
she
remembered
from
the
school
holidays
when
she
was
ten
and
her
mother
had
come
to
visit
with
Reg
,
her
new
husband
mark
three.
His
nephew
was
in
tow
and
was
ordered
to
play
with
her,
no
doubt
to
keep
her
out
of
her
mother's
hair.

Nate
Ryan
was
two
years
older
than
her
and
had
teased
her
unmercifully.
He
was
always
laughing
then.
He
wasn't
now.
But
she
could
see
his
chest
moving
so
he
wasn't
dead.
She
couldn't
examine
him
any
closer
because
she
couldn't
reach
him
from
above
and
if
she
went
down
there
was
no
place
to
stand
except
on
top
of
him.

What
was
he
doing
at
her
grandmother's
funeral
anyway?

A
clod
was
loosened
and
fell
on
his
chest.

‘
Stand
back,
everyone,
’
Reverend
Brown
barked,
abandoning
his
pious
voice.
‘
We
came
to
bury
the
old
lady,
not
him
.
’

Suddenly
the
funeral
mood
was
gone
and
her
grandmother
was
forgotten
.
The
noise
level
rose
as
everyone
offered
advice.
Someone
at
the
back
proposed
his
front-end
loader,
and
someone
else
suggested
the
Spelunking
Society.
Aunt
ordered
Foster
to
ring
111
but
Dixie
quietly
rang
the
Volunteer
Fire
Brigade.

As
she
waited
she
watched
Nate
anxiously.
He
may
have
put
a
frog
in
her
bed
seventeen
years
ago
but
she
didn't
want
him
to
die,
especially
at
her
own
hand
-
or
more
correctly,
foot.
He
was
too
beautiful,
even
with
a
blue
egg
rising
on
his
forehead.

Soon,
with
the
help
of
experts
with
ladders
and
a
sling
stretcher
the
muddy,
floppy
body
was
hauled
out
and
laid
gently
on
the
grass
verge
.

Dixie
took
over
then;
this
was
her
territory.
She
knelt
down,
inspected
the
egg
on
his
forehead
closely,
and
then
ran
her
hands
through
his
mud-caked
hair
to
feel
for
skull
damage.
She
took
his
hand
to
feel
his
pulse
and,
not
satisfied,
she
loosened
his
now-black
shirt,
slid
her
hand
underneath
and
found
the
apex
beat
of
his
heart.

When
she
raised
her
eyes
to
his
face
to
check
his
pupils
his
eyes
were
open.
Relief
turned
to
embarrassed
annoyance
when
he
winked
at
her.