The First Law of Love (32 page)

How dare Case act that way?

How dare he imply that Robbie and I are sleeping together?

But what else would he think, showing up to find Robbie already here?

It felt so good to be close to him, even in anger. Oh God, oh God
…

To punish myself I scrubbed soap on my wound, which stung like hell, and then centered a band-aid over the cut. I decided that a nap would be in order before I walked the miles back into town to retrieve my car. When I thought about it, I didn't even know exactly where my keys were. Peaches seemed to agree about the nap, wrapping into a warm ball against my stomach as I stretched out on my unmade bed and closed my eyes against the brooding, weeping sky out the window.

Hours had passed when I woke, I could tell, as the quality of the light in my room was distinctly different. The storm was gone, leaving a clean, freshly-laundered feel to the air. Mellow sunlight fell across the carpet, indicating late afternoon, and I sat up with a sigh, knowing I needed to eat something, get my ass moving. I fought the urge to simply lie back down and sleep until morning.

In the kitchen I had the sense that something was just slightly off, heart pounding hard, and cast my eyes around the space twice before I realized there was a set of keys just inside the door, as though someone had slipped them beneath. They were my apartment and car keys on their metal key ring, I realized, stooping to collect them.

Case
, I thought at once, flinging open the door. Of course the hallway was empty, but still I jogged directly to the parking lot and sure enough, there was my car waiting for me outside, in the lot in the spot marked ‘Gordon.' Case must have had my keys from last night; probably he was upset enough this morning that he'd forgotten to give them back to me. And here was evidence of his concern for me, more proof that he constantly took care of me, time and again, no matter how little I probably deserved it, how little he received in return.

I rubbed my hands over my upper arms, hugging myself hard. I thought of kissing him last night, of being held close to his chest this morning. I bent forward, aching as I considered how I had slapped his face. There was no excuse for that, no matter how angry I had been. All of that anger seemed misplaced now, having drained away, leaving behind only the urgent desire to find him and tell him I was sorry. Beg his forgiveness, before begging him for other things.

It
'
s Saturday
, I thought, clamping down on my desperate thoughts.
Where would he be right now? Does he play tonight? Is he home?

Did I dare drive out to Ridge Road? I closed my eyes and had to laugh a little at my own insanity, imagining myself showing up at the trailer, knocking on the door, apologizing and then proceeding to explain that I was searching for a hoop earring that I had inadvertently lost while kneeling illicitly on his bed. Touching his things without his knowledge yet again. Really, Case deserved to slap me, not that he would ever do such a thing. I roughed up my hair, ran my hands over my face, and then attempted to center myself, breathing deeply of the evening air.

I really do love it here
, I thought, studying the sky above Stone Creek, stretching endlessly to the horizon where the mountains waited, patient and protective, as they had always been. Again these notions swept me away with surprise.
I
'
ve been here before now, somehow, sometime. I know it
. The certainty of this tugged at my very soul. As my eyes roved over the magenta-edged clouds gathering above the peaks (surely it would rain hard again before morning), I considered suddenly that I had a clue, even a small one, a place to begin researching, and despite everything, I felt a tremble of excitement.

Back inside I fed Peaches, ate a couple of handfuls of dry cereal while leaning against the counter and staring into space, put my hair into a ponytail and carried my laptop, notebook and a pencil out to the porch. There I smoked two cigarettes (justifying this because it calmed my nerves, at least a little) and then opened my laptop. Into the search bar I typed the words
Thomas Yancy.

Nothing promising at first; there was a list of White Page information, advertisements for applications to find anyone, anywhere. I scrolled through all of the junk, my eyes alert for a hint of something I could focus my energy upon, a puzzle piece, even a fraction of an answer. And then I saw a Civil War ancestry page that had turned up that name. Thunder growled in the distance and I shivered, my eyes lifting to the horizon, where an anvil cloud was massing. I looked back at my computer screen and clicked on the link.

The information was sparse. Thomas F. Yancy, served in the Fifty-First Pennsylvania until 1865, mustered out in April of that year. No picture available. I tapped my fingers against my lips, considering what Derrick had said at the Coyote's Den, about Thomas Yancy being shot in the back. He had been adamant and though he'd also been extremely drunk, he seemed to know exactly what he had been talking about.

Coward
, Derrick had said.
Fucker has it coming now
.

Who do you mean?
I wondered intently.
Who shot Thomas Yancy? Why does it matter now, over a hundred years later?

The air chilled with a breeze, the pine trees all around the parking lot rustling as though trying desperately to tell me something. On the third floor, a mom called for her kids. On impulse, I typed
Spicer
into the Civil War page search bar. My fingertips tingled just typing Case's last name. The third hit on the page read ‘Returns from U.S. Military Posts, 1865' and showed the name ‘Henry Spicer.' Heart clubbing, I backed out of the page and retyped this new name into the general search engine.

Less than a minute later I was sweating, my breath shallow, as I stared at the image of a black and white family picture. The caption read,
H. Spicer Family, 1872
.

Oh my God. This is Case
'
s family.

I was sure of this as I stared with wide eyes at the old photograph, absolutely devouring it. Henry and his wife, presumably, were seated at the center, surrounded by their family. Not one smiling face in the bunch, though I understood this was due to the length of time required for exposure; slow-operating cameras of the day. My eyes tracked over the faces of their numerous children, suddenly zeroing in on one in particular, a boy of perhaps eighteen, standing tall in the back row.

My chest hurt with a repressed breath and I was touching the screen, caressing his face, before I even knew my fingers had moved. Insane as it was, I realized he looked familiar
. I knew him
. I dragged my eyes from him to read the names listed in the caption, scrawled as though with an old-fashioned quill pen, moving frantically until I found the one that belonged to him –
Cole
. Cole Spicer, 1872. Eyes staring directly into mine from the old photograph, handsome and perhaps even a little defiant, shoulders thrown back.

Jesus Christ.

I looked back at the gathering storm in the here and now, trying to center myself. Attempting to regain reason.

Tish, you
'
re a lawyer. There is no logic to this. You don
'
t know this man, you have never known this man. There is no way that this is Case in another life —

I minimized the window and opened a second, typing Cole's name into the engine next. The same image I had just been studying appeared, but as I clicked desperately on suggestion after suggestion, I found nothing more. Nothing useful, no birth or death dates, no further evidence of his existence.

I had to call Case.
I had to see him
. I needed this so much that I stood up and carried the laptop with me into the apartment. I found my phone and began to dial his number before stopping myself and holding the phone to my forehead.

You can
'
t call him.

I understood this, though it did nothing to lessen my desire. I forced myself to replace the phone on the counter and then went back outside. I did not, however, possess enough willpower to stop searching the Internet. I tried every combination I could concoct. I learned the names of all of Henry Spicer's children. I surmised that this was the ancestor who had carried the violin to the war and then subsequently westward, the beautiful violin that Case still played to this very day.

I tried
Thomas Yancy
in conjunction with
Henry Spicer
, but came up empty-handed. I did discover that Thomas Yancy, who had once fought for the Union in the Fifty-First Pennsylvania, had two sons, the younger of the two with the bizarre name of Dredd. There was nothing to suggest that Thomas Yancy had been cheated out of land or murdered, or that he was somehow connected to Derrick. At last I searched Yancy Corps, clicking on the History link on their homepage. It was neat and tidy, briefly mentioning the founding of the company in Chicago in 1893; the original founder was listed as Fallon Yancy. The eldest of Thomas Yancy's sons. No mention of the father or the younger brother.

So there is a connection.

I covered my face and pressed hard. Instead of finding any real answers, I had only unearthed a thousand new questions. Thunder absolutely exploded then, startling me; the sky was pewter-gray even though there should have been a good two hours of daylight left. Lightning sizzled and I smelled the rain seconds before it began pelting the earth. Stubbornly I remained where I was and pulled up the photograph of the Henry Spicer family one more time.

***

Hours later I was sleeping
on the couch when a noise crept into my dream and my eyelids fluttered open. Though the thunder had passed, a soaking rain was still falling heavily outside, numbing my ears to any other sounds. But I knew I had heard something else and sat up fast, flinging the afghan from my hips, my heart tripping over itself in sudden fear. Fear, I understood, that would immobilize me if I let it; I thought,
Get up, don
'
t be so helpless.

I stood and rushed to the door, flinging it open, not quite able to contain a shriek as Peaches, who'd inexplicably been in the hallway, darted past my ankles and leaped onto the kitchen table.

“You
scared
me!” I half-yelled at her, even though it was unfair. The green digital display on the stove read 5:41 am, though the lingering storm still created a sense of deepest night. Squaring my shoulders, I jogged down the hall and then the steps to the entryway, scanning the parking lot, uncertain just what I expected to find. Case, sleeping in his truck, guarding me in the night hours? I rolled my eyes at myself; a part of me had prayed to find exactly that.

Instead I saw only the wet parking lot, dim in the damp gray light of a rainy July morning.

***

Keeping myself occupied during the
day wasn't a problem, at least not at the law office, where more people than ever were stopping by during business hours to inquire about their legal rights regarding their land dealings with Capital Overland. In addition, Al was busy with his usual case load, working between the court house and the office while I held down the fort. We had convinced almost a dozen families to reconsider the sale of their property, and though I had not seen him since the night at the Coyote's Den, I felt as though I could sense Derrick Yancy's anger directed my way like a weapon pointed at my head.

Clark made a point of stopping into the law office on Thursday to remind me to come to dinner tomorrow night. As much as I hated to lie to him, I made up an excuse, telling him I simply had too much work to do. Clark didn't exactly buy this, I could tell, but to his credit he let it slide. He said, “Will you at least be at Al's birthday? The boys and I can come to pick you up, if you'd like.”

“I will,” I promised him. “But I already told Robbie Benson that I would go with him.”

Clark's eyebrows furrowed a little and I rushed to explain, “He's my old friend from school, remember, who's housesitting for Ron?” Not that I'd seen much of Robbie this week – he'd been too busy lounging in Ron's palatial cabin with a booze supply and the satellite dish, the worthless little shit. I was not feeling particularly charitable at the moment.

“That's right,” Clark said. He studied me with his kind eyes before asking quietly, “Tish, are you all right?”

I nodded as vigorously as I could manage. Clark left just as Al came back from the court house, the noonday sun bright as a signal beacon on the street outside. Al greeted Clark and then focused on me. He said excitedly, “I heard word just now that Derrick Yancy is considering pulling up stakes around here!”

“Not just a vicious rumor?” I countered, too wary to get caught up, though Al seemed genuinely enthusiastic.

“Time will tell,” he said. “But this is good news! Only thing better would be you telling me that you've agreed to stay in Jalesville.”

“I don't even know if I passed the goddamn bar exam,” I told Al, hedging.

“You passed or I'll eat my hat,” he teased me, not about to let me rain on his parade, hanging the hat in question on the coat rack. “You know, after I took the exam I spent two weeks on a fishing trip. Shit, and here you are working yourself half to death for me. You can take tomorrow off, if you want.”

“Too much to do,” I countered.

He grinned at me and said, “At least take off early today.” He studied me a moment longer and I could sense he wanted to ask me about something.

“What?” I demanded.

“It's not my business…” Al deliberately trailed off, a lawyer tactic I recognized, designed to snag a reluctant answer. I narrowed my eyes at him and he laughed, knowing he could not trap me in this fashion. He asked forthrightly, “Is it my imagination, or is there a little something between you and young Mr. Spicer?”