The Waterfall (17 page)

“I know—but I had this terrible nightmare, and I had to get out of the house. I couldn't breathe! And my mother's not herself since…” The girl coughed, as if she were choking on her own drama. “I can't explain.”

“Try,” the woman said calmly.

“Do you know Sebastian Redwing?”

Sebastian remained very still. Who was this woman Madison had snuck out to see?

“Not personally. I know he saved your father and grandfather from an assassin some years ago and has his own investigative and security firm. He's widely respected in that community.”

“Well, he's here,” Madison said, pumping each word full of as much drama as she could.

“Sebastian Redwing?” The woman remained cool. “Really? Why?”

“Mom took us to see him when we were in Wyoming, and—and I didn't think he liked us at
all.
He was such a jerk.”

Actually, Sebastian thought, he didn't think he'd been that bad.

“Now he's here,” Madison went on, “and I don't know, I just think it's so
weird.
He almost killed himself at the falls the other night. He slipped or something, and Mom found him.”

“Sebastian sold your mother your house, didn't he?”

“Yeah, it used to belong to his grandmother.”

“Perhaps your visit in Wyoming got him thinking about Vermont, and he decided he wanted to see his grandmother's house again.”

“But Mom—she doesn't want J.T. or me going off into the woods alone. She'd
kill
me if she knew I was up here.”

Sebastian knew this to be untrue. If Madison really thought her mother would “kill” her for disobeying, she wouldn't have sneaked off. He wasn't sure if this meant mother and daughter really did trust each other or that the kid was a spoiled brat.

“Does your grandfather know Sebastian's visiting your mother?” the woman asked.

The criticism in her voice was almost undetectable, but still unmistakable. Sebastian frowned. This was someone who believed she had Jack Swift's best interests at heart—and believed Lucy didn't.

Madison, however, was oblivious. “I don't think so. She doesn't tell Grandpa much.”

“No. I'm sure she doesn't.”

Whoever this woman was, she didn't like Lucy Blacker Swift.

“Mom's very independent,” the girl said in grudging defense of her mother.

“That she is. Well, you should be running along before she wakes up and doesn't find you. She'll worry.”

Sebastian ducked deeper under the branches of the hemlock. He could hear creaking floorboards as Madison and the woman walked, presumably toward the door of the screened porch.

“I can't wait for Grandpa to come up this summer,” Madison said. “It'll be so cool. None of my friends believe I have a grandfather who's a United States senator.”

“Your friends in Washington did, didn't they?”

“I mean up here.”

Madison went out onto the deck and took the steps down to the driveway, which was on the opposite side of the house from where Sebastian was hidden.

“Come see me again,” the woman called from the deck. “You'll keep our secret, won't you?”

“Of course.”

Sebastian didn't like secrets. It was one thing to keep your own mouth shut about something, another thing to ask someone else to keep their mouth shut. Especially a fifteen-year-old. A sure sign of something afoot was an adult telling a child to keep a secret. If it didn't involve Christmas or birthday presents, it usually wasn't good.

He wanted to know about the woman on the deck, but his first priority was seeing Madison Swift safely home. He eased down the wooded hill, making as little noise as possible, and came onto the path several yards behind her. She was walking briskly, practically skipping. Whoever this woman was, Madison certainly thought she was something.

They were almost to the field when Sebastian announced his presence. The girl jumped, startled, then turned sullen. “You
followed
me?”

“Yep. A kid sneaking out of the house at the crack of dawn is asking to be followed.”

“That's not true.”

She looked as if she might throw a fit. They were out of earshot of the rented house, but not if the kid started screaming and stomping around. Sebastian sighed. “Now don't start yelling bloody murder. It won't go over well if you do.”

Madison snorted at him, out of breath and furious at being caught. “What'll you do, tie me to a tree?”

“It's a thought.”

“My mother—”

“Your mother would tie you to an anthill.”

The girl's mouth snapped shut.

“Who's the woman at the house?” he asked.

She didn't answer.

“Okay, I'll just go up there, knock on her door and ask her myself—”

“No! She'll get in trouble!”

“Is that what she told you?”

Madison obviously didn't care for his tone of voice. “It's what I
know,
” she said snottily and marched a few steps ahead of him.

He was still feeling pretty good—she couldn't outrun him. He thought of his hammock in Wyoming. His horses. His dogs. He could pull together a poker game with the ranch hands. Five-card stud, cigars and a couple of six-packs.

Damn, what was he doing here?

“The woman works for your grandfather,” he said to the girl's retreating back.

She refused to answer, kept walking.

Sebastian easily caught up with her. “I can call him, find out who's out of town—”

She stopped abruptly and spun around at him, her face pale. “No, don't. Please. I
promised.
”

“Promised what? Your firstborn?”

“No, but I gave my word—”

“Well, you can un-give your word and tell me what's going on.”

“Why should I?”

“Two reasons. One, if you don't, I'll still find out, but I won't be as pissed off if you go ahead and tell me yourself. Two, if you do tell me, I can tell your mother and hold her down and let her cool off before she tans your hide.”

“My mother doesn't believe in corporal punishment.”

This was no surprise. Sebastian kept his cool. “I was speaking metaphorically.”

She licked her lips. “Barbara's here renting a house for my grandfather. He's spending August in Vermont. He asked her not to tell Mom. He wanted to make sure everything worked out first, then tell her himself.”

“Why?”

“I don't know, that's the way he is. It's a surprise, I guess.”

“Barbara who?”

“Barbara Allen. She's my grandfather's personal assistant. She's worked for him forever, since even before you saved his life.”

So, as far as Madison was concerned, Barbara had seniority on him, and he wasn't such a big deal. Sebastian was amused. Little snot. But there was real fear in her eyes, not for herself but for a woman to whom she'd given her word. That mix of loyalty and kindness was more like her mother than Madison would probably want to know.

“I accidentally saw her the other day,” Madison went on, “and she asked me not to tell.”

“Madison, Barbara Allen isn't going to get fired because you caught her renting a vacation house for your grandfather. She must know that.” And if she did, he thought, she was deliberately manipulating a fifteen-year-old girl. Why?

Madison nodded, not happy about having to tell him anything. Her blue eyes fastened on him. She wasn't afraid of him any more than anyone else in her damn family was. He was out of practice. People used to be afraid of him.

“Anything else?” she asked sarcastically, as if he were the inquisitioner.

“Nope. Now we can go back and tell your mother.”

She said something under her breath. He was pretty sure it was “bastard,” but she was only fifteen and shouldn't be using that kind of language. He let it go. Then she said something about being glad he'd tumbled into Joshua Falls. She spoke a little louder, wanting him to hear, wanting him to react. He didn't. In her place, he'd be pissed, too.

Which was nothing compared to what Lucy was.

She greeted Madison at the door, white-faced and scared and too angry to speak. She had on shorts, a T-shirt and sandals. No more little nightgown. She pointed at the ceiling. “Upstairs.”

“Mom, I can explain. I—”

Lucy held up her hand, and the girl shut up and flounced off, pounding up the stairs.

“A wonder she doesn't get shin splints.” Sebastian slid onto a chair at the table. He was breathing hard; his head was pounding. He needed coffee and food, maybe one more day before he was fit to tackle desperadoes instead of Lucy's kids. “It wasn't a guy, if that makes you feel any better.”

Lucy was slightly less pale. “Who was it?”

“A woman named Barbara Allen. She's renting a house on the sly for your father-in-law. He wants to come up in August. Know her?”

Lucy nodded. “
Damn
Jack. He's always doing things in secret. He says it's because he likes surprises and wants to avoid publicity. He thinks he's the president, I swear.”

“What about Barbara Allen?”

“Barbara? She's been Jack's personal assistant for—I don't know, twenty years or so. She's devoted to him. If he says, ‘Jump,' she says, ‘How high?' She's always been fond of the kids—she's wonderful to us whenever we're in Washington. Gets us tickets, restaurant reservations, things like that.”

“She shouldn't have told Madison not to tell you—”

“I know.” Lucy took two mugs down from a cabinet, her movements jerky, betraying her agitation. “But that's Jack, and Barbara would want to please him. She probably didn't think. And she wouldn't know about the incidents.”

Sebastian made no comment.

She set the mugs on the counter and looked around at him. “Sebastian, don't even think it. Not Barbara.” She shook her head. “I wouldn't want to spend ten
seconds
inside your brain.”

He leaned back and kicked out his legs. The trek up into the woods had done him good, but he could feel it. He smiled. “No, you wouldn't. Tell me what you know about Barbara Allen.”

“I just did.”

“Her personality,” he said, “her sense of loyalty, what she thinks of you, your children, your move to Vermont. Anything.”

“I don't know a lot. My contact with her over the years has been mostly about Jack, not her. She's very professional—she's never said much about her personal life around me. I think she has an apartment on the river.”

“Not married?”

Lucy shook her head. “She's about my age, maybe a year or two older. Now, don't be thinking she's your weird, mousy, stereotypical spinster, because she's not.”

“I wasn't thinking that. I wonder why you did?”

“I didn't. I was just—”

“The thought was there, Lucy. Something about this woman made you think ‘weird, mousy, stereotypical spinster.' Think of how many single women in their late thirties and forties you know. Would you immediately warn someone not to think of them in stereotypical terms?”

“I don't know. Maybe.”

“I doubt it. Something about Barbara Allen made you want to defend her against stereotype.”

Lucy frowned. “I suppose there is a neediness about her. You'd never notice it right off, but I've known her for years. Who knows, I could be projecting.”

“There's nothing needy about you.”

“I don't know. After you left this morning—”

He grinned. “That's different.”

She filled the two mugs with coffee, and with her back to him, said, “Sebastian, I can't be attracted to you. It'll never work, and the timing couldn't be worse.”

“I agree.”

She spun around to face him. “You agree?”

“Bad timing. Won't work. Can't be attracted. That's pretty much what I was thinking, too.”

“After what happened upstairs.”

“No, before, actually. I thought about it all night.” He walked over to her and picked up one of the mugs, sipped the hot, black coffee. “Obviously I wasn't convinced.”

“I am.”

“Good. That'll give me ammo for talking myself out of kissing you again.”

She nodded. “Right. We can't—” She turned, facing him, and leaned against the counter with her coffee. “I have a sneaky daughter and a son who's worried about forgetting his father, and a business to run, and this person to find—and now Jack Swift coming for August. So, yes, please talk yourself out of kissing me again.”