Twilight Man. Karen Leabo
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sell it all at the stand.”
Jones relieved her of the heavy buckets. “I haven’t finished what you gave me last week.”
“Then you’re not eating enough greens,” she scolded. “What about the tea? You’re drinking my special tea, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m almost out.”
“Then it’s a good thing I came today,” she said as they headed toward Jones’s rough-hewn pine cabin, dwarfed by the towering cypress, pine and oak trees surrounding it. “I brought you a big jar.”
Months ago, when Jones had first come here, Hildy had sniffed him out like a bird dog hunting quail. She just wanted to have a look-see at her closest neighbor, she’d claimed, but Jones doubted that. He didn’t know where she lived—somewhere deep in the swamp, where a man could get lost and wander for days—but he didn’t think it was anywhere close to him. She was just nosy.
Since her first visit, she had paddled to his island once a week, whether he’d invited her or not. Eventually he’d found himself charmed by her backwoods philosophy and her no-nonsense approach to life, and he now counted her as a friend.
His only friend. None of the other locals came near his cabin, and that was fine with him.
A chair in Jones’s kitchen creaked as Hildy plopped down in it. “I really did come for another reason,” she said, watching Jones where he stood at the sink washing the greens she’d brought. “There’s a gal lookin’ for you.”
His whole body stiffened. “Who is she?” But who else could it be except Mary-Lynn?
He had taken precautions so that no one from his old life could follow him here. He hadn’t applied for a driver’s license or even a post office box. He didn’t have a telephone. He had left his car behind, so there were no license plates to trace. His boat, which had come with the cabin rental, wasn’t registered in his name. How could anyone have found him?
“Pretty little thing,” Hildy said. “Blond curls all over.”
Jones allowed himself to relax. Not Mary-Lynn, then, whose hair was almost as black as Hildy’s.
“I saw her at Pete’s,” Hildy continued. “She had that old green bandanna of yours. The thing’s in pieces, and she was showin’ it around to everyone in the store, trying to find someone who could tell her who it belonged to.”
He allowed himself a smile. “Ah, then I know who she is.” The blonde had to be the hit-and-run victim he’d pulled from the burning car several weeks ago. He’d been tromping around in the woods, minding his own business, when he’d heard the crash on the road just a few yards away. Although he didn’t like involving himself in other people’s problems, he could hardly have ignored a life-and-death situation.
He had applied hasty first aid to the woman, enough to get her by until the paramedics arrived. As soon as they did, he’d hightailed it out of there. He didn’t need some strange woman’s undying gratitude for saving her life.
“You didn’t say anything to her, did you?” he asked Hildy.
“No. I know how you like your privacy.”
He could see she was brimming with curiosity, but he declined to tell her the story. He didn’t feel much like a hero, and he didn’t want anyone thinking of him that way.
With promises to drink his tea and eat his greens, he hurried Hildy on her way. He knew she needed to open up her roadside produce stand, which provided her only income—she wouldn’t accept any money for the vegetables she brought him.
When she was gone, his thoughts returned to the angel-faced woman who had been so near death, her skin as white as an egret’s feather. He was glad to hear she had recovered. But he hoped like hell she didn’t find him.
* * *
Faith studied the crude map the campgrounds manager had drawn for her, then peered at the scene ahead. This wasn’t the first time she’d tracked down someone who lived in an area so remote that she had to follow landmarks rather than street names or house numbers. This was, however, the first time she’d attempted to do it in a swamp from a leaky dinghy with a balky outboard motor.
Ahead of her loomed a huge cypress tree, cleaved down the middle as if a giant’s ax had split it. She recognized it as one of her landmarks. “Struck by lightnin’,” Hoady had said. With a mild pang of apprehension she turned off the clearly marked “lake road” and onto a much narrower channel, slowing her speed in deference to the submerged logs and other hazards that lurked just below the water’s surface.
Fortunately, the channel wasn’t hard to follow. A definite path wended its way through the water lilies, as if another boat had recently passed. She settled back and tried to relax.
Over the past few months while working on her dissertation she had learned to enjoy the sights and sounds of the swamp, the strange creatures, the earthy smells and the people who lived here—especially the people. They were a breed unto themselves. Judging from Jones Larabee’s eccentric reputation, he was a prime example. She couldn’t wait to meet him.
The campgrounds manager, Hoady Fromme, had tried to talk her out of going to see Larabee. He’d said the man was spooky, a loner and a mean one at that. But Faith only half believed what Hoady told her. Country people, she had discovered, were prone to exaggeration when they met her and noticed she was enthralled with their every word. And anyway, a man who risked his own life to save hers couldn’t be all bad.
At the very least, she would give Mr. Larabee the new bandanna she’d bought him and thank him for saving her life. At best, she would get him talking and convince him to let her videotape him. An interview with the local hermit would make a nice addition to her dissertation. He might be one of the last bastions of local folklore and superstitions, which were dying out as civilization encroached.
Faith spotted the next landmark, a vast “field” of water lilies on her left. Later in the summer those huge lily pads would produce impressive, waxy white flowers as big as dinner plates. From there she turned into an even smaller channel, slowing the motor further until she barely putted along, ducking under tendrils of Spanish moss that dangled from low branches.
She had never been to such a dense part of the swamp. The dimness pressed in on her, and the sounds made by creatures on the bank no longer seemed friendly. She had an overwhelming urge to flee back into the sunlight, but unless she wanted to flee in reverse, she would have to find a wider place to turn the boat around.
The idea of backing out was sounding better all the time when, unexpectedly, the channel widened into a sunlit area of open water. And in the middle of that water a tiny spit of land protruded, on which sat one of the prettiest little houses Faith had ever seen.
The steep-roofed, pine log cabin, which stood on tall stilts, featured an inviting wraparound porch. Faith could easily imagine sitting in a rocking chair on that porch with a cold glass of lemonade, watching the sun set. The neatly maintained yard was dotted with carefully sculpted cedar trees. Geraniums, blooming in a profusion of pink and white, were grouped around the staircase that led to the front door. A pair of woodpeckers darted back and forth to a bird feeder hanging from one of the trees.
The storybook image didn’t look anything like the weathered, broken-down hermit’s shack she had anticipated. If this wasn’t Jones Larabee’s home, perhaps the residents could direct her to where he lived.
Faith nosed her dinghy onto the shore and climbed out. After tying the boat to a stump, she climbed the steps to the front door and raised her fist, intending to knock briskly.
She didn’t get the chance. The door opened abruptly and the man coming out nearly plowed her over. When he backed up a couple of paces, clearly stunned to find a strange woman on his front porch, she could see he carried a fishing pole in one hand, a tackle box in the other, and he wore nothing but a skimpy pair of cut-off jeans.
“Who are you?” he barked as he dropped the tackle box