Dances Under the Harvest Moon (Heartache, TN 3) Page 9

  “I have Tansy’s number.” He gave her a level look. “You really think you’d feel up to fish for dinner?”

  “Definitely. I’m just run-down today.”

  He stared at her so long she thought he was ready to call the whole thing off. But then he straightened.

  “Okay. Tiffany McCord got a fishing magazine to cover the event and I know she’s hoping for a good turnout to help boost tourism.” He headed for her door. “Promise me you’ll phone if you feel worse?”

  She made the X sign across her heart as if she were a five-year-old.

  “Promise.” For him, she swallowed all the unkind words that came to mind about Bailey’s mom, who surely only organized a fishing tournament to sell more equipment and not out of some selfless need to make Heartache a tourist destination.

  Then again, what did she know? Maybe Mrs. McCord wasn’t a backstabbing liar like her daughter.

  Ten minutes later, her father’s old sedan backed out of the driveway and Meg had the house to herself. She dragged her laptop from under her bed, and then opened a browser window in “private session.” She hoped her dad wouldn’t be able to see it in a search history. Not that he seemed supervigilant about checking her internet hours. True, he might have seen some of the crap that had appeared on her social media accounts a few months ago. But she’d closed most of them four weeks ago when school started, hoping to give her anonymous detractors less means to taunt her. However, ever since she’d received that text about checking her Facebook page, she had worried. What if she hadn’t deleted it properly? She wanted to make sure it was really gone.

  A quick scan of her old friends’ accounts showed links to her closed account. Bailey was even “friends” with her on one popular social networking site. What the hell?

  Clicking on her old profile picture to see why her account hadn’t been deleted, Megan waited for the page to load. Her icon photo remained the same as the one she’d used in the past—she held her guitar in last year’s talent show performance. Her name and her school were accurate, but the rest of the page had nothing in common with her old account.

  The page said she’d transferred from Slutsville Academy. That her contact information referred to a 1-900 number with a name so foul there were asterisks in between the letters to get past the social media censors. Her work experience had been “on the local street corner,” with more details that were too vile to read.

  She slammed the computer shut, heart racing.

  “Oh, my God.” She hadn’t read the page full of comments from her classmates, though she’d seen them out of the corner of her eye. She didn’t want to look. But of course she’d have to look.

  This morning, she’d had such high hopes of taking control of her life again. Of doing some web surfing to see if she could figure out who would send her those text messages, maybe use a reverse phone directory. The digits were seared into her brain. She’d had visions of reporting the harassment, or at least taking steps to contact her cell-phone carrier in a way that wouldn’t involve her father.

  But this...

  Water drops sprinkled the glossy blue case of her laptop, and she was so rattled it took her a long moment to realize they were tears. She hadn’t realized she’d started crying. The proof that her classmates had gotten to her was irrefutable—tears on the fucking laptop—and that caused a fury to build inside her like a ten-foot monster bursting at her skin to escape.

  “I—” she screamed the word, rocketing out of her bed to swipe her makeup, hair dryer and papers off the dresser “—hate—” she shrieked, kicking the crap on the floor “—you!”

  With the last word, she picked up a bottle of nail polish and hurled it at her closed bedroom door. China Girl Jade smashed in a splatter of green and dripped slowly down the door.

  Heart hammering, Megan collapsed on the floor in a pile of discarded blankets and displaced homework. She wanted to twist and writhe and continue the tantrum for hours until she’d somehow screamed out all the fear and anger.

  Except, was it possible?

  All the crying in the world would not fix this. Her father would die if he saw that page. Oh, God. It would kill him. How could she ever look him in the eye after he saw something like that about her? She glanced at the cold medicine that she’d carefully positioned by her bed to convince her father she couldn’t go to school.

  Too bad none of those over-the-counter medicines were remotely strong enough to make the pain inside her go away. Nothing that would make her sleep until she was twenty-one and past this shit.

  Or maybe something to make her sleep and sleep and sleep.

  Her gut burned.

  Unable to touch her laptop—which scared her more than if a coiled rattlesnake lay on the bed—Megan stretched her arm over her head to where her cell phone rested. She reached for it underneath a clunky old vanity she’d bought at a garage sale in an effort to make their house prettier.

  To make up for the fact that her father’s bitch of a wife had left him because Megan wasn’t the kind of daughter she must have wanted when she said she’d adopt a child.

  Clicking on the phone, Megan didn’t care about the mess or the nail polish or the dirt that might be in the carpet fibers where the side of her face lay. Even though she kept seeing that stupid social networking site in her mind’s eye, she forced herself to focus on her phone’s screen and typed in “how to stop cyberbully.”

  Stupid, useless crap popped up about school policies to deal with the issue. Bypassing rules for reporting incidents to teachers and useless advice like “ignore them and hold your head up high.” She scrolled through page after page until she got to a support group for women who’d been cyberbullied and cyberstalked. The snippet about the site read as if they might be for real, and that’s what caught her eye.

  When she clicked on their page in a new tab, she spotted a coming soon! header that advertised a feature to help users collect data. Data that could be useful to the police to help stop the harassment. What if she could actually send cops to the houses of all these false-faced, full-of-shit seniors who acted as if they were such great kids in front of their parents?

  Eyes racing over the details, she found the name of the webmaster.

  Holy crap.

  Sitting up, she enlarged the font on the phone to be sure she had read it correctly.

  And discovered the mayor of Heartache, Tennessee, was responsible for maintaining the website that could help Megan. She checked her watch, wondering how fast she could clean up her room. Because she couldn’t blow off her music lesson with Ms. Finley now. Not when Megan knew damn well her guitar teacher had a friendship with Mayor Chance. Hadn’t she seen them together yesterday?

  Going to the lesson would be a better solution than downing too much cold medicine and pretending these poisonous people didn’t exist. The hope of fixing this would get her through at least one more day.

  * * *

  “WHAT DO YOU mean you don’t know how to fish?” Heather stared at him as if he’d stepped off an alien spaceship. This skill deficiency was unheard of in her world, apparently.

  They stood on the banks of the Harpeth River, fishing gear in hand, thanks to Tiffany and Cole, who’d encouraged him to stay by giving him loaner equipment rumored to be top of the line. Not that Zach would know.

  All around them, residents of Heartache cast their lines and settled in to enjoy the concession-stand snacks and entertainment. At noon, there would be a free barbecue picnic and the winners of the tournament would be announced.

  “My father spent all my childhood scamming investors and wooing potential clients with trips on his private plane. We weren’t exactly bonding over family outings, let alone father-son time on the local lake.” He passed Heather the high-tech fishing pole Tiffany McCord had given him, his hand brushing hers. He lingered against her soft skin u
ntil her eyes widened with awareness. “But I’m sure I’ll figure it out if you teach me.”

  He didn’t try to make it sound like a come-on. But he knew he’d been fairly transparent when it came to Heather Finley. Not that he was purposely flirting with her. He simply wanted to touch her more. And with the time dwindling until he had to come clean about the missing town money and the old rumors surrounding her dad, Zach couldn’t help taking advantage of the hours they had together before everything became more complicated.

  Would she blame him for those old rumors coming to light? Worse yet, would she blame him for being forced to choose between her dream audition and standing by her family? His gut churned, but it didn’t do a damn thing to lessen the attraction he felt for her. An attraction that grew stronger the longer he spent with her.

  “No wonder you brought me.” She juggled the fishing apparatus with ease, balancing the awkward weight. Even in her knee-length skirt, she looked at home on the riverbank. “Although you don’t need a dinner date so much as a press secretary to run interference for you at events like this.”

  She pointed to a quieter spot around a small hill and he followed her there, watching her pick her way around tree roots and rocks in a pair of pale blue ballet flats.

  “I’d take the date over the aide any day.” He sat beside her on a grassy patch. “But you’d be an enticement to come to work more often if you were my secretary.”

  “In your dreams, Mr. Mayor.” She smiled, though. Just a hint of a wicked little grin that turned him inside out.

  “Definitely. But I hope they don’t remain mere dreams,” he whispered while she cast the line, his eye roaming her demurely covered curves that were—he had to be honest—every bit as enticing now as they’d been the night after the wedding when he’d been treated to a peek at her bare waist.

  “Were you paying any attention to how I did that?” she asked, turning the crank on the reel to tighten the line, her cheeks pinker than they’d been a minute ago.

  “I think it’s safe to say you have my undivided attention.”

  “Then my work here is done.” She passed over the fishing pole.

  “It’s more fun to watch you.” He accepted the rod and reel, but jammed the end into the dirt so he didn’t have to hold it. It was what other people were doing.

  Heather gasped. “Tiffany is going to have a conniption that you used her three-hundred-dollar fishing pole like a twenty-five-dollar beater.” She pointed to the ambitious store owner, who seemed to be enjoying her master of ceremonies role. She mingled with guests just long enough to tout the merits of her sporting goods, but she rarely left the side of the reporter attending the event.

  “So I’ll buy it. That’ll make her happy.”

  “It is the Porsche of fishing gear.” Heather eyed it dubiously. “I guess that’s about right for you.”

  “But?” He traced a finger along the edge of her skirt where it lay on the grass.

  “But if you can’t catch a fish on a twenty-five-dollar pole, all the tricked-out gear in the world isn’t going to make you a good fisherman.”

  “I bet I’ll find a way.” He sighed as he stretched out on his back on the warm grass beside her, pillowing his head with his hands. The music from the tournament registration desk filled the air and Heather swayed ever so slightly to the tune. “How do you know so much about fishing?”

  “Besides being a born-and-bred Tennessee girl?”

  “Besides that.” From his new vantage point, he admired the red curls draped along her back. He wanted to lift one up to feel the silken weight of it.

  “My father taught me when I was small. I have good memories of choosing the right lures for him and playing silly games while we waited for the fish to bite.” She smiled for a long moment—lost in thought. “But as I got older and Dad became busy with the mayor’s job, I went with my siblings. We spent the summers playing in the woods and along the creek behind our farm.” She glanced back at him over one shoulder and then leaned forward again, wrapping her arms around her knees to hug them to her chest. “Some days, we’d fish for hours. The best nights were when Scott—he’s the oldest—when he’d build a fire and we’d cook whatever we caught right there along the water’s edge.”

  “Your mother didn’t mind?” He liked the image of her family hanging out together—it’s how he’d always pictured the Finleys. Unlike his train wreck of a household.

  “The times we fished from sunup to sundown were usually the days my mother struggled the most from a medical standpoint.” Heather tipped her forehead to lay a temple on her knees, her face turned toward him, though he couldn’t see her expression. “So, no. She didn’t mind. We stayed out as late as we could, hoping she’d be calmer by the time we came home.”

  “How’d that work out?” A red curl hung within reach and he twined it around his finger.

  Silky as he’d imagined.

  “Depended. She could be more spun up than when we left. So in that way maybe it didn’t work so well. But the creek gave us a place to be. Fishing gave us something to do.” One side of her slender back shifted. A shrug, he realized.

  “And at least you weren’t hungry when you got home.” He took the lighter approach, not wanting to chase her off the topic just yet.

  “Assuming Erin and Amy pulled their weight,” she muttered darkly, giving him a sidelong glance. “Not all the Finley girls bring the same skill to the table as me when it comes to fishing.”

  “Is that so?” He liked touching her hair. Liked her smiling at him. He wished he could capture the day and hold on to it longer.

  Life seemed simpler sitting next to Heather. As though he could almost forget the vow he’d made to hunt down his sister’s stalker. To give her that peace and sense of justice. He needed to follow up with Sam about that, too.

  “Absolutely it’s so. Check out what your line is doing, Mayor.” Straightening, she nodded at the fishing pole he’d jammed into the soft earth.

  “Whoa.” The thing bent like a willow in the wind. Or like a squirrel had hopped on one end, the tip practically skimming the water’s surface. He scrambled to a sitting position. “What do I do?”

  “You grab it.” She already had it in hand, jumping to her feet as she tugged against whatever pulled on the other end. “Feels like a bass. They’re fighters.”

  A few people fishing along the river’s edge turned to watch her. Zach stood back to give them a clear view. She was something to see in her pretty skirt and girlie shoes, calmly shadowing the movements of whatever the hell battled her on the end of the line.

  The line jerked hard, tugging her forward. He reached for her, just to be sure she didn’t fall, and his hand cupped her waist automatically.

  “I’ve got it,” she whispered, more to herself than him, as if she was talking herself through it as she turned the crank and reeled in the line, all the while walking closer to the river’s edge. “Look out.”

  With a quick tug, she yanked up and hauled a green-brown flopping fish out of the water. A couple of old-timers nodded and smiled their approval.

  “Have I been completely emasculated by not helping in some way?” He wasn’t about to steal her glory, especially when watching Heather do just about anything was a pleasure.

  “Not as long as you do the cooking.” She grasped the end of the line and dangled the fish between them. “Guess I saved you from taking me out for dinner tonight.”

  “You’re putting a lot of pressure on my limited culinary skills.” His temperature spiked at the idea of having her alone at his place. “I’ll just bring this to the fish-cleaning stand.” He peered around the tournament hopefully.

  Her laughter reminded him how short-lived her happiness with him would be. Damn it. As much as he wanted her to stay in Heartache, he hadn’t wanted her to feel trapped the way she would be once she
learned about the upcoming investigation of her father’s time in the mayor’s office.

  “I think you’re on your own for cleaning the catch.” She tugged the hook from the fish’s mouth. “We’d better grab a bag and some ice. I’ll go ask Tiffany.”

  “I will.” He slid in front of her, not wanting her anywhere near Tiffany in case the town board member asked questions about the missing funds. “That is, I need to tell Tiffany I’m taking the rod and reel, too, then I can bring you home.” He took the pole and reel from her. “I know you’ve got your lesson with Megan soon.”

  “Okay.” Her gaze darted toward the throng of board members in heated discussion near a pickup truck. “Thank you.”

  “Be right back.” He made fast work of his errand while Heather spoke to a woman who owned the hair salon in town.

  When he returned, she was alone, watching him with guarded eyes.

  “All set.” He patted the bag of ice. “Should we weigh your catch?” His step slowed as he saw a sign about weigh-ins.

  “That’s more for the boaters who are competing.” She slid a hand around his elbow and steered him away from the noise and foot traffic near the scales. “Besides, if the universe grants me only one blue ribbon this month, I’d rather hold out for the American Voice prize.”

  “Who knew you were the superstitious type?”

  “Not usually. But I’ve waited a long time for this dream, Zach. I’m not taking any chances.”

  Guilt had him by the throat, and tonight’s dinner loomed even more ominous. He should have just let Sam Reyes give Heather the bad news this morning, but he’d wanted to wait as long as possible, hoping he’d find proof of her dad’s innocence in the town computer system. But his data-analysis program had been running for hours with no luck, or he would have received a notification on his phone. So far he had no lead that might signal good news.

  It sucked to think the attraction he felt—an attraction he was damn sure went both ways—would come to such an abrupt end. Before he’d even gotten a taste of her. He knew he’d be ten kinds of ass to push things further without her knowing what he needed to tell her.