Seven people were suddenly crouched around, gathering up my belongings. From the corner of my eye, I saw the little blue velvet bag in the street. Still on my knees, I lunged, snatching up the jewelry bag just as Mr. Kincaid and Derek both reached for it. The side of my face collided with Derek’s shoulder, knocking my glasses out of place.
Derek mumbled, “You okay, Harlow?”
Some sleuth I was. If an encounter with an old boyfriend, which was really overstating what Derek and I had had, sent me reeling, what would a confrontation with a killer do to me? “Yup. Fine,” I said. With the bag enclosed in my fist, I braced my knuckles against the cement to push myself up. A hand clasped my elbow, finishing the job. “This is becoming a habit.”
Will. He always seemed to be right there when I needed him. Coincidence? I straightened my glasses and tried not to look at the blood I could feel dripping down my shin.
Mrs. Kincaid’s hand fluttered to her neck. “Bless your heart, Harlow. What in heaven’s name got into you?”
I couldn’t say it was the shock of seeing all the Kincaid children together again for the first time in seventeen years, or that they’d almost discovered Josie’s first engagement ring in my possession. I wanted to kick myself for bringing it with me to the funeral. In hindsight, it probably would have been safer tucked away at home.
I went for distraction, blurting out the first thing that popped into my head. “I guess I was just lost in my own thoughts. I was just talking to Will, and then I saw you, and I suddenly remembered you mentioning Miriam’s old sewing machine.” I rambled on. “Will’s daughter is working for me now and I thought it would be perfect for her.”
“Oh, dear,” she said, frowning. “Miriam took it to the church for the rummage sale—”
“Not yet, I didn’t. It’s still in my car,” Miriam said.
“You haven’t . . . It is?” Mrs. Kincaid looked like she couldn’t believe her daughter’s irresponsibility. How dare she not deliver the used goods to the rummage sale in a timely manner. Mrs. Abernathy would be so disappointed.
“Of course Gracie can have it,” Miriam said to Will. “I’ll drop it off when I have a chance.”
Will smiled. “That’s great. Gracie’ll love it. Really, thank you.”
Mrs. Kincaid forced a smile, then looked at my leg. “That’s a nasty cut,” she said to me. “You’d best go on inside and get that fixed up.”
“Good idea.” I took a step, wincing as I tried to straighten my knee. “Mmmm,” I moaned, my eyes stinging.
“There’s bandages in the bathroom,” Josie said. “I’ll help you—”
“It’s okay.” Will slid his arm around me and I leaned against him. “I got her.”
I looked at Derek. A little smile played on his lips, his attention moving from my leg to the people gathered around me. I quickly looked away, trying to ignore the anxiety gathering inside me.
I noticed Josie leaning into Nate before Will propelled me toward the bead shop and I lost sight of them. Their bodies seemed perfectly molded to each other. Doubt slithered through me. What if all the facts I’d ticked off were just coincidence? What if Nate had had nothing to do with Nell’s death, just as he claimed? I wanted so much for him to be telling the truth. I closed my eyes for a split second and conjured up an image of Josie’s wedding gown—I could still picture it clearly. Surely that was a good sign.
Karen handed Will my purse, and he guided me as I hobbled back into Seed-n-Bead. Mama dropped the broom she’d been using when she saw us. “What happened?”
I waved her away with my free hand. “I just tripped. It’s n-nothing.”
“Josie said there’s first-aid stuff in the bathroom. I got it,” he said over his shoulder.
I heard Mama pick up the broom and start sweeping again, but louder than that was the heat of her gaze on my back and the pressure of Will’s hand on my side, both of which seemed to say,
I wondered if she was right.
Chapter 43
Fifteen years of being a single dad to Gracie had given Will an unexpected bedside manner. He ran the water until it was warm, squeezed a dollop of amber liquid soap on a paper towel, and gently cleansed my wounds. “You did a pretty good number on this shin,” he commented.
“When I do something, I do it all the way.”
His lips quirked into a smile, little crinkles appearing around his eyes. “Is that right?”
I could feel the heat of embarrassment creep up my neck. I didn’t dare look in the mirror to see how rosy my cheeks were. “Which is why,” I continued boldly, “I’m trying to figure out who killed Nell. I promised Josie—”
“Josie shouldn’t have asked you to get involved, Harlow.”
My breath hiccuped. He hadn’t used my first name very often and it sounded foreign coming from his lips.
“But she did,” I said.
He was broodingly silent for a long minute. Finally he said, “Nell was murdered. This isn’t a game.”
He didn’t have to remind me of that.
After another minute of him dabbing and me wincing, he rooted through the one cupboard in the small bathroom until he found a brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide.
“Here.” I grabbed a cocktail napkin from a little pile on the counter and held it out to him, but he waved it away, his hand emerging from the cupboard with an old plastic bag filled with white fluff.
He doused a cluster of cottonballs with the liquid, pausing before he touched it to my skin. “This might sting a little.”
“No more than it already does.” I was all talk. The second the medicine hit my raw skin, I yelped, grabbing his shoulder, crumpling the napkin in my hand, keeping it at the ready in case I burst out in tears.
He grimaced as he pried my fingers loose. “Maybe just a
“Maybe,” I admitted.
He blew on it, cooling the pain, then crisscrossed five bandages from a small box he found, strategically placing them to keep as much of the abrasions covered as possible. “We should change these to some gauze squares when you get home.”
He rolled up the bag of cottonballs and tucked it back into the cupboard. After another weighty pause, he broke the silence. “You didn’t
Taking off my glasses, I cleaned the lenses, then tossed the napkin in the trash. Peering up at him through my lashes, I said softly, “My past.”
His eyes narrowed, but he seemed to understand that it was better left alone.
“How do I know if I can trust you?” I asked.
He cupped his chin, rubbing his fingers over the goatee trimmed close to his jawline. “How do you know you can’t?” he asked, looking back at me.
“Because I don’t really know you.”
“I trust you with my daughter.” He looked dead serious.
“And I trust
He gave a dismissive, one-note laugh. “Not quite the same thing, Cassidy.”
I gave a relieved sigh. He was back to calling me Cassidy. “No, I guess it isn’t,” I conceded.
A flurry of thoughts cascaded through my mind. I had no reason
This wasn’t Lower Manhattan where people looked straight ahead as they plowed through the crowded city, avoiding contact with strangers. This was small-town Texas where men tipped their cowboy hats, said, “Howdy do,” and met at Johnny Joe’s for coffee and doughnuts every Wednesday. Women moved in groups, spending mornings at their kids’ schools adorned in their sequined spirit wear, hightailing it to a Carol Anderson by Invitation fashion show at a local coffeehouse, then heading off to Bible study. I was straddling a line between two worlds,
