A Shadow on the Ground by Rebecca Lee Smith Page A

want to?” Mendoza growled menacingly.
    “Then I hope he's wearing steel toed shoes.” She stepped back and positioned the bat over Finch's wedged foot. “You know, Lawrence—can I call you Lawrence? Or is it Larry? I mean, we’re threatening each other, so we should be on a first name basis, don’t you think? Anyway, Larry, you’d be surprised how strong my little arms are after stirring apple butter for twenty-five years. And how good my aim is. I bet I could break four or five toes with this thing.”
    Finch jerked his foot back. He smoothed the front of his navy sport coat and shot his cuffs. “You've had a trying day, Miss Maguire. I'll come back tomorrow when your brother is here.”
    “Suit yourself. But the answer will be the same.”
    Morgan closed the door and flipped the lock. She ducked through the kitchen to the laundry room and started pulling clothes out of the dryer. Standing half naked in front of Lawrence Finch had left her feeling vulnerable. And she hated feeling vulnerable. Almost as much as she hated bullies. Her husband had been a bully.
    She dressed quickly in jeans and one of Sean’s white T-shirts, then sat on the hall tree beside the front door, balancing the baseball bat across her knees like Granny Clampett’s shotgun. She didn’t know how long she sat gazing through the delicate lace curtains, watching a long bank of clouds steal across the darkening sky, but by the time the utility lamp in the yard had come on, the hard wooden seat had rendered her rear end completely numb.
    The sudden squeal of tires propelled Morgan to her feet. She grabbed the cordless phone off the desk and held her thumb over the 9, ready to call for help in case Finch and Mendoza were back for round two. She slunk into the shadows. A dark car backed over Opal’s prized azaleas and came to a halt beside the fence. For one crazy moment she thought it might be Gage, and a ridiculous lump of hope rose in her throat. But when the door swung open, she realized it was Ethan.
    Ethan stepped out and stretched his long legs. With his lanky frame silhouetted against the glow of the interior light, he looked like a younger version of his father.
    She ran down the front steps. “Oh, God, Ethan. I'm so sorry about your dad.”
    Ethan's pale blue eyes filled with tears, and he blinked them back. “Thanks, Morgan. I’m sorry you were the one who had to find him.”
    “Who’s in the car?”
    “I’ve got Sean and Peach with me. Sean's passed out on the backseat. He promised he wouldn't throw up. I got the car detailed this afternoon.”
    “Sean's drunk? He never drinks more than two beers.”
    “Well, tonight he's hammered. Should we take him to Opal’s guesthouse out back? I don't think we can get him up the stairs. He’s dead weight.”
    “There's a daybed in the sunroom off the kitchen,” Morgan said.
    Peach pulled herself free, then helped them guide Sean, barely conscious and stumbling, up the porch steps to the sunroom. He flopped face first onto the iron bed.
    “Someone might want to get a bucket,” Peach said. “He's starting to turn green again.” She placed her hands on the swell of her hips. “Better make it a big bucket.”
    Morgan lined a waste can with a plastic grocery bag and set it beside the bed. “Sean, can you hear me?” Sean groaned. He turned his face toward the lamp. A shaft of light cut across his gaunt cheekbones, making him look older than his thirty-four years. She looked at Peach. “I’ve never seen him this wasted.”
    Peach sat on the edge of the daybed. “When Jake Wheeler told him Harlan had died, he wouldn’t believe it.” She smoothed the quilted coverlet back from his shoulder then let her fingers glide over the strands of brown hair curling over his plaid shirt collar. “Poor baby. You mind if I sit here? Just to make sure he's okay?”
    “Uh...no.”
    “Oh, sweetie,” Peach murmured. “I’m so sorry.” She stroked Sean’s unshaven cheek with the back of her