Nobody's Child by Austin Boyd Page B

tomato-tingedgrease from thin lips. “What brings you into town today?” He motioned toward the big plate window, salt-encrusted pickups pulled to the curb amidst mounds of dirty snow. “Did you walk? I didn’t see your truck.”
    She tilted her head in the direction of a plastic sack on the floor. “I walked. Went to the thrift store,” she said with a full mouth, raising one hand over her lips when she spoke. He smiled when she muttered the words behind the shade of her palm. Ian said once that she was the only girl he knew who was embarrassed to talk with her mouth full. He liked that.
    â€œJeans?” he asked. “Man, those things would fit Hoggy Pitts.”
    â€œProbably did, before he lost all that weight. I’m using these to make some new stool seats. Mrs. Harper at the thrift shop said she’d help me sell some in New Martinsville. Granny Apple’s idea.”
    â€œI could use one. The stool, I mean.” His wide smile faded and he leaned halfway over the table in her direction. “We need to talk,” he said, his voice low. “Want a ride home?”
    â€œNow?” she mumbled.
    â€œFinish your meal. We can talk when we drive.” He paused, looking around the room. “I’ve heard some things. Wanted to tell you what’s up.”
    This time Laura Ann raised an eyebrow, her cue that she understood. As children at Boreman Elementary, they had facial codes for sharing thoughts across Mrs. Hawkins’s third grade class. “Uncle Jack?” she asked in a whisper.
    He nodded, looking around the room. Small towns have big ears. “That coyote’s sniffing around, and he’s got your scent.”
    She reached out and touched the top of Ian’s hand. His hand tensed and his grey-blue eyes riveted on hers.
    â€œThank you,” she said, her food ignored for the first time since he set it down. “For watching out for me.”
    Ian sat transfixed, his eyes on her fingers where they rested on the top of his left hand, poised above an empty ring finger.
    His palm turned up in slow motion, the thin hair on the top of his hand sliding under her farm-calloused fingertips. She felt the roughness on the side of his palm as it rotated under her shaking fingers. She dared not withdraw.
    He folded his hand about hers, lifting it barely off the table, then looked up.
    â€œI have one fear, Laura Ann …” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he gathered his breath. Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead, matching the wet film that sprang from her palm.
    She tried to speak, but words didn’t come. He raised his other hand in a gentle “no” to silence her attempt, shaking his head.
    â€œI need to say this. Please. It’s on my mind all the time.”
    She smiled, taking his grip and holding tight. She placed her other hand under his, took a deep breath, and prayed for his next words, her heart pounding in a brutal fury.
    â€œI worry that I won’t be there, Laura Ann. Be there when you really need me.”
    His Adam’s apple bobbed again and he held her hand in a strong grip. “I want to change that.”
    Bright yellow-gold reflected off sheets of hard snow in the bottomland of Middle Island Creek. The glaze shimmered, a mirror reflecting the glare of winter sun. Ian drove slowly on Route 18, but it didn’t matter. Laura Ann was in no rush, anxious to spend every moment listening to his voice. Any crisis seemed manageable when she spent time with him.
    â€œHe’s cunning,” Ian said as he drove, his eyes focused on theroad. “Your uncle reminds me of a poker champ—but he plays people, not cards.”
    Snow obscured soft shoulders and truck-busting drops into deep ditches on each side of the winding country lane. “I pulled the public records before I left my office this morning. Jack made a big campaign contribution to the state commissioner of agriculture