books?"
"Well, I am a stranger. I wasn't going to push it."
"Smart girl. Floyd may not look it, but he's the sort of fellow who can dig in his heels when you try to give him a nudge." Wes's half-smile turned into a frown as he peered through the windshield.
"What is it?" Carly asked, following his gaze. She saw nothing but a small, neat house. Through the front window Carly could make out the flickering blue glow of a television.
"That's my dad's house. It's after nine. He should be in the back by now, getting ready for bed." He glanced her way. "Do you mind if I stop in to check before I take you home?"
"Of course not."
Wes parked in his father's driveway and got out of the truck. As he headed up the walk, Carly debated whether to stay put or to follow him inside. The creepy night sounds outside the truck made up her mind for her. She got out of the truck and hurried up the walk, reaching Wes's side as he knocked on the door.
"It's probably nothing," he murmured as they waited for his father to answer.
But there was only silence.
Muttering a soft oath, Wes tried the door. It rattled uselessly in his hand, locked.
"I thought you people left your doors open around here."
Wes cut his eyes at her. "You've been watching too many 'Andy Griffith Show' reruns." He pulled his keys from his pocket and unlocked the door.
The front door opened directly into a neat, if slightly shabby, living room. An old leather sofa, a large coffee table that looked like it had a few years on it, and a television took up most of the small room, the television casting flickering light on the far wall. But the room was otherwise empty.
A flutter of foreboding bloomed in Carly's belly.
Wes pressed the off button on the television and it went silent. He listened for a moment, then called out, "J.B.?"
A muttered litany of curses answered him, coming from somewhere a few rooms away.
Wes hurried toward the sound, Carly on his heels. He skidded to a stop in the entrance to the kitchen, too fast for Carly to slow her own momentum. She slammed face-first into his back, hard enough that she saw stars before her vision cleared and she got a look at what had brought Wes up short.
A lean, fragile-looking man in his sixties lay in the middle of the kitchen floor, propped up on one elbow amid broken crockery, a shattered salt shaker and a ruptured bag of microwave popcorn, the debris scattered from one end of the kitchen to the other.
"I just wanted some popcorn," the man said.
Chapter Four
His heart in his throat, Wes crouched by his father's side, his gaze moving over J.B.'s thin body in search of injuries. He saw no obvious wounds, no unnaturally-twisted limbs. "Do you hurt anywhere, Daddy?"
J.B. glared up at him, humiliation and rage saturating every inch of his too-thin body. He spoke in a voice raspy and tight with tortured pride. "No, I ain't hurt. Would you just help me get my feet up under me?"
"Let me call Doctor Allen."
"Hell and damnation, boy, I don't need no doctor! I just need to get my feet under me!" J.B.'s gaze shifted beyond him, color rising up his neck and into his cheeks. "Who the blazes are you?"
Wes glanced over his shoulder. Carly stood behind him, her expression shuttered. She stepped forward and held out her hand. "Carly Devlin. I was a friend of your nephew Steve."
J.B. looked at her outstretched hand as if she'd lost her mind. "You ain't from around here, are you?"
Carly laughed softly and crouched next to J.B. "How'd you ever guess that?" She took his good arm. "Let me help you up."
Wes took his father's other arm and helped her get J.B. to his feet. Wes dusted the salt and glass chips from his father's back. "You sure nothing's hurt?"
J.B. shrugged off Wes's hand. "I'm positive. I just tripped over my old bad foot and took a tumble. I couldn't get any traction to get up what with that mess on
"Well, I am a stranger. I wasn't going to push it."
"Smart girl. Floyd may not look it, but he's the sort of fellow who can dig in his heels when you try to give him a nudge." Wes's half-smile turned into a frown as he peered through the windshield.
"What is it?" Carly asked, following his gaze. She saw nothing but a small, neat house. Through the front window Carly could make out the flickering blue glow of a television.
"That's my dad's house. It's after nine. He should be in the back by now, getting ready for bed." He glanced her way. "Do you mind if I stop in to check before I take you home?"
"Of course not."
Wes parked in his father's driveway and got out of the truck. As he headed up the walk, Carly debated whether to stay put or to follow him inside. The creepy night sounds outside the truck made up her mind for her. She got out of the truck and hurried up the walk, reaching Wes's side as he knocked on the door.
"It's probably nothing," he murmured as they waited for his father to answer.
But there was only silence.
Muttering a soft oath, Wes tried the door. It rattled uselessly in his hand, locked.
"I thought you people left your doors open around here."
Wes cut his eyes at her. "You've been watching too many 'Andy Griffith Show' reruns." He pulled his keys from his pocket and unlocked the door.
The front door opened directly into a neat, if slightly shabby, living room. An old leather sofa, a large coffee table that looked like it had a few years on it, and a television took up most of the small room, the television casting flickering light on the far wall. But the room was otherwise empty.
A flutter of foreboding bloomed in Carly's belly.
Wes pressed the off button on the television and it went silent. He listened for a moment, then called out, "J.B.?"
A muttered litany of curses answered him, coming from somewhere a few rooms away.
Wes hurried toward the sound, Carly on his heels. He skidded to a stop in the entrance to the kitchen, too fast for Carly to slow her own momentum. She slammed face-first into his back, hard enough that she saw stars before her vision cleared and she got a look at what had brought Wes up short.
A lean, fragile-looking man in his sixties lay in the middle of the kitchen floor, propped up on one elbow amid broken crockery, a shattered salt shaker and a ruptured bag of microwave popcorn, the debris scattered from one end of the kitchen to the other.
"I just wanted some popcorn," the man said.
Chapter Four
His heart in his throat, Wes crouched by his father's side, his gaze moving over J.B.'s thin body in search of injuries. He saw no obvious wounds, no unnaturally-twisted limbs. "Do you hurt anywhere, Daddy?"
J.B. glared up at him, humiliation and rage saturating every inch of his too-thin body. He spoke in a voice raspy and tight with tortured pride. "No, I ain't hurt. Would you just help me get my feet up under me?"
"Let me call Doctor Allen."
"Hell and damnation, boy, I don't need no doctor! I just need to get my feet under me!" J.B.'s gaze shifted beyond him, color rising up his neck and into his cheeks. "Who the blazes are you?"
Wes glanced over his shoulder. Carly stood behind him, her expression shuttered. She stepped forward and held out her hand. "Carly Devlin. I was a friend of your nephew Steve."
J.B. looked at her outstretched hand as if she'd lost her mind. "You ain't from around here, are you?"
Carly laughed softly and crouched next to J.B. "How'd you ever guess that?" She took his good arm. "Let me help you up."
Wes took his father's other arm and helped her get J.B. to his feet. Wes dusted the salt and glass chips from his father's back. "You sure nothing's hurt?"
J.B. shrugged off Wes's hand. "I'm positive. I just tripped over my old bad foot and took a tumble. I couldn't get any traction to get up what with that mess on
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