The Payback Man

How many nights after Jerry died had she slept rolled in a comforter in his old leather recliner, hoping to capture a fleeting scent of the man he had been before he got sick? How many days did she try to remember his face, his smile, the way his laughter crinkled the corners of his eyes?

Since his death no other man had stirred her blood. Her friends told her she was still young, still attractive. She didn’t feel either young or attractive. Until today she’d have sworn that the juices had all dried up. Until today when she’d felt Steve Chadwick’s strong arms around her waist.

Raoul would undoubtedly tell her she was attracted to Steve because he was completely out of her reach and therefore safe. But there was nothing safe about him. It was insane to feel attracted to him. He was a criminal, for God’s sake. A man who had done something dishonorable, and that made him unworthy to be Jerry’s successor.

That sounded priggish even to Eleanor, but it was true. Jerry had been the kindest, the most generous and honorable of men. He had devoted his relatively short life to saving the lives of animals, even though he could have gone to medical school and possibly made a lot more money.

Even more important, after Jerry died she’d sworn never to invest herself so completely again in any man or any relationship. No one should have to endure losing a true love even once, much less twice. She didn’t dare love that way again.

She would devote herself to her goal—saving enough money to buy a decent veterinary partnership. She had enough problems without Steve Chadwick.

Getting even slightly involved with any of the men she worked with would be a fatal error. Whatever crime Steve Chadwick committed probably had to do either with drugs or with money. He could never be considered a love interest.

She’d been wrong not to check her team members out. She did need to know what these men had done to land in prison. If it colored her opinion of them, so be it. She’d discovered that not knowing was much worse than knowing.

“MORNING, EVERYBODY,” Eleanor said with a cheeriness that made her want to throw up. So obviously phony, but then, no matter what she said or did outside of actual work seemed to sound phony. She climbed out of her truck, locked the doors and pocketed the keys, although the only people around were her crew and the new guard.

“Where’s La—uh—Mr. Newman?”

The new CO, a fiftyish woman who could probably have held her own in a fight with Big or Gil, grinned at her. “Mr. Newman is off today. I’m Officer Selma Maddox.” She turned to the men standing in a ragged line behind her. “And I do not want to hear one word about my ass or any other part of my anatomy, you got that?” No response. “I said,” Selma repeated patiently, “you got that?”

Heads nodded.

“Good, we understand each other. Now, Doc, what say we put these lazy bums to work? What you got for ’em to do?”

Eleanor motioned for Selma to follow her as she moved out of earshot. She didn’t want to put Selma on the spot, particularly since, unlike Mike Newman, she seemed to be a reasonable person.

“The painting crew should be here any minute,” Eleanor told her. “They have their own team leader, and I’ve already discussed with him what they need to do. I have a suspicion you don’t want my guys spreading out to check fence lines alone, do you?”

Selma laughed. “This may be minimum security, but it’s still a prison. Outside the compound the fences are intended only to keep the herd animals we’re going to be raising in separate pastures. Four-foot-high barbed wire will not keep your average inmate from climbing over and taking off. Then we have to go after them with bloodhounds. The bloodhounds enjoy it, but I don’t.”

“I take it that’s a no?”

“Right.”

“Okay, so we’ll put them to work helping the painters. They can start painting the one-by-six pine boards for the stall enclosures—they’re easier to paint flat before they’re nailed up. Tomorrow we can go do the fence lines as a group. I doubt anyone but Slow Rise knows how to tension a wire fence, so he can teach the others. It’ll be slow going, but we’ll get it done.” She leaned against the building. “Will you be back tomorrow?”

Selma snickered. “Maybe. I think Mike Newman is angling for a cushy job indoors. He’s not much into the great outdoors, ’specially when it’s still so warm.”

“I’ll ask the warden if we can keep you. You seem pretty relaxed around the men. They don’t tense up around you the way they did with Newman.”

“That’s because even the nastiest con usually has a soft spot for his mother. In some cases I can’t understand why they would, but they do. Anyway, that’s how they see me. I have kids and grandkids, and I try to keep my temper. But a couple of them already know I can come down on them hard if I have to.”

Eleanor raised her eyes as a truck labored up the rise toward the barn. In the back were a dozen prisoners. “The painters have arrived. Let’s get started.”

She walked back to her own team and told them what they’d be doing. She met the painters’ team leader, asked him to give her guys paint and brushes, and followed them to the piles of wood.

She knew immediately that something was wrong with Steve. He moved like an old man, carefully keeping his torso erect and shuffling his feet slowly, keeping his knees straight with obvious effort. She started to say something to him, then shut her mouth. She watched the men set up makeshift sawhorses and saw him bend to pick up one end of the first board.

He nearly fell on his face. Slow Rise caught the end of the board, hefted it easily and put a hand in the center of Steve’s back to help him straighten up. Something was very wrong, but the men apparently didn’t want anyone to know.

She went back to her truck, unlocked it, picked up her laptop computer and carried it back with her.

“Hey, Chadwick,” she called.

He turned pained eyes her way.

She’d better make this good. “You know anything about computers?”

He nodded.

“Good, then I’ve got some extra work for you. The rest of you keep on with what you’re doing. Chadwick, let’s go into the office.”

She turned on her heel and marched away through the barn as though oblivious to anything behind her.

The government-issue steel desk, two desk chairs, a table and a couple of file cabinets sat in a jumble in the middle of what would eventually be the cattle-operation office. An equally utilitarian steel credenza sat against the wall beside the door. She walked in, waited for Steve to pass her, then shut the door and set the computer on the credenza.

“Can you sit?”

“I’m not supposed to sit unless you do.”

“That wasn’t my question. Can you sit?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course you do. How badly are you hurt?”

The lines around his mouth tightened, his jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed. “I’m not hurt.”

“Bull. Turn around.”

He didn’t move.

“I said, turn around.”

“Against the rules to be alone without a guard and the door closed.”

“Then we’ll leave the door ajar.” She opened the door a dozen inches and called to Selma, “This shouldn’t take but a couple of minutes. Okay with you?”

“Whatever,” Selma replied. “It’s your show, Doc, within limits.”

“Thanks. Now,” she said to Steve, “do as I asked, please.”

He turned around carefully.

“Assume the position if you can. Hands flat on the desk.”

He managed not to groan, but she heard the sharp intake of breath. She hadn’t wanted to ask him to do that, but it was the only way she knew to make certain he wouldn’t interfere with her examination.