Chapter 32

When we got home I got a shower first, at Cecelia's insistence, and then under a sudden urge got dressed again and went out to the barn. I had no idea where anyone was, except for Cecelia who was in the bathtub up to her shoulders in bubbles, but when I climbed up to the loft I found Darlia there tapping away on my laptop. It occurred to me that it might not be a bad idea to buy her one, since whenever she's away from our computer at home she uses mine, but that was a decision for later.

"I hate to interrupt," I said, "but I was lookin' for privacy. Would you mind if I just set up here for a while with one of the barn cats?"

"The cats aren't mine – shoot, they're not anybody's. They own this place. But if one will let you hold him, I don't mind. As for privacy ... do you mind if I stay, if I don't jabber?"

"Sure, that's okay."

"Just a couple of questions, then," she said as she saved what she was working on and closed the laptop. "Did you have a bad day?"

"If the kind of stuff I've been through ever becomes just a 'bad day, ' I hope I die." I saw the look on her face and immediately knew I'd let too much out. "I'm sorry, 'Lia – I don't really mean that. Yeah, it was a bad day, one of the worst I've ever had."

"Are you and Mom having problems?"

"No, we're not," I said. "And I while we don't tell you every time we have a disagreement, I promise you this, Weightlifter – if we ever do have problems, we won't hide it from you."

"Okay." She laid the laptop aside, and while I got comfortable with my back against a hay bale, where I could see out the loft door, she hustled down the ladder. In a few minutes she was back, one of the cats draped across her shoulders. "Silly is in a peaceful mood," she said as she laid the cat in my lap. "She'll be good for you."

I reached down and let the cat nuzzle my fingers. She was a gray tabby cat, with darker stripes and a permanent crook near the end of her tail. Her pedigree would draw looks of disgust from the official cat fanciers, and she'd never win a show, but she was what cats are all about – not a hothouse pet, but an independent being who came and went at her own will, and like the rest of the barn cats usually disdained anything Mama and Daddy put out for her to eat. She earned her keep, and kept her belly full, eating the pests that habitually infest barns.

She began pushing her head against my hand, and I pushed back. Most cats like a firm touch when they do that, and Silly was no exception. After a bit I began scratching under her jaw, and she held her head up so I could reach. And when she'd had enough of that, she arranged herself in my lap like a sphinx, with her tail curled around her front paws, and went to sleep while I gently petted her.

I gradually forgot that I was petting a cat, or that I was sitting on a hard wooden floor leaning against a bale of hay. I forgot my daughter sitting against another hay bale just inside my peripheral vision. I forgot the golden green view out the window, and didn't notice the sun and shadows moving with the time. I didn't think of anything in particular, though my mind kept circling back to the encounter with Sam Howell. I couldn't see how I could have done anything else, and yet every time the fight came back to mind I wondered what I could have done differently to prevent it.

After I didn't know how long, but what had to have been hours, I heard my name. I came out of my trance, looked around, and saw Cecelia's head and shoulders poking through the hole in the loft floor. "May I intrude?" she asked.

"Might as well," I said. "I ain't been too good company for myself, an' I know I been real poor company for Darlia."

"That's okay, Dad," she said. "I was here for you, if you needed me, not the other way around."

"An' I'm grateful, 'Lia," I said. I looked back at Cecelia, as she sat on the bale that Darlia was leaning against. She'd changed clothes, and was wearing a long dark skirt with faint gold trim at the hem, a white blouse with elbow length sleeves, and moccasins again. This time I checked, and they were indeed the ones Memphis had made for her. I could see a white ribbon curling over her shoulder, and I knew she'd used it to tie her hair back.

"Do you like what you see?" she said with a slow smile, that old question that neither of us ever tires of.

"I do like what I see. But then anyone who doesn't like what I see is either blind, insane, or just plain dumb."

"In what category would you put Howell?" The lack of an honorific told me just how much she detested the man – even people she dislikes she'll give the respect of Mr. or Mrs. or whatever other title is appropriate.

"All of the above, maybe. But speaking of Howell ... I've told you that you never know which piece of information in an investigation might turn out to be important."