Page 118 of Reckoning

Tate tore off a sheet of paper from the pad beside him, picked up the pen, and started writing. “I can see the name of the building. He may or may not recognize you. Do you have family who will help you get to him?”

She pointed to a skinny teenager standing off to the side. “My grandson, Carlton. When the roads get fixed, I can go get him.”

“Yes, ma’am, but in the meantime, Carlton can get that number for you too. You can tell the people who he is, and they may even let you talk to him.”

He gave her the paper and the pipe, then stood to give her a hug before she walked away.

This was the end of the third hour, and as he was watching the woman walking toward him, in his vision, he saw a man walking away from her.

The woman handed him a pocketknife. “This here belonged to my man.” Now Tate saw that man packing a bag and another woman driving up to a house and taking him with her.

“Is this man your husband?” he asked.

“Yes. We only have one car, and I always drive it to work. He liked to fish off the riverbank. I know it took him away. Can you see him?”

Tate took a deep breath. He could already hear the screech she was going to utter, but it had to be said. “Your husband isn’t dead. A woman with pink hair picked him up at your house and they drove away together. The car had Texas tags.”

And like clockwork, she let out an ear-splitting screech. “That’s my sister! He ran away with my sister.”

Tate gave the knife back. She snatched it and dropped it in her purse.

“Thank you. When I find him, I will use it to cut his lying throat.”

Briar was wide-eyed and trying not to laugh, and Tate was trying to get out of her way as she stomped off the gazebo.

He dropped his head and covered his face with his hands.

She leaned down to kiss the side of his cheek. “Let’s go home, love. It’s time to go home.”

Tate called the pilot and told him they were ready to leave. They were walking down the steps hand in hand, then moving across the green to their waiting ride.

Then to Briar’s horror, Mariah came running up behind them, calling Briar’s name. Asking her to wait.

“Holy shit,” Briar said. “Keep walking. I’ll be right behind you.”

He didn’t argue.

Mariah came to a halt, trying to catch her breath enough to talk. “Roger said you’re married!”

Briar smelled the wine on her breath and saw the crazy look in her eyes. She was itching for a fight.

“Yes, and you’re not,” she said, then ran to catch up with Tate. She could still hear Mariah screaming until the sound of the spinning rotors flung the words away.

* * *

Tate slept on her shoulder all the way home, and when the plane landed at the airport, she drove them home and got him as far as the bedroom before he started to fade.

Briar began pulling off his boots, then pulling his shirt off over his head. “You said it aloud. You told them I was your wife. It is my joy. The day was hell on you. You’re never doing anything like this again at this degree. Step out of your jeans, darlin’. I’m running you a bath. You’re not steady enough for a shower. I’ll wash your back and tuck you into bed, and you’ll be your fine, feisty self in the morning. Deal?”

“Deal,” he said, kicked off the rest of his clothes, turned around and kissed her senseless, then crawled into bed and passed out.

“That works too,” she whispered, and kissed the back of his neck and then the scar on his shoulder before pulling up the covers. “Mine to love. Mine to keep. Mine to protect, even when he sleeps.”

Epilogue

Over the next five years, Tate and Briar’s world expanded in both their work and private lives until a larger house became a necessity. They found an old Creole-style mansion in the French Quarter that perfectly suited their needs and turned the little shotgun house from their beginning into his office.

Today, their house was full of noise and much hilarity.