Whisper a Warning Read online

  In the barn, she had heard him gently reassuring the cow, his voice low and soft. She had seen his caring actions and touch, and her mind had begun working overtime, creating fantasies that were wreaking havoc with her self-control. And now she had gone and kissed him.

  She had the grace to blush as she drove the rest of the way into town.

  Chapter Eight

  After dropping Rockford off in town, Willow drove back to her cottage on the farm to shower and change her clothes. Despite her defiant gesture to prove a point to “Righteous Rockford,” as she had already dubbed him, she didn’t enjoy having barn dirt on her work clothes.

  She got cleaned up quickly, deciding to cancel or rearrange her real estate plans for the rest of the day. She pulled on jeans, boots, and a sweatshirt and headed out for the barn to find Maggie.

  She found her practically upside down, her head and arms hidden as she bent over to investigate the inside of a large feed barrel.

  “Is this an ostrich imitation, Mag?” She laughed, peering into the barrel at her friend.

  “There it is!” the older woman exclaimed, stretching back out of the barrel and standing up straight. “There’s a tiny mouse hole way down by the bottom. I couldn’t locate it from the outside. But from the inside, I saw the daylight come through. I’ve got to patch it to keep the critters away from the feed.”

  “What a detective. You sound like Columbo.”

  “Just get me a raincoat. . . . Now what brings you around here in the middle of the day? Run out of houses to sell?”

  Willow explained the problem with the Burdetts. Maggie’s brow was creased as she listened.

  “Doesn’t sound like the Burdetts, going off and all, selling quick like that. I have a feeling you’re right. Something’s going on. Have you gone to the police?”

  “I’m on my way. But they’re going to tell me it’s too early to consider them missing persons . . . they don’t care much about milking schedules, according to this city-type attorney I talked to. Supposedly you have to wait two days.”

  “Tell that to the cows. Listen, I’ll take the trailer over and pick up the livestock if they’re not back by dinnertime. We can take care of things here. And I’ll leave a note so if they had an emergency, and then came home, they’ll know where everybody is. I think they’d approve of that.”

  Willow’s face showed how grateful she was. “I’m going to try to find them. They couldn’t have just disappeared.”

  Maggie nodded. “Just take that city-slicker lawman with you, Willow, to keep you safe.”

  The thought made Maggie laugh. She pictured the Italian silk suit, and the fancy leather shoes. “I’m not exactly sure how much of a Columbo he would be—he looks a bit. . . stiff.”

  Maggie looked back at her with wise eyes. “He milked a cow, right? He got the job done. Can’t ask for more than that. People can’t help what they are, what they come from. It’s what they do that counts. Didn’t anybody ever tell you not to judge a book by its cover? People can surprise you, really surprise you, if you give them a chance.”

  Willow looked thoughtful.

  “Call me,” Maggie added as she headed out the door, “if you don’t want me to pick up the stock at the Burdetts. If I don’t hear from you, I’m heading over at 5:00 P.M., SO I can be back for the evening lessons. The blind kids can learn how to milk a cow. Now that should be a challenge.”

  The mental picture made Willow smile. Maggie would do it, too, proving once again to handicapped kids that they could rise above their limitations.

  She sped out the door to face her own challenges.

  The police were overworked and not overly excited about her request. Probably more because they wanted to be polite, a patient officer took down the information that Willow provided.

  “In a couple of days we’ll look into it if they don’t show up. Missing apple pies are simply not evidence of foul play.” He was distant but courteous, reciting the rules.

  Willow grimaced at his words. She was disappointed, but glad she had made the report. It was going to be up to her, if she didn’t want to wait for police help. She drove back up to the farm, and spent several hours searching for anything that might lead to the Burdetts. She was tired and frustrated by the time Maggie’s truck and trailer lumbered up the drive.

  She helped load the large animals onto the truck, then together they captured the chickens and put them in wire carrying cases. Maggie posted a note to the Burdetts, tacking it to a prominent post in the barn where it couldn’t be missed.

  Willow followed the truck back to the farm, settled the animals, and then joined Maggie in the lesson for the blind. The first several minutes were spent explaining the intricacies of milking, followed by a hilarious but wholehearted attempt by the children to milk the cows.

  When they were done, they had two contented cows, several proud children, and a very wet Willow. Once more she returned to the cottage to shower and change.

  She was tired when she crawled into her bed that night, still worried about the Burdetts, but knowing that their beloved stock was well settled in the back of Maggie’s barn.

  Her sleep was broken and unsettled, with recurrent dreams about a tall dark lawyer whose eyes reached right into her soul, and whose touch made her wild with longing.

  After his coerced lesson in cow milking, Rockford had returned home to the apartment he shared with George. The clothes, he decided, were casualties of the day, but expendable. He smiled as he climbed into a clean sweat suit and laced up his sneakers. He had milked a cow. Incredible. Peter would have been proud.

  He thought about Peter a lot these days, probably more than he ever had. But instead of just focusing on Peter’s death, he had begun to focus on Peter’s life. “The principle of the thing,” as his buddy had often said. He saved the cow, and ruined his suit. He shoved the rumpled ball of imported silk into the kitchen trash can, just as George came bounding in the door.

  “What’s that?” she said, quickly grabbing the wrinkled suit from the can. “Throwing it away? We’ll recycle it.” She stuffed it into a yellow shopping bag in the corner of the kitchen, suddenly sniffing the air. “It smells kind of. . . farmy in here.”

  So he told her the story, and got it over with. He knew she’d laugh, and he was proven right. She giggled, she chortled, she guffawed. He wanted to strangle her, but he kept up his narrative until the end. It was harder than any jury he had ever addressed.

  George had recognized the flamboyant Willow from her brother’s description, but she followed a flash of instinct and didn’t let on that she knew her as she listened to his tale.

  Aside from the comical moments of imagining her staid brother with his head in a trash can, investigating apple peels, and perching on a rickety milking stool filling a dented bucket with determination, George seemed to pick up on Willow’s concern for the Burdetts right away.

  “So the animals will be cared for? And the police will be notified of the couple’s absence? I must say I agree with your young friend that something out of the usual has occurred here.”

  “Why do you women jump to these conclusions? The real estate papers all looked in order. I can’t help but wonder if the couple just decided to sell the farm, stock and all, and took off for a new life. It’s a lot of money, you know. But Willow says the same as you. She’s making arrangements for the animals, and she said she’d report things to the police.”

  “And I’m sure she will. She sounds like the kind of person who gets things done.”

  George smiled brightly then, seemingly changing the subject.

  “I have a project for you. I need your help. We’re establishing a fund for resources for the local AIDS home. It’s a way that you can get involved in the community, Rockford, with all those big bucks of yours. Will you help fund it?”

  Rockford laughed. “You’re always up to some crazy project or another, Georgina. If I remember correctly, you gave a startling portion of your inheritance to build a hospital on an
Indian reservation in New Mexico several years ago.”

  “It’s a wonderful facility. Efficient and full of heart.”

  “Then there was the estate you purchased for abused women. . . .”

  “Still going strong. But that was Peter’s idea, really.”

  Rockford froze. “Peter?”

  “Of course. It was his way of coming to grips with his past. You remember his lovely mom, who struggled so hard to bring him up on her own? He remembered the early days when his father had been around, taking out his frustrations on his family. He wanted to help other people who had to go through something like that. So I helped him. Didn’t you know?”

  “No . . . I didn’t.”

  “Too busy off making money, and wining and dining in those posh New York clubs, I suppose. Maybe he thought you’d laugh at him. He didn’t have money, but he had brains and he had heart. He set things up, and I helped with the funds. He wanted to make a difference. So he did.”

  It was simple, really, if you thought of it. Rockford felt the guilt rumbling in him, building like an intense inferno. People like Peter and George spent their time and their fortunes caring about others, and he spent his . . . on himself.

  “Feeling guilty?” George’s tinkling laugh was full of love and felt like welcomed water on a raging fire. “It’s just that I need you, Rockford. I’ve exhausted my own resources, and Peter. . . well, his memory will live on, but his energy is greatly missed. What do you say?”

  “As usual, my petite but powerful sibling, your arrow has found its mark. You have a way of making me look full tilt into the mirror, not unlike the kind of self-appraisal that Peter demanded. You make me feel like a heel, then you applaud me for my potential.” He marched across the room and picked up his tiny sister, holding her in the air.

  “Your nagging little ways are making progress, Georgina. I will stop at the bank tomorrow and give money to your trust. Fifty thousand dollars will be a small price to pay to get you off my back.”

  He kissed her on the top of the head, and then lowered her to the ground. “I’ve been surrounded by bossing, demanding females all day, it seems. First there’s Prudence in the office, then the world-conquering Willow, and last but certainly not least, an aggravating angel named Georgina who picks things out of the trash, and tells me things about my best friend that even I didn’t know. I’m going for a good jog to forget the lot of you.” He laughed.

  “Good. Get in shape. We need you to have plenty of strength to fight all the battles we have lined up for you.”

  He got serious for a minute, looking like a black cloud had passed over him. “I’m not good at fighting battles, George. I’ve never been committed to anything except making money. You know that. Don’t expect more of me than I am.”

  “Don’t worry, brother,” George said to the door after he had left for his run, “I know exactly what you are, even if you don’t know. You’ll find yourself yet, Rockford Farquahar Harrison III, if I have anything to say about it!”

  Maybe with Willow’s help too, she thought with a smile. After all, anyone who could cajole the big bad lawyer to milk a cow had many talents and abilities! George felt happy and optimistic as she planned the next activities of her day.

  Chapter Nine

  Patience was a virtue that Willow knew she didn’t possess. It was the hardest thing in the world for her to wait. . . so the next day dragged on endlessly. It was raining and dreary, and the real estate office was quiet. Gail busily and cheerfully typed at her desk, and Willow spent the time updating files and writing ad copy for her listings.

  She was biding time until the elusive Mr. Blank returned to his law office. She had even called the ever-delightful Prudence and had scheduled an official appointment with the man for tomorrow when he returned. She hoped that he could shed some light on what had gone on with the Burdetts. Early in the morning, she had returned to the farm, but had seen no sign that anyone had even been there since she and Maggie had rescued the animals.

  Charley Morse had wanted a quick and immediate sale, but there was no sign of activity to indicate why. Possessed with a good dose of curiosity and an imagination that was so well developed that it often got her into trouble, she still couldn’t come up with a scenario to explain what had happened. So she waited. Impatiently. Because she couldn’t think of a single other thing to do until she talked to Porter Blank.

  Taking a break from her paperwork, she was in the process of making coffee when the phone rang.

  “Willow,” whispered Gail, who had picked up the phone, “it’s for you. It’s the police.”

  Willow darted back to her desk.

  “This is Willow Blake. How can I help you?”

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Blake. This is Detective Dunn from the police. We spoke yesterday concerning the Burdetts.”

  Willow’s heart was hammering. “Yes? Did you find them? Did something happen?”

  “We haven’t found them, I’m sorry to say. But we are taking your concern seriously at this point. Their empty truck was found early this morning. It had evidently crashed and was stuck in a ditch, about twenty miles from town. The tow truck is bringing it in.”

  “Oh, no, was there any sign of them?’’

  “None at all. The truck was empty except for some trash. We are pretty sure it was stolen, so we’re going to dust it for prints and evidence samples. I thought you ought to know. We’re pursuing the couple’s disappearance.”

  “You should have listened to me yesterday,” she complained, her worry showing in her voice. “Those two poor old people have been in trouble for over twenty-four hours. We have to find them.”

  “I was just following missing persons regulations, Ms. Blake. And now I’m doing everything I can. I’m calling to ask you to bring down the real estate papers that were delivered to you. We’re going to run an investigation on this Charles Morse.”

  Willow rummaged in her desk for the brown envelope. “Great. I’m on my way.”

  With a few words of instruction to Gail, she gathered up her things, and lunged out the door.

  At least, she attempted to lunge out the door. She collided with a large, moving obstacle who was attempting to walk into the office. Broad shoulders and strong arms caught her before she went off balance.

  “Whoa, Willow,” a deep voice said. “Were you shot out of a cannon? Slow down before you take out an innocent bystander.”

  She raised her head and looked into the dark eyes that had mesmerized her before. “Rockford. I don’t think the word innocent applies here.”

  He laughed, reluctantly letting her go. “Where’s the fire?”

  “No fire. Truck crash.” She filled him in on the details from the police station.

  “Let’s go,” he said, swiveling on his heel, and heading back out the door, with one arm protectively on her elbow.

  It felt good. It felt bad. She had been so happy to see him, so happy to see his intelligent face recording her words, and caring about what was going on. She had felt a strong sense of camaraderie and partnership. She had felt like she was not alone. But then her mind had kicked in, alerting her to the dangers of depending on someone, the foolishness of trusting, and then getting hurt. Her father’s angry face flashed across her mind, leaving pain in its stead.

  She pulled her arm away. Rockford was puzzled by her action, but he tried not to let the hurt show.

  “How about if I drive?” he said instead. “My car is right across the street.”

  “That’s okay,’’ she said automatically, opening the door of the Miata and climbing in before he had a chance to object. “I’d rather drive.”

  He shrugged and folded his body into the little car, while she started the engine and pulled out into the road. Her hands were clenched on the steering wheel, exerting control on the Miata, which had its top up in deference to the rain. I’m not dependent, her mind chanted. I don’t need anybody or anything. I’m in charge of my own life. Slowly, the visions and memories of her father
receded.

  “Kind of touchy, aren’t you, Willow?” She looked over toward him and his eyes looked wise.

  She smiled. “Maybe a bit. Old conditioning. I like to be in control, I guess.”

  “That’s okay. You can trust me, Willow. I won’t try to take control.”

  “Trust isn’t my strong point, counselor.”

  “You have to be careful who you trust, that’s for sure. But trust isn’t so bad.”

  They drove on in silence to the police station. Trust or not, Willow was very aware of the fact that she was glad he was beside her.

  The police station was busy. With phones ringing and voices rising over the din, Willow watched a detective take fingerprints off of the real estate papers. Many were smudged and unreadable, but a few were lifted intact. They took both Willow’s and Rockford’s prints, too, for comparison, since they had both handled the forms. They made photocopies, and gave Willow back the originals. Willow was impressed with their efficiency.

  “The tow with the Burnetts’ truck is here, sir,” a young officer said to Detective Dunn. “They’re pulling it around back.”

  The officer rose to his feet. “I don’t suppose you’d want to come with me.” He was smiling at the eager look on Willow’s face. She looked like a racehorse, straining to win.

  “Come on,” he said, grinning. “Look at the truck.”

  They followed him out the back door of the station. The rain had stopped. An aged flatbed truck had pulled into the lot. The Burnetts’ well-used truck was perched on it, slanted at a strange angle. The driver’s side of the truck has been smashed in, and the front light and panel were squished like an accordion. The whole side of the truck was encrusted in mud.

  The detectives were scurrying around, going over the truck. They pulled out a white take-out food bag, and an empty cardboard coffee cup. Both bore the emblem DAN-CIN’ JOE’S.