Page 5 of Shadow Dance (Buchanan-Renard 6)

  “Yes,” Jordan said, nodding so the waitress wouldn’t feel the need to explain what a whore was.

  Angela thrust her hip out and leaned against the table. She kept her voice low. “It’s also a firetrap if you ask me.” She darted a quick look to her left and then her right to make sure no one had crept into the empty restaurant to eavesdrop, then said, “It should have been torn down years ago, but J. D. Dickey runs the place, and no one dares mess with him. I think he runs some of the whores too, if you ask me. J. D. is a real scary one, all right. He’s got a mean streak a mile wide.”

  Angela was a wealth of information and wasn’t the least bit shy about telling everything she knew. Jordan was fascinated. She almost envied Angela’s openness and friendly candor. Jordan was the complete opposite. She kept things bottled up. Bet Angela can sleep at night, she thought. Jordan hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in over a year. Her mind was always racing, and there were nights when she paced the floor of her apartment while she worried about one problem or another. In the morning light, none of those worries seemed all that important, but in the middle of the night, they became monumental.

  “Why hasn’t the fire department or the police closed the motel? If it’s a fire hazard…” Jordan wondered aloud.

  “Oh, yes, it is.”

  “And prostitution is illegal in Texas…”

  “Yes, it is,” she agreed again before Jordan could continue. “But that doesn’t matter much. You don’t understand how things are around here. What we have is a different county on each side of Parson’s Creek, and they’re run as different as night and day. Right this minute you’re sitting in Grady County, but the sheriff in charge of Jessup County is one of those folks who thinks he can turn a blind eye to what’s going on. You get my drift? Live and let live. That’s his motto. If you ask me, he’s afraid to go up against J. D., and you know why? I’ll tell you why. The sheriff of Jessup County is J. D.’s brother. That’s right. His brother. Isn’t that something?”

  Jordan nodded. “What about you? Are you afraid of this man?”

  “Honey, anyone with a lick of sense would know to be afraid.”

  J. D. DICKEY WAS THE TOWN BULLY. HE HAD A NATURAL TALENT: he didn’t have to work hard at all to get people to hate him. Building his reputation as a badass was a job he thoroughly enjoyed, and he knew for a certainty that he’d accomplished his goal when he strolled down the main street of Serenity and people hurried out of his way. Their expressions said it all. They were afraid of him, and in J. D.’s mind, fear meant power. His power.

  J. D.’s full name was Julius Delbert Dickey Jr. He didn’t much care for the name though, thought it was too girly-sounding for the tough-as-iron image he was going after, and so, while he was still in high school, he began to train the residents of his hometown to call him by his initials. Those few who resisted were subjected to his special, though unsophisticated, form of behavior modification. He beat the daylights out of them.

  There were two Dickey brothers, and both of them grew up in Serenity. J. D. was firstborn. Randall Cleatus Dickey came along two years later.

  The Dickey boys hadn’t seen their father in over ten years. A federal prison in Kansas was providing the Senior’s room and board for twenty-five to life for an armed robbery that, as he explained to the sentencing judge, had just gone bad. Looking back, he told the judge, he realized he probably shouldn’t have shot that nosy guard after all. The man was only doing his job.

  The boys’ mother, Sela, stayed around until J. D. and Randy graduated from high school. Then she decided she had had enough of motherhood. Tired and worn as thin as a broomstick trying to keep her rambunctious sons out of trouble, and failing miserably at the job, she packed her clothes and snuck out of town in the middle of the night. The boys figured she wouldn’t be coming back anytime soon because she took with her all of her large cans of Extra Super Hold Aqua Net hairspray. Their mother’s hair grooming products were her only luxury, and she always kept at least five or six cans on hand.

  They didn’t miss her or her chronic complaining about having to do without, and since J. D. was pretty much running things anyway, life didn’t change much after she left. They had been dirt poor growing up, and they were still dirt poor, but J. D. was determined to change that. He had big plans, but his plans required money. Lots of money. He wanted to own a ranch. He had his eye on a nice little piece of land located just thirty miles west of town. The land was small by most Texans’ measure at just over five hundred acres, but J. D. figured that once he was firmly established as a gentleman rancher, he’d be able to gobble up all the land around him. The ranch he meant to have was prime land with several good watering holes for the cattle he was going to buy as soon as he figured out a good way to get his hands on some money. There was a nice fishing lake too, and brother Randy loved to fish.

  Yes sir, he was going to become a cowboy. He felt like he was already halfway there. He owned the boots and the hat, and he’d worked on a ranch two full summers in a row while he was in high school. The pay stunk. The experience was invaluable.

  J. D.’s dream was put on hold for five years with good behavior. He’d killed a man in a bar fight and got five years for manslaughter. There were extenuating circumstances. According to witnesses, the stranger had started the fight and had gotten in some pretty good cuts with his switchblade before J. D. knocked him out. He hadn’t set out to take the man’s life, but he punched him hard, and as bad luck would have it, the stranger struck his head on his way down.

  J. D. boasted to his brother that he would have gotten more time behind bars if he hadn’t given each one of the jurors the evil eye as he was leaving the courtroom.

  Randy’s take on the incident was different. In fact, his brother’s incarceration opened his eyes, and he saw for the first time that the real power was on the side of the law. So, while J. D. was serving his sentence, Randy was changing into a law-abiding citizen, and within a few short years he managed to influence enough people to get himself elected sheriff of Jessup County.

  J. D. couldn’t have been happier for his brother. Randy’s new title and his new status in the community were achievements to celebrate. After all, having a sheriff in the family could come in real handy.

  JORDAN CHECKED INTO THE HOME AWAY FROM HOME MOTEL and was given a spacious room in the back of the courtyard. The door had solid double locks. The room was square shaped and clean. A king-sized bed faced the door and a desk and two chairs sat against the wall facing the window. No laptop hookup or Internet access, she noticed, but she could do without for one night.

  Angela’s friend, Amelia Ann, made her feel like an honored guest. She brought her extra little soaps and fluffy towels fresh out of her dryer.

  After Jordan unpacked, she stripped out of her clothes and took a nice, cool shower. She washed and dried her hair, put on a skirt and blouse, and had just enough time to head back to The Branding Iron. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten dinner at six, but since she hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast, she was actually hungry.

  Dinner was unforgettable…but not in a good way. As it turned out, Professor MacKenna was quite an appetite suppressant.

  Though it was just six o’clock, the parking lot of The Branding Iron was full. A waitress met her at the door and showed her to a booth tucked way in the back dining room.

  “We have better tables, but the guy you’re meeting wanted privacy. I’ll show you where he is. Stay away from the fish tonight. It smells funny,” she whispered as she led the way. “I’ll be serving you,” she added with a smile.

  Professor MacKenna didn’t stand when Jordan reached the table, didn’t even bother to nod as she took her seat across from him. His mouth was stuffed with bread, and he should have waited until after he had swallowed to speak to her, but he didn’t. He talked around a wad of bread the size of a golf ball that was half in and half out of his mouth.

  “You’re late,” he said, his voice garbled by food.

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  Since it was only a few minutes past the hour, she didn’t feel the need to apologize or respond to his ridiculous criticism. She picked up a linen napkin, unfolded it, and placed it in her lap. His napkin was still on the table, she noticed. Jordan tried desperately not to look at his mouth while he chewed. Had he not been so vulgar, he would have been comical.

  The urge to bolt almost overtook her. What in God’s name was she doing here? Hadn’t she been perfectly happy and content before the conversation she’d had with Noah at the wedding reception? Now look at her. Having dinner with Professor Uncouth. Lovely, she thought. What a lovely adventure.

  Okay, new plan, she told herself. Get through this dinner as quickly and as painlessly as possible, get the research papers, and leave.

  “I’ve already ordered my dinner,” he said. “Have a look over the menu and pick something.”

  She opened her menu, ordered the first item that caught her eye, a spicy chicken dish, and sparkling water. The waitress brought her her drink, gave her a sympathetic look with a meaningful glance toward the professor, and hurried to another table, pretending not to notice that he was waving an empty breadbasket at her.

  Jordan waited until his mouth was empty before speaking. “As a history professor,” she began, “surely you know the Buchanan clan couldn’t be all bad. Over the centuries I’m sure there…” She stopped talking when he vigorously shook his head. Then she asked, “You really believe they were all horrible men?”

  “I do. They were despicable.”

  “Give me an example of something despicable the Buchanans did to the sainted MacKennas,” she challenged.

  His behavior and his attitude changed the second he started talking about his research. Thankfully, he wasn’t chewing when he began his history lesson…his one-sided, slanted history lesson.

  “In 1784 the magnificent Laird Ross MacKenna sent his only daughter, Freya, to the clan Mitchell. She was pledged to marry the Laird Mitchell’s oldest son, who everyone knew would become laird just as soon as his esteemed father passed on. According to my documents, there was a terrible attack en route to the Mitchell holding.”

  “The Buchanans attacked?” Jordan asked.

  He shook his head. “No, not the Buchanans. It was the clan MacDonald who attacked. The Laird MacDonald was against the alliance between the MacKennas and the Mitchells because he believed it would make them too powerful. The ambush occurred on the bank of the great loch, and in the skirmish, the fair lass, Freya, fell in.”

  He waited for her to acknowledge what he’d told her, and so she nodded. “Did she drown?” she asked, wondering how he would pin her death on the Buchanans.

  “No, and it was written that she could swim, but the rain began, and the loch was stirred into a frenzy. Suddenly there was a great shout, and one of the MacKennas looked across the loch just in time to see a Buchanan warrior pull Freya out of the water. The lass was still alive, for her arms were flailing.”

  “Then that is a good story about the Buchanans,” she pointed out. “You’ve just told me that a Buchanan warrior saved the woman’s life.”

  The professor’s eyebrows lowered. “The lass Freya was never heard of or seen again.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “The Buchanan took her. That’s what happened. He saw her, he wanted her, and he took her.”

  She thought the professor expected her to be shocked, and she knew he wouldn’t appreciate her laughter. “Was there only one witness to this…kidnapping?”

  “One reliable witness.”

  “A MacKenna.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you must agree that the story might have been exaggerated so that the Buchanans would be held responsible.” Before he could argue with her conclusion, she asked, “Can you give me another example…with documented proof?”

  “I’ll be happy to,” he said.

  Unfortunately, his salad arrived, and he began his story while digging into his plate. Jordan looked down at the table so she wouldn’t have to watch.

  He stabbed at his lettuce as he said, “Look in your history books, and you’ll read that in 1691, King William III ordered all the clan chiefs to sign a loyalty oath by January 1, 1692.

  “The MacKennas were the most honored and respected clan in all of Scotland. William MacKenna, as head of the MacKenna clan, headed for Inverary in November with a band of clansmen to sign it. On the way he was met by a messenger who told him that the king was making changes to the oath and that they were to return home until they received word. When they arrived back at their holding, they discovered their livestock had been scattered, and many of their buildings had been set afire. By the time they were able to establish order again, the deadline had come and gone.

  “It was then that they learned that the messenger had been a liar and not from the king at all. The loyalty oath had not been postponed.”

  He gave her another one of his glowering glares. Uh-oh. She knew where this story was heading.

  “And?” she prodded. “What happened then?”

  “I’ll tell you what happened.” He dropped his fork and leaned forward. “King William was furious with the MacKennas for disobeying his order. As punishment he made the MacKennas pay a heavy toll and relinquish a good portion of their land. Worse, they fell out of favor with the monarchy for decades to come.” Nodding, he picked up his fork and stabbed a tomato wedge. “There’s no doubt who sent the messenger and who wreaked havoc on the MacKennas.”

  “Let me guess. The Buchanans?”

  “That’s right, dearie. The despicable Buchanans.”

  He’d raised his voice and nearly shouted “despicable Buchanans” at her. Other diners in the restaurant were watching and listening. Jordan didn’t care if he wanted to make a scene. She’d keep up.

  “Was there actual proof that the Buchanans sent the messenger or attacked the MacKenna lands?”

  “There was no proof needed,” he snapped.

  “Without actual documented proof, this is all hearsay and fairy tale.”

  “The Buchanans were the only clan underhanded enough to want to discredit the revered MacKennas.”

  “So says a MacKenna. Did it ever occur to you that maybe the story’s been reversed, and the Buchanans had at some point been attacked by the MacKennas?”

  The wicked look on his face told her she’d punched all of his buttons. His fist hit the table. “I know my facts. Don’t forget, the Buchanans started it all. It was they who stole the MacKenna treasure.”

  “Exactly what was this treasure?” Jordan asked. This was the subject that had piqued her interest in the first place.

  “Something very valuable and that rightfully belonged to the MacKennas,” he answered. Suddenly he sat upright in his chair and scowled. “That’s what you’re really after, isn’t it? You think you’ll discover the treasure…maybe even find it for yourself. Well, I can assure you the centuries have hidden it well, and if I haven’t discovered it, you certainly won’t be able to stumble upon it. All of the atrocities committed by the Buchanans over the generations have obscured the origin of the feud. It’s likely that no one will ever find it.”

  She didn’t know why she was letting him get her all riled up, but she was suddenly determined to defend her family name. “Do you know the difference between fact and fantasy, Professor?”

  Their conversation became more heated. The two of them barely managed to keep their voices below a shout, even though Jordan did get a little carried away with a few choice names for his clan.

  All conversation ceased as soon as dinner arrived. Jordan couldn’t believe the huge hunk of nearly raw meat that was placed in front of the professor. Next to it was a giant baked potato fully loaded. Her little chicken dish looked like a child’s portion in comparison. The professor’s head went down, and he didn’t come up for air again until he had devoured every bite. There wasn’t a piece of gristle or fat left on his plate.

  “Would you like more bread?” she

asked calmly.

  In answer he shoved the bread basket at her. She was able to get the waitress’s attention and politely requested more. From the waitress’s wary expression, Jordan assumed she’d witnessed the argument, and she smiled to assure the woman that all was well.

  “You have a great passion for your work,” Jordan complimented. She decided that if she didn’t start humoring him, he might leave without letting her see his research, and the trip would be completely wasted.

  “And you admire my dedication,” he answered and then launched into another tale about the dastardly Buchanans. He stopped long enough to order dessert, and by the time it arrived, he’d worked his way back to the fourteenth century.

  Everything in Texas was big, including food. She stared at the top of the professor’s head as he devoted himself to inhaling every bite of the huge wedge of apple pie with two scoops of vanilla ice cream.

  A waiter dropped a glass. The professor looked around and noticed how crowded the room was becoming. He seemed to shrivel up in the booth as he kept a close eye on who was coming and going.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “I don’t like crowds.”

  He took a sip of his coffee and said, “I’ve stored some data on a flash drive. It’s in one of the boxes for Isabel. Do you know what a flash drive is?”

  Before she could answer, he said, “All Isabel has to do is slip the flash drive into her computer. It’s like a disk, and it can store volumes of data.”

  His condescending tone irritated her to no end. “I’ll make sure she gets it,” she said.

  He told her the price of the flash drive and said, “I assume you or Miss MacKenna will reimburse me.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “Now?” He pulled a receipt from his pocket and stared expectantly at her, obviously wanting payment right this minute, and so she got the money from her billfold and handed it to him. He wasn’t the trusting sort. He counted the money before tucking it into his wallet.