Page 51 of Double Bucked

Hmm.

Ransom gets back in his shitty vehicle and gets out of the way. The limo winds around the fountain and creeps up to the front of the house.

The back door opens. A silver-haired man steps out of the limo. He drops his black hat to his chest.

“I’m sorry we’re late,” he says. “I had to get you these.”

He procures a bouquet of flowers, extending them toward Claire.

Claire does something unexpected. Her expression goes soft. Gentle as a duckling, she bypasses the flowers and folds herself into his arms, cuddling against his chest.

“Arris,” she says, her voice like a prayer.

Arris Dagney sits across from us in the limo. It’s a small, square space, and it’s hard to keep our knees from knocking together. We cross the train tracks to get to the church grounds, and the roads make a swift shift from smooth, paved asphalt to bumpy, uneven ground. Arris clutches the handhold above the window and presses his mouth into a tight, we’re not in Kansas anymore smile.

Here is what I’ve surmised from Arris Dagney:

He looks to be in his forties, but my guess would be late fifties. The oil-black of his hair suggests he’s been dying it ever since the grays started coming in, and the lack of wrinkles around his eyes makes me think he’s had some work done. Appearance is important to him, and the cut and fabric of his black suit suggests he’s paid a pretty penny to keep appearances up.

The collar of his shirt is fitted with little silver triangles, and he wears horseshoe-shaped silver cufflinks.

He owns and runs the Equestrian Club, and he’s a founding member of the Benefactors’ Society. He befriended Mr. Preacher over thirty years ago and has been working with him ever since as his bloodstock agent, organizing and coordinating the sales made from breeding the Preacher horses. His close relation with Mr. Preacher made him something of a second father to Claire, hence her soft affection for him.

I also recognize his face, but I don’t know from where, and being unable to place it is driving me crazy.

Not-knowing is my least favorite state of being.

Arris tightens his hold on the grip handle and leans forward. His leg touches mine, and I force myself to allow it. His eyes are deep blue, and they fix on me.

“What’s the score?” he asks.

“I’m sorry?”

He taps his ear, motioning to the earbud in my ear. “Are you listening to the game?”

“No. Mozart.”

He smiles. His teeth are perfect. “I don’t know how they do it in the UK, but here, it’s a touch rude to be all wired in when you’re with people.”

His tone is collected, but there’s an undercurrent of threat running through it.

The worst thing you can be in Belleflower, I’ve come to learn, is rude.

Claire’s hand slides over my thigh, settling at my knee. She gives a small squeeze. “James gets sensory overload,” she explains. “He focuses better when there’s white noise. This is him being polite.”

Arris cocks his head. A mea culpa. “Ah. That makes more sense. Here, I thought maybe you were a spy. Relaying your every move to your team.”

I laugh. It’s a tight sound in my throat. He laughs in turn.

I don’t like this man very much.

The limo pulls up to a narrow, white church with a thin, pointed spire that looks as though God himself pinched the building between his thumb and forefinger and gave it a sturdy tug.

A ramp zigzags the front of the church, and people dressed in black somberly walk in. A gravel lot flanks the church, and I see Ransom’s red truck in there. He’s in the bed of his truck, unfolding a wheelchair. He pulls it out, climbs down, and assists an older man into the chair.

Of course he helps the infirm.

Annoying, bleeding heart.

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