Page 54 of The Sound of Sleighbells

A dry, stinging wind had sprung up, chilling Judd through his jacket as he walked out to the car and drove home. Maybe Ruth had the right idea. If she couldn’t forgive him for that night sixteen years ago, it might be better to part company after the parade. Wanting what he couldn’t have was getting harder every day.

* * *

As Ruth checked the oven, she heard Judd’s car start up and drive away. She sighed, feeling a jab of disappointment. She’d been hoping he’d stay for the meal, at least. Despite her resentment, there was something about Judd’s presence that made her feel warm and safe. It was almost as if having him at her table filled the empty place in her family. She had to forcibly remind herself what his selfish behavior had done to her life.

She knew that Judd wanted to start over. But how could she? How could she force her children into a new family after the last one had turned out to be a nightmare? Skip would be fine. But what about the girls? And what if things didn’t work out? Maybe she could love again. But could she trust again?

“That chicken smells mighty good, Ruth.” Abner had taken his seat at the table. “Isn’t it about done?”

Ruth gave him a smile as she slid the pan out of the oven. “I believe it is. Girls, stop playing with the dog and go wash up. It’s time for our welcome home feast.”

* * *

Digger slipped a two-liter soda bottle, filled with kerosene, out of the left pannier on his bike. The moon was dark, the wind gusty and, at this late hour, Judd Rankin’s workshop was empty. Tonight was as good as conditions were going to get.

It had been generous of Angelo, the dealer who hung out at Rowdy’s Roost, to give him a little weed to sell for a 50-50 share of the profits. It was enough to buy a few essentials like beer, clothes, and food. But selling drugs, even weed, was dangerous for a parolee. Getting caught just once would land him back behind bars.

What Digger really needed was to get his hands on Ed’s cocaine stash, sell it to Angelo, and head for the border. But Ed was demanding a high price—a devastating act of revenge against the man he saw as his romantic rival. Digger had thought long and hard before coming up with a plan. Now he was about to carry it out.

From a cautious distance, he’d watched the old man leave for home in Judd’s car. He’d seen Judd return alone and go back to the workshop, where Ruth’s son and the other two brats were working on the harness for the parade. Several hours later, the kids left, too.

The lights in the high windows of the workshop stayed on until well after midnight. Then they went off as Judd left through the breezeway, locking the door behind him. Moments later, the lights came on in the house. They stayed on for about twenty minutes; then the windows went dark.

Still, Digger kept his distance, his bike silent. He mustn’t make a move until he was sure that Judd was asleep.

His plan was a simple one. The exterior walls of the workshop were made of wood. Splashed with kerosene and ignited with a flame from his lighter, the building would go up like a torch. Saddles, tools and machines, valuable tanned hides, and even the harness the kids had worked on so long and hard, would be nothing but ashes and charred, twisted leather. Judd would be devastated—and out of business for months, if not for good. And if the house were to catch fire, he would be homeless, as well. If that outcome didn’t satisfy Ed, nothing would.

The house had been dark for half an hour. Judd might still be awake, but Digger’s nerves were jumping with impatience. Creeping to within a dozen yards of the house, he picked up a small pebble and tossed it at the bedroom window. It struck with a click, loud enough for Judd to hear if he was awake, but too faint to wake him if he was asleep.

Shrinking back into the deep shadows, Digger held his breath, counting the seconds as he waited. No light. No sign of movement. Nothing. The coast was clear.

His pulse was a pounding hammer in his ears. Digger had broken the law more times than he could count—mostly possession, dealing, and petty theft. But he’d never done anything like this.

Too bad he couldn’t stay around and watch the spectacle. His bike was parked at a safe distance, the pop and roar of its engine out of Judd’s hearing. As soon as the flames caught, Digger would be sprinting across the open fields to the machine that would carry him away. He would show up at the Roost, where he would claim to have been asleep in the storeroom. Plenty of people, including Angelo and his girlfriend, would be willing to give him a solid alibi.

A cold gust blasted his face with grit as he crept closer to the workshop. The wind would spread the fire quickly. But it could also blow out the flame. He would need to stay close long enough to make sure the wood was burning.

A dozen yards, perhaps, separated him from his target. Hands shaking, he unscrewed the lid of the soda bottle. Should he deliver the kerosene at a run, splashing it the length of the building before using his lighter? Or should he soak one spot, making sure the wood was saturated enough to burn hot and spread? Never mind, he’d figure it out.

Clasping the open bottle in one hand, he charged. He was just a few paces from the wall when the security lights flashed on, blinding him. A roof-mounted siren screamed an alarm into the night.

Cursing God and all His angels, Digger dropped the bottle and fled to the cluster of outbuildings that lay north-east of the house. Behind the hay shed, hidden from view, he paused to catch his breath and ease his burning lungs.

He could no longer hear the siren, but the security lights were still on. Taking a quick look around the side of the shed, he could see Judd with a rifle, peering at the ground. Now he’d found the bottle, which was probably covered with telltale fingerprints. There would be tracks, too, leading right to Digger’s hiding place. Time to go.

Keeping to the shadows, he ducked low and headed for the field where tall weeds grew along the ditch banks. On the far side was the spot where he’d left his bike. Crawling much of the way, he reached it, climbed onto the seat, and started the engine. If Judd was following the tracks, he would probably hear the sound and recognize it. But that no longer mattered. The prints on the bottle would be proof enough that he was here.

He hadn’t committed an actual crime, but Judd would never let him on the property again. His pack was still in the bunkhouse. He couldn’t go back for it now. But Angelo would probably give him a place to sleep for a couple of nights. By then, with luck, he would have the money from Ed’s stash, and his troubles would be over.

But what was he going to tell Ed?

With the cold wind blasting his face, Digger drove the back roads, winding among fields and farms as he struggled to come up with a new plan. The guard who brought Ed to the phone wouldn’t be working until tomorrow night. Ed would be expecting the call. But when he asked whether his revenge on Judd had been carried out, there was only one way Digger could get what he so desperately wanted.

He would have to lie.

* * *

On Sunday the children would be home with their families. Judd, who hadn’t slept since the security alarm went off, was up, dressed, and fueled with coffee before first light. He planned to spend the day working on the two remaining saddles—the presentation model and the competition order. They both needed enough work to keep him busy until Christmas, and he couldn’t afford to ship them late. Overdue orders made for unhappy clients, which would hurt his reputation and his business.

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