Black Hills Bride (11 page)

D
ixie leaned against the metal frame of the garage door, watching a kid about the same age as her stable hands straining against a lug wrench. He was only on the second tire of the lady’s car that was in front of Dixie, and it had been nearly an hour. Time certainly didn’t mean the same thing in Custer as it did in Denver.

A ten-minute lube had obviously never been heard of in these parts. She thought it might be more efficient to take off all four tires and then replace them with the new ones, but she hesitated to suggest it. The kid was the expert, she supposed.

“Problems?” a dry, scratchy voice asked from beside her.

She turned to see John Needleson staring at her. He was smiling, but it was more of a gloating smile than a friendly smile. Suspicion flashed through her mind, and her shoulders tensed.

“Nothing that I can’t handle.”

“That so?”

She stared at him, and he stared back angrily. Suspicion turned to knowledge. He was out-and-out baiting her, perhaps attempting to rail her into accusing him of slashing her tires.

And she wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to tell him she knew everything. Demand the truth from him. What did he have against her?

But a still, small voice tapped her on the shoulder, and she froze, taking deep breaths to relieve the tension in her muscles. Anger wouldn’t win any wars.

Only love could do that.

She didn’t deserve God’s grace. Could she do less for John?
Do unto others…

There was pain behind John’s angry gaze. There was a reason animosity shone from his eyes. She didn’t know the whole story. It was enough to know his need was there. Dixie wanted to point him to the One who could help him deal with his wife’s death.

“I’m glad to see you, John,” she said softly, genuinely. “I want to get to know my neighbors better.”

His breath caught in what sounded like a snort. “Don’t need no
neighbors
intruding.”

She was taken aback, as if slapped. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Well, you are.”

She wanted to point out that he’d been the one to approach her, but the point seemed moot. He didn’t appear to be talking about here and now.

“Are you here in town for supplies?” she asked, trying a different tack.

He grunted in response.

Funny, that he should be at the garage at the exact time she’d come to get her slashed tires repaired. The hair stood up on the back of Dixie’s neck.

“I love riding Victory.” She didn’t know whether she was searching for a compatible subject, or baiting him.

His bushy gray eyebrows rose high on his forehead. There was no missing his astonishment.

“I didn’t know he was only green broke when I bought him.”

His eyes narrowed. “You say you’re riding him?”

She attempted a grimacing smile. “Absolutely.”

He frowned. “Too bad.”

He whirled on his heels and stomped away, muttering under his breath.

He’d sold her the colt on purpose.

Was he trying to harm her? What did he have to gain?

She strained to remember their short, one-sided conversation. What had he said about intruding neighbors? Is that how he felt about her?

Even grouchy neighbors didn’t slash tires. John Needleson was definitely an enigma. One she meant to solve, with God’s help.

And Erik’s blissful ignorance of the entire situation. This was definitely, Dixie thought, one situation where what he
didn’t
know wouldn’t hurt him.

“It wasn’t Ellis,” Erik explained as they drove back to the retreat, four new truck tires tossed into the bed of his pickup.

His anger still simmered just below the surface, so he carefully tread on the words he spoke.

“How do you know?” snapped Dixie, pressing her fingers against her temples. “I’m getting a headache.”

“Thinking too hard?” he teased, then, with effort pinched his lips into a straight line when she glared at him.

Even when he was furious, she made him want to grin like the cat who swallowed the canary.

“Who else could it be?”

Her query echoed his own, the question which had plagued him all afternoon, ever since he’d spoken to Ellis’s grandmother.

“According to his grandmother, Ellis flew off to Wyoming three days ago,” he explained, his voice gruff.

“She could be lying,” Dixie suggested.

Erik barked out a laugh. “Whatever kind of boy Ellis turned out to be, it’s not his grandmother’s fault. She’s a saint. Trust me. She’s not lying.”

He glanced in her direction to see how she was taking the news. Her face looked pale, and her eyebrows were scrunched over her nose. She looked like a little girl who was concentrating too hard on a new, foreign task.

He probably wasn’t all that far from the truth.

Granted, she was no little girl. She’d turned into a beautiful woman, inside and out. But her mind must be swirling with conflicting thoughts, and none of them pleasant.

“Who else could it be?” she demanded, sounding as if she expected him to have an answer.

What infuriated him was that he
didn’t
have the answer. He hadn’t found time to follow up on John Needleson, and was no closer to solving the mystery of the unknown vandal than when he’d begun.

Who else cared whether or not Dixie stayed on the land? And why stoop to vandalism to make a point?

He hadn’t thought Ellis to be so foolish, for all his bluster, and he’d been right. His gut instinct served him well in that case. But this same instinct was blaring now, telling him more, warning him that what they faced—what Dixie faced—was more dangerous than a mere adolescent on the rampage.

A man vandalizing for vandalism’s sake, or out to get his kicks, didn’t leave warning messages.

“How well do you know John Needleson?” he barked.

“John? Why do you ask?”

He cringed inwardly at the informal use of Needleson’s name. Irritated, he pinned her with a look that said
Just tell me.

She shrugged. “I don’t. I called every number in the newspaper advertising horses for sale. As soon as he heard my name, he really perked up. He must have realized we were neighbors. Anyway, he told me he thought he had the ideal horse for me.”

Erik frowned. He’d been suspicious the day Dixie brought Victory home, and now warning sirens were screaming in his head.

John Needleson had been in horses all his life. He knew better than to sell a new rider a green broke yearling.

Unless he was doing it on purpose.
And from what Dixie said, it sounded like John knew exactly what he was doing.

Putting Dixie in danger.

He kicked himself for not realizing it earlier. John Needleson was a threat to Dixie. And his gut told him John was the man behind the vandalism.

The only question was
Why?

“How did he act when you were over there?” he asked through clenched teeth.

Her gaze darted to his, but he hooded his look so he wouldn’t give anything away.

“He was friendly,” she began, staring down at her fingers, which were laced tightly in her lap. “A little withdrawn, maybe. But his wife passed away recently.”

“Two years ago.”

She frowned, the light leaving her eyes for a split second before she regrouped. “Sometimes love is so strong it lasts forever.”

Ouch. That hurt.

He swallowed hard, dislodging the lump in his throat. Her message couldn’t be more clear if she’d stamped it on the dashboard.

“Go on,” he said when he’d recovered from the unspoken blow.

“I don’t know what this has to do with anything,” she objected, her voice as sharp as a needle.

“Humor me.”

“Well, we talked about Victory. And a little about his wife, although he shied away from the subject.” He heard the catch in her throat. “I tried to make an overture of friendship, with us being near neighbors and all, but he didn’t seem ready to accept it.”

Yeah, he’d just bet John wasn’t after friendship. He had always been crotchety.

“Which is odd,” she said, sounding perplexed.

He tensed. “Why is that?”

“Because when I offered for him to visit the retreat, he pretty much promised he would.”

Erik’s grip tightened on the steering wheel.

John had visited, all right. With a bowie knife.

But the question lingered, one that he was certain would keep him up nights until he figured the answer to the riddle.

Why would John Needleson care one way or another about Dixie’s retreat?

Dixie called it an early night and tucked herself in her room at the lodge. She’d already put her own finishing touches on her personal space.

Keeping with the rustic theme, she’d decorated with old-fashioned quilted patterns on everything from the curtains to the nightstand to the oversize comforter draping her twin bed. She liked the result so much she was considering doing all the bedrooms in the lodge in a similar style.

If she could get to town to buy the necessary materials before something else bad happened. It was a good thing she didn’t believe in bad luck, because it appeared to be following her with a vengeance these days.

She’d always been an optimist, with her faith in God as a basis for seeing the glass half-full. But the past few months had taken their toll on her. She was exhausted, both physically and mentally.

The glass looked precariously empty at the moment.

Erik’s accusation that John Needleson was behind the vandalism stayed with her, despite her original inclination to disregard it.

Had John purposely sold her a horse she couldn’t ride in order to endanger her? How could that be? Her run-in with him in town seemed to confirm her suspicions, but she still couldn’t figure out why his animosity was being shined in her direction.

It was true he hadn’t exactly welcomed her with open arms when she’d visited him, but then again, she’d seen the vulnerability beneath his tough exterior, empathized with his grief over the loss of his beloved wife.

And it
was
the first time they’d met.

John might be bitter, but he had no reason to take it out on Dixie. And as far as the horse went, she didn’t recall informing him of her level of experience regarding horsemanship. He’d probably naturally assumed her to be an expert.

Brushing thoughts of vandalism aside, she turned her mind to her biggest problem. A walking, seldom talking, often brooding, sometimes laughing package of trouble, with a capital T.

Erik Wheeler.

It was time to stop avoiding the obvious and face up to the truth. Erik had become her right-hand man, and more than that, her dearest friend.

And now she was experiencing feelings she’d never thought to encounter in her lifetime—and certainly not as compelling and emotion laden as they were.

She’d once thought herself to be in love with Abel, but now she questioned those feelings. She’d been young and idealistic, and Abel offered everything she thought she wanted.

But her love for Abel had been soft, soothing. If it was love at all. She’d never experienced with him the depth of response she felt with Erik. Abel never made her heart leap out of her chest and her mind sing praises to God.

Abel was not a lover. Not as a husband should be.

The truth was, she’d been a young woman trying to escape her father’s heavy hand. It troubled her now to realize she might have lived her whole life without knowing the kind of passion Erik instilled in her.

She would have settled for second best.

The realization didn’t hurt nearly as much as she would have expected. Perhaps she’d always known. As Abel had known.

She remembered his parting words, how much they’d torn her in two at the time. Now, she finally understood what he was trying to say.

You’re not in love with me. Go to South Dakota. Find God’s best for yourself.

He’d known. He’d understood how she had seen him, yet she’d filled a need in his life, as well.

She waited for her heart to fill with grief, with the sense of rejection she repeatedly tried to deny, but no pain occurred. Nothing flowed in her heart but peace, and for the first time, she could look back on her relationship with Abel with open eyes and a clear heart.

Her time with Abel had been so short. She’d first seen him at a local missions conference, speaking on his work in Pakistan as a tent maker. She’d been enthralled by his tales, and by the tall, thickly built blonde who’d dedicated his life to such a tough task.

Afterward, she’d spoken to him about her own mission dream in South Dakota. He’d encouraged her in it, and asked if he could call her sometime.

Less than twenty-four hours passed before he’d called and asked her to dinner. It only took one date to discover how much they had in common, and before she knew it, they were engaged and approaching their denomination about the work in South Dakota.

And then the politics of South Asia went into chaos, and Abel felt compelled to go and help. She couldn’t stop him, nor would she have wanted to.

Maybe she knew all along his true place was in South Asia. Maybe she’d known all along she would only be with Abel for a time.

A season for everything,
the Word said. Who was she to argue with the Bible?

Abel encouraged her to pursue her work here in Custer. She’d even had a letter from him, detailing his work in Pakistan and inquiring about her work here at the retreat.

She smiled softly, though no one was there to see it. Funny how the pain of her loss had lost its sharp edges, becoming almost a comfort to her instead of distress.

Abel would approve of all she’d done. He would like Erik, just as she did.

No, that wasn’t quite right.

What she felt for Erik—friendship, respect and appreciation—those things Abel would share. But there was a part of her heart that responded to Erik as a man, and she harbored that deep in her heart, cherishing the feeling, sharing it with no one else.