Where Love Grows. Cynthia Reese

he bit out, “don’t know how to get rid of it here. I was there, on-site, equipped with means and opportunity to bring the vine east. So, you still think this case has no foregone conclusion?”

      [email protected]: Have you ever wondered about me? I mean, what I look like, who I am? If you’ve ever passed me on the street?

      [email protected]: I know pretty much everybody on the streets I’ve been on, but I’ve wondered, yeah.

      [email protected]: What would you say if you met me, but you weren’t sure it was me? If we did meet up?

      [email protected]: I probably wouldn’t say anything—what if it wasn’t you? She’d think I was nuts.

      [email protected]: So do you think one day we ever will meet?

      [email protected]: Maybe…but part of me doesn’t want to spoil the way things are.

      CHAPTER SIX

      RYAN’S PATH WAS BLOCKED by a four-foot-ten-inch pixie with the saddest eyes he’d ever seen.

      “Charlotte, I swear. I don’t know where J.T. is,” Ryan told the diner waitress. “I haven’t heard from him in months—since Gramps’s funeral. You just need to…”

      Ryan tried to swallow the anger he felt whenever he thought of the disappearing J. T. Griggs. The man had taken advantage of at least two women—Charlotte and Mee-Maw—left them high and dry, and still they defended him.

      “You just need to forget J.T.”

      Charlotte Hooks shifted her weight from one rubber-soled foot to the other, the carafe of hot coffee sloshing dangerously in her hand. “I can’t. He was a good man. I—I just don’t understand it, Ryan. J.T. just wouldn’t vanish this long without telling me where he was going. He wouldn’t leave Mee-Maw in a crunch, leaving right after Mr. Mac’s funeral. He had respect for Mr. Mac, and you know that. He flat worshipped the ground that man walked on.”

      “Maybe he went back to Texas?”

      Her brows drew together in an even darker frown. “They have phones in Texas, last I heard. If he’s that tight for money, he could at least send me a postcard. Besides, J.T. swore he wasn’t ever going back there. Wasn’t anything there for him, he said.”

      Ryan eyed the glass door leading to the private dining room, the one where Murphy was holding court—and waiting for him.

      He didn’t need to be here. He needed to be out plowing—and making sure that damned vine hadn’t taken any more potential harvest.

      Ryan had been on a tractor, in fact, when Murphy had called this impromptu meeting this morning. Some people didn’t apparently have to work for a living.

      But calls from Murphy—what with his web of connections to local politics and his big fat checkbook—were the equivalent of a command performance. Mee-Maw—and what she might have done to protect Gramps’s memory—was part of this equation, as well. Ryan hated the doubt and suspicion that had clouded his thoughts about her lately.

      Besides, Ryan had a few things to unload on Murphy.

      Not that it would do any good.

      First, though, he had to get past Charlotte.

      “I swear, scout’s honor, I have no clue where J.T. is. He hasn’t called me, hasn’t written, hasn’t left a crop circle or a message in skywriting. But if he should, you’ll be the first to know, okay? I know…I know you miss him, Charlotte.”

      Her mouth twisted, and tears gathered in her eyes. “I’m worried. That’s what I am. He had so much going for him. He was finally getting his life together. He wouldn’t throw it all away. He wouldn’t.”

      Maybe he didn’t have a choice.

      Ryan shook off the dark thought. “That’s right. I’m sure he’ll let you know where he is and what he’s doing. How about getting me a cup of that coffee and bringing it to me in the back dining room?”

      “That’s another reason why I thought…You never come here anymore. I thought maybe you knew something and weren’t telling me.”

      I never come here anymore because I’m flat broke and even a dollar for a cup of joe is hard to come by.

      “If I find out anything about J.T., I’ll tell you. Now, how about that coffee?”

      After Charlotte trudged off for a cup, he proceeded back to the dining room.

      Murphy looked up from his plate of grits, eggs and bacon. “’Bout time you got here. We’ve been waiting on you.”

      The we included a motley crew of area farmers, some clearly straight from the fields as Ryan was, others in pristine golf shirts free from any signs of true labor. Murphy was part of the latter, his white knit cotton stretched taut over a big belly. Five minutes in a tractor and that shirt would have been history.

      It also, Ryan realized with a sick twist of his stomach, included Jack.

      Ryan pulled out a chair and sat down. He gave Jack a penetrating look, but his cousin merely shrugged in reply. The other men stared at Ryan, waiting for him to speak. When he didn’t, Murphy forked in another bite of fried egg, chewed, cleared his throat and spoke.

      “The fellows here are hoping you can tell them what to expect from that lady investigator. Understand she started with you last night. And stayed pretty late.”

      “Now you’ve got me under surveillance?” Ryan glanced Jack’s way. Had his cousin told Murphy?

      “Small town, Ryan. You know that. A gnat can’t fart in this town without someone knowing about it.”

      The crude comment evoked a titter of uneasy laughter from the men at the table, but it did nothing to ease the tension.

      “Well? Tell us about her. What’s she like? What’s she askin’?” a farmer named Steven Tate finally blurted out.

      The whole scene did not sit well with Ryan. He hated feeling as if he was a spy.

      “Ryan, your grandfather knew how important it was for all of us farmers to stick together. You could learn a thing or two from Mac.”

      That not-so-subtle warning from Murphy served to goose Ryan into reluctant action. “She’s nice enough. She asked the obvious questions—when did it start? How did it start? What had I done about it?”

      Nobody spoke, not until Murphy had sopped up his grits and cheese with a bit of biscuit. “She seem satisfied with your answers?”

      Translation: was Becca Reynolds going away anytime soon?

      “For now…but she wants to nail down a detailed time line of the spread of the vine. She really wants to know how it got from Texas to here.”

      That last bit was inspiration on Ryan’s part. Maybe he could force Murphy into revealing just how he’d pulled that trick. Murphy had been hinting for weeks that Gramps had had a hand in it…and the threat had a way of keeping Ryan in line.

      But Murphy simply spat out a foul curse. “Detailed time line? What the hell’s the point? It’s here. She could see it. You showed her, right?”

      “You have to admit, Murphy, it looks suspicious. No reports of infestation between here and Texas? Of course the first question the insurance company is going to ask is what train it rode in on.”

      “Maybe we could buy her off,” offered Doug Oliver, who fidgeted with his cap. “She look like the type who could come to some sort of understanding?”

      Murphy shot a quelling look at Oliver. “It’s too soon for that. But it raises a good question. She the type, you think, Ryan? If push comes to shove?”

      “No. And I won’t be a part of it.” Ryan’s blood hissed in his ears.

      Murphy’s