Coming Home To You. Fay Robinson

She hit the ground, landing on her rear an instant after his expletive rent the air. “Sallie!”

      The woman scrambled into her car. She slammed the door before Sallie could grab her.

      “You didn’t have to sic that vicious animal on me,” she said through the open window. “All I want to do is talk to you.”

      He dismounted. “My attorney has made it clear several times that I’m not interested in talking to you, Ms. Morgan. I don’t want to be interviewed for your book, and I don’t appreciate your sneaking onto my property and interrupting my work.”

      “I’m only asking for a few minutes of your time to outline my project.”

      “You can’t have it.”

      “But by cooperating on the story of your late brother, you’ll have the opportunity to influence what material on James is used. This shouldn’t be an unauthorized biography, Mr. Hayes. Help me. Don’t force me to print his story without your involvement, please.”

      “Leave. Now!”

      “Won’t you reconsider? The previous books about James and his band, Mystic Waters, have only skimmed the surface of his life. They’ve concentrated on the drinking, the suspected drug use, the women. None have fully explored his music or his gift for composing.”

      “He’s been dead six years. Let him rest in peace.”

      “But the timing of this biography is critical. The twentieth anniversary of his first album is next year. People will want to know more about him.”

      “You’re as bad as those tabloid people, always wanting dirt about people’s personal lives.”

      She shook her head. “No, I don’t print innuendo or gossip. I spent years as a journalist. I respect the truth and I always present it fairly.”

      He braced his hands on the window frame and leaned down. His anger made his voice shake. “Ma’am, I’m familiar with your reputation, but it doesn’t change the fact that anything you write, no matter how fair or accurate, no matter how well-intentioned, will make my family have to live through the pain of my brother’s death all over again. They’ve suffered enough, and I won’t help you hurt them just so you can make a few bucks or win another damn Pulitzer.”

      “I’m not writing this book for the money or for any award,” she said shortly, her composure slipping.

      “Why, then?”

      “Because it’s a compelling and interesting story. James wasn’t simply a music idol. He represented the emotions and conscience of an entire generation. I want to write his story. I have to write it.”

      He straightened and put his hands on his hips in what he hoped was an imposing stance that conveyed his irritation with her answer.

      “Everything comes down to what you want, doesn’t it? Well, let me tell you what I want. No contact from you again. Ever. Leave this property and go home where you belong. Don’t harass my mother or my sister with any more phone calls. Don’t write my attorney.” He narrowed his eyes, his expression as menacing as he could make it. “And if you’re crazy enough to come out here again, I’ll feed you to Sallie. I think she’d enjoy that almost as much as I would.”

      She reddened. For a moment he thought she might lose the self-control she was obviously struggling to maintain, but she only shrugged.

      “I imagine I’d be a pretty tough chew, Mr. Hayes, even for Sallie.” Starting the engine, she put the car in gear. “But I’d really rather not find out.”

      CHAPTER TWO

      LOCHEFUSCHA, ALABAMA. The name of the town was on a sign along the main road. Population: 13,402.

      “What’s the origin of that word?” Kate asked the desk clerk at her motel. “Is it Indian?”

      “Yeah, the Creek tribe,” the woman answered. “Means eternal sleep.”

      “Death?”

      “Uh-huh.”

      That figured.

      Her room was a green-and-blue nightmare of floral prints and cheap furniture, but the air conditioner sent out a stream of air colder than she’d ever felt. She turned it up as high as it would go and hung over the vent until her overheated body returned to normal.

      She peeled off her clothes and tossed her shoes and stockings in the trash. After that, she took a long bath to soak her aching muscles. Thirty-three was too old to be climbing trees. Her legs and back were killing her, and her tailbone felt bruised where Bret Hayes had dumped her on the ground.

      She was loath to admit it, but her pride was bruised, as well. Her credentials were among the best in the business, her last two books international bestsellers. She’d been so sure that if she located Hayes and spoke to him in person, she could convince him to cooperate. Being turned down, particularly in such a humiliating way, hadn’t occurred to her for an instant.

      She rubbed her sore backside. Well, whining about today’s fiasco wouldn’t help. She’d simply have to come up with a better approach. He had to leave that farm sometime.

      At eight o’clock she stuck her notebook in her purse and set out on foot in search of food and information. The sun was a ball of fire against the descending curtain of twilight, and a solitary star announced the coming darkness.

      She walked from her motel through the center of town, an uneventful trip of no more than ten minutes that did nothing to improve her first impression of the place. Grim. Small. The narrow buildings were mostly two stories and leaned against each other like weary soldiers after a battle.

      As far as she could tell, the only choices for dinner were the Burger Barn down from the motel and the Old Hickory Grill on the courthouse square. She found an empty booth at the grill and ordered the All-You-Can-Eat Pork-Rib Special. Her plate came with a quart jar of iced tea and a roll of paper towels for cleaning her hands.

      The waitress was a weathered blonde named Marleen whose plump body was threatening the seams of her uniform. “Hon, need anything else?” Marleen asked when Kate had finished her second plate of ribs.

      She wiped her mouth. “I’d like information about someone, but I don’t want him to know I’m asking.” She gave the waitress a wink. “You know how men are when they think a woman’s interested in them.”

      “Oh, I gotcha,” Marleen said, winking back, a willing conspirator. She slipped into the seat across the table. “Hey, Tammy,” she called to the other waitress, “I’m takin’ a break.” Then to Kate, “Okay, who’s the guy?”

      “His name’s Bret Hayes. He’s a horse-breeder. Owns a place out on Highway 54 west of here. Do you know him?”

      “Big good-lookin’ fella, but unfriendly as all get-out?”

      Kate chuckled. “That sounds like him. His late brother was a famous singer and musician.”

      “Oh, I didn’t know that. The guy I’m thinkin’ of has these killer blue eyes.”

      “That’s Hayes. What do you know about him?”

      Marleen didn’t know much. He kept to himself, she said. He came to town every Saturday morning at eight, sat in the same booth and ate a breakfast of bacon, eggs, grits and biscuits. He always ordered a second meal to go.

      “And he has this major thing for peach cobbler,” Marleen added. “Comes in a couple times a month and buys a whole one to take home.”

      “What about close friends or girlfriends?” Kate asked. “Ever see Hayes with anyone?”

      “No, no one except that Logan woman from Pine Acres.”

      “Pine Acres? What’s that?”

      “A