Page 13 of In Honor’s Defense

Nate shrugged. “I like to walk at night.”

Another non-answer. The kid was cagey. Didn’t lie outright, but wasn’t forthcoming, either. Not much to recommend him as trustworthy.

Time to switch tactics.

“Tell me about Grimes. Why do you think he killed your father?”

Nate’s face darkened. “He wants our land. Been tryin’ to get us to sell for years, but Pa never would. My ma was the one to pick out the place. Pa said she fell in love with the big black walnut tree growing in the middle of the clearing. Asked him to build the house right beside it so she could enjoy the shade in the summer and harvest nuts in the fall.” The boy looked off into the distance, back toward the homestead he’d run from. “Pa planted a second walnut tree at the base of the hill where we buried her. Said it would shade her year ’round.” He turned back to Luke, his jaw tight. “We weren’t about to let Oliver Grimes’s stinky cows trample all over her grave.”

Luke nodded, his throat tight. Rough lot for a kid. Growing up without a mother. Luke knew a bit about that. He didn’t voice his sympathy, though. They needed to keep the conversation focused on the father, not the mother.

“Grimes admitted to me that he’s tried to buy your land on several occasions,” Luke said, “but I don’t see how that makes him responsible for your father’s death.”

Nate’s arms swept out in a wide arc. “He was the only one with anything to gain!” He stomped three steps away, then growled, “There’s no way my pa died in a swimming accident. He was too good a swimmer. They said he probably hit his head on something like the edge of a boat, but he never would have been at the lake in the first place! He always came home straight after work. To be with me.” The boy’s voice hitched on a suppressed sob. “Grimes must’ve lured him out to the lake somehow. Held him under, then left him for someone else to find. He must’ve thought that if my pa was out of the way, he could get the land. But I’ll never sell it. Ever! Neither will Aunt Maris. She swore it.”

A bothersome seed planted itself in Luke’s gut. He could think of a dozen more plausible explanations for Nate’s father’s demise than murder. But if someone really did precipitate Douglas Baxter’s death in order to get their hands on the man’s land, what would keep them from doing the same to Nate . . . or Damaris?

CHAPTER

SIX

Damaris welcomed Nathaniel home with a smile when Mr. Davenport dropped him off as promised. She asked a few innocuous questions as he washed up, hoping he’d open up to her on his own accord. All she received from him, however, were a pair of shrugs and one noncommittal grunt. No explanations about his father. No recap of what happened when Mr. Davenport tracked him down. Not even a comment about being hungry for dinner. The angry yet finally vocal Nathaniel had been replaced by a sullen version who seemed determined to avoid interaction altogether. His gaze stayed glued to his plate as he shoveled sausage gravy and toast into his mouth one bite after another, keeping his mouth constantly full and thereby unavailable for conversation.

Patience was a virtue, but sometimes it was an excuse to stay on the easy path of conflict avoidance. Damaris much preferred smooth paths, but if any truth existed in Nathaniel’s claim that Douglas had not perished from accidental causes, she couldn’t afford continued passivity. Not if she wanted to ensure her nephew’s safety.

So when he scooted his plate away from the edge of the table and started chugging down the half-glass of milk he had left, she knew the time for boldness had come. Even though she’d barely eaten half of the dinner on her own plate, Damaris rose from the table, crossed to the stove, and opened the warming oven.

The sweet scent of cinnamon and apples wafted through the kitchen. The milk cup lowered a few inches from Nathaniel’s face. He swiveled slightly toward her. His eyes widened a fraction.

“You made fried apples?”

Was that a touch of ruefulness in his eyes? Choosing to believe it was, Damaris smiled and set the plate in front of him.

“Of course. I said I’d make you some.” Although she’d kept one eye on the trapdoor opening the entire time she was in the cellar, darting to the apple basket and back to the ladder like a rubber ball on the rebound.

Nathaniel squirmed in his seat, then ran a sleeve over his mouth to remove the thin milk mustache that moistened his upper lip.

“A person of integrity always lives up to his or her word.” Which means no more departures through your bedroom window at night, since I escaped the root cellar before you came home.

Although, technically, she hadn’t actually agreed to his deal, so he might still have a loophole there. But that wasn’t her main agenda tonight.

Damaris slid her chair closer to Nathaniel’s and lowered herself to the seat. She wanted to cover his hand with hers, to show her love in some tangible way, but boys on the cusp of manhood disliked displays of affection. Or maybe it was just Nathaniel not wanting his aunt to usurp his mother’s place.

That comment still stung, even though she’d forgiven him for it almost immediately.

Instead of touching him, she clasped her hands in her lap and sought out his gaze. “Tell me about your father.”

He dropped his head and studied the dessert before him as if it were some kind of culinary masterpiece. Which it definitely was not. A couple of the apples bore scorch marks, though she’d made an effort to hide them at the bottom of the pile.

Nathaniel stabbed at a bit of sugared apple with his fork but didn’t bring it to his mouth. “Pa woulda whupped me good for lockin’ you in the cellar.” He lifted his head and made a valiant effort to meet her eyes, though he seemed to get hung up somewhere around her nose. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

It wasn’t an apology, precisely, but it was progress. “No, you shouldn’t have. But all is forgiven.” One of her hands fled her lap and patted his arm before she realized what she’d done. He frowned slightly yet didn’t jerk away. More progress. It nearly made her giddy. The question hanging in her mind kept her sober, though.

Perhaps she could come at it sideways instead of head-on. Make it easier on both of them. “Did you talk to Mr. Davenport about Mr. Grimes?”

“Yeah.” A large forkful of apple found its way into his mouth.

He obviously didn’t want to talk about it, but she couldn’t back down. Not if there was any hope of the two of them building trust and openness between them.