No More Mr. Nice

chapter 5


The teenagers were gone, and Lucas’s house was as quiet as an abandoned warehouse. The only sound was the brittle thump of branches tossed about by the night wind as they crashed against the eaves. The noises were unsettling, and Jess felt very alone.

She waited in the kitchen for Lucas, who’d disappeared fifteen minutes before. There was no doubt in her mind that he was on the phone—again—and she found herself thrumming her nails on the kitchen table. Hating that nervous habit, she drew her hands into her lap and fisted them, then looked absently around. The kitchen was large and L-shaped, stark white, with gray accents here and there. She was seated at a round smoked-glass table located in the short leg of the L. There was a fireplace nearby—brick, but painted unobtrusively white.

The floor was made of polished squares of silvery granite. Not a scratch, not a speck of dirt, was to be seen anywhere on its surface. Like the rest of his house, Lucas’s kitchen was as clean as a hound’s tooth—trim, neat and spare.

There were no baseboards, no architectural excesses. All edges seemed to come together as sharp as knives. His was a world without clutter or sentiment. Admittedly, it was aesthetically pleasing, in a restrained way. She once again thought of this place as an extension of Lucas Brand, himself. He was certainly aesthetically pleasuring—in a restrained way. She bit her lip, not pleased that she was dwelling on the man in any way.

But her mind, drifting against her will, recalled a while ago when Jack had been close to tears, and how she’d glanced back at him on her retreat to the kitchen. She’d stumbled to a halt when she saw Lucas actually hunkering down beside the boy, speaking to him. She’d give a month’s salary to know what he’d said.

A few minutes later, Jack had joined the others in the kitchen to get his parting gift. He looked solemn, showing no trace of emotion. He hadn’t even turned Jess’s way. Whatever Lucas had said, it hadn’t changed the boy, much. Well, she mused, not even Mr. Roxbury performed instant miracles.

Hearing a sound, Jess knew Lucas was finally making an appearance. Stiffening, she turned. “I thought you’d flown to the Bahamas or…” she began, aiming to keep the mood light. Then she noticed that he’d changed clothes. He wore brown dress slacks, a button-down ecru shirt and a tie with splashes of earth tones, and as he walked, he was pulling on a tan sport coat.

Once again he’d donned that sophisticated veneer that was both annoying and intimidating. The unexpected change startled her, and she blurted out, “Do you have a date?” Her question sounded accusatory, and she winced. She hadn’t meant it that way. Of course, he could have a date if it pleased him.

He strolled toward to her, his dress shoes making a crisp clicking sound on the granite floor. “Do I have a what?” he asked.



As he passed to take a seat on the opposite side of the table, his scent surrounded her. She inhaled the clean, freshly showered smell, noting a hint of after-shave that reminded her of cedar and leather. With a tight smile, she thought quickly. “Uh—I was just wondering if I could have some coffee?”

He’d pulled out a chair, then stopped, scanning the kitchen counter nearby. “Looks like there’s some left.” He started in that direction, but she fairly leaped up. “No—don’t bother. I can do it.” She wasn’t sure why, but she couldn’t allow this man to serve her. Maybe she didn’t care to be obliged to him in even a small way. The less involved they were outside strict business dealings, the better.

As she scrambled from her seat, he flicked his wrist up to look at his watch. “Whatever,” he mumbled. “Can we make this quick? I have a meeting at my office in thirty minutes.”

She halted, her lips open, ready to demand, You have a meeting, tonight? But she stopped, the inquiry dying on her tongue. He’d sat down and was pinching the bridge of his nose as though he had a headache. She felt a rush of sympathy for him. If he’d had a meeting at six this morning, and had another one at seven this evening, he was putting in very long days. Instead of making her planned sharp remark, she went over to the coffeemaker and asked, “Would you like a cup?”

He glanced at her, his brows lifting in surprise. “If you don’t mind.”

“How about a couple of aspirin?”

“I’d kill for some,” he admitted quietly.

With trembly hands, she poured two mugs of coffee and returned to the table. From her purse she drew out a tin of aspirin, lifted the lid and held the container toward him. “No improvement with your program?” she asked, surprised that she was actually concerned.

“Not much.” He tipped back his head and downed the headache remedy without benefit of liquid.

She took a sip of coffee—it was strong, but revitalizing after the nerve-racking day—and murmured against the cup’s rim, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

He’d raised his mug halfway to his lips. “Sorry enough to give me a reprieve until spring?”

Her mood lurched from nervousness to dejection. “I’m not your jailer,” she said. “You know you can quit any time.”

Avoiding his face, she added, “You probably ought to know, Mr. Roxbury had another stroke last night.”

She heard Lucas’s raw curse and couldn’t help but peer at his expression. His features had darkened. “How bad?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Thankfully, not as bad as it could have been, but it set back his physical therapy.”

Lucas glared at his watch, then in a harsh voice, demanded, “What did you need to see me about? I can be five minutes late.”

She inhaled, feeling both grudging and grateful. Lucas’s concern for Mr. Roxbury had won out again—barely. Why does it have to take a man practically on his deathbed to get your attention! her mind raged, but she hid her feelings. Holding fast to her temper, she opened her briefcase and pulled out a typed list. “Okay, we don’t have to discuss all of this. I saw stables and what looked like a bunkhouse a ways back from the house. Do you have horses on the property?”



Again, his coffee cup halted halfway to his lips. “Horses? What would I do with horses? I don’t have time to drive a car, let alone ride a horse.”

She ignored the gibe with effort, jotting a note. “We’ll have to rent some for horseback riding. I’ll handle it, but you have to okay the funds, since you’ll be paying for them.” He took a swallow of coffee as she asked, “What about a hay wagon?”

“What about one?”

She peered up from her list. “Do you have one?”

“Did you see one in the garage?”

Trying to hide the sting his mockery caused, she made another note. “We’ll have to rent one of those, too.”

“What the hell for?” He sounded tired.

“The hayride. That’ll be the next-to-last day.” She tapped the pen against her upper lip. “What have I forgotten?”

“The stagecoach?” he suggested wearily. “Maybe five thousand longhorns for the cattle drive to Abilene?”

Without comment, she deposited her list in her briefcase, refusing to take the bait. “I’ll tend to the horse and wagon rentals first thing in the morning. I just needed your authorization.” Closing her case, she faced him, struggling to retain a pleasant, professional facade. “The kids and I and four volunteers will be here at ten.”

He took another swallow of his coffee. “Are we finished?”

She nodded. Then, recalling the vision of Lucas hunched down, talking to Jack in the living room, she had to add, “Just one thing.”



He’d started to stand, anticipating the end of the meeting, but sat back down, his expression forbidding. “Make it quick.”

She was antsy about asking, and couldn’t figure out why. Apparently some part of her wanted to think there was more to him that was human than his ability to feel physical pain. She’d seen a flash of something entirely charming when she’d embarrassed him out there on the lawn. Charming and unguarded, and worthwhile. He hadn’t quite smiled at her; still, she’d had the oddest feeling he’d wanted to, but had forced himself to remain stern. She’d felt it again when she’d seen him bend down to talk to Jack. She hoped she had, anyway….

Something warm and strong closed about her hand, and her glance fell to see long, male fingers covering hers. Her eyes widening with surprise, she stared up at him questioningly.

“Let me guess,” he said. “Either the British are coming or you’re sinking hard by the bow.”

“What?” she whispered. His fingers squeezing hers seemed to have scattered her wits.

He nodded toward her hand, still covered by his. “Your Morse code.” His penetrating eyes were on her, and his grimness seemed to have thawed slightly, “Jess,” he began. “Is it me, all men, or all adults who make you nervous?”

The room had grown warm. Hot, even. Her brain gave her hand strict instructions about removing itself from his, but nothing happened; her hand remained lightly captured, with no urge to be free.

With monumental effort, she hurriedly withdrew her hand and declared, “Don’t be silly. Why should I be afraid of you?” It sounded more convincing than she’d dared hope.

“I—I was just curious about something, and I wasn’t sure it was my business to ask.” That was true, but not as true as it might have been if she’d told him everything. About her fear of type As, for instance. But what was worse, was a truth she dared not even think about—how his sultry glance bothered her when he stared at her just so, or how his touch…

She swallowed, deciding it would be best not to dwell on that. “I—I was wondering what you said to Jack earlier. When he was sitting on the floor in your living room.”

Lucas’s brows came together, as though the question had come out of left field and wasn’t one he wanted to answer. “What I said?” He shrugged, looking impatient. “I don’t recall.”

She prodded, “When you squatted down beside him.”

His lids slipped down over his eyes, masking his thoughts. “I imagine you mean when I asked if he was okay.”

She felt a torrent of relief. How nice. “Yes, he was really overwhelmed about winning, wasn’t he? It was sweet of you to say something.”

“Sweet?” There was contempt in his tone.

She nodded, her smile faltering. “Of course. You noticed he was near tears and you cared enough to check on him. I think that’s sweet.”

He sat forward, placing his hands flat on the table. The move seemed vaguely ominous. “Damn it to hell,” he ground out. “Look, my little bleeding heart. Don’t make assumptions about me based on your Pollyanna view of the world. I wasn’t being sweet. I stepped on the kid’s hand, and I checked to make sure I hadn’t broken it.” He pushed up to stand. “Don’t make me out to be more than I am. I’m not Norman Roxbury, and I don’t intend to be,” he warned. “I live by one rule, and that is, Never Get Close Enough To Care. I don’t care about that kid or anybody else. Is that clear?”

His words were like ice water pitched in her face, and she sagged back, staring up at him in disbelief. “But-but you care about Mr. Roxbury.”

“I owe the man, damn it. And I’m paying him back. Period.”

“You’re lying.”

He scowled in cold fury. “Not everybody operates at gut level, Mrs. Glen. Some of us live by logic and reason.”

“Don’t forget greed and insensitivity!” she spat.

“Believe what you please.”

She stared at him, and he stared back. The strong lines of his handsome face were rigid and uncompromising. Finally she slumped back, defeated. She’d been wrong, after all. He was not a man capable of gentleness or compassion. For whatever reason, he chose to feel nothing, to care for no one.

Listlessly she checked her watch. “It looks like you’re going to be more than five minutes late, Mr. Brand. You’d better go.”

Anger and fatigue skulking in his eyes, he gave a curt nod of dismissal, and pivoted away. “Maxim will see you out,” he muttered.

“Don’t forget. Ten sharp,” she called, irritation swelling to overcome her depression. Darn it. Heart or no heart, he was going to fulfill his promise to Mr. Roxbury. At least she could see to that.

“I’ll check in when I can,” he said. “Tomorrow, I have a full work load.”

She heard the words, but couldn’t believe them. Suddenly, it was all too much. He’d gone one careless step too far. She shot to her feet. He may not have realized it, but Lucas Brand had just declared war, and the battle was on! “Damn you!” she sputtered, fighting tears. She was thunderstruck by the vehemence in her voice and the hollowness in her heart.

Though she was facing the window and couldn’t see him, she heard his clipped footsteps pause in the vicinity of the kitchen door. Apparently he was as surprised by her stormy oath as she. From some distance away, he queried darkly, “Did you have something you wanted to add?”

Defying the censure in his tone, she spun on him. “Norman Roxbury has single-handedly headed up his Mr. Niceguy program for thirty-five years. This is the first time he’s had to hand over the reins to somebody else.” She found herself trudging toward him with half a mind to slap his arrogant face. “Compared to Norman Roxbury, you, Mr. Brand, are not Mr. Niceguy. You’re the flipping Prince of Darkness!” Shakily, she sucked in a breath, so livid she felt faint. “As far as I’m concerned, there is no more Mr. Niceguy! If you want the whole, ugly truth, you’ve been nothing to me but a gigantic pain!”

Backlit by the brighter illumination in the living room, Lucas stood rooted in the doorway, tall and broad, looking as sharply elegant as a knight-errant’s sword. “I’d say we’re even, as far as pain goes,” he ground out. “At least, for today.” With the arrogant confidence she was growing accustomed to, and was highly annoyed by, he sauntered away, a man in total control.

Jess found her own emotions in just the opposite state. She was trembling helplessly, her anger so acute, so intense she could barely see for the bloodred haze that blurred her vision. “Jackass,” she hissed as he turned and disappeared into the entry hall.

“I’ve fired people for less than that,” he called back.

Irked that he’d heard, she charged after him, rounding the corner to see his broad back. “Who? Your grandmother?”

He pivoted to face her, almost causing them to collide. “What did you say?” he asked, looking as though he’d heard every word, but was giving her a chance to recant before he hauled off and knocked her through one of the mirrored walls.

She swallowed, realizing she’d gone too far. You didn’t go around insulting a person’s gray-haired old grandmother. The fact that he’d made her furious was no excuse. “Well—” she hedged, her voice still pitched high with annoyance “—I’m sorry about that. But you make me so mad.”

“That’s a cross I’ll have to bear,” he fired back. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He turned to go.

Irate, but feeling a nagging guilt that she’d vowed to tell him something earlier and had not gotten around to it, she hurried after him, skirting around to block his path. Though her urge was to ring his neck, she compromised by merely poking violently at his tie. “Just one more thing!” She poked to emphasize every word. “Personally, I don’t like you or anything you stand for, but I swore I’d say this, so I’m going to. You’re a good judge of people, and I think you did the right thing in choosing Jack’s essay. What smart, sarcastic comeback do you have to that?” She poked one last time, then crossed her arms defiantly.

Lucas was clearly surprised by her compliment, no matter how angrily it had been shouted. One dark brow arched in wary reaction. After a brief hesitation, he growled, “Thank you.” Then, in a heartbeat, he was gone.

She stood motionless, staring at the closed door, as the sharp echo of his footsteps died away. She’d never before heard a “thank you” sound so much like “Eat dirt,” before.

“Jerk-face,” she snapped.

“Excuse me, madam?” came a bewildered reply from behind her. She twisted to see the austere butler, and grimaced. “I—Nothing. I was talking to myself.”

She might as well have been, she mused sadly. What lunacy for her to have entertained fantasies that Lucas Brand would become Mr. Niceguy in any real sense, or that a compliment would have a positive effect. He was a flawed, reluctant figurehead, and she was stuck with him. Sighing, she gave the servant a tired smile. “Don’t mind me, Maxim.” She motioned for him to lead the way. “I’d better get going. I’ve got a lot to do.”

“Yes, madam,” he intoned. “Here’s your case.”

She was startled, having forgotten all about it. Taking it mutely, she followed him to the door. When he’d opened it for her, he ventured almost hesitantly, “Madam? Mr. Brand isn’t so much of a jerk-face as you might think.” His long, seamed face opened in a bashful smile. “Give him time,” he suggested in a subdued rasp.

She scanned the tuxedo-clad gentleman quizzically. “Don’t tell me you’re fond of the man?”

The butler lifted a gray, triangular brow. “Mr. Brand may be a hard man, but he’s honorable.”

She shook her head in exasperation. “Well I’ll agree to the ‘hard’ part, anyway. Good night, Maxim.”

“Good night, madam,” he replied as she went out into the blustery night.

THE TWO VANS THAT PULLED up into Lucas’s circular drive, surrounded by well-manicured grounds, looked like something out of The Grapes of Wrath. They had ratty old suitcases, cardboard boxes and duffel bags tied haphazardly across their roofs as though they were a two-vehicle caravan of scraggly nomads headed out of state in search of a better life away from the dust bowl of Oklahoma. Of course that dreary image of the forty-sixth state ceased to be a fact long before these kids were born, so when Jess made the comment, she was met with blank stares.

Hopping off the first van, Jess loped up the wide front steps to the double doors and was greeted, before she could even knock, by Jerry Jones, the skinny, grinning chauffeur, dressed in his gray uniform and soft, billed cap. He took off the hat to expose wildly curly chocolate brown hair. Jess was startled by his friendly manner. She’d never been received half so kindly by his boss, so she hadn’t expected pleasantries from his employees.

“Hi, Mrs. Glen,” he said. “I see you’ve recovered from yesterday.”



When she smiled and nodded, he indicated that she follow him back down the steps. This didn’t surprise her. She assumed that being the chauffeur, he’d been instructed to help with the luggage. “Mr. Brand said you should take the vehicles around the back and unload,” he explained as he trotted ahead.

He hopped into the first van and led the way, then pointed to the stables and bunkhouse, which was partly masked by a stand of scrub oak. “There’s where you’ll be billeted. The bunkhouse hasn’t been used since Mr. Brand bought the property, but the maids are gathering up some bedding. Once the kids get their gear inside, they can come on up here.” He swung a gangly arm toward the house. “This door here goes into the back pantry and on to the kitchen. The bedding’ll be waiting in there.”

Jess was confused. “But, I thought we were to use guest rooms on the third floor.”

The chauffeur’s expression clouded. Evidently he’d been given instructions and no explanation. “Sorry, ma’am. I don’t know about that. Want me to ask the boss?”

She shook her head, aware that Lucas was using his employee to insulate himself from his promise, while also getting the Mr. Niceguy project and its kids as far away from his exclusive domain as he could. She hadn’t actually specified the main house, but Mr. Roxbury had used his own home. Darn. Why must she always compare Lucas Brand’s behavior to Mr. Roxbury’s. They were hardly comparable! With a deflated grimace, she said, “Never mind. I’ll get the kids to start unloading. Thanks.”



Jerry looked unhappy. “I’ll ask. Maybe I misunderstood.”

She shook her head. “I doubt it. I’m sure Mr. Brand thought we’d be too noisy or too messy or something, for his house. We’ll be fine.” She turned away, but then, having had time to get irritated, she added, “Is Mr. Brand at home?”

Jerry nodded. “Yes, ma’am. He’s working in his computer room. Want me to—”

“Just tell him we’re here,” she interrupted, more sharply than she’d intended. Calming herself, she smiled with difficulty. “I’ll want to talk to him in about an hour.”

Jerry nodded and started for the back door, when she stopped him, calling out, “And please—call me Jess.”

He looked over his shoulder. “I’m Jerry to my friends.” He grinned at her. Jerry had a weakly handsome face. His chin was pointy, and his eyes too small for a man his height—just over six feet. But they were clear, blue eyes, alight with friendship and sympathy. “You’re doing a fine thing, ma’am—I mean, Jess. Good luck. And let me know if I can help. I got a police scanner, if you need it.”

She appreciated his offer. “Thanks, Jerry. I’ll keep it in mind. What do you use a police scanner for?”

He turned back to face her and shrugged his broad, thin shoulders. “Oh, I hear stuff about shootings, robberies, runaways.” He thudded his thumb into his uniform front. “I figure if I’m lucky, I’ll get on ‘Primetime Crime’ for catching a serial killer or something.” He must have seen a trace of doubt in her expression, for he added, “Honest. We got plenty of crime here in OK City.”



She had to agree with that. “Well—thanks for the offer. And if you hear of any serial killers in the area, let us know.”

He laughed. “You’re kiddin’, but I will. Also, I’m great with spaghetti sauce, if your kids need a good recipe. My day off’s Sunday.”

She grew vaguely hopeful. “Oh? You mean Mr. Brand doesn’t go to work on Sundays?”

Jerry shook his head, clapping his hat back on. “Naw. He goes. He’s got the ragin’ red Testarossa.”

She made a face. “Sounds painful.”

Jerry looked baffled, then laughed his high-pitched, staccato laugh. “The red Testarossa’s Mr. Brand’s Ferrari.” He took on the look of a lovesick pup. “Heck. If I had one of them, I’d fire me and drive that baby all the time.”

Light laughter bubbled in Jess’s throat. “I’d be glad he isn’t you, then. You’d be out of a job.” Secretly, she would have preferred that Lucas Brand was Jerry—at least his attitude toward the Mr. Niceguy project would be a trillion-percent better.

“Well—be seein’ ya. I’ll give that message to the boss,” Jerry promised as he jogged toward the door leading to the kitchen.

“Thanks,” she replied, then headed back to the van to direct the kids to the bunkhouse where they’d been banished. The volunteer couples, Howie and Reba Goodall, both retired teachers, and Bertha and Bernie Kornblum, who owned a small farm outside of town, cast each other subtle glances of disappointment. They recognized the ostracism for what it was, just as Jess had. But as the kids scrambled around untying their stuff, laughing and shouting, nudging, teasing and generally horsing around, Jess silently prayed that they wouldn’t recognize the rejection. The six boys and four girls had already known enough of that in their young lives.

The bunkhouse was a long, one-story building with a wood-shingled roof and walls constructed of rough-cut pine treated with a reddish stain. Wooden shutters were closed across the windows, making it obvious that the place had been locked up for some time. Jess hoped it wouldn’t require much cleaning. The kids shouldn’t have to slave over their accommodations. This wasn’t a construction site or a prison camp. It was a retreat and supposedly a time to fish, to ride horses, to collect leaves or jump in them; a time to run, to learn how to work together as a team, be a family, be creative, see how life could be better, and basically, to enjoy a reward for having tried and succeeded at something.

Jess took a suitcase in each hand and struggled to join Annie Smith and Suzy Clark, who were loaded down with bags. Moses Booker raced past Jess and the two girls, each with a duffel bag under one arm and a suitcase grasped in the other hand. “I’m gonna check this place out. You comin’, Spitball?”

Jess had to smile. The Asian boy, Noriko Sakata, had been given the nickname Spitball, and she had no idea why. She supposed it was best that she didn’t. Noriko was a native of Oklahoma City. His dad, an immigrant, had died several years before, and his mother, not proficient in English, was having a hard time making ends meet for herself and her three sons. Spitball was a good kid, worked two part-time jobs after school, and had done well on the essay. He was slight, with spiky black hair and a bighearted grin.



“I’m coming, dude,” Spitball puffed, dragging the biggest suitcase of the bunch. Jess shook her head at him. For a kid of fourteen who was just under five feet tall and couldn’t possibly weigh one hundred pounds yet, Spitball had no idea he wasn’t as strong and big as an ox.

Jack lagged behind, not speaking, but doing his share. He had single-handedly lifted a cooker off the top of van number two. It had to weigh eighty pounds, but Jack was carrying it stoically and uncomplainingly. The teen was big for fourteen. Jess was five-seven, and Jack was about an inch taller, but he outweighed her by fifty pounds of muscle.

She dropped back so he could catch up. “Now that’s what I call helping,” she said to him. “I have this recipe for hamburger patties that’ll curl your hair. It has jalapeño peppers in it. Sound good?”

He peered suspiciously at her. “Sounds gross.”

She stopped to adjust her grip on one suitcase. “I knew you’d love the idea.”

“Hey,” shouted Annie, the black girl who looked remarkably like Janet Jackson, but whose shiny black hair was done Medusa-style. “Door’s stuck or something!” she called.

“They didn’t give me a key, so it shouldn’t be locked.” Jess hurried through the thick stand of trees that partly hid the bunkhouse. “Just a second.”

When she got there, Moses, the other black essay winner, was tugging hard. “Don’t mess wif me, man,” he was grumbling at the door. One more hard tug, and there was a skin-crawling rasping sound as the swollen wood scraped against the concrete porch and the door swung open.



Since the windows were shuttered, it was dark inside. Moses was the first to venture in, searching the nearby wall for a light switch. When he found it, several naked bulbs that hung from the peaked ceiling flashed on to reveal a sitting room/kitchen combination. Farther back, behind half-wall planters, long empty of anything green and living, there were several sets of bunk beds, each with a bare mattress.

As Moses looked around, he was joined by Larry Tenkiller, Annie and Suzy. Jess stepped forward to get a better look.

“Cool,” said Larry.

“Are we all sleeping together?” Suzy, a chubby, pink-cheeked blonde breathed nervously.

“Radical!” Larry piped up, with a bawdy laugh. “Let’s scope this place out.”

“I’m not sleeping in the same room with these butt-heads!” Suzy griped.

“Chill, girl,” Moses rebuked, nudging Spitball. “You ain’t all that fine that I’d mess with you.”

Jess stared at the accommodations—certainly not suitable for both boys and girls. “We’ll figure out something,” she mumbled, her irritation flaring again. How could Lucas Brand have been so insensitive? “I can tell you right now,” she added, “there will be no coed sleeping on this retreat.”

Howie had come in. “Let’s get the windows open, boys,” he suggested. “And you girls look for the broom closet.”

“Good idea,” Jess said, glad to have something for the kids to do while the adults put their heads together to figure out how to arrange the place to separate the boys from the girls. She had an unruly urge to smack Lucas’s arrogant face for his thoughtlessness.

The kids scurried about, their footsteps thudding heavily on the plank floor. Windows were unlatched and sunshine poured in to display the thick layer of dust that had settled over everything. It was just as Jess had feared. The kids would have no fun today. Darn you, Lucas Brand!

She and the other volunteers tried to hide their disgust with smiles and hearty facades as the kids began the cleanup campaign to ready the grubby, musty bunkhouse for the week’s activities ahead.

Jess was sweeping between a couple of sets of bunk beds when she stopped suddenly and looked around, wrinkling her nose. Something smelled….

“Aaargh! Lorda-mercy!” squealed Annie, who stood stock still with her broom in midair a few yards away from Jess. “A polecat’s shot his stink off in here!”

The smell was strong, almost debilitating. Jess’s eyes began to burn and it was hard to breathe.

There were other cries and curses flying around, as youngsters and volunteers alike dropped whatever they were doing and raced for the door. Jess was shoved against a bunk, and fell sideways on it, coughing and wiping her eyes.

The crawl space had apparently become the home of one or more skunks—angry, vengeance-seeking skunks.

Jess got to her feet and stumbled to the door, scrambling out with the rest of the victims.

Her eyes were watering like leaky hoses as she looked around. Some of the kids had taken off for the main house, running as if their clothes were on fire.



Well, it wasn’t as life-threatening as fire, but the experience was as horrible in its own way. The rest of the kids were standing around, some wailing, some choking from the stench they were giving off. Annie had to be forcibly restrained from peeling out of her putrid-smelling clothes right there on the lawn.

Jess wiped at her eyes, glaring at the main residence with complete and utter contempt.

“Come on, kids,” she announced loudly, beckoning toward Lucas Brand’s precious, nice-smelling house. “We have to get out of these clothes and get de-skunked.” Heading across the lawn, she muttered, “It’s time to inform Mr. Niceguy he’s about to have some very ripe company.”