Sullivan nods. He catches my eye, and for just a moment I study him. Sandy-blond hair, unusual green eyes. They crinkle at the corners when he smiles, and almost disappear completely, but it’s charming somehow. He’s not handsome in the traditional sense of the word, and yet it’s hard to look away from him. A single crooked tooth, a thin, pale scar above the curve of his eyebrow, the slightest cleft in his chin. I know he’s trouble, but here on the bridge he seems like any other guy.
When his lips pull into a lopsided smile, I remind myself that he was suspended from school for starting a trash can fire in the men’s locker room. That he has his own DUI on record, as well as a couple of minor in possessions. Because he’s Jericho royalty—his family owns over half the farmland in the county—the general consensus regarding Sullivan is that “boys will be boys” and he’ll eventually grow out of his mischievous streak. He’s twenty-one now, and working for his dad full-time, even though he maintains summer hours at GL Gas. This he does, I’m sure, for the abundance of girls in bikinis lounging on the boats he fills up.
The thought yanks me back to reality. Sullivan is here for one thing only, but I have very different motives.
“Okay, spill. You promised you’d tell me what you know about the Murphys’ dog,” I say.
“Why do you think I took you here?” Sullivan leans back with his elbows on the railroad tie behind him. The pose strikes me as risky. We’re maybe twenty feet above the water, and one look at the river strewn with branches, sandbars, and who knows what else assures me I wouldn’t want to fall.
I glare at him, losing all patience. I’ve played his game long enough. “They believe Baxter was poisoned. On purpose.” I pause to let it sink in. “I’m pretty clueless when it comes to local gossip,” I continue, “but even I know that the Murphys are feuding with the Tates.”
“You make it sound all War of the Roses.”
“Isn’t it?” I’m mildly impressed at his historical reference. Obviously my standards for Sullivan have been set pretty low.
“Don’t believe everything you hear,” he says, and gives my foot a little tap with his so that it swings over the abyss. “You want to know the truth? It’s pretty boring, June.”
I don’t say anything.
After a moment he sighs and pushes himself up. “Turn around,” he tells me.
I swivel my head to look toward the field framed in the distance. The sun has slipped beneath the horizon and the rows are now nothing but dark shadows on black soil.
“That’s our land. Or, at least, some of it.” He points southeast. “And beyond those hills, past what we can see, is the Murphys’ acreage.”
I nod.
“There’s a creek that cuts through the land there, and”—he angles his finger further south—“a couple of sinkholes.”
“You lost me.”
Sullivan smiles a little. “Then I’ll skip the whole aquifer water contamination bit and get straight to the goods: the Murphys say fertilizer and pesticide runoff from our farm is polluting their well and poisoning their little hobby farm. And the river, too.”
I look down at the water churning beneath us. “Is it true?”
Sullivan shrugs. “We’re farmers, June. And it’s not illegal to spray our fields.”
“But isn’t there a way to stop the runoff?”
“Not our problem.”
I think it is, but I don’t tell him that. “What does this have to do with Baxter?”
“Those dogs trespass on our property every single day.”
And there’s my answer. Whether it was intentional or not, the Tates set traps and poisoned the Murphys’ dog.
“So did you…” I don’t have to finish before Sullivan shakes his head.
“It wasn’t me. I couldn’t…” He trails off, and for just a second his lips tug into a frown. But then he shrugs, grins. It seems forced. “We like to give them a hard time. Builds character.”
“It’s property damage,” I say, quoting Cal. “And harassment and trespassing.”
“Nah, it’s all in good fun.”
The night is warm, but all at once I’m chilled. I knew Sullivan Tate was cut from a different cloth, but his flippant disregard for the Murphys strikes me as cruel. How can he be so cavalier about the torment he and his family have inflicted on those two lovely people?
“Have I offended your innocence, Miss Juniper?” Sullivan reaches down to grasp my ankle. I pull away when he tries to lay my foot in his lap. “Maybe you should have a chat with your brother. He’s not nearly as virtuous as you are.”
I don’t want to take his bait, but I can’t stop myself. “What are you talking about?”
Sullivan winks. “You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
All at once I long to be anywhere but here. It’s clear that Sullivan thought he was absolving himself, explaining exactly why it was within the Tates’ rights to poison Baxter—or at least allow it to happen. But it’s not so black and white to me. I can still see Beth sitting at her kitchen table with Betsy’s mottled head in her lap. Her grief was real. And completely unnecessary.
“Take me home,” I say, standing up. The bridge pitches—or maybe I do—and Sullivan hops to his feet to slip an arm around my waist.
“I’ve got you,” he says, and helps me go back the way we came, stepping carefully from railroad tie to railroad tie until all I have to do is jump off the abutment. The ground feels soothingly solid beneath my feet and I stand still for a moment to catch my breath.
Sullivan waits for me, and when I turn toward the path, we walk back to his truck wordlessly. But just before we reach the narrow clearing, he stops abruptly. I’m following so closely I bump into him, hands up to cushion the impact, and then I’m trapped against his chest when he spins to face me.
I don’t have time to turn away when Sullivan bends toward me and brushes my cheek with a kiss so sudden and chaste it makes me blush.
“I like you, Baker,” he says. It’s completely unexpected and yet entirely predictable. Almost painful in its simplicity. For just a second I can see the Sullivan from earlier, hesitant and unsure. Hopeful. Looking at me like I’m Christmas morning instead of a gawky teenager in a faded T-shirt.
There’s a hint of a smile on his lips, and for a moment all I can feel is the warmth of his chest beneath my fingers, the spark of possibility between us. But then I stumble backward, thinking about Ashley and dying a little inside. “I’m sorry,” I say, trying to hide the fact that he’s left me winded. “I don’t think I’m your type.”
“And what exactly is my type?” Sullivan drags the back of his fingers along his jaw while he watches me.
“The staying kind.” I step past him carefully, my hands curled into fists.
CHAPTER 7
WINTER TODAY
Juniper watched as Willa slunk down the steps of Jericho Elementary at the end of the day, her backpack yanked tight across both shoulders. She pushed her long hair behind one ear and scanned the cars in the pickup lane, presumably looking for her ride. But when she caught sight of her mother leaning against a dull gray hatchback, she went rigid. Juniper knew that look: it was the raw panic of a feral cat in the split second before it bolted.
Juniper braved a smile and raised her hand in greeting, but that only appeared to make Willa even more upset. She teetered on the lip of the bottom step, considering, then seemed to realize that her fate was sealed. Willa ducked her chin into the loose collar of her coat and hurried over.
“You can’t get out of the car,” Willa muttered, brushing past Juniper to pull open the passenger-side door.
“What?”
“In the carpool lane! It’s a rule!” Willa whisper-shouted, flinging herself into the vehicle and slamming the door.
Juniper squeezed her eyes shut and allowed herself a long, steadying breath before she stepped off the curb and came around the car. She tried to look on the bright side: Willa was going home with her. Her preteen daughter was moody and miserable, but at least she hadn’t disappeared with Zoe (whoever she was) like she had threatened. It was a small victory.
“Sorry, Willa. I didn’t know,” Juniper said when she was settled in the driver’s seat. “I’m new at this.”