Part 10 (1/2)

St. John swallowed. Hard. Fought against betraying the fact that unaccustomed emotions were tumbling through him.

”Backward,” he finally muttered.

It was all he could think of to say.

”I don't have it backward. I don't trade on obligation, you know that,” Josh said. ”Worth for worth. You're an investment that paid off big-time.” And then, after a moment's pause, he added, ”And you're my friend, Dameron St. John. In case you've forgotten.”

”Haven't,” St. John said, barely able to get even the single word out.

”And since I know how much you enjoy personal conversations,” Josh answered with a laugh, ”I'll leave it at that. Let me know what else you need. Let anyone here know. It may take more of us to do your job, but we'll do it.”

After Josh had hung up, St. John sat on the edge of the bed, cell phone in hand. Here in this place, just a few miles from the lair of the beast, he'd been forcibly reminded that this was no longer his life. His life was far away, among the people of Redstone, who had become the family he'd never had. Who turned to him when they needed something, and who he, amazingly, could turn to.

A woman who'd thought he needed a.n.a.lyzing had once asked him if he trusted anyone. His first answer-unspoken because he wasn't about to answer someone he already knew he would never see again-had been no. But he'd realized that was far from true; he trusted anyone Redstone.

Jessa would fit there, he thought. Perfectly. She had all the requirements for Redstone; brains, wit, drive, generosity and the kind of loyalty Josh didn't have to demand but earned, given as his rightful due in return for his own loyalty to his people, the loyalty that put Redstone consistently among the top-ranked places to work not just in the country, but in the world.

He had that power behind him, and he could, and would use it to bury the abomination that was his father. Forever.

Chapter 13.

Jessa didn't put up the Closed sign when lunch rolled around. She'd decided she couldn't afford to close. Not that it would make much difference, the town was so used to Hill's being closed from noon to one they probably wouldn't even look or notice.

It meant she couldn't go back to the house and see her mother, but she was doing better this week. Naomi had rallied at the idea that Hill's was in trouble, and had even said she would come in herself; she hadn't worked in the store in years, but surely she could still be of some help.

Jessa felt a bit slow on the uptake; she should have thought to get her mother involved in the store again. Not that her father's absence was any less noticeable here; in fact, in some ways it was more painfully apparent, but there was work to be done, and that was always a good diversion.

She headed back to the office to grab the sandwich she'd brought in. And stopped dead in the doorway when she saw St. John leaning against the edge of the desk, his long, jeans-clad legs stretched out before him, his arms crossed over his chest, simply waiting.

He wore the driving cap he'd had on that first day, although when she stepped in he removed it. She wondered where he'd picked up the manners, since she knew his mother had been too far gone in despair and surrender to have bothered. The cap made her curious; it seemed from another era, dated-at odds with his young face-and yet it suited him. And showed he could care less about current style or the lack of it.

Not that anyone cared much about current style around rural Cedar, where function was king. Anyone except Albert Alden, that is, with his city-tailored suits, silk ties and more silken tongue. Problem was, since they rarely saw the like, a lot of people in Cedar were impressed, even proud that such a polished, articulate, successful man had come from their little town.

”Newspaper,” St. John said, gesturing at her desk with a nod.

So much for the niceties, she said. And obviously any explanation of where he'd vanished to last night was out of the question.

She walked past him and looked where he'd indicated, expecting to see a copy of the Cedar Report. But there was no newsprint in sight. Instead, there was a text-dense printout that was slightly blurry.

”A fax?” she asked.

”No printer. Fax at the copy store.”

”I have one you can use,” she said absently as she tried to spot in the doc.u.ment listing various financial interests-she a.s.sumed, given his shorthand, that they were the owners of the Report-what she was supposed to find. ”It's just an inkjet, but-”

She stopped, frowned as a name in a subsection of a subsection caught her eye. ”Wait a minute...isn't this Alden's corporation name?”

”One of them.”

She looked up at him. ”You mean he owns a piece of the newspaper who endorsed him?”

”Big piece,” was all he said, but he was giving her that look again, as if she were a student who'd done well. Only this time it pleased rather than irritated her.

”How can he do that?”

”A few layers deep.”

”You mean he's hiding his interest?”

”Corporation owned by holding company owned by trust.”

”Well,” she said in disgust, tossing the paper down on the desk, ”that explains all the free propaganda thinly disguised as news articles.”

”Not so free.”

”No. Looks like he paid handsomely for it.”

”More.”

”More than handsomely, or there's more?”

”B,” he said. She waited.

”Subsidizing Bracken's.”

She leaned back in the desk chair, her frown renewed. That made no sense, what did that have to do with the election?

He went on. ”Paying someone in the River Mill bank.”

She blinked. ”Paying who to do what?”

”Your 'late' payments.”

She sat upright abruptly. Then, slowly, she stood, her gaze fastened on his face.

”You're telling me,” she said very carefully, ”that Albert Alden is trying to sabotage not just me, but Hill's? Why would he do that? To distract me?”

”Partly. But if you can't run a business,” he said with a shrug.

She got it then. ”Then I can't run a town,” she said as the explanation dawned. ”Now there's an irony, given he inherited his money.”

Something s.h.i.+fted in St. John's face then, pain flickering for an instant in his eyes. And she remembered the night he'd hesitantly told her that the only person in the world he truly trusted, besides her, was his great-grandfather. The man who'd made the Alden fortune, who had lost his only son tragically young, had lived to see his grandson turn out a twisted wastrel who thought because he didn't have to work he shouldn't. The old man had been the only real support young Adam Alden had had.