“It looks like we’re going to need some major work done. He says we need to replace the insulation in quite a few places, so escaping heat under the eaves doesn’t cause the snow to melt, then turn into ice. He also pointed out some spots where the roof is concave, and it’s trapping the snow rather than letting it slide off.”
“That does sound expensive.”
He grimaced. “I’m going to have to dip very deep into the building fund, but at least we can afford it now.” Last spring, when they really should have had the work done, the fund had been nearly empty, having been used for repairs to the foundation. Good Shepherd Church was aging. “But first I’m going to get another estimate to compare.”
Anna poured her tea and cradled the cup gratefully. “Did he mind?”
Dan shook his head. “He suggested it, actually. He’s a very honest guy, you know.”
She nodded and sank gratefully into her chair.
“So you went up to the sheriff’s office? What happened?”
She outlined matters as briefly as she could and watched as his mouth drew into a thin line.
“This doesn’t sound good,” he said when she concluded.
“I’m going to call some of her friends tonight and see if any of them have any idea what might be wrong.”
“Good idea.”
Jazz whimpered just then, and Dan squatted down to take her out of her cage. “Hey, little one,” he said softly. “How’re you doing? Did you piddle on your paper?” He looked over his shoulder at Anna. “I can’t believe anything’s wrong at home,” he said. “Bridget and Al are both the nicest people.”
She nodded, and Dan looked down at the puppy he held.
“On the other hand,” he said, “none of us ever really knows another person.” Straightening, he turned to her. “So, have you had lunch?”
“No.”
“Me neither. I’ll go out and get us something from Maude’s diner. In the meantime, why don’t you see if any of Lorna’s friends are home from school yet?”
He handed her the puppy and put fresh newspaper in Jazz’s box before he left.
The pup seemed content to curl up on her lap while she sipped tea and dug out the roster for the youth group. One by one, she started calling the girls who seemed closest to Lorna. Only one of them was at home yet, and she said she hadn’t really talked to Lorna in a while.
“She’s gotten kind of quiet, Miss Anna, but I don’t know why. She doesn’t hang out like she used to. But I can’t believe she actually started that fire at school. Everybody’s talking about it. It just isn’t like Lorna.”
“So she hasn’t found a different crowd of friends?”
“No. She doesn’t have many friends at all anymore. I mean…well, we all still like her, but she doesn’t want much to do with us.
We ask her to go places with us, and she always says no. I always have a pajama party for my birthday, and Lorna always comes. Not this last time, though. She was the only one who didn’t. When I asked her why not—I mean, I felt really hurt—she said she just didn’t feel like it.”
“So there’s nobody at all she’s close to anymore?”
“I don’t think so. Debbie said she thinks Lorna’s just getting snobby because her dad’s a dentist. Mary Jo argued with her about that and said Lorna just isn’t feeling good lately.”
“Did Mary Jo say why?”
“No. And that’s all I know, really. You want me to talk to the others?”
“Thank you, but I’ll do that.
If you think of anything, let me know?”
After she hung up, Anna found herself looking down at the puppy in her lap, thinking about how trusting young animals were, and how easy it was to shatter that trust. Something had shattered Lorna’s trust.
Dan came through the door on a gust of cold wind, carrying a big brown bag from Maude’s. “Steak sandwiches,” he said. “I don’t think either of us will want dinner. Which is okay with me, because Cheryl took the kids to Cheyenne this morning to visit their grandparents.”
“So you’re baching it?”
“Fine by me.” He set the containers down on her desk and took his coat off. “I love those kids to death, but every once in a blue moon, it’s nice to watch what I want on TV.”
He pulled the chair closer to her desk while she cleared papers to one side, then set out containers full of food. Not only had he gotten the steak sandwiches, but he’d brought a salad, and brownies for dessert.
“Did you find out anything?” he asked while they ate.
“Nothing really useful. Apparently Lorna’s even withdrawn from her friends.”
He paused in the process of taking a bite of his sandwich. “Now that’s really not good.”
“That’s what I think.” She found she didn’t feel hungry at all, but in order not to appear ungrateful, she nibbled at the salad.
“You know,” Dan said presently, “I can think of a lot of things short of mental illness that could have caused this change in the child, and none of them are pretty.”
“I know.” That killed the last of her appetite. She absolutely didn’t want to think about those things, but she couldn’t avoid it. Experience had taught her that bad things could happen to people you knew, including yourself. For Anna, they weren’t just newspaper stories.
“Anna?” Dan was looking at her with concern. “Would you like to quit early today and go home? You look really strung out.”
“I’m okay. Just worried about Lorna. I think I’ll go to her bond hearing at five.”
“It’s at five? I’ll go, too. Maybe I can get something out of her parents.”
“I hope you have better luck than Nate did.”
“Nothing, huh?”
She shook her head. “And frankly, I don’t expect anyone will get anything out of them.”
“You seem awfully certain about that.”
“I have my reasons.” And more than that she would not say.
Cowboy was disappointed when he finished inspecting the church roof and Anna still hadn’t come back. Not that he had any business being disappointed. Anna
Fleming was two or three cuts above the women who usually consented to spend time with him. And since deciding to clean up his act and get on with life, he was avoiding the women who didn’t avoid him.
He was kind of ashamed of himself anyway, ashamed of the way he’d fallen apart. He knew as well as anybody that post-traumatic stress disorder wasn’t something you opted to have, but he still felt weak for having had it. Nothing had happened to him in his life that didn’t happen to a whole lot of people, but he’d come apart at the seams anyway, after the Gulf War. It had been one straw too many, so to speak.
Not that he was excusing himself. He never excused himself. And it wasn’t that he felt he’d done anything wrong. He’d been a soldier doing a soldier’s job. But nightmare images eventually gave rise to nightmares.
Still, he wasn’t particularly interested in wandering down the paths of his