Flint’s division headquarters was in Mammoth Spring and included six counties, meaning he wouldn’t normally have been sent to officially visit Maggie’s rehab center if Captain Lang hadn’t made it a priority.
The sheriff had graciously agreed to keep an eye on her when chores on his great-grandparents’ farm kept Flint too busy. The place had really deteriorated while he was away. No sooner did he repair one thing than another broke. He’d finished nailing down the leaky barn roof and then the tractor had refused to start so he could use it to restack bales of hay.
Flint saw only one viable solution. He’d have to convince the elderly couple to stop farming. A successful operation needed a lot more supervision and daily care than he was able to give it. Ira could hire his hay cut and baled, but without good cattle management he’d go deeper in debt every year, and the stubborn old man insisted on keeping all the records himself.
Using a rag to wipe black grease off his hands, Flint headed for the house.
Bess met him at the back door with a smile. “Good. I was just coming to get you. Lunch is ready.”
“Okay. Let me wash up first.” Although she was in her eighties, Bess still had the kind of energy and zest for life Flint remembered from his youth. She wore her gray hair in a long braid and perched her glasses on the end of her nose to peer over them even though they were bifocals.
It had been a bit of a shock to return and find such big changes in everything else. The house was in better shape than the outbuildings, but not by much. It needed painting as well as several new sections of chimney pipe to safely vent the wood-burning stove. Flint had already suggested they add propane heaters and had had his idea totally rejected, even after offering to pay for the tank and installation.
Still pondering the immense task of fixing the old house, he joined the older couple at the kitchen table. Ira had always been the one to say a prayer of thanks for the food, but since Flint had returned, Bess had begun asking him to do it.
He slid his chair up to the table and noted that Ira was already eating. “Sorry I’m late. I didn’t want to show up with tractor grease under my nails. Did you say grace, Papaw?”
The old man’s rheumy, greenish eyes were focused on the distance and he was eating as if by habit rather than for enjoyment the way he used to.
“He was starving,” Bess said, “so we started without you. Gotta keep my hungry husband happy.”
“No problem.” Flint followed by a quick bow of his head and a soft “Amen.”
“So, did you get the roof nailed down good?”
He met her questioning gaze with one of his own. “Uh-huh. How long has it been since Papaw ran that tractor? It’s a mess. I had to drain the fuel and clean the filters before it would do more than cough a few times. It’s running rough now, but at least it’s running.”
“We haven’t had a lot of need for our own machinery lately,” Bess said. “We hire most things done. That’s sensible at our age.”
Glancing at Ira as she spoke, Flint waited for some sign of agreement. What he got, instead, was a muttered curse, something the confused old man would never have done if he’d been in his right mind.
“I’ll be glad to do whatever I can on my days off,” Flint said, “but you really need more help around here than that.”
“Don’t need nothin’ from nobody,” Ira mumbled gruffly.
Well, at least he’s speaking, Flint thought, wondering how to best keep him engaged. This kind of attitude, let alone peppered with bad language, was not like the man he’d idolized from the moment his great-grandparents took him in and provided a stable home.
“You two have always looked out for others. It’s time we repaid you.”
“If it needs doin’ I’ll take care of it,” Ira insisted. He pushed to his feet, leaning on the edge of the table for support. “Don’t need no interference from you or anybody else.”
Bess reached toward Flint and touched his hand as her husband did his best to storm off despite stiff knees and hips. “Don’t pay him any mind. He’s just achin’ more with winter comin’ on,” she said. “He gets this way when he’s hurting bad.”
“What does his doctor say?”
She chuckled, eyes twinkling. “Not much other than hello when we see him in church. Your papaw hasn’t been to a doctor in a coon’s age.”
“Probably more like an elephant’s age,” Flint countered with a shake of his head. “It’s probably not safe to let him continue to drive, either. What if he gets lost?”
“He won’t. We got that GPS thingie on the new pickup.”
“I saw it under a tarp in the barn. Can’t you do something about getting him to see a doctor?”
“Well, I suppose you and I could try to stuff him in a feed sack and deliver him to the doc that way, but he’d be plenty mad when we let him out.” She sobered. “I’ve done my best to talk him into seeing our family doctor. It’s no use. Ira just gets upset, like now, and storms off. I suspect he’d be in a better mood if he’d take something for his pain, but he won’t touch a pill. Not even aspirin.”
“Because of my mother?”
“And her mother before her.”
Signing, Flint clasped Bess’s thin hand, taking care not to squeeze the distended knuckles. “Just because addiction happens to one person in a family, that doesn’t mean the rest of us are doomed.”
“I know.” Bess’s eyes were misted. “We did our best with our daughter. Even helped her raise your mama. But drugs got ’em both before they were old enough to vote. I think Ira blames himself.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
Bess snorted. “Warn me if you ever decide to say that to his face, okay? I wanna be far, far away.”
Far away? Been there, done that, Flint thought, and look what it got me. The loving old couple who kept me from going wrong as a teenager are failing, the farm is in ruin and Maggie has made a new life without me.
Not that it made sense to think the love of his life would have waited for him. Their families had both been dead set against their romance, so what could he expect?
That introspection brought him to ask something else that had been bothering him. “You know just about everybody in town over the age of thirty. Do you think Missy and Sonny Dodd could be dangerous?”
Bess smirked. “Well, Missy might talk a body to death, but otherwise they’re mostly blowin’ smoke.”
“What about Elwood Witherspoon?”
Her fingers pressed over her lips, and her eyes widened. “Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering. My captain mentioned Elwood. Other wardens have come up against him—when they can find him—and they say he’s a real piece of work.”
“I haven’t seen Elwood to speak to for years. Sorry.”
Frowning, Flint studied her expression. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.”
If she hadn’t been casting worried glances through the door into the living room and looking as if she were about to pass out, Flint might have accepted her statement without reservations. He wasn’t quite through eating but started to rise when she did. “Want me to help you clean up?”
“No, no. I’m used to doin’ kitchen chores. You finish your sandwich, then go back and tinker with that old tractor. In spite of what Ira says, I know this place needs a lot of TLC.”
“Have you ever thought of moving, maybe into assisted living?” Flint ventured.
Bess