Dillon had put on a pair of opaque sunglasses, but even with his eyes obscured by the dark lenses she could tell that he was furious. Out of deference to curious passersby, he kept his voice low and taut.
“What the hell was that all about?”
“This isn’t the time or place to discuss it.”
He lowered his face closer to hers. “The hell it’s not. Before I turn a single spade of dirt, I want to know if I’ve got shotguns aimed at my back. Who was that old bastard in the wheelchair?”
“His name is Ivan Patchett, and he hasn’t always been in a wheelchair.” She raised her hand to brush back a strand of loose hair. Her hand was shaking. She hoped Dillon wouldn’t notice. “However, he has always been a bastard.”
“Patchett? The soybean guy?”
“That’s right. Now, please let go of my arm. I’ve been on public display enough for one morning. I don’t want to engage in a wrestling match with you here on Main Street.”
He glanced down at his hand, which had shackled her upper arm. Apparently he hadn’t realized until then that he was touching her. He released her immediately. “The other guy was his son?”
“Neal.”
“What’s your beef with them?”
“That’s my business.” She tried to get into the car, but he trapped her arm again as quickly as a snare.
“You made it my business when you got me out of that L.A. jail.” As he strained each rough word through his teeth, his mustache barely moved. “You led me to believe that everything was going to be peachy keen down here in Dixie, that all the townsfolk were behind this thing one hundred percent, and that I’d have people lining up to work for me. Obviously that isn’t quite the way it is. I want to know what I’m up against.”
“What you’re up against at the moment, Mr. Burke, is
me.” Despite the stragglers still ambling along the sidewalk, she wrenched her arm from his grasp. “Your responsibilities do not extend to public relations. That’s my department. From here on, I’ll thank you not to try and second-guess my motives. And I’ll fire you if you dare try to interfere.”
She ducked into the car and slammed the door. She didn’t look back as she pulled out of the parking space and drove away.
Jade knew Dillon had every right to be concerned about public support because it could radically affect his work schedule. Her dealings with the Patchetts, however, were none of his business and never would be. Besides, she didn’t think he would welcome knowing that he was playing even a small role in a revenge plot. In any case, she wasn’t going to tell him more than he needed to know.
As she entered her house, her recently installed telephone was ringing. “Hello?”
“Is the meeting over yet?”
“Mr. Stein!” she exclaimed. “Yes, it just now concluded.”
“Why didn’t you call me? I told you to call me.”
“I was about to. I’m barely inside the door.”
“Well? How did it go?”
“Splendidly. We couldn’t have asked for a better response.” She briefly filled him in on what had transpired, omitting any mention of the Patchetts.
“So, you’re still sold on the commercial potential of this area.”
“Without qualification.”
“Good. Then let me tell you about a few ideas I’ve been toying with.”
Jade sat down to listen.
* * *
“Are you still here? Can’t you take a hint?”
With the toe of his new shoe, Dillon nudged the stray dog aside as he unlocked the trailer door. “Beat it!” The mongrel looked up at him with woebegone eyes, lay back down on the step, and rested his head on his forepaws. “Suit yourself,” Dillon grumbled. “But don’t expect me to keep feeding you.”