“Easy.” Quieting his employee with a hand, Stone kept his focus on the veteran. “A lot of people say I look like the governor, and I’m sure his leaving office was a difficult choice.” No, not really. Though it’d gutted Stone to resign, there hadn’t been any choice.
For the first time, the older gentleman seemed not quite so sure about his presumption regarding Stone’s identity. “I know they hammered him—you.” He wasn’t one to give up easily apparently. “But you walked away from a gift!”
More like a nightmare.
“The world needs good, honest leaders,” the man growled, “and yeah, they tried to make you out to be a scoundrel and craven, but I know you’re a good man.”
Think again.
Gray eyes squinted at him. “You seen who’s in office now?” Blanton screwed up his face. “Might as well be Hitler!”
“Allen Kovacs is a good man.” Stone had uttered that line at least a thousand times since leaving Baltimore. His running mate held to similar values but had been ruthless.
A woman with dyed-red hair and a patriotic blouse came toward them, shaking her head. “Ed Blanton, why are you badgering these men?”
“It’s him—Metcalfe.”
Stone extended a hand to the wife. “Jackson Mulroney.”
The woman faltered, smile wavering just as Oscar’s had. “See?” she said with a jab into her husband’s side. “You just mixed him up, Ed.”
“Happens all the time.” Stone hated deceiving these good people or anyone else.
“I ain’t mixed up—he’s him! I voted for him and he threw it away!”
“I’ll throw you away if you ruin our vacation, Ed Blanton.” She offered up another shaky smile to Stone. “We did vote for Governor Metcalfe. He was such a good, honest Christian. And handsome to boot.” Despite her soft voice, she had a sharp gaze that narrowed on him, likely trying to see past the beard. “Terrible what happened to him. So sad to lose a man of character like that.”
Stone managed a nod.
“Anyway, sorry Ed’s giving you trouble—I told him to leave it alone. Lord knows you’ve been through enough. I mean, what the governor’s been through. And you, since you look like him and all.” She took her husband’s arm and tugged him toward the front vestibule. “Now, come on. We need to get going for that caves tour.”
Eating his pride and failure in one lumpy swallow as they left, Stone tried to haul his thoughts back into line. Thump down the words that had bludgeoned him for the past year. But he couldn’t. He’d failed—failed the Blantons, failed Baltimore, failed himself …
He looked to Oscar. “How long are they booked?”
“All week.”
Great.
So, he’d need to keep his presence minimal until they were gone. He stuffed his disappointment as he donned his black Cattle Baron. “I’ll get my mom settled, but then I’ll stay in my office or cabin during their booking. You good for a while?”
“Always,” Oscar said with a little too much cheer.
“Let Rowe know what happened, so he can fill in.” Grateful for the way his hat shielded his eyes, Stone ducked through the vestibule out onto the parking lot, eying the long, curving drive for the Beamer. Eighty-two degrees wasn’t hot, but it somehow felt smothering today. Wind teased his senses, rustling the branches—along with Grief, who was sniffing out something. At least he wasn’t eating another shoe.
Sunlight spat in his eyes as Brooke’s black BMW swung around the final turn into the parking lot. Hour of reckoning. He steeled himself. Having not spoken to his mom in person since resigning office, he knew the verbal beating she’d unleash. They’d always had a good relationship, but after that mess, he just couldn’t face her. He’d take Dad’s belt any day over Mom’s “look.” Clara Mulroney Metcalfe had raised six kids while his father chased terrorists and his next rank. The Metcalfes were who they were because of her.
The SUV rolled to a stop beneath the overhang.
Now or never, Metcalfe.
Not one to shy from a challenge, Stone moved to the passenger-side door and opened it. Saw exactly what he’d expected: Hands resting on her beige slacks, Mom stared out the front windshield. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Words weren’t necessary?—the hurt was clear on her aged features.
“Hey, Mom.” Guilt tugged at his conscience and pushed him into a crouch, his knees against the car’s undercarriage. “Good to see you.”
“Hmph.” Her chin lifted as she maintained a fixed gaze straight ahead, her eyebrow arched. “You haven’t visited in over a year. Haven’t called in nine months.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He hadn’t been ready. Still wasn’t. But he was braced for the hours alone, ample lectures, and a ream of Bible verses. “I’m sorry.”
