The Gift by Deb Stover Page A

this in over three years, Sam. It drove me to Bourbonville once. I don’t want to go back there.”
    “Then don’t. Just don’t.”
    “Easy for you to say.”
    Yes, it was easy for him to say, because he wasn’t powerless over alcohol. He’d gone through the treatment-program sessions with Beth as a family member. He’d read all the literature, taken all the counseling, and vowed to do whatever it took to help her stay sober.
    And wasn’t that exactly what she’d just asked him to do? Damn.
    “Can you hold out three more weeks until the end of semester?”
    “That’s a long time to drag out the investigation.”
    “Best I can do, with finals and all.”
    “Are you saying you’ll come then?”
    “Why the hell not? I’ve never been to Tennessee, and I’ll be due a vacation by that point.”
    “The spirit seems to be confined to the foyer,” she said. “I’ll simply avoid the foyer.”
    Sam had to laugh at that. “Strictly the back door for you?”
    “Damn right.”
    “Remember, she might not have anything to tell me, Beth. Only spirits with certain types of needs contact me, just as only certain ones contact you.”
    Her sigh sounded weary now. “I know, Sam. Trust me, I know. We’ve both always known…”
    “And what about the, uh, man?” He cleared his throat. “You, uh, going to be able to hold out on him, too?”
    “I…I’m not sure I want to.”
    “That’s one hell of a confession, coming from you,” Sam said quietly, no trace of mockery in his tone. “Just be careful. Okay?”
    “Promise. Now I have to go to a birthday party. See you in three weeks.”
    “Okay, three weeks. Bye, Beth.”
    Sam punched the off button and stared for several minutes at the phone cradled in his palm. No sense in denying it. He was worried.
    Surely his cousin had considered the probable identity of that spirit in the foyer…
    One of the farmhands was taking his wife to Knoxville to run errands for several families, and it seemed like Beth’s best opportunity to get out of Lorilee’s Barbie-doll clothes. At Ty’s insistence, Beth gave him a shopping list that included her jeans and T-shirt sizes, a package of simple cotton panties, and a few pair of socks. She could get by with just her Nikes, and she usually went braless anyway. There was no way she would ask Ty Malone to buy her bras.
    She’d added basic toiletries, some antacids, and more ibuprofen as well. After meeting Ty’s kids, she had a feeling she’d be needing plenty of those.
    Besides Lorilee’s questionable taste, it made Beth more than a little uncomfortable to wear the late wife’s clothes while lusting after her husband. Whether the woman was dead or not…However, until the messengers returned from Knoxville Beth really had no choice. She glanced down at the Western-stylesplit skirt the wonderful Pearl had brought her this morning. It was a little loose at the waist, and hit just above her knees. She suspected it was intended to be worn midcalf. Obviously Lorilee hadn’t been anywhere near Beth’s almost six feet.
    The white blouse had two patch pockets, one strategically placed over each breast. At least that was something. Otherwise, since white and braless was not a wise combination—unless she were auditioning for a wet-T-shirt contest—Beth would have been forced to attend a twelve-year-old boy’s birthday party as a sex-education visual aid.
    The mothers of Brubaker would have run her out of town with tar and feathers for sure. Considering how those genteel Southern belles had turned on poor Lorilee, Beth could scarcely imagine their reaction to a damned Yankee, recovering alcoholic, former-detective, gun-toting, probable slut. The thought made her grin at her revolting reflection.
    That Beth Dearborn is nothing but a Jezebel.
    She chuckled and finished buttoning the blouse. Her Nikes looked pretty lame with this getup, but they’d have to do. Lorilee’s shoes were way too short and wide for Beth’s long, narrow