Irish Chain by Earlene Fowler Read Free Book Online Page A

suspicion he’d probably enjoy it.
    “The kids did a great job,” I replied. “I really should check the punch.” I moved back, abruptly disengaging his hand and put the refreshment table between us, thankful that after tonight I wouldn’t have to work closely with him again. Thelma Rook, who once owned the largest feed store in San Celina, and her roommate, Martha Pickering, tottered up. Martha, a former waitress, inspected with a jaundiced eye the selection of cinnamon-sprinkled butter cookies, bright strawberry tarts and chocolate-dipped macaroons.
    “My dear Benni,” Thelma said. “This is so much fun. I feel sixteen again.” She touched long, large-knuckled fingers to the hand-beaded bodice of her silver and gray dress. I smiled at the woman who used to slip me sugar cubes from her husband’s stash to take home to my Appaloosa mare, Bacon Bits. Sometimes the treats made it home, sometimes they didn’t. Martha nodded her basketball bouffant of snowy curls in agreement and bit into a miniature chocolate eclair.
    “I’m terribly glad you ladies are enjoying yourselves,” Edwin said, coming around the table and standing close enough for me to gag from the smell of his Brut cologne. “We do try to provide here at Oak Terrace a rounded social environment specifically geared toward the discriminating senior. Isn’t that right, Benni?” He smiled with long beige teeth and punctuated his sentence by reaching over and giving my shoulder a squeeze, leaving his hand in place.
    “I suppose so,” I said, jerking my shoulder and giving him a deep frown. He gave me his best patent-leather smile and dropped his hand.
    “We know you do, Mr. Ed . . . um ... Edwin,” Thelma said, giving me a wink. “And we certainly appreciate it.” Behind her, Martha gave an extravagant snort and picked up a strawberry tart.
    The disc jockey put on an old sixties song—“Put Your Head On My Shoulder.” Edwin turned to me, an eager, somewhat hungry look on his face. “Benni, I think they’re playing our—” But before he could finish, Thelma interrupted.
    “Well, look at what’s coming your way, Benni,” she said. “If only I were a few years younger.”
    I followed the direction of her eyes across the room and felt my heart give a little jump. Clay O’Hara walked toward us wearing a squinty cowboy grin under his sandy handlebar mustache and a dark Stetson on his head. His Wranglers, faded just enough to show confidence, were snug enough to show the outline of his pocketknife.
    “Benni Ramsey.” He parked his thick-chested figure in front of me, one hip slightly cocked. “The last time I saw you, you were on your knees in cow shit holding a red-hot branding iron.”
    “You always had a way with words, Clay O’Hara,” I said. “And it’s been Benni Harper for almost fifteen years.”
    “That’s right,” he said, pushing his hat back slightly and running his mahogany eyes the length of me. Subtlety was never his strong suit. “You went and married that kid, didn’t you? Jack Harper and I didn’t take to one another much, but I was real sorry when Brady sent us the news clipping back in Colorado.”
    “Thank you,” I said. “So, I suppose that’s why you’re here, to visit your uncle?”
    “Among other things.” He pulled at his mustache with one rope-scarred finger and smiled.
    Next to me, Thelma cleared her throat.
    “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “This is Thelma Rook. She’s a resident here at Oak Terrace. And her friend, Martha Pickering.”
    “Ma’am,” he said, touching two fingers to the roper brim of his fudge-colored cowboy hat, nodding first to Thelma, then Martha.
    “And I’m assuming you and Edwin have met,” I said.
    “Of course we have,” Edwin said, sticking a long-fingered hand out to Clay. Clay contemplated it for a moment before giving it a quick shake. “We had the pleasure a few days ago when Mr. O’Hara and his uncle were going over his uncle’s will. He is seriously