Blood Trail

drew would've annoyed the hell out of Vicki if it hadn't been so accurate. She held out her hand. "Vicki Nelson."

    "Carl Biehn."

    His palm was dry and leathery, his grip firm. Over the years, Vicki had discovered she could tell a lot about a man based on how he shook hands with her - or if he'd shake hands at all.
    Some men still seemed absolutely confused about what to do when the offered hand belonged to a woman. Carl Biehn shook hands with an economy of movement that said he had nothing to prove. She liked him for it.

    "You look like you could use some water, Ms. Nelson."

    "I could use a lake," Vicki admitted, rubbing at the sweat collected under her chin.

    His smile broadened. "Well, no lake, but I'll see what I can do." He led the way around the raspberry bushes and Vicki fell into step beside him. Her first view of the rest of the garden brought an involuntary exclamation of delight.

    "Do you like it?" He sounded almost shy.

    "It's ..." She discarded a pile of adjectives as inadequate and finished simply. "... the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

    "Thank you." He beamed; first at her and then out over the flower beds where a fallen rainbow, shattered into a thousand brilliant pieces, perched against every possible shade of green. "The Lord has been good to me this summer."

    Vicki tensed, but he made no other reference to God. And thank God for that. She had no idea if her admiration had broken through the elderly man's reserve or if he simply had none when it came to the garden. As they walked between the beds, he introduced the flowers they passed as though they were old friends - here adjusting a stake that held a blood red gladioli upright, there swiftly beheading a dying blossom.

    "... dusty orange beauties are dwarf hemerocallis, day lilies. If you make the effort to plant early, middle, and late varieties, they'll bloom beautifully from June on into September.
    They're not a fussy grower, not hard to work with, just give them a little phosphate and potash and they'll show their appreciation. Now these shasta daisies over here. ..."

    Having spent most of her life in apartments, Vicki understood next to nothing about gardens or the plants that grew in them but she could - and did - appreciate the amount of work that had gone into creating and maintaining such an oasis of color amid the summer-toasted fields.
    She also could appreciate the depth of emotion that Carl Biehn lavished on his creation. He wasn't soppy or twee about it but the garden was a living being to him; it showed subtly in his voice, his expressions, his actions. People who cared that much about something outside themselves were rare in Vicki's world and it reinforced her first favorable impression.

    An old-fashioned hand pump stood on a cement platform, close by the back door. Carl led the way across the lawn toward it, finishing his enthusiastic monologue about the new heritage roses just as he reached for the handle.

    "The cup appears to be missing again, Ms. Nelson. I hope you don't mind."

    Vicki grinned. "I may just stick my entire head under if that's all right with you."

    "Be my guest."

    For all its apparent age, the pump worked smoothly, pulling up clear, cold water with only the slightest taste of iron. Vicki couldn't remember the last time she'd tasted anything as good and the sudden shock of it hitting the back of her head erased much of the morning's stickiness. If the pump had been a little higher off the ground, she'd have stuck her entire body under it.
    Flicking her wet hair back off her face, she straightened and indicated the pump. "May I?"
    When Carl admitted that he wouldn't mind, they changed places. There was more pressure against the handle than Vicki had anticipated and she found herself having to lean into the mechanism. Gardening had obviously kept her elderly benefactor in good condition.

    "It really is incredible," she murmured. "I've never seen anything like it."

    "You should have seen it last week. Then it was really something." He stood, wiping his hands dry on his pants and gazing proudly out over the vast expanse of color. "Still, I have to admit, it doesn't look bad. Everything out there from A to Zee, from asters to zinnias."

    Vicki stepped back as a bumblebee, leg pouches bulging with pollen, flew a slightly wobbly course just past the end of her nose. From this angle, she could look out over the flowers, to the vegetables, to the fields beyond. The contrast was incredible. "It