by Destiny Ford
“I’d like to know what your interest is.”
“And I’m not going to tell you. My offer’s on the table—you can take it or leave it.”
I took him in with my eyes from head to toe and decided to agree to the partnership because I thought two heads would be better than one—and because I didn’t want to pass up the chance to ogle his ass or smell his ‘swagger.’ I put my hand out and he met it with his. “It’s a deal.”
We exchanged contact information before Hawke left to speak with more of the police officers. I walked around talking to officers, taking notes, and getting photos.
I had just finished trying to get more information out of Bobby—it didn’t work—when Hawke walked over to me. “The funeral should happen sometime in the next week. I’ll stop by your office so we can figure out our next step.”
I nodded. “I’ll see you then.” I watched Hawke walk to a sexy dark blue 1967 GT Shelby Mustang with two thick white racing stripes running up the hood, over the roof, and down the trunk. He fired up the loudest engine I’d ever heard, and the only thing interesting enough to turn the heads of Branson residents away from the scene of Chelsea Bradford’s death. As he threw the Mustang into gear and sped out of the park, I had the fleeting thought that contract work must pay a lot more than the salary of a small town newspaper editor.
Branson Falls sits in a sheltered valley in eastern Utah, surrounded by the picturesque Rocky Mountains. Summers are sweltering, winters are freezing, and much to the chagrin of every Branson kid, school doesn’t get canceled unless a storm drops at least two feet of snow. The county fair is the social event of the year, high school sports teams are celebrated with a fervor usually reserved for Olympians, and town events are announced on hand-painted paper signs that hang between two street lights over the middle of Main Street. With less than five-thousand residents, it’s a place where everyone knows everyone, and gossip is the only form of entertainment. Most people own police scanners to keep on top of current events, so today, a good chunk of Branson residents were standing behind the police tape at Emerald Lake.
As I surveyed the crowd, I saw people I’d known growing up. The mayor spoke to a group, some of whom I recognized from City Council meetings. The bowery by the lake was decorated in red, white and blue. It looked like there’d been a political event going on when Chelsea’s body was found. Interesting.
As I studied the people around the mayor, my eyes caught on the profile of a man wearing a white polo shirt. He turned to shake hands with someone and recognition set in as I tried not to fall over. Dylan Drake. Lawyer turned district representative for the Utah House of Representatives, most eligible bachelor in Branson—if not Utah—and my teenage crush. He looked my way with eyes so blue they’d make the ocean jealous and I caught my breath before I dropped straight to the ground, pretending I’d lost something.
Drake is five years older than me and the biggest womanizer in the state—which is saying something since Utah was built by polygamists. Like every other girl who’d set eyes on him, I’d fallen in lust with Dylan Drake. Unlike every other girl, he’d never really known I existed, and most of the experiences I’d had with him had been in my mind. He knew the cheerleaders though. If the rumors were true—and I was pretty sure they were—he’d acknowledged the hell out of every cheerleader he ever met. And I was no cheerleader.
Hiding on the ground in plain sight isn’t very inconspicuous and I was bound to start attracting attention soon; I just didn’t want it to be from Drake. I wasn’t sure I was ready to talk to him yet, considering our complete lack of history and all. Luckily I have reflexes like a fox and my evasive hide-like-a-child maneuver seemed to be working.
After a minute, I stood slowly, doing a quick Drake-check, then put my notebook in my purse while I looked for my keys as I walked to my Jeep. I still needed to visit the Crandall’s pig before I could get started on the stories about Chelsea’s death. My key search and rescue mission took longer than expected—which is probably the reason I didn’t notice the nest of vipers I’d walked into until I was surrounded.
The Ladies. The most feared group of women in town.
They have houses they can’t afford, spend their time gossiping and judging everyone they meet, and have no jobs to speak of except to stay the trophy wives their husbands married. They’re Branson’s version of The Real Housewives and many of them spent high school ridiculing everything from my hair to my clothes size. I try to avoid The Ladies as often as possible, though it’s not easy when they’re slowly circling me.
I couldn’t leave without acknowledging them, so I plastered a fake smile on my lips and placed my left leg to the side while pointing my toe to create the illusion that I was lean. I’d learned that gem of information from watching the Miss America Pageant my entire life.
I did a quick scan of the women, immediately recognizing two I’d gone to high school with: Jackie Wall, the ringleader of The Ladies, and her sidekick, Amber Kane. Jackie was only three years older than me and had somehow climbed to the top of The Lady ladder fast. I theorized that it had to do with Jackie knowing an incriminating piece of gossip some of the other Ladies didn’t want to slip.
I greeted Amber first. “Hi,” I said with a toothy smile. I noticed her makeup was so heavily applied it looked like it came from a theater supply store. Her blonde hair was frizzy from over-processing, and her long acrylic nails were painted blood red, reminding me of talons fresh off a kill. “It’s been a while.”
Amber responded with a twist of her lips that was more scowl than smile. “Kate.” I watched her for a few seconds wondering if she was going to say more, but it became clear she was done talking to me. I must not meet her Lady standards.
I turned my attention to Jackie instead. As far as style was concerned, she and Amber could be twins. “Hello, Jackie,” I said. I nodded toward the others like I was acknowledging mob members. “Ladies.” Some of the women in the group nodded in return.
Jackie greeted me with a short, “Kate.” She gave a rehearsed smile and asked, “When will we be seeing you in church?”
Ninety percent of Branson Falls residents are Mormons. This means the majority of people in town are right-wing Republicans who, according to the edicts of their church, aren’t allowed to swear, smoke, gamble, consume alcohol, drink coffee, watch R-rated movies, or have premarital sex. Of course, just because their religion gives them these rules, it doesn’t mean they always follow them. And there are usually a few people—like high school football team heroes named Drake—who have their blatant sinning overlooked.
Having no vices seemed pretty boring to me and though I’d once been a member of the Mormon Church, I’d left the religion in college, along with my virginity. “I’m not Mormon anymore,” I answered.
The Ladies gave a collective gasp as Jackie pursed her lips. “Oh,” she said, sticking her nose so high in the air that I had a front row seat to her sinuses. “Well, it’s only a matter of time until you come back to the fold.” She paused and waited for me to respond, but I knew there was no arguing with people like Jackie. When I didn’t answer, Jackie tilted her head toward the police officers still working by the lake. “Do you know what happened?”
Hawke had said the police were ruling Chelsea’s death an accidental drowning. I didn’t see any harm in telling Jackie that much. “They think it’s a drowning.”
Jackie’s eyes widened as murmurs started to rumble through the rest of the group. “Tragic,” she said with a shake of her head. “Do they know who it was?”
She should have known better than to ask. “The police aren’t releasing the name until they notify family members.”
She nodded, slightly curving her mouth. “Surely you know though.”
I smiled back. “You can read about it in the Tribune.”
Jackie thinned her eyes, unhappy she didn’t get the information she wanted. “We’ll do that.” She glanced at Amber, exchanging some sort of silent communication before turning b
ack to me. “So,” she said, her lips forming a mixture of a smile and a sneer, “you’ve been gone for what, seven years now? What brought you back to Branson, Kate?” Her voice was full of faux concern meant to be cutting. “We thought you might actually try to make something of yourself, but last we heard, you were living with some guy.” She said “living” like she meant sinning . . . which, in the eyes of most Branson residents, was the same thing.
My stomach twisted as I exhaled slowly. I could tell this conversation would be about as pleasant as a bikini wax. “We broke up,” I answered, trying to keep my face blank and give as little information as possible. The pang of regret that hit me wasn’t because of my failed relationship. Instead, it was disappointment that my life hadn’t gone as I’d planned. I was supposed to be traveling the world as a famous journalist. Now I was back in the town I’d spent the first eighteen years of my life trying to get away from because it was the one place I thought I could regroup. There was something comforting about home; even though my life plan had detoured, it felt right to be back in Branson.
Jackie’s voice pulled me out of my past. “Well, no wonder your relationship didn’t work out. You can’t expect the Lord to bless a sinful union.” I found this amusing since Jackie was recently divorced. In Branson, divorce is sandwiched between murder and premarital sex on the sin scale. Apparently Jackie didn’t notice my smirk because she kept talking, “It will take time, but I’m sure someday you’ll find someone willing to overlook your . . . indiscretions, and give you another chance.”
There were a lot of reasons my relationship hadn’t worked out; near the top of the list was that my ex-boyfriend had wanted a Stepford Wife instead of a woman with a mind of her own. When he realized I was lacking in the “docile and submissive” department and had instead been gifted with an abundance of “sassy,” we’d come to a mutual agreement that things weren’t going to work out. I bit my tongue in a valiant effort to keep myself from telling Jackie exactly what I thought. As I tried to compose a profanity-free response in my head, I felt a hand caress my lower back. Not just touch, caress. A hush fell over The Ladies and I heard a low, strong male voice say, “Hello, Ladies. Good to see you all.”
“H-h-hello,” Jackie stammered out in a breathy voice.
I turned my head slowly and came face-to-face with Dylan Drake. It’s a good thing I had so many Ladies flanking me or I might have collapsed straight to the ground like a female Gumby—and this time, the floor drop routine wouldn’t have been on purpose.
He met my eyes as blood rushed to my cheeks, and then he looked back at Jackie and The Ladies. “If you don’t mind, I need to talk to Katie.”
I stared in dumbfounded silence. Until that moment, I’d wondered if Drake had mistaken me for someone else. I wasn’t sure how he knew me; like I said, I was not a cheerleader.
Jackie’s gaze tracked over Drake’s arm to where it disappeared behind my back. She gave me a swift scowl before flashing Drake a wide smile. “Of course, Dylan. I’m sure you need to discuss this incident and how to handle it in the paper.” She put her arm out, gesturing to the lake and police cars. “Kate hasn’t lived here for so long that she’s practically an outsider. She could definitely benefit from someone with your experience.”
“Oh,” Drake said, flashing me a sly smile, “I don’t doubt it.” He turned back to Jackie. “I’ll do my best to help her out. Have a good day, Ladies.” He steered me away, his hand still on my back as we walked.
Before today, the last time I saw Drake I was an awkward eighteen-year-old and he was home from college for Christmas break. I’d sat in the corner of the Chinese restaurant with my friends, giggling and blushing, simultaneously desperate for and terrified of him giving me any attention. Now I was awkward and twenty-five, but my Wonderbra gave me confidence that my eighteen-year-old self would have killed for.
In the seven years since I’d seen him, Drake had only expanded his charm. And he was hot. Hotter than I remembered. He had a sexiness to him that only comes with experience—which he’d probably been getting since age twelve. The thick and wavy dark brown hair, strong jaw, and hard body didn’t hurt either.
Seeing him up close gave me the overwhelming urge to rip his shirt off, but every available woman in the state—and probably some unavailable ones too—had personal experience with his charm and I was determined not to be added to that list. I took a deep breath and with it inhaled the stormy scent of Drake’s cologne—then fought not to close my eyes and breathe it in again. I gathered my composure and locked eyes with him. There were hundreds of questions running through my head, but I asked the most obvious. “What did you need to talk to me about?”
He grinned. “Nothing, really. I was just rescuing you from The Ladies.”
I thinned my eyes. It had felt like I was surrounded by a pack of wild animals; apparently it had looked that way too. “Did I seem like I needed saving?”
Drake stopped and put his hands in his pockets as the corner of his mouth twitched. His eyes sparkled while he watched me, clearly entertained. “I saw you fall earlier and thought you might be having some sort of fit. Spending time with The Ladies would just exacerbate the problem so I decided I’d better intervene.”
Damn. He’d seen me trying to evade him. Luckily, I’d played the part of “chorus member” in my high school production of The Music Man, and my awesome acting skills were about to be called into action. “Fall?” I pushed my bottom lip out and furrowed my brow like I was trying to figure out what he was talking about. “Oh!” My eyes widened. “You mean when I dropped my pen.”
His lips curved in a half smile like he knew exactly why I’d dropped to the ground, but instead of pushing it, he changed the subject. “I saw your byline in the paper. I guess that means you’re back in town for good. And you’re a reporter now?”
“Editor, actually.” I held out my hand, since we’d never been formally introduced. “I’m Kate Saxee. And you’re a politician.”
He took my hand as he flashed his trademark smile, the reason he was so good at politics—and women. “I know who you are,” he said. “Politicians and journalists don’t always get along, but for you, I would make an exception.”
I reclaimed my hand, cocking my head to the side. “You mean because journalists tell the truth about what lying scumbags politicians are?”
He lifted his lips in a polite smile. “Tell me what you really think, Katie.”
I loathe the name Katie. “It’s Kate,” I said, the annoyance making my legs less rubbery than they would have normally been in this situation.
He rocked back on his heels, smiling again. “We should catch up.” He paused like he was gauging my reaction. “You know, since we’ll probably be working together at some point.” I nodded slowly, suspicious. Catch up? My entire history with Drake consisted of him patting me on the head after football games like I was a golden retriever. He must be remembering another girl. “I’ll stop by the Tribune this week, so we can . . . talk.”
I watched him steadily. This entire encounter had seemed a lot like flirting, and now he was setting up appointments that sounded like dates. Unfortunately, I wasn’t sixteen anymore and no amount of lust could overrule the voice in my head telling me not to get involved with a player like Drake. I was trying to come up with a reply when a voice started belting out “Forever in Blue Jeans.” I looked around, trying to figure out who would be singing at an accident scene, and then realized the voice was coming from my purse and my fancy new smart phone. That’s right, I’m a Neil Diamond fan, and it took me a long time to admit it.
Drake cocked an eyebrow. “Interesting ringtone. Is that who I think it is?” I fumbled in my purse for the phone so I could silence it. Somehow, the speaker just kept getting louder, which made Drake even more intrigued. “I’m pretty sure the last time I heard that song was during a campaign visit at the nursing home.”
I shook my head as I finally found the phone and pointed it at him. “You should respect Neil
. Bad things happen to people who don’t.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “I’ve heard it’s pretty tough to outrun senior citizens in sequined shirts.”
I glared at him as I answered the phone. “Hey, Spence,” I said. “Hold on for a second.” I put my hand over the speaker and looked at Drake. “As much as I’d like to stay here and continue our witty banter, I have work to do.”
He nodded, still smiling about the song. “It was good to talk to you, Katie,” he said just to aggravate me. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”
I looked over my shoulder as I walked away. “My name is Kate.”
I put the phone back up to my ear so I could continue the conversation with my boss, Spence Jacobs. “Sorry,” I said as I got in my Jeep. “Things have been hectic here.” I leaned my head against the back of the seat to rest my neck.
“I’m sure,” he said in a smooth voice. “What did you find out?”
I exhaled a deep breath as I rubbed my palm across my forehead. “The body was a teenage girl. I didn’t know her, but I’ve heard of her parents.”
There was a moment of silence from Spence’s end of the phone. “You have her name?” he asked, his tone skeptical—and worried. “How did you get that?”
An image of Hawke’s tight shirt and bad-boy smile flashed in my head. “I had help,” I answered, not wanting to explain. “Her name was Chelsea Bradford. That will make it easier to get started on the stories about her tonight.”
Spence blew out a breath loud enough I could hear it through the phone. “I already know one thing about her,” he said.
“What?” I asked, pulling out of the parking lot.
“Chelsea Bradford hasn’t been in Branson Falls for months.”
I decided to make a quick stop at the convenience store. Given how the afternoon was progressing, I was going to need a coffee the size of Montana before the day was over.