Blame It on Texas

by Christie Craig

He almost continued on, but at the last moment, he decided he wanted the book more than he wanted to prove a point. Plus, if he considered the clerk’s point of view, he supposed it could have looked strange. Why the hell did being a father have to be so damn hard?

  He gave her the name of the book Ellen had recommended.

  “That’s a good one,” the clerk said. “My grandson loved it.”

  Before he left, the clerk had sold him on three more books. When he got in his car, he debated if he wanted to mail the books to Ricky or wait until he saw him. If Candy didn’t pull anything, he was supposed to go down in two weeks. He saw a vision of Ricky in his mind and smiled.

  Maybe when he was there, he might try reading one of the books to his son. Though he wasn’t so sure he could pull off the silly voices that the woman did. But he could try. The thought of making his son laugh sent a yearning to his gut.

  He hadn’t gotten his car started when his phone rang. “Candy again.”

  The temptation to answer it was great. He wanted to tell her he’d bought Ricky some books. He wanted to hear something about his son. Was he into books? Did he still love to play with the cars he’d sent him for his last birthday?

  He could hear Jeff, his friend and lawyer, telling him not to take the call. And he hadn’t been answering them, but what if something was wrong? Hitting the On button, he put it to his ear.

  “Hello, Candy.” He tried to keep emotion from his voice.

  “Hi, Rick,” she said.

  “Is Ricky okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah, he’s fine.” She paused, as if trying to find the words to ask something. Something that probably involved money.

  “Do you ever read to him?” he blurted out.

  “What?” she asked.

  He frowned. “Read. You know, children’s stories. Like bedtime stories. Someone told me if you read to them, they’ll probably start reading early.” An image of that someone—aka Ellen Wise—filled his head.

  “He’s only four,” Candy said.

  “He’s five,” Rick snapped, and closed his eyes. “You don’t even know how old our son is.”

  “I just forgot.”

  “That’s not something a mother should forget.”

  “I didn’t call to get bitched at. I was hoping you might help me out again.”

  Fuck! “What is it this time, Candy? Drugs or booze?”

  “Neither, you bastard,” she snapped. “It’s expensive raising a kid.”

  He shook his head. “Then give him to me so I can raise him.”

  “You just don’t want to pay child support.”

  “Goddamn it, woman. Have I missed one payment? No. And why not? Because he’s my son. I care about him. And damn it, but maybe I’d just like to know he’s being raised right, by someone who loves him.”

  Rick heard the line go dead. “Motherfucker!” He slammed his palm on the steering wheel.

  Furious, he picked up his phone and dialed Jeff’s number. When Jeff answered, Rick didn’t hesitate. “You got one more week. If I don’t have my son away from her by then, I’ll get him myself. They can have me arrested for kidnapping. I don’t give a damn anymore.” His gut knotted, remembering that Candy didn’t even know how old Ricky was.

  “Calm down. I was just about to call you. I’ve got a court date. Two weeks. Hang on that long.”

  “I want full custody,” Rick said, not wanting to think about what his son was dealing with by living with a mom who didn’t care.

  “We can ask, but we’ll probably only get joint. You’d better start looking around for child care and stuff like that. The judge will ask how you plan to take care of him.”

  “Okay,” Rick said.

  And right then, it hit him. He didn’t have a clue how to do this. And he didn’t just mean finding child care. He didn’t know how to be a father.

  His gut turned rock hard. He gripped the steering wheel and then recognized the emotion. Fear.

  What if he screwed up? What if his kid didn’t like him?

  “Fuck,” he said aloud. He ran a hand over his mouth. He’d have to stop using that language. He’d have to learn to read books in crazy voices. He’d have to learn to make peanut butter sandwiches and probably macaroni and cheese, and how to cut the crust off bread.

  Yeah, he remembered his mom doing that for his lunches.

  Too bad she’d been dead for over ten years.

  He needed help. And he needed help fast.

  One person came to mind.

  He needed Ellen Wise.

  Ellen was almost to her car when Rick’s Malibu pulled up.

  She gave her sagging mental panties a yank and hurried to her car. If she was lucky, by the time she got back from picking up the takeout for everyone’s lunch, he’d be gone.

  “Hey.” He jumped out of his car in a hurry.

  She waved and hopped into her car. She had just got the car started when he tapped on her window. Frowning, she hit the button to lower the window.

  “I was hoping I could talk to you a minute,” he said.

  Damn, damn! She really didn’t want to have to tell him no again. “I’m sorry. I can’t. Gotta go.”

  “Can I buy you a cup of coffee this afternoon?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve already told you, I’m not available. Let’s not make this harder than it already is.”

  “But…”

  She started backing up. When she looked in the rearview mirror, he stood there looking miserable. Her first instinct was to put on the brakes, turn around, and apologize. She couldn’t. No matter how much she might be attracted to him, she didn’t need the complications right now.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  TYLER SAT DOWN on the sofa and waited for Zoe to get ready. In the back of his mind, he recalled the sound of her laughter as she’d worked with Ellen. And damn, but she had a pretty laugh. Like bells. Nice bells, musical bells. He heard the shower cut off and envisioned her reaching into the cabinet for a towel. Inhaling, he could almost smell her—shampoo, soft skin. Naked skin. He tried not to imagine what she’d look like naked and wet. And willing.

  He wanted her willing.

  He picked up the magazine she’d been reading last night, hoping he’d find something to mentally chew on besides Zoe naked. But nothing held a candle to Zoe. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back and inwardly groaned.

  She’d been cordial all day, even helped Ellen do the filing. He caught her several times studying him—but she’d turn away as soon as he caught her, as if trying to put up barriers. He could accept it. She wasn’t into fun… temporary flings. And he wasn’t into… getting hurt again. He’d go so far as to say that putting up walls was probably for the best. He had his own walls, and should be able to respect hers. But he didn’t have to like it.

  There wasn’t much he liked about today. Sam’s issues bit into his sanity. He’d talked to her but couldn’t mention the call from Lola. So, he’d listened to her lie about how things were great.

  He loved Sam. Before she’d gotten married the first time, he’d felt closer to her than anyone else.

  It wasn’t the marriage that came between them, either. He wanted her to be happy; it was just so damn hard to watch her make stupid choices that later hurt her. It started with a bad boyfriend. Then her first husband had cheated on her several times while they were dating, and yet she’d still married the bastard. When Tyler tried to talk to her, she’d accused him of being jealous that she still believed in love and he didn’t.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in love. It was that he was probably preconditioned to fail at it. And maybe so was Sam. Why couldn’t Sam learn from her mistakes? He sure as hell didn’t need to be kicked in the gut again to realize the errors of his ways—caring too much should come with a warning label. He had his circle of people he looked after. His family, his partners. The smaller one’s circle was, the less likely one would be disappointed… or disappoint others.

  As if worrying about Zoe and abou
t Sam wasn’t enough, Tyler spent all day researching missing kids on the Internet. Not fun. There were more than he cared to count in the time period that Caroline Bradford had gone missing. Yet none of them could have passed for a four-year-old girl.

  After that hideous job was done, he decided to help Dallas search the Adamses. He came up with nothing. Zilch. The same thing Dallas got. He decided to call the State Licensing Board. Zoe had said her dad had worked in construction and her mom had been a teacher. Finding out where they worked or maybe where they lived might be a starting point.

  The bored clerk willingly looked up the information as long as Tyler entertained her with conversation. He’d been very entertaining. Mildred Adams had no licenses or permits to her name in the state of Texas. Later, Zoe told him that her mom hadn’t gone back to school until she was in kindergarten, when they lived in Alabama, which explained that. However, Ralph Adams didn’t have a contractor license. The helpful lady did a cross match on other licenses. She found one Ralph Adams who held a cosmetology license, one with a nursing license, and one who was a licensed mortician. Zoe said her father had been a contractor all his life, so none of those fit. Or at least didn’t seem to.

  Rick Clark was going to try to get some DNA from old man Bradford, but Bradford had him working out of the guesthouse. So figuring a way to get the old man’s toothbrush or some other personal item was going to be tricky.

  Rick also agreed to see what he could find on Zoe’s parents through the Miller PD resources. But due to a personal emergency, he was taking the day off.

  Tomorrow Tyler would call the Social Security Administration and try to bypass the open record forms, which could take weeks to get clearance. He also planned to call the county appraisal offices in the counties surrounding Shadows County, where the real Zoe Adams was born, to see if a Ralph Adams had ever bought or sold any property in those jurisdictions.

  Austin had run down John Phillips, the retired detective who’d worked the Bradford case. He was alive, but he’d gone on a cruise and wouldn’t be back for two days. Adding to the day’s frustration was that Roberto hadn’t checked in. He’d done this before, gotten caught up in something and forgot to touch base, and the next time Tyler spoke with him, he was going to address it.

  So basically, nothing had gone right today. He knew that most of the jobs they worked were like this. You put in hours of research and feel as if you’re getting nowhere and then stumble over some other new tidbit that makes it all make sense. It took patience. And Tyler was fresh out. Or maybe what patience he had was being spent to keep him from hauling Zoe back on the sofa and convincing her two weeks was better than nothing.

  The sound of the bathroom door opening had him changing mental gears. He sat up, hungry to see her.

  “I’m almost ready,” she called out. “Just a few more minutes. I know guys hate waiting.”

  “Take your time.” He frowned.

  She’d agreed to go to dinner, then to run to his place to get some things from his apartment.

  Finally, he heard her walking down the hall. He picked up the magazine, pretending to be occupied.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “No problem.” He looked up and knew he was wrong. It was a problem. She’d left her hair down, swaying around her shoulders. His hands itched to touch it. Her lips were glossed with a color. But damn, her mouth was amazing. Whatever she’d done to her eyes made them more striking.

  The problems didn’t stop with her face, either.

  The fitted green top accentuated her hourglass figure, and made him want to slip his hands in that sweet curve of her body that he’d found yesterday at the police station. The scooped neckline of the top hinted and teased at more cleavage than it showed, but the hint was enough to set a man’s imagination on fire. He already had a heat-index code-red warning.

  “Let me grab my purse.” She headed for the kitchen, and his gaze followed her. Her jeans hugged every delectable inch of her lower body. Hugged it in a way that guaranteed his lower body wasn’t going to be comfortable in his jeans.

  His phone rang, forcing his attention from Zoe. Checking the caller ID, he saw the diner’s number.

  “Yes?” he answered.

  “It’s Dixie.” The woman’s Texas tone filled the line. “You said to call if anyone called and asked about Zoe.”

  “And?”

  “Someone called. Wanted to know when she was scheduled to work.”

  “And what did you say?” He looked at Zoe, who seemed to know the call was about her.

  “I told ’em what you told me to. That I didn’t know ’cause she didn’t show up for her shift today. Then I asked what they wanted with her.”

  “And?”

  “He said he was with a collection agency. Lying piece of shit.”

  Zoe arched her brow in question.

  Tyler held up a finger. “So no one came in and asked about her?”

  “Nope,” she said. “You gonna tell me what’s up with that girl?”

  “Did you check caller ID when he called?”

  “It was listed as unknown,” Dixie answered. “I care about that girl, Mr. Lopez.”

  I care about her, too. The truth of that thought sent a warning right to his gut. “I’m watching out for her. As soon as I can share things with you, I will. Thank you for calling.”

  He hung up and looked at Zoe. “Dixie. Someone called the diner looking for you.”

  “Who?” she asked.

  “Said they were a collection agency.”

  “I don’t owe anyone,” she said.

  “They’re just checking to see if you’ve left town.”

  She folded her arms against her chest, as if feeling vulnerable. “And what do we do now?”

  “We let them think that until we figure out who they are.”

  “And if we can’t figure it out?” she asked.

  “We have to.”

  When they left the apartment, he’d suggested Italian. She’d recommended a pizza joint.

  He’d countered with a steak restaurant; she’d suggested a burger place.

  He’d recommended a really nice Chinese place.

  She insisted she knew a great Chinese restaurant and wanted him to try it. When he pulled up into the strip center in the run-down neighborhood close to her apartment, next to a pawnshop that he knew dealt with stolen merchandise, he reminded her he was paying for the dinner. She informed him that her meal should go on her bill. Then she’d teased him about being a snob.

  “You can’t judge a book by its cover,” she’d said. “Seriously, it’s great.” She’d popped out of his car and headed to the restaurant.

  He’d followed her. With jeans that fit like that, any man would have.

  Zoe had been right. The mom-and-pop, hole-in-the-wall restaurant had the best cashew chicken and tempura shrimp he’d ever tasted. The entire meal cost less than fifteen dollars. Plus, Mom and Pop knew Zoe by name and served up eggrolls on the house.

  Zoe asked them about their five-year-old grandson, whom she’d taught to write his name while eating here one night. He remembered Zoe claiming she didn’t know anyone in town, yet it seemed everywhere she went she made friends—people at the diner, her neighbors, even Chinese restaurant owners.

  Gazing up, he watched her chase a cashew around her plate with her fork. He liked how she ate. No picking at her food, no putting on airs as a lot of women did. She ate with appreciation.

  “Okay, stick a fork in me.” She pushed the plate aside.

  “Good. I’ve been eyeing your last shrimp since I finished mine.” He speared the shrimp and popped it in his mouth.

  She laughed. “So you approve of my restaurant selection?”

  “Oh, hell, yes.” As he drank the last of his beer, he wondered if now was the best time to ask about the recurring nightmares that Ellen had mentioned to him.

  Running his nail along the label of his beer, he asked, “Is there anything you remember when you were really young that migh
t help figure out what happened?”

  She inhaled. “Ellen told you?”

  “She was just trying—”

  “I know,” she said. “I like Ellen; she reminds me of Tara.”

  “Who’s Tara?” he asked.

  “My friend who died in my senior year of high school.”

  She picked up a paper napkin and started folding it over and over again—a sure sign she was upset. He wondered if it was the question about her childhood or the memory of her friend that affected her.

  Zoe looked up from her napkin. “Was Ellen really stabbed?”

  “Yes.” Was this Zoe’s way of telling him she didn’t want to talk about the nightmare? He decided not to push. “It was touch and go for a while, too. She was lucky.”

  Zoe frowned. “And I thought I had it bad.”

  “You got shot.” He stacked his plate on top of hers.

  “Scratched by a bullet,” she said.

  “It could have been so much worse.” He’d concluded that the asshole who’d shot at her apartment hadn’t been intending to kill her, but one of those ricocheting bullets could have gone awry. And he wanted to catch this idiot before he tried anything else.

  “But it wasn’t,” she said.

  He was about to suggest they ask for the check, when she picked up the napkin and started folding it again. “You know they say dreams aren’t accurate.”

  So, she was going to tell him. He prepared himself not to like it. “I know. I took some classes in oneirology and read a couple of books on it. But there can be elements of truth there. And in some cases a lot of truth.”

  She started rolling the napkin into a long cylinder. “The child psychologist told me it was just nightmares. That everyone had something they were afraid of. That the dreams were just my imagination pointing out my fears.”

  “What are you afraid of?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “At first they suggested it was of the dark. But I didn’t agree. I mean, I wasn’t afraid of just the dark. It had to be in a small space.”

  “Claustrophobic?” he asked.

  “Sort of, but not really. I mean, elevators, crowds, they never bother me, unless it’s dark. It… it has to be a closet.”