by Terry Odell
Ryan urged the dog to the door. "Go on." With apparent reluctance, the dog left his side for the hallway. Ryan heard his toenails click down the stairs and shut the bedroom door. Pop had redecorated his room, an obvious guest room now, but a familiar comfort eked out. He stared out the window and the years peeled away. Like his father, the oak tree outside hadn't changed much. Leaving the curtains open, he sat on the edge of the bed and stripped to his briefs.
He pulled back the comforter, turned off the lamp and lay on his back, hands clasped behind his head, and watched the shadows from the oak tree pirouette on the ceiling. The smell of clean sheets carried him back to a time when geometry theorems and getting up the nerve to ask Pammi Calder on a date were his biggest challenges, and he drifted off.
Even in sleep, hairs prickled on his neck and the nightmare returned. Icy fingers reached inside his chest and grabbed his heart.
He hid behind the couch in the Forcada's living room, the little girl trembling beneath him.
"Shh, Carmelita. It'll be okay," he said, knowing damn well it was anything but okay.
She looked at him with huge brown eyes. Trusting brown eyes. "Si. Okay."
He peered underneath the couch into the room. Boots. Too many boots. Gunfire filled his ears. Smoke assaulted his nostrils. If he fired, he'd give away his position. Someone tipped the couch forward. A faceless man with a gun.
He tried to move. Tried to fire. When the faceless man pointed the gun at him, he tried to scream, but no sound would come.
This time, in the shadows, a man, tall and broad, broke through the dream and knelt at his side, pushing the hair away from his sweat-soaked forehead.
"It's all right," a familiar voice said. "You're safe, son."
For the first time since the incident, the terror faded, and instead of waking with a pounding heart, Ryan slipped back into sleep.
Sunlight streamed in the window. From the foot of the bed, Wolf looked up at him. Ryan squinted and rubbed his eyes, staring at the closed bedroom door then back at the dog. A lump formed in his throat.
Thanks, Pop.
Chapter 2
Frankie Castor adjusted the bustier under her blouse and threw her stilettos into her tote. Not telling anyone where she was going wasn't the same as lying, was it?
"Are you going out again, Mommy?" Molly peeked into the room. "You said we would be together a lot when we came to Gramma's."
Frankie's heart tugged at the look of betrayal in her five-year-old's face. "I know, Peanut. And we will. It'll be spring break tomorrow, and we'll have lots of time together. Be good for Gramma, and I'll kiss you when I get home."
"Can you make macaroni and cheese?"
Frankie glanced at her watch, weighing the tradeoff of a speeding ticket versus being late again. Neither option was acceptable. She leaned down and kissed Molly's cheek. "I have to go. I promise we'll have lots of fun starting tomorrow. Why don't you get a story to read with Gramma? You can ask her about macaroni and cheese."
Molly stormed in and out of her bedroom, closing the door loud enough to voice her displeasure, but not hard enough to earn a reprimand for slamming, before her footsteps clattered down the stairs.
Frankie raced downstairs, across the porch and into the old Chevy Cavalier waiting in the driveway.
"Come on, baby. Start for me." She patted the dash with one hand and turned the key with the other. As the car wheezed into compliance, she longed for the company BMW she'd had to relinquish when she'd left Boston. Not to mention her office with a view of the Commons. But family came first.
Guilt followed her down the highway, out of Broken Bow, Montana, toward Stanton. Not that anyone in the Broken Bow PTA would come into a honky-tonk like the Three Elks, but her day job as an elementary school art teacher would be over if the parents found out she worked there.
She swung into a parking slot in the alley behind the Three Elks, grabbed her tote from the backseat and raced inside.
"I'm here, Mr. Stubbs."
Mr. Stubbs, owner and bartender made a point of looking at both his watch and the clock over the bar. "I can see that."
Drained from a day spent helping third and fourth graders create a collage, she was already counting the minutes until her shift ended. She squirmed into her skimpy uniform. It's temporary, she reminded herself while she fussed with foundation and blush, with bright red lipstick and black eyeliner. But the money was good. She was already thinking of a new furnace instead of a repair job. Soon she'd have to tell Mom what she was doing, but not until she figured out how to talk about the budget.
She pulled her shoes from her tote and rubbed her feet. Mr. Stubbs, always looking for a gimmick, insisted the wait staff spend twenty minutes of each hour dancing with the patrons. It wouldn't be half-bad if he didn't insist on stilettos. She slipped into her shoes and took a few warm-up steps. Before unlocking the door, she pinned on her Gladys nametag. Satisfied, she opened the door and headed for the bar, strutting the way Mr. Stubbs liked.
"Right on time, Mr. Stubbs," she said.
"I told you, call me Stubby. Everyone else does."
Tall and lean, if ever there was a man who didn't live up to his name, it had to be Clarence Stubbs.
"Right. Stubby. Anything on special tonight?" She grabbed an order pad from below the marble-topped bar and hoped he hadn't come up with another gimmick. Last week's Chinese tacos had been a disaster.
"Two-for-one margaritas until seven," he said. Frankie gave a hello smile to red-headed Belle, who pulled beers at the taps. Patti, the other server, wasn't due in until eight, which meant more tables—and more tips—until then.
"You like to cut it close, don't you?" Belle asked. She glanced in Mr. Stubbs' direction, then touched Frankie's wrist. "How's your mom?"
Frankie gave a noncommittal shrug. "About the same."
Belle leaned forward, her D-cups swelling over the low-cut uniform blouse, and lowered her voice. "Look, it can be tough. I've been there. But sometimes a nursing home is the best, you know? Like, it's better than them forgetting to turn off the stove and burning the house down. Think about it."
"Mom's nothing like that. Just a little absent-minded."
"But you're at work all day, and here three nights a week. What if something happens? You've got a kid."
Guilt rose again, and she tamped it down. "Brenda's there. Mom cut back her rent so she helps around the house and babysits."
Belle shrugged. "If you say so. She's still a grad student. My money says either school or guys are her top priorities."
"She's practically family," Frankie said. "Molly loves her."
Mr. Stubbs coughed. "Take table seven, Gladys. You've got section three tonight."
She looked up. Table seven held a party of six—three couples, wearing clothes that said they worked in an upscale office. The promise of decent tips lightened her step as she began her evening. "Hi, I'm Gladys. What can I get you?"
At nine, ready for a break, Frankie filled a mug with coffee and ducked behind the bar, her back to the customers. The antique gold-flecked mirror reflected distorted images, giving the room an underwater feel.
Belle's stage whisper penetrated the background noise. "Oh, great. Mr. Tall, Dark and Grouchy's here early."
It didn't take long to see who Belle was talking about. Over six feet tall, the man radiated a presence that said, "Hands off." He trudged to the far corner booth and slid into its darkness like a bear into its cave.
"What do you know about him?" Frankie asked.
"Nothing," Belle said. "He's been coming in almost every night, after your shift. Has a drink, messes around with a computer, has another drink, then leaves. Always alone. Pays cash. Reasonable tips. He's not looking for action, that's for sure."
The computers had been another one of Mr. Stubbs' gimmicks, less than successful. Why he thought anyone would come to a tavern to work was beyond her. The few who used them tended to nurse drinks and leave lousy tips.
The man glanced in the
direction of the bar. Patti sighed and reached for her order pad.
"Wait," Belle said. "Give him to Gladys—five bucks says even she can't get him to smile."
Frankie took a last sip of coffee and adjusted her Gladys nametag, her own gimmick. Who'd want to hit on someone named Gladys? Just about anyone, she discovered her first night.
She watched the man, slumped in the corner as if the world sat on his shoulders. "A smile?" she said. "I'll take that bet." She pulled a five out of her tip pouch and set it under her coffee mug. Giving her uniform skirt a quick tug, she stepped across the floor, forgetting her aching feet.
"What'll you have, sir?" She leaned forward to light the candle in the red jar on the table, displaying her chest the way Mr. Stubbs insisted. Not that she had a lot to display, despite the bustier. Belle got the big tips.
"Don't," he said, his voice a harsh bark.
Frankie straightened, and in the match's glow, gave her customer a closer look. Long, wavy brown hair mingled with a full, scruffy beard that said he didn't bother to shave. He kept his gaze low, his eyes shadowed behind half-lowered lids. Nostrils flared on a nose that looked as if it had been broken at least once.
She fanned out the match. There might be a chip the size of a redwood tree on his shoulder, but there was a pain in his eyes that reminded her of Buddy, an abandoned stray she'd tried to befriend as a child. "Things are always better in the light. What can I get you?" Besides a shoulder to cry on. Nobody should hurt that much. His eyebrows moved up a few millimeters, as if he expected her to know his usual drink.
"Jack."
She flashed him her friendliest smile. "Hello, Jack. I'm Gladys."
The eyebrows went up an inch this time, but his mouth was set. "Daniels."
She tried again. "Sorry. Mr. Daniels."
He glowered. "Jack Daniels. As in whiskey. Neat."
"Sure thing, Jack. Coming up."
She stepped back to the bar. Aware Mr. Stubbs was watching, she widened her smile and shifted her gait to the hip-rolling strut he preferred. "Knob Creek," she said. "Neat."
Mr. Stubb's eyes snapped up from her hips, back to her face, where they belonged. "He order that?"
"I'm sure that's what he said, Mr. Stubbs. If you want, I can go back and ask again."
He waved off her comment. "One Knob Creek coming up." He poured the drink and slapped the glass onto the counter. Frankie picked up a round tray and added the drink and a bowl of peanuts. She glanced back at Jack's table. He fingered the unlit candle, as if the solution to all of life's problems could be found encoded in the plastic mesh covering the jar. When Mr. Stubbs turned to take another order, Frankie sneaked a basket of chips and a dish of salsa, and strutted back to the booth, using enough hip-wiggle to get Mr. Stubbs off her case for a while.
"Here you go, Jack," she said and placed the glass and snacks in front of him. "You want to run a tab?"
He grunted and pounded back half his drink. His eyes widened. "This isn't Jack. I'm not paying extra."
"Smile for me and it'll be covered. You don't even have to leave a tip."
This time, he looked her dead in the eyes. "Tell you what, lady. You leave me the hell alone, I pay for the premium stuff and leave a little extra for you." He wrapped both hands around the glass and stared into its amber depths.
His voice was quiet, his tone even, but it said he was used to giving orders, and having them followed without question.
She felt Belle and Patti's eyes boring into her from opposite ends of the bar. The band segued into the opening strands of Take it to the Limit. She reached for Jack's hand. "Please. You've got to rescue me."
His back stiffened. "What?"
She took his hand. "I'll explain. Dance with me. Hurry. I won't bite." She tugged and he slithered out of the booth. Wriggling into the middle of the crowd, she turned and lifted her right hand.
Eyebrows raised, Jack assumed the dance stance, his hand at her back a feather touch, with a good six-inch gap between them. "Okay, lady. I'm here. Mind explaining why?"
He moved with the waltz rhythm.
"I'm avoiding one of the customers. My feet can't take another attack of his waltzing. He can handle two-two and four-four all right, but the man can't seem to count to three."
"And you assumed I could?" One corner of his mouth turned up.
Almost a smile. Another minute and she'd have Belle's five. "I figured I'd chance it. I'm very good at reading people, you know."
He drew her closer and she smelled soap and an underlying outdoors scent above the room's beer background. No cloying aftershave. Jack's graceful movements belied the way he'd stumbled into the bar as he led her around the floor. His hand at her back was warm through her thin blouse. The bet forgotten, she caught herself before she rested her cheek on his chest.
"What?" he said.
"I didn't say anything."
"You didn't have to. You're surprised I can dance. I'm not so bad at reading people myself."
Her face grew warm, and she gave thanks for the dim lighting. He couldn't have read all her thoughts, could he? How, despite her aching feet, she wanted the dance to go on longer? How she wanted to make the pain in his eyes go away?
"It's not that—really. I mean, most of the guys can handle a two-step, but they don't seem to do anything different when it's a waltz. Thank goodness the band doesn't play many. But you know what you're doing, and it's nice not to have to dodge feet and knees."
His eyes crinkled at the edges. "I'll take that as a compliment." As if teaching her not to jump to conclusions, he led her in a series of perfectly executed pivot turns.
When he settled into a basic waltz step, the gap between them was a lot less than six inches. A long-forgotten tingling surprised her. She licked her lips and swallowed. "So, where did you learn to dance?"
"Part of my job," he said, and his face clouded. The music stopped. He dropped her hand and disappeared from the dance floor.
"Thanks," she whispered after him. She adjusted her skirt and went back to the bar, her heart beating faster than a waltz warranted.
"He danced with you. Did he talk?" Belle asked. "Said more than, 'Jack'? That's all anyone here has ever heard him say." She fished a bill from her tips. "That's worth a five, even if he didn't smile."
"Sometimes people need a friendly face," Frankie said. She snatched her own five from under her mug, and tucked it along with Belle's into her apron pocket.
A throat-clearing sound from Mr. Stubbs squelched the rest of the conversation. "Someone's cell phone is ringing in the back room. Anyone here willing to risk her job to take a personal call at work?"
Frankie edged toward the storeroom until she made out the distinctive ring tone of "The Entertainer." Her pulse jumped. She reserved that tone for family.
Heart in her throat, she hastened to the door.
Chapter 3
Ryan parked his Mustang behind Josh's place, where it couldn't be seen from the road. He retrieved his Glock from the glove compartment and shoved it into the waistband of his jeans. Circling the cabin, he checked for signs of any disturbance.
Visions of tonight's blonde waitress interfered with his routine checks. None of the others ever looked at him. They slapped down his drinks and left him alone, which is what he wanted. She—Gladys, he recalled—had not only looked at him, she'd been so damn…perky. Smiled. Talked. Teased. Called him Jack, for God's sake, although she had to know it wasn't his name. And that, "Rescue me," had scared the shit out of him for a minute. He half expected terrorists to crash through the plate glass window, AK-47's spraying.
He snorted. If she only knew. Rescuing fair maidens from clumsy dancers wasn't exactly one of Blackthorne's top objectives, although he had learned to dance as part of the requisite bodyguard duty camouflage. But dancing with an ambassador's snooty daughter didn't feel anything like dancing with Gladys.
Her heavy makeup and severe hairstyle, like she was playing dress-up, clashed with the fresh, young scent that floated u
p when she'd bent over to light the candle. He'd actually responded with half his blood supply shooting south. And why not? She was a woman, her breasts were practically in his face, and he hadn't been with anyone in a very long time.
When they'd danced, there was another essence in her scent. He hadn't recognized it at the time, but now it came through, clear as the night air. Elmer's glue.
For a moment, he'd considered spending the rest of the night dancing with her, even after that stupid show-off pivot turn had his knee complaining. And then she'd vanished into the back, come out, said something to Stubby, and disappeared. Good riddance. He damn well didn't need perky. Another image flashed in front of him. Of the frightened expression on her face when she'd talked to Stubby.
Shit, what was going on? He never got involved with women. He forced his attention to making sure everything was secure. Wolf trotted beside him. Wolf spent more time with him than he did with Pop now, but the man didn't seem to begrudge his companion's shift in loyalty.
Wolf growled. Ryan went still. He pulled his gun from his waistband. "Stay."
Wolf obeyed, but quivered in anticipation. After several long moments, a mother raccoon with three youngsters trailing behind her scuttled across the clearing toward the creek.
Wolf gazed up at him, begging to be allowed to give chase. He reached down and grabbed Wolf's ruff. "Sorry, fella. Not tonight." He scratched the dog behind the ears. "It's late. Let's go in."
Wolf whined and strained to get away from Ryan's grasp.
"No chasing coons. They can carry rabies. I'm tired, and I need to piss." The supplies he'd bought to repair and refinish Josh's front porch could wait in the Mustang's trunk until morning. Ryan started for the cabin. Wolf stood at attention a little longer, then shot past him.
Before Ryan got to the steps, Wolf danced at the door, tail wagging.
"Hungry, are you? Give me a minute." He grabbed the rail and put one foot on the bottom step.
With an excited yelp, Wolf nosed the door. When it creaked open and Wolf bounded inside, Ryan raised his weapon. His heart thudded against his ribs as he climbed the remaining stairs and stood off to the side of the now-open doorway, peering into the shadowy interior of the cabin.