by Terry Odell
Little footsteps clattered up the stairs. She held his gaze for a moment longer, then pulled away.
He sighed, and his breath warmed her throat.
She adjusted the collar of her blouse. "Interruptions. Part of the mom thing."
Molly peeked around the doorway, her mouth ringed in chocolate. "Mommy, I baked a cake. And Rosa said I was her very best helper." She looked at Ryan, who had moved back to the desk. "She said you were good, too."
"That's wonderful, Peanut," Frankie said. "Now, I think we need to wash your face."
Molly grinned. "I licked the bowl."
Frankie turned to Ryan. "Where's a bathroom where I can clean this little pastry chef? And then, I think we'll need to hit the road. You can call me and let me know what you've found."
Molly tugged on her sleeve. "Mommy, Rosa said I could help with the frosting. But the cake has to get cool first. I don't want to go home yet. Please? And Wolf's here."
There was no denying those pleading blue eyes.
Ryan clinched it. "Bathroom's down the hall on the left, and please stay for dinner. I'll tell Rosa to set two extra places. Besides, I might have news for you by then."
"That would be nice. Thanks." She scooted Molly toward the bathroom. "I'll call Gramma and let her know we won't be home for dinner."
The computer gave an insistent ringing sound. Frankie swerved. Ryan picked up the mouse, clicked a few keys and frowned.
"Ryan?" He didn't respond. "Ryan?"
"I'll be downstairs in a few minutes," he said without looking up.
"Ryan? What is it?" Her pulse quickened, and not the way it had moments ago sitting on the loveseat.
"Don't know yet. Let me work. I'll be down."
Before she could protest, Ryan's father poked his head into the room. "I hope my son's not boring you to death," he said. "He can lose himself in that machine."
She smiled. "Not at all, Mr. Harper. He's doing me a big favor."
"Call me Angus." Although his gaze quickly moved to Ryan, Frankie knew she'd been sized up.
"You think you can pull yourself away and tend to the horses before supper?" Angus said.
Apparently Angus' voice penetrated Ryan's concentration better than hers had, because he looked up immediately. His lips were set in a thin line, but they relaxed before he spoke.
"Sure. No problem." He glanced at the screen, clicked the mouse, and pushed away from the desk. Turning toward her, he said, "Would you like to tag along? Molly, too, of course."
"I'm sure she'd be thrilled to see a horse." Frankie didn't miss the way Molly had been added to the invitation as an afterthought, but the fact that Ryan seemed comfortable using her name made up for it. Maybe he was recovering from his loss. "I'll go get her." She smiled at Angus. "I hope you're feeling better."
"I'm doing fine, ma'am."
"Please. It's Frankie."
"Very well, Frankie. I hope you and the little one will stay for supper. It's been a long time since there were youngsters at the table."
"Thank you. Ryan was kind enough to invite us."
He glanced at Ryan, who gave a sheepish grin, then he turned back to her. His eyes, a deeper brown than Ryan's, were warm and friendly. She wondered if he'd be that cordial if he knew she might be responsible for putting him out of business. Unless Mom's money reappeared, she didn't see how there was any other choice than to sell the property to that corporate executive. She hoped she could summon up an appetite. Even the smell of chocolate cake wafting up from the kitchen didn't unravel the knots in her belly.
Chapter 15
Ryan stood on the porch and watched the taillights of Frankie's car disappear around the curve. Molly had been leery of the horses until their old mare, Winny, nuzzled an apple slice from her palm. He chuckled. Now Molly was asking for a puppy and a pony. Frankie hadn't seemed too pleased.
At dinner, Molly's eyelids drooped until it was time for dessert, when she took great pride in describing every step in the baking process. Discussion skirted his searches for Bob, and the connection between Frankie and the mountain property. Pop did what he always did at the dinner table. Ate. Methodically, with pleasure, but not much conversation.
That had been Mom's department, he remembered, a little surprised at the warmth he felt instead of the usual pain. Mom had been the one to drag the daily events out of the three kids. Pop would grunt his approval for accomplishments, remind them of the chores for the next day, and retreat, leaving them to their household chores and homework.
After dinner, Frankie had insisted on letting Rosa go home early, claiming that doing the dishes would be small payment for the meal. Molly cleared the table, her pursed lips advertising her concentration on not breaking anything. He picked up a dishtowel and took care of drying and putting away the things that couldn't be put in the dishwasher. Until tonight, he'd forgotten how comfortable it was being part of a family.
Now, Frankie was on her way home, and there was an empty place inside him. An empty place that hadn't existed before he'd met her. Damn. He shoved the door open and jogged up the stairs to the computer.
Sitting at the desk, staring at the screen, he wondered if his contacts at the phone company knew he'd left Blackthorne. He might be able to sweet-talk one of them into pulling some of Bob's usage details for him.
Bob had accounts in the same branch in Broken Bow that Anna Castor did, and Anna had written him a few small checks. Nothing indicated they were consolidating funds, but the cancelled checks gave him Bob's account number. Although Blackthorne subscribed to some slightly less than approved methods of detecting bank information, Ryan wasn't ready to do anything to call attention to his actions. He needed better information about Bob.
He'd given Frankie what reassurance he could, and tried not to worry her with the fact that no bad news didn't necessarily mean good news. Because he hadn't found any neon signs saying Bob was a crook didn't mean he wasn't up to no good. However, that Bob did indeed have a sister in California made his story to Anna believable.
When he volunteered to call the sister, Frankie quashed the idea, promising that she'd talk to her mother tomorrow. And, he thought, that was the only answer. Always better to go straight to the heart of the problem. He couldn't imagine Frankie not being able to mend fences with her mom.
Pop wandered into the room and eased himself down to the loveseat. Ryan pretended not to see him wince.
"You solve her problem?" Pop said. "Nice lady. Cute kid."
"Not really, yes, and yes." Not much he could do here. He started the computer's shutdown process. "Anything I can do for you?"
"Nope. Dinner was nice."
Ryan smiled. "Yes, it was." He waited. Eventually, Pop would say what he came for.
"Got a trail run on Friday. Thought you might want to lead it. Old times' sake."
Damn, Pop must really be hurting. Friday would be a week since the accident, an unheard of recovery time for him. "Of course. What time? How many?"
"Ten o'clock. Three—got room for two more. Sammy could use some exercise."
Sammy. Their mule. Perfect for a kid. He shook his head. "You know, Pop, you don't have to beat around the bush. Hell, I'm surprised you didn't come out and ask them while they were here."
"Not my place to invite your friends."
"How bad are your ribs, anyway?" He unplugged his laptop and put it into the case. "You following doc's orders?"
His father grabbed the arm of the loveseat and started to push himself up. Ryan hurried across the room and supported him, worried when he didn't resist.
"Ain't as young as I used to be, is all. And the damn pills fill my head with straw."
Once his father was on his feet, he removed Ryan's hand, but not without a gentle squeeze. "I'm fine, son."
"Take a pill at bedtime, okay?" he said.
"Yep. Straw's fine for sleeping." Pop took a few steps toward the door, then stopped. "Could use someone to make a recycling run. Bins are full."
"I'll do it fi
rst thing tomorrow. I've got some stuff at the cabin that needs dumping." He bid his father a good night and made a quick detour through the kitchen for one last slice of Rosa's cake before driving back to the cabin, where he collected the assorted recyclables and set them on the porch. Might be smart to do some laundry, too.
He went to his bedroom and stuffed the heap from his closet into a large plastic bag. He stripped and added tonight's clothes to the sack. After changing into sweats, he grabbed some clean towels from the top shelf, and his backpack tumbled down, hitting him on the head.
A depressingly painless impact, when he considered he'd put what he considered important into the pack. He carried the pack to the bed and dumped its contents. Not much of his old life remained.
He picked up his small notebook and leafed through the names and phone numbers that represented his former life. Too many were strictly work-related. But then, he didn't have time for friends outside of the job. Debbie's name and number seemed to leap off the page. They'd gone out for a beer once or twice when he was in town, but nothing connected between them. That was Dalton's thing. He connected with everyone.
His own thoughts came back to him. Always better to go straight to the heart of the problem. Without knowing exactly why, he went to the phone and dialed Debbie's home number. She'd done the tests on the Mustang bits and pieces. Maybe she'd have some details Dalton's simple 'didn't find anything' call had left out.
When she answered, he heard surprise in her voice.
"Ryan Harper. How are you doing? I thought you were—"
"Were what?"
"Nothing. I mean, you were in those two snafus, and then in the hospital. I'm really sorry I didn't get by to see you, by the way."
"No problem." Hardly anybody had. He was over that.
"I thought—we—everyone thought you'd left the country."
"No, I'm still stateside." That was saying enough.
"So why are you calling me?" He heard the unspoken at home. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and a vise clamped down on his gut.
"I wanted to know what tests you ran on the car parts Dalton gave you."
After a pause, she said, "Dalton hasn't been here in weeks. And he never gave me any car parts to test."
The vise twisted several turns. Had Dalton given them to someone else? No, he'd definitely said Debbie. That he was going to keep it under the table, and he trusted her. He'd left in a hurry. Maybe he hadn't had time. But then why call to tell him everything was fine?
"My mistake, then. Sorry to bother you."
"That's all right. And if you see that Texan, you tell him he still owes me a steak dinner." The teasing in her tone was forced.
"I will." His mind raced. Hoping he could trust her, he asked her not to mention the call. When she agreed, he wondered if it was because she was afraid associating with him, an apparent traitor in the eyes of Blackthorne, Inc., might implicate her as well.
Sometimes the covert ops policies about not sharing information could work in your favor. He wasn't sure this was one of those times.
He found a beer in the fridge and took it to the porch. Dalton had lied. No matter how he tried to rearrange the pieces, Dalton had lied. Why?
Forcing himself to look at everything that had happened since he'd arrived, but ignoring the fact that it was Dalton, a man he trusted with his life, he started from the beginning.
The boot print in the woods. Had Dalton been wearing boots like those? And if he had, so what? Around here, boots were the norm.
Okay, if Dalton had sabotaged the Mustang, how perfect to be the one to volunteer to check it over. Remove the evidence, although he doubted that Dalton would have left any. Dalton couldn't have rigged a bomb in his car. Could he? And if he had, why was anyone still alive? The man knew what he was doing.
The clenching in his gut was genuinely painful now. He took another pull on his beer, staring into the distance. When Wolf appeared, he wasn't surprised to see him. The dog sat by his side, and Ryan scratched him behind the ears. His tail thumped, and he panted, giving a quick happy-dog yelp.
Wolf hadn't taken to Dalton. Then again, Dalton had pointed a rifle at Wolf, and the dog had instinctively gone on alert.
He went inside for another beer. As he drank, he paced, trying to ignore what was falling into place. No, he told himself. There are all sorts of innocent explanations. There had to be. Wolf followed him once around the room, then flopped down beside the couch.
He set the empty beer bottle on the counter, remembering how he and Dalton had sat together. Dalton had offered comfort, support, and understanding. And plenty to drink. Or had he? He remembered several beers, and some whiskey, and then being helped to bed. He'd slept like the dead that night, but woke with no hangover.
Afraid of what he'd find, but knowing he had to look, he checked the level in the whiskey bottle. Over half full, and he and Pop had had a few hits from it as well. Not enough to knock him out.
Dalton's note. Hope you slept well. You needed it. Had Dalton drugged him? Dalton wasn't the domestic sort, yet the place had been immaculate when he got up the next day. He thought of his computer file. Intact, but if Dalton had searched his place, he wouldn't have left a trace.
He went out and rooted through the recycling, counting beer bottles. They'd been drinking Heineken. He counted five bottles. He pulled one out and sniffed it. Smelled like beer. Backtracking to the fridge, he checked, knowing they'd started with a full six-pack. So where was the other bottle?
He took a breath. He had to slow down and stop jumping to conclusions. There were at least two sides to every possibility. Dalt might have taken a beer with him, or tossed the bottle outside. Even if Dalt had drugged him, why assume the worst? Why assume Dalton had doped the beer, and taken the bottle with him so the evidence wouldn't be found? Why not look on the bright side, like Frankie? Maybe Dalton had taken pity on him and slipped him a mickey so he'd finally get a decent night's sleep. The note could mean that, couldn't it? Dalton could have killed him. He'd certainly had ample opportunities.
"Fuck!"
Wolf looked up and whined. "Yeah, mutt, I swore. Too bad. You don't get a dollar." Instead, Ryan went to the kitchen, found a scrap of turkey and tossed it to the dog.
He went back to the DVD collection and found his disc. If Dalton had copied the disc, would he have brought it to Blackthorne and utilized all their computer geeks? Or was he working alone? He waited for the disc to load, fighting the sick feeling snaking through his gut.
*****
After she settled Molly in bed, Frankie stood in the hallway, trying to decide if confronting her mother would be easier after a good night's sleep. Knowing that if she put it off, it would be a sleepless night, Frankie flipped a mental coin. If her mother was asleep, she wouldn't disturb her. She glanced toward her mother's room, where a strip of light glowed from beneath the door.
Trusting her instincts would see her through, she tapped gently on the door. There was always the chance Mom had fallen asleep with her light on. Not likely. Not Mom. Her stomach sank when she heard her mother's, "Come in."
She twisted the doorknob and stepped inside. Her mother sat up in bed, reading. After all these years, she still stayed on her side, as if she waited for someone to join her. Was it habit? Or loneliness? Or merely closer to the lamp?
Frankie smiled. "Hi, Mom. We're back."
"I see that." She marked her place in the book and set it on the nightstand. "Did you have a nice evening?"
"Yes, we did." Frankie sat on the edge of the bed, on her father's side, trying not to think of whether Bob had been there, and trying even harder not to begrudge her mother some companionship. After spending those hours at the Harper ranch, the lonely streak she'd thought was sewn shut had begun to unravel.
"Have you heard from Bob? How's his sister?"
Her mother took off her reading glasses and placed them on top of her book. "He called, yes. He was stuck in the Salt Lake City airport, but should be in S
anta Rosa by now." She gave a tiny nod of satisfaction. "Okay, so I got the city wrong, but I knew it was a San or Santa. And in California."
"And his sister?"
Her mother's expression, which was open and curious since Frankie walked in, now grew pained. "She had a massive stroke. That's all he knows. He'll call me tomorrow."
"That's too bad. Do you know if she's older or younger than Bob?"
"She's his twin, as a matter of fact. They're very close."
"Oh, Mom, I'm so sorry. I hope she'll be all right." How could she segue this one into calling him a crook? She reached for her mother's hands and found them cold and moist.
Her mother stared at the ceiling for a moment, then back at Frankie. "Sweetie, this isn't the way I'd planned to tell you, but Bob has asked me to marry him. I said yes."
Frankie knew her mouth hung open, and she snapped it shut. "Isn't this sort of quick?" she said, and instantly regretted it.
Her mother didn't seem to take offense. "When you get to be our age, you don't buy green bananas. We've only got so much time left, and it seems silly to waste it."
"Oh, Mom, I didn't mean it like that. If you're happy—" She leaned over and hugged her.
"We're both happy. I hope you'll understand. I feel bad for you. You gave up so much to move from Boston, and now I'm throwing a monkey wrench into your life."
"Mom, what I had in Boston was a job. You're family."
Even as she spoke, Frankie's mind whirled. Where would Mom and Bob live? Where would she and Molly live? What about the mountain property? This was too much to handle after such a long day. Things would make sense in the morning, and she could talk to Mom about everything then.
Glad she hadn't walked in and accused Bob of being a thief, she kissed her mother's cheek. "I'm happy for you, Mom. Truly. You shouldn't worry about me. I'll be fine, no matter what you decide to do. We'll talk tomorrow, okay?"
She half-staggered down the hall to her room. As she undressed, she tried to create a mental spreadsheet with all the possibilities in orderly columns. Maybe there was a bright side, after all. If Bob had stolen the money, he wouldn't be asking Mom to marry him. Maybe they were already combining bank accounts.