Bahama Mama

by Tricia Leedom

  “‘Simple Man’ by Lynyrd Skynyrd.”

  “I thought Garth Brooks was your hero.”

  “One of ’em, but as far as songs go, ‘Simple Man’ is my anthem.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “I grew up poor. I know what it’s like to be hungry. To not have a pair of shoes that fits because you outgrew your last pair too quickly. To have a hole in the roof of your double wide during the rainy season and a father who’s too drunk to care. Whenever I start getting too big for my britches, I put on that song and remember. Sometimes it’s painful to go back there, even in my mind, but I feel like I owe it to my momma and my roots and my son to be a better man. A simple man.”

  Touched that he was sharing something so personal with her, Molly blinked back the moisture in her eyes and looked at Obie. The boy was staring at the back of his father’s seat, his comic book forgotten in his lap. She wondered what the little boy was thinking and whether if, at nine, he was old enough to understand what his father’s childhood had been like.

  On impulse, Molly touched Anders’ forearm. He glanced down at her hand. She was about to pull it away and apologize for the presumption when he took Molly’s hand in his. Entwining their fingers and pressing their palms together, he rested their joined hands in his lap.

  How long had it been since she let a man hold her hand? Since she’d felt the leashed power of a broad palm and large, lean fingers cradling her fragile bones so gently. Felt safe and protected by the strong, capable man claiming her with the connection. Like she was one half of something whole.

  She settled back into the leather bucket seat, realizing only then she’d been sitting so stiffly her muscles were starting to ache. The soft sound of humming came through the headset. A refrain of ‘Crazy Love.’ Anders’ eyes were on the horizon as he maneuvered the yoke, steering the aircraft into a wide turn while his thumb unconsciously tapped the rhythm of the song against her hand.

  They approached Sangster International Airport at twilight. Anders released her hand to fiddle with switches and knobs on the complicated control panel while he did more of his sexy pilot talk with the control tower. The crystal-clear waters surrounding the airstrip shimmered purple in the afterglow of the sunset as he brought the plane lower and lined up the runway. It was a smooth landing despite the gusty sea breezes trying to blow them off course. When they taxied past a row of commercial airplanes, which looked like giants in comparison to their little propeller plane, Molly felt a little queasy. They’d just flown nearly 600 miles across nothing but ocean in what was essentially a smart car with wings. If Cheyenne was okay, and Molly prayed that she was, the girl was going to be dead meat for putting her through all of this.

  “Welcome to Jamaica.” A jovial airport employee greeted them outside the plane. “MoBay is honored to have you as our guest, Mr. Ostergaard. My wife and I are big fans of your music.”

  Even in Jamaica, Molly thought with an amused smile as she helped Obie climb out of the plane. Anders was retrieving her bags from the small cargo area behind the backseats. He chatted with the employee in the friendly, genial way he chatted with anyone who said they were a fan of his.

  “You can put that one back.” Molly pointed to the duffel bag she’d packed for Cheyenne. It wouldn’t be needed until they found her and there was no sense lugging it around until then. She slid on her backpack as Anders and Obie slid on theirs.

  A customs agent met them inside the building in the VIP lounge. She was a heavyset middle-aged woman with a thick Jamaican accent who recognized Anders too. Taking advantage of the situation, he ramped up the charm so the woman wouldn’t look too closely at Molly’s fake passport. In the midst of thanking him for the selfie, the woman glanced down at the passports, studying all three of them closely. Molly held her breath as the customs agent looked more closely at her passport. When the agent brought her stamp down hard on the book, Molly jumped.

  The woman handed the passport back. “Welcome to Jamaica, Ms. MacBain.”

  “Thank you.” Molly took the passport and quickly tucked it away inside her bag next to Cheyenne’s. She had a terrible poker face and wasn’t sure how much longer she was going to be able to keep a bland expression on her face without cracking.

  “Do you have a signal yet?” Anders asked as they waited for Obie to use the bathroom.

  Molly took out her phone and looked at the screen. “Oh, I do!” She called her voicemail.

  “Well?”

  Molly shook her head. “No messages. From Cheyenne or anyone else.”

  “Maybe she couldn’t find a phone.”

  “Maybe,” Molly said, but a knot of worry started to form in her stomach.

  When Obie returned, they started for the door that led to the terminal.

  “Hang on a sec.” Anders stopped to reach into his bag. He pulled out a black baseball cap with a gold New Orleans Saints fleur-de-lis logo and a pair of Gucci sunglasses that probably cost more than Molly made in a week. He donned them both. “There are a lot of American tourists out there. Our search of the airport will go a lot faster if people don’t recognize me.”

  Molly nodded and looked down at Obie. “Ready?” She met the boy’s questioning gaze with a soft smile. “What’s the matter?”

  “I hope nothing bad happened to Cheyenne.”

  “I hope so too, cowboy.” She squeezed his shoulders. “We’re here now. We’ll find her.”

  “I’m going to help you look.” He put his comic book away, folding it into his backpack.

  Touched by the little boy’s thoughtfulness, Molly hid her smile and matched his grave expression. “Thank you, Obie. We could use another set of eyes.”

  “Stay close to us.” Anders’ tone was harsher than necessary. “Don’t go wandering off.”

  Obie stiffened and looked up at him with wide, wary eyes.

  Molly observed the exchange with curiosity. Father and son barely spoke to each other, but when they did, their obvious disharmony was painful to watch. As a father, Anders was uncharacteristically awkward and unsure of himself and Obie was clearly intimidated by Anders, the big, scary stranger whom he was told to call Dad. Anders was a good man. Even-tempered and caring. Well respected by his peers and fans alike. Molly would bet her favorite guitar and last dollar he didn’t have it in him to intentionally hurt another human being, especially a child, but Obie didn’t know that. Time and proximity would teach them both they had nothing to fear.

  Taking Obie’s hand, she gave it a reassuring squeeze and tugged him along. Because of their VIP status, they were able to bypass the long lines at the immigration checkpoint and enter baggage claim through the private lounge. They checked the arrivals hall first in case Cheyenne was waiting for them there. Finding no trace of her, they went outside and walked around to the departures area, which was on the ground floor at the opposite end of the building.

  The bland white walls, the rows of gray bench seats, and the big windows overlooking the concourse combined with the Burger King across from the International check-in counter didn’t distinguish Sangster International Airport from any other in the world. Molly’s stomach grumbled as the scent of flame-broiled hamburgers wafted toward her. She’d eaten half a sandwich at Dixie’s, hardly enough to fill her up. She hoped wherever Cheyenne was, she’d found some food.

  “There’s no sign of her here either.” Anders had removed his sunglass and his eyes looked strained and weary as he scanned the crowd again. “I reckon we should grab something to eat while we wait for her and figure out what we’re gonna do next.”

  Feeling exhausted from stress, travel, and the remnants of her hangover as well as hungry and disheartened, Molly couldn’t do more than nod and follow him to the fast-food restaurant.

  “We should try to get in contact with Sabato Banton, Mitch’s contact,” Anders said between bites of his Big Fish Sandwich. He’d abandoned his disguise when he removed his hat to eat, but so far no one had recognized him.

  His wavy locks st
uck out in wild tangles and there was a smudge of ketchup on his whiskered cheek. A wave of tenderness washed over Molly and suddenly her throat was thick with emotion. Anders could’ve been anywhere else in the world right now, anywhere at all, but he was here with her, helping her search for her daughter. Molly wanted to thank him properly. She wanted to smooth his messy hair with her fingers, and lick the condiment off his cheek before tasting his mouth…

  “Molly?”

  “Huh?” Realizing he’d been speaking to her and she hadn’t heard a word he was saying, her face flamed with heat. “Sorry. What was that?”

  Anders’ tense expression softened and a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I know you’re tired. I was just saying I reckon we should check out the marinas in Falmouth too.”

  “That’s a good idea.” Molly picked up her forgotten hamburger. “I’ll be fine. I just need coffee.”

  “Please excuse the interruption.” A tall, impeccably dressed Jamaican man stood between Molly and Obie.

  “Hi there,” Anders said, wiping his face with a napkin.

  Dismissing the guy as just another fan looking for an autograph, Molly took a bite of her burger.

  “Are you Molly MacBain?”

  Her heart leapt as her chin snapped up. She spoke around the food in her mouth. “I am. How do you know my name?”

  “May I join you?”

  “Sure.” Glancing at Anders’ unreadable expression, she chewed her food quickly and washed it down with her Diet Coke as the Jamaican walked around the table to sit across from her.

  Dressed in a three-piece suit, the man was clean-shaven with closely cropped hair. He spoke proper English with a soft, melodic accent. “I understand you are looking for your daughter.”

  “Are you Sabato Banton?”

  Anders reached for Molly’s hand. Covering it with his own, he squeezed it with a gentle warning and glared at her to be quiet.

  He was right. She shouldn’t jump to conclusions or toss Banton’s name around until she knew who exactly they were talking to.

  “I’m a friend.” The man said and his warm smile made Molly relax a fraction. “Your daughter was spotted in Falmouth.”

  Molly sat up straighter and her stomach tightened with hope. “Do you know where she is?”

  Anders squeezed her hand again and turned to the Jamaican. “Can you tell us something we don’t already know?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me what you know. To help us in the search.”

  “Like what?” Anders eyed him skeptically.

  Molly didn’t understand his hesitation to trust this man. No one else knew she was in Jamaica, so he had to be working for Sabato Banton. The man had kind eyes too, not to mention a flare for fashion. His Hugo Boss wool silk suit was sharp. Molly wanted to trust him, especially if it would help her find Cheyenne faster.

  “Does your daughter have any contacts in Jamaica or any other Caribbean Island for that matter? Anyone she could turn to or try to contact if she was in trouble?”

  Molly shook her head. “No. No one. She’s never been out of the country before and I don’t know anyone who lives in the Caribbean.”

  “Is there any particular reason she wouldn’t contact the authorities and seek their assistance?”

  Unsure how to answer that question without giving too much away, Molly looked at Anders for help.

  He squeezed her hand again and then his hard, blue gaze studied the man. “She’s scared. She’s in a foreign country. She doesn’t know the culture.” Anders shrugged. “You know how kids are.”

  “Indeed. I have two daughters of my own. I can’t imagine what you're going through, Ms. MacBain.”

  “Thank you,” she said faintly.

  The man stood and pulled a business card from his pocket. He offered it to Molly. “If you hear from your daughter, please don’t hesitate to call. I’d be glad to pick her up and bring her to you. Good evening.”

  Molly looked at the business card. The white cardstock was blank except for a phone number.

  “Wait!” she said as the man started to turn away. “Your name? Who do I ask for?”

  “It’s a direct line. But forgive my lack of manors. Winston Wade at your service.” He bowed slightly before he retreated, leaving Molly to stare after him bemused and disappointed.

  If Banton’s people couldn’t find Cheyenne, where the heck was she?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Anders caught his second wind after they stopped for a Grande-size cup of coffee from Starbucks. The drive along the coast from Montego Bay took about forty-five minutes. Despite the forecast on the radio predicting rain, it was a clear, starry night and traffic was light. Molly was quiet, sipping her Café Mocha and texting with Sue back in Key West, while Anders contemplated their encounter with Winston Wade. There was something about that slick suit and polished accent he just didn’t trust.

  At the first boatyard they came to in Falmouth, Anders struck up a conversation with a local fisherman and learned there were three public marinas in the area. There was no sign of Cheyenne or the seaplane among the mishmash of dilapidated buildings and boats at the first two stops. The third was located off a dirt road near a poor residential area, but the marina itself was in surprisingly good condition. The single building on the premises looked like new construction. A squat, square office with a whitewashed exterior and a large picture window overlooking the parking lot. The place wasn’t far from the cruise ship terminal. Maybe a mile, which explained the higher caliber of clientele docked in the small marina. It was just a short jaunt by taxi for boaters wanting to visit Royal Caribbean’s custom-built “historic” port.

  The office was dark and locked up tight for the night. Anders checked the door while Molly and Obie walked around the far side of the building. A couple street lamps from the parking lot lit the vessels docked closest to shore while the full moon cast the rest in a silvery glow. Most of the boats were dark, but music came from a radio somewhere off to the right.

  Anders followed Molly and Obie to the farthest dock.

  “Watch your step,” Anders said when Molly slipped on some loose gravel.

  Obie caught her around the waist and she draped her arm across his narrow shoulders to steady herself.

  “I’m okay. Let’s keep going.”

  Even with the caffeine boost, she had to be exhausted. And probably still hung over from the wedding too. He’d drank a lot of water today, but a dull throb caused by too little sleep mixed with too much alcohol still pulsed against the backs of his eyeballs. He was going to need a good workout, a hot shower, and comfy bed before he felt like himself again. Except, he wouldn’t be able to relax until they found Cheyenne.

  The wooden boards creaked under his sneakers as he followed Molly and Obie down the narrow dock past a half dozen sailboats and motorboats. Obie carried a small flashlight, which he used to scan each slip they passed. Just beyond a yacht the size of his tour bus, Molly stopped short and Obie nearly plowed into her.

  “What’s wrong?” Anders’ heart thumped against his ribcage with hope.

  But Molly’s voice was subdued. “The last slot at the end of the pier.”

  In the farthest corner of the marina, maybe twenty feet away, a red and white seaplane sat dark and innocuous in the water.

  Molly started for the plane at a brisk pace.

  “Wait.” Dodging around Obie, Anders grabbed Molly’s arm when she wouldn’t slow down. “Let’s think this through.”

  She spun on him. “Let go of me!”

  He didn’t. Leaning closer, he hissed, “Keep your voice down. If Cheyenne was telling the truth, we don’t know what we could be walking into.”

  Molly’s face was tilted upward and the moonlight caught the flash of anger in her lavender eyes. Standing on tiptoe, she lashed back at him. “And if she was lying, we’re wasting time being cautious for no reason.” For a moment, anguish pinched her face. “She’s out there somewhere, scared and alone.”

&n
bsp; Her pain rippled through him in a way he didn’t want to examine too closely. He loosened his grip on her arm. “Molly, something doesn't feel right about this.” There was an odd tension in the air. It covered his skin with gooseflesh and made the back of his neck tingle. “I reckon it’s just the anticipation because we obviously found the right place. Cheyenne must have phoned you from that building.” He gestured toward the marina office with his chin.

  Molly glanced at the building and then gazed up at him with worried eyes. The sea breeze ruffled the loose curls around her face. “Check the plane, but please be careful.”

  “Wait here.”

  Molly nodded and took Obie's hand.

  Thunder rumbled in the night sky as the moon dipped behind a billowing gray cloud. Anders paused, giving his eyes time to adjust to the darkness. It was a hell of a time for the weather forecasters to be right for once.

  The plane appeared to be empty, but the occupants could be sleeping. Or, if Cheyenne was on board, possibly incapacitated and sitting in the dark. He sure as hell hoped not. When Jonas was three, their father had tied him up, duct taped his mouth closed, and stuck him in a closet for six hours while Anders and Jimmy were at school. The poor kid pissed all over himself and screamed his throat raw. He was terrified of the dark for years after that and claustrophobic too. Anders didn’t wish that kind of terror on nobody, especially not a sweet innocent teenage girl like Cheyenne.

  He stopped in front of the plane and stood listening for signs of life, but the wind gusting off the water made it impossible to hear anything subtle.

  The only way he could be certain that no one was inside was to try the door. From his experience as a pilot, he knew owners of small aircraft rarely locked them. The damage a crowbar could do to the structure of a plane cost a heck of a lot more to repair than any equipment that might be stolen. If the aircraft was locked, that would be a good indication the pilot had something valuable to hide. Good thing Anders had learned how to pick locks in his misspent youth.

  He glanced back at Molly. She and Obie were two inky figures in the night with their backs to an empty boat slip. She took a step toward him. He held up a hand, motioning for her to wait.