by Camille Eide
Joe closed his eyes. Father, I need to get that laptop back. That information will be hard to replace. I don’t care about the rest of the stuff. I can get new camping gear. And clothes. And my— “Oh, man.” Joe dragged a hand down hard over his face.
“What, hon?” Blondie was back, pouring steaming coffee into a clean mug.
Joe groaned. “My guitar.”
“Well, that sure stinks. What kind of person has the nerve to steal a man’s stuff in broad daylight?” Blondie shook her head as she walked away.
Joe watched the highway, still kicking himself for leaving his stuff free for the taking. Minutes stretched into half an hour. Not only was his stuff gone, now he was losing time. He checked his watch. His chances of making it to Bend in time to do any searching today were dwindling. If he got that ranch job Dan had told him about, no telling how much time he’d have to wait before being able to search again.
After a long stretch of cars, a Multnomah County Sheriff’s cruiser finally entered the lot.
Joe drained his cup and stood.
Within a minute, Blondie’s voice rang out above the dining clatter. “Oh, you can’t miss him, hon. He’s that big bruiser right back there.”
The officer approached.
Joe didn’t miss how the deputy sized him up. Pretty much everyone did. Cops were less obvious about it, but they still took note of his six-four frame and two-forty build.
The deputy took down his basic information, then asked about witnesses and his belongings, taking careful notes.
Joe listed everything he was missing. Fishing gear, clothes, laptop, sleeping bag, tent, some pictures, a few personal things, his Bible. And the smoothest sounding Martin D-28 he’d ever heard.
The officer scrutinized Joe’s license. “What brings you to Oregon?”
“The rig I worked on in Alaska was dismantled. I start a new job down in the Gulf of Mexico in a couple of months.”
The officer nodded. “You visiting Troutdale or just passing through?” He handed back the driver’s license.
“Passing through. I’m hoping to stay in the Bend area until the Gulf job starts.”
“Got family there?”
If you could call it that. “Uh, sort of. I’m trying to find some relatives that I … lost touch with.” Joe wiped moist palms on his jeans. No names, please. I don’t want them to know I’m looking.
The officer wrote more notes. “We can put you in touch with the county’s victim assistance to get you some clothes, maybe some gear.”
“Thanks, but I’ll be fine. Should have a job lined up soon.”
The deputy gave him a business card and said he’d contact him with any news.
When he’d gone, Blondie returned and set a coffee carafe down. “You staying around here?”
“I’m headed for Bend, or thereabouts.” With any luck, he could get on at the ranch in Juniper Valley. A farm wouldn’t pay anywhere near what an oil rig paid, but he didn’t really need the money. He needed a place to blend in just long enough to settle his business.
“Well, leave your number and we’ll let you know if we hear anything.”
Joe rose, pulled out his wallet, and offered her a ten. “Sure appreciate that, ma’am.”
“Aw, hon, you’re a doll!” Blondie winked and tucked the bill inside her blouse. “You be sure to come back and see us again.”
Not likely. Once he found a place to stay, he’d be laying low for a while.
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Acknowledgments
Though writing is a solitary activity, a book is never birthed alone. I couldn’t possibly list all of the people who helped bring me and this story to where we are today. But there are a few I must mention:
My agent, Rachelle Gardner, who gave the first version of this book a revision “memo” that grew both the story and me as a writer. The amazing team at Ashberry Lane who made “delivering” this book an absolute pleasure. My first critique group: Kellie Coates Gilbert, Cheryl Linn Martin, and RanDee Hill. Faithful writer friends Karla Akins, Linda Glaz, Jessica Nelson, Emily Hendrickson, April Strauch, Larry Topliff, Leslie Gould, and the incomparable Carla Stewart. Thank you for holding me up and walking me through to the finish line.
Thank you to my amazing husband, Dan, and kids—Shane, Ben, and Janae—who ate a lot of frozen lasagna and plugged their ears to late-night key-tapping so I could write. I also owe thanks (plus one exploding helicopter) to Randy “The Snowflake Guy” Ingermanson for never letting me off easy, as well as Patty Slack and the rest of the CRCW crew. I owe a very special thanks to Kim Moore, Harvest House Senior Editor, for championing me and for her love for this story. Many thanks to Robin Jones Gunn for inspiring young women to guard their hearts and their first kiss for the man they will marry; my English teacher, Mrs. Gano, who loaned me books because she believed there was a writer in me; and Mom and Dad, who always believed.
Like There’s No Tomorrow would not exist if not for Lisbet, my beautiful Viking friend, who believes in international love stories and told me I should just write one.
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Winner of the 2014 Oregon Christian Writers Cascade Award!
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*and the young at heart