Little Girl Lost

by Adrianne Lee

  She turned pleading, pain-filled eyes up at him. “What is my name?”

  “Barbara Jo Dawson,” he said softly, his breath puffing in the frigid air.

  If his breath had been a block of ice striking her head, the pain would have been equal. She bumped against his solid chest and he wrapped his arms around her. He held her like that for several long minutes, enjoying the way she fit against him, thinking he should drag her back inside where it was warm, worrying that her shock would be deepened by the cold.

  Behind them, a man said, “Hey, is everything okay out here? You’ve got some new customers and I’m sure my steak must be done by now.”

  Chad glanced around and suffered a shock of his own. Elvis Emerson. What was he doing here? His steak? He’d been in the bar? Damn. How had Chad missed seeing him? Jane squirmed from his embrace and shoved his coat at him. Chad automatically gathered his jacket, his gaze riveted on Elvis. How long had he been standing there in the doorway, listening? How much had he heard?

  Jane hurried up to Elvis, offered a quick apology, but showed no signs of recognizing her sister’s former brotherin-law. “I’ll get your dinner immediately.”

  Inside the lounge, Jane breathed a sigh of relief. Vesta had arrived and with her usual brusque friendliness was handling the new customers. Jane delivered the man’s dinner, then joined Vesta behind the bar, where she was eyeing the half-emptied dishwasher and the abandoned broken glass. She studied Jane a moment with sharp green eyes. “Something happen here I should know about?”

  Vesta, her boss, was nearing fifty, looked forty, and had a heart the size of Grand Coulee Dam.

  Jane sighed. “I’m not feeling well. Do you suppose you could handle this shift alone tonight?”

  Curiosity flicked across Vesta’s eyes, and Jane knew she didn’t believe the lame excuse for ducking out, but she touched a hand to her carefully arranged red hair. “Sure. I don’t expect we’ll get too much busier with the temperature dropping. Go home.”

  “Thanks.” Jane gave her a grateful smile, knowing she would have to sit down soon and tell this woman she’d started remembering and that there might be other hard days ahead—days when she might not be able to do her job. Vesta would be kind, sympathetic, but she needed reliable employees. It might mean her job. Jane was starting to accept that that couldn’t be helped.

  With her headache hovering like a stalking insect, she rang out her tab, then headed for the door. She glanced once around the lounge for Chad Ryker, thinking only now to wonder why he hadn’t followed her back inside, yet feeling grateful he hadn’t.

  But when he wasn’t in the parking lot, either, she frowned. She would swear on her sister’s grave that he wasn’t done with her, with his quest for a better story. So why had he vanished?

  As she climbed into her pickup she had the eerie feeling someone was watching her. Ryker? Someone else? Or was she just being paranoid? Not Ryker, she decided. He would have no reason to hold back from her now. He would figure she owed him. Then someone else? She started the engine, but by the time she felt the heater kicking out warm air, she hadn’t thought of a soul who would be spying on her. And yet the feeling persisted.

  She shifted into gear and stepped on the gas, wondering if paranoia was also symptomatic of her amnesia. Headlights glared in her rearview mirror and she saw that one or two other vehicles were also exiting the parking lot. Her anxiety increased. She tried shaking off the absurd thought that she was being followed, but her nerves were raw, her limbs shaky from holding in the tension she’d felt since Ryker had told her that name.

  She’d shoved the name out of her mind. Refused to dwell on it. To think of it. Without warning it slammed into her head with a blinding force that canceled every other thought. She swerved, bounced off the curb and hit the brake. Gasping, she laid her throbbing head on the steering wheel and caught her breath.

  Just a few more blocks. She couldn’t think about this until she was alone—in her own small domain. Several minutes passed before she felt strong enough to start out again. At the apartment complex, she skidded into an empty spot and hurried inside, hustling a zealous, wellmeaning Mrs. Ferguson away.

  Jane locked the door behind the baby-sitter, turned off the Debbie Reynolds movie she’d been watching on TV, then headed straight to her daughter’s room.

  Missy was fast asleep, her platinum hair spread like spun silk across the cartoon design on her pillow. More than anything else had, the sheer normalcy of this sight, sent Jane reeling. Her vision blurred. She thrust out of the room and managed to shut the door gently before her knees buckled and she sank to the floor.

  “Barbara Jo Dawson.” The name whispered from her again and again as though she had to try it on as she would a hat before buying it. Fighting the ache in her head and swallowing the bile that kept climbing into her throat, she persisted and discovered that her mind did not reject the name.

  In fact, she realized it was there, staining the corners of her memory like an inscription in an aged family album: the impression written in a spidery hand, smudged, faded, but definitely there, definitely readable.

  Tears filled her eyes, spilled hot down her cheeks. “Barbara Jo Dawson.” Her name. Something that everyone in the world took for granted; however, it was as precious to her as Missy. She hugged herself, rocking back and forth until her breathing returned to normal and the pain in her head had subsided to a dull ache.

  The knock at her door was as unwelcome as the falling temperatures outside. She considered pretending she wasn’t home, but anyone who knew her truck would realize otherwise. She peered through the peephole. Chad Ryker’s arresting face filled her vision.

  Chapter Six

  Barbara Jo Dawson, her emotions tender as a fresh bruise, swiped a hand across her wet face and released a shaky breath. Her feelings for Chad Ryker were as confused and complex as the puzzle of her past life.

  Was he friend or foe?

  On the surface, he was a great-looking guy whose raw sexuality sped up her pulse, but he wasn’t the first man who’d stirred her lust, and likely he wouldn’t be the last. However, never in recent memory had a man made her feel secure, the way she’d felt in his embrace. Why?

  He knocked again as though sensing she stood there, watching him. She hesitated, figuring she would be better off not answering. She didn’t want to talk to him, but she owed him a huge thank-you. Determined that was all he would get from her, she opened the door a crack.

  He leaned down. Barbara shoved her tousled hair out of her eyes, resisting the inexplicable urge to do the same to the lock of tawny hair that slid across his forehead, giving him the innocent, appealing look of a small boy.

  The grin that had haunted her drive from Cle Elum that morning flickered over his firm mouth. “I—I wanted to make sure you made it home okay. That you’re okay. Are you?”

  He sounded self-conscious, ill at ease, and she suspected this was a rare occurrence for the cocky Chad Ryker, guessed that little rattled him. Her dislike of him slipped a quarter of a notch.

  But, she reminded herself, even the most domesticated rat had teeth. He’d disappeared right after telling her her name. Hadn’t bothered to wait in the parking lot and express his concern about her ability to drive after knowing how upset she’d been. There was only one reason for his being here now. His story. “As you can see, I made it home in one piece.”

  “But you’ve been crying.”

  Heat climbed her neck, and she yanked her chin up. “That’s really not your concern.”

  He winced as if she’d punched him. “It is, if I made you cry.”

  Despite her resolve not to let him affect her, the tenderness in his voice grabbed her heart and twisted. She fought a fresh onslaught of tears, knowing their origin was self-pity and nothing more. She didn’t want this man’s sympathy. Couldn’t handle it in her vulnerable condition. She prepared to shut the door. “Thank you for telling me my name.”

  He grasped the edge of the door and bent toward
her. His breath smelled minty and slightly of Irish whiskey. “Then you believe your name is Barbara?”

  She swallowed over her ragged pulse. “Yes. It’s just taking a bit of getting used to.”

  “I have something that might make the transition easier.”

  Interest sprang inside her like a steel trap. Did he? Or was this just a trick to get her to open up to him again? “What is it?”

  He glanced over his shoulder, then back at her. “I’d rather not do this here in the hall.”

  “Why not?” She arched a suspicious brow, hiking her guard up at the same time.

  He leaned impossibly closer, his voice a feather stroke across her face. “Because you seem to get a bit emotional whenever I—”

  He broke off, straightening as one of her neighbors walked down the hall, making, she realized, his point all too clear. As much as she hated admitting it, Ryker was right. She didn’t want everyone in the building gossiping about her. Mrs. Ferguson might hear about it and become more protective than ever. Or worse, might not baby-sit anymore.

  Begrudgingly, she invited him inside, led him to her compact living room and motioned for him to have a seat. He chose the sofa, settling at one end. He dominated the room as though he were the centermost point, as though sound waves vibrated from him. Or was it the sexual thread that tugged at her whenever he was near? She strove to ignore that.

  What she couldn’t ignore was how his eyes reflected the warmth she’d always found in this safe haven, or the sharp sense his presence here roused—that this world she’d built for Missy and herself verged on collapse.

  She sat in the chair opposite him and clasped her hands together to still their trembling, uncertain of the precise cause of her anxiety. She was deadly certain of only one thing. Squaring her shoulders, she told him, “If you have information that helps me and you’re willing to share it, then I’ll gladly accept it, but it’s only fair to warn you ahead of time that I’m not returning the favor. I won’t feed you another thing for your story.”

  Chad studied her. Beneath the flash of anger in her intriguing aqua eyes, he could see she was frightened. Eager to learn something new about her past. Yet leery as hell. Compassion boiled inside him, and it was all he could do to keep from dragging her off that chair and into his arms.

  He schooled the impulse and the desire that spurred it. No doubt she was having a tough time of it. He’d seen others handle tragedy and trauma in all manner of ways. He admired her courage. Hoped it would last. For she would need that courage if he was right about Marshall Emerson. “What makes you think I’m only after a story?”

  She laughed. “Are you serious? Can you deny—with a straight face—that you’re not?”

  He couldn’t. No matter who or what, a part of him always thought “story” first—another trait some saw as a character flaw, but that was so inbred in him, he couldn’t have changed if he wanted to. He didn’t want to. He won acclaim and garnered prizes because he cared about the subjects of his stories, got involved in their lives, their tragedies, their heartaches, and somehow managed to turn them into compelling copy.

  But this time the story touched him in ways this woman could never guess. Nor would he tell her. Silently he appreciated the soft shifting of her mahogany hair around her lovely face. “I won’t deny that I’ll be writing a story about this, but my story won’t cause you or your child any harm.”

  At the mention of her child, Barbara cringed inwardly. “How do you know that? Mentioning me in your story could bring God-knows-what down on us.”

  Although she seemed unaware of it, his story was the least of her worries. Elvis Emerson was the one who would bring trouble. But, if her reaction to less disturbing memories was any measure, blurting that out at this point would be cruel. It was a tale better told in small installments. “Then, I won’t mention you. I’ll refer to you as ‘a source close to the case.”‘

  He watched her consider this and decided he could help her make her mind up. “Before you reject the suggestion out of hand, I think you should know two women murdered in Cle Elum wouldn’t usually be my bailiwick. The reason I’m here at all was because Kayleen called me the night before she died.”

  He saw her tense, then her lovely brows dipped low in a frown. “Why?”

  “She said she was tired of living in hiding and wanted to give me an exclusive.”

  Barbara’s breath left her lungs in a whoosh. Her pulse kicked up. She clenched her hands tighter, bracing for the onslaught of symptoms that had plagued her for the past few days. “Then you know why she was in hiding?”

  “No.” He lurched to his feet, shrugged off his jacket and dropped it to the floor. Then he rounded the sofa, stood behind it, and levered himself against the back of it, his gaze steady on her. “No, and that’s the hell of it. She called from a pay phone—did you notice they didn’t even have a phone in that stinking cabin?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer, but plunged on. “She sounded rushed, breathless, as though she was afraid someone would come upon her using the phone, and cause her to run off in fear again. I tried to find out why, but she said she’d explain when I arrived, and hung up.”

  Barbara held herself as stiffly as a steel rod. Her voice was flat. “And you arrived too late.”

  He scowled with all the regret in his heart. “I’ve kicked myself ever since for not acting on my instincts, for not dropping everything and heading across the pass straightaway. But deadlines won’t be put off.” The biggest obstacle, however, had been his boss. He’d had to finagle the time off to do this on his own. Vic wouldn’t listen to disparaging remarks about his champion, Dr. Marshall Emerson.

  “Is that why you risked crossing the police tape at the cabin?”

  He dragged a hand through his hair. “Yes and no. The first time I arrived at the cabin, I hadn’t connected the radio news story of the break-in and murders with Kayleen. She hadn’t told me the name she’d been using. It was a shock arriving and finding that yellow tape strung around the cabin.

  “I contacted the paper and learned the cops considered the murders a simple burglary-homicide. I knew they were wrong.”

  “But they have the suspect in custody. His fingerprints are all over the weapon.”

  “They hadn’t caught him when I went back to the cabin.”

  “Why did you go back?” She shifted in the chair. “Or is breaking the law okay if you can get your story?”

  He stiffened as if she’d slapped his strong, square jaw. “I’m every bit as law-abiding as you. Kayleen is, was, more to me than just a story.”

  Barbara’s eyebrows twitched with curiosity. But the cold set of his icy eyes told her he’d said all he intended to on the subject. Her curiosity deepened. How close had her married sister and this man been? “Why did you slit the tape sealing the front door?”

  “I hoped I’d find something the police missed in their investigation of the cabin.”

  Hope pulled her forward in her chair and brought an instant ache fluttering through her skull. “Did you?”

  “No.” His voice was frustrated. He leaned over the sofa. “You arrived right after me and I hid in the cellar. I did search after you left, but if Kayleen had any physical proof to back up her accusations, I couldn’t find it.”

  Once again, hope and pain danced through her head. She dug her short nails into her palms. “What accusations?”

  “Mommy?” Missy’s tear-filled voice interrupted. Barbara jerked around and saw her daughter standing outside her open door, pajamas askew, eyelashes damp. Her platinum hair was tousled about her narrow shoulders.

  “Sweetie, what’s the matter?” Barbara was on her feet and at her daughter’s side in a heartbeat, scooping her into her arms.

  “I had another bad dream,” Missy sniffled.

  Guilt swathed Barbara. The poor child had probably picked up on the distress she exuded like a cheap perfume. She’d tried hiding it from her, but children were too good at sensing mood swings in their par
ents and immediately taking them on as their own. “I’m so sorry, sweet pea.”

  Missy saw Chad and frowned. “Who are you?”

  Barbara noticed the odd way Chad was staring at her daughter—as if he’d seen her somewhere before. “This is Mr. Ryker, Missy.”

  “Hello, Missy,” he said. “You can call me Chad. You can call me Chad, too, Jane.”

  Barbara’s stomach pinched, and she gave him a wobbly smile. It was kind of him not to call her Barbara in front of Missy; she needed time to prepare the child for the name change.

  Missy returned Chad’s greeting with a shy hello she reserved for those she liked instantly. Barbara couldn’t suppress a grin. There was no denying, the man had a way with females—of all ages.

  She’d picked up on his charms immediately herself, but Missy’s fancy wouldn’t be tickled in the same way hers was. She didn’t take easily to strangers and when she did, Barbara trusted her instincts. Missy hadn’t misled her yet. Maybe she’d judged Chad Ryker too harshly. She smiled at him.

  He said, “She’s very like Kayleen.”

  Her smile fell. This was the second time in two days someone had said that to her, the second time the observation had discomfited her. Why? Children inherited family features. It was expected. Desired. Was it because she had always wished Missy looked more like her, had always feared she looked like her daddy, a man Barbara still could not remember?

  She shifted the child’s weight to the other hip. Did Chad Ryker know her husband? She would ask him once Missy was back in bed. “I think a cup of hot chocolate is called for.”

  “With marshmallows?” Missy asked hopefully.

  “With marshmallows.”

  “Can Chad have some, too?”

  “If he’d like.” Barbara questioned him with a look.

  “I’d like.”

  She lowered Missy to the floor, and they retreated to the kitchen. Chad started to lift Missy onto one of the stools at the eating bar, but Barbara interceded with the speed of a mother bird patrolling her young.