The Last Chance Cafe

by Linda Lael Miller

  Chance joined the kids, grinning. “That’s Trojan,” he said. “He’s about as big as he’s ever going to get. He’s a miniature.”

  Hallie approached, hands in the pockets of her borrowed coat, and took a closer look. Trojan, a buckskin with a dark mane and tail, was barely thirty-six inches high at the shoulders, and when he leveled a glance at Hallie, he conveyed enough attitude for a herd of Mustangs. Stallions, no less.

  “Can we ride him?” Kiley demanded, addressing the question to Chance, not Hallie.

  Chance shook his head. “He’s a knot-head,” he said, with a philosophical sigh. “Trojan’s won a lot of ribbons and trophies in his time, though. Jessie used to enter him in shows all over the country.”

  Kiera reached a hand between the rails to touch the animal, and Hallie tensed, barely stopped herself from blurting out a warning. Watch out!

  Chance met her gaze, and she saw understanding in his blue eyes, and questions. Questions she didn’t dare answer.

  Trojan nickered, sniffed Kiera’s mittened fingers, and tossed his head, wanting breakfast.

  “Here’s what you do,” Chance said easily, and then he showed Hallie how to fill the feed pans and set them in the stalls. Using a knife drawn from the worn leather case on his belt, he cut the twine binding a bale of hay and carried the bristly stuff to the feeding troughs. “Don’t give them too much,” he said, as he worked, “or they’ll get colic and die.”

  “Colic?” Kiley asked. “What’s that?”

  “They get bad stomachaches,” Chance answered, as he worked, “and bloat up.”

  “Like Grandpa did last Thanksgiving,” Kiera told her sister, very seriously.

  Chance and Hallie exchanged glances. She knew he was curious about her background, that was only natural, given that he’d trusted her with a family member’s house, and that he’d catch every clue she or the children let slip—like Kiera’s innocent reference to Lou. She felt a rush of panic, and thought about ditching that rattletrap truck once and for all, turning her back on the job at the aptly named Last Chance Café, as well as the blessed refuge of Jessie Shaw’s log house, and catching the next bus out of town, her and the girls.

  “That’s different, silly,” Kiley informed Kiera. “You can’t die from eating too much turkey.”

  “I’ve felt like it a time or two,” Chance confided, and Hallie smiled again. He proceeded to the next stall, introducing the mare, Dolly, an aging pinto, and Sweet Pea, an enormous bay gelding. He measured out their feed, then fetched a pair of pitchforks and a wheelbarrow from the tack room, handing one of the forks to Hallie.

  She stood there for a moment, rather like the old woman in Grant Wood’s American Gothic, and then realized that looking after horses involved manure removal. She swallowed hard.

  Chance chuckled. “Okay, Dale Evans,” he said, his mouth crooking up at one corner when he smiled, “start pitching.”

  He demonstrated, stepping into Trojan’s stall, and Hallie took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and let herself in with Dolly, who regarded her tolerantly, chomping happily on her feed.

  “She won’t kick me, right?” she asked.

  “Not if you don’t surprise her,” Chance answered.

  Hallie bit her lip and began to pitch manure over the stall door and into the waiting wheelbarrow. Once she found a rhythm, the work wasn’t too bad. In fact, there was a soothing aspect to it that felt almost like meditation. When the wheelbarrow was full, Chance emptied it into an industrial-size garbage bin behind the barn. While the girls played in the stacks of hay, Chance and Hallie finished the chores.

  “That’s it,” Chance said, hanging up his pitchfork. “Until this evening, that is.”

  Hallie did some quick mental calculations. She wouldn’t get out of the Last Chance Café until after eight, according to what Madge had told her the night before, which meant it would be dark when she got back. She’d be working alone, too, with a cougar prowling the countryside.

  “Do you know how to use a gun?” Chance asked, evidently reading her mind.

  “It wouldn’t be a bad idea to carry a pistol.”

  An image flashed into Hallie’s mind, Lou, felled by a nine-millimeter, in his own living room. She felt her knees go weak, but before she could think of a response, she heard a fragile mew, and Kiera cried out with glee. “Kittens!”

  “Four of them,” Kiley confirmed, equally pleased. “There’s a yellow one, and a white one . . . where do you suppose their mama is?”

  “She’s probably hunting up some breakfast,” Chance told them. “Speaking of that, I’m pretty hungry myself. What do you say we head into town for some grub and then see about that truck of yours? I might be able to get it running again.”

  Hallie bit her lower lip, hesitating, then nodded. “As long as I’m not late for work.” She was still looking at Chance, but she addressed her next words to the twins. “Leave the kittens alone for now,” she said. “It isn’t good to handle them when they’re so new.”

  “Their eyes are still squinched shut,” Kiera said, jumping off a hay bale and starting toward Hallie. Kiley, who usually led the way, followed thoughtfully.

  “What if the cougar eats them all up?” she fretted.

  Chance ruffled Kiley’s hair. “They’re pretty safe in here,” he said, with a sort of gruff tenderness.

  Hallie’s heart constricted; once again, against her will, she thought of Joel. He’d sired the twins, but he’d never been a real father, like Lou had been to her, never reassured them in that ordinary way. She tried to put the past out of her mind as she followed Chance and the girls toward the huge truck waiting in the driveway next to the house, but it wasn’t easy to do. She was as skittish as a deer, jumping at every sound.

  Hallie’s own decrepit vehicle was right where she’d left it the night before, all but buried in snow. She shivered, reliving the long, cold walk to town, and scanned the hillside beyond for signs of cat tracks as they drove past.

  The Last Chance Café stood at the edge of town, and in the glare of a blue and white day, the place showed its age. It reminded her a little of Edward Hopper’s diner painting, Nighthawks, though of course the ambience was a lot cheerier. There were seven or eight cars in the parking lot, which had been plowed since the night before, and a rush of warm, bacon-scented air met Hallie when she stepped over the threshold. The twins had raced ahead, staking out stools at the counter, and Chance brought up the rear.

  Madge greeted them with a smile that somehow took in everybody. “Mornin’!”

  Hallie smiled back, though tentatively. “Good morning,” she said.

  Chance waited beside one of the booths until Hallie took a seat, then sat down across from her. He didn’t reach for a menu.

  Hallie consulted the blackboard behind the counter, where the specials were listed, and settled on oatmeal and orange juice. Kiera and Kiley were seated primly at the counter, and she grinned a little at their independence.

  “They’re great kids,” Chance observed quietly.

  She nodded. It gave her an illusion of safety, of happiness, being in this place, in the company of this man she barely knew, and she wanted to warm herself at those feelings, like a fire. Instead, she reminded herself not to let her guard slip. They were certainly still out there, searching for her, and they had the means to track her this far and further. Her life and, more importantly, the lives of her children, depended on her vigilance, and on her ability to make the right contact with the right law enforcement agency. Because of the identity of the men she’d seen in Lou’s photos, she was still afraid to trust anyone.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  Chance waited until Madge had taken their orders, looking smug the whole time, as if he had discerned some sweet secret that was hers alone, before leaning in a little. “What are you running from, Hallie?” he asked, his voice low.

  She felt the color drain from her face, looked away, looked back. Defiantly. “Nothing,” she lied, her tone curt. B
ut she wished she could tell him about Lou, and the cashbox, and the men in the pictures.

  “You’re a bad liar,” he replied, with a sigh.

  She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, and Madge returned in the silent interim to set cups of coffee and glasses of juice before them. Chance held Hallie’s gaze throughout, quite against her will.

  “If you’re running from the law, you’d better tell me,” he went on quietly.

  She stiffened, but before she answered, she glanced toward the twins, to make sure they weren’t listening. Madge had given them a box of crayons, and they were coloring on paper place mats.

  “I have problems, just like everybody else,” Hallie whispered furiously, “but I am not a criminal.” That much, at least, was true—she was living a lie, but she hadn’t broken any laws.

  He took a leisurely sip of coffee, watching her over the brim of his cup. “Seems to me that your troubles must be a little worse than average. If they weren’t, you probably wouldn’t have ended up stranded beside the road in a snowstorm, in the middle of the night, with two little kids and no place to stay.”

  She lowered her eyes, regrouping. When she looked up, she knew her cheeks were charged with color, and her chin was jutting out. “I was on my way somewhere,” she said. She was bluffing, and he clearly knew it, but pride compelled her to make an effort. “I just ran into some bad luck, that’s all.”

  “I’d like to help you,” he said quietly. “If you’ll let me.”

  She looked away. She had defenses against everything—except kindness.

  He reached across the table, laid one of his hands over hers. His fingers and palm were callused from years of hard work, and his strength, as much a part of him as any organ or limb, seemed to flow into her. He didn’t urge her to speak, he simply waited.

  At last, she met his gaze again, and shook her head.

  “Okay,” he said.

  Madge appeared with their food. She glanced from Chance to Hallie and back again. A grin quirked her bright red lips. “You wouldn’t be tryin’ to do me out of a waitress, now would you, Chance Qualtrough?”

  He spread his hands, the picture of innocence, though those blue eyes of his were full of sweet evil. “Just being neighborly,” he said.

  Madge laughed and turned her attention on Hallie. “You want to watch out for this fella,” she warned good-naturedly. “He’s been lassoed a couple of times, but he always manages to slip the rope.”

  Chance’s smile went high-beam, and Hallie was at once glad and sorry that it was trained on Madge, not her. “Nobody measures up to you, Madge,” he said. “That’s the trouble. Come on, say you’ll marry me . . .”

  Delighted, Madge laughed again, uproariously this time, snatched Chance’s hat from its place on the booth seat beside him, and swatted him with it. He raised both hands, as if to shield himself. Madge whacked him a few more times for good measure, then plopped the hat on his head, sideways. “Now,” she said. “You just behave yourself, or I’ll throw you out of here.”

  Chance removed his hat, set it aside, this time on the inside of his seat, next to the wall.

  “You’ve known Madge a long time,” Hallie observed somewhat wistfully, as the other woman bustled away to greet some new arrivals.

  “All my life,” Chance answered, watching Madge with quiet affection. “I’d do anything for her.”

  Hallie felt a knot rise into her throat, thicken there. Her stepfather had been the one person on earth who would have gone to the wall for her and the kids, and he was gone forever. They’d killed him, Joel and those men in the pictures, she was sure of it, just the way she was equally sure they would kill her, and maybe her babies, if they got the chance.

  “Tell me,” Chance urged, his expression solemn, watchful. He simply saw too much, this man.

  Tears stung her eyes. She wanted to tell him everything—the burden was buckling her very soul—but she didn’t dare. Oh, he was well-intentioned, she had no doubt of that, but he had no idea what he was asking her to do. Besides, she didn’t know the whole story; Lou had left her only bits and pieces of evidence.

  She pressed a hand to her mouth, remembering. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the images were still there, imprinted on her mind for all time. Lou, lying stone cold in his coffin, forever lost to her and to her children.

  She pushed her oatmeal away and glanced up to see a woman approaching the table, looking at once purposeful and pleasant. She had a cap of short, dark hair, and her eyes were indigo blue. She wore black slacks, boots, and a peacoat over a turtleneck sweater. She smiled questioningly at Hallie, then batted Chance’s shoulder with one hip. The distraction was a blessed relief.

  “Scoot over, Cowboy,” she ordered.

  He grinned and slid to make room, and Hallie quelled an embarrassing stab of jealousy. “Hello, Katie,” he said, and then indicated Hallie with a toss of his head. “Meet Madge’s new waitress and Jessie’s new house-sitter, Hallie O’Rourke. Hallie, this is Katie Stratton.”

  Katie assessed her frankly, but her smile was genuine. “Hi, Hallie.”

  Hallie nodded. “Hello,” she said.

  Katie turned her attention on Chance. “I need to have a word with you,” she told him.

  “I know,” he replied. “I got your phone message last night.”

  There was some kind of dynamic at work between these two, Hallie thought, but she couldn’t quite figure out what it was. Or maybe, she reflected wryly, she just didn’t want to recognize it. She sat back against the booth, arms folded, and watched them watching each other.

  Just then, Madge hurried over. “Incoming!” she warned, like a soldier on lookout.

  The café door whooshed open, and cold air flooded the place. Hallie looked up, saw Jase Stratton entering, and nearly had a heart attack then and there. He was on somebody’s trail, that was obvious. Had Joel gotten to him, turned the tables somehow, convinced Stratton that she, Hallie, had done something wrong?

  “Good morning, Jase,” Katie said mildly.

  He acknowledged a stricken Hallie with a brisk nod and leaned down, his large hands grasping the edges of the table. “What are you doing here?” he demanded of Katie, who looked up at him without flinching.

  “I was planning to have coffee,” she replied evenly. “Is there a law against that?”

  Chance was stuck in the corner of the booth, which was probably a good thing, because he looked as though he might have gone for the lawman’s throat if the way had been unobstructed. His face had gone hard, his blue eyes had turned gray as slate; there was one hell of a storm brewing. “Not now,” he warned, glaring at the other man. “I mean it, Jase.”

  Hallie glanced toward her children, saw with relief that they were still absorbed in their coloring project, though they’d both done justice to the cereal and fruit Madge had served them earlier. Maybe they’d witnessed so many angry scenes in their young lives, she thought ruefully, that another one was of no great consequence to them.

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” Jase drawled, glaring at Chance.

  Hallie bit down on her lower lip, wishing she could take her children and disappear into thin air.

  Jase moved to take hold of Katie’s forearm; she stopped him with a quiet, “Don’t even think about grabbing me.”

  “Amen to that,” Chance warned. His tone was low, and dangerous.

  Jase straightened, heaved an exasperated sigh. Although fury flashed in his eyes, Hallie saw pain there, too, and something else that she hadn’t immediately recognized. Decency. “Christ, Katie,” he breathed. “You know I’d never manhandle you.”

  She didn’t look away from his face. “Do I?” she countered. A charge passed between the two of them then, Katie and Jase, and Hallie glanced at Chance. He still looked as though he wanted to climb over the table and rip the officer a new one, but he was making an effort at restraint.

  “Hallie O’Rourke,” Katie said, “this is my husband, Jase Stratton. He’s sheriff—not of Nottingham,
as you might think from his behavior—but of this very county. Jase, this is Hallie. If you bother to look, you’ll probably notice that you’ve just scared the hell out of her.”

  Jase sighed again. He was handsome, broad-shouldered and square-jawed. He took off his hat and made an honest attempt at a smile. “Welcome to Primrose Creek,” he said, and he sounded sheepish.

  By then, Hallie had sized him up. He wasn’t mean, and he wasn’t dangerous. But he was hurting in a big way. Over Katie. Obviously, Chance figured into the equation somewhere, too, but she wasn’t ready to think about that. “Thanks,” she said.

  Jase let out another great sigh. “Look,” he said to Katie, “I admit I overreacted. I’m sorry. But we were supposed to meet this morning, remember? For the conference with Janie’s teacher?”

  Katie responded with a sigh of her own. “Jase,” she replied, “that was yesterday. You didn’t show, so I talked with Mrs. Carter myself.” Her tone said she did a lot of things by herself, and hated it.

  Jase looked as though he’d been struck in the belly with a ramrod. “Yesterday?” he echoed, sounding horrified.

  “Yesterday,” Katie confirmed. Her lips were tight, and her blue eyes snapped as she regarded her husband. “Ellie’s dance recital was last night. You missed that, too.”

  “Oh, God,” Jase muttered.

  Although she was much smaller than Jase, she somehow claimed the space he was standing in, rising to her feet, forcing him to step back. “Nice to meet you, Hallie,” she said. “Stop by the bookstore and I’ll try to convince you that there are a few sane people in this town. It’s just down the street, across from the feed and grain.” She didn’t spare a look for Jase, but spoke, instead, to Chance. “Thanks for being there last night. It meant a lot to Ellie, and to me.”

  Chance nodded a reply, but didn’t elaborate; he was on his feet almost as soon as Katie gave him room. He and Jase glared at each other, like a pair of stallions claiming the same territory. Hallie felt a twinge of unfounded, inexplicable heartache as she looked on.

  “I’d like a word with you, Stratton,” Chance growled.