Whiskey River Runaway (Whiskey River Series Book 2)

by Justine Davis

  He blinked. “What?”

  “I thought it was cool when I got it, but things change and it can’t.”

  “It can’t? And why don’t you like it anymore?”

  She wasn’t quite sure why she was standing here having this conversation with a little boy, but it didn’t seem right to just walk away. Not to mention that she was beginning to wonder what he was doing here in the middle of the day on a Friday, instead of being in school.

  “It’s from a time when I was different,” she began, but saw by his furrowed brow this was not registering. “If you were to get a tattoo, would it be of your first baby rattle?”

  He looked horrified. “No!”

  “Why? Back then, it was probably the most important thing in your life.”

  “But I’m not a baby anymore.”

  “Exactly. And just like that rattle, what’s important to you now might not be later. But that tatt’s there forever.”

  “Oh.” He looked thoughtful now. “That makes sense.”

  “Thank you. It happens.” She grinned at him, and he laughed.

  “I like you,” he declared, and she felt as if she’d won some kind of battle. “Most grownups’d be pestering me about why I’m not in school today.”

  Even though she had wondered, she put her hands on her hips and glared at him in mock outrage. “Do I look like a truant officer to you?”

  Adam laughed. “Nope.”

  “And you’re not a baby, so I figured you know where you’re supposed to be, and a stranger telling you otherwise isn’t going to matter. And shouldn’t.”

  He was looking at her curiously. “You’re different.”

  “Been told that before.” She was a little surprised herself at the weariness that had crept into her voice.

  “Uh-oh.” Adam was looking over her shoulder now, and slowly backing away.

  “Let me guess, the real truant officer?”

  “As good as,” the boy said. “Ol’ Mr. Reid. Mom says he’s the worst stick in the mud in town. That means he doesn’t believe in fun. See ya.”

  As quickly as that the boy had darted back toward Booze’s statue. Somehow she thought the guy would understand.

  Down the street a truck turned onto Main Street, heading briskly toward the square. Other than that nothing was moving, and that alone was a novelty to her. She turned around and started walking in the direction the boy had been looking. Saw not the crotchety old man she’d expected but a younger one, rather portly and with a beard she guessed he thought masked that somehow. She turned her head just enough to see, out of the corner of one eye, Adam taking to his heels from behind Booze Kelly toward the street.

  She wondered if she could engage the man in a conversation long enough to let him get away. Perhaps she shouldn’t, maybe the boy should be in school, but she didn’t want to betray the kid.

  She could just ask for directions, she thought. He probably knew everyone, and would know she was new here, so that should work. She could—

  A warning honk from behind her ripped through her mental planning. Instinctively she whirled around.

  Adam had darted right into the path of that rapidly moving truck.

  She didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. She ran. Dove. Into the street. Hand outstretched.

  She felt the fabric of the boy’s shirt. Swore she could feel the heat of the truck’s engine.

  Then it was all sound.

  Brakes squealing. A thud. And a scream.

  *

  “Remember that old joke Millie Templeton used to make, about opening a can of worms and finding scorpions on top?”

  Uh-oh.

  True grimaced as he edged over to the side of the road in the first turnout spot he came to. He’d almost made it home in blissful ignorance, he’d topped the last rise and could see the river from here. But he put the truck in park and his flashers on; he had a feeling this phone call was going to need his full attention.

  “Since Jamie turned it into his band’s name, yeah, I remember,” he said. “I gather you found something?”

  “Eventually,” Jack Ducane said. “That is if this is your girl. Pic incoming. It’s from seven years ago, so keep that in mind.”

  Seven years ago. She would have been sixteen. His phone signaled a text coming in. He almost didn’t want to look. Then had the thought that maybe it wasn’t really Hope, so he did.

  It was her.

  Or rather, a variation of her. He stared at the photograph, having to search to find the Hope he knew beneath the dark, heavy makeup, the raggedy hair that masked half her face, and the tough expression. But there, buried under all that, were her eyes. Her nose.

  And if he’d had any doubts left, there was the tattoo.

  Yes. Younger, but yes.

  He let out a breath. “It is. She looks nothing like that now, but it’s her. What did you find?”

  “Had to expand the search quite a bit. But what else have I got to do, with active duty still a month away?”

  “At least it’s coming,” True said, knowing the man would be shattered if he couldn’t do what he’d been born to do. “And I told you she wasn’t from Texas.”

  “But you didn’t mention I was going to get to sift through all the crap L.A. manages to produce.”

  “California?” True asked, surprised.

  “Didn’t mean Louisiana.”

  “Damn. She’s a long way from home.”

  “If you want to call it that.” There was a note in Jack’s voice that told True he wasn’t just expressing an opinion of Los Angeles. A string of questions rose in his mind, and it took him a moment to decide what to ask first. Finally he chose the one that seemed to matter most.

  “Does she have reason to have run so far, and be so scared?”

  He heard Jack let out a long breath before answering. When he did, his voice was flat, definite.

  “Yes.”

  Before he could work out what to ask or even the nerve to ask it, his phone signaled another call coming in. He glanced at the screen, ready to swipe it away. Then he saw who it was. A reaction he thought he’d beaten swept him full force, as if it had been only yesterday. Or as if it still mattered. But he hadn’t gotten a call that mattered from the Whiskey River medical clinic in years. To be exact, the day they’d told him Amanda’s case was worse than they could handle and she needed to go to Austin.

  “True?” Jack said, his voice a bit distant since True was still staring at the screen.

  “Sorry.” The signaling stopped. “Another call.”

  “Okay, I’ll make this quick. You’ve got trouble on your hands.”

  “Believe it or not, I knew that already,” True said, still fighting for calm. He couldn’t quite believe a call from a medical facility years after Amanda’s death could rattle him so much.

  “For what it’s worth, she herself doesn’t seem to be lethal.”

  The hell she doesn’t. “Is she in trouble, or is she the trouble?”

  “Depends where you stand.”

  Jack always had had the knack of seeing from all sides. Sometimes sides no one else saw. It wasn’t that he empathized or felt sympathy for a proven bad guy, but he could put his head where they were and often figure out what they’d do next. Of course that had earned him some ragging now and then, about seeing sides that weren’t there, but he took it with equanimity. He saw what he saw and he stood where he stood, and you could take it or leave it. And being able to think from a suspect’s point of view had helped him break some pretty major cases.

  True’s phone beeped that a voice mail had been left. So it hadn’t been a wrong number. So much for that hope. He pulled himself together on a deep breath.

  “Jack, that call was from the Whiskey River medical clinic. I need to check it, it could be Zee. Can you hang on a sec?”

  “Hate those calls. Go ahead.” At the assent, he switched over to voice mail, listened.

  “True? It’s Sharon, at the clinic, emergency side. Can you get here? It’s
not Zee, but there’s been an accident.”

  He breathed a little better, thankful to Sharon for getting that out first: not Zee. They must train them to do that when leaving a message. Everybody in town knew she was all he had left of family. But if it wasn’t Zee, why were they calling him? Damn, maybe it was Deck. Or Kelsey, or—

  It hit him then, belatedly, probably because he’d been so rattled.

  Hope.

  Chapter Seventeen

  He’d been so close to home he didn’t call back, he just laid on the accelerator and hoped if he got stopped it was a local who’d let him get there first and deal with his lawbreaking later. But he ripped into town and up Boots Lane without interference. There was an ambulance parked near the entrance to the emergency side of the small clinic, but no sign of anyone around.

  He parked kind of cockeyed in the only spot available and hit the automatic doors at a run. He had to catch himself when they didn’t open in as big a hurry as he was in. And then he was inside. He headed for the counter, then something caught his peripheral vision. He turned his head as he kept moving. And then he stopped dead.

  Hope. Huddled on one of the plastic chairs against the far wall.

  And bloody.

  His breath jammed up in his throat. There was blood all over her. His stomach roiled, and he felt panic creeping in around the edges of his mind. The sounds, the smells of this place hammered at him. Medical sounds, smells. His mind screamed at him to get out, get away. To be gone before the bad, awful, unchangeable news came.

  But someplace else, some deep, hidden place in his chest, urged him forward.

  Practically before he was aware of moving he was at her side, crouched down before the chair. He had to remember how to breathe before he could speak.

  “Hope, what happened?” She lifted her head then, and the turmoil in her eyes was vividly clear. He tried to gentle his voice as much as he could but wasn’t sure it had much effect, he was too wound up. “Why the hell are you out here and not in a treatment room? You can’t be that stubborn, you need—”

  “True, she’s all right.” Sharon was there then, and she sat on the chair next to Hope. “She wasn’t actually hurt in the accident.”

  It took him a moment to process, given all the blood.

  “I didn’t ask them to call you,” Hope said. She sounded as shaky as if she had been hurt, and he frowned. And what did that have to do with anything?

  “She didn’t,” Sharon confirmed. “But once I realized she worked for you, of course I did.”

  “Of course,” Hope echoed, “because you’re True freaking Mahan and everybody in this town thinks you walk on water.”

  Sharon looked startled. True thought he might have felt stung if not for how she’d sounded. He couldn’t even put a name to everything that had echoed in Hope’s voice. But he shelved that question in order to ask the more obviously crucial one.

  “All that blood—”

  “Is that her?” A rather piercing voice called out across the room. True recognized it immediately, and the churning in his stomach reactivated. Ginevra Hawkins, one of the social mavens of Whiskey River, second only to Paloma Kelly, who claimed the top spot by virtue of being one of the founding Kelly family.

  Mrs. Hawkins was what his grandfather used to call a civilizing woman, meaning everyone around her had to conform to her standards or never hear the end of it. But she was also the founder of several genuinely helpful charities, and worked tirelessly for them, so they all gave her the benefit of the doubt. When they couldn’t avoid her altogether.

  She was striding across the room with an energy that belied her nearly seventy years. Dear God, what had Hope done?

  She doesn’t seem to be lethal. . .

  And then Mrs. Hawkins was there, bending over Hope. Reaching, taking up her hands, seemingly oblivious that they were covered in blood. “Thank you, you wonderful girl.”

  True blinked. Drew back slightly; he’d never heard such a tone from this woman in the entire time he’d known her, which was most of his life. Hope herself looked startled.

  “Adam is her grandson,” Sharon explained to Hope.

  “Adam?” True asked, sharply. He liked the clever, livewire boy with the fascination for how things worked. And so did everyone else in Whiskey River.

  “He collided with a delivery truck, out on Main,” Sharon said.

  “And this young woman,” Mrs. Hawkins declared, “saved his life. Pulled him clear.”

  “She did,” Sharon said. “He would have been crushed. As it is, the bumper of the truck tore an artery. But she got in there and stopped the bleed. Kept pressure on it until EMS got there and could take over.”

  “And she’s so modest about it,” Adam’s grandmother exclaimed. “Didn’t even want credit, wanted to just fade into the crowd without even leaving her name.”

  A whole new kind of storm whirled up in his gut. Because now he knew. He’d gone back to Jack on the phone, mainly as a way to tamp down his panic as he raced for town. But as the man talked, True had finally begun to understand the scope of what Hope was running from. And why she feared what she’d left behind could reach her even here.

  He would get her side of it. Soon. But right now he just wanted her out of here.

  There was some more bustle, soothing words from Sharon saying Adam was going to be fine, loud, appreciative ones from Ginevra Hawkins, but True only half-heard most of it, because Hope was just sitting there looking pole axed. Sad. Scared. Upset. All the things he’d heard in her voice.

  As if the world had just caved in on her.

  “Can I take her home now?” he asked Sharon.

  Hope didn’t even react, which told him how rattled she was.

  “I think the police are through with her,” the nurse said.

  Damn. He should have realized they’d have been involved. A kid didn’t get hit on the main streets of Whiskey River without them being all over it. And now that he knew. . .what he knew, it was no wonder she was so shaken.

  “Come on,” he said, reaching out to take one of her bloodstained hands. “Now, while Mrs. Hawkins is on stage over there,” he added, gesturing with his other had to where the woman seemed to be holding court with anybody willing to listen. But since she was again loudly crediting Hope with saving her grandson’s life, he cut her some slack.

  Silently Hope stood up. True realized her clothes were nearly as bloody as her hands. Sharon, who had pulled out her phone when it had chimed, suddenly looked up, grinning. “You’re already a star, girl! Somebody posted a photo of your heroics.”

  Hope made a tiny sound he doubted anyone else could have heard. True looked at the woman clad in the blue scrubs. “Sharon, please. . .if anyone asks, especially media, you don’t know who she is.”

  “But she’s—”

  “You don’t know her name. Please.”

  Sharon frowned. “But the police know who she is.”

  “I’m hoping that will take time to get out. Just give us time to get home.”

  Sharon looked from him to Hope and back. A look of speculation came into her eyes. “All right, True. For you I’ll stall as long as I can. Good luck.”

  Hope didn’t say a word all the way back to the house. She seemed almost numb. The moment he pulled into the driveway the front door of Zee’s place swung open and his sister came belting out, crossing the distance between them quickly with her long, leggy stride.

  “Hey, Bro, welcome back! Cops didn’t chase you home, did they? I heard all kinds of sirens this—”

  He put up a hand and shook his head. Zee frowned, but she fell quiet as he walked around to open the passenger door. Hope just sat there, as if she barely realized where she was.

  Zee gasped when she saw the bloodstains. “Oh my God, Hope, are you all right?”

  That seemed to get through to Hope, who frowned as she looked at her.

  “She’s not hurt,” True said. Physically.

  “Your car,” Hope began, then stopped as if
she couldn’t think of the rest of the words she wanted to say.

  “We’ll get Zee’s car later,” True said, taking her elbow to urge her out of the vehicle. “For now let’s get you cleaned up.”

  She looked down at herself, then at her own hands. “Again,” she murmured, and he guessed she was thinking of the first time he’d helped her clean up blood.

  “True,” Zee whispered. “What—?”

  “Long story,” he said. “Bottom line is she saved Adam Hawkins’s life.”

  Zee, usually unflappable, gaped at him. Then she looked at Hope. “Well, girlfriend, seems you rattle cages wherever you go.”

  For the first time Hope seemed to focus. But she wasn’t looking at Zee, she was looking at him.

  “I didn’t want to,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t want to get involved, I knew they’d want my name, I couldn’t lie because they’d know, or they’d just ask you, I liked it here and I didn’t want to run, I should have but. . .I saw the blood, pumping, knew it was bad, I couldn’t just leave him to die in the street when I knew what to do.”

  It came out in one long tumble, and True felt a tightness in his chest he’d not felt in a very long time.

  Hope Larson had finally broken.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The rap on the door gave her a start, but she didn’t stop. She didn’t dare stop what she was doing, or she’d chicken out. She didn’t want to do it, and how much she didn’t want it stunned her. She’d been in Whiskey River less than ten days, she’d only known True six of those, and yet with every item she slipped into her battered backpack her heart screamed at leaving.

  How had she come to treasure these days, the normalcy of them, so much so fast? How had she allowed this man to assume such a huge stature in her life, in such a short time, that the thought of never seeing him again ripped at her as surely as that truck had ripped at little Adam just hours ago? How could she leave?

  But she had to. For his sake.

  She pulled out the photograph to steady herself. To remind her that she had to leave him for the same reasons she’d left them.