by Caroline Lee
She huffed, exasperated. “That is what I’m doing. Tell me about the drop-points.”
“What?” He blinked.
Well, it wasn’t the first time she’d surprised a man by tenaciously following a line of questioning. But this was the first time she suspected her heart wasn’t in it. She would’ve preferred to follow his teasing…
“You said that you would meet a car and pick up the drugs. How’d you know where the car would be?”
“How come you don’t know that already?” he demanded.
Hmm. Time to confess? “Because I don’t have access to the case records.” She held his gaze while she told him the truth. “I only heard your name in connection with an old bust, and I knew I wanted answers.”
“So you came to me, instead of one of your old cop buddies?” Tristan’s expression became guarded, and he dropped his hands by his sides.
“Well, you’re the one it involves. I figured you could tell me the truth. Can you?” she challenged.
“Yeah.” His answer was just above a whisper. “But I didn’t expect…”
“What?”
He shrugged. “You to trust me,” he said simply.
And her heart gave another little pang for him. He was used to not being trusted. But she could show him he was worth trusting.
“I trust you to tell me the truth, Tristan.” She held his gaze. “Will you tell me about the car and the drop points?”
He stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable, but then he finally shrugged. Shrugged and looked away, like it was no big deal. Well, it was a big deal. To her at least.
“I don’t know how the guy got the medicine from Canada. I didn’t care then, and still don’t. All I know is, every morning, I drove up to the truck stop north of Bonner’s Ferry, and visited the men’s room—the handicapped stall. If there was a drop planned, he—whoever he was—would write it on the wall, or post it on a sticky note over the toilet. I’d meet him there at that time, pick up the pills, and bring ‘em back to my father and uncles.”
It seemed odd to hear about such an old-fashioned method of communication in the days of cell phones and the internet. Still, Charley’s stomach clenched in excitement, like it used to when she was on the trail of a suspect. “Did anyone else ever intercept those times and locations?”
He glanced at her, then away again. “They were coded. Pop taught me how to read them.”
Coded. No wonder the law enforcement officers couldn’t figure out how to find them, and had only gotten lucky when they busted Tristan the first time. Again, the thought of his father using a teenager—a boy!—to do his dirty work filled Charley with disgust. How dare he think that was an okay way to treat a child?
“Did he ever apologize?”
The question caught Tristan off-guard, judging from the sudden wary shift in his expression. “Who? The driver?”
Oh, that’s right. They’d been talking about how he’d known where the drugs would be dropped off. She took a few steps closer to him, watching him, wondering if he’d bolt like she’d been afraid of before.
“No, your father. Did he ever apologize for what he did to you?”
His jaw tightened, and she wondered if he was clenching his teeth. Why? Was the memory that painful? She willed him to tell her, to talk to her about what had happened, so she’d understand. Staring at him, she watched his hands fist at his sides, watched his t-shirt-covered chest rapidly expand and contract inside his black jacket, like he was taking big gulps of air.
Still, he didn’t say anything. Didn’t acknowledge what his father had done to him. Charley’s heart broke a little for him, and she found herself crossing the rest of the way to him, to stand in front of him.
Before she could think better of it, she laid her hand on his chest. It was warm and hard and so full of life, she wanted to dig her fingers into his t-shirt and pull him against her, just to remind him she was here for him.
His heart hammered out a rapid beat under her palm, and she met his pain-filled hazel eyes.
“I’m sorry, Tristan. If he won’t say it to you, then I will. I’m sorry for what you went through as a kid.”
To her surprise, his eyes filled with tears. None of them spilled over, but he didn’t bother to hide them. Charley sucked in a breath, humbled by this gift he’d given her—his vulnerability.
His hand wrapped around hers where it lay against his chest, and he squeezed. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely, his gaze not leaving hers.
Part of her wanted to quip something snarky to detract from the fact they’d been sharing their feelings. But she couldn’t do that to him, not right now. Not when they stood in her favorite place on the ranch, and he had tears in his eyes.
So she just nodded. As if it was right and normal for her to have to apologize for the long-ago actions of a bigoted criminal.
Tristan spent nine years in prison because of misplaced loyalty to that man, and Charley hated the way it made her feel inside.
Now though, he had the power to rectify this. To make it better. He might know the code Shane intercepted. He was the only one who could make sense of it, who could tell Shane and the other officers where to lie in wait for the new drop-point. He was the only one who would know if this was the same code the gang had used twelve years ago. He was the only one who could guess who the new master-mind was.
It wasn’t until she saw him glance down at his chest that she realized his expression had cleared and that she was clutching his t-shirt in her fist. Taking a deep breath, she smoothed out his shirt, patting his chest a few more times than was necessary.
“You can make this better, Tristan.”
He raised a brow, the only reaction to her non sequitur, and she grinned a little ruefully. It wasn’t like he knew what was going on in her head. He wasn’t the new leader of his father’s gang. Despite Shane’s surety that Tristan was the one who’d restarted the drug ring, Charley had faith.
Had faith in his innocence. She trusted Tristan.
“You have to go to the police, Tristan. You have to tell them what you know.”
His hand tightened around hers. “What do you mean?” The confusion on his face was proof he didn’t understand. He wasn’t the new leader of the drug ring, no matter what Shane thought.
“You’re the only one who can stop them. You were only caught because they got lucky, not because they cracked the code. And you didn’t explain, because you—“ She bit down on what she was going to say. You felt you owed your father. “Anyhow, you didn’t explain. But now you have to. So that they can be stopped.”
His brows dipped down in confusion. “Tell who? To stop who? What are you talking about?”
Charley sucked in a breath. He really didn’t understand.
“It’s started again, Tristan. Someone’s making methamphetamines with medicine stolen in Canada.”
He stopped breathing. She could tell because she still had her hand pressed against his chest. He stopped breathing and his eyes went wide and she felt his heart skip a beat.
“You’re the only one who—”
He cut her off by stepping backwards. He dropped her hand and stepped away from her touch, and Charley didn’t go with him.
“I’m the only one who could be doing it.” His voice was as flat as his expression, but he kept his eyes trained on her. “That’s what you—what the police—assume, isn’t it? Someone is using Pop’s methods, and you all know it’s me, don’t you?”
Charley was already frantically shaking her head. “That’s not it.”
But it didn’t seem to do any good. Tristan backed up another step, then two. When he shook his head, it wasn’t frantic, just…disappointed. Like he’d expected better of her.
Well, she had given him better. “Tristan!” She stretched out her hand to him. “You don’t understand.”
“No,” he bit out. “No, you’re the one who doesn’t understand.”
“I do.” How to make him see she had faith in him? �
��I do understand! You’re the only one who knows the code, Tristan.”
“So therefore I must be the one leading this again?” There was disgust in his expression now, and it ate at Charley to realize it was aimed at her. “That’s what you think of me?”
“No!”
She stepped towards him, trying to make him understand, but he backed away and shook his head. Before she could stop him, he’d slipped around her and stalked towards the path between the trees leading back to his motorcycle.
“Tristan, no!” She tried again. “I just meant that you have to help us!”
He stopped right before he disappeared into the woods, but didn’t turn. His shoulders were hard under that leather jacket, and she imagined the anger simmering under the surface.
“I’m sorry,” he snarled. “Sorry you don’t see me for who I am now. All you—and every other cop out there—see is who I used to be.”
“Tr—” She snapped her lips shut on his name, because he was already gone, already disappeared into the shadows of the woods.
Charley whirled back to the lake, and as she heard his motorcycle turn over in the distance, she sank down onto the log beside his helmet. Dropping her head into her hands, she felt the prickling of tears behind her lids.
Tears for their misunderstanding. Tears for the hollow pit of loss that used to be hope in her stomach, when she thought that maybe—maybe—she’d be able to help solve this case and be a hero for once. Tears for his lack of faith in her faith.
But mostly, tears for his pain.
Tristan told himself his eyes were only watering because he’d left his helmet back in the clearing with Charley. He hoped she wouldn’t leave it there, but he figured he probably deserved it if she did. After all, he’d left her there, hadn’t he?
Yeah. Yeah, it was just the cool air stinging at his eyes as he zipped along the river-side road that made them water. Didn’t have anything to do with the anger and disappointment sitting sour in his stomach.
She’d judged him and found him lacking. She’d assumed he was the guilty one again, just because he’d been guilty before. Tristan’s breath caught in a sob and he gunned his bike, determined not to cry, not over this. He hadn’t cried when he’d been arrested, or when he’d faced Pop in the courtroom, or during any of his court-ordered therapy sessions…he wasn’t going to cry over her.
No matter how much her bad opinion of him hurt.
He wasn’t looking where he was going, wasn’t paying attention to the scenery that flashed by, which was probably breath-taking. Instead, he kept his stinging eyes locked on the yellow lines ahead of him, and tried to swallow down his pain.
Which is probably why the woman caught him by surprise.
He took a bend around a clump of evergreens and there she was, standing impassively in the middle of the road. Tristan yelped and braked hard, skidding and managing to stay upright only by turning side-on and leaving some serious skid marks. He slid to a stop only a few feet from her, but she didn’t so much as blink.
She was an older woman, who was glaring at him like it was his fault he almost hit her as she stood in the middle of the road holding a—
Was that a ceramic garden statue? One of those little dudes with the red stocking caps? Tristan swiped his hands over his eyes and peered closer, glad for something to distract him from his earlier thoughts.
Yeah, she was definitely holding a garden gnome, cradled in the crook of one arm, with the other hand resting on its head. Like she was a movie villain petting a fluffy white cat.
He wanted to yell, “Are you crazy, lady?” but something held his tongue.
Almost as if she could sense his thoughts, her face bloomed into a smile. “Glad to see you can still respect your elders, Tristan.”
What? “Who are you?” he demanded, off-balance by her familiarity and the fact she was standing in the middle of the road petting a gnome.
But she waved her free hand airily. “Oh, you can call me Jaclyn.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s my name, silly.”
“Then wouldn’t I obviously— Never mind.” He swiped his hands over his eyes again and sighed heavily. “Can I help you, Ms. Jaclyn? Are you okay?”
“Oh fine, fine. Why do you ask?”
Because no one in their right mind would stand in the middle of the road and pet a statue! “No reason,” he said instead.
She chuckled. “Smart move, Tristan.”
How did she know who he was? He was just about to ask, when she continued.
“Don’t worry about traffic.” She peered behind him at the suspiciously empty road. “No one seems to be driving along the river today.”
Hmmm, yeah. She was right. Tristan craned his neck in either direction, wondering if he should walk his bike around her to continue on his way…as fast as he could, because this lady was freaking him out. But where was he going to go? Back home? But home didn’t exist, not really. The bank had taken the house after Pop’s arrest, and now Tristan lived—
“Only trolls live under bridges, you know.”
His head snapped up to meet her gaze. “What did you say?” he asked hoarsely.
“The fairies say that you live under a bridge, but that’s not true, is it?” Her gaze sharpened. “You don’t really live anywhere.”
Ouch, lady.
She continued. “But you could live here.” She gestured with her free hand—not to the landscape surrounding the road, or the rushing river, or the tall mountains…but to the hawk, circling high overhead. “You could live here, and still be free.”
Remembering the way Charley had told him to never return to the ranch, Tristan snorted. “I don’t see how.”
“Oh, love will find a way. I seem to recall Elf mentioning that he needed another set of hands in the mechanic’s shop. That would certainly suit your skills better than construction.” She shrugged, then stepped aside, as if allowing him to pass.
But Tristan was rooted. Love will find a way? What did she mean by that? He enjoyed working on cars, yeah. More than he liked building things. But did he love that kind of work? And who the heck was Elf? The gnome she was carrying? Why would the gnome have an opinion about how much Tristan loved his work?
Or…did the old woman mean, like…love love? His chest immediately tightened, as he thought of Charley, but his brain did its best to ignore her.
He didn’t love Charley. He’d only just met the woman, and she’d done everything but point a gun at him. She didn’t trust him, didn’t believe he was a changed man. A good man. He couldn’t love someone like that.
The itch in the back of his head was screaming How does this woman know so much about me? but he ignored it to walk his bike carefully around her, pointing it in the correct direction.
“You’re wrong, you know.”
Her casual comment pulled Tristan up short. He glared at her—half questioning, half defiant.
“She does trust you. She trusts you so much, she asked for your help in catching the bad guys.”
He shook his head, not even surprised she knew about Charley. “She doesn’t even know who the bad guys are.” She thought he was the bad guy.
But the old woman just nodded sadly. “That’s part of the problem, Tristan. Help her understand. Give her the help she asked for. She knows it’s not you, but she needs you.”
He stared at the old woman—Jaclyn?—for a moment longer, then shook his head. “She doesn’t—”
“She does need you,” Jaclyn said sharply. “And if you’d stop moping for a solid minute, you’d realize that.” Her expression softened. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, George here is anxious to see his favorite view.”
Tristan blinked. “What?”
“The view, the view!” She gestured across the road at the roiling white water and the mountain behind. “It’s his favorite, and I swear he’s been sneaking out at night just to see it. Or possibly that pretty new blonde gnome.” She sighed. “Listen, my nephew will be here soon, and
it’ll be a regular reunion, what with all the cousins—never mind. Suffice it to say, I’ll have my hands completely full, delivering the fairies’ orders and trying to keep my Joshy from making a horrible mistake. I just know that I’ll be much too busy to take George on his bi-weekly walks to see his favorite site, no matter how much my nephew needs me.” She nodded solemnly. “He had his portrait painted nearby, you know.”
“Your nephew?”
“No!” She rolled her eyes like he was the deranged one, then shook the gnome in his direction. “George, silly!”
Was this woman nuts? “Uh-huh.” Tristan kicked his bike into gear, ready to be away from this strange encounter and the ranch in general. Ready to be away from Charley.
Although he suspected he’d never really be able to get away from her memory.
Jaclyn pointed a long finger at him. “You remember what I said, Tristan,” she hollered over the sound of his engine. “She asked for help with this case. She needs you! Loyalty is well and good, but you have to decide who you’re loyal to!”
Refusing to acknowledge her or her advice, Tristan roared away from the strange encounter, and eventually, away from River’s End Ranch itself. It wasn’t until he was cruising aimlessly along Route 95—oh yeah, he remembered this highway well—that the crazy old lady’s words crawled back inside his brain.
Charley needed him? He chuckled, but his heart wasn’t in it. Did she? She’d said he was the only one who could stop the drug manufacturing—and he still hadn’t come to terms with the fact someone had started up Pop’s old business—but maybe that hadn’t meant she’d assumed he was the mastermind. Maybe she’d really only meant he could stop it, since he knew how Pop worked.
Loyalty is well and good, the woman had said. Was Tristan still loyal to Pop? Even after all these years? Did he owe the old man anything? Or was it time to choose a new loyalty?
He thought about the things his father used to say about cops, and tried to determine if any of them applied to Charley. She was weirdly devoted to order, and obviously she believed in following the law…but she was also fun and funny and fiercely passionate. That wasn’t anything Pop had ever said about a cop, and Tristan had never let himself get close enough to any of the officers he’d met over the last decade to know them as people.