Between Lost and Found

by Shelly Stratton

She released a deep breath and slumped forward. “So you really trust these guys?”

  He laughed. “Yes! I’ve worked with them before on other searches, and I’ve known some of them for years. Hell, I went to high school with a few of them. They’re good guys.”

  “Oh, yeah! That’s right. Connie told me you grew up here in Mammoth . . . that your dad used to be police chief.”

  “Yep, for almost twenty years,” he said, spearing his broccoli with his fork.

  “So, if you don’t mind me asking . . . how does a guy from Mammoth Falls end up in Vienna, Virginia?” she asked between chews, resting one elbow on the counter and her chin in the cup of her hand. “I’ve been wondering about that since you told me you used to live there.”

  Her knee brushed his thigh and he had to focus on what she was saying, what she was asking him. The conversation had shifted. They were no longer talking shop but veering into the personal but, with this woman, he didn’t mind. Maybe he could find out more about her, too.

  “Wasting your time,” the voice in his head chided yet again. And again he ignored it.

  “I went to D.C. for a police conference about nine years ago . . . some summit. I can’t even remember the name. Dad was supposed to go but he had foot surgery coming up. It was a last-minute thing and had already cost the town money to send him. He didn’t want to back out, so he asked me to go in his stead.” He paused to take another drink. “So I went and decided to stay.”

  “You stayed? Just like that?”

  “Well,” he said, inclining his head, “the plan was to stay an extra few days, then maybe a week. It was the first time I had ever been to the East Coast . . . to D.C., so I wanted to explore and enjoy myself.”

  “Check out the tourist sites?”

  “Yeah . . . you could say that.”

  Sites, my ass. Unless those sites were from a Victoria’s Secret catalog, he thought with an inward laugh.

  He recalled the young man he had been back then, full of vigor and full of himself. Though his cowboy hat and small-town charm had drawn contempt from some, there were plenty of women back east who had found it exciting, even sexy. He was the new pair of designer shoes that season that all the girls wanted and he had taken full advantage of it. If what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, then what happened that April week at the Days Inn on Connecticut Avenue in D.C. would also stay within those four walls.

  “So how did a week turn into . . . how long was it?” she asked, toying with the gold pendant at her throat.

  “Almost six years,” he said, lowering his fork.

  “Six years? How in the world did that happen?”

  He contemplated making up a lie to answer her question. The admission sounded so cheesy when he said it aloud, like “I love puppy dogs,” or “My favorite movie is Sleepless in Seattle.” It would seem like a sappy pickup line orchestrated to win her over, but it was the truth.

  “I met my wife, Gabriela, the day before I was supposed to head back home,” he said, staring down at his half-eaten plate.

  Janelle dropped her hand from her face. “So you stayed for her? You gave up everything back here to be with her?”

  “Well, it wasn’t like I had much to give up.”

  “Of course you did! You had your . . . your friends, your family, and your career.” Her affable smile disappeared. She went very serious. “That’s a lot in my book.”

  “I didn’t set out to give it up. I just stayed because I wanted to get to know her better. Then after a while life in the city, life with her turned into a reason to try something new, to stay for the long haul.”

  “Oh, my God.” She stared at him slack jawed, as if seeing him for the first time. “That is the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

  He rolled his eyes, reached for the wine bottle sitting between them, and refilled his glass, then noticed hers was also empty and refilled hers, too.

  “So what happened?”

  He dug back into his mashed potatoes and looked up at her in confusion. “What do you mean, what happened?”

  “The great love story! Why didn’t you two ride off into the sunset together? Why aren’t you still married to her?” she asked breathlessly, her dinner seemingly forgotten.

  He grimaced, and she blinked as if suddenly realizing what she had asked him. She placed a hand on his forearm. “I’m sorry, Sam. That was unbelievably nosy of me. I shouldn’t—”

  “It’s all right,” he muttered. “It’s a natural question anybody would wonder about.” He took a deep breath. “Gabby has been . . . sick for a long time. Not sick sick. She’s not dying of cancer or anything, but she has a mental illness. She’s bipolar.” He paused to take a drink. “When she was off her meds, she’d act strange. She could . . . start to hallucinate. Sometimes, she’d even be suicidal. She was a little better when she was on her medication, but she hated the way it made her feel. She couldn’t take it anymore. Then I couldn’t take it anymore. Then, well . . .” His words drifted off. He swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat, knowing that it wasn’t the mashed potatoes.

  Janelle nodded. “I understand,” she whispered, rubbing his arm gently, causing the tingle to come back. “Here I was thinking you had walked straight out of a western. You’re a lot more complicated than I thought.”

  “Thanks . . . I guess.” He laughed, making her laugh, too. “So tell me your love story. Tell me more about this Mark fella.”

  She abruptly withdrew her hand and sat ramrod straight on her stool. “There isn’t much to tell.” She then picked up her fork and began to eat again. “Mark and I are pretty unexceptional. I’d bore you with the details.”

  “Every couple has a story, no matter how boring it is. How’d you two meet?”

  She started to look uncomfortable again, and something told him to stop prying, to bring the conversation back to Little Bill and the search, which is what they probably should be talking about. But Sam couldn’t stop himself. He had to know more.

  She fidgeted on her stool as he began to eat again. “Well, we met at a dinner party a friend of a friend was having. I didn’t want to be there, but my girlfriend talked me into going. I remember she even had to dig through my closet and find an outfit for me. I told her I didn’t have anything to wear, so she pulled out this red dress that I hated! I ended up finding another outfit just to get her off my back.”

  “Why didn’t you want to go to the party?”

  “I was in a funk.” She returned her attention to her meal and sliced into her chicken breast again. A lock of hair drifted near her eye once more, and he longed to reach out and tuck it behind her ear. “I had just broken up with someone—a guy in a long list of guys who were complete disasters. He was a National Geographic photographer who traveled the world and seemed so cosmopolitan and sophisticated.” She sighed and chewed. “I thought he was perfect for me, but it turns out that he was the same as all the others, just well-traveled and with a better vocabulary. I’d been trying so hard to find a guy who wasn’t like my dad, but I kept running into some incarnation of him. So I went to the party and I spotted Mark that night with his wire-framed glasses and his bow tie and his navy blue sports jacket. Oh, my God, he looked so clean-cut, so uptight!” She laughed, reminiscing. “He wasn’t the sexiest man in the world, but I knew that he was . . . that Mark was different than the rest.”

  “Was?” he asked, raising a brow.

  “Is!” she quickly clarified. “I mean he is different.”

  “How’s that?” he asked, feeling the urge to pry again. “What makes him different?”

  “Well, he’s . . . safe . . . predictable . . . dependable.”

  He smirked. “Sounds boring.”

  “It’s not boring! Besides, excitement is overrated. I’ve had excitement, and all it gets you is lots of tears and heartbreak. I like that I usually know what to expect from Mark. He doesn’t disappoint.”

  “Usually?”

  “Well, people surprise you . . . every now and th
en,” she said cryptically before drinking from her glass.

  “I’m guessin’ your father wasn’t predictable or dependable—if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “He was a drunk and a junkie who cheated on my mom and ignored me completely.” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “God, I can’t believe I just blurted that out!” She eyed the glass she was holding and set it near her plate like it was spiked with some drug. “I think I better slow down with the wine.”

  “I’m sorry your father was like that.”

  She shrugged, putting on a mask of indifference. “No father’s perfect.”

  “Mine wasn’t,” he confided between chews, wondering if the wine was starting to get to him, too. “Oh, my dad was noble! Everyone in town admired Tommy Adler and respected him. I did, too, I guess. But he wasn’t . . . warm. He certainly wasn’t the hugging type. I don’t think I even remember him hugging Mama! And he expected a lot outta you. He was always ridin’ me. I never felt like I could . . . I could please him. I never felt like I was ever good enough.”

  “I don’t think my father cared one way or the other. My mom told me, ‘He doesn’t want anything to do with us, Janelle, so why should we want anything to do with him?’ But I still wanted his attention, you know? I wanted something to show that he cared . . . a little. So to get a reaction out of him when I was eighteen, I changed my last name from Jones to Marshall—my mom’s maiden name. I called him up to tell him—to wave it in his face like a, ‘Nah-nah-nah-nah-naaaa! Look what I did! Did it piss you off?’ He didn’t even answer the phone.”

  The kitchen fell into an uncomfortable silence. He drank more of his wine while she chewed.

  “Well, at least your boyfriend’s nothing like your dad,” Sam finally ventured.

  “No . . . which is what I liked about him.”

  Liked . . . She was using past tense again.

  “Mark represents everything I’ve ever wanted . . . all the things I never had when I was a girl. He represents stability.”

  “And you like that because you won’t lose your footing,” he said, repeating her words back to her. He looked down and noticed his plate was now empty.

  She paused and inclined her head. “In a manner of speaking—yes.”

  He leaned toward her and dropped his voice to a whisper. “You know what they say about putting folks up on pedestals . . . you’re bound for disappointment. My father used to say it’s even worse when you make them the pedestal you stand on. ‘They’re bound to crumble on you.’”

  Her mouth fell open, and her brows knitted together, like she was about to argue with him, but he pushed back his stool and rose to his feet. “I should be heading out. I bet I’ve probably got one pissed-off dog waiting for me back at my place. It’s well past his mealtime.”

  He grabbed his hat off the counter, along with his holster and phone, which he had purposely kept nearby.

  “Thank you for the dinner.” He tugged his cap onto to his head. “I haven’t had a meal that good in quite a while. I’ll let you get to your—”

  “Wait!” she shouted angrily, hopping off her stool and marching after him. “You can’t . . . you can’t just . . . just leave! What the hell was that?”

  He raised his brows, stopping midway across her living room. “Pardon?”

  “Pardon?” she repeated, mimicking him comically before her face clouded with anger again. “What . . . was . . . that? You tell me your story and I say it’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard, and I tell you my story and you say that I shouldn’t depend on Mark because he’ll crumble on me! Who does that?”

  He held back a smile, more amused than incensed by her outrage. “I’m sorry if I spoke too plainly. I wasn’t trying to offend you.”

  “‘I wasn’t trying to offend you’ is a non-apology apology. You lobbed a verbal hand grenade at me about my relationship. Of course, I would be offended! Mark isn’t perfect, and our relationship isn’t perfect but . . . but . . .” She sputtered helplessly.

  He took a step toward her and gazed into her eyes. “I am sorry I said that . . . with no qualifications.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered, staring up at him. Her furrowed brow softened.

  That’s when he couldn’t resist it anymore. He reached up and tucked the lock of hair that had fallen into her face and pushed it behind her ear—a gesture so tender that it bordered on inappropriate.

  He waited for her response. She gazed at him with a look of amazement.

  “I better get going,” he said again before turning around.

  He reached her front door and opened it.

  “Wait! Wait, Sam!” she shouted, making him pause in the doorway. He faced her.

  “Th-thank you for having dinner with me.”

  “No, I should be the one thanking you.”

  “But it helped me. Today was a rough day, but now I feel . . . better. Much better. I’m glad I invited you to . . . to stay.”

  “Well, you know what they say . . .”

  She frowned. “No, what do they say?”

  “When you arrive in a new town, make friendly with a cop and a bartender. You’re probably going to need one or the other at some point.”

  She laughed. “I’ll remember that.”

  He turned back toward the porch.

  “You know, I still have plenty of food left,” she said, halting him in his steps again. “I’m making a big meal again tomorrow if you’d . . . like to come back.”

  This time he was the one who was surprised.

  “I mean if you have the time,” she continued tentatively. “You could . . . uh, tell me more about the search. I won’t have to keep calling you for updates.”

  He stared at her blankly and she lowered her gaze.

  “But please don’t feel obligated. I know how busy you are, so I completely understand if—”

  “I’ll be here,” he said, knowing full well what he was agreeing to but wondering if she realized exactly what she was asking. Another dinner alone with a man who wasn’t her boyfriend. This time it did seem eerily like a date. “I probably won’t be able to come until 8:30 or nine o’clock, though. I’m pulling long days now.”

  “That’s fine. I’m in no hurry.” She beamed. “I’ll see you then.”

  “See you then,” he replied as closed the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 17

  Yvette Black Bear hopped off the back of the Harley, tugging down her denim skirt as she did it. Why couldn’t she have fallen in love with a guy who drove a pickup or better yet, a Hummer with wide, comfy, heated leather seats and plenty of leg room? No, instead she had fallen for a guy who drove a motorcycle that left her with gnats in her teeth, helmet hair, and a wind-chapped ass.

  She yanked off her helmet and fluffed the lime green curls that had become matted to her head. As usual, it drew curious stares from several onlookers, including a little kid walking by who was sampling an ice cream cone. He gaped so openly that his mother had to yank him out of his stupor and drag him toward the festival gate entrance that was manned by two burly security guards.

  “Casey Jason Montgomery, what did I tell you about staring at people?” the woman asked in a harsh whisper, making the boy whine in reply.

  Yvette tossed her helmet to Tyler, who whipped off his aviator sunglasses and tucked the helmet in the crook of his arm.

  “Catch you later, huh? I’ll call you tonight,” she said before leaning toward him to give him a warm, sloppy kiss good-bye. Her tongue glided enticingly across his lips but those pouty puckers stayed firmly closed.

  “What was that?” she shouted, shoving at his chest. “I’ve gotten hotter kisses from my grandma!”

  “Sorry, babe,” he muttered, looking uncomfortable.

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  He shook his head and shifted on his seat. “Nothin’.”

  But it wasn’t “nothin’ ”; she could tell. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if the reason he didn’t want to kiss her was because he d
idn’t want her anymore. She was used to that: men tossing her aside for someone cuter, someone hotter. Maybe he had eyes for Becky Rucker, the blond waitress with the big tits at the bar they liked to go to in Lead—Kurt’s Hogs, Dogs, and Brews, the one with the wraparound porch and the vintage hubcaps hanging over the door.

  Becky had a thing for hot guys with motorcycles. She’d be the first to greet the grizzled, dusty bikers who stepped into the bar on their way to the Sturgis motorcycle rally every year and she’d also be the first sitting on their laps before they finished their first beer. But when the rally wasn’t in town, Becky kept her attention local.

  Yvette had caught her flirting with Ty a few times, more than what was necessary to earn a big tip. Yvette had warned her off by telling her she’d punch her Chiclet teeth clear out of her mouth if she caught her talking to her man again, but Yvette knew her biggest worry wasn’t Becky, but Ty. He had a soft spot for nice tits. Unfortunately her perky B cups were no match for Becky’s double Ds. She knew that from her strip-club days. The girls with the big tits were always the highest earners, even if they had cellulite dimples, stretch marks, and the face of a mastiff. Had Becky tempted Tyler away when Yvette wasn’t looking?

  “What is it?” she asked, feeling her anxiety turn up like a radio dial as he stared at her. “Just spit it out!”

  He leaned forward, grabbed his crotch, and cringed. “I gotta take a piss, all right?” he whispered.

  Yvette felt a wave of relief. She slapped his leather-clad back. “Why didn’t you just say so? Come on!”

  She then turned in the direction of her mom’s shop. She started to walk toward it with hips swaying. “You can use the bathroom in the back. Just . . .” She paused when she turned back around and realized that Tyler wasn’t following her. Instead, he stayed perched on his Harley. He shook his head and formed his mouth into a thin line.

  “That’s all right. I’ll just head to Toby’s or use one of the porta-johns,” he said, clenching his sunglasses in his sweaty fist.

  “Why the hell would you do that when a bathroom is right here?” She pointed to the shop door. “Besides, have you seen the lines heading to the port-a-johns?”