Back in Kansas

by Debra Salonen

  “I’m trying to find your sister.”

  Bo studied the face of Claudie’s brother and began to detect a hint of her in the man’s eyes. He put out his hand. “Bo Lester. I’m a private investigator, but this isn’t work. It’s personal.”

  “I thought you were in California,” Zach said softly.

  He knows who I am. “I came looking for Claudie. She left without telling anyone where she was going.”

  “Musta had her reasons.”

  Bo sighed. “The reasons are she’s stubborn, secretive and ornery as a moose.”

  Zach’s mouth twitched as if in agreement. “She’s been on her own a long time,” he said loyally.

  “I know that. She’s also strong, brave and resourceful. But I’m worried about her and I want to be there when—” He stopped. What if Claudie hadn’t told Zach?

  “She takes on our daddy?” Zach finished. He looked at Bo. “But why do you care what happens to her?”

  A lump the size of Manhattan formed in Bo’s throat. He had to swallow twice before he could say, “Because I love her.”

  Dear Reader,

  Writing is a process that sometimes amazes me. Back in Kansas originated with Bo, who started out as my hero’s best friend in His Daddy’s Eyes. But he wasn’t content to be a secondary character. His voice came through loud and clear. Throughout the writing of His Daddy’s Eyes, I was sure Bo was destined to fall in love with Eve, his archnemesis. I was completely blown away when my editor pointed out the obvious—Bo seemed to be falling for Claudie. “But she’s a reformed prostitute!” I exclaimed in shock. I was told that Superromance readers were broad-minded enough to accept that people do change. Not everyone brings an unblemished past to a new relationship.

  People often ask how I research my characters and plots. In addition to the Internet, I’m blessed with a wealth of resources right in my own family. My nephew Michael Robson—whom I neglected to acknowledge in my previous book—helped give me a feel for Sacramento; my nephew Mark Knutson and his wife, Mona, did the same for Kansas. My sisters, Jan and Jean, and dear friend Lorry are invaluable proofreaders.

  As both a reader and a writer I’d like to lend my support to the Get Caught Reading campaign. I feel a huge part of my life would be missing without books. Believe me, whenever I’m not writing, I can be caught reading everything from Superromance novels to cookbooks. My motto is: A Book—Don’t Leave Home Without One.

  I want to thank all the readers who have written to me with their thoughtful, often insightful letters. I love hearing from you. My address is: P.O. Box 322, Catheys Valley, CA 95306. Or you may contact me via e-mail through my Web page at www.superauthors.com.

  Debra Salonen

  Back in Kansas

  Debra Salonen

  To Milt and Mae Salonen, the most wonderful in-laws

  a girl could hope for. Than you for raising such a terrific son.

  (Readers, if you ever see a seventy-six-year-old man

  wearing a T-shirt with one of my book covers on it,

  that’s my father-in-law. What a guy!)

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CLAUDINE ST. JAMES knew the value of a dollar, or rather a twenty-dollar bill. That was how much she’d made the first time she’d sold her body.

  “I’ll give you eight-fifty for it and not a penny more,” she said, keeping her voice as stern as possible. Inside, a rare feeling of frivolity made it hard to keep a straight face.

  The old man behind the counter of the Wyoming thrift-store-cum-gas-station gave her a squinty look from his single watery eye—the other was concealed behind a hard plastic cup taped to his face with old-fashioned white tape, the kind that left black tracks behind when you pulled it off.

  “Are you trying to snooker me, little girl?” he asked, his voice warbling as if he’d been silent too long.

  At five-five, Claudie was used to being called “little,” but she was nobody’s “girl.”

  “No,” she said, drawing her shoulders back. “The tag says twenty. It might be worth ten. Don’t know. Don’t care, because, frankly, I don’t happen to need it that bad. If you want to get rid of it, then I’ll give you eight. If not, keep it.” She’d had twenty-seven years to perfect her poker face, and no old man with only one good eye would ever see past it.

  He hefted the object in question into the dim light of his storefront window. Claudie assumed a pose of careless nonchalance and looked over the old man’s shoulder through the coating of grime that almost obscured the four old-fashioned gas pumps out front.

  Sara would kill me if I let the bookstore window get that dirty, she thought.

  Claudie winced as an image of Sara Bishop—her friend and the owner of the Sacramento bookstore that Claudie managed—popped into her head. Claudie hadn’t talked to Sara in almost a week. She and Ren, her husband of three months, had left early last Friday for their cabin at Lake Almanor; Claudie’s impulsive decision to embark on this self-imposed mission hadn’t come until later that day when her Internet search turned up a ghost from her past.

  Knowing Sara would be worried about her, Claudie had phoned the Bishop home Sunday evening from her motel in Wendover, Utah, but could only leave a message since no one answered.

  I hope everything’s okay, Claudie thought, poking at various pieces of dust-covered junk while the man debated. I hope they didn’t get caught in that storm that was following me. A burning sensation in the pit of her stomach made her frown. For a person who’d been on her own since seventeen, Claudie wasn’t used to worrying about other people, or vice versa.

  “Oh, all right,” the man grumbled. He pitched the book to the counter as if to get it out of his limited sight as quickly as possible. “But you said eight-fifty the first time. Not eight. No way I’d be letting it go for eight.”

  Claudie bit down on the smile that tried to worm its way to her lips. She jammed her hand into the front pocket of her jeans and withdrew the exact amount, a five, three ones and two quarters. She’d been saving the quarters to call Sara but figured it was worth the sacrifice for an original copy of Mark Twain’s Pudd’nhead Wilson. Ren, a collector of rare and old books, would keel over when he opened it at Christmas.

  Claudie swept the prize into her voluminous purse and hurried to her car. Humming under her breath, she slipped behind the wheel of her 1986 Toyota wagon and pulled on her sunglasses. The car, which had belonged to Sara for most of its hundred thousand miles, was the first possession of any worth Claudie had ever owned. Except for some transmission trouble in Wendover, which had wasted two long days and cost her three hundred bucks, the car was running like a dream.

  “Okay, baby, let’s hit the road,” she said aloud, easing the car into gear. As she waited for the street-light to change, she glanced appraisingly at the sky. Horizon-to-horizon blue. Yesterday’s brief, tumultuous storm, which had stranded her in western Wyoming overnight, might have seemed a figment of her imagination if not for a few residual snowdrifts.

  The miniblizzard had reminded Claudie of Maya’s ominous forecast prior to Claudie’s departure. Maya, the newest resident of One Wish House—the halfway house for ex-prostitutes that Claudie had helped establish—had pulled Claudie aside to whisper, “You can’t trust November. One minute it’s nice, the next you’re
buried alive in snow. The weather can be more brutal than a man.”

  Claudie had shrugged off the dire prediction. It wasn’t like she had a choice. Her baby sister would turn seventeen next month. Seventeen. A grim number that had marked a turning point in Claudie’s life. The point when life had gone from bad to worse. She wasn’t about to let the same thing happen to Sherry. Claudie only hoped she hadn’t left it too late.

  No, her trip couldn’t wait—which is exactly what she planned to tell Bo. That is, if he was still speaking to her.

  ROBERT BOWEN LESTER, JR., or Bo, as he preferred, slammed down the receiver with gusto. “Who the hell came up with automated answering systems?” he muttered under his breath.

  His secretary, Karen Kriegen, a sixtyish German with the build of a sumo wrestler and the voice of a porn star, appeared in the doorway of his office. “You break the phone—I’m going home.”

  Bo knew she was only half kidding and he gave her a look of contrition. “Sorry, Mrs. K. By the time I got to the fifteenth option, I’d forgot what I was calling about.”

  She made a tsking sound and shook her head. “Where’s that happy-go-lucky P.I. I used to work for? I think I liked him better before he fell in love.”

  “L-lo-ve?” he sputtered. “Believe me, Mrs. K., that’s the last emotion on my list where Claudie St. James is concerned.”

  A ladylike snort filtered past the partially closed door. Karen and the other four members of his staff apparently had put their own interpretation on his impassioned search for Claudie. They’re wrong, he adamantly insisted, swiveling his chair to face the floor-to-ceiling window at the far end of his office. The tinted glass afforded a pleasant view of the building’s Andalusian square, but Bo’s mind was not on his surroundings. He’d been plagued by harrowing thoughts of what-if…ever since learning Claudie disappeared.

  “She’s not here,” the Asian girl had told him Friday night when he’d knocked on the door of One Wish House. Bo had cut his Vegas trip short—ostensibly because he’d been bored. In reality, he’d missed Claudie. And he’d been worried about her, too. She’d seemed preoccupied and distant for over a week. “She’s gone off on a mission, and you are best to leave this alone,” the woman had added, her voice steeped with portent.

  She’d have shut the door of the old Victorian house in his face if not for Bo’s cop-trained reflexes. “Claudie’s gone? Where? She didn’t mention anything about a trip when I talked to her last night.” But she had seemed tense and distracted—maybe a little down, which was another reason he’d cut his trip short.

  “It is not for me to say,” Maya—Bo was certain that was the woman’s name—had replied. She spoke with a spooky singsong intonation that made him uneasy. “Her wounds are deep and painful. There is much healing to do.” For some reason her speech sent a bolt of fear through Bo.

  Before he could ask anything else, a tall black woman had appeared in the doorway to add her two cents. “Get lost, asshole. If Claudie wanted you to know where she was, she’da called you. But she didn’t, so guess what? You’re f—”

  Bo hadn’t waited around to hear the rest of Rochell’s colorful diatribe. He’d dashed to his car and started calling people. First, Sara, Claudie’s best friend. “Hello, you’ve reached the Bishops. Please leave us a message…” Bo ended the call with a curse and tried Ren’s cell phone but wasn’t surprised when a voice told him the number was not in service. Ren seldom turned the damn thing on.

  Next, Bo had tried the bookstore. “She came by about four and asked if she could have the week off,” Daniel Pagannini, the comanager told him. “I kinda assumed she was joining you in Vegas. Next Monday is a holiday, and she was due for a vacation. Why? Is there a problem?”

  Bo’s gut said, yes. With anyone else, he might have shrugged it off, but not with Claudie. People like her weren’t generally impetuous. They’d learned the hard way that unplanned risks often left you exposed and vulnerable. It had taken Bo months to win her trust—at least he’d thought she trusted him, but apparently he’d been deluding himself. She hadn’t even bothered to tell him goodbye.

  A staged cough brought Bo back to the present. He spun his chair to find Ren Bishop standing in the doorway.

  “Don’t shoot,” an amused voice said. “My wife’s pregnant with twins.”

  Bo’s body gave a little shudder as the wasted adrenaline dissipated in his veins. “Dammit, Bishop, haven’t I told you not to sneak up on me?”

  “I knocked,” Ren Bishop said, moving into the room. He looked around, his expression appreciative. “Nice digs. Beats the hell out of the spare bedroom of your houseboat.”

  “I moved here in September, you jerk. Is this the first time you’ve been to my office?”

  Ren shrugged carelessly. “Have you been to mine on campus, yet?”

  Bo rocked back in his chair and kicked his feet up on his desk. Ren had recently switched from dispensing the law to teaching it. “Point taken. Have a seat. Any word from Claudie?”

  “No, she didn’t tell Sara where she was going, either. To me that says she didn’t want to worry the two people she cares most about.”

  Bo snorted. “Some way of showing it.”

  Ren walked to the window, checking out the view.

  “At the moment, Sara’s more worried about you than Claudie. Mrs. Kriegen told her you haven’t left this place since Saturday.”

  “Mrs. K. exaggerates. Besides, I got a shower and a closet full of clothes here. The couch makes into a bed and there’s a pizzeria next door. Maybe I’ll sell the boat and move here permanently.”

  Ren returned to the tufted leather sofa and sat down. Bo could see the depth of his concern. “I know you’re worried about her. We’re all—”

  “Screw worried,” Bo snapped. “I’m just plain pissed now. I thought we were past that I-don’t-need-anyone-and-nobody-needs-me stage. She has a life here, Ren. Responsibilities. A job.” He swallowed to keep from saying, “A relationship.”

  “I’m sure she took all that into account before she left,” Ren said equitably. “Claudie’s not what I’d call impetuous. This must have been darned important.”

  Bo shook his head. “Too important to share with the people who care about her?”

  Ren sighed and lifted his shoulders in resignation.

  Bo regretted his outburst. Mrs. K. was right—this really wasn’t like him. “By the way,” he said in a more equitable tone, “I know Daniel’s managing the bookstore while Claudie’s away, but I forgot to ask when I talked to you last night. Who’s running One Wish House while she’s gone?”

  Ren looked up, a bemused expression on his face. “Believe it or not, my mother volunteered. Apparently, Claudie called her late Friday afternoon and said she had a family emergency and asked if Babe would keep an eye on the place until she returned.”

  “She called Babe but not me,” Bo said, not caring how bitter he sounded.

  Ren sighed. “Like I told you on the phone, this must be something she thinks she has to do on her own. You’re the same way, Lester. Jeez, getting personal information out of you is like pulling teeth. How long did we know each other before I ever met your family? I probably never would have met Matt if he hadn’t come to visit you.” He waited a second then asked, “Are you still going to New York?”

  Bo studied his fingernails—being a judge had given Ren an unfair advantage when it came to reading people’s faces. Bo didn’t want to reveal how hopeless this case looked. “I don’t know. I left a message on Matt’s machine, but it’s not like we have a lot to go on. I don’t even know her real name.”

  Ren rose. “Here,” he said, taking a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his lightweight blazer. “Maybe this will help. Sara found this drawing in Brady’s backpack.”

  “What information could your four-year-old son possibly have?”

  “Apparently Claudie was doodling when she baby-sat Brady last week,” Ren told him.

  Bo took the rumpled paper. He switched on
his desk lamp and held it under the light. Claudie had apparently been teaching Brady the alphabet. Beside letters were names. “Do you recognize any of these names?” Bo asked, working to keep his voice even. Just the sight of Claudie’s carefully crafted penman-ship made a funny ache blossom behind his breast-bone.

  “Nope. But Brady told Sara they were the names of Claudie’s brothers and sisters. He said the two with the sad faces beneath them died.”

  Bo sat up straighter. “You’re kidding. She never mentioned any family.” He scanned the names again. “My God, she has two brothers and two sisters still alive, and I’ve never heard of them. That woman makes a clam look chatty.”

  Ren shrugged. “That’s our Claudie.” He turned away but stopped. “By the way, Sara thinks she once heard Claudie say something about growing up near one of the Great Lakes.”

  Bo groaned. “Terrific! That narrows down the search to the upper third of the country.”

  “Why don’t you come home with me, Bo? Sara’s fixing lunch. Maybe we could do some brainstorming.”

  Bo shook his head. “Thanks, but I’m gonna run over to the bookstore. Claudie told Daniel she’d e-mail him if she got a chance.” He couldn’t stop himself from adding, bitterly, “I have an e-mail address, too, you know.”

  Ren squeezed Bo’s shoulder. “She’s a big girl, Bo. She can take care of herself.” He stopped at the threshold and looked back. “Let me know if you decide to go to New York, okay? We still haven’t been able to reach Eve. Weird, huh?”

  Bo didn’t have the energy to care about whatever troubles might be facing Eve Masterson, Ren’s former fiancée. She’d chosen her course—a shot at network news, complete with all the fame, glamour and salary that went with it. If anyone could take care of herself it was Eve. Claudie, on the other hand, was as defenseless as a baby chick.

  True, Claudie had survived for years in the emotionally desolate world of prostitution. But that was the old Claudie. The hooker. The new Claudie had her GED and was signed up for her first semester of college next spring. The new Claudie was fragile, vulnerable. Bo knew this on a gut level. And his gut was telling him to find her before something or someone could hurt her again.