Left to Die

by Rita Herron

  The two of them had bounced around among well-meaning relatives for most of Chelsea’s life. Chelsea had picked up on late-night conversations. Her father had gone out for milk and never returned.

  She’d learned that in those first couple of years after her own father left that her mother believed he’d been injured somewhere and was unable to come home. And then, as time went on, she’d hear about a relative who’d seen her husband and then another sighting from a friend of a friend. Over time, her mother seemed to realize that he’d made the choice to leave. No explanation. No looking back.

  Travis had been nothing more than history repeating itself. When he’d walked out, Chelsea had no such fantasies that he’d return. She’d accepted her fate and moved on.

  She thought about Travis and the similarities. Unlike her mother, Chelsea had never searched for her husband.

  The worst part for Chelsea during her childhood had been seeing the hope in her mother’s eyes while on road trips—trips she later realized were voyages to locate Chelsea’s father. Her mother would come alive for a few days. She’d stay up late and talk until Chelsea’s eyelids grew so heavy they closed automatically. She’d splurge on eating at a restaurant, which Chelsea now realized was nothing more than a truck stop but had felt like five-star dining to a kid.

  Before the day ended, her mother would produce a chocolate bar. The two would curl up in a motel room bed and break off piece after piece until it had disappeared. Looking back, Chelsea had also realized that every road trip she’d taken with her mother had ended at a photography exhibit.

  At least one of her aunts had believed that her father had changed his name and was living in New York. A trip there at fifteen years old had amounted to a hot, sticky bus ride and a whole heap of disappointment. Her mother had quietly cried after she’d believed Chelsea had gone to sleep, just like all the other times.

  Chelsea had started a successful food truck at nineteen and within two years owned three. She’d been so proud of her business, of her ability to financially support a mother who had given up everything to care for her only daughter. She’d met Travis two years later and married after a whirlwind romance because she’d found out she was pregnant despite taking birth control pills.

  To have everything she’d worked for taken away was a hot poker in Chelsea’s chest.

  The thought of anything happening to her daughter was worse.

  “Where could she have gone?” Linda threw her hands in the air, exacerbated.

  “Maybe she slipped outside and is waiting in the car.” Chelsea couldn’t let herself think the worst.

  She hurried to the front window so she could see her used pickup truck. She’d bought it with some of the small—but enormous in so many ways—inheritance money. Since losing her business four years ago, she’d gone to work in Renaldo Vinchesa’s kitchen as a sous chef. It was pretty much the only job she could get after losing everything. He was notorious for being a womanizer despite being married with kids, something she didn’t learn until she’d been on the job a few weeks. She’d rejected his advances, which seemed to make him even more determined to pursue her. He’d promised to leave his wife if Chelsea agreed to go out with him—an offer that had turned her stomach.

  And then, when his wife left him, he seemed to turn up the heat, pressuring Chelsea to date him or risk him smearing her reputation in the food service industry.

  Vinchesa was powerful in the Houston culinary scene and his threats to ensure she’d never work in another restaurant weren’t idle. He’d deliver on them in a heartbeat and, based on the texts she’d received from the couple of friends she’d made while working at Chez Houston, wheels were already turning in that direction.

  Vinchesa had tried to corner her into staying put when she’d turned in her notice. Her aunt’s inheritance had freed her. So she didn’t mind a creaky old house, because it was hers. She didn’t mind the elbow grease it would need to become ship-shape, because it would provide a home base for Skylar to grow up secure in. And she didn’t mind that the heater had conked out in the middle of the night, because... Well, admittedly, that part had been awful.

  What she did mind was her daughter pulling a Houdini.

  Glancing down at the late-model pickup she’d bought, Skylar was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where’s my cell?” Chelsea’s pockets were empty. Had she left it on the kitchen counter?

  “I’ll keep looking up here. You go down and check there,” Linda said.

  Chelsea turned to head toward the kitchen as her mother continued her closet inspection, picking up empty boxes and shaking them as though Skylar might tumble out of one.

  A moment of I-can’t-do-this struck. Chelsea hammered it down. She could do anything she wanted. She would pull on her big-girl pants and keep it together.

  As she wheeled down the stairs and past the front door, the silhouette of a male figure appeared on the porch.

  Funny, she hadn’t seen anyone drive up, but then the house sat close to the road and she couldn’t hear much over the howling winds picking up speed by the minute.

  Heartbeat pounding at the base of her throat, she froze.

  Three rapid knocks sounded at the door, followed by a masculine voice that sent warm vibrations rippling through her despite the frigid temperature.

  A couple of thoughts raced through Chelsea’s mind at that moment. She quickly crossed off the first. That voice did not belong to Renaldo. His was like fingernails on a chalkboard.

  The other had to do with Skylar missing.

  Chelsea bolted to the door and whisked it open.

  Six foot three of male muscle under a gray cowboy hat stood on her porch. He looked to be in his early thirties with steel eyes and what she imagined would be a six-pack of pure power beneath his lightweight shirt.

  The wind almost forced the door out of her hands but she held tight.

  “My name’s Nathan Kent and someone in this residence called in a fire.” He examined her and then looked right past her. His voice would make reading a medicine bottle sound scandalous.

  “A what?” Chelsea tried to ignore the inappropriate reaction her body had to the tall, gorgeous cowboy. She was confused because her cell was nowhere to be found and her mother hadn’t made that call—

  And then it dawned on her.

  “Mom, she’s okay,” Chelsea called upstairs before turning back to the fireman. “Who called you?”

  “A little girl by the name of Skylar was all Dispatch could get from her. A truck is on the way. I happened to be passing by when the call came in.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, spinning around to check the hallway in case the little culprit stood behind her. Relief flooded her that her daughter was okay. Skylar was a good kid, just scared, and she’d just learned how to call 9-1-1 at her old school when a fireman had come to visit her class. “My daughter’s starting a new school today and we just moved in to a new house, and, as you can see, there’s nothing on fire here.” Chelsea motioned around awkwardly, not especially sure what to do with her hands. “I’m embarrassed that she wasted your time.”

  Nathan made a quick call to the Dispatcher, relaying the news this was a false alarm before tucking the phone in his front pocket. Chelsea expected him to pull out a citation book and write her a ticket or something.

  Instead his intense expression softened when he asked, “Mind if I speak to the caller before I go?”

  “She might not come out,” Chelsea said. “I’m pretty sure she knows that she’s in big trouble.” Chelsea emphasized the last two words to make sure that Skylar heard them.

  This probably wasn’t the time to think about the fact that she hadn’t brushed her hair yet or that she was wearing baggy sweatpants and a faded Journey concert T-shirt she’d bought from a resale shop because she liked the music and the shirt fit into her barely existent clothing budget.
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  Chelsea also didn’t want to think about the fact that it felt like history repeating itself with her financial situation, too. She’d sworn never to let Skylar know what it was like to go without. At this point, Chelsea hadn’t exactly broken the promise to her four-and-a-half-year-old daughter.

  Liar, a little voice in her head accused her.

  “Would you like to come in, Nathan?” Chelsea asked. If embarrassment could kill a person, she’d be flat on the floor by now. And she sincerely hoped the handsome cowboy/fireman believed the red flush to her cheeks, as she felt them flame even more when he stepped inside, was attributed to her reaction to the situation and not to the very real attraction she felt.

  “Call me Nate,” he said.

  Chelsea chalked her reaction up to not having had time for a date in months. Her mother had become sicker in recent months, and working full-time while caring for a preschooler and aging mother left very little social time. Not to mention the fact that the last date she’d gone on had been such a dud that Chelsea had tried to convince herself she could swear off men until Skylar was eighteen. Fourteen years to go and she was already practically drooling over the first hot guy. Well played, Chelsea.

  “The fireman’s here, Skylar. I know you called. Mommy’s worried and I want you to come out from wherever you’re hiding right now.” Chelsea softened her tone because, first and foremost, she was relieved her daughter was okay. Now that she knew Skylar was hiding and not stuck somewhere she couldn’t call out for help, Chelsea relaxed below panic as she forced the door closed against the strong winds.

  Nate stood in the front hall and Chelsea realized how bad her manners were.

  “Can I get you something? A cup of coffee?” She looked him up and down. He wore jeans and a cotton shirt. The material on both was thin. He had to be cold.

  He nodded. “Coffee, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Follow me.” She walked into the kitchen trying to think. “I know exactly where she’d be in our old house.”

  The hot cowboy leaned his hip against the counter and her heart stuttered when she thought about such a good-looking man standing in her kitchen.

  He pulled his cell from his pocket and she noticed how graceful his movements were. He seemed like the type who would probably laugh at hearing himself described in that manner. Chelsea poured two cups of fresh brew and handed one over.

  “What’s your number?” he asked.

  Her immediate reaction was to tense up.

  He blinked at her like he was confused by her response. And then it must’ve dawned on him because he lowered his voice to church-quiet and said, “We’ll hear it ring. But, if you’re not comfortable—”

  “It’s okay.” She whispered her number to him. This was turning out to be a red-letter day and Chelsea hadn’t finished her first cup of coffee yet.

  “My mother’s upstairs. In fact, I’m surprised she hasn’t been down here to check on things. I hope she heard me. She’s most likely still looking for Skylar.” The house wasn’t that big. Had her mother had another episode? Chelsea’s imagination was running away with her because Mother would’ve hollered if anything had happened. Chelsea excused herself and walked down the hall to the bottom of the stairs again, grabbing onto the wood railing that needed a few nails to steady it.

  “Mom, can you listen for my ringtones?” she shouted upstairs.

  “Who was at the door?” her mother asked, appearing at the landing and scaring the hell out of Chelsea. Thankfully, her mother looked normal.

  “Fireman,” she responded and, before her mother could freak out, added, “Everything’s fine.”

  “I’ll keep an ear open,” Linda said, giving a thumbs-up sign.

  Chelsea hoped her mother was making the gesture because she caught onto the plan and not because she thought Chelsea should flirt with their guest. When Mom winked, it was pretty obvious which side she was on.

  Hot cowboy or no, Chelsea couldn’t be bothered with so much riding on her business getting off the ground. There was a lot of work to be done and she needed to focus on making sure the three of them didn’t starve.

  Plus, her immediate need was to find her daughter. Nothing overrode that.

  Nate Kent entered the hallway and Chelsea didn’t have to look to know he was there. She could feel his masculine presence. She turned and him gave the awkward hand signal her mother had just given her, with an even cheesier smile.

  Chelsea took a breath and fisted her hand.

  He seemed to get the idea because he tapped the call button.

  A hush seemed to fall over the house and even the roaring winds outside calmed.

  Chelsea listened, moving from room to room when no ringtones sounded. Her daughter was too young to change the settings on the phone. This couldn’t be right. Skylar was hiding somewhere. She’d called 9-1-1 and asked for help.

  The cowboy followed her until they ended up back in the kitchen.

  “It’s gone into voice mail.”

  Copyright © 2020 by Barb Han

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  ISBN: 9781488067280

  Left to Die

  Copyright © 2020 by Rita B. Herron

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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