Baby, I'll Find You

by Jennifer Skully

  “It wasn’t the money, honey. I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

  “But I got hurt anyway, didn’t I, Daddy?”

  “Yes,” he whispered, a pain suddenly shooting across his forehead. He closed his eyes and put a hand up to push it away.

  “So you should have gotten me the horse.” There was just her voice now. Soft. Sweet.

  “Yes,” he murmured. He opened his eyes when her silence grew unbearable.

  When he saw her, he screamed.

  Cole woke to the covers wrapped around his body and his skin drenched in sweat. The nightmares had never left him. Not every night, not even once a month, but enough to drive him mad. They all ended the same way. He’d close his eyes, and when he opened them again, Stephie’s face was...like that. Not his little girl, but the face of his nightmares. Eaten away.

  He’d saved his daughter from a tumble off a horse, but he hadn’t saved her from the devastation her own father brought down on her.

  Cole rolled out of bed and scraped a hand down his cheek, rough with stubble. He wouldn’t sleep again. He never did. Probably because he was afraid to close his eyes.

  He hadn’t cut off yesterday’s thought about passion fast enough. Andrea’s passion was drawing. Stephie’s had been horses. She begged and pleaded. At the time, he hadn’t realized he’d said no because he was afraid she’d get hurt; he simply thought it was too much responsibility for a nine-year-old.

  His subconscious was telling him the truth now.

  By the time he’d showered and dressed, the sun was up. He washed the truck because he didn’t have anything else to occupy his mind. He pulled weeds for the same reason. Best to keep busy. Don’t think. Don’t remember.

  And don’t ever ask Andrea Bagotti about her drawing.

  When it was time to go to work, he’d stuffed the green yard-waste bin to the brim after stomping it down twice. He was sweaty enough to require another quick shower.

  The woman’s SUV was in the lot when he pulled up. He didn’t want to think of her by a name. She might weasel her way into his thoughts if he did. He went in through the back door, not so he wouldn’t have to see her when he passed by the office, but because that door was closest to the grill.

  “Do you work every day?”

  Hell. Where she’d come from? He wrapped a clean apron round his middle. “Yeah.”

  “How long every day?”

  “Ten in the morning till eight at night.” He perched his cook’s cap on his head.

  “That’s a lot of hours.”

  “Frank does the same.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Is there something I can do for you?” he prompted.

  “No. Just thought I’d say good morning.”

  The Village People started playing on the sound system. “Frank’s here,” he said, hoping it would get rid of her.

  “Does he always listen to disco?”

  Cole almost smiled, but he didn’t want to smile around her. It made him feel too comfortable. “Yep. You should see him strut his stuff when he puts on the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack.”

  “Must be terrifying.”

  “Yeah,” Cole agreed. “But the best”—he put his hands up, the image alive in his mind—“is his rendition of Gloria Gaynor singing ‘I Will Survive.’ It must be seen to be believed.”

  “Maybe I’ll ask him to play it and see what happens.”

  This time Cole did smile. Damn. Shouldn’t be doing that, yet she made him want to. Then she got an odd twinkle in her eye, and a corner of her mouth lifted, not quite a smile, but one of those half smiles of hers that made him want to beg to know what was going on her in mind. See, she was a dangerous woman.

  She turned just as Frank rounded the corner. “Frank”—she eyed Cole with that same tilt to her lips—“can I put on some different music?”

  “Sure.” Frank waved a hand. “Choose whatever you want. I’ve got a ton of stuff in there. How about The Animals singing ‘The House of the Rising Sun’?”

  “That’s not disco,” she said.

  Frank glanced at Cole and snorted. “I do have tastes beyond disco.”

  She smiled, winked, and left, her subtle scent staying behind to play havoc with his insides.

  Hah. He had her little twinkle figured out. It wouldn’t be The Animals. Frank doing “Night Fever” was incredibly scary. But “I Will Survive”? Cole wasn’t sure any of them would survive that. He wondered how long it would take her to find either of the CDs. They were only safe until she did.

  “She’s nice, isn’t she?” Frank was giving him that sappy grin of a man smitten.

  “She’s fine.”

  “Andrea seems to like her. Kid must have been in there five times yesterday.”

  A railroad spike wedged under Cole’s rib. “Yeah. Good for the kid. Needs a friend.” He turned to his grill. Discussion over.

  The Village People cut off in mid-YMCA call-out. But where he was expecting a romping dance beat, she’d put in something softer, mellower. It was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. The guitar sounded like a Martin HD28 steel-string acoustic. Smooth tone. He used to play one.

  “I dreamed of you again last night.”

  What the hell?

  “Your naked body wrapped in moonlight.”

  She was playing him. For a moment, the roaring in his ears drowned out the sound of his own voice. But not for long, nowhere near long enough.

  “Our fate is written on the air.”

  All the breath got sucked out of his lungs.

  “Baby, I’ll find you out there.”

  Why the hell was she playing that music? It ripped his guts apart. His eyes stung, the pressure on his chest unbearable. He needed to beat something with his fists.

  Cole opened his eyes and realized he’d splattered a bag of sliced tomatoes at his feet. All he could do was stare at them. If he hadn’t dreamed about Stephie last night, maybe it wouldn’t have gotten to him. Ah hell, of course it would have. He hated that song. If he could have stopped the CD from going on sale, he would have. But that song was the worst. The last song he’d finished, the very last.

  He could hear Stephie. “Come on, Daddy. You promised.”

  And his answer. “Just let me get this last part down, baby.”

  But she kept whining, though he’d tried to tune her out.

  Oh God, baby, I’m so sorry.

  His heart wanted to burst inside his chest. He heard it all like it was yesterday instead of seven years ago.

  I’m gonna die, right here, right now.

  Maybe that would be a good thing. A really damn good thing. The old saying said time healed all wounds. Not true. It muted them, allowed you to go on, but it never healed them. Just like that, with a scent or a tune, they could burst wide open, spilling your guts all over the floor like a bag of tomatoes.

  Get hold of yourself, man. It’s just a song.

  That song. All his dreams and hopes in its lyrics, all his feeling in its melody. It all died with Stephie.

  Frank was standing there by the shake machine, frozen.

  “You know, Frank”—he was damn proud of how steady his voice sounded—“I’m gonna take a day off. You don’t mind, do you?”

  It was a shitty thing to do, but if he didn’t get out, he might start bawling or something equally soul-destroying.

  “Sure, Cole. I can handle the grill.”

  “Thanks, man.” He didn’t even look at Frank as he dumped his apron in the dirty laundry bag. Hell, he should clean up the tomatoes. Instead, he left them a smashed mess on the floor.

  Over the speaker system, his own words followed him into the parking lot. The sun was out, but he couldn’t feel it. With a squeal of tires, a car honked out in the street. He was tired, that was all. Up early with a nightmare. He just needed to go back to bed for a little while. Only he was afraid what would come to him in his dreams.

  If it was Stephie, he wasn’t sure he’d survive this time.


  Chapter Nine

  “Turn it off.” Frank’s voice sounded half strangled, and his knuckles were white against the office doorjamb.

  “What?” Jami had been expecting Cole, not Frank.

  “The music.”

  “Don’t you like it? It’s—”

  “Cole. I know. Now turn it off.”

  Jami did, and the silence rang in her ears. The tips of Frank’s ears reddened, standing out against his white T-shirt. His hands on his hips, legs spread, lips moving slightly, she knew he was working himself up to something thunderous.

  “Cole told me he couldn’t hear his music anymore,” she said, heading him off with an explanation. “I thought playing a little of his own stuff might help him remember.” It had come to her in a moment of brilliance, while Cole expounded about Frank and his disco music. She’d remind him of his music.

  The top of Frank’s head deepened from pink to rosy red. “What do you want from him?”

  Nothing. Everything. A chance to change her life. Help someone. Be needed. A cause to fill in the hole that Leo’s defection had left. “I have no idea.”

  “He said you were stalking him.” Frank wagged his head, his eyes narrowed. “You’re not a reporter looking to do some exposé on him, are you?”

  “No.” She was starting to feel uncomfortable. All right, that was an understatement. The butterflies in her stomach had definitely thrashed out of their cocoons. She’d messed up. Hah. Like that wasn’t par for her course these days?

  Frank eyed her. “No to which question?”

  “I’m not a reporter.” But what about the other? “I’m not a stalker, either. Not like a real one anyway.”

  “What’s a real stalker like?”

  She spread her hands. “Like I’m going to whip out a gun when he rejects my help?”

  “Then what the hell are you doing here in Masterson?”

  “I bought a couple of his CDs at a thrift store, and I liked his music.” Lame, very lame. But how could she explain that she’d been double-fired by her boss and her lover, and her family thought she was a loser? Because that’s what saying she wasn’t as together as her sisters actually meant. Colton Amory’s music made her feel better.

  Frank scuffed his boot on the floor, leaving a stripe of black on the linoleum. “I thought you’d be good for him, but I was wrong.”

  “I just wanted to show him how his music affected people.”

  “You don’t get it.” Frank slashed a hand through the air to shut her up. “That was the worst thing you could have done.”

  Her heart jumped into her throat. “Why?”

  “Because he was making that album when Stephie died.”

  Her heart now plummeted straight to the pit of her stomach. She didn’t know which to tackle first, the name Stephie or the word died.

  She didn’t have to ask at all. Frank simply answered the question written on her face. “She’s his daughter, and he lost her seven years ago.”

  She felt sick. There could be nothing worse in the world than losing a child. Nothing. And she’d just thrown all the memories right in Cole’s face. When she’d popped in the CD, she hadn’t known, that was true, but she’d only been thinking about what would make her feel better and less like a loser. “He stopped hearing music when she died, didn’t he?”

  “He stopped living.”

  She’d had the audacity to compare her seven years with Leo to the seven years of hell he’d endured since his daughter died. “I didn’t understand,” she whispered.

  “You still don’t,” Frank said. Then he sagged into the office chair opposite her. “There were two things Cole loved. The first was Stephie, and the second was his music.”

  Jami pushed the button on the CD player, and the disc slid out. Slipping it back in its case, she glanced at Cole’s photo. “I can hear how much he loved it.”

  Frank took the CD from her, gazing at the cover. “He was making this album when she died.” He looked up at her. “He’s never stopped blaming himself for what happened to her. And he will never let it go.”

  Oh God. She had so screwed up. Without even trying.

  Gary, the same kid who’d opened yesterday, grabbed the doorframe and stuck his head in. “It’s almost ten, Frank.” Then he lowered his voice. “And Cole’s not here,” he said, eyes wide, as if he couldn’t believe it.

  Frank didn’t even turn his head. “Just leave the closed sign up and fill all the condiment containers. As soon as I’m done in here, I’ll grill.”

  “Isn’t Cole coming in?” Again, that wide-eyed, earth-shattering look.

  “Not today.” Frank waved the boy away.

  “I’m sorry,” Jami said. “I shouldn’t have stuck my nose in his business.” She swallowed. “How did she die?”

  Frank blinked. Slowly, long enough for her to realize how long his lashes were. “A bug.”

  “You mean a virus?”

  “No. I mean a bug. A parasite. An amoeba, they called it. It was in the water when they went swimming at the hot springs.”

  “That’s terrible.” She had only an inkling of Cole’s pain.

  “The health department did a big investigation.” He spread his hands to encompass it all. “This thing is really rare, and there’s nothing the doctors can do to kill it once you get it. So now they’ve got signs posted at the hot springs saying not to put your head under the water. Cole made sure of that.” He scraped a big hand down his face. “He’s never forgiven himself, though.”

  “But he couldn’t have known at the time.”

  “I know that and you know that, but...” Frank shrugged.

  Yes. But someday a person had to let that kind of guilt go. She opened her mouth.

  Frank put up his hand. “Cole wouldn’t like me talking. And don’t go asking him about it either,” he warned.

  No way on earth. It was bad enough that she’d set him off by playing his music. Her only excuse was that she hadn’t known about his daughter. It hadn’t come up in her Internet searches. Broaching the subject with him would only do more damage. “I don’t need to know anything else,” she murmured.

  Frank sighed and played with the armrest of his chair. “I shoulda told you yesterday what his freaking funk was all about. It’s not your fault.”

  Shoulda, woulda, coulda. Didn’t. It wasn’t Frank’s fault either. “Thanks for letting me off the hook.” She didn’t feel off the hook. The hurt she caused Cole wasn’t intentional, yet there was a lump in her stomach that wouldn’t go away. “I’m not sure Cole can forgive me, though.”

  “He’s not a bad guy. He’ll understand you made a mistake.”

  “You’re right. I owe him an apology.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Maybe you should just let sleeping dogs lie.”

  Except that sleeping dogs sometimes woke up while you were tiptoeing around them and bit you in the ankle.

  * * * * *

  Ruby ran round and round in circles chasing her itty-bitty tail. If she wasn’t careful, she’d chip her toenail polish, and there’d be hell to pay when Frank found out.

  There’d be hell to pay, too, if that Doberman got hold of the poodle.

  Cole sat back on the park bench in the morning sun and propped one booted foot on his knee. They wouldn’t have many more days like this. Winter came to the Yosemite Valley like a painter’s brush, washing everything white with a cold layer of frost that, though it thawed, left behind a bone-deep chill.

  Or maybe that was just a product of his frame of mind.

  Ruby yipped, jumped high, and ran to the far fence corner as if the Doberman had gotten within sniffing range. Then she pranced back to sit in front of Cole for a treat.

  He held up empty palms for her to inspect. “I forgot to bring them. Sorry.”

  He had a key to Frank’s house, but what possessed him to take Ruby to the dog park was beyond his comprehension. Except that animals were so...easy. Even Ruby, as prissy and high-strung a dog as ever lived, wanted only four t
hings, a little exercise, a lot of food, a warm lap on a cold night, and a friendly hand to lavish her with constant attention.

  She jumped, as if a flea had suddenly bitten her butt, and raced off to the opposite fence again. An enclosed area of approximately one acre, the dog park had benches and shade trees for the owners, kiddy pools (large and small) for doggie water sports, lots of tan bark for animal business, receptacles with plastic bags every twenty feet or so, and a double gate system so the dogs couldn’t escape when a newcomer arrived.

  For Tuesday midday, it was fairly empty, the Doberman, a couple of golden retrievers, and Ruby. But like a homing pigeon, Jami entered through the double gate. He’d left Easy Cheesy an hour ago. Despite what he’d said to Frank, he’d intended to return after a breath of fresh air.

  The woman just didn’t want to give it to him.

  Her sneakers were too white to have been used for hiking and her jeans too new to have faded in the wash. He didn’t know a thing about her, but he figured she was, in a way, as prissy as Ruby. She probably polished her toes, too, a light pink that would match her fingernails.

  She sat on the opposite end of the bench.

  He watched Ruby. “How did you find me?”

  “Kelly said she saw you.” She watched Ruby, too.

  “You don’t have to apologize for playing the CD.”

  “I wasn’t going to.”

  “Yes, you were.”

  “You’re right, I was.”

  “I’m not worried about it.” It had given him a momentary jolt, that’s all. He was over it now. Ruby leaped at a butterfly she couldn’t manage to catch, and Cole finally looked at Jami. “So you don’t need to bother apologizing.”

  She contemplated that in silence. Then she crossed her legs. “I found those two CDs in a grab bag at my local thrift store along with Lawrence Welk and Slim Whitman.”

  He laughed despite himself. “That doesn’t say a lot about my music. Or maybe it does, and it’s all bad.”

  “No, no, your stuff was the best in the whole lot, I swear.”

  He whistled for Ruby, and she came trotting. “Like I said, I’m not sure that says a whole lot.”