by Stacy Finz
“It’s back here.” She pressed her fob and lifted the tailgate. The bags, boxes, and luggage—well, it was a wonder she could fit it all. And still, she’d left so much behind.
“Let me help you with that.” He hefted one of the suitcases and placed it on the ground while she rummaged through the piles to find her sewing equipment.
“Got it.” She started to lift the serger from the back and he instantly took it from her and still managed to shove the suitcase back into her trunk, one-handed.
“That all?”
“Just this.” She held up her sewing basket and followed him back to the house.
He put her machine down on the breakfast table and watched as she lifted off the case. “Are you a professional seamstress?”
She’d never thought of herself that way, but come to think of it, she sort of was. “I used to own a store where I sometimes restored or repurposed old furniture, including redoing the upholstery.”
After she said it she feared she might’ve given away too much. Then again, stores like hers were a dime a dozen. Even the cleverest detective would have a hard time narrowing that vague clue down.
“Where was the store?” he asked, trying to sound conversational rather than investigative. She knew better.
“Sausalito.” It was the first place that popped into her head and the kind of town that would’ve embraced a store like hers as much as Noe Valley had. Still, Sausalito was a little too close for comfort. Just over the bay from Corbin.
If she wanted to truly disappear without a trace, she’d have to learn to be a better liar.
“What happened to it?”
Now she’d hemmed herself in. “Nothing,” she lied. “It’s still there. Just a different owner. I sold it ten years ago.”
He looked at her like he was estimating her age and wasn’t buying it. Ten years ago, she would’ve been twenty-five. Silicon Valley was full of twenty-five-year-olds who’d sold Fortune 500 companies, let alone a single-proprietor luxury home-store.
“Where did Grady go?” she asked, hoping to change the subject.
“Grady,” he hollered. “Mrs. Rogers is ready to sew your shirt.”
Grady appeared a few minutes later, holding the shirt in his hand, topless. His small, concave chest made her grin. And his eyes, shining with hope, gave her a little kick in the chest.
How long had it been since she’d sewn? The sudden memory of why she’d quit filled her head and she bit down hard on her lip, tasting the salty, metallic flavor of blood. She licked it away and focused on her task, trying not to think about her store and why she’d had to let it go.
It took her several minutes to load her cones and thread the machine. Travis came in the kitchen and he, his father, and brother gathered around the table to watch her mend Grady’s shirt. It was just a long-sleeve Henley, with a brand name that Charlotte didn’t recognize across the chest. For whatever reason it was special to the boy.
Though it had been a while, maybe six or seven months, it felt good to have her foot on the pedal and her hands guiding the fabric under the whir of the machine. It was a simple repair job but it made her remember what it used to be like to be productive. How the pretty slipcovers and window treatments she made had filled her with pride.
“Sweet,” Travis said as she sewed a series of flatlock stitches along the seam of Grady’s sleeve.
“You better thank Mrs. Rogers for saving your bacon. Otherwise, you would’ve had to dip into your allowance to buy Grady a new shirt,” Jace told Travis.
“Thank you, Mrs. Rogers.”
“You’re welcome.” She turned the Henley right-side out and called Grady closer to have a look. “See, just like new.” She demonstrated that the tear was now a perfect seam.
“Thank you, Mrs. Rogers.” He clutched the shirt to his chest as if it were the most important thing in the world and dragged it over his head.
Then, he wrapped his arms around her and gave her a great big hug. For a moment she froze, shocked by the contact. As he clung to her, something in her chest moved and her eyes welled with tears.
“Hey, buddy.” Jace pulled him back and mussed his hair. “You and Travis go finish your homework, okay?”
The boys filed out of the kitchen.
When they were out of earshot Jace said, “Sorry about that. When he’s not chasing off babysitters, he can be clingy.”
She pretended to laugh, but the hug had shaken her. It had been a painful reminder of what she’d lost. And yet, the connection had stirred something inside her. Something that gently plucked at a lifetime ago.
A life before Corbin.
“No worries.” She packed up her serger and basket and started to take them to the car.
“You can stow them in the mudroom until tomorrow,” he said, and pulled a frozen lasagna out of the freezer.
“So it’s okay if I stay then?”
“The room’s yours,” he said, yet she sensed a hesitation on his part. And why wouldn’t he be reluctant? She was no one to him.
“Thank you. I’ll leave first thing in the morning.” She hoped by then Meredith would have a new arrangement for her.
He nodded and turned on the oven. “You planning to open a new store in Colorado?”
He was digging again. She supposed she would’ve done the same if he was a stranger in her home.
“Yes, as soon as I find the right location.” A store would be the first place Corbin would look, Meredith had warned. No, Charlotte would have to take the kind of jobs Corbin would never suspect. Jobs she’d never done before.
“Can I help with that?” She pointed at the lasagna.
“Not much to do other than stick it in the oven.” He reached inside the fridge and pulled out a bag of ready-made salad. “And pour this in a bowl.”
“I could set the table.”
“Sure. Plates are up here.” He nudged his head at one of the upper cabinets.
She found linens in a drawer and carefully folded each cloth napkin into a rosette. It was something she’d learned from her sister, Allison. From one of the cupboards, she gathered four glasses. They were cobalt blue and quite pretty. She assumed the dining room was too formal and began arranging the placemats on the breakfast table. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Jace watching.
“Is something wrong?” She should’ve asked about the dining room. It was presumptuous of her to think they’d be more informal.
“Nope, nothing wrong. You’ve got a flair for that kind of stuff, don’t you?” He bobbed his head at her table arrangement, lingering on the rosettes.
She’d done nothing special, really. “You have nice dinnerware.” The plates were different, a pattern Charlotte had never seen before. Each one was embellished with what appeared to be a cattle brand. “Are they family heirlooms?”
“They were my grandmother’s. Her parents had them custom made. That was their ranch’s brand.”
“They’re amazing.”
Jace chuckled but the laugh sounded hollow to Charlotte.
“What’s so funny?” she dared to ask.
“My ex-wife hated them with a passion. We fought about those plates more times than I can count.”
“But they’re your family’s history,” she said and immediately wished she could take back the words. His problems with his ex-wife were none of her business. Furthermore, the woman was entitled to her opinion. It had been her house too, after all.
He shrugged. “That was my thinking, but she wanted something more modern.” He pulled out a square plate covered in bright geometric patterns. “Now tell me, would you want to eat off this? It gives me vertigo just looking at it.”
Admittedly, it wasn’t her taste. She preferred the family heirlooms—anything with history that told a story. But to each her own. “It’s a very popular style.”
He g
runted something unintelligible but didn’t seem the least bit angry that Charlotte hadn’t taken his side. She considered asking about the ex, remembering what Grady had told her, but didn’t want to wear out her welcome by prying. Perhaps Jace had been a terrible husband and the wife had fled with just the clothes on her back.
The ex certainly hadn’t taken her dishes.
The oven dinged to signal that it had reached the right temperature, and Jace slid the lasagna in and got to work on the salad. She found flatware and finished setting the table.
“How long have you been sheriff?” A benign enough topic, she presumed.
“Six years. I was appointed when my predecessor left midway through his term for health reasons, and was elected two years later. I’m up for reelection in June.”
Be careful.
Meredith had cautioned her about politicians. Corbin’s father was about as connected as anyone got. Even in small rural counties.
“How’s that going?” she asked, just to hold up her end of the conversation.
He waggled his hand from left to right. “I wouldn’t call it a slam dunk. But I’m by far the best guy for the job. In the six years I’ve been doing it, crime rates have dropped significantly.”
She got the sense that it wasn’t just a stump speech, that he was probably pretty good at his job. Judging by how he’d treated her, Sheriff Jace Dalton cared about people. Then again, first impressions could be deceiving. Hadn’t she learned that the hard way?
“I wish you luck,” she said.
“Thanks. If it doesn’t work out I can always ranch full-time.” He shrugged.
“What exactly does that entail?” She’d seen the cows in the field and had no idea whether they were for milk or meat or were merely pets. Her experience with farm animals was limited to television.
“My two cousins and I run about a hundred head on Dry Creek Ranch. My grandfather used to run a lot more, but the drought killed us.” He gazed out the window where the sun had begun to set. The days seemed shorter in the country.
“What do you do with the cattle?”
He turned away from the window and rested his back against the sink. “Breed ’em and sell their calves at market. Beef prices are good right now, though that could change. For us it’s just a sideline. But eventually we’d like to grow the operation.”
“It sounds like you and your cousins are continuing the legacy.”
“Yep.” A corner of his lip tugged up in a half grin and she saw a great deal of pride shining in those startling blue eyes of his.
He was an interesting man. A single dad and, from the looks of things, raising his two boys alone. Sheriff, cowboy, rancher. Handsome enough to turn heads but seemingly oblivious to his own appeal.
Maybe. Perhaps he knew just how good-looking he was and didn’t care.
He grabbed a bottle of dressing out of the fridge and went back to tossing the salad. She made herself busy filling a water pitcher she found in one of the cupboards.
“Charlie?” He cleared his throat. “You ever planning to tell me what’s really going on here?”
She hesitated for a beat, wishing she could trust someone in his position and that Corbin wasn’t above the law, then answered in one word. “No.”
Chapter 3
Jace climbed out of his pickup, travel mug in hand, and crossed the south pasture to the barn. He could see his breath hanging in the morning air. Little white puffs.
“You bring some for us too?” Sawyer eyed Jace’s mug.
Jace’s cousin appeared to need more than coffee this morning. A double shot of espresso or eight more hours of sleep.
“Nope. Were you up all night or is this a new look?” Rumpled, bloodshot, and generally resembling a bag of shit.
“Deadline. Give me that.” Sawyer pulled Jace’s cup out of his hand and took a swig. “Shit, hot.” He waved a hand over his tongue.
Cash shook his head, rested his boot on the bottom rail of the fence, and hung his arms over the weathered wood to stare out at the cattle grazing in the field. “What’s up with the CR-V in your driveway? New babysitter?”
“Long story, but the short version is no, not a babysitter. A woman I found on the side of the road.”
Cash and Sawyer’s heads jerked up at the same time.
Cash spoke first. “What do you mean you found her on the side of the road?”
Jace stuck his hand under his hat and scratched his head. “Medical emergency. She was having a miscarriage.”
“Ah, jeez.” Sawyer rubbed his eyes. Even when he wasn’t working on a book all night, six in the morning wasn’t his best time of day. Typically, Mr. Globe-Trotting Journalist didn’t make an appearance until after nine. That’s when he showed up at the ranch house to root around Jace’s refrigerator because he hadn’t gotten around to buying his own groceries. Over the last year, he’d been embedded with troops in Afghanistan and was writing about the war.
“That’s awful,” Cash agreed. “But it still doesn’t explain why she’s at your house.”
“All the hotels were booked, on account of the Teddy Bear Convention at the Miners Foundry, and she was in no condition to drive.” Jace proceeded to tell his cousins about the emergency room visit, the doctor’s suspicion that someone had been knocking Charlie around, and how he’d come to a similar conclusion.
“Wasn’t there anyone she could call?” Cash asked. “If not, there’s got to be a women’s shelter somewhere around here.”
There was one in Chesterville, run by the Unitarian Church, Jace had learned yesterday. Apparently his undersheriff sat on the board.
“She denies being abused.” Jace shrugged. “She says she’s on her way to Colorado to open a business.”
“This woman have a name?” Sawyer asked.
“Charlie.”
“Charlie?” Cash squinted his eyes to block the sun.
“Charlie Rogers. I ran her license plate and the name checks out. Though the address comes back to a San Francisco nonprofit called Rosie the Riveter Foundation. According to the description on its website, it helps underprivileged women build careers.”
“And run away.” Sawyer handed Jace back his travel mug. “That would be my guess, anyway. Sounds like a story I did a few years back about an underground web of networks that help women escape their abusive homes. She say anything about a husband?”
“Nope. When I asked her who we should call, she said no one. But she wears a wedding ring with a diamond the size of one of our steers.” Jace stuck the mug on a fence post and joined Cash at the railing. “I tried to get her to press charges but she’s adamant that nothing’s going on. She’s leaving today, so not much more I can do.”
“I still can’t believe you brought her home.” Cash gave Jace one of his incredulous FBI stares. He’d left the Bureau last year and had taken a job with the California Department of Food and Agriculture investigating livestock thefts. But he still had the whole fed thing going. Everyone and everything was suspect.
“I felt sorry for her.” Frankly, his whole reaction to her had been out of character. He’d been drawn to her in a strange sort of way. She was beautiful, to be sure, but it was something else. Something less tangible.
“That’s not like you.” Cash blew on his hands, then shoved them in his jacket pockets. “Hell, if you took in every person you felt sorry for, you’d have a houseful. This woman must’ve really gotten to you.”
“Like I said, she was in no shape to drive, especially in yesterday’s storm, and she’s leaving today. We gonna talk about the tax bill?” Along with the ranch, their grandfather had left them with an outstanding property tax bill the size of California.
Sawyer crossed his arms. “We have until April. Why do we have to do this at the ass-crack of dawn?”
“Because April is only a little more than two months away,” Cash s
aid. “And we’ve put it off long enough. Either we file for another extension and rack up more interest, putting off the inevitable, or we talk to a real estate agent about selling. Maybe we could split the property in half, sell off the back forty and keep the rest.”
“No!” Jace and Sawyer said in unison.
“Dry Creek Ranch is our birthright, not Dry Creek Ranch lite. For Chrissake, Cash, some goddamn developer will wind up buying it and turning it into a bullshit planned community with country manors.” Jace put finger quotes around manors.
The local developer—i.e., Jace’s former best friend Mitch Reynolds—had already tried to buy Beals Ranch, their neighbor’s property, in a fraudulent deal to put in an eighteen-hole golf-course community. It was a long, complicated story. But the CliffsNotes version was that Jill Beals Tucker and her brother, Pete, had conspired to force their parents into a short sale of the land in exchange for a kickback from Mitch. Jace had uncovered the scheme and the fallout had been an ugly mess, counting the breakup of Jill’s marriage to Jace’s other best friend, Brett Tucker.
Most folks in the community didn’t know the full extent of the scandal, including the fact that Jill and Mitch had been having an extramarital affair. A lot of the details had been covered up to spare Brett’s and Jill’s parents the humiliation. But there had been plenty of collateral damage to go around.
Even to Jace himself and Cash’s fiancée, Aubrey, who at the time had been weeks away from marrying Mitch.
“Grandpa would turn over in his grave,” he continued.
“We’ve been talking about this since summer, Jace. Between Grandpa’s back taxes and our current property taxes, we’re looking at close to two hundred thou. You tell me how we find that in the budget and Sawyer can go back to bed.”
“Not by selling,” Sawyer said. “Can’t anyway. Not without Angela signing off.”
Jace and Cash exchanged a glance. Sawyer’s sister had been missing for five years. It wasn’t unusual for Angie to take a few months’ hiatus from the family. But this time, she’d vaporized like the tule fog in November.