by Terry Odell
"If you knew how many times I wanted to come home for your pot roast," he said.
"Only my pot roast interests you?" She wriggled loose from his grasp. "Once you said I make the best oatmeal cookies ever."
"That you do. I don't suppose there are any.…" He kissed the top of her head and wandered to the ceramic cookie jar and lifted the lid. Grabbing two, he turned and saw her beaming at him.
She picked up her wooden spoon and waggled it in his direction. "You go now, or my pot roast will burn."
"How's Pop doing?" he said around a mouthful of cookie. "Resting, I hope."
She nodded. "I tell him no dinner unless he takes a pill and a nap."
In the living room, Pop snored softly from his recliner. That his father still wore his robe and flannel pajamas sent a trickle of worry through Ryan's gut. He tiptoed to his father's side and picked up the pill vial from the end table. Recognizing the Percocet he'd taken in the hospital after his injury, the trickle grew to a river. To have his father admitting pain—Ryan tried to remember another time and couldn't. Vague memories of Pop breaking an arm after being thrown by a bronc seeped through Ryan's brain, but in his mind, Pop hadn't slowed down despite the cast.
His eyes burned, and there was that damn lump in his throat again. Shit, all this domesticity was getting in the way of what he needed to do. With one last glance at his sleeping father, Ryan headed for Pop's upstairs office.
He retrieved his laptop from the bottom desk drawer where he'd left it after researching Pop's land problems and went back downstairs.
His father hadn't moved from the recliner. Wolf lay curled at his feet. The dog raised his eyebrows, as if to say he was needed here now, which triggered another jolt of worry. Ryan halted. Pop's snores were louder now, but regular, and Ryan moved on.
Promising Rosa he'd be back for dinner, he climbed into the truck and returned to Josh's. He parked the truck off the main road, away from the house and walked slowly, keeping his eyes to the ground. Like the crash site, there was little visible evidence. Too much traffic in and out, what with the tow truck, the Mustang, not to mention Frankie's Cavalier and Pop's truck.
Okay, if there was no discernable beginning, then he'd start with his arrival in Montana, which should have been under the radar. He'd checked out of the hospital against medical advice, with a vague promise to continue with rehab. Automatically, he flexed his knee and rotated his shoulder, pleased when he felt nothing worse than dull aches. Any money Blackthorne owed him would go directly into his bank account. He'd paid cash for all his expenses on the trip. His next of kin was listed as an attorney, not Pop.
A rustling in the distant bushes caught his attention.
Probably another raccoon. He glanced around, half-expecting Wolf to come charging out from nowhere. No, the dog was where he needed to be, and Ryan would have to adjust to flying solo.
Remembering the night he'd encountered the coons, everything clicked. Maybe it was because he'd been in a shitty mood that night, or in a hurry to get inside, but now, he moved past the Mustang's remains and into the woods. He stood for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the shadows. Not sure exactly what he was looking for, he wandered the path, checking the occasional side branch of a trail. Evidence of deer and the expected raccoons didn't surprise him.
The single booted footprint, revealed when a gust of wind blew some leaves aside, did.
Chapter 13
Frankie backed her mother's Mercury Grand Marquis out of the garage. Compared to her Cavalier, it was like driving a tank, but at least the tank had power steering. She stopped at a gas station and reminded herself that was another reason she didn't borrow Mom's car very often. After three deep breaths, she ran down her mental checklist again. It wasn't a Three Elks night. She'd get Mom settled, then go to Missoula and talk to Mr. Loucas. A call to Meg had made sure Molly was welcome a little longer if needed.
How could Bob have abandoned her mother at the Bed and Breakfast? What kind of an emergency precluded at least dropping her off at home first, or getting her a cab? Sure, Mom had probably told him to go take care of things, that she'd be fine—but what if Frankie hadn't been home? or—there she went again. Relax. Everything had worked out.
Look on the bright side. She'd have Mom as a captive audience for the drive back, and would grill her about Bob.
She parked the Mercury in the small parking area and walked into the B&B. The place must have been decorated by someone addicted to Bonanza reruns. She glanced around the living room space that served as a lobby and reception center. The aroma of apples and cinnamon wafted across the room.
"Good afternoon." A pudgy, gray-haired woman appeared, a gingham dish towel tucked into the waistband of her denim skirt. "May I help you? I'm Lucy."
"I'm here to pick up my mother. Anna Castor?" Frankie scanned the sofas, loveseats, and wingback chairs scattered throughout the room, but saw no sign of her.
"Oh, yes. She's in the lilac suite. Why don't you help yourself to some hot cider, and I'll tell her you're here."
"That won't be necessary. If you'll tell me where the room is, I'll save you the trouble."
The woman gave a polite smile, one that reminded Frankie of her Sunday school teacher when Marty Hopkins tried to distract her from the lesson. "I'm sorry, but that area is restricted to registered guests. We pride ourselves on privacy. Do have some cider. I won't be a minute." With another smile, the woman whirled around and trotted up the stairs.
The smell of the cider was irresistible, and Frankie stepped to a carved sideboard and ladled a cardboard cup of the hot brew from a steaming crock pot. Inhaling the cinnamon scent, she carried the cup to the fireplace. The dancing flames wove a hypnotic spell, and as she sipped the cider, her anxiety left her.
"Miss! Miss, I think you should come up here."
The urgency in Lucy's voice sent panic surging through Frankie. She set her cup on the hearth and raced up the stairs, following the voice down a hallway to an open door.
Her mother sat on the edge of the bed, apparently resisting Lucy's assistance. Frankie stepped to the bedside. Her mother's eyes were unfocused, her hair was unkempt, and there was an unnatural pallor to her face.
"Mom. What's wrong?"
Lucy spoke up. "She started to get up, and collapsed. I told her to lie down for a bit, but she's insisting she's fine."
"And I am fine. Just a little groggy. If the two of you will give me a little breathing room, I'll be right with you."
With a look that said, this is not my job, Lucy retreated to the doorway. "I'll be downstairs. Call if you need me."
She sat down next to her mother and grasped her hands in hers. Frankie's hands were warm, and as they sat, she watched the color creep back into her mother's face. She stroked her cheek.
"Okay. I'm here. Tell me what happened? Why did Bob desert you?"
"Oh, stop fussing. He didn't desert me. He got a call at about three this morning about his sister and had to leave in a hurry. I told him I'd be fine, to do what he had to do. But after the call, I didn't get back to sleep."
"Why did you wait so long to call me?"
"I didn't want to wake you. I read for a while, and had breakfast downstairs—Lucy makes a fantastic Belgian waffle, by the way—and then I called. My wrist ached from packing, so I took a pain pill, and it knocked me out. End of story. Stop trying to run my life. Let me go fix myself up and we can leave."
While her mother was in the bathroom, Frankie plopped onto the bed and rubbed her neck. Mom wasn't a five-year-old. And Mom probably remembered her as her baby going off to college. Her baby who made one very big error in judgment. What Mom hadn't seen was how that error had propelled Frankie into a world of being responsible for a life other than her own. Time to think of Mom as an equal—and hope she'd do the same, because one way or another, Frankie was going to make Mom talk about Bob.
Moments later, the bathroom door opened. Her mother came over to the bed and sat down next to Frankie, handing her a hair
brush.
"Can you help? This is one thing I can't seem to manage left-handed."
Frankie started brushing her mother's tousled hair, finding it surprisingly comforting. Thoughts of Bob were tabled.
"You used to love to play beauty shop when you were little," her mother said. "You always had a gentle touch."
"I remember. I created some crazy hairstyles for you. But you never changed them—I think once you went to church with half your hair pinned up and the other half in a braid."
"You were so proud—I couldn't hurt your feelings."
Frankie hesitated, wondering where the thoughts whirling through her head were coming from. Or why the question leaped from her mouth.
"Mom. I have to know something. Do you…do you ever wish I hadn't been born? That I was a mistake you'd rather not have made?"
Her mother whipped her head around. "Whatever gave you that idea?" Her mouth dropped open, her eyes widened. "Oh, baby. You're not thinking that about Molly?"
"No, no, of course not. I've never regretted Molly. It's…well, you never really talked about it, but Claire…she's almost twelve years older than I am, and I know you were forty-two when I was born, and—"
"And you want to know if you were an unpleasant surprise?" Her mom smiled and kissed Frankie on the cheek. "Yes, you were a surprise, but not unpleasant. I had three miscarriages between you and Claire, and had given up on another child. And was going through the change—I thought. But I couldn't have been happier with my surprise baby. Your father, either."
A burden she'd been unaware of lifted. "I guess I thought I'd messed up your life. And after Dad died, you were stuck with a little kid. You liked the grad students who boarded with us. I wasn't sure you wanted me. Claire kind of took over."
"Oh, baby. You poor thing. I had a lot of trouble adjusting after your father died. I suppose I did turn too many mothering responsibilities over to Claire."
Frankie chewed on her lip. "I thought I must be doing something wrong. That it was my fault you were unhappy."
"I'm so sorry. You were always such a perfect child, always trying to do the right thing, to make everyone around you happy. I never realized—I never knew. Can you forgive me?"
She smiled. "Of course. And, on the bright side, it probably explains why I am the way I am."
Her mother's laugh was music. "That's my Frankie. Always finding a bright side."
"Let's get you home."
Once they were on the interstate, Frankie turned down the volume on the radio. Along with a tension in her neck and shoulders, Bob had worked his way back to the front of her brain, and she wasn't going to ignore him this time. How dare he treat her mother that way.
"Mom, where did Bob go?" She kept the irritation out of her voice. "I hope it wasn't anything too serious." Like heck. It had darn well better have been life-threatening for him to abandon her mother the way he did.
"I don't know, exactly." Mom fussed with her seatbelt. "He said his sister was sick and he had to get there right away."
"Where is there?"
"She lives in San Diego Or was it San Clemente? No, I think it was Santa Barbara. Or is his sister's name Barbara? I was half asleep. It was one of those San-somethings in California, I'm sure. She's the only family he has left."
"Can you get in touch with him? I mean, to check to make sure everything is all right?" A glance in her mother's direction told Frankie she was treading on thin ice. No. She was an adult now, not twelve, and the narrowed eyes no longer intimidated. Not much, anyway.
"I told him to go. He'll be in touch once things are settled. Now, if you don't mind, I didn't get much sleep last night, and the pill hasn't worn off." She twisted in her seat, tucked her sweater behind her head and closed her eyes.
"Wait, Mom. I was wondering…the mountain property, where we used to picnic and stuff. Do you still own it?"
"Yes, technically. Someone made an offer. I thought I might take it. I have so many mixed memories of the place. Your father and I loved to go there."
She heard a dreamy quality in her mother's voice. She glanced over and caught a smile playing at the corner of Mom's mouth.
"It was special for you, wasn't it?"
Her mother opened her eyes, revealing a twinge of sadness. "Yes, very. After he died, I hardly ever went back. The memories—made me miss him too much. But I didn't have the heart to sell it until now."
Bob again. Usurping her father's memories. "Umm…what about the rental, or whatever you call it? Access rights?"
"I told the bank to let them know they could match the offer. According to the old papers I found, that was what my grandfather had offered, and I thought it fair to hold to it. What makes you bring this up now?"
She took a deep breath. "Well, you remember that man I met in the emergency room? You'll never believe it, but it turns out it's his father who was using the property and he needs it to make his living, and—"
"Frankie. Stop. You're trying to say everything at once. Slow down. My brain can't handle this now. We'll talk when we get home." She folded her arms across her chest and closed her eyes again.
She left her mother to her dreams, wondering if they were about Bob or her father. She tried to adjust to this new image of her mother, a woman trying to make the best of her life. But until she knew more about Bob, she wasn't going to stop watching out for Mom.
Ready to make a plan, Frankie let her mind drift, hoping one would appear. Since the land had meant so much to her, Mom would probably be open to some sort of agreement with the Harpers. She made a mental note to call Mr. Anisman about darkroom privileges and began visualizing her photographs as she drove. A little extra money from Mr. Harper, some photography income, and things were going to be great. She wouldn't think about Bob. Let him stay in California for a while. She smiled. Out of state, out of mind.
She glanced at her mother, relaxed in sleep, a faint smile playing about her lips. A layer of guilt washed over Frankie. Her mother obviously cared about the man, and if Bob disappeared, Mom would be hurt.
Home, with her mother upstairs napping, she gathered everything she'd need to assess the budget and logged onto the bank's website. Confident she'd be able to juggle things and propose a new financial arrangement to Mom, one that would let Mr. Harper keep his business, she downloaded the most recent account information and clicked "print."
Once she'd set up a spreadsheet, she picked up the papers from the printer. Scanning the printouts, her heart jumped to her throat. This had to be a mistake.
*****
Aside from the single boot print, Ryan had found nothing to indicate who might have been in the woods. Hell, for all he knew, some hiker had stopped to take a leak. Lots of innocent explanations. Like with the Mustang. But too many coincidences made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
He set up his laptop on the coffee table and went to the entertainment center where Josh stored his DVDs. His pulse quickened when he saw they lined up perfectly at the edge of the shelf. He'd left them staggered, very slightly, in a pattern he recognized. Telling himself it wouldn't matter even if someone had found his CD, that there was nothing earth-shattering in its contents, he quashed the warning tension in his belly and pulled Blade Runner from the row. Opening the case, the sight of the strand of hair tucked behind the disc brought a sigh of relief. Frankie had probably browsed the collection, looking for a movie to occupy Molly. She'd be the sort who'd put things back neater than she found them.
He popped the CD from the case and carried it to the coffee table. He moved the furniture so he could stretch his legs under the table and lean against the couch. As he lowered himself, his knee gave a quick twinge.
He might as well take his new slant on living all the way. While the computer loaded the disc, he crawled out of his workspace and found his duffel in the recesses of the bedroom closet. In it, still in its original package, was the elastic knee-support the physical therapist had given him. He removed his boots and jeans, slid the brace into
place and grabbed the sweats from the end of the bed where Frankie had left them. Where he'd left them, as a reminder of her brief presence in his world.
He saw her in them again, stomping around the floor with Molly, getting rid of the grumps. Somehow, pulling on the sweats made him feel calmer. Warmer inside. Shit. Enough. He tried to ignore the damn lust that had burrowed into him like an unwanted tick.
Back in his makeshift office on the living room floor, he took a deep breath and pushed away the memory of what he'd gone through to get this data.
Despite the craziness and panic at the factory in Panama, Ryan held onto enough sanity to realize nobody used his last dying breath to give away a cigar, which was what he'd discovered in the tube Alvarez had given him. At the time, he'd thought the importance was inflated in Alvarez's mind, but he'd kept his word. For a few bucks, he had convinced a hospital orderly to mail it to him at his San Francisco PO Box.
Once he'd checked out of the hospital and retrieved his prize, he found it was no ordinary cigar. Alvarez had removed a good portion of the innards, replacing them with a small flash drive containing a single file. The best he could tell, the file was exactly what Alvarez had said it was. A list of names, addresses, and stolen or missing works of art, some with pictures. Nothing he recognized, but art had never been his thing. He'd checked names at random and cross referenced them against a few of Blackthorne's databases while he still had access, and they seemed to be real people. People with no connections to Ryan's world. And when his internal red flags waved that day in Blackthorne's office, he lied about having the intel.
Maybe there was more.
He stared at the list on the screen until his eyes burned. He tried arranging the names in alphabetical order. By last name. By first name. Then by country. He searched for commonalities. He tried it from the other direction—were there things that should have been here, but weren't? Since he was unfamiliar with the postal code formats for other countries, or if they even had postal codes, he couldn't be sure those were right. But the five he checked fit the pattern, so he eliminated that possibility. After two hours, he had nothing but a growling stomach and an incipient headache to show for his efforts.
