“I can only imagine.”
“Cal didn’t put up with any crap, either. I don’t know if I was more afraid of getting kicked out by them or of not getting kicked out by them. I think I pulled every stunt in the book during those first six months.”
“You were a boy. You were testing boundaries you’d never had before.”
“That’s what the therapist they made me see said, too.”
As far as Ali was concerned, that didn’t take any specialized knowledge. It was obvious.
“Anyway, Cal just got tougher. But no matter what I did, he never threatened to kick me out. I’d been with them eleven months and three days when they sat me down and told me they wanted to adopt me. The court had already made them my guardians. But this was more. They were giving me their name.” He looked at her and the color of his eyes was even starker against the shadows under them. “There were no long lists of families anxious to adopt a ten-year-old. Particularly one with a history like mine. Less than a month later, I was officially Grant Cooper. I got a brand-new birth certificate with Cal and Talia listed as my parents.” He made a low sound. “They gave me a copy of it and I made a frame for it in school and hung it on my wall. It’s still hanging on my wall back in Oregon.”
She had to push the words past the lump in her throat. “They sound like they were really good people.”
He leaned his head back against the couch and closed his eyes. He nodded once.
“Did they know about T. C. Grant? About your writing?”
“No.”
“I’m sure they’d have been very proud.”
“Maybe. My mom wasn’t particularly happy when I quit college to enlist.”
“What were you studying?”
“English education.”
The lump got bigger. “You wanted to be an English teacher?” Like his adoptive mother. The woman who’d helped him learn to read and write.
“Hard to imagine.”
She rested her head against his shoulder. “Not so hard,” she whispered. Instead of teaching, he’d turned to the military. Like his father. “What was the air force like?”
“Like I’d found another family. Particularly after they were both gone.”
“Why didn’t you stay in?”
“I left to try to save my marriage. That was a bust.”
She remembered his text message from his ex-wife all too vividly. The hearts. The lovey-dovey. “Are you sure?”
He opened his eyes then and looked at her. He gestured at the books. “The only thing Chelsea still wants out of me are words. And I don’t have any.”
“She likes the books, then.”
“She publishes the books,” he revealed in a tired voice. “All these boxes she sends me? Her idea of making a point.”
“About what?”
“She wants another CCT Rules novel. Wants me out on book tours. Look-ee here. Real-life hero, writing about the true-to-life exploits of fictional hero Cal Reid. And it’s all bull.” He pushed off the couch and kicked one of the books. It skidded wildly across the floor. “She keeps sending ’em just to prove that no matter where I run, I can’t get away from CCT Rules. She doesn’t get that no matter where I am, I can’t write. I’ve tried. And there’s nothing there. Not. One. Word. There hasn’t been since Seymour died.” He kicked another book. And another.
They shot across the floor like weapons.
“Grant.”
“He shouldn’t have died. He was the hero. He stayed with his wife. He loved his kids. But I got out and what happened?”
He kicked yet another book and Ali hastily jumped out of the way.
“I perform what’s supposed to be cathartic exercise, and Chelsea’s off and running. Suddenly, there’s a book and people start thinking I’m the hero.” He clawed his fingers through his hair. “They start coming out of the woodwork, showing up at my door, telling me about their dads and their moms and their sons and daughters who’ve paid the ultimate price and think there’s some magical way I can make that better by knowing their stories. Or writing about ’em. Have Cal Reid, fictional war hero, save their lives at least between the pages of a book. And if it’s not those poor souls, it’s the women thinking I’m worth a notch on their bedpost just because I’ve hit a bestseller list or two! Sneaking in my house. Showing up in my bed.” He kicked another entire box of books and the cardboard snapped, sounding like a shot. The books poured out of it like an exploding volcano.
He finally went still, wrapping his fingers around the back of his neck. His shoulders were slumped. “All I wanted to do was be able to sleep at night,” he said gruffly. “That’s all I ever wanted to do. After the first book, it was okay. For a long time. But then—” He broke off, shaking his head.
“Seymour died,” she ventured softly. She remembered the ivory invitation she’d found in his kitchen drawer that first day. He hadn’t made a big deal about it, but that hadn’t kept her from reading what it said. Seymour Reid. Valorous Actions. Award Ceremony.
He didn’t answer and she ached inside. For the little boy he’d been. For the man he’d become.
“I can’t do what Cal and Talia did. I can’t be a parent to Layla. I don’t have what it takes to do the job right.”
“How do you know that until you try?”
“Every time I’ve found something to love, I’ve lost it. And if I didn’t lose it, I kicked it away. Layla deserves more.”
“So do you.”
He shook his head. He dropped his hands and finally looked at her. His eyes were dark. “Go home, Ali. There’s nothing here for you.”
She remembered getting thrown by a horse once when she was little. The way her breath had been knocked out of her. The feeling of trying to pull in air and not being able to.
This was worse.
She bent down and picked up one of the books from the floor. The glossy black jacket had been torn and was slipping off the hardback’s spine. “I’m an ordinary woman, Grant.” The words felt raw. As raw as oxygen sneaking out of stunned lungs. “Living an ordinary life in a small, ordinary town.” She held the book up in front of his face. “This sort of thing freaks me out. The hearts and hugs and kisses that your ex-wife texts to you freak me out. The fact that I’m falling in love with you freaks me out. But that doesn’t keep me from knowing that everything here is for me. You are for me.”
“Ali,” he said, his jaw clenching.
“I can’t make you believe a thing until you stop looking at what was and allow yourself to hope for what could be. It doesn’t have to be with me. It doesn’t even have to be with Layla. But please, if only to honor the ones who did get to love you while they could, don’t close yourself off from the possibility of having that again. Whether you want to admit it or not, you deserve to be loved. You deserve to be able to love.”
“I can’t—”
“You mean you won’t.” She tossed aside the book and picked up her coat. “What do you think a real hero is? Some mythical, perfect, larger-than-life figure? This Cal Reid character you write about? Is it someone who never falters? Is never afraid?” Her voice went raw all over again. “I think a real hero is someone who shows courage despite the odds.” Her eyes burned and she pulled open the door. If he saw her cry, he’d blame himself for that, too. “I think a hero is someone who’ll face the fear behind can’t and at least try.”
Then, without even pulling on her coat, she hurried out into the snowy night.
She made it all the way to the highway before she had to pull over. Not from the snow. But from the tears blinding her. From the fact that he hadn’t changed his mind and asked her to stay. From the fear that it was entirely likely that he never would.
* * *
Ali dipped the paint roller into the pan and rolled it back and forth, coating it with Svelte Sage. The paint was vaguely green. Vaguely gray. Va
guely brown.
It had taken her and her sisters weeks to agree on the color.
Now, as she lifted the roller from the paint and ran it in a long swathe against the kitchen wall, carefully avoiding the cabinets that one day would be a lovely off-white, she couldn’t even remember why that decision had been so darn hard to make.
It had been nearly a week since she’d seen Grant. Since she’d told him she was falling in love with him.
“Falling.” Her lips twisted in a frown. “Too late.”
“Talking to yourself?”
She looked at Greer, who’d padded barefoot into the kitchen. “I thought you were still at the office. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Walked right past you thirty minutes ago, sweetie. Obviously, you were preoccupied.”
“Paint will do that to a person.” She ran the roller up and down.
“Yeah. Paint.” Greer picked up a clean paintbrush and toyed with the bristles. “I’m thinking about quitting my job.”
The paint roller jumped right over the edge of the cabinets. “What? Why?” Somehow, she’d managed to get paint all over her hands, too.
“Because I feel like I’m not accomplishing anything useful!” Greer tossed down the brush and grabbed a rag, wetting it under the gooseneck faucet before swiping the side of the cabinets. “Shoplifters and drunk drivers and bad-check writers. It seems so pointless. I can’t help the people I want to help.” She dropped the rag on the plastic sheet that Ali had spread over the table to protect it from paint spatters.
“So what do you want to do? Start working for the prosecutor?”
Greer’s lips compressed. “I don’t know.”
“Join Archer’s practice?”
“I don’t know,” she said again.
Ali didn’t know what was worse. Her own personal pity party or the disconcerting sight of her sister not knowing what to do. “You’ll figure it out,” she said. “You always do.” The phone on the wall rang and she automatically reached out to get it, forgetting the paint on her hand. “Hello?”
Greer rolled her eyes and tossed the paint rag toward her.
“Templeton.” Sgt. Gowler’s voice was abrupt and so unexpected that she automatically feared she’d gotten her days off messed up. “You’re gonna want to get in here.”
Her shoulders sank. That’s what she got for allowing her own misery to so preoccupy her. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Got a hit in Minneapolis on that missing persons for the Cooper woman.”
“What?”
“It’s not good, Ali.”
Her stomach clenched. Gowler never called her by her first name.
“Woman now identified as Karen Cooper was killed in a multivehicle collision on New Year’s Eve.”
She sank weakly onto a chair, vaguely aware of Greer’s concerned face. “That was over a month ago.”
“She died as a Jane Doe.”
“How do we know it’s actually Karen?”
“Friend of hers—roommate—came in to report she’d gone missing. She’d evidently been staying there but the friend was out of town until now. Came back and Karen’s stuff was all there, but there was no sign of Karen. Two reports meshed.”
“Disposition?”
“Unidentified Doe. County’s storing the remains. Collision involved a gas explosion and the fire was pretty damaging.”
Ali’s stomach churned. “Was there any DNA recovered?”
“Should have been, but there was some complication with it. I don’t know what exactly. You can find that out when you come in. She didn’t have much in the way of personal effects. From what I understand, the friend has what there is boxed up and ready if there’s someone who’ll want it.”
“There is,” Ali said quietly. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Sergeant, thank you for calling me.”
“Sort of thing doesn’t make any of us happy,” he said, sounding gruff. Then he hung up.
Ali slowly did the same.
“What is it?”
“Now I know why it’s been so hard to find Karen.”
Chapter Fourteen
The memorial service was five days later.
It was held at the Braden cemetery even though there was no body to bury. Just a wooden box of ashes that Ali handed to Grant after the service. She’d wanted to get it to him sooner, but red tape and bureaucracy had gotten in the way. In the end, she’d flown to Minnesota herself to retrieve and transport Karen’s remains back to Grant. What should have been simple in theory had involved nearly twenty-four hours of travel.
She’d barely made it back to town in time for the service.
“I’m very sorry for your loss.” Her voice was husky. It was only the second time she’d seen him since she’d had the unfortunate task of notifying him of his sister’s gruesome death. In all her time with the department, she’d had to make a handful of death notifications. They were never easy.
His had been nearly impossible.
Not even the fact that he’d already received the same news from his private investigator had lessened the burden.
Now, his fingers brushed against hers as he took his sister’s ashes.
“Thank you.”
The words didn’t come from Grant.
They came from the tall, strikingly beautiful blonde standing next to him.
Chelsea. His ex-wife. Of the hearts and kissy-kissy text message and the seemingly endless boxes of CCT Final Rules. She’d spoken briefly during the service. Talked about Karen in such a way that Ali hadn’t even had the heart to hate her too badly.
But that was then. And now, Chelsea’s arm was linked with Grant’s, as if she still had that right. That wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was Grant allowing it.
Ex-wife for the win.
She didn’t know why she didn’t just move along. There were other people milling around who clearly expected to extend their condolences to Grant. Jaxon was there, along with more than half the staff at Magic Jax, and there were others. Folks Ali didn’t even recognize. “A lot of people came.”
“More than we expected,” Chelsea answered.
Ali’s teeth were set on edge. She imagined herself wearing blinders, where all she could see was Grant, not the woman glued to his side. “I noticed that Judge Stokes came, too.”
Grant finally spoke. “Not in an official capacity.” He looked at Chelsea. “Would you excuse us, Chels?”
The woman’s perfectly painted red lips curved downward. “Of course.” She unwound her arm, but before she walked away, she pressed her lips to his cheek. As tall as she was and with the expensive high-heeled leather boots she wore, she didn’t even have to stretch up to reach him. Together, the two of them looked like they belonged in a magazine.
Ali watched her walk away. Then she looked back at Grant. At the lipstick his ex-wife had left on him. “How are you doing?”
He looked down at the box he held. “I’ve had better days.”
Despite everything, her heart squeezed. “I’m so sorry it ended this way.” She pressed her gloved hand against the wooden box. It had started out as a cardboard one. Much like a shoebox. She’d charged the finely carved wooden urn on her credit card. As far as she was concerned, Grant never needed to know about the shoebox.
“She was on her way back here.” His eyes were more blue than aqua today. Maybe they were reflecting the pale blue sky. “That’s what John—my investigator—thinks, anyway. I’m not so sure, considering she left what few belongings she had behind.”
“I wasn’t able to speak with her friend who reported her as missing.” Ali had tried, but hadn’t been able to reach her. If she’d pursued it any further, she wouldn’t have made it back in time for the service. “Did you?”
“John did. The friend wasn’t all that m
uch of a friend. She had only known Karen for a couple of months. Didn’t know anything about her past or whether she’d had a baby. They met because they were both waitressing at the same place. Mostly, she was concerned about collecting the rent that Karen owed. She wouldn’t release Karen’s stuff until John paid her.”
Charming. “You received her belongings, though?”
“Two days ago. She had a few childhood pictures.”
“Anything of Layla?”
He shook his head.
Short of a birth certificate, photos of Layla would have helped. Even though they had now located Karen, they were no better off legally establishing her identity as the baby’s mother. No better off establishing Grant as her uncle. Even though the medical examiner’s office had retained some of Karen’s DNA after her terrible end, their bad luck had persisted. The samples had been accidentally damaged, to such a degree that they were useless in trying to match Karen to Layla. Ali would have had a hard time believing it, if she hadn’t spoken with the medical examiner’s office herself.
“She had a Wyoming driver’s license. Nobody knows why she wasn’t carrying it with her, but it probably would have burned up in the crash, anyway. A few rings. John thinks one of ’em looks like a wedding ring.”
She looked at him sharply. “If she was married, maybe we can find out to whom.”
“Sure. Because looking for one needle in the haystack isn’t enough.”
He was right, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t start searching. “Anything else in her things?”
“A couple of rodeo magazines.” His lips formed a thin line for a moment. “A couple of novels.”
She folded her arms over her chest, shivering. Not from cold. “T. C. Grant novels?” He didn’t have to answer when she could see the truth on his face.
Show Me a Hero Page 17
