by B. J Daniels
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Hank said as he walked her to the door. “Try not to worry about Charlotte. I’ll continue doing what I can to find her.”
“Thank you. Thank you for everything.” She hurried inside, afraid what would happen if he kissed her again.
She stood just inside the door for a moment, listening to the quiet house. She could hear crickets outside the open windows, smell the freshly cut hay from the fields across the road, feel her own pulse thundering through her veins.
Hank had her heart pounding. She stood there, her whole body seeming to vibrate with the remembered feel of his mouth, his arms, the solid wall of his chest pressed against her breasts. Her nipples were still hard and painful beneath her bra. She’d felt Hank’s kiss clear to her now-aching center.
As she moved down the hall without turning on a light, she was just thankful that neither Bo nor Charlotte was there right now. She knew even before she turned on the light in her bedroom, what she must look like.
It was an odd thing to stand before the large mirror and see herself with her face aglow, eyes bright and shiny as stars. She stood looking at the stranger in the mirror, enjoying this woman. How long had it been since she’d felt like a woman? Or had she ever?
Don’t get too up on yourself.
That’s mom talking, she warned herself.
She imagined her mother’s pursed lips, the narrowed eyes and could almost see her sitting in that old rocker now reflected in the mirror.
Believe me, you have no reason to think you’re anybody, little girl. Take a look in that mirror and tell me what you see. Nobody. So don’t go getting on your high horse with me.
Arlene shook her head as she met her own eyes in the mirror and tried to shut out her mother’s hurtful, horrible words.
“Just get home?” Bo asked behind her from the open doorway of her bedroom, making her jump.
She hadn’t heard him come in and wondered why that was. Or had he been here all along? Waiting for her in the dark? Watching her and Hank? He’d wrecked his car some months back, and she’d told him he had to pay to have it repaired. Of course he hadn’t. He’d just bummed rides off friends.
“How was your date?”
“Fine.” No reason to correct him. Maybe it hadn’t started out as a date, but it had surely ended as one, she thought, remembering Hank’s arm around her as they’d watched the northern lights as if the show had been just for them. Not to mention the kiss.
“Is something wrong with you?” he asked.
“You seem a little odder than usual.”
His tone irritated her. “Did you want something?”
He shrugged. “I stopped by the mailbox on my way in.” He handed her the stack of mail. Most of it, she knew, would be bills. “Just wanted to let you know I was home.”
Home. The word grated on her. She knew Bo. He would push her to the max. “Bo?”
With obvious impatience, he turned back to her. “What?”
“How is the job hunting coming along?” she asked.
“Are you going to tell me to get a job every time you see me?” he snapped.
“If that’s what it takes. I’ll pick up some boxes in town tomorrow so you can start packing up your things.”
He stared at her for a full minute, then shook his head. “You’re making a mistake.”
“The end of the week.”
He shook his head again. “I guess this means I’m not your favorite anymore, huh.” At one time she’d found it cute when he said things like that. She had played favorites with him. With Charlotte, too. It made her sick to admit it.
She thought of her brother. According to her mother, Carl could do no wrong. Unlike Arlene. The son was prized in the rural family. He was the male who would take over the place one day. He would build his bride a house on the property. His family would come over for dinner on Sundays. He was the one who stayed.
Daughters married and often moved away with their husbands. But sons in rural Montana stayed and worked the place with their fathers.
At least that was what Arlene had been raised to believe. Her brother had inherited the family farm in Chinook. And as awful as he’d treated their mother, he was still her favorite right up until the day she died.
After Floyd had left, Arlene had leased out this farm, since it had been clear Bo would never work it. If he got his hands on the place, he’d sell it and blow the money.
As she closed the door on her son and leaned against it, she understood that old expression, “This is hurting me more than it is you.” She didn’t want to lose her son. But the truth was, she’d lost all three of her children a long time ago.
She was through making excuses for them—and for herself. She couldn’t change the past. But she could quit making the same mistakes.
As she thumbed through the mail—most of it just as she suspected: bills—she found the envelope addressed to her in Charlotte’s feminine script and her heart leaped in her chest.
Hurriedly, she tore it open.
Mom, I’m fine. Sorry to leave the way I did. Don’t worry about me or the baby. We’ll be fine. Charlotte.
Arlene checked for a return address. None. The postmark was Whitehorse. Had Charlotte mailed this before she’d left? Or was she still in town?
Arlene reread it, finding a little peace in the words. It was so unlike Charlotte to write her a note of reassurance. But it was definitely Charlotte’s handwriting.
She sat down on the bed, relief making her weak. Bo was banging around in his room, obviously angry.
“Hank put this into your head, didn’t he?” Bo yelled from the other side of the door. “What do you know about this guy, anyway? Him and his big house, his nice car. You have any idea how he came by any of that? Or maybe what kind of past he has? He could be a criminal, for all you know.”
She didn’t answer as she carefully folded Charlotte’s note, put it back in the envelope and placed it on the nightstand next to her bed. As she climbed into her bed, though, Bo’s words echoed in her head.
What did she really know about Hank Monroe? He was kind, caring, generous, fun to be with, loving. And he’d reminded her what desire felt like. What more was there to know?
She thought about what he’d told her today in Billings. He’d worked for the government, some undercover-type agency.
What if he’d lied? Men do that all the time. Especially to get a woman in the sack.
To her surprise, it wasn’t her mother’s voice this time that she heard, but her own.
HANK DROVE TO THE ranch in a daze, his thoughts on Arlene and the night they’d just spent together watching the northern lights.
He was all the way across the porch, almost to his front door, when he realized he wasn’t alone. He’d been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t taken the usual precautions.
He turned quickly, coming face-to-face with his former boss. “Cameron?” Startled, Hank wondered if he had lost his edge. In the old days he would have known Cameron was there.
“You don’t answer your messages.”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“You didn’t return my phone calls. What was I supposed to do?”
“Leave me alone?”
Cameron shook his head. “I couldn’t do that, Hank. I need your help.”
Hank stepped back, still upset that he’d been so careless. He’d been thinking about Arlene. “I’m done with the agency.”
“Come on, Hank. You can’t run from this.”
“Like hell I can’t. I have enough money I can just keep right on going.”
Cameron laughed and looked up at the stars. “As if you could find anywhere more remote than this. How the hell did you find this place?”
Hank didn’t answer. He knew Cam was right. There was no place safe.
“I had no idea there were so many stars up there,” Cameron said. “Or that you knew how to ride a horse,” he said shifting his gaze to Hank. “I like the hat.”
&
nbsp; Hank swore under his breath.
“I could use a drink,” Cameron said.
Knowing there was no way around this, Hank headed for the door. Best to get it over with and send Cameron on his way.
Hank went straight to the bar and poured them each a drink. He handed Cam one, knowing how his old friend and boss took his scotch. Neat. He motioned to one of the leather chairs and took his drink to a chair, as well.
“You’re looking well,” Hank said as he studied Cameron.
“Thanks. You’re not looking so bad yourself. Not that you weren’t always an ugly son of a bitch.”
Hank smiled and took a slug of his drink. He was no beauty, that was for sure. His early years growing up in a rough mining town had left him with a repeatedly broken nose and more scars than he liked to count. If Cam hadn’t taken him under his wing, Hank hated to think where he would have ended up. Probably in prison.
Instead Cameron Harris had taken all Hank’s anger and aggression and turned him loose to play cops and robbers on a worldwide scale. While that meant Hank wouldn’t see prison, it had certainly twisted his then already warped ideas of right and wrong.
“Now that we’ve covered the pleasantries, what the hell do you want?” Hank asked, knowing he was wrong for blaming Cameron for the way his life had turned out.
Cam didn’t answer right away. He took a sip of his drink. “I didn’t come here to screw up your new life.”
Hank lifted a brow. “Oh, yeah?”
“I need you to look at some photographs.”
Hank felt his belly tighten. “Photographs?”
Cameron nodded. “Twenty minutes, tops. Then I’m out of here and you won’t be seeing me again.”
“Me not seeing you doesn’t means you won’t be around,” he said. “So let’s see the photos.” It was the last thing he wanted to do, but it was also the only way to get this over with.
Cam studied his drink for a moment, then finished it, set the glass on the table by his chair and rose. “I’ll get them.”
Hank finished his own drink and stood, too nervous to sit. He started to pour himself another drink, then thought better of it. He needed his wits about him.
Cam came back into the house a few minutes later with a black leather folder. He took it over to the breakfast bar. “You got a better light over here?”
Hank snapped on the overhead and Cam opened the folder.
The photographs were black-and-white, shot with a telephoto and a little grainy. Surveillance photos.
He studied the face at the center. The one in focus. And was relieved that he didn’t recognize the man. He scanned the rest. All were of the same man.
“Don’t know him,” Hank said, pushing the photos away, relieved.
“Not the man,” Cam said.
Hank shot him a look, that sick feeling back.
Cam reopened the folder to the first photograph. “The woman.”
Hank looked down at the photograph again. He’d missed her the first time. She stood in the shadows, barely visible.
His heart began to pound. It couldn’t be her.
Cam took a magnifying glass from his jacket pocket and slid it across the counter to him.
Hank didn’t take it. Not until he’d flipped through all the photographs, stopping on one of the later shots.
His insides shaking, he picked up the magnifying glass and focused on the woman in the shadows—and felt his new world crumble around him.
A shaft of light from a street lamp had pierced the deep shadows and illuminated part of her face, more than enough to make a positive ID even if he hadn’t been able to make out her trademark weapon she held at her side.
He followed her gaze across the photograph to the man at its center and knew even before he asked. “The man was the hit? He’s dead?”
Cam nodded. “It’s her, isn’t it?”
Unable to look at the photograph any longer, Hank put down the magnifying glass and closed the folder.
It wasn’t possible. And yet the photographs…
“When were these taken?”
“Last week in Prague,” Cam said.
Hank walked over to the bar and poured himself a stiff drink, hating the fact that he needed it badly.
“You were the best,” Cameron said, joining him. “Hell, you’re a damned legend.” He refilled his glass. “But, unfortunately, you’re only as good as your last kill. People are asking questions.”
“People?”
“This is from the top, Hank.”
“Then why isn’t one of them here? Why send you?”
“It’s a courtesy call. I asked for the job.”
Hank looked over at him and frowned. The past lay between them like a minefield.
“People are wondering. You quitting so soon after the job, a job that apparently you didn’t want. Or complete,” Cameron said. “There’s talk that you might have been seeing her. Romantically.”
Hank let out a curse.
“How else, they say, can you explain the fact that she’s alive after you were told to kill her?”
Hank laughed and downed his drink. He couldn’t explain it. But there was no doubt in his mind that the woman in the photograph was Rena. “What is it you want me to say?”
Cameron shook his head. “The agency just wants clarification that it is Rena—and an explanation of why she is still alive and working again for the other side.”
Chapter Seven
The first time Meredith Foster saw Whitehorse, Montana, she wondered what had possessed her husband to go there of all places.
He could have gone anywhere in the world when he took off with his suitcase and his dreams of freedom. It showed a distinct lack of imagination on John’s part that he would come to this little isolated town in the middle of nowhere.
Had he lost his mind?
Considering what had forced her to drive to Whitehorse she had assumed he had. And yet she’d been thankful the town was small. It had certainly made her job easier.
She’d gone straight to the Shady Rest Motel.
The bell over the door had jangled as she’d entered. The air conditioner had hummed in the window while a television droned somewhere in the back. There’d been a crash, loud words and then a child crying, another whining.
Impatiently Meredith had gone over to the door, opened and closed it again. This time when the bell jangled a fiftysomething woman had appeared. “May I help you?”
“I certainly hope so,” Meredith had said and considered the woman and the best approach—money or tears—to get what she wanted.
Tears had worked like a charm. The poor betrayed wife could always get the sympathy—and the help.
The motel manager had seen John Foster with a local young blond woman from a questionable family in Old Town.
“Her name?” Meredith had asked. “I just want to talk to her. Make sure she leaves my husband alone.”
The woman behind the desk had nodded. “Charlotte. Charlotte Evans.”
To Meredith’s surprise, it had been harder to get information at the restaurant where her husband had gone for dinner.
Charlotte Evans had been a waitress there. No one remembered a guest named John Foster. Charlotte might have waited on him. But the owner, a woman named Laci Cavanaugh, hadn’t been willing to provide any information.
“I just want to know why my husband doubled his bill as a tip?” Meredith had demanded.
“I wouldn’t know, Mrs. Foster. Why don’t you ask your husband?”
Meredith had left in a huff. Neither money nor tears had swayed the indomitable Laci Cavanaugh.
Meredith had left shocked that Charlotte Evans was only eighteen. The fool. No wonder John had come home with his tail tucked between his legs. He was damned lucky the girl hadn’t lied about her age—or he’d be in jail right now.
She’d felt such a wave of disgust for her husband that for a few moments, she’d thought about returning home and tossing his butt out.
But
common sense had reigned. Charlotte Evans was a nobody and certainly not a threat to Meredith’s marriage.
And yet Meredith had known she couldn’t leave town—all ten blocks square of it—without seeing this young woman.
The downtown sat adjacent to the railroad tracks, like a lot of towns along the Hi-Line, from what she could gather.
As Meredith had waited in her car along the quiet street outside the Cut and Curl, where she’d been told Charlotte Evans worked, she hadn’t been able to imagine living in such a small town.
At quitting time, several women—who obviously all worked there, since they wore matching pink smocks—had come out of the shop. Finally Charlotte Evans had emerged alone and walked to an old blue car parked at the curb.
From what Meredith had heard about the girl, she would have known Charlotte anywhere. What had shocked her was that Charlotte looked younger than eighteen.
What had John been thinking? He could have had a daughter her age.
It made Meredith sick to think of John with the blonde, and she’d wondered if waking up next to the girl and realizing how young she was wasn’t what had sent John running home.
Disgusted, but not worried about this eighteen-year-old taking her husband, Meredith had hurriedly driven through town, anxious to get home. But on the edge of town she’d noticed that she needed gas.
In this part of Montana, the towns were so far apart she’d had to take advantage of stations along the way or run out of gas in the middle of nowhere on a highway with little traffic.
She’d pulled into a convenience store called Packy’s, filled up and gone in for a cup of coffee to keep her awake for the three-hour drive home.
As she’d been waiting to pay, she’d recognized the two women she’d seen coming out of the beauty shop only minutes before Charlotte Evans. The two had their heads together as they waited in line.
Meredith moved closer when she heard one of the women mention Charlotte. She’d listened to the two discuss some big announcement Charlotte had made that day at work.
“Do you think she really did it on purpose?” the one had whispered to the other.
“That’s what she said. It’s just disgusting even if she didn’t, getting knocked up by some old married guy from out of town. She says they were both drunk and that all she remembers is that his name was John.”
