“Marla, you know we don't like to talk until our second cup.” Another man on the far end hunkered over his mug as the steam rose from the freshly poured coffee, blurring the dark edges of his eyebrows and the hulking mass of his nose.
Rachiah wouldn't close her eyes, even though she desperately wanted to as she breathed in the aroma of the richly brewed drink. Coffee. One of her favorite scents on earth.
She tucked her hand into her pocket, feeling for any change that might have been left there.
Eighty-two cents. That's all she had. The rest of her money was in larger bills she didn't have the courage to break. She only had fifty dollars to her name. If she spent those, she wouldn't have the gas to get home.
She approached the cash register area slowly, hesitant to interrupt the familiar exchange between the customers and the waitress.
The waitress looked over, her hand on her hip. “What can I get you, honey?”
Rachiah shifted on the clean linoleum. She shot a nervous glance at the watching men and cleared her throat before speaking. “I'm looking for a man named Jeffrey Howard? I was told I could find him here. In North Fork.”
The waitress shook her head, as she considered the name. “I don't know anyone by that name. Gentlemen?” She looked to the men at the counter. Some of them didn't even open their eyes to acknowledge they'd heard Marla.
Except the one on the end with the admitted addiction to coffee, opened one eye and peered down at Rachiah. He elbowed the man next to him and spoke with a slight slur. “Isn't that the new handyman's name? Ratchet’s? I thought I heard him say that when he was in the interview. Over at Cook’s Automotive.” The man pointed at Rachiah. “They don't open until nine. But he’ll be down there. Ratchet. I'm pretty sure that's the guy.”
The air left her lungs in a whoosh and she gripped the edge of the counter to her left and blinked past the black and red spots swirling in her vision. Grandpa had said that Rachiah’s name was the closest Jewel, Rachiah’s mom, could get to Ratchet.
After a few moments to gather herself, Rachiah nodded softly. She refused to acknowledge the questioning glances of the group of men and the studying gaze of Marla. “Thank you, thank you very much.”
Was he really that close? Had she really just reached the end of her journey? She’d thought so much about where she was going next and how she would get to the next clue, she’d never really thought about what to say when she accomplished her goal of finding him.
Could it be him? Was he only a few blocks down? Was she so close to meeting her dad?
What did she tell him? “Daddy, I'm here”?
Rachiah came from Ratchet. It was too much of a coincidence not to be true.
He had a Christian name, yet he continued carrying Ratchet around. That was the one solid lead she’d had since she started. Stick with the name, Mima had said. Stick with his name.
Ratchet.
Rachiah came from Ratchet.
Chapter 2
Damon
Damon pushed the end button on the phone.
He banged the small device against his forehead, grunting. “The least you can do, Rachiah, is answer my calls.” Or at least return them. He didn't know how to do the texting thing yet.
It wasn't his phone anyway. He and Ryland shared it among other things. At the moment, though, Ryland didn't need it. He was sleeping.
Damon didn't mean to make late-night calls, but he couldn't get a hold of Rachiah during the day. Not when he was out riding ranches.
He and Ryland would be finishing up a job as it was. They had to be out the next day. Work was hard to find with the entirety of the Montana Trails, as the family liked to call themselves. With everyone’s different demands in their personal lives, work was hard to nail down.
Nate didn’t want to leave Emma’s side since her cancer returned. The whole thing was messed up. Ryland and Damon both adored Emma. If she died, they would feel the loss as hard as everyone else. She was a special woman and it wasn’t easy to see Nate had found a good one.
Ryland emerged from the bathroom. He rubbed his eyes and yawned. Glancing at Damon’s hand gripping the phone, he nodded. “You’re still chasing Rachiah? Isn't that taking your need for forgiveness a little far?”
Ryland didn't understand.
What Damon needed forgiveness for went a lot deeper than name-calling. “It's not Rachiah. I don't need redemption from her.” His mutterings reached Ryland enough to where Ryland came after him, lunging sharply across the driveway to the possible rental Sherri had lined up for them on the reservation.
Damon didn’t flinch as his younger brother clapped his hands on Damon’s shoulders. His rough voice was low and filled with pain. “Stop. Melissa Metcalf was not your fault. I don't know what happened to her. Her family didn’t move because of you. Mom always said they went back to the reservation. It wasn't your fault. You weren't old enough to cause real lasting harm.”
How many times had Damon heard this from Ryland?
Damon wasn't stupid. No way could he make an entire family move just because of some actions of an eight-year-old boy.
But then he'd been nine, and ten, and eleven, and twelve.
He hadn't stopped teasing Melissa or redirecting the bullying he was setting onto her until her and her family moved away when they were fifteen.
He glanced down as he tucked the cell phone in his pocket. He still didn't have the guts to tell Ryland about the time when she had shown up with a brand-new hair cut at school.
Her long black hair had swept her waist. She'd been glowing. So excited to have a new hair cut with layers and bangs.
Her family was about as poor as Ryland's. New dresses and new clothes were not something that they got, let alone a professional hairstyle, which hers obviously was.
He tore her self-esteem, made comments, joked about her hair. He even threw in comments about her clothes. Other kids joined in, because that's what kids do. They join in, they're cruel.
Damon blinked back guilty tears stinging his eyes.
He'd never forget the look of shame on her face. By the end of the day, her happiness had wilted. She had started to twist her hair around her finger, dampening the strands with nervous perspiration and leaving her hair stringy and unkempt looking.
Everyone focused on her. And not on Damon's too tight of jeans with too short of cuffs. No one focused on his unmatching socks. At least not for the short amount of time that they would look toward her and the audacity she had to try to be anything than what she was.
He'd never forgive himself for being such a coward. For being such a bully.
He had to make it up to her. Something about Rachiah reminded Damon of Melissa. She could have been Melissa's older sister.
He didn't have a lot of money growing up either. Now it seemed like he had nothing to spend his money on, so he had all kinds of money in the bank.
Maybe Damon could take Melissa for a day at the spa or whatever women did. He needed to do something, anything to help her realize she was so much more than poor.
If she was lucky, she would be wealthy and in the position to make him feel like a bug. He would appreciate seeing that.
When had Rachiah become Melissa in his head? The only thing separating them in his mind’s eye was his attraction to Rachiah. He’d never felt that way toward Melissa.
Rachiah represented more than a date. His dogged persistence testified she had a pull on him. More than regret, more than guilt. There was something strong enough he couldn't stop.
Her aloof attitude enhanced his need to befriend her. What if he could make his amends to Rachiah, make her feel appreciated? Would the entire universe of things somehow let him earn back whatever he’d done to Melissa?
The things he'd said to Melissa and done to her had to leave scars, they had to. He hadn’t been nice.
At least not when other kids were around.
“Yeah, well I'll just keep it as my business.” Damon handed the phone to Ryland. “You misse
d a call.”
Ryland pressed the red button indicating he had a voicemail. After listening to the message, he turned the phone off and glanced toward Damon. “New job. They want us to help tomorrow.” He tilted his head to the side and rolled his shoulder, nonchalantly trying to cover his excitement for another job opportunity.
Damon narrowed his eyes at Ryland. “Doing what?”
Ryland laughed, and swung his arms back and forth at chest level. He shook his head. “You're not going to like it. Cyan got us a job on the reservation. We'll be working for MT. Just a ways down from the house.” He smirked.
Damon tilted his head forward. Shock sent his limbs limp. “What? Working for MT? That guy does not like white guys and you know it.”
“He can’t get any of the tribesmen to help. So he's willing to pay off-reservation to get the work done.” Ryland shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t care if he likes us. I’m not asking to marry him. He wants us to work and you know they pay well.”
Damon considered what Ryland said. He didn't like downtime. If they said now, would MT talk his dad into not renting to Damon and Ryland? They didn't have anywhere else to stay. He could ante up and get a hotel, but if Nate ever heard they did that, they would get a butt chewing.
The reservation wasn’t far from Bella Acres. As much as Damon wanted to stay at his cousin’s, he couldn’t impose on Emma and the pain she had to be going through.
Ryland and Damon had agreed they wouldn't stay at the Rourke house, not with everything else going on. Not with Emma's brother there, and Cyan visiting every once in a while. With Emma's family running in and out, Damon and Ryland didn’t think they could handle seeing Emma weaker and frailer any more than usual. She was dying. They couldn’t take it.
Damon and Ryland couldn’t handle the loss more than anyone else.
Jerking his chin upwards, Damon rubbed at his elbow, already irritated with the job but fully aware they needed the jobs. “Alright, doing what?”
Ryland grinned, cocking his eyebrow. “Your favorite. Posting and fence work.”
Damon hung his head, mock groaning. “Great. I can't wait to dig the post holes.” MT didn’t need help with ranch work. He needed someone to do the grunt work. At least the pay would be good. The reservation paid them awesome on the last job.
Hopefully they didn't have to deal with too much of the reservation residents’ crap.
MT wasn't the nicest guy to the whites – especially those who worked for him.
How would he treat Damon, if he knew about his feelings for Rachiah?
Chapter 3
Rachiah
Rachiah didn’t want to stick around the diner with its plethora of scents ranging from crisping hashbrowns to bacon to a subtle aroma of maple syrup – so much more than just coffee.
Her stomach rumbled and she winced as she left the aromatic building. Maybe she had forgotten a stale donut or crusty bagel in her car somewhere. She would let the possibility carry her until she was able to eat again.
She didn’t want to wait too long to check on the man in the automotive shop. If she waited too long, she would lose her courage and hide in the car.
She glanced at the large illuminated clock set in the center of town. Crap. Wasn’t even six in the morning yet. They said that Cook’s didn’t open until nine.
Great, now she had plenty of time to lose her courage.
Plenty of time to talk herself out of pursuing anything.
Maybe she would go search her car for any food remnants. Her stomach growled again, nudging her to find something, anything.
She needed to fill the hole inside her with chocolate or acceptance, whichever came first.
~~~
Wiping her hands on the thighs of her jeans, Rachiah approach the shop. A knot tightened in her stomach.
The building wasn’t intimidating with its faded white siding and chipped wooden sign declaring itself as Cook’s Automotive. There was no pretentiousness in the cracked trim and stack of tires on the side of the building. Multiple cars lined up inside a chain link fenced yard protected by a sleeping pit bull.
None of that mattered. As far as Rachiah was concerned, it might as well have been a castle with knights and cannons and blazing arrows.
The streets weren’t overall teeming with activity. A few men wandered the sidewalks here and there as if they might have a destination or they might now.
She missed seeing cowboy hats everywhere she went. She’d spotted a couple earlier, but for the most part, they wore baseball caps. Probably because the majority of them were truck drivers in that little town.
Taking a deep breath, she leaned her shoulder against the smudged glass of the door and walked inside. She hadn’t found any food and she was a little worried she might grow light-headed.
At the counter, Rachiah leaned over the glass top with its receipts and business cards and dog-eared newspaper ads displayed underneath. She peered toward the door leading to the garage portion of the building to see if anyone hid among the lifted bodies and sticker-covered tool boxes.
A silver ding bell with a wrinkled sign taped to it waited for her to do as the sign bade “Ring for service”.
Hesitantly, Rachiah reached out as if the bell were actually a rattle snake softly tapped the top tab. The noise in the utter silence startled her and she jumped.
She glanced around as if expecting to be in trouble. The cloying scent of engine grease and motor oil filled the air. They were scents she was more familiar with than perfumes and potpourris.
“Just a minute!” The deep voice carried to her from a different door a moment before a man entered the room. With short, spiky blond and silver streaked hair, he turned. His blue eyes lit when he saw her. He wiped oil stained hands with an even oilier stained cloth and approached her. A wide smile on his face, he nodded. “How can I help you?” A chip in his front tooth lent him a charming flaw to his affable All American look. “We just opened. I was trying to get yesterday’s discarded oil into the transfer container. It just made a mess.”
Rachiah swallowed, and then she swallowed again. Would she be able to confront him, ask him what she needed to know? He couldn't be the guy she was looking for. Of course not. He was blond for crying out loud. What if he knew, though?
What if she was so much closer than she could comprehend?
He had said we just opened.
As in we.
As in more than one.
Someone else was there.
She swallowed again. “Is, I mean, are you... I mean are you, do you know who Jeffrey Howard is? I'm looking for him or anyone who might know him.” She better stop while she was ahead. When she was nervous she tended to ramble and that was proving to be no different. Only this time she was rambling in her head and nodding her head like he could hear everything she was thinking.
He narrowed his eyes and thrust his jaw to the side as if considering her question. “A pretty thing like you is looking for him? He's a pretty lucky guy then. But no,” he shook his head with an apologetic smile, “I don't know a Jeffrey Howard. Pretty common name though. I'm sure you'll find him. Especially if he knows you're looking for him.” He tapped his index finger on the edge of the counter, a little streak of oil marking his movement.
Rachiah's heart sank. A sensation she could’ve sworn she’d grown used to.
She'd come so close, she should never have gone through Cook’s door. She could've sat out there and held onto the hope it was him in that building. So much hope. She’d been nervous but she’d been slightly soaring. Now...
No, she had to go through that stupid door. She just had to ask the questions. Had to be bold in spite of everything pointing toward her expected failure.
All those months and years searching for Jeff, and there Rachiah was, yet again, being told he wasn't there. No one knew him.
She’d hit another dead end.
Again.
Disappointment crashed over and she sagged forward. Blinking back tears threatening to ca
scade down her cheeks, she blinked hard. Okay, it was one more setback. She could deal with those. No big deal. She lifted her chin and replaced the iron rod in her back that her mom had raised her to believe was back there. Regality held your spine straight. Self-respect held it intact. She was Salish. She wouldn't cry. She had no reason to cry.
Her victory was just around the next corner. This small failure was a small bump on her journey.
Then why did it sting so dang bad?
She slapped the table softly, the counter fogging a little under her damp palm as she pressed it there for a second too long. She swallowed, her throat tight. “Thank you anyway.”
Turning, she walked to her car with her posture as close to perfect as she’d ever gotten. She wasn't defeated. She couldn't fail.
She had to talk to someone.
Damon. Could she talk to Damon? He kept calling her and talking to her as if they were the best of friends.
She couldn't talk to Cyan or Sherri right now. They were too busy with the beginning of their new lives with the men of their dreams. Plus, they hadn’t held back in their vocal discouragement and disbelief in what she was doing. They thought she was throwing her family away.
Rachiah was the one who was behind. She didn’t fit in. She was always behind.
She settled into the driver's seat of her escort. Opening her phone, she sighed. She couldn't call Damon. She didn't have a charged battery.
She leaned her head back, resting on the headrest. Why did she have to be so alone when that was the last thing she wanted? Keeping her eyes closed, she refused to let the tears fall. Or to let the sobs escape.
She couldn't talk to Damon anyway. He didn't want to hear about her failures. Nobody wanted to hear about her failures.
“I don’t want to hear my whining.” Her voice was abnormally loud in the confines of the car. She shifted on the well-worn cushion. Now she was talking to herself.
Great.
But the truth was she didn’t want anyone to know she couldn't find the dad who had left to see if he might secretly want her.
Forgotten Trails Page 2
