by Freya Barker
"My turn to buy coffee," she says, stuffing her arms in her coat as we walk out of the studio and to the parking lot. This is something we do after our yoga, head over to the Spruce Tree Espresso House. Kerry often has breakfast too, but I tell her I have breakfast before yoga. I don't like someone watching me eat. It's a thing.
"Sure," I tell her, getting in my car. "Follow you there."
The coffee shop is on the way to Safeway where I'll pick up my groceries after. That way I won't have to go out again.
Saturday mornings are busy and the parking lot at Spruce Tree is packed. Kerry slips into a spot right away but I have to circle three times before I spot someone leaving. By the time I get inside, Kerry already has a table and has put in an order.
"They have pineapple-almond muffins fresh this morning, so I ordered us both one." She looks at me slyly, knowing full well I don't like to eat after yoga. She just doesn't know why. "You know there's a new clinic in Cedar Tree?"
"I thought I saw that the other day when I drove past, but I wasn't sure." I know she worries about me and commiserates every time I get the standard response from yet another so-called specialist. I love her for that. I think Kerry might be the only person who doesn't hold judgement and even encourages me to eat, despite my size.
"It's actually run by a former Southwest Memorial ER physician. A woman. It's like a family clinic but she has a PT working from there as well. I hear she is very open-minded and has no problem integrating alternative medicine as well. Maybe you should set up an appointment."
"Maybe," I tell her, not sure if I want to go through another disappointment so close on the heels of the last one. But as I'm nibbling on my muffin—mostly for show—and sipping my coffee, the thought of driving into Cedar Tree for an appointment might not be a bad idea. Who knows, maybe I'll get hungry for one of those delicious chipotle chicken salads the diner offers.
-
My run through Safeway doesn't take long, after I say goodbye to Kerry. I haven't told her about my adventures from Friday, although she'd noticed when I didn't come back after lunch. I simply told her Martin had left me with some errands to run and she didn't ask any further. Not sure why I didn't tell her.
My standard picks barely cover the bottom of my grocery card. Greek yogurt, frozen fruit, bananas, organic peanut butter, eggs, chicken breast and two bags of spinach along with some peppers make up the contents. I'm serious about my protein, whatever way I can get it. I tried just living on fruit and salad, but it would only make me more tired. I discovered that a spoonful of peanut butter in my smoothie or a simple boiled egg for lunch would give me a little boost of energy.
I walk up to the front and push my cart to the shortest line up at the cash registers. An older lady is ahead of me, loading her groceries on the check out conveyor belt, while a younger blonde woman ahead of her leans in to the cashier and starts whispering. Trying to ignore them, I start loading my purchases on as well and am just able to pick up a few lines of mumbled conversation.
"I'd skip the peanut butter if I were her," I hear one of them say and lift my eyes to find both the blonde and the cashier's eyes on me before quickly averting them. A hot blush burns my cheeks and I try to hide behind the woman in front of me.
"Should be ashamed of yourselves. Don't hear me saying you should use a different shade of blonde in your hair, because this one makes you look washed out," the older lady in front of me says to the blonde who turns her head in shock. "And you wouldn't want your manager finding out you're being rude to the customers." The girl at the cash register, maybe early twenties, drops her eyes to her hands.
I lower my own eyes to the floor, barely able to beat down the urge to run mortified out of the store. Silently both women in front of me are cashed out. One leaves without looking back and the older lady smiles at me before she grabs her bags.
"I'm sorry." The cashier's voice is soft as she starts running my groceries through. I don't say anything back. I simply hand over the cash and without waiting for my change, snatch my bags and beeline it out of Safeway.
By the time I get home, greet Boo and put away the groceries, my mind is made up. Doesn't take much to find the number and before I get cold feet I grab the phone.
"Oh, I didn't realize there'd be someone there on a Saturday," I respond stupidly to the very friendly voice on the other side. "I'd like to make an appointment."
Twenty minutes later I'm back in my Honda, heading toward the Cedar Tree Clinic where a cancellation had just opened up a spot.
Mal
"I'll give my contact in San Antonio a call. See if he can keep an eye on Vedica," Joe says.
On Neil's suggestion, I took the information he found on the real estate agent—his flight numbers and the hotel he booked in San Antonio—to Joe. Being a former Denver cop and then the Montezuma County Sheriff, Joe had made a lot of law enforcement connections. Where Gus had friends with the FBI he could call on, Joe had them with the various police departments in Colorado and surrounding states. The moment Neil discovered Vedica's hotel, he'd been on the phone, only to find out he'd checked out yesterday even though his original reservation had been for two additional nights. His return flight Sunday night is unaltered. I'd like to know where he is and what he's up to, even though we don't have anything that would stick to him yet. I just like knowing where all my players are. Especially with a potential witness raring to engage in some investigating of her own.
She surprised me yesterday. Not quite the little meek mouse I was expecting—this one has a bit of bite. She didn't cower when I laid down the law. Instead, she tried to get in my face. Too bad she just barely comes up to my chin. The fire in her eyes was a surprise, one that makes the entire package even more attractive. Don't think I ever would've considered her my type, but I've got to admit that from the first time I saw her I've been intrigued. Judging from my body's response to her proximity by her door yesterday, as well as the feel of her soft shoulders under my hands, I've been wrong. My body seems to think she’s exactly my type, but there’s no way I would act on it. I’ve got a job to do and can’t afford to let that little spark plug to get under my skin.
"Shouldn't be hard for you to get into that office," Joe pulls me from my distracting thoughts. "I've been there. Vedica did the sale of my place."
"Really? Fuck, small world." That gets a chuckle from Joe.
"Newsflash, Cortez is a small world."
"I guess. Did the guy seem okay to you?" I ask.
"Yeah. Can't say I noticed anything off. Had no complaints. He did a fine job for me, or rather, his assistant did. Kim something? Sweet little thing. She did most of the work."
"Kimeo Lowe, says she goes by Kim."
There must've been something in my voice, because I suddenly feel Joe's sharp look on me. Before he can say anything though, I step down the porch and start walking toward my truck parked out front, Joe trailing behind me.
"Not your regular plaything, Mal. She’s too soft and sweet for those games," Joe says from behind me, making me turn around to face him.
"You for real? Someone like her is not for me, you should know my type by now. It’s not some short, overweight secretary." I hear the sharp intake of breath behind me at the same time as Joe's face goes hard.
"Nice job, asswipe." I hear him mumble as I whip around only to see Kim hustling toward her blue Honda, which had not been there when I pulled in earlier. Fuck me.
"Kim, wait!" I try, but it's too late. She's already pulling out of the parking lot, gravel flying up.
Trying to ignore Joe, who is shaking his head at me, I get in my truck and am about to peel out of there after her when there's a knock on my window.
"Leave her be," Joe says, after I roll down my window. "From the look on her face when she overheard you, I'd say you're the last person on the face of the earth she wants to see."
Right. Even though guilt burns a hole in my gut, I curb my initial instinct to chase her down and watch the back of her little blue
Honda disappear toward Cortez.
-
By Monday, there is still no sign of Martin Vedica. His ticket for last night's flight unused.
I just got off the phone with Drew who was going to check in with Kim to see if she'd heard from him. Gritting my teeth, I find myself telling Drew to go ahead. He seemed surprised I didn't jump in and claim the task of talking to her, but instead remained silent when he confirmed he'd be in touch after.
I pick up my sketchbook and pencil and continue mindlessly drawing. Something I've been doing since Saturday night. It's always been an outlet of sorts for me—sketching. Something I'd enjoyed doing before my sister died of an aggressive cancer that took her from healthy teenager to near skeleton in the span of three short months. I was twelve. My mother retreated and was barely living and my father, who'd descended in the bottle, took his anger out on everyone. Caleb was a year older than my sister Nasha, and we both went wild. Off the rails. Caleb pulled it together at some point and ended up with the Rangers where he got straightened out. I slid the other way hooking up with a gang of disgruntled Native kids whose sole objective was wreaking havoc. The next years the Klesh, the gang I’d gotten involved with, became a bit more structured and a whole lot more criminal as I climbed up through the ranks. From general mischief, vandalism and mayhem, the Klesh turned into a well-oiled criminal organization with its main focus being the drug trade. Two years ago we ran into some trouble with a large Mexican cartel. I was set up as the fall guy and had to go into hiding while my parents’ house was burned down, killing my mom. My father, who'd been able to escape but left my mom to die, succumbed to liver failure last year. Hope he burns in hell, the way he left his wife to burn. The burden of guilt also rests on my shoulders though. If not for my involvement with the Klesh, at least my mother would still be alive. That whole episode shocked some sense into me and when I got to witness my little buddy being born—Mattias, Katie and Caleb's son—it confirmed what I already knew. No way I could ever go back to that life.
That's when I picked up the sketchbook again. Mattias was my first sketch, a day old, sleeping with his little fist in his mouth. Katie found it one day and framed it. It hangs in the living room of their big barn house.
Nowadays whenever I need to deal with emotions, whatever kind, I find solace in my hobby. I have stacks of sketchpads, most have never been seen by anyone.
These past couple of days I’ve found myself drawing at any chance. I try not to notice that save for a few sketches of her dog, most of them are of Kim. To acknowledge that would be akin to admitting there is something I see in her, and that just doesn't fit into my reality. Aside from the fact I’ve worked hard so far to avoid any kind of entanglement, I have a past any innocent woman would run fast and far from. And I think I can safely assume this one is as innocent as they come. I received a little redemption with the birth of Mattias, but I'm nowhere near appropriate relationship material. And that little mouse would deserve nothing less than a serious commitment.
Jesus. Why the fuck am I thinking about shit like this?
"Talk to me." I answer the phone, the ringing of which provided a welcome distraction.
"Need you to do a quick turnaround in Grand Junction." Gus never really bothers with niceties, which is fine by me. "Don't think it'll take more than a couple of days. Neil and I can cover the real estate case."
I want to tell him to find someone else, but I don't. Instead I ask him for details, almost relieved to be getting out of town for a bit. Justification to shove Kimeo Lowe, with her golden brown eyes and all her intriguing curves, as far to the recesses of my mind as I can.
CHAPTER FOUR
"You cannot see the future with tears in your eyes."
~ Navajo
Kim
That's it. I officially hate that man.
If Dr. Waters hadn't just assured me that she would stop at nothing to find what's wrong with me, I probably would be bawling right now. As it is, I'm too excited about the prospect of getting answers to get sad over those nasty words that I've heard way too many times already. Still, coming from him again stings like a sonofabitch, but instead of sad, it makes me angry. Any lingering positive thoughts around him have been torn to bits. Good riddance. I do my best to forget about him and focus on the steps the doctor is suggesting.
First off, Doc Waters has ordered a complete blood screen, looking for any minor deviations from the norm. She explained that not all bloodwork results are clear when you look at them in isolation, but if you combine all screens that are even just marginal, often times a picture starts forming. She's sending me to Cedar Diagnostics for the testing and to the hospital for an ultrasound. Of course I want to get them done now, but I can't get in until Monday, and the earliest she could get me in for an ultrasound is Wednesday. Hard as it is, I'm trying not to be too optimistic, having travelled this road before, but that little seed of hope is there. It doesn't stop me from crashing on the couch for a nap after I get home, tuckered out from my emotional merry-go-round.
-
The rest of the weekend goes by as it usually does, with me doing a bit of cleaning, some reading and taking Boo for a couple of walks on the mesa.
When I return from our second walk of the day, dusk already staining the sky, I'm surprised to find a patrol car sitting in my drive, Sheriff Carmel standing beside it.
"Sheriff? What can I do for you?" I have to pull back on the leash when Boo starts up a soft growl.
"Can we go inside out of the cold?" he suggests.
I nod in response and pull Boo with me to open the door. He's right, it's pretty cold once the sun goes down and with the wind picking up this afternoon, my poncho is not enough to keep the chill out.
Once inside I first give Boo dinner before turning to the sheriff, who is waiting right inside the door.
"You should lock your doors," is the first thing from his mouth.
"I just went for a quick walk. I've never had to lock my doors," I answer in a somewhat defensive tone.
"Noticed that the other day. I'm thinking you should make locking your new habit."
His tone irritates me.
"I have good neighbors and nothing worth stealing anyway, so I don't see why I should start now, Sheriff Carmel." So I'm a tad snippy. I just don't take well to being told what to do.
"Name's Drew," he says as he narrows in on me.
"Very well, Sheriff Drew."
"Drop the Sheriff and we'll call it good," he says, way too close to me for comfort now.
"Reason you need your door locked is because you may have put a ding on the radar of the folks who roughed up the Walkers."
"But why? I didn't even see who was in the car." Seriously? They flew out of the driveway. Wouldn't have had a chance to see me. Would they?
"Maybe, but they might not know that, in which case they might consider you a threat," he points out, causing the hair on my arms to stand on end. I hadn't even considered the possibility of them seeing me. Yikes.
My back is against the counter in the kitchen and Drew is standing close. A little too close for my comfort. So I rephrase my question from earlier. "Why are you here?"
"Your boss never got on his flight. I wanted to know if you'd heard anything. Whether he's notified you of any changes to his plans."
That's odd.
"All I know is his original plan of returning today. Haven't had any other contact. But I could've told you that over the phone, no need to come out here on my account."
His eyes darken and a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Checking in on you isn't a hardship exactly, Kimeo. I just got off shift and was on my way home anyway. You need someone looking out for you," he says, leaning in close to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. A low growl comes from Boo, who's finished his dinner and is sitting by his bowl, looking at the sheriff who is looking back at him.
"Your dog doesn't like me much,"
"He's just protective. Doesn't like people he doesn't know getting too clos
e to me. And people call me Kim."
"He didn't seem to have an issue with Whitetail the other day, Kim" he says pointedly with an eyebrow raised.
Right. Boo had reacted differently to Mal. I'd been surprised when the dog submitted to his command right away. Perhaps it was instinctual, I don't know.
"Mal is a good investigator, but a word of warning, he's a dark horse. He has a criminal history and is someone that a sweet girl like you should probably not get wrapped up with."
"I'm afraid you're out of line, Sheriff," I tell him icily, not liking the message and not liking the fact that he's labelled me so easily. "First of all, I'm a forty-year-old woman, not a girl and least of all a sweet one. Secondly, I think it in poor taste you would make assumptions about me or Mr. Whitetail. It's simply preposterous." He has no idea who or what I am. As I turn away he puts a hand on my shoulder. Boo doesn't like that at all, as evident from the hackles standing up on his neck. Drew drops his hand and steps back.
"I apologize if I overstepped. I simply would hate to see a lovely woman tangled up with someone so completely wrong for her."
"Seriously? That is your apology? You're doing the same thing, making assumptions about me and about him that have no ground. I've answered the questions you said you came for, and now I'd really like for you to leave." I walk toward the door and hold it open for him. As he passes he bends down.
"Just keeping an eye out for you, Kim. I'd also like to ask you to refrain from any snooping at the office, since I'll be trying to obtain a search warrant tomorrow. I'll talk to you later."
I stand in the doorway, with Boo beside me, watching as the patrol car backs out of my drive and Drew waving as he drives off. Not quite sure what to think of that exchange, except that it really rubbed me the wrong way. It also got my mind churning on the small snippets of information he gave me about Malachi and I can't help but wonder how much of that is truth.
