Baby Be Mine. Victoria Pade
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a train station that looked like something out of an old Western movie. White gingerbread trim decorated the gables of the yellow stationhouse as well as the roof that covered the passenger platform.
From there she passed a place that proclaimed itself The Buckin’ Bronco, Elk Creek’s Only Honky-Tonk. Then she was on Center Street where the Old West theme continued.
Quaint buildings lined both sides of a road so wide there was room for two lanes of traffic and angle parking. Well-kept shops stood along boardwalks dotted with tall Victorian streetlights. Some of the buildings were wood, some brick. None was taller than three stories, and most were only one or two.
Clair’s only company on the wide street was one truck and a horse-drawn wagon, both of them moving at about the same slow pace.
It was the kind of town, she thought, where she might spend a holiday weekend browsing through the shops for handcrafted knickknacks and antiques to escape the work-week rat race.
But this wasn’t a holiday weekend, and she wasn’t there for pleasure. She had a mission. So when she stopped at the general store she barely noticed the sweet cinnamon scent of the place or the warmth given off by the pot-bellied stove that chased away the wintry chill outside.
The woman behind the counter smiled at her and said a cheery hello as Clair approached. Clair could tell by the curiosity in the other woman’s expression that she knew most people who came through the door and was surprised to see someone she didn’t recognize.
Small Town, America, Clair thought, realizing she wasn’t impervious to its romanticized appeal and mentally storing the picturesque details of the place. It would come in handy for her next campaign for homemade jam or country lemonade or farm-fresh poultry.
“I’m looking for someone named Jace Brimley,” Clair informed the woman behind the counter after returning her greeting. “I don’t suppose you could help me with that, could you?”
The woman laughed. “I can’t tell you exactly where he is this second, but I can give you the likeliest choices.” She went on to recite an address for a house on Maple Street and instructions on how to get there. Then she gave directions to a ranch just outside of town, as well. “I’d try the house first,” the other woman suggested when she’d finished.
Clair could tell she was curious about the reason for the inquiry, and she felt the urge to reward the other woman’s friendly assistance with an explanation. But this wasn’t a subject she wanted to share with a stranger, so instead she merely asked if there was a rest room she could use.
The other woman didn’t seem offended by Clair’s reluctance to fill her in and pointed out the rest room without so much as a raised eyebrow to show displeasure over the fact that Clair was obviously not going to buy anything.
“Thank you,” Clair said, heading down an aisle that offered a surprisingly varied selection of grocery items.
The rest room was a single, small room that could have been the bathroom in any home except for the lack of a shower or tub. It was spotlessly clean, and the liquid soap in a bottle had a hand-lettered label that read Mom’s Berry Bright Soap.
It was bright all right—bright purple—and smelled of berries. It was certainly nicer than the industrial-smelling stuff in most public rest rooms.
When she’d dried her hands, Clair took a quick check of her appearance in the mirror.
She didn’t think she looked too much the worse for wear, considering that it was nearly five o’clock in the afternoon and she’d left for the airport at six that morning. Six Chicago time—four in Wyoming.
For the sake of convenience she kept her naturally curly hair very short, so it required only some fluffing with her fingers to put the bounce back into it. Her hair was a dark, burnished red, a blend of dark brown and red. The trouble was on days like today, when stress and weariness began to show, her usually pale skin seemed almost ghostly against the double-strength hair color.
Since her blush was packed in her suitcase, she opted for pinching her high cheekbones in an attempt to add a little natural color, but she didn’t think it helped much.
At least her mascara hadn’t run—that was a good thing—so her light-green eyes still had some definition. And she did have lipstick in her purse to freshen lips that people had told her had a Cupie doll curve.
Once she’d done all she could with her face and hair, she glanced down at the gray slacks, white blouse and gray blazer she had on. She flicked a speck of lint from her left sleeve, tugged on the collar of her blouse to straighten it and smoothed the wrinkles that sitting had put in her trousers.
Then, as if she were going to war, she straightened her shoulders and marched out of the rest room.
“I’m Kansas Heller, by the way,” the woman behind the counter said as she saw Clair coming.
“Clair Fletcher,” Clair responded reflexively.
She wasn’t sure how it was possible, but from the look on Kansas Heller’s face Clair had the impression that between giving her name and having asked for Jace Brimley earlier, she’d just told the other woman all she needed to know.
It was unsettling to think that the other woman—no matter how nice—might be privy to things about her sister or her nephew or their situation that even Clair didn’t know. She was almost tempted to ask what was going through the woman’s mind or to question her about Jace Brimley, but in the end she just thanked her for the use of the rest room and returned to her car.
Dusk was falling by then, and the Victorian streetlights had come on, lending a white glow to the dimness.
Clair wondered suddenly if Kansas Heller might call ahead and warn Jace Brimley that she was coming. If he might duck out rather than wait for her.
But she rejected the idea. After all, he had every legal right on his side. Why should he bolt?
The jitters got worse, anyway, though, and she felt an increased urgency to find him. So she backed out of the parking spot in a hurry and drove faster than she probably should have up Center Street in the direction she’d been told to go.
It didn’t take long to reach the keyhole Kansas Heller had described at the northernmost end of Center Street where a redbrick building and a steepled church stood. Clair rounded the town square nestled within the keyhole and turned on Maple Street where she counted houses until she reached the fifth from the corner, a small two-level saltbox painted beige, shuttered in cocoa brown, with a big front porch where a swing hung by chains at one end.
There was a light on in the picture window at one side of the oversize front door. The top half of the front door was an oval of etched glass, and some light shone through that, too, encouraging Clair to stop, since it looked as if someone was there.
Once she was parked at the curb, she got out and locked her doors before approaching the place.
She climbed the four steps to the front porch, breathing deeply to calm those persistent jitters, and rang the doorbell. It chimed loudly enough for her to hear even outside as she tried to peek through the etched glass in the door for a preview of the man she’d come to see. But the design of flowers and leaves was so intricate that she couldn’t make out anything but colors and distorted shapes.
She did, however, see movement a moment after the doorbell had sounded.
And then, without so much as a Who’s there? the door opened, and on the other side was a mountain of a man.
Clair’s earlier thought about him bolting became instantly ludicrous. Her bet was that this was not a man who had ever run from anything.
And why should he? His size alone made him an imposing figure.
He stood there, at least an inch over six feet tall, on legs as thick and sturdy as tree trunks. His broad chest tapered to a waist and hips that were shaped by taut, lean muscle. His shoulders were wide. His biceps bulged enough to stretch out the short sleeves of the white T-shirt he wore.