A Place to Belong. Linda Goodnight
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three men were riding the current. They capsized. Two made it out. One didn’t.”
“Did you witness the incident? Or talk to any of the victims yourself?”
Jace held his breath, hopeful that Hawkins wouldn’t point him as out as a possible witness.
“Sorry. Didn’t see a thing.”
Jace released the breath. Talking wasn’t his favorite activity, especially to strangers. Words could trip a man up if he wasn’t careful.
“Do you know the victim? Where are the other two men?” The reporter’s quick eyes scanned the bridge.
Sloan deferred, pointing the woman and her cameraman toward the gaggle of police units stationed on the flats directly south of the bridge.
The reporter sprinted away.
“Be dark soon.” Jace squinted into the western sky. He dreaded the moment when light would fail and hope would diminish.
By midnight, weary, disheartened searchers began to slowly leave and the search was called off until daylight.
“There’s a man down there somewhere.” Jace drew in a long breath and repeated softly, “Somewhere.”
Sloan clapped Jace on the shoulder. “Come to the house with me. Eat. I know you haven’t.”
“I couldn’t.” But he wanted to. He didn’t relish being alone on a night when he’d become too aware—again—of his own mortality.
“Sure you could.” Hawkins whipped out a cell phone—one of the fancy kind—and touched a single icon. “Annie, I’m heading home. Jace Carter’s with me. They’re calling off the search for the night.” He listened then laughed softly, though his expression was humorless. “Starved. Love you, too.”
The endearment made Jace uncomfortable. Or maybe envious. He’d never had that kind of casual, confident relationship with anyone. Never would.
But he’d accepted his lot in life. He’d created it, and he’d learned to be grateful for what he had. He made one final glance toward the river. Not everyone got a second chance.
Kitty Wainright stirred the pot of chili on Annie Hawkins’s beautiful vintage cookstove. “This will taste good to them after being out on that river.”
She and Annie, along with Cheyenne Bowman, had been in the middle of planning a fundraiser for the Redemption Women’s Shelter when word of the accident had come. Both Cheyenne and Sloan had left immediately to join the rescuers. Annie and Kitty stayed behind with the children, Cheyenne’s stepdaughter Zoey and Annie’s pair, Justin and Delaney. Annie had long ago put the two nine-year-old girls to bed after a call to Cheyenne. The preteen Justin still dragged his feet, miffed at being considered too young to join the search and rescue effort. Annie was allowing the late night as a salve to his wounded pride.
Outside a motorcycle engine rumbled. Justin leaped from the couch. “There’s Dad.”
He was out the door in an instant.
Kitty smiled inwardly. The snarly boy had blossomed under the tender-tough care of his father.
“I’ll set the sandwiches out.” As she moved past the coffee pot to the refrigerator, she hitched her chin. “Do you think they’ll want coffee this late?”
“Sloan won’t. I don’t know about Jace.”
“Me, either.” A building contractor who’d gone out of his way to help her after her husband’s death, Jace Carter had been in Kitty’s motel many times, but she couldn’t claim to understand him. “He’s so quiet.”
“Still waters run deep.” Annie grimaced. “Sorry. Poor choice of words. Jace is cute though. Nice guy, too.”
Kitty made a noise of agreement but didn’t pursue the conversation. Annie wasn’t finished.
“He looks good. Works hard. Obviously thinks you’re someone special.”
The comment surprised her. “What makes you say that?”
“Oh, come on, Kitty.” Annie waved a jar of mayo. “He spends more time at your place than anywhere.”
“I run a motel. An old motel that needs constant repair.”
“Uh-huh. There are a lot of old buildings in this town.”
Annie was right. Over a hundred buildings in Redemption were on the National Register of Historic Places and only an expert with Jace’s eye and skill could work on them. Kitty’s motel, a throwback to the fifties, was not on that list.
“Jace is the original Mr. Nice Guy,” she said.
“True. But have you ever considered that he might be the least bit interested in you?”
Kitty’s heart bumped. “No.”
Annie rolled her eyes. “Oh, girl. What am I going to do with you? You’re what? Thirty?”
“Thirty-one.”
“There you go.” She slapped a plate of sandwiches on the table. “Open those gorgeous baby blues and take a close look at Jace Carter. He’s a doll and he has a thing for you.”
“Annie, stop. You know I’m not in the market. Never will be.” The very idea gave her a stomachache.
Annie quieted. A nurse with a heart as big and warm as the sun, she knew Kitty’s history. “Dave was a great guy, Kitty. We all liked him, but he’s gone. Has been for a long time.”
Kitty bit her bottom lip. Seven years was a long time but memories never died the way Dave had. “I’m not interested in finding anyone else.”
“Really?” Annie’s compassionate green eyes bore into her. “Think about that, Kitty. Love is a beautiful thing. Too beautiful to live without.”
Didn’t she know it? Hadn’t she had the best in Dave Wainright? Insides squeezing, she tried to laugh off the conversation. “Oh, you newlyweds. All you think about is love.”
Annie arched one blond eyebrow but didn’t say anymore because at that moment the men trooped into the country kitchen. Fatigue pulled at their faces.
Kitty’s stomach quivered oddly when she looked at Jace Carter. She wished Annie hadn’t said such a silly thing. She’d never allowed herself to consider Jace as…well, as a man, but now she couldn’t help noticing. Average height, he bested her by several inches. The word neat always came to mind when she thought of him. But tonight his usual tucked in, tidied up appearance was disheveled and dirty. His brown hair was rumpled and tagged with dirt as though he’d run a muddy hand through it.
He had the softest, quietest eyes. Hazel she thought, though she’d never noticed before. And he had strong, carpenter hands, a little rough and work-scarred, but capable. She had noticed them before, the way he held a piece of lumber almost tenderly as though he could envision the beauty hidden inside. He was an artist with wood.
“You guys okay?” she asked to stop the flow of her thoughts. Annie and her suggestions.
“Rough night.” Sloan did the talking.
Sloan Hawkins, dark and dangerous-looking with blue eyes that could melt a rock, crossed the room to kiss Annie’s cheek. “Smells good.” He smiled a tired smile. “So does the food.”
Annie blushed prettily and swatted at her husband. The newlyweds’ sweetness put a catch in Kitty’s chest. She and Dave had loved like that. She glanced at Jace, saw him avert his gaze. He removed his ball cap, crushing it in those capable, tattered hands.
“I should go. I’m too dirty to be here.” The voice was as quiet as his eyes, warm, too, and manly.
“Don’t be silly,” Annie said. “Kitty, get him a towel, will you, while I put this food on the table?”
“Got