Hostage At Hawk's Landing. Rita Herron
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you certain this is my father?”
Lamar rubbed a hand over his sweaty face, then lifted a bag holding an ID. Dexter peered at the ID through the plastic. The name on the driver’s license was Steven Hawk.
“I found these in the dash, too.” Lamar held up another evidence bag, and Dex’s chest tightened. Photos. One of him and his brothers and sister when they were little, then another of his father and mother on their wedding day. His mother still kept the same picture on her dresser in her bedroom.
“I’m sorry, Dex,” Lamar said.
Dex blinked hard. He damn well would not cry, not in front of Lamar. And not for the man who’d walked out on him and his family and never looked back.
But denial also reared its ugly head. “I want DNA for confirmation.”
“Of course,” Lamar said.
Dex studied the dead man’s features, struggling to make this bloody face belong to the man he’d loved and idolized.
But an image of his father laughing when Dex had fallen from his horse into a mud puddle surfaced and moisture blurred his eyes. A second later, he saw his father’s strained expression as he searched the woods for Chrissy, then the anger in his eyes when the sheriff had treated him like a suspect. But it was his mother’s tearstained cheeks the morning after his father hadn’t come home that still haunted him.
That was the final blow that had nearly crushed her.
Lamar waved the medics down the hill to remove the body from the truck. Dex noticed a business card on the floor by the seat, snatched the card and jammed it in his pocket. Maybe something on the card would lead him to answer the questions that kept him awake at night. Like where his father had been all this time.
Had he forgotten about his family? Found happiness with another woman?
Had he even thought about them?
Emotions pummeling him, he turned and strode back up the hill. Lamar would let him know when the DNA results were in. Then he’d have to break the news to his family.
Not tonight, though. Tonight he’d grieve alone.
He fingered the card in his pocket as he climbed in his SUV and pulled out the wooden nickel he always carried.
His father’s voice echoed in his head. “Don’t take any wooden nickels, son.”
Dex had taken that meaning to heart. He’d never accepted anything at face value and always investigated things himself.
The name of a homeless shelter had been scrawled on the card.
Maybe someone there could tell him more about his father.
Six weeks later
MELISSA GENTRY SIPPED HER evening tea as she ducked into her small office at the Lend-A-Hand Shelter outside Austin. The evening meal was complete. Tonight the volunteers had served over a hundred dinners, shared stories and camaraderie with the transients who’d wandered in and passed out personal hygienic supplies and water bottles to everyone who’d shown up. The summer heat was stifling, the danger of heat stroke and dehydration always high during the summer months.
The staff was busy clearing the dishes and cleaning the kitchen, while a few of the short-term residents who’d committed to a plan to get back on their feet gathered in the common room for a game of cards.
She glanced at the newspaper as she took her break, her heart clenching. The Hawk family was back in the news. Last year, they’d found their long-lost sister’s body, tying up the mystery of what had happened to Chrissy Hawk nearly two decades ago.
Then a few months ago, a human trafficking ring had struck Tumbleweed, drawing the attention of the FBI and brother Lucas Hawk. The head of the ring had forced a local plastic surgeon to change his face so he could create a new identity, and lawyer brother Brayden Hawk had helped the feds take down the trafficking ring.
But her attention was focused on the photograph and current headline. Dexter Hawk, the third brother, and the man who’d stolen her heart her first year of college, stood by a grave with his family as they said goodbye to Steven Hawk, his father who’d disappeared shortly after his daughter had.
Some had speculated that he’d run off because he’d hurt Chrissy, but that theory had been rectified when the family learned that Chrissy had been killed by a man with a developmental disability. The more likely scenario for the father’s abandonment was that guilt and grief had eaten at him until he’d left. Couples rarely survived the loss of a child.
Sympathy and envy swelled in her chest. That family had suffered so much, yet they stood together in loving support by Mr. Hawk’s grave.
All her life, she’d craved a family like that. But working at the shelter had taught her that you had to play the cards you’d been dealt in life. So she’d made a family with the volunteers and the drifters who wandered in for food and comfort and a helping hand.
Voices and noises echoed from the front, the sound of arguing forcing her to leave the privacy of the office. She walked down the hall, then poked her head into the doorway of the gathering room to assess the situation.
While she empathized with those in need, instincts warned her to stay alert for trouble. Some people fell on hard times and were humble and wanted help. Others suffered from mental issues, drug addictions and PTSD. There were also criminals who took refuge in shelters and on the streets to escape the law.
She stole a look at the man who’d joined them a few days ago. Jim Smith. He was quiet and secretive, and kept to himself. The dark intensity in his expression suggested something was wrong, that he was on the run from something—or somebody.
She and April Stewart, the director of the shelter, had discussed consulting the local police, but Smith had given them no reason to. If they called the cops on everyone who made them nervous, they might as well shut down.
On the surface, Smith looked rough. He had a long scar on the side of his face, walked with a limp and he was missing the end of the third finger on his left hand. But he’d been polite and respectful to her and April. They’d encouraged him to share his story, but so far he hadn’t opened up.
He didn’t appear to be mentally ill or an addict. Perhaps he’d recently lost a loved one or his family. Deep grief often forced people to retreat into depression to the point of losing their homes.
Two of the men at the card table were squabbling, one of them accusing the other of stealing his King of Hearts. Smith stepped in, calming them both by clarifying that the card was on the floor.
Melissa smiled. Sometimes Jim surprised her by showing a softer side. It made her even more curious about his background and how he’d ended up at Lend-A-Hand.
She cradled her tea mug in her hands as she bypassed the kitchen and made her way to the common room.
The card game ended, and a few of the men headed outside to wherever they wanted to go for the night, while others retreated to the bunk room. The kitchen volunteers waved good-night and hurried out the back door. Smith grabbed a cup of coffee, sat down at the table and started scribbling something in a small notepad, which, she’d noticed, he did a lot. She wondered what he was writing.
She locked the front door, but a noise from the back made her jerk around, and she rushed to make sure one of the volunteers hadn’t returned and needed her. Or it could be Samuel, the night volunteer arriving.
But just as she reached the hallway, the door to the back burst open. Melissa startled and called out Samuel’s name, but a man in dark clothes and a mask grabbed her and shoved a gun to her head.
She opened her mouth to scream, but the man tightened his hold around her throat. “We don’t have money or drugs,” she managed to say in a choked whisper.
“Shut up.” He shoved her forward, and she stumbled