I scrolled down to the contact info. “Owned by Sylvester Georgiadis.” I stumbled over the unfamiliar last name. “Ranch foreman Joe McNeil.”
“Joe.” Austin palmed his face. “I always wondered what happened after I left. Never dared look in case…”
“In case what?”
Austin turned tear-bright eyes toward me. “In case my father killed Joe over giving me the truck.”
“In casewhat?” I’d known Austin was afraid of his father, and that he’d run from a moment of dangerous violence. Austin had always been leery of any contact with law enforcement for fear word would get back to his father. Despite Austin’s nightmares, slowly fading over the decade, I hadn’t realized his terror ran that deep.
“Yeah, I…I always meant to get a message to Joe but…” Austin rubbed his eyes. “He sold me the truck for a dollar, you know? Legally, at the DMV, and the clerk would’ve told everyone— she was a total gossip. Dad had to know. Dad already hated Joe, long before then, but finding out Joe helped me slip through his grasp? Every time I started to put Joe’s name in a search, I’d end up on the verge of a panic attack, so I just… let it go.”
I wasn’t sure how to help. I scrolled back up. “Joe seems to be fine. Several photos here, a couple where he’s riding and roping, looking healthy.”
“Oh. Okay.” Austin came and dropped into the seat beside me. I rubbed his shoulder and he tipped a wan smile my way. “That’s good. Awesome.”
“Maybe you should get in touch now,” I suggested.
“Maybe.” Austin stared at the screen. “So they’re doing a queer Christmas thing? That might sell. The holidays leave a lot of us lonely, without family.” I must’ve made a worried sound because Austin wrapped an arm across my shoulders andhugged me. “Not me. I got you, babe.” He sang the words just enough for me to elbow him in reproof.
“You’re too young to do Cher.” I muttered.
“You’re not.” Austin snickered when I elbowed him harder. He turned his attention to the website. “I don’t know if that idea would work for us. We have more elevation than Dover’s Ridge, more snow and cold, worse roads, even with the new exit. I’m not sure I want to put a lot of money into an event that could get snowed out two years in five.”
I flipped through the pages on the website, FAQs, photos. The Circle-K looked like a nice spread, fancier than ours, and the guests had suites in a big old house. That would reduce the snow isolation factor if they did get a storm. Austin watched alongside me but didn’t comment.
An idea came to me. “They’re having a sale on the last few Christmas places this year. Looks like this is their first holiday event. Want to go?”
“Us? Why?”
“I was thinking,” I told him. “We never did take a honeymoon ten years ago.” Tiffany had been pregnant and leaving the ranch hadn’t really appealed to us, especially with limited funds. Since then, we’d taken long weekends in San Francisco, and occasionally down to L.A. or out to Reno. We’d done a couple of working trips to bring back a bull or a horse, or deliver livestock, but no real vacations.
“I didn’t need a honeymoon,” Austin said. “Being here with you was the dream.”
“Yeah, but it’s our tenth anniversary.” We’d gotten married on New Year’s Day, one year after we met. “I was thinking about taking you somewhere on vacation anyhow.” I flipped to the other tab with holiday destinations in the Caribbean and Mexico, blue water and sandy beaches.
Austin looked at the listings. “You think we should trade lying around in the sun for a ranch in the snow?”
“Put like that—” I felt a bit stupid.
“No.” Austin kissed my cheek. “The Circle-K’s not a bad idea. I’m not a fan of beaches anyhow. Sand gets everywhere. I’d like to see Joe and thank him, but I don’t want to run into my father.”
We’d concluded by the end of the first year that Austin’s father hadn’t made a big push to find him. Kendrick’s employment background check hadn’t turned up any warrants on Frankie Morse, Jr., real or bogus. Austin paid his taxes, opened a bank account, and legally swapped his Colorado driver’s license for a California one, all under his full name. Any lawman who’d seriously tried to find him eleven years ago, could have.
Gradually, Austin had begun to trust he was safe, but his past still cast a shadow. He’d never wanted to look back.
I’d offered to check up on Frank Morse, Sr. a dozen times over the years, maybe more. Austin had always shut me down, telling me to let sleeping dogs rot, and I’d honored his wishes, but if we were going to Dover’s Ridge, I wanted more information now. “Can I look up the Dover’s Ridge sheriff’s department? See if your father’s still listed?”
“That’d be the Vickston County Sheriff.” Austin chewed on his lip, then said, “Yeah. Do that.”
I typed in the information. A website came up, typical law enforcement. A broad-faced, wide-shouldered man with a graying crewcut under his hat looked out of the top official portrait. “Says the sheriff is a guy named Breyer.”
“That’s good,” Austin said. “He was elected when I was in my teens, and Dad hated him, said he’d spoil their fun.”
Fun.I didn’t say the word, just looked the page over. “Deputy sheriff is someone named McPherson.”
“Don’t know the guy.”
“They don’t list all their officers. I don’t see your father’s name, though.”
