“You’re a moron.” She turned away, pissed beyond belief that she’d lost the backpack.
“So you’ve said, on more than one occasion,” he drawled, back in control again. “In fact, I believe that’s the last thing youyelled at me.”
“Actually,” she said, looking over her shoulder directly at him, “I believe it was ‘I love you, and I’m sorry.’” Then she turned and shoved open the door to his cabin.
* * * *
The words hit him in the chest so hard he couldn’t move. Thosehadbeen the words. And she’d been sad, not angry, accepting and not willing to fight any longer. They’d hung around him, inside him, for so long they’d becomea part of him.
What the holy fuck was Faye doing at his cabin? The one place in his life she’d never touched, and now she was there. He’d have to burn the place down once this situation was over—after he had a few choice words with Miss Angelina for creatingthis disaster.
He sighed. He’d never have choice words with Miss A. She’d probably whack him with a wooden spoon, the way she had when he’d been a hurt,angry teenager.
Maybe that’s why he and Faye never had a chance. They’d started mad and wounded, and that’s how they’d gotten to know each other. Even now, more than a decade later, they’d just had a tug of war over a stupid backpack. Then she’d punched him in the stomach. It didn’t matter that he’d been the one to teach her to hit without injuring her wrist or fingers. The memories all hurt.
Shaking himself out of it, he followed her into the lower level of his cabin, which held a TV room, kitchen, guest bedroom, and bath. The upstairs was a massive master bedroom and bath he’d designed and built himself on top of the existing structure.
She pulled out a chair at the round wooden table, facing the wide windows with a view of the creek. “Might as well get started.”
He swallowed. There were so many words to say, he couldn’t find one. Damn, she looked good. Straight blond hair cut in a sassy style, soft brown eyes, girl-next-door good looks. Her skin was still smooth and freckled, and her eyes lively, even with the tired linesshowing stress.
The stress concerned him. Had she not healed in the last five years like he had? If he had? Shit, sometimes in the middle of the night, when nightmares woke him, he wasn’t sure he had. “How are you these days? Faye Rockefeller?”
She rolled her eyes. “No. I’ve stuck with Smith so far. I’ll change it once I find the right one.” She’d hated her father, so she’d been trying on new last names as long ashe’d known her.
“What’s going on, Faye?” He dropped the pack in the center of the table.
She opened the top and drew out several brightly colored manila file folders.
He sat, his gaze on them. “Miss Angelina’s folders.” The woman loved folders. His youth—the good times, anyway—had been punctuated with colorful file folders. For school planning, for chores, for different seasons. Seeing them was like being yanked back to happier days. “What are those?”
Faye flipped open a purple folder to show a picture of an angry looking blond kid of about seventeen, with minor scruff as a mustache. “Meet sixteen-year-old Jackson. One of Miss A’s newest kids. She only had him for one day.He’s run away.”
Hunter tugged the picture closer with the pad of his index finger. “Kids run away from foster homes all the time—even Miss Angelina’s.” He’d been one of those kids who ran away. Twice. Miss A had found him and brought him back the first time, and he’d fought his way back, tail between his legs, the second time. But she hadn’t gloated. Nope. She’d taken one look at him, her pretty brown eyes somber, and told him to go wash his hands for dinner. It had been that easy. He didn’t leave again until he joined the Marines.
Should’ve stayed home. Maybe then he and Faye would’ve had a chance. He kept his gaze on the photograph. “Think if we’d started that band like we planned we’d have ended up like this?” He didn’t talk to anybody, but he’d never been able to keep his mouth shut around Faye. Apparently thathadn’t changed.
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I’ve thought about it. If just one of us had taken a different path, or even if we’d all faced a crisis at a different time, would we have been able to help each other? Maybe if Mark hadn’t died…”
Hunter looked up, noting the delicate bone structure beneath her pale skin. Who’d been protecting her the last five years? Oh, she had a mean temper, and he’d taught her to fight, but Faye had always had a fragility that scared the shit out of him. Of course, he’d seen her wounded and broken as a kid, her arm busted up, too many bruises across her pretty face to count. That image would never completely fade.
She rubbed her chest. “I left flowers on his grave before I drove down here.”
Guilt filtered through Hunter. When was the last time he’d visited Mark’s grave? The man had died a hero, fighting for his country far away from home, and Hunter couldn’t even bother to visit. But sometimes he figured Mark was around, watching over them. He wasn’t in that grave. Not really. Bones didn’t count in this life. He cleared his throat and looked back at the picture of the kid. “What’s his story?”
She swallowed. “Took off with a thirty-five-year-old teacher, thinking she’s the one. She’s knocked over two restaurants, as well as a gas station, and so far none of the video shows he’san accomplice.”
If the kid was with her on the crime spree, he could be charged regardless. “He in love?”
“Thinks he is,” Faye muttered. “The teacher’s name is Louise Stockley, and she left behind a husband, another teacher. I’m doing research into her history. We think the affair started last year, when she was hismath teacher.”
Disgust ripped through Hunter. The woman had preyed on a lost kid in foster care—one no doubt with some anger issues if his picture was to be read correctly—and taken advantage of him. “Aren’t the authorities on this?”
Faye nodded, her hands nervously tapping the other file folders. “Yes, but Miss Angelina is really worried and wants us to put our skills to use. You’re the best tracker ever born, and you were trained by the military to be even better.” The last was said with a perfect imitation of Miss A’s accent. “And that’s not all.” Her voice wavered this time.
Awareness pricked its way up Hunter’s spine. “What?” he asked.
Her hand shaking imperceptibly, Faye reached out and slid the picture to the side, revealing a foster care intake form. “His full name is Jackson Holt. Look at him. I mean,reallylook at him. He’s the spitting image of you at sixteen.”
