“Eons ago. I’m surprised she came back.”
“Well, there’s her kid sister, you know. Morgan’s around eleven or twelve, I think, and now she’s lost both parents. I expect Shiloh had to return to settle things.” He waved a hand. “Not just her sister, but all the red tape that comes when a person leaves this earth. Funeral arrangements. Wills. Whatever.” He reached for the half-drunk cup of coffee situated between a few scattered piles on his desk. “You want a cup?”
She was slinging the strap of her purse over her shoulder when she glanced out the window to spy a familiar pickup fly into the lot. Her heart jolted as she watched Blair Kincaid park next to her car, hop out of the cab, adjust his aviator sunglasses, and stride into Betty Ann’s. Tall and rangy, with thick hair and a body hard from work around the ranch, Blair was too handsome for his own good. He now ran the family’s ranch, and Kat had run into him far more than she wanted. She’d never really liked him, she reminded herself.
“Kat?” her father said.
She turned back to him. “Sorry. I need to be at the office, like ten minutes ago.”
One eyebrow rose over the rim of his glasses. He could always spot her when she told a lie. Well, almost always. He’d never guessed what had happened the night of the attack. “Tomorrow, then? A rain check?”
“Sounds good.” In an effort to divert his attention, she asked, “Maybe you could sneak over and grab a couple of those red velvet cupcakes at Betty Ann’s before I get here. They’re supposed to be spectacular.”
“You heard that from me.”
From the corner of her eye, she spied Blair return to his truck carrying a cup of coffee and white sack. He climbed into his truck and roared out of the parking space as quickly as he’d flown in.
“You okay?” her father asked.
“Yeah, fine. Just thinking about my calendar. Okay, tomorrow. Cupcakes for breakfast. I’ll be here at seven-thirty.”
He slid her a smile, and his eyes twinkled a bit. For a second, there was a glimpse of the strapping man he’d once been, the no-holds-barred detective with a quick wit and dogged take-no-prisoners attitude—the man he was before the heart attack and his early retirement from the force. Once he recovered, he’d thought he’d spend his hours fishing and golfing, but boredom had set in early, so he’d started this private detective agency.
“They also have a killer German chocolate,” he said, walking her to the door.
“Whatever you want. For today, we’ll indulge.”
“You got it, kiddo.”
As Kat left, she walked by the plate-glass window with his name inscribed in gold leaf, and she caught a glimpse of her father returning to his desk. In her heart of hearts, she knew that he’d started this one-man agency not just to fill his time chasing down perpetrators of insurance fraud or proving that a husband had cheated on his wife or vice versa. No. He still was chasing his white whale: a case involving three missing girls.
Chapter 7
“I’m not sure when I’ll be back,” Shiloh said, cradling her cell phone between her ear and her shoulder as she dried her hands on a towel in the kitchen of her mother’s house, then tossed the damp rag onto the counter.
Carlos Hernandez was on the other end of the wireless connection. “I don’t know how long I can cover for you,” he said, and she imagined fine lines drawing his dark eyebrows together. “The wife, she’s not all that crazy about me not seeing the kids.”
“Look, I’ll have a definitive answer in a few days.” Would she? She wasn’t certain. Not of anything right now. Faye’s funeral was scheduled for later today, and after that? Who knew? The thought of actually laying her mother to rest in a plot next to Larimer Tate’s was depressing.
Nearly a week had passed since she’d first returned, and she still felt uneasy, as if she didn’t belong. She’d kept herself busy by cleaning the house and yard and working with the horses, something that had actually interested Morgan. Shiloh had caught her sister watching her from the window and then the porch, but when she’d asked the girl to join her, Morgan had scurried back into the solitude and safety of the house. Not good. Not good at all. Now Shiloh cast a glance out the window to the garage, where Beau was just coming down the exterior stairs. She and he were getting along, though, she knew, their affability was all a show for Morgan.
Crossing the fingers of her free hand, she said, “I’ll figure out what I’m doing in the next couple of days, I promise.”
“Okay . . .” Carlos still sounded unconvinced, but he finally acquiesced, and she hung up wondering what in the world she was going to do.
Could she really make Prairie Creek her permanent residence? A place she’d sworn she’d never set foot in again? But that was before Larimer Tate had kicked off, and now Faye had died, and the responsibility of her half sister had been laid at her feet.
Against her nature, Shiloh had played it cool, avoiding confrontation as she’d slowly tried to get to know Morgan and figure out what she was going to do. She would never be able to sleep in Faye’s room, though, no matter how much she tried to rationalize that it didn’t matter—her mother was gone, so what if she’d spent her last days there? Or, years before, made love in that bed with Larimer Tate? No amount of talking to herself worked.
Instead, Shiloh had taken to sleeping on the back porch on an old lounge chair. From her position, she was able to watch the stars appear and the moon rise before drifting off to the sound of a soothing breeze rustling the leaves of the aspens and cottonwoods rimming the property. Once in a while, she’d hear the howl of a coyote or the flap of an owl’s wings or be awakened by a chorus of frogs, but these were comfortable, familiar sounds of the night.
More often than not, she’d catch a glimpse of Beau Tate, backlit by a single lamp as he leaned against the window before shutting off the lights of the attic over the garage, and those images were unsettling.