Cowboy Tough (23 page)

“Come on,” he said. “Let's go get her.”

She gave him an annoyed glare and returned her gaze to the phone. “She's been gone too long, Mack. I have to wait for the cops to call.”

“Mom'll answer from the house. Trust me, she'll be on that phone before you can so much as twitch. And I've got my cell.” He tossed the keys to his Ford in the air and caught them. “Meanwhile, we're going to find Dora. She's not with Trevor. Come on. I'll fill you in on the way.”

Cat sat stiffly in the passenger seat of Mack's pickup, scanning the roadside, peering down turnoffs, searching for any sign of the old pickup. She'd called the police again, and a woman there had promised to relay a description of the pickup to Officer Brownfield. But Mack seemed determined to make his own search, and doing something—anything—felt better than sitting at the ranch waiting for the phone to ring.

She felt a little guilty about leaving her students behind. They'd paid a fortune for this trip, and today they hadn't done a lick of painting. Everyone seemed to understand, but they were hardly getting their money's worth.

But she was reordering her priorities, putting Dora on top. If she'd done that sooner, she wouldn't have fooled around with Mack and none of this would have happened.

She listened to the throaty roar of the engine while she watched the fence posts flick past.

“She'd head for Casper,” Mack said. “She's not stupid, and there's nothing north of here but high plains.”

“There's Yellowstone.”

“She'd have to cross three hundred miles of nothing before she even got close. Dora might love the outdoors, but she's a city girl born and raised. Don't you think she'll head for town?”

“Probably,” Cat said. “She'd need breakfast, for one thing.”

They were entering a no-man's-land of battered warehouses and galvanized Quonset huts that apparently marked the outskirts of Casper.

“What's her favorite fast food?” Mack asked.

“She doesn't eat that kind of thing. Edie wouldn't let her.”

“Sometimes that just makes it taste better.”

“You'd think so. But that was one thing she and her mom agreed on. What they both loved was diner food. They used to try the meatloaf every time. Edie said they were taking the meatloaf tour of the world and they'd write a book someday.”

Mack shook his head. “I knew she was a weird kid.”

Mack slowed as they passed a fifties-style diner with red and chrome trim, scanning the cars and trucks in the lot. There were lots of pickups, but none as disreputable as the ranch truck.

“Looks like a meatloaf kind of place,” he observed.

“It's almost eleven.” Cat scanned the parking lot. “She's probably long gone.”

“Not if she stopped.” He grinned. “The truck vapor-locks. If she shut the engine down for any reason, it would be a good half hour before it would start up again. Most people would give up before that.” He nodded toward the map pocket in the door. “Grab that map and we'll make a plan.”

Cat ignored him, hiking herself up in her seat and craning her neck to stare at the truck stop they'd just passed. “What color did you say the truck was?”

“Rust, mostly. But it used to be blue.”

“I think I saw it.”

He braked hard and crossed a lane of traffic, careening off the exit like a NASCAR driver heading into the final turn. Cat grabbed the door handle as they spun onto a service road, then slid into the dirt lot behind the truck stop. He eased past a line of Kenworths and Peterbilts. Sure enough, the old International was parked at the back of the lot.

Cat wouldn't have guessed that the thing would even start, much less handle highway driving. It looked more suited to a junkyard than a parking lot. Dora was lucky it hadn't shaken apart on her before she'd left the driveway.

Tumbling out of Mack's pickup, she peered in the International's side window and saw Dora's backpack perched in the passenger seat. She jiggled the door. Locked. At least the kid had that much sense.

“Let's try the mini-mart.” Mack grabbed her hand and hauled her toward the entrance to the small store, with signs in the plate glass windows advertising beer and soft drinks. The other side of the low concrete building was a restaurant.

“There's no rush.” Cat tugged her hand away. “She's not going anywhere without the truck.”

“Unless she hitches a ride.”

“Oh, shit.” She stepped up her pace. “She's not that stupid. Is she? You don't think she's that stupid, do you?”

An electronic cuckoo-bell sounded as Mack opened the swinging glass door. Standing on the dirty black doormat, Cat scanned the racks and shelves, taking in a seemingly endless selection of trucker hats and tourist T-shirts.

After searching up and down aisles packed with cans of Chef Boyardee and Alpo Prime Cuts, bags of Doritos and cellophane-wrapped Twinkies, she followed Mack through a scuffed entryway into the attached restaurant, searching for that halo of blonde frizz.

The counter stools looked like a seated police lineup, with the suspects ranging from seedy to shady to downright disreputable. Some crouched over coffee, watching the reflections in the grill's stainless steel backsplash as if they expected the cops to arrive at any moment and take their meth supply. Others hunched over blue plate specials, sawing at chicken fried steaks drowned in lumpy creamed gravy.

No Dora.

The booths hosted a more companionable lot—an overweight couple who probably divided the driving as well as the wide slice of pie they were working on; a group of bearded men who looked like they'd sworn off showering until the Cubs won the World Series; and a rowdy group of twenty-something boys scanning the crowd for babes. One of them shot Cat a wink and a leer, but Mack stepped up close behind her and the winker was suddenly engrossed in the scenery outside the glass window.

“She's not here.” Cat hugged herself, staving off panic. “You don't really think she'd hitch a ride, do you?”

“I think she's smarter than that,” he said. “But who knows? I didn't think she was unhappy enough to run off, either.”

A chubby young waitress with black curls cascading from a checkered headband reached behind Cat to snatch up two menus from a holder on the wall.

“Two?”

She didn't wait for an answer, just led them to a cracked vinyl booth.

“Special's chicken fried steak,” she chattered. “Cream gravy, mashed, and peas. Pie's extra.” She looked up at the ceiling as she recited the varieties. “Apple, banana cream, pecan…”

“I'm just looking for my niece.” Cat knew interrupting was rude, but who knew how long the list of pies might be? “Have you seen a teenaged girl in here? A little blonde, curly hair? Kind of frizzy?”

“Yeah. I saw her.” The waitress slapped the menus on a table still streaked with the damp tracks of a dirty dishcloth.

Cat remained standing, one hand on Mack's arm. “You saw her?”

“Yeah.” She made an impatient gesture toward the booth. “Here you go.”

“I'm sorry. We're not eating,” Cat said.

“Okay, then.” The waitress scooped up the menus and started for the kitchen.

“Wait. Sorry. I just need to know when you saw her.” Cat touched the waitress's shoulder and the woman whirled to face her.

“Look, we get lots of girls coming through here, okay?” She jutted her chin as if daring Cat to question her further. “And I got lots of work to do.”

“Just tell me if she left. Who she went with.”

The waitress glanced right, then left, like a trapped animal. “I didn't see anything.”

“But…” Cat was struggling with the urge to give the waitress a kick in the shins, but a strong hand gripped her arm and lowered her into the booth. Mack slid in beside her, blocking her escape.

“Two coffees.”

“We don't have time for this,” Cat hissed. “We just need to know…”

“We're taking the time.” He nodded toward the waitress, who was stalking around the side of the counter. “And try to treat her like a human being. Are you Chicago folks always this rude to the help?”

“No.” Cat looked down at her lap, suddenly ashamed. “I'm sorry. I'm just so worried.”

The waitress returned with two thick ceramic mugs and a glass coffee pot. Mack gave her a friendly grin.

“Thanks, Belle.”

Cat glanced from the waitress to the cowboy, wondering how they knew each other, but no sign of recognition passed between them. Then she caught sight of the girl's plastic name tag.

“Belle, I'm sorry I was so abrupt,” she said. “It's just that I'm worried about my niece.”

The woman gave her a quick nod, then turned her attention back to Mack. It figured. Throw that good-looking cowboy into a crowd and women glommed on like magnets. Maybe it was the hat. Or the jeans.

Maybe it was the ten-dollar bill he was sliding across the table.

“So that blonde…” He let the question trail off, as if he didn't really care about the answer.

“She was in here almost an hour.” The suddenly smiling Belle poured their coffees, lifting the pot with a flourish as the dark liquid streamed into the cup. Steam rose in fragrant swirls, making Cat realize she hadn't had anything to eat or drink since her breakfast had been cut short. “She didn't hardly eat a thing, so I kind of ran her out.” A slight defensiveness entered her tone. “Can't hold a table with customers waiting, can I? We're here to do business, not run a charity for runaways.”

“She's not…” Cat realized she was getting rude and defensive again. Dora
was
a runaway, after all. That was precisely the issue. “So did she leave?”

“Don't know. One of the guys tried to get her to go with him, thought she was—you know.” The woman lifted her painted eyebrows, and Cat realized she had a lot to learn about truck stops. “But she told him off.” She smiled again, displaying a crooked eyetooth. “Sassy little thing.”

Cat bristled. “How could he have thought she'd have anything to do with him? She's not…”

Mack's hand settled over hers and pressed down. Hard. Looking at the waitress, Cat realized there was a good chance she had her own trucker waiting for her at home.

“Belle,” hollered a bearded man from a neighboring booth. “You gonna gab all day? Need a fill-up over here.”

“I got it, I got it. Hold your horses.” Belle started toward the bearded man, then turned back to Cat. “I saw her out there, crossing the road.” She pointed out the window and Cat eyed the uneven expanse of macadam that led to the highway. Cars flashed by at eighty miles an hour, along with eighteen-wheelers that rattled the windows as they bounced over the cracked concrete.

The waitress quirked her painted lips in a humorless smile. “Don't see any grease spots in the road, so I reckon she made it.”

Mack gripped Cat's hand in his as he waited for a break in traffic. A tractor trailer hurtled past, stirring up a swirl of dust and blowing back his hair.

“Come on.” He dragged her after him, almost pulling her over as he ran. She'd kept up with him in every way at the ranch, and he'd forgotten she was so much shorter than he was. She was doing her best, though, and didn't complain as they clambered over the Jersey walls that divided the two streams of traffic. If she managed to keep up, they wouldn't become grease spots on the highway either.

By the time they reached the far side of the road, he felt as if he'd swum a particularly tumultuous river. Glancing up and down the row of buildings bordering the highway, he spotted a chipped sign that read “Auto Repair and Restoration” and took a sharp right.

The building beneath it needed some repair and restoration itself. A low stucco box, it was painted a hideous shade of mustard yellow broken only by long jagged cracks in the concrete. The broken glass in the door was mended with a few crooked strips of masking tape, while the missing panes in the window beside it had simply been replaced by plywood.

A skidding, rattling noise greeted their arrival, and a figure scooted out from under a car. It appeared to be a man, but it was hard to tell through the black grime that coated him head to toe. He was so skinny and jug-eared—and so ancient—that Mack wondered if this was the place where the term “grease monkey” had been coined.

“Help ya?” Man or monkey, he wasn't about to rise from the wheeled creeper he lay on. Propping himself up on one elbow, he regarded both of them with blue eyes that were bright as crystal in the grime smudging his face. If she hadn't been so worried about Dora, Cat would have laughed. Resting his head on one elbow, the mechanic looked like another ironic interpretation of Manet's snowy-skinned Olympia.

He smiled, exposing false teeth nearly as bright as his eyes. “I can fix most anything.”

“How 'bout an International Harvester pickup?”

“Well, isn't that something.” He smacked his thigh. “I haven't seen an International in months, and you're the second one today.”

The man struggled to rise, but what was evidently a bum hip had him thrashing on the floor like a grounded trout until Mack offered him a hand and helped him on his feet. Cat wondered what he did when nobody was around to help. From the look of him, he probably slept on the creeper.

“Somebody brought one in earlier?”

“Didn't bring it in. Couldn't. Little girl came in, wanted me to go over to the diner and look at one. Felt like a heel sending her away, but she said it didn't run and I can't travel these days.” He punched his hip as if he could smack something back into place. “Crossing that road's taking your life in your hands, 'specially when you can't move so fast.”

“Where did she go?” Cat asked.

The man shrugged. “Don't know. Didn't pay attention.” He looked suddenly stricken, and for a moment Cat thought his hip had gone out or something. “Little thing's not in trouble, is she? She seemed okay.”

“Was she on her own?”

“Yup.” He ran his hands over the sparse strands of hair on his bald head and grimaced. “All alone. I should have called someone. Got her some help. But she lit out of here like somebody was chasing her.”

“And you didn't see which way she went.”

He shook his head, staring ruefully down at the smudged concrete floor. “Didn't see. Sorry.”

***

Mack took Cat's hand as they exited the garage. Once again, he was taking care of things, helping her out of a jam.

She tried not to feel irritated—with him or herself. This was his world. It was only natural he'd be the one solving the problems. It wasn't a reflection on her intelligence or capabilities.

But she couldn't help feeling useless.

They stood in the hard bright sunshine outside the garage. The light reflecting off the mustard-colored stucco bathed Mack in a golden glow that made him look like the hero of some long-ago Western. He squinted, looking up and down the highway, and those rugged crow's-feet bracketed his dark eyes.

“She has to be on foot,” she said. “I really don't think she'd hitchhike.”

“Let's hope you're right. We'll cruise the service road, search all the parking lots. She can't have gotten far. It's not much of a town.”

“That's what worries me,” Cat said. “I mean, you don't even have real cops here.”

“I thought you were all impressed with Officer Brownfield.”

She laughed. “Are you kidding?” She shot him a disbelieving stare. “He was an idiot. Did you not notice he was totally coming on to me?” She snorted. “Real professional.”

His smile was clearly relieved. Had he really thought she'd fallen for Officer Brownfield's knight-in-shining-armor act?

They braved the rushing cars and trucks again, scampering across the highway at the first sign of a break in the northbound traffic, then scrambling over the concrete barrier to wait for a southbound truck to pass. The wind from its passing buffeted Cat, tossing her hair around her face and throwing dust in her face. Coughing, she followed Mack at a dead run across the road.

“Need anything to drink?” he asked.

She shook her head, stretching her stride to keep pace with his long legs. “I'm fine. Let's just find her.”

They'd just rounded the corner of the truck stop when she spied a tiny figure perched on the running board of the played-out ranch pickup.

“Dora!” She nearly fell as she tugged her hand from Mack's and dashed across the lot. Dropping down beside her decidedly bedraggled niece, she choked out, “Honey, where have you been?”

“No place.” Dora, slouched on the running board with her elbows on her knees, scanned the broken-down buildings that surrounded the parking lot, scowling. “Bumfuck, Wyoming. That's where.”

Cat put her hand to her chest and took a breath, hoping to suck in some sanity with the clear sunlit air. She'd been thinking the entire drive about what she'd say if they found Dora, how she'd handle the situation now that she knew just how desperate the girl was. To take off like this, head out into the middle of nowhere—she had to be terribly unhappy.

“What were you doing, hon?”

Dora shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Well, that's good news,” Mack said. “Your aunt thought you might have taken up hooking at the truck stop. Glad to hear you didn't throw yourself to the Bubbas.”

Cat started to protest, then swallowed her anger. Mack's joking tone had charmed Dora into a faint but perceptible smile. Maybe she should stop the lecturing and the advising, the analyzing and the counseling. None of that was working.

Maybe she should follow Mack's lead and lighten up.

“You at least need some new clothes if you're going to change careers,” she said. “They have some nice trucker caps in there. I'm thinking these Wyoming guys will go for anything that says ‘John Deere' on it.”

Dora and Mack both stared at her for a moment, their mouths slack with surprise. Then Dora let out a little laugh.

“I thought about that,” she said. “But I didn't know if I'd have any money left after I fixed your damn truck. I sure as hell don't want one that says ‘International' on it. What the hell kind of brand is that, anyway? Can't you buy an American truck?”

“It
is
American. The full name is International Harvester.”

Dora scowled. “That explains it. It's not a truck; it's fucking farm equipment.”

“Exactly,” Mack said. “It's not made for highway driving. How are you planning to get it back where you found it?”

“Oh.” She looked stricken, and Cat wondered if this was the first time she'd realized how much trouble she'd caused. “I can pay to have it towed if you want. I mean, my dad can pay.”

“Your dad didn't drive it to death,” he said.

Dora stared down at the gravel lot. “I could do some extra work.”

“Like what?”

Dora thought a while. “I'm good at braiding manes and tails,” she said.

Mack laughed. “Great. That's just what I need—a pack string gussied up like show horses.”

Dora gave him a thin smile that spread into something genuine when he smiled back.

“Let's just see if it'll start,” he said.

“It won't. I tried, like, four hundred times.”

“Maybe that's the problem. How long's it been since you tried?”

She shrugged. “Half an hour? Maybe a little more?”

“Okay.” He gave her a devilish grin. “How 'bout this? If I get it started, right here, right now, you braid all the horses' manes and tails.”

“Okay.” The way Dora jumped on the deal, it was pretty clear she loved braiding manes.

“You ready to go home?” Cat asked as Mack climbed into the truck.

“Home?” Dora's eyes widened, and Cat wondered just how bad things were back in LA with her dad.

“Back to the ranch, I mean.” She felt her face reddening. She'd been there a week, and she was calling it home. What did that say about the life she'd carved out in Chicago?

Dora looked at her like she'd grown wings and a tail. “You're not going to yell at me?”

“No. I'm just glad we found you.”

“You're not going to lecture me?”

“No. Well, maybe later.” Cat gave her niece a crooked smile and threw an arm around her shoulder. “But for now, let's just go back. Did you eat?”

Dora nodded. “I had the meatloaf.”

Cat felt tears heat the back of her eyes, but she blinked them back as the truck shuddered, hiccupped, and roared to life.

“It just has to sit a while,” Mack told Dora. “If you'd just eaten your meatloaf and tried again, you'd be to the border by now.”

He stepped out of the driver's seat and gestured for Dora to get in.

“You want me to drive it?”

“You got it out here,” Mack said. “You can get it home.” He turned to Cat. “I'll call the cops and tell 'em to stop looking.”

He reached up and pressed his hat down firmly on his head and strode off to his truck.

Cat watched him go. She couldn't blame him for being angry with Dora. Hell, she was angry with Dora. But the kid looked exhausted.

“I'll drive,” she said.

Dora climbed in the passenger seat while Cat scanned the controls on the truck and tried out the gear shift.

“You called the cops?” Dora said.

“Of course we did.” Cat pulled out of the lot and made a sharp right, then cruised onto the entrance ramp. Once they were on the highway and up to speed, she turned back to Dora.

“We thought Trevor kidnapped you.”

“Trevor? Why?”

Cat watched Dora from the corner of her eye, searching for the telltale signs of a lying teenager. She knew from her own adolescence how good girls were at covering up things, like a trip to the mall when they'd said they were going to the library, or a meeting with a boyfriend when they were supposed to be at a friend's house. But Dora's posture was relaxed as it could be under the circumstances, and her eyes were clear and guileless.

“We found him on your Facebook.”

“Trevor?”

Cat slanted another look at Dora. “You really don't know, do you?”

“Know
what?
”

“Do you remember a fashion site called ‘The Maines Event'?”

It took a moment, but recognition finally dawned on Dora's face. “Oh, yeah. They show all kinds of skank clothes. I got a coupon there for some lip gloss a long time ago. What does that have to do with—
oh
. That's his last name, isn't it?”

Cat nodded. “He's been your Facebook friend ever since you got that coupon. He knew you were coming here. He followed you.”

Dora clasped her thin arms around herself and bent over like she was going to throw up on the dashboard. “Ugh. Are you kidding me?”

“No. Of course, they probably can't do anything about it.”

“Who, the police?”

“Right. Because your Facebook profile says you're twenty years old.”

“Oh,” Dora said. They rode in silence for a good half hour before she spoke again.

“I'm in trouble, aren't I?”

Cat shook her head. “No.”

“I'm not?”

“No. I'm not going to punish you, Dora. That's not my place. You keep reminding me I'm not your mother. Well, you're right. I'm not. All I'm going to ask you to do when we get back is take down that Facebook page. I want you to do it while I'm watching, as soon as we get home.”

Dora fidgeted, twirling a strand of blonde hair around one finger. “Okay. Right away?”

Cat nodded.

“But don't you have a class to teach?”

“Yes, but you come first,” Cat said firmly. “You always come first.”