Final Mend (2 page)

But Winona still felt the effects of loss.

“How are he and Naomi? Haven't seen him at the bar as often.”

“They're doing great.”

“Are they planning to get married anytime soon?”

Winona shrugged. “I don't think they're rushing into anything.”

“Well, when you meet the one, you'll know. And I can tell you, he's met the one.”

“I agree with you on that,” Winona said. Naomi held a special place in her heart, and she hoped to call her sister one day. She'd been the first to welcome Winona here.

“What about you?” Mr. Osborn—Fred, he insisted—asked.

“Oh no, not me. Not anytime soon.”

Mr. and Mrs. Osborn's eyes darkened a moment as they glanced at each other. She knew what they were thinking. They were thinking her boyfriend had been killed. Caleb's death still left a hole in her heart, but not because she was in love with him. She was a friend to him when nobody else wanted to be. She was aware of his alcohol abuse and grieved that his death came at a time he was finally straightening up, but she had only thought of him as a friend.

What happened to him wasn't fair. He'd been helping Chayton find an important relic and was shot by a violent man in charge of a large jewel-fencing organization. The man responsible was now dead and gone, but it didn't make dealing with it any easier.

She'd been through a lot over the past few years, and she was ready to find her home in Tanyon. Hopefully whoever was looking for her hadn't come to mess that up.

• • •

Tanyon, Montana, was a small jewel of a town towered by mountains and tucked into a corner of heaven. The sun descended, bruising the sky with dew-covered gold and plum. Green pines rose steadily upward, reaching for an eternity they'd never see.

Brandon had owned a cabin in the woods about an hour away. Though he and Jake had never driven into this town, they'd visited the cabin often to hunt and fish. The colors in this part of the world seemed more vibrant than any other place Jake had ever visited, but now that vibrancy only pissed him off.

They'd never fish at that old cabin again. Brandon was dead. His fishing days over.

Jake drove into 301 Torrey Lane and parked, eyeing a beer sign with cold dread. He'd left home this morning at two
a.m.
and driven half a day to reach Tanyon. He'd spent the next two hours searching for a woman named Winona and hadn't even thought to ask where he was headed when he'd finally gotten an address for her. All he knew was that Winona had been recommended by several private investigators who couldn't take his case. She was supposed to be the best.

She worked in a bar. When he'd heard the place's name—Air Dog—he'd thought it might be a ski shop or something.

“Fuck.” Jake slammed his palms into the steering wheel and listened as the engine rumbled in his gut.

His pulse pounded as the beer sign blinked, taunting him. He sat a moment, his hands gripping the wheel. Breathing in and out and daring the tears to leave. He hadn't needed a drink in several years, but the ache razed through him. Just one shot to burn his throat and channel his adrenaline into a steady stream of unconsciousness.

It was a twisted, fucked up fate. An omen. The universe was hell-bent on destroying him and this time it might win. All along Brandon had been his advocate for giving up the drink, but Brandon was dead and the one woman who might help him worked in a bar.

Thirst for an icy cold drink overtook common sense. His head spun as he fought off the need for the stimulant that could drown his sorrows.

He couldn't go in there. Not without caving.

Fuck it. His cousin, the one who'd pulled him out of the alcoholic funk he'd been in half his adult life, had been murdered in his own home. What good had fancy living gotten him? Jake deserved a drink.

No, Brandon wouldn't approve. So he'd go in, sit at the bar, and have a glass of water, proving he could do it without giving in. Or tonic water. That held a bite that would mimic alcohol's sting.

He had to talk to Winona and since he wanted to rest his road-weary body, this would provide the perfect backdrop for both. And sitting in a dark bar with low music and alcohol bottles would confirm his strength. Strength Brandon had insisted he had if he'd steer clear of temptation. They'd even visited bars—several times, to prove he had the strength—but Brandon had always been with him.

Brandon had looked up to Jake in his younger days, and once Jake's parents had died and Jake had crashed into a headlong flurry of destruction, Brandon admitted he had to do something. He'd coaxed him, dared him, persuaded him, bribed him, but the thing that finally worked for Jake was his near death and respect for his remaining family. Brandon was about to be a father, and Jake didn't want his new godchild to see him destroy himself. For once in his life, he wanted to be a good influence on someone. He traded one addiction for another: triathlons. A journey that had saved him. He opened the truck and jumped down, slamming the door behind him in a crash of nerves and uncertainty. Could he do this?

He opened the door. The bar didn't greet him with smoke and dreariness. Instead, it was muted and pleasant, with sounds of chatter and low music. It wasn't crowded. Neither was it too high-end to feel unwelcome or too trashy to feel uncomfortable.

It was perfect, actually, and so was the woman standing behind the bar.

Winona noticed him the moment he walked into Air Dog. The melody of the bar composed with laughter, voices, and music was loud enough she couldn't hear his footsteps across the planks, but she felt it deep into her core as her pulse quickened. She watched him approach, his head held high, spine straight, jaw clenched, but his shoulders slouched in defeat. Her heart thumped, the beat inside her chest performing its own role of insecurity. One-upping the other noises.

Winona was used to getting hit on. Partly because they thought her bartender status would grant them free beer, and partly because she was half American Indian, which lent her an air of mystery. Adept at playing it cool without getting serious about anything or anyone, she hadn't found any man worthy of seriousness.

But this man—attraction personified. Coppery blond hair, as if the earth had blessed him with the ability to draw its color from the sun. Spiked and mussed as if he'd just stepped out of the bedroom after a playful romp in silky sheets. He looked like an athlete, the way his forearms roped their way to the tops of his shoulders. The wrinkles in his otherwise immaculate shirt, the holes in his jeans, and the stubble on his face were sexy instead of dirty.

He eyed the bar before sitting, as if second-guessing his decision to come here. He wasn't a local. Although she'd only been in Tanyon for six weeks—this time around—she'd visited frequently over the past few months. She personally knew or knew of almost every resident in and around town and knew for sure she'd never seen him before.

This was the man who was asking about her. Had to be. But why?

“Welcome to Air Dog. Can I get you something to drink?” she asked.

“Tonic water and lime.”

“Coming right up.”

She didn't judge a person by what they ordered. Not everyone who came into a bar drank alcohol. Some came for the companionship, even if they didn't speak to another living soul, which was what she'd have guessed this guy needed if she hadn't already been warned.

She handed him the drink and moved on to her next customer. The bar was still slow but had picked up this afternoon. Simone would be in at any moment. In two hours the club would hop with partygoers and visitors who weren't ready to settle in for the night.

Mr. Sexy Eyes watched her shuffle drinks. The way his deep blue eyes trailed her pierced her with tiny darts of longing, something she hadn't felt in a long time. She longed to trace the stubble lining his jaw and let him tell her of his troubles.

She shook that thought aside. If he was the man looking for her, no telling who he was. Could be a relative, for all she knew.

He held up his empty glass and asked for another. She exchanged his empty one with a full, and for a moment his potent blue eyes met hers in a desperation that gave her heart a little stutter. If he hadn't been drinking tonic water, she'd think he'd had too many.

Winona had always been an eye person, and his drew her into desperation to know more. Layers of earth and steel and sky dominated by electric blue, so deep she felt she was drowning. She blinked, opening her mouth to breathe in an attempt to come back to reality.

“Winona?” His voice was a strong baritone of musical chords and strummed its way right into her belly. What was it about this man? He could be a serial killer for all she knew.

She faced him. Granite clenched her windpipe. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Simone coming in. Chayton hadn't left his office yet. She wondered if Danny had decided to warn him and now he was guilelessly waiting around in his office.

“I'm looking for Winona,” the man said again.

“Why?” she demanded. “What do you want?”

“I …” He drummed his fingers against the counter, a telltale sign of nervousness. He glanced downward and tossed back the last of his water like tequila. His nose scrunched, as if in bitter aftershock.

He looked at her again, and she nearly lost her balance despite both feet planted firmly on the floor. She touched the edge of the counter as if that slight grip would keep her steady.

“I need help.” Desperation crept into his voice. His eyes, still potent, were lined with worry and fear. He looked like a recovering drug addict who needed his fix.

“With what?” she asked.

“With finding someone.” He rubbed his fingers through his hair then plopped his hands on the counter. His hair remained unkempt, though smooth, as if no sticky gels held the muss together. “My cousin, well, my cousin's daughter, is missing.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. Have you reported it to the police?”

“She's seven years old.”

“Oh.” Winona quickly shut down a brief panic attack. The police were still the ones to help this poor man.

“I heard you're the best tracker in these parts, maybe even in this nation.”

“You heard wrong,” Winona said, but she had a hard time brushing off his words. Years ago, being a private investigator was the only thing that mattered to her. She had wanted to help others, wanted to help them change their lives for the better. She'd been a damn good tracker, but that had all changed. She couldn't help this man now.

“I need you. I need your help. My cousin was killed. His daughter was taken. The police aren't doing anything. I think I know where she is.”

“If you think you know where she is, you need to make sure the police go after her. If she's been taken, her chance of survival is diminished with each passing second.”

“Yes, I know. That's why I need you.”

• • •

Jake hadn't expected to be so attracted to this woman.

He watched her movements. Graceful. Dainty. Edgy. Like she could kill you with her bare hands. Dark hair. Whiskey-colored eyes. Just what he needed. And here he was trying to sever his craving when her eyes elicited a whole new set of cravings.

He'd heard she was part Sioux.

He knew the moment he saw her that he wouldn't be able to drink. Women like her didn't consort with losers like him. He'd heard she'd given up private investigation. He'd heard she would be a hard sell, but he came with plenty of cash in his pocket and more than enough money to back him up. Eyeing her, he realized money wouldn't get him anywhere with her. He'd have to tear at her heartstrings.

“My name is Jacob Inman, but my friends call me Jake. Last week, my cousin was murdered and his daughter kidnapped.” His voice croaked, but he was no actor. None of this was staged. The worry, the fear, the instability in his voice was all real. He hoped it affected her the way it needed to affect her.

He opened his wallet and pulled out a picture of Brandon and Amy. Amy stood on a bench behind her father, her arms wrapped around his chest and her chin resting on his shoulder. Jake slid the photo across the counter and though Winona looked at it, she didn't pick it up. He saw her swallow and blink, but no other emotion crossed her beautiful features. Dark brown hair, clipped up at the front, flowed past her shoulders. A small silver necklace lined her neck and dipped into cleavage he tried to ignore. He wanted this to be as professional as possible.

But her whiskey-colored eyes—eyes that pierced him to the core—remained detached and aloof. As if she really didn't give a rat's ass about his problems.

Exactly what whiskey had taught him over the years. It didn't care about his problems, only created more of them.

“She's seven years old,” he repeated.

“I'm sorry.” Her voice offered warmth but no promises, no sign of her helping. She only touched the picture to slide it back to him.

Anger surged through him. “You're sorry? My cousin is dead and his seven-year-old daughter has been kidnapped, and all you can say is you're sorry when I'm asking for your help?” His voice rose, but he didn't care who heard. Let them all hear and determine for themselves if her lack of cooperation stemmed from selfishness or apathy. It damn sure didn't stem from compassion for other people, as he'd been told about her.

She squared her shoulders and looked him dead in the eye. “I'm sorry. I don't know you from Adam and I'm not an investigator anymore. I can put you in touch with several, but I cannot help you.”

“You can't help me, or you won't?” It was a clichéd question, formulaic, but he didn't care. He was pissed off at the world, at her, and right now he was pissed off at himself for being in this vulnerable position with beer mugs and alcohol bottles surrounding him. If he made it through the day without a drink, it'd be a miracle.