* * *
The next day, I wake up on a soft bed to bright sunlight seeping through the thin curtains.
I squint then rub my eyes, which grow wide as the creaky wheels of my head start turning and it’s probably almost noon.
“Shit.”
I reach for the brass clock on the bedside table, its hands confirming my suspicion.
11:08.
The side of my head throbs. I sit up and pain shoots up my legs. The former is probably from drinking more than I should, the latter from walking too much or kneeling for too long.
That last thought conjures up a naughty image. I dismiss it, though, as I comb my hair, a hard task with all the tangles, specks of dirt even caught in them. I remove as much of them as I can, taking note to use more conditioner when I take my bath later. Then I put on my shoes and head downstairs.
The living room is empty. The kitchen, too.
Even Smoke isn’t there.
There are dirty dishes in the sink, though, and a used bowl that has traces of batter on it.
I smell the batter. Pancakes.
Thank goodness my dad at least knows how to make those for breakfast. Or did Chase make them?
At any rate, my father must be angry enough that I came home drunk and woke up late so I wash the dishes and then prepare lunch.
I peel the vegetables, and movement catches my focus. It’s Chase, heading to dad’s old, green pickup truck. I put down my knife and wipe my hands on my apron, then go after him.
Surely, after last night, I’m not supposed to stay away from him anymore.
“Hey,” I greet him as I approach.
“Good morning.” Chase gives me a smile, then loads a box on to the back of the truck. “Though it’s almost afternoon already.”
“I know.” I sigh, my hands on my hips. “Was Dad mad?”
“He was grumbling a lot,” Chase answers, loading another box. “But I wasn’t really listening. So, how are you? Hangover?”
“A little.” I touch my head.
“Drink lots of water.”
“I will.” I approach the truck. “So, where are you going?”
“Billings,” he says. “I need to get some supplies for the farm.”
“Oh.”
My eyebrows crease. Don’t we usually get our supplies from Bozeman and not Billings? Besides, didn’t Dad get some supplies last week? How quickly could they run out?
He’s lying.
There’s something else at work here, another secret he’s keeping.
I frown. After last night, he’s still keeping secrets from me. Unbelievable.
A car approaches, tires crunching along. I turn my head, shade my hand over my eyes. What the heck? It’s a patrol car winding down the driveway. Chase sees it, and his eyes grow wide, and the color drains from his cheeks.
“I have to go,” he mumbles and gets into the truck.
He pulls away and speeds off. A patrol car takes his place, almost immediately.
A uniformed policeman, tanned and about six feet tall gets out of the driver’s seat. He sniffs, jerks his chin toward the retreating truck.
“He’s in a hurry,” he says.
“He is,” I agree, watching the faded green truck disappear from sight, a hand clasped over the lower part of my face to keep myself from inhaling the cloud of dust it has stirred and left behind in its hasty departure.
What I don’t know is why. Why did Chase scurry off at the first sign of the cops? Is he a fugitive, after all? What crime has he committed?
“I’m Detective Allen from Billings PD,” the cop introduces himself, showing me his badge.
Billings?
“Do you live here?”
“Yes,” I answer, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear and smoothing the front of my apron. “What’s this about?”
“Don’t worry. I’m going to ask you some questions.” He puts away his badge. “Well, one question really.”
He reaches into his front pocket for a picture and shows it to me.
“Have you by any chance seen this man around here?”
I take the photo, my breath catching. The man staring out from it has shaved, his hair clean cut and neatly combed, his skin smooth and pale, but I would know those macaroon-colored curls and turquoise eyes anywhere.
Shit.
“Well?”
I pause, thinking.
I shouldn’t lie to a police officer but every cell screams I shouldn’t say anything about Chase.
Whoever he is, I intend to find out myself.
I shake my head, handing the photo back to him. “Why? Who is he?”
“Chester Donahue. I’ve received reports he might be in the area.”
Chester Donahue. Chase Donner. I’m sure it’s the same man.
“I’ve never heard of the name,” I tell the officer.
That, at least, isn’t a lie.
“And you haven’t seen him?” Detective Allen holds up the photo again.
“No.” I shake my head again. “I haven’t seen Chester Donahue. Why? Is he dangerous?”
The detective puts the picture back in his pocket. “I’m the detective, miss. I’ll ask the questions.”
I place my hand on my chest. “Sorry. I got worried. There are only of a few us here and I’m well aware the ranch isn’t well-guarded.”
“I did notice that you don’t have an electric fence.”
“My dad doesn’t like it.”
“And that your gate is in need of repair. You might want to fix that.”
I nod. “I know.”
“Well, don’t you worry about Chester Donahue.” He takes out his wallet and hands me a card. “If you see him, give me a call, and I’ll pick him up before he causes any trouble.”
I accept the card. “Sure.”
“Well, good day.”
He smiles as he tips his hat then goes back inside his car.
“Take care,” I call after him, waving.
He waves back then drives off.
I go back inside the house, sticking the detective’s calling card on the fridge. Then I rush upstairs, turning on my laptop and immediately typing the name Chester Donahue in the search box.
I get plenty of results, most of them about different men. One, though, has the same photo Detective Allen showed me.
Chester W. Donahue, 29, passed away last Tuesday, May 22, of injuries sustained while hiking in the Pryor Mountains. He is survived by his mother and was predeceased by his father, Walter Donahue. Funeral services will be performed at the Silvermist Memorial Park on Monday, May 27.
I blink. An obituary?
Closing the page and the laptop, I toss away my apron and head to the bathroom to shower.
It’s time for me to find the truth about Chase.