begun as fun and ended in tragedy.
Within the hour half of Redemption had joined the search. Jace didn’t hold out much hope at this point, but there was always a miracle.
“He could be halfway to the Gulf by now.”
Jace lowered a pair of binoculars to look into the grim face of Sloan Hawkins. They stood together with other volunteers on the bridge. The preacher was here. So were Trace and Cheyenne Bowman. Cheyenne, a former policewoman, had helped organize the search with efficient skill. The old Dumpster Divers, GI Jack and Popbottle Jones had arrived with the sirens. They knew the river well and were guiding police boaters toward hidden inlets and snaggy coves.
Below the bridge, ATVs revved and spit mud beneath their tires in a desperate attempt to find the man. That was the way of Redemption. People here cared. That warm acceptance was what had drawn him to the little town fourteen years ago when he was searching for a place to begin life for the second time.
Regardless of fatigue and the shivers of cold running from his muddy, wet feet to his torso, Jace couldn’t bring himself to leave.
Once, long ago, he’d been drowning, though not in water, and someone had reached out a saving hand. How could he not do the same?
The vision of a red ball cap floated relentlessly in front of his mind’s eye. If he’d been a few seconds faster could he have saved a man’s life?
A helicopter chop-chopped over the water.
A television news van rolled to a stop on the bridge, blocking the slow crawl of traffic to film the beehive of activity. A brunette in a blue News 12 windbreaker stuck a microphone in Jace’s face.
“Sir, anything you can tell us about the missing man? Did you see anything? What do you know about the incident?”
Jace shook his head and turned away, lifting his binoculars to scan the scene below. Tension tightened the muscles in his neck.
Sloan Hawkins, a securities expert with experience in handling situations with aplomb, stepped in to answer.
“From all reports, three men were riding the current. They capsized. Two made it out. One didn’t.”
“Did you witness the incident? Or talk to any of the victims yourself?”
Jace held his breath, hopeful that Hawkins wouldn’t point him as out as a possible witness.
“Sorry. Didn’t see a thing.”
Jace released the breath. Talking wasn’t his favorite activity, especially to strangers. Words could trip a man up if he wasn’t careful.
“Do you know the victim? Where are the other two men?” The reporter’s quick eyes scanned the bridge.
Sloan deferred, pointing the woman and her cameraman toward the gaggle of police units stationed on the flats directly south of the bridge.
The reporter sprinted away.
“Be dark soon.” Jace squinted into the western sky. He dreaded the moment when light would fail and hope would diminish.
By midnight, weary, disheartened searchers began to slowly leave and the search was called off until daylight.
“There’s a man down there somewhere.” Jace drew in a long breath and repeated softly, “Somewhere.”
Sloan clapped Jace on the shoulder. “Come to the house with me. Eat. I know you haven’t.”
“I couldn’t.” But he wanted to. He didn’t relish being alone on a night when he’d become too aware—again—of his own mortality.
“Sure you could.” Hawkins whipped out a cell phone—one of the fancy kind—and touched a single icon. “Annie, I’m heading home. Jace Carter’s with me. They’re calling off the search for the night.” He listened then laughed softly, though his expression was humorless. “Starved. Love you, too.”
The endearment made Jace uncomfortable. Or maybe envious. He’d never had that kind of casual, confident relationship with anyone. Never would.
But he’d accepted his lot in life. He’d created it, and he’d learned to be grateful for what he had. He made one final glance toward the river. Not everyone got a second chance.
Kitty Wainright stirred the pot of chili on Annie Hawkins’s beautiful vintage cookstove. “This will taste good to them after being out on that river.”
She and Annie, along with Cheyenne Bowman, had been in the middle of planning a fundraiser for the Redemption Women’s Shelter when word of the accident had come. Both Cheyenne and Sloan had left immediately to join the rescuers. Annie and Kitty stayed behind with the children, Cheyenne’s stepdaughter Zoey and Annie’s pair, Justin and Delaney. Annie had long ago put the two nine-year-old girls to bed after a call to Cheyenne. The preteen Justin still dragged his feet, miffed at being considered too young to join the search and rescue effort. Annie was allowing the late night as a salve to his wounded pride.
Outside a motorcycle engine rumbled. Justin leaped from the couch. “There’s Dad.”
He was out the door in an instant.
Kitty smiled inwardly. The snarly boy had blossomed under the tender-tough care of his father.
“I’ll set the sandwiches out.” As she moved past the coffee pot to the refrigerator, she hitched her chin. “Do you think they’ll want coffee this late?”
“Sloan won’t. I don’t know about Jace.”
“Me, either.” A building contractor who’d gone out of his way to help her after her husband’s death, Jace Carter had been in Kitty’s motel many times, but she couldn’t claim to understand him. “He’s so quiet.”
“Still waters run deep.” Annie grimaced. “Sorry. Poor choice of words. Jace is cute though. Nice guy, too.”
Kitty made a noise of agreement but didn’t pursue the conversation. Annie wasn’t finished.
“He looks good. Works hard. Obviously thinks you’re someone special.”
The comment surprised her. “What makes you say that?”
“Oh, come on, Kitty.” Annie waved a jar of mayo. “He spends more time at your place than anywhere.”
“I run a motel. An old motel that needs constant repair.”
“Uh-huh. There are a lot of old buildings in this town.”
Annie was right. Over a hundred buildings in Redemption were on the National Register of Historic Places and only an expert with Jace’s eye and skill could work on them. Kitty’s motel, a throwback to the fifties, was not on that list.
“Jace is the original Mr. Nice Guy,” she said.
“True. But have you ever considered that he might be the least bit interested in you?”
Kitty’s heart bumped. “No.”
Annie
