fashion. Jay had done the obvious—searched for any mention of Jay Billingsley—so now he was going to do the more tedious part of an investigator’s job. Read through layers and layers of unrelated detail attempting to find that one piece of information that would click with something he already knew but didn’t yet know was pertinent.
The man had lived in Tucson. That much was certain. His aunt had also mentioned—let slip was more like it—that his father had had some later ties to Shelter Valley.
The sooner Jay found his father, the sooner he could contact Cole’s mother and determine exactly how the next phase of his own life would unfold. It wouldn’t be a white picket fence in a small town—or anywhere. He knew that much. But if Cole’s mother had her way, the kid could end up living with Jay.
He picked up a sheet of paper with a shrunken news paper page copied to it. He took in the details of reported life in Tucson, Arizona. On January 13 some thirty years ago, Dr. Paul Fugate, a botanist and park ranger, left his office to check out a nature trail and never returned. Thumbing through pages, Jay found many references to the search for the bearded National Park Service employee, but couldn’t find any reference to the man being found.
Could the man’s disappearance have anything to do with his father? Could the man be his father? Sure…except for the name, and the age.
But what if his aunt had been mistaken about his father? What if Tammy Walton had been involved with, married to, an older man?
At his computer he typed the name Fugate into a secure database for public records. There was nothing linking Tammy Walton to any Fugate.
He searched the name Paul Fugate—and found an article dated 2010 about a memorial service for the man who had never been found. His wife, a woman who looked to be near seventy, had been in attendance.
Another dead end.
Jay’s day had been filled with them.
As his thoughts trailed over the past several hours, the obstacles he’d encountered at every step of his day, in his mind’s eye, Jay saw a set of eyes. Brown. Filled with panic.
His newest client.
He’d catapulted her into a very bad day.
When he’d given Shawna his word that he’d do all he could to help Ellen Moore, Jay’s goal, his purpose, was to help her feel better.
And because that hadn’t happened during their first encounter, he was worried about her. Did anyone outside of him, Ellen and Shawna know about the session? Would she seek help? Or comfort?
From what Shawna had told him about the woman, he suspected not.
He’d seen Ellen jogging the other day at four o’clock. It was almost four now. A person suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder often relied on the sameness of routine and schedule to maintain a sense of security. And that person might exercise religiously to relieve stress.
He knew at least a portion of her route and could figure out the rest. The town wasn’t that big.
Still, it was Friday. She probably had plans. A beautiful woman like her—she probably had a date.
Taking the chance that she’d take her run regardless of later plans, Jay decided to find her.
ELLEN HEARD HIS MOTORCYCLE as she turned the corner past Tory’s house. He must live nearby.
She stopped. But she didn’t even think about turning back. Or trying to avoid the man who pulled up to the curb beside her and turned off his engine.
In fact, she walked toward the bike, studying the chrome while she willed her heart and her breath back to normal range. If he’d come looking for her, she would deal with him.
If he hadn’t, then she’d extricate herself from the awkward position with the dignity and class that were her trademark—or so she’d been told dozens of times.
Dignity and class had been embarrassingly absent when she’d bolted from her appointment with Black Leather earlier.
“Nice bike.” She walked around it, pretending she knew what she was looking for. Or at. It was a motorcycle, all right. And it was shiny.
“Thanks. You ride?”
“Nope.”
The seat behind him had a backrest and arms.
“Ever?”
“Nope.”
“You’ve never been on a motorcycle?”
Was the concept really that hard to comprehend?
“No, I’ve never been on a motorcycle.” Proud of the even tone of her voice, Ellen forgave herself for feeling like a backwoods hick thanks to his incredulity. “You might have noticed, there aren’t a lot of biker types in this town.”
The jeans he’d worn at the clinic looked different astride his bike. He’d donned the black leather vest, too.
In her bike shorts and running T-shirt, Ellen wore far less than she had before. But standing on the curb—her curb in her town—she felt twice as covered. Because she had fresh air on her skin, the air of Shelter Valley wrapping her in a loving cocoon—and she was wearing the gazes of anyone in town who passed by, or watched through a window.
“Have you ever had a massage?”
“No.” He wasn’t going to unnerve her. She’d had time to realign herself.
“Are you afraid of me?”
“No.” The answer came quickly…and rang true. Surprisingly true.
“I came looking for you.”
Ellen held her ground. “That wasn’t necessary.”
“I thought it was. You were obviously upset when you left.”
It wasn’t the first time she’d had a breakdown. Wouldn’t be the last. But they were fewer and further between.
“As you can see, I’m fine now.”
“Can we talk about it?”
“I’m not coming back.”
“I don’t intend to talk you into it.”
“Then what’s the point of talking about it? We tried something. It didn’t work.” She was fine. Healthy enough. No one was perfect. She didn’t need help. She only needed to focus on who she was—Ellen Moore, social worker, activities director, mother of a five-year-old bundle of energy who was away for the entire month visiting with his father and the model girlfriend.
“I’m not good with failure.”
He was Black Leather. A man who had popped into her thoughts on more than one occasion since he’d roared into town—quite a shock, considering she was a woman who avoided thoughts of men because of accompanying feelings of fear, revulsion or inadequacy.
“Has
