want you to stay and tell me about how I had my head up my ass for months.”
Mel smiled. “Call if you need me?”
Shae closed her eyes. Mel was the best friend she’d ever had. And the most sensible. Maybe this was the time to tell her that her head had been where the sun didn’t shine, while she was still reeling from shock. That way it didn’t ruin yet another day. “I’ll call,” she said. “Will you be available to answer? I know how you are when you study.”
“I’ll leave the phone on.” She gave Shae a quick hug. “Call.”
“I will.”
Once Mel’s footsteps faded into the distance, the apartment was too quiet. So quiet that the lack of sound seemed to press in on her. Where were the noisy neighbors when she needed them?
The phone rang then, the vibration making it dance on the glass coffee table. Shae glanced at the number. Vivian calling for the second time since hearing Shae’s most recent bad news. Shae wanted to ignore the call, but if she did, her stepmother would be there knocking on the door, probably with her father in tow.
The phone rang again. One more ring and it would go to voice mail....
Taking a deep breath and suddenly regretting the lack of readily available tequila, Shae picked up the phone, forced a smile and said hello. Her father’s voice, heavy with concern, answered her.
“Shae, honey. We’re in Missoula and Vivian wants to stop by, if it’s not too late.”
In Missoula? At this hour?
“Dad, I’d love to see you,” Shae said. There was no way she could turn them away after they’d obviously driven in from their home a good hour away.
“We’re right outside. I thought it might be too late, but we passed Mel as we turned into the cul-de-sac.”
“Come on in,” Shae said, picking up the shot glass and carrying to the dishwasher, where she popped it in out of sight. “See you in a few.”
She hung up, raced into the bathroom and quickly gargled some mouthwash. If Vivian thought she was drowning her sorrows, no telling what steps she’d take. Seconds later the doorbell rang.
Vivian hovered for a moment, then said, “I can’t help it,” and threw her arms around Shae. “I’m so sorry, sweetie.”
Shae tried to smile as she gently eased out of Vivian’s embrace and then hugged her father.
“I called around,” her father said. “Checked with some buddies to see if they’ve heard of any openings. No luck yet, but I’m sure it’s just a matter of time.”
“The problem is the real-estate market,” Vivian lamented, taking Shae’s hand and leading her to the sofa.
“I know,” Shae replied gamely.
“Of course, we’ll help you with the bills until you get back on your feet,” her father said. Shae started to say thank you, but he held up a hand. “No arguments.”
“I appreciate that,” Shae said. The bills were her big concern at the moment. She’d charged an entire trousseau and had yet to see the final damages. And then there were the living expenses, which were going to catch up with her soon, since she’d been living paycheck to paycheck, spending every dime she had, as well as several dimes she didn’t have, on the wedding. “I’ll pay you back, of course.”
“Of course,” Vivian said, shooting a glance toward her husband that Shae couldn’t quite interpret. “Whenever you can.”
Her father sat down on the sofa, pulling a list out of his jacket pocket. “Here are the guys I contacted for you. You should check back in with them periodically. Several of them owe me favors. The ones without check marks are people I couldn’t get hold of.”
Shae stared down at the list, a bit overwhelmed. Her parents were in full rescue mode, and even though a small voice inside her protested, it was soon overpowered by logic and necessity. These were her parents. This was what they did, and Shae wasn’t about to stop them.
CHAPTER TWO
JORDAN MADE IT as far as Wisconsin before trouble struck in the form of a faulty alternator. Since it was impossible to travel without headlights, he’d stopped in the first town he’d hit at dusk. On a Saturday evening. When no garages were open, or even due to be open, until Monday.
The first night he’d slept in his car in a campground, putting the seat down to open up the cargo space and make just enough room for him to almost stretch out. The second night he thought, Screw it, and rented the cheapest motel room he could find, smuggled Clyde in and settled for the night. Less than three hours later he woke up fighting, his breath coming in short, painful gasps, his body covered with sweat.
Shoving the tangled sheets aside, Jordan stumbled out of bed, his head swimming as he regained his feet.
Whoa, shit.
Jordan wiped the sweat off first his forehead and then his upper lip with what was left of his now-healed hand, feeling the unwelcome scrape of overly dry skin across his damp face. He paced to the window and stopped, staring at the brown plaid drapes. Clyde shadowed his movement, keeping a distance away, as if not wanting to crowd him.
The dog understood.
Jordan tried to clear his throat, found it impossible on the first try. He hadn’t cried out. Usually he woke up yelling, but not this time. This time he’d felt as if he was drowning. Suffocating as water filled his lungs.
What the hell?
He turned away from the window, scrubbing both hands over his face. It’d been months since he’d had a nightmare, months since he’d cautiously weaned himself off the prazosin, which had been prescribed to help him deal with the symptoms of post-traumatic stress and had stopped the dreams cold.
There was no point in going back to bed, so Jordan slumped down into the uncomfortable armchair next to the window and stared into space until Clyde jumped up into his lap.
The dream had to be stress related. The alternator. The trip home. Having no means of support except for his disability check. All of his instincts were still urging him to go back to Montana. He needed to go home.
But since his dad was dead, what was he going home to?
The question had niggled at him more than once on the drive and he had no answer to it. Maybe it was because the High Camp, the remote ranch he and his dad had co-owned, was one of the few places where he’d felt a modicum of peace after Miranda had come into his life; it was the one thing she hadn’t poisoned. Not that she hadn’t tried. When he’d proposed to Becky Christopher just before he’d gone into the service, Miranda was the one who’d suggested that he and his father create a formal lease, so that Hank could continue to farm the land if something happened to Jordan and Becky inherited. She’d referred to Jordan’s possible demise so often that he’d gone overseas with the distinct feeling that Miranda hoped something did happen to him.
Well, Miranda had gotten her wish shortly after Becky had called it quits—and he was still suspicious about Miranda’s influence with his former fiancée. Something
