I can still walk up a storm.” She indicated the white orthopedic shoes that she wore. “I handle the tables on account of I have a crackerjack memory and don’t need to write anything down.” She narrowed her gaze. “I ain’t never seen you here before. You’re new in town.” Dolly arched a white brow. “Visiting family?” Abigail shook her head and the old woman added, “Looking for a job?”
Abby shook her head. “A person.”
“Just what I thought.” She waved a hand. “We get it all the time, what with the divorce rate sky high and the number of good men dropping faster than the stock market on a bad day. Why, women drive in from at least a dozen counties to scope out the local pickins. It’s closer than driving to San Antonio or Austin and there’s a lot less traffic, lemme tell ya.”
“I’m not here looking for—“
“’Course when they realize the women around here are just as desperate,” she went on before Abby could finish, “they usually end up heading for the city. Take that group over there.” She let her gaze shift to a nearby table full of women nursing glasses of pink froth. “They’ll load up on strawberry smoothies and then head for the honky tonk out on Route 9. When they strike out there—and they will strike out on account of every man this side of the Guadalupe will be over at the VFW for poker night—they’ll head for Austin. They might have better luck there, but I wouldn’t put my money on it. A good man is hard to find these days.” Her gaze shifted back to Abby. “Sugar, if you want to lasso yourself a decent cowboy, you need to give yourself every advantage. That means ditching the fatty malt.”
“I’m not trying to lasso a cowboy.”
“Sugar, you can deny it all you want. But I see what’s right in front of me. You’ve got desperate, hopeful and horny written all over your face. You’re looking for a man, all right.”
Yeah, she was. But it wasn’t what Dolly thought.
Command Master Chief Petty Officer Abigail Trent wasn’t looking for just any man. She was hot on the trail of her man, aka Rayne Montana, the best of an elite group of Navy Seals that Abby had hand-picked and trained herself. He’d gone AWOL two weeks ago in the mountains outside of Afghanistan.
Her first thought was that he’d gotten himself killed. But they’d yet to recover a body. If he’d been kidnapped (her second thought), his abductors would have contacted the Navy to bargain a trade for one of their own by now.
The MPs had come to the conclusion that he’d snapped from the pressure and bailed. They were in the process of tracking a credit card trail from Afghanistan to Switzerland.
But Rayne was too smart to leave such obvious clues. Even more, he was too good to cut and run. Too loyal. Too trustworthy. Like Abby, he’d been career military. Married to his job. Proud of each and every operation. He took his duty seriously. He wouldn’t have abandoned a mission and compromised his entire unit unless he’d had no other choice.
Unless he was in serious trouble.
Despite what the higher ups were saying.
They were blaming Abby. They were convinced he’d cracked and that she’d been remiss and failed to notice. She’d been the Officer in Charge. The sole person responsible for the success of the mission and the safety of each man involved. It had been her duty to bring everyone home. To account for each and every man in her unit.
And that’s what she intended to do.
Abby had let the MPs go on their wild goose chase while she’d taken a two week leave and hopped a plane for Rayne’s hometown. It was Psych 101. When people were scared, they often gravitated back to the familiar. And if there was one thing Abby knew, Rayne Montana had to be scared. Fear was the only thing that would have pulled him away from the military.
And kept him away.
At least that was her latest theory and the one that had brought her to Skull Creek, Texas, to see if maybe, just maybe she could find a clue as to his whereabouts. Maybe he’d reached out to an old friend. Called them up. Paid them a visit. Sent them a letter. An e-mail. A text. Something.
She’d driven into town just a half hour ago and now she was here at the local drive-in, the only place open past sundown on a Friday night.
Located on the outskirts of town, the Dairy Freeze was the quintessential small town scene and the exact opposite of the various cities where her father had been stationed while she’d been growing up. Twelve of them to be exact, in as many years. He’d been a leading Naval recruitment officer back then, a job that had demanded constant travel and so they’d moved regularly. But while the address had changed, the atmosphere hadn’t. Crowded. Noisy. Impersonal.
This place was crowded and noisy, too, but it was different. People knew each other. They smiled. They talked. Her gaze shifted to the cluster of round wrought iron tables that sat in front of a sliding order-up window. At one table, a busy mother handed out ice cream cones to a group of messy youngsters. At the next, an elderly couple drank root beer floats, shared an order of onion rings and offered up a stack of napkins when one of the kids dumped his ice cream in his lap. Next to them a cluster of teenage boys in high school letter jackets and cowboy boots mingled with a handful of girls from a nearby car. Rows of drive-up stalls, filled with everything from pick-up trucks to mini-vans, lined either side of the busy courtyard area. People rolled down their windows and chatted with whoever sat next to them while the latest George Strait song drifted from the outdoor speakers. The smell of chili cheese fries and sugary sweet soft serve filled the air and stirred a strange sense of longing.
For food, of course.
Abigail had been living on powdered milk and beef jerky in the mountains outside of Kabul for the past six months. She certainly wasn’t feeling suddenly hollow because the entire scene reminded her of her late mother and the one visit she’d paid to her grandparents when she’d been five.
She pushed aside the strange sense of melancholy and steeled herself as she faced Dolly.
“Thanks for the advice, but I’d rather have the malt.” Words to live by as far as Abigail was concerned. Men were distracting. She’d learned that firsthand back in high school when she’d almost thrown away a full ride to the Naval Academy for one measly date with the captain of the hockey team. She’d lusted after him for months, dreamt about him, penciled his name on her notebook. He’d been so perfect and she’d wanted him so much. Enough to miss her application interview in favor of getting her hair done for the first—and only—time to try to impress him.
A wasted effort because the Hockey Hunk had stood her up for the head cheerleader. A girl who wore short skirts and high heels and lots of makeup. Luckily Abby had had a perfect record and so the acceptance board had rescheduled her interview and given her one more chance.
She’d realized then and there that she simply couldn’t compete when it came to all the girlie stuff. Her hair would never curl quite as much and her body didn’t fill out the sexy clothes quite as well. She’d also vowed to never let a man make a fool of her ever again. While she went out every now and then (she was a grown woman with needs, after all), she didn’t let herself get emotionally involved. She didn’t sit around dreaming of a big wedding or a happily ever after. She was living her dream—to stand on her own feet, command her own unit and serve her country.
She was good at it. She liked it. Even if it was a little lonely every now and then.
“Oh, and add a double chili dog to that,”
