His words, not mine.
But along with all the fancy cars and houses, the life he envisioned for me was a lonely one. My parents had a loveless marriage, and I refused to repeat their choices. I made my own, and I would not let my father, or mother for that matter, dictate who I became. He disagreed when I chose to travel the world, but in reality I just wanted the chance to be away from them. I wanted to take time to figure out what I wanted to do with my life without them hovering.
He also disagreed when I chose to move to Montana, telling me he would no longer be there to support my idiotic choices. No daughter of his was going to spoil his image.
I didn’t need him. I found ways to make it on my own. During my travels right out of college, I met people and made contacts that truly supported my choices. Those people were my family now. So I chose to ignore his monthly bashing. I didn’t want him tainting my world. Not anymore.
Over the last few weeks, things had really developed between Noah and me. Ever since the night we stayed up making love and confessing our desire for one another, our relationship shifted, and that closeness only continued to grow.
Noah had become just another piece of my newfound world—the world where I chose to be, with or without the consent of my parents.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Noah
“We got a call about an abandoned car out on Henry Lane. The caller said they noticed it last night, and it was still there this morning,” Ryan said as he rounded his desk and walked toward me. “Wanna ride along to check it out?”
“Let’s go,” I said as I grabbed for my gun and holster and strapped it in place, but I only brought it along as a precaution. Not much happened in Livingston, Montana. It was a quiet community full of wholesome people. The teenagers and younger adults got a little rowdy at times, but it was all in good fun.
“Do we have a plate number?” I asked as I followed him out the front of the station toward the patrol car.
“Nah, old Mrs. Willard can’t see for shit. What she gave me didn’t pan out. I figure when we get out there, we’ll get the correct one and match it with the rightful owner.” Ryan was right; Mrs. Willard shouldn’t even be driving. She was an eighty-nine-year-old, bullheaded widow with a mean streak who refused to allow her children to chauffer her around.
“That lady freaks me out,” I said with a shiver. “Do you remember when Pop took us with him to clean up her yard after Martin died?”
Ryan nodded as he winced at the memory.
“I damned near pissed my pants when she rounded that barn with a shotgun in her hand.” We were teens then, and she thought we were stealing tools from the shed. Apparently, a few kids around town were robbing her blind.
“I also remember Jackson dropping to the ground and crying like a baby,” Ryan added, and we both laughed. “Once I realized the damn shotgun was a wooden replica, I was so relieved.”
“She’s one crazy lady, that’s for sure.” We both sat in silence, and I remembered that day with Pop. Hell, he worked us three boys like dogs. Later that afternoon while we were slaving away, he sat on the back porch with Mrs. Willard, drinking iced tea and shouting out demands.
Us boys silently cussed him for making us spend a Saturday cleaning up some cranky old lady’s yard. Now I found the lesson in it. He was making us men. And those memories made me thankful he was as hard on us as he was.
I was brought out of my daydream when the patrol car slowed to a stop behind the abandoned car. The old silver Corolla didn’t look familiar, but it did have Montana plates.
Ryan instantly began tapping on the small laptop screen mounted to the dash, searching through the database for the owner’s name. I scanned the area around us as we waited.
Within seconds, the information we needed popped up on the screen. “Michael Westerfield.” Ryan read off a street address in Dillon, Montana. He tapped the screen and unfastened his seat belt.
I undid my own, and we opened our doors and crawled out of the cruiser. Ryan walked up to the driver’s side of the vehicle while I took the right, cautiously looking through the windows with my hand on my gun out of habit.
A movement through the window in the backseat caught my eye, and I immediately pulled my gun and pointed it toward the vehicle. Ryan did the same as he crouched down in a guarded stance.
“Livingston police,” I announced. “We need you to place your hands in the air where we can see them.”
Ryan and I remained in place as we waited for whoever was hidden beneath the blanket in the backseat to follow my order. Slowly and cautiously, the occupant began to sit up, holding their hands above them.