Serving Trouble(11)

“It’s only what, ten o’clock?” she continued. “You have hours before closing.”

“That T-­shirt will be soaked through soon,” he countered.

“Damp. My dress was already beginning to dry. And maybe the customers will like seeing a picture of the old mechanical bull.”

His gaze flickered to the picture on the T-­shirt. “Most of the ­people out there never saw it in action.”

But she had—­the night she’d asked him to show her how to ride it. Sometimes she still dreamed about the feel of the bull moving beneath her, about Noah moving inside her . . .

A knock sounded at the back door before she could find her next comeback. She’d been close to marching off to the bathroom, reapplying her makeup, and returning to work. They could argue while she served drinks and collected tips.

“Noah?” The back door opened and Chad Summers poked his head inside.

“Yeah?” Noah called as he walked past her, heading for the rear exit.

The door swung wide and Chad stepped in, followed by another man. They had the same facial features and tall, muscular builds, but the second man was fair-­skinned with bright red, curly hair.

“Sorry to interrupt.” Chad cast a curious glance at her. “But Josh just arrived. He was held up because he offered to swing by a tract of private land Moore Timber plans to clear-­cut. And he found a woman camping out. No car. Just a sleeping bag and pack.”

Josh nodded and his red curls fell across his forehead. “I approached her and, dude, I could tell she’d been living out there for a while. When I talked to her, and basically told her she needed to leave before the crew moved in to harvest, hell, I half expected her to be one of those crazy environmentalists. But she said she was searching for a friend. Before she’d tell me a name, she made me swear I wouldn’t breathe a word to anyone. And shit, at this point, I was ready to the call the police. She seemed nuts. But then she said she was looking for you.”

“What’s her name?” Noah demanded.

“Caroline,” Josh said. “I told her I knew you. I offered to give you a call. But she started to gather her bag. Said she couldn’t trust anyone. Claimed someone was after her and they would come after you too. She told me she had to warn you.”

“Shit,” Noah cursed.

Josie turned to him. She’d been inching back, prepared to sneak away and finish her shift while Noah informed the Summers brothers that they’d found some crazy chick in the woods.

“So you know her?” Chad jumped in.

“Yeah. And if she says someone if coming for us, she’s probably right,” Noah said. “Where is she now? Did you give her a ride?”

Josh shook his head. “No offense, Noah, but I didn’t believe her story. I went to get my cell from my truck to call you and when I turned back, she’d vanished. Just slipped away without a sound.”

“Caroline’s a marine,” Noah said as he withdrew his truck key. “She’s fast and quiet. Trust me, I served with her.”

“A marine,” Chad said. “Present tense?”

“Yes,” Noah said. “And I need to find her.”





Chapter Four


THE SMELL OF stale beer and a ray of sunlight packed a powerful punch first thing in the morning. Josie opened her eyes to both and wished she hadn’t slept in the old Big Buck’s shirt that she’d worn for the rest of her shift—­after Noah had slipped out to search for the mysterious Caroline.

She glanced at the window. The white curtains her mother had picked out welcomed the early-­morning light instead of blocking it out.

“I should have asked for blackout drapes,” she muttered. But at five years old she’d risen with the sun.

“Josie?” Her dad’s booming voice called from the other side of her door. “Are you awake?”

“Yes.” She tossed off the covers and slid out of bed. Thinking about her mom, about how much she’d needed her these past few years, would only lead to tears. “I’m up.”

“I’m making eggs before I head back to the station,” her father announced.

“I’ll be right down.” She opened her duffel bag and riffled through it, searching for a pair of pants and a clean shirt. She couldn’t sit down to breakfast with the chief of police smelling like she’d rolled in booze last night.

She walked into the farmhouse kitchen wearing sweatpants and an old tank top. Her father stood by the stove, his gaze focused on a frying pan. With the build of a professional linebacker, her dad looked like a cartoon character wearing an apron and holding the spatula in one hand.