The Edge of Courage (Red Team) (21 page)

Rocco shot a glance at Kit. “That’s right.”

“When you’re ready, you pick one of the team to go with you. I’m not sending any of my men into a situation like that alone. If you don’t want Kit or Blade to watch your six, you pick one of the others, but you don’t go alone.”

Rocco looked at Kit, who shrugged. “I don’t want you to go—I know what you’re going to find. But Owen’s right. If it’s something you’ve got to do, then you don’t do it alone.”

Rocco looked at the other men. Every one of them gave him a solemn nod. Every one of them had his back. He gritted his teeth, more relieved than he should have been not to be alone in his quest. He nodded to Owen, then Kit. “Understood.” He looked at the others again. “Thanks.”

Kelan slapped him on the back. “We look after our own, Rocco. We always have.”

When breakfast was finished, Kit gave out assignments. Greer was to set up surveillance cameras across the property. Max was to stay inside manning the command center and looking into Mandy’s files. The others would go with Rocco for a tour of the grounds. Rocco would repeat the tour for the two who stayed behind.

“Afterward, I’m going to check out my place, talk to my foreman and his wife,” Blade said. “I’ll see if they’ve noticed anything unusual.”

“Want company?” Kit offered.

“No. I go alone.”

Mandy knew why Ty wanted to go alone—it was easier to face your ghosts without the distraction of witnesses or companions.

“I don’t like it,” Kit said.

“I know. I’ll check in this afternoon. Mandy—don’t plan on me for lunch,” Blade told her.

“Don’t plan on me either, Em,” Kit added. “I’m going up to the diner to see Ivy.”

“You want company?” Blade offered.

Kit smiled and shook his head. “No more than you do.”

* * *

Kit stood across the street from the Wolf Creek Bend Diner at high noon, buffeted by an unfamiliar swirl of emotions. Part of him wanted to hold off meeting with Ivy. He hadn’t seen her in thirteen years. They’d barely communicated over the years, yet he still knew everything about her.

And their daughter.

Casey was twelve now. She excelled in sports and mathematics, struggled with social studies and English. She was tall for her age, fiercely independent, and had a core of self-confidence that only a strong mother could have taught her. He was proud of her. Proud of them both.

And he ached to be a part of their lives.

For the first several years of his exile from town, he hadn’t heard anything from his former girlfriend. He didn’t know she’d decided to keep the baby. When he would ask Mandy if she’d heard from Ivy, her answer had always been no. Ivy and her family moved away after the scandal—she hadn’t been allowed to communicate with her former friends, especially not the half sister of the boy accused of raping her.

Years later, she’d ended her silence, connecting first online with Mandy, then via email, and finally in long telephone conversations. It was then that Mandy had broken the news to him that he was Casey’s father. When Ivy still had refused to contact Kit, he had called her.

He remembered that conversation, filled with more silence than words. Ivy didn’t want him involved in Casey’s life. He tried to tell her he wasn’t the juvenile delinquent she’d known, that he’d made something of his life. Nothing he’d said had any impact until he’d offered to set up a fund for Casey, one that she could use for any of her needs—clothing, housing, tuition, healthcare, and education.

And so it was that he received copies of her report cards, photos from Ivy of important events in her life. When she’d turned ten, he’d asked Ivy to have her begin martial arts studies, which she’d loved. And when Ivy said she was coming back to Wolf Creek Bend, he’d covered the down payment on the diner and had funded the renovations.

It was the least he could for the woman whose life he’d destroyed.

He stepped off the curb and crossed the street, forcing each foot in front of the other. How would Ivy react to him? He intended to meet his daughter while he was in town. Neither Ivy nor his enemy could stop him, but he would have to keep it low key. He didn’t want to tip off Amir that he had a vulnerability.

Kit stepped into the diner. He’d seen pictures of it, but a two-dimensional image did little to prepare him for the blast of colors or energy of the space. Originally used as a general store in the 1870s, it had been fitted out as a diner in the 1950s, and then abandoned in 2000. They’d bought the building for next to nothing, then spent a fortune refitting it with modern appliances and returning it to an old 1950’s look.

Ribbed chrome, polished to a high sheen, edged the tables, booths, and barstools. The counter was finished in a teal blue Formica, the booths in yellow. The stools were red vinyl. The floor was a white and black checkerboard tile. 1950’s era memorabilia covered the walls. It was ugly and exciting at the same time, and packed with patrons. Plenty of wait staff hurried about dressed in jeans, white tees, and yellow aprons.

Kit stood still for a moment, taking it all in. There was one free stool at the counter. He sat down and opened the menu, which was loaded with typical diner fare—hamburgers, meatloaf, pot roast, chicken fingers, breakfast selections, and milkshakes. He felt the weight of a gaze on him from behind the counter, but he did not look up. Ivy had sent pictures of herself standing with Casey over the years. She was still slim, still black-haired. He conjured up his favorite memory of her, naked beneath him, her hair loose on his pillow. Christ, she’d only been fifteen. What the hell had he been thinking? But then, he’d been seventeen—he hadn’t been thinking.

She was the only woman he’d ever loved. And she wanted nothing to do with him ever again. If it weren’t for Casey, they’d never have reconnected.

He didn’t want to look up, didn’t want to replace that sweet memory—a memory that had seen him through many a dark day—with a new one. He felt Ivy’s approach. Was she seeing anyone? Was she in a committed relationship? Had another man stepped in to be a father to Casey? His hands fisted the laminated menu at that thought.

“Kit?” Her voice was as soft as he remembered it, overlaid now with the rich nuances of womanhood.

He lifted his gaze to the woman before him. She was tiny. He didn’t remember her being so small. She wore the same uniform as her employees. Her black hair was drawn back behind her. A ponytail or a braid? he wondered. Bangs feathered her forehead. Her eyes were still a gorgeous sky blue, but now they held stories upon stories. Hardships. Triumphs. Joy and sorrow. He wanted to hear them all.

He felt a tension ripple through several staff members. Breaking free of her gaze, he looked around, wondering how many of the people in this room knew their history, knew he’d been run from town. The same sheriff was still keeping order in town. People didn’t tend to leave small towns like this. They stayed in place for generations.

He had not raped her. They’d made love, given each other their virginity. Made a daughter, a child whose life had been denied him.

He looked at Ivy again. “Hi.” Christ, he could hardly speak at all.

“Hi.” She smiled at him, but the gesture didn’t warm her eyes. He looked at her ring finger, hungry to know if she’d found someone. No ring marked her as another’s.

“Busy place,” Kit said.

“We’ve been lucky.”

“Ain’t no luck about it, darlin’,” the patron next to him joined their conversation. “You make a better meatloaf than half the wives in Wyoming.”

Kit was about to make it clear theirs was a private conversation, but Ivy spoke up before he could. “Thanks, Sam. Kit, Would you like a tour?”

“You never offered me a tour,” the man beside him complained.

“You’re not an owner,” she answered with a smile.

“Oh.” He looked from Ivy to Kit. “Oh! You’re Kit Bolanger, her angel investor. Glad to meet you.” He held out a hand and shook with Kit. “You saved me from a life of fast food when I’m driving this route.”

Ivy smiled at Kit. “C’mon. I’ll show you around.” She stepped through the counter, then led him toward a back hallway, pausing to look back at the dining area. “We can seat seventy-five at a time, between the booths and the counter. We’re open for all three meals. Business has been good. We’re grossing, on average, about three hundred meals served a day.”

Kit looked across the room, noticing a small camera in the corner of the far wall. He looked at the counter and found one there as well. Interesting. He’d like to see how her patrons reacted to his team’s arrival the day before.

Ivy led him through the kitchen to an office, then closed the door. “What’s going on, Kit? Why are you here?”

“Can’t a brother visit his sister every now and then?”

“This is your first visit in over a decade. Try again. Yesterday a whole platoon of commandos stopped in for dinner. Why are they here?”

“Just some buds. We’re going fishing.”

“Kit Bolanger.” She put her hands on her hips. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying.”

“All right. Fishing for what?”

“That, I’m not going to tell you.”

Ivy walked in a small circle—the room was clearly too small for her nerves and him. “What do you want, Kit?”

“I want to see my daughter.”

Ivy’s head jerked his way. “No.”

Kit stepped toward her, into her space, backing her toward a cluttered bulletin board. He slapped a hand on either side of her head. “I will see her.”

Ivy’s big blue eyes filled with tears. Her gaze held him with same force he achieved with his entire body, pinning him in place. “Don’t take her from me,” she whispered.

“Never.”

“She’s my world.”

As you are mine.
And then he did what he’d dreamed of doing for thirteen years. He kissed her.

Chapter 15

Ty looked up at the towering log house. It was utterly unchanged in the long years he’d been gone. The windows were clean, the logs weathered to a nice patina. The grounds were neat. Daisies, poppies and other perennials made brilliant swathes of color in the flowerbeds. The air was lush with flowering lilacs.

He hadn’t phoned the Jacksons to let them know he’d be stopping by. Truthfully, he didn’t want to see them yet. He fished the key to the front door out of his pocket and let himself inside.

Shadows filled the foyer and living room. All the windows had their drapes drawn. Sheets covered three different suites of furniture. Though the house was clearly unused, there wasn’t a speck of dust. The Jacksons were indeed good caretakers.

He paused at the side of the room where his father’s bar stood, uncovered and stocked with his favorite whiskey. A chill skittered down his spine. It was as if the man had only gone on a protracted vacation, not that he was dead. The ache in Ty’s leg became more pronounced as he battled memories he never wanted to revisit.

Leaning on his cane more heavily, he spun away from the bar. He forced himself to walk into his father’s den, a place his father admitted him only when he wished to discipline him. He stared at the chair he’d occupied twenty years earlier in excruciating pain, his leg broken and untended because his father was on a bender and couldn’t remember breaking it in one of his vicious fits of rage. One beating begat another, until the man finally sobered up.

Ty kicked the chair across the room, hating the memory, hating how weak he’d been. He turned and swiped everything off the surface of his father’s desk with his cane, hearing a satisfying crash of lamp and containers and other clutter. Landing on top of the heap was his father’s silver letter opener. Ty grabbed it and limped back to the desk. He knew his father watched him impotently from wherever his spirit had gone.

He stared at the smooth, highly polished, ancient, enormous, mahogany desk—his father’s great pride—trying to decide what words to carve into the surface. “Fuck you” was too trite. “Go to hell” was foolish, because hopefully that’s where the bastard already was.

“Mr. Bladen! You’re home!” Dennis Jackson said from the doorway. Ty pivoted, expecting to see his father, but there was no one other than his foreman.

“Call me Ty,” he barked the order. Dennis straightened, adjusted his black leather vest in the same way he’d done a thousand other times when Ty’s father had rebuked him.

“Of course. There anything that I can do for you? Do you want a room prepared and the house opened?”

Ty swiped a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, Dennis. I didn’t mean to be such a shit.” He offered the older man a conciliatory smile. “I guess you startled me.”

“It doesn’t matter—Ty. You’re injured?” he asked, nodding toward Ty’s leg and cane.

“A lucky shot. It’s healing well. And no, don’t bother with opening the house. I’m not staying.”

“I see.” He glanced at the wall behind Ty. Was it his imagination, or was Dennis acting nervous? Ty leaned on his cane and took a few steps to the desk, using the motion to cover the look he sent around the room.

“Dennis, I noticed the paths between here and the Wolf Valley property are surprisingly well used. Do you know why? Have you had any trouble here? Odd visitors? Trespassers?”

“No. I haven’t seen anyone on the property or in the house. I do a circuit of the grounds every few days.”

Ty looked away. Dennis was lying. “I asked because Mandy is having some difficulties over at the construction site, and I wondered if you were experiencing the same.”

“We’d heard about her troubles. Several folks in town were discussing it.” His gaze flashed to Ty, adding a quick clarification, “I wasn’t participating in the conversation. I just overheard their discussion.”

Ty didn’t react to how he’d gotten the news. His father had hated for their servants or any of their employees to participate in gossip. It had been a firing offense. Maybe Dennis was having a case of the nerves, unsure what to expect now that he reported to Ty.

“I’ll be over at Mandy’s for a while, helping her with the situation. Kit’s home, too.”

“Is it serious, then? Mandy’s situation?”

“It is. I know you and Mrs. Jackson are due a vacation. I think it’s a good time for you to take it now.”