Читать книгу Fathers and Other Strangers - Karen Templeton - Страница 11

Hank pulled up in front of Darryl’s office at the garage, where madame was waiting for him, and thought, God save me from needy, moody females.

At this point, Hank wasn’t sure who was agitating him more, Jenna Stanton with those half-scared, half-defiant blue eyes of hers, or her niece, who just plain rubbed him the wrong way. Not that he didn’t understand why she acted the way she did—only too well—but…well, it was just a good thing he didn’t have to deal with teenage girls on a regular basis. He’d go plumb out of his gourd.

And he still couldn’t shake the feeling of something being off about this whole thing, about Jenna’s coming to Haven with the kid. Much as she tried to hide it, the woman was clearly nervous about something. Trouble was, Hank couldn’t tell if she was nervous about something specific, or just nervous in general, the way some women were. Nervous women made him uncomfortable. You never knew when they’d go off on you, usually for no particular reason.

And since none of this was any of his business, he could just do himself a favor and keep his butt out and his mouth shut. All she and the gal were, were paying customers. Since he didn’t come by those any too often, ticking them off probably wasn’t the smartest thing he could do.

“Thanks again for doing this,” she said through the open passenger side window when he pulled up. He’d noticed earlier she’d changed into one of those dresses that looked like a too-long golf shirt, ending just above her knees. Navy blue, white collar. Might’ve even been dowdy if it weren’t for the way the jersey clung to a curve here and there, especially when it hiked up her thighs as she climbed up into the truck. Since her hair was now hanging loose around her shoulders, he figured she must have washed it. Sure enough, the instant she settled in beside him, the cab smelled all flowery and womanly. Sweet. Sexy.

He yanked the gearshift into drive. “So…what’d Darryl say? About the air conditioner?”

She let out a sigh. “He has to order some part or something. So, like you said, it’ll be a couple of days. But his estimate did seem fair, at least.”

Hank drove through the station and was out onto the road when, out of the blue, he said, “You need to pick up anything while we’re out?”

She turned, her brows lifted over her sunglasses.

“I don’t know what prompted me to say that, either,” he said, wanting a smoke so bad he thought he’d die, but figuring she probably wouldn’t appreciate him mucking up that sweet-smelling hair with cigarette smoke. “So you might as well take advantage of it, ’cause God alone knows when you’ll get an offer this good again.”

A half laugh burbled out of her throat; he glanced over, noticed that the little commas around her mouth—which had a real nice shape to it—seemed a mite more pronounced.

“I brought a ton of food with us,” she said, “so I don’t need to do any major shopping for a while. But I could stand to stop by a 7-Eleven or something for milk and juice. If it’s no bother.”

“Nope. Not at all.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her cross her arms, staring out the windshield like it didn’t matter two hoots to her whether they talked or not. Well, fine. Offering to take her shopping didn’t mean he felt like having a conversation. But after about three seconds, he figured that was a damn sight better than sitting there and letting all that sweet, sexy, just-washed-hair scent take his mind down paths it had no business going down.

“So,” he said. “What do you write?”

She brushed her hair out of her face. In the sunlight, he could see it was about a hundred different shades of gold. He knew it was dyed—he’d seen the special shampoo in her bathroom—but that was okay. “Mystery novels,” she said.

“Yeah? Under your own name?”

“No. As Jennifer Phillips.”

“Oh, yeah. I’ve seen those around.”

She did this little mm-mm laugh. He glanced over. “What?”

“I take it you’re not a fan, then?”

“Well, no, can’t say that I am. Since I haven’t read them. No offense,” he added quickly. “I just got the feeling they were kinda girly.”

Now she laughed full out, the sound doing far worse things for his mind-wandering problem than the shampoo fragrance ever even thought about. “Girly, huh? So. Who do you read? Assuming you do?”

“Yeah, I read. My mama was real big on reading, so all of us were hooked early. Read every Hardy Boys there was. Then in high school I started in on Stephen King, went on to Koontz, Grisham, Lawrence Block. Just recently started reading Jeffrey Deaver.”

He could feel, more than see, her smile. “You have good taste. If a bit gory at times.” And while Hank was wondering why it should make one shred of difference to him whether or not she approved of his reading matter, she added, “King’s just about my favorite writer. And probably one of the biggest influences on my own writing.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Huh. Hank wouldn’t’ve thought that a woman who blushed as easily as Jenna Stanton would get off on Stephen King. Let alone write stuff like that.

At the Git ’n’ Go, Hank figured he might as well pick up a carton of cigarettes and a six-pack, since he was here. Not that he drank much, but he’d probably end up having pizza tonight, so the beer was a no-brainer.

While Jenna went off in search of her milk and juice, Hank grabbed his Bud and a carton of Marlboros, then noticed the rack of paperbacks by the magazines. Like a beacon, Jennifer Phillips jumped out at him, emblazoned in metallic hot pink across the entire upper half of the bright-green book cover. He plucked it off the rack, caught phrases like kick-ass and steamy and pulse-pounding before turning to the inside back cover, where a black-and-white Jenna—in makeup, her hair softly waved around her face and shoulders—smiled back at him. He tried to think of Jenna in terms of kick-ass and steamy. He couldn’t.

“You ever read one of her books before?”

Hank tore his attention away from Jenna’s picture to look over at Angel Creekwater wedged behind the counter. An institution at the Git ’n’ Go for probably twenty-five years, the roly-poly woman’s straight black hair was pulled back so severely the corners of her eyes practically reached her ears, from which dangled a collection of brightly colored seed beads and feathers and other assorted doo-dads passing themselves off as earrings.

“Nope.” Hank checked over his shoulder to make sure Jenna wasn’t within earshot, then raised the book. “She any good?”

Angel shrugged; bowling-ball bosoms shimmied underneath her brown smock. It struck Hank that her pooched-out lips were nearly the same color as Jenna’s name on the cover. “She’s okay. If you like that sort of thing.”

Wondering what Angel considered “that sort of thing,” Hank quickly paid for his purchases, slipping the paperback into the bag with the cigarettes just as a familiar voice rumbled, “Hey—they let you out on good behavior?” behind him.

Without even looking, Hank threw up his left hand, knocking off his brother Cal’s cowboy hat in one smooth motion.

“Jerk!” Cal bent down and snatched his hat off the floor. “And who asked you?” he said to Angel, who was shaking with laughter. Cal rammed his hat back down over his wavy light-brown hair, then thunked his own six-pack up on the counter, reaching around to his back pocket for his wallet. “Been meaning to call you,” he said to Hank, handing Angel a twenty. “Finally got around to sorting through some of those boxes up in the attic and came across a whole bunch of old pictures of us as kids, and Mama and Daddy. You should come over, see if there’s any you want.”

The family farm had been left to all three brothers—Hank, Cal and Ryan—but Cal, who’d turned the place into a thriving horse farm, was in the process of buying Hank and Ryan out. For the past several years, he’d been making noises about sorting through all the junk in the attic, but it was only in the last little while that he’d begun to make any headway.

Hank shook his head. “Can’t imagine why I’d want any of that stuff.”

Cal pocketed the change Angel handed him, his green eyes darkening. “And damned if I’m just gonna toss it without you and Ryan at least giving it a look-see. If you don’t want it after that, fine, but you can at least get your butt out to the farm and…oh! Excuse me, ma’am!”

Cal flashed a smile for Jenna, who’d come up behind them while they’d been talking. As smoothly as Hank had knocked Cal’s hat off a minute before, his brother now reached out and relieved Jenna of the basket suspended from her left hand, weighted down with a gallon of skim milk and a carton of orange juice. Cal was a notorious flirt. And by all accounts a damn good one, too. Something about that stupid, dimpled grin of his just had women eating right out of his hand.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before—”

“Knock it off, Cal. She’s too…smart for you.” Jenna’s eyes darted to his, that almost-smile playing on her lips, but Hank told himself there was no way she could have known he’d nearly said “old” instead of “smart.”

“No such thing,” Cal said, that dumb grin of his still in place.

Hank blew out a sigh. “Jenna Stanton, my much younger brother Cal. Jenna’s staying out at the Double Arrow for a while.”

Cal’s hat lifted up a good inch to accommodate his raised eyebrows. “That a fact?”

Hank glowered at him, but Jenna just said, “Nice to meet you, Cal,” as she swiped her card through the little box at the front of the counter. Apparently, hunky young cowboys with dumb smiles and dimples didn’t do it for her. And amazingly enough, Cal took the hint. Now there was a first.

“Nice to meet you, too, Ms. Stanton,” he said, touching two fingers to his hat brim. Then, six-pack in hand, he pointed to Hank. “Remember now, you’re gonna come over and go through that stuff.”

“I never said—”

But then he was gone and everybody was paid up, so he supposed there was nothing for it but to go on back. The ride was a mostly silent one, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Except, after he dropped Jenna off, her scent stayed in the truck.

Some time later, after he’d finished up scraping the shingles off one of the cottages and the Petersons in number 10 had checked out and some salesman or somebody from Wichita had checked in, and after he’d decided going back out for pizza wasn’t worth the effort so he’d just heat up some beans and franks instead, he went for a cigarette and discovered the pack was empty. So it wasn’t until then, when he dumped the Marlboros out on his bed and Jenna’s novel had come tumbling out with it, that he remembered the book.

Settling back at his dinette table with his meal, he popped open one of the Buds, forked in a bite of beans and, chewing, started to read.

Blair looked up from her plate of vegetarian pasta and said, “Then Libby told me she sometimes has to take care of her five brothers all by herself. And she’s my age! Does that stink or what?”

Jenna dropped a lemon slice into her glass of bottled water and gave Blair a reproachful look as she sat back down. “Actually, I think it’s pretty neat that she helps her father like that.” As Blair rolled her eyes, Jenna asked, “What happened to Libby’s mom?”

Blair swiped a hank of hair behind her ear, weeded out two microscopic pieces of onion which she banished to the rim of her bowl, and shoveled in a bite of pasta. “She died suddenly about two years ago,” she said, chewing. “A blood clot or something, Libby wasn’t real specific. So, like, we have this common bond, y’know?”

Ever since Libby’s father, Sam Frazier, had dropped Blair off a couple hours ago, the girl had been going on practically non-stop about her day’s adventures. Jenna couldn’t quite tell whether Blair had actually had a good time as much as she’d just been grateful for the diversion. Jenna had only met Libby briefly, and while she seemed like a nice enough child, Jenna couldn’t exactly see Blair bonding with someone so different from her other friends. Except then Blair asked if she could go back to Libby’s the next day, that Sam had already said it was okay, and Jenna thought, then again—what harm could there be in a summer friendship? Jenna had had a couple of those, when she’d gone to visit her mother’s parents in Virginia as a child. And maybe, if Blair found herself coming to visit again on a regular basis, it would be nice for her to have someone her own age to pal around with—

Her stomach cramped.

As much as Jenna tried to concentrate on her niece’s prattling, her mind kept meandering back to Hank. And everything thinking about him meant. And now…oh, this was probably stupid, but…well, when she’d seen that both Hank and his brother Cal had six-packs, she couldn’t help but wonder if there might be a problem with alcoholism in the family. Granted, she was probably just overreacting, but having lived with the effects of her sister’s chronic substance abuse, she doubted whether anyone would fault her for being too cautious.

Then again, she was already beginning to see things—little things—that gave her hope. Not his appearance, certainly. Or, most of the time, his attitude. But the man did read. And listen to classical music. And although he tended toward acerbity, there was a sense of humor there, too. And, maybe…a smattering of protectiveness, buried under all that grief and bitterness?

She thought back to the scene in the convenience store, the brothers’ interaction. Years of observing human nature for her work had made Jenna a fairly good judge of character, and while she guessed Hank and Cal didn’t spend much time together, neither did they hate each other. Which meant family ties, though perhaps tenuous, were at least intact. And after all, Hank Logan had been a cop for more than fifteen years. Not generally a career choice for the self-centered.

Yet, whenever she thought about telling Hank the truth, something inside said, No. Not yet. Not until you’re absolutely sure. As whacked as her sister had been, Jenna still felt she owed Sandy at least the benefit of the doubt. Maybe there was a valid reason she’d refused to tell Hank Logan he had a child. And maybe family loyalty was a lousy thing to base such a momentous decision on, but it was all she had.

She glanced across at her niece, who looked almost happy for the first time in several days, and a bittersweet smile tilted her lips. No, Blair was all she had. And she wasn’t about to share her with anyone she didn’t feel in her soul she could trust.

Without any reservations.

“So…your aunt and uncle raised you?” Libby asked the next day.

“Yeah.”

Libby had finished all her chores, and since this was one of the days the part-time housekeeper came, her dad had told her—with a wink—to go on with Blair ’cause who needed two giggling girls hanging around the house? Blair thought Libby’s dad, Sam, was nice. Even though he had the farm to run and all those kids to take care of, it seemed like he was always laughing and smiling and teasing the kids. Not grumpy all the time like Mr. Logan. Oh, Libby had said her dad had been pretty sad for a long time after her mother had died, but that he’d really tried not to let it show. And that it was probably a good thing, him having all these kids, so he wouldn’t miss their mom so much.

That’s what Blair had thought, too, after Uncle Phil died, that it was a good thing Jenna had her to keep her from getting lonely. The funny feeling came back, like a weird tickle in the middle of her chest.

“I guess I think of Jenna more like my mom, since she’s always been around.”

Since there wasn’t another bike Blair’s size, the two girls were walking, following the road around to where it would eventually meet up with the old highway, where the motel was. Libby bent over to pick a wild daisy, which she now twirled around and around in her fingers as they walked. “So you get along pretty good with her?”

“Yeah. I guess. ’Cept when she’s in one of her ‘no, you can’t do that, you’re too young’ moods.”

Libby let out a sigh, like she understood, then fluttered the hem of her baggy white T-shirt—they were dressed practically the same, in big shirts and denim shorts, their hair pulled back into ponytails—to let some air up inside. It was so hot. Libby had said it hadn’t rained in more than a month.

Libby had also said she didn’t like wearing anything too tight since she’d started to get breasts, ’cause the boys kept staring at her. A problem Blair said she wished she had, until Libby pointed out how much she hated bouncing when she ran and besides, they hurt like anything when she got her period. “But if it makes you feel any better,” she added, probably because Blair hadn’t looked all that convinced, “I knew some girl at church who was flat as a pancake, but then she grew into a 38C over the summer when she was fourteen. So you never know.”

It was weird, how Blair thought Libby was so pretty and perfect—well, except for her crooked teeth, but even they weren’t that bad—yet Libby said she’d give anything to be tall and skinny like Blair, and to have red hair like hers, that her own was just this boring old brown.

“What happened to your real mom?” Libby now said, climbing over a post-and-rail fence to plop down in a shady area about halfway between the farm and the motel. The housekeeper had given the girls a sack filled with sandwiches and fruit. And bottles of water. Libby had said her dad didn’t want the kids drinking a lot of pop and stuff. “I mean, how’d she die?”

“Oh.” Blair followed her, clumsily, dusting off her butt before sinking onto the grass beside her, which gave her time to decide how much of the truth to reveal. “A drug overdose.”

Libby stopped rummaging in the lunch bag to look up. “No way?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. Wow.” Libby pulled out an apple and swung the bag toward Blair, who shook her head. She was too hot to eat. Libby, however, took a huge bite of the green apple, chewing thoughtfully for a couple seconds. Then she said, “I knew a boy over in Pryor who died from drugs. My friend Heather’s cousin.” She crunched into the fruit again, talking around the mouthful. “I never knew a grown-up who died from them, though.”

“Rock stars and stuff die from them all the time.”

“Oh, yeah, huh?” Libby made a face at the apple. “Yuck. It’s all mushy.” When she reared back to hurl it into the cornfield, Blair could see the high, round bumps of Libby’s breasts. She didn’t care what Libby said, she wanted some of her own. Maybe if she looked more like a woman, Jenna would stop treating her like a child.

“I’m never gonna do drugs,” Libby said. “They’re stupid. Besides, I wanna live to be a hundred….” She grabbed Blair’s arm, cocking her head. “You hear that?”

“What?”

“Coming from the blackberry bushes over there…c’mon!”

Libby scrambled to her feet and took off. Blair followed, thinking Libby had gone nuts…until she, too, heard the frightened whimpering. Seconds later, they reached the wide clot of bushes strangling the fence farther down the road; Libby fell to her knees, then let out a small cry. “It’s a puppy! He’s all caught up in the bushes!”

“Where? Let me see!” Blair dropped to all fours as well, her insides pinching at the sight of the black pup, so scared you could see the whites of his eyes. His high-pitched yips made Blair feel sick.

“We’ve gotta get him out of there!” Without thinking, Blair grabbed for the branches to pull them away, only to let out a shriek of pain herself. “Ouch! Dammit!”

“We’ve gotta get help,” Libby said. “If we try to get him out ourselves, we’ll end up worse off’n him.” She sat back on her knees and squinted over her shoulder. “It’s closer to the motel than back to the farm—c’mon!”

Before Blair could protest, Libby had already taken off toward the Double Arrow, giving Blair no choice but to follow. Her feet pummeling the dirt, Libby looked over as they ran. “Your aunt know you cuss?”

“Are you kidding?” Blair said, Libby’s breathless giggles mingling with the puppy’s rapidly fading squeals of pain and fear.

Jenna had just sat down with her laptop when the girls burst into the cottage, both babbling about a puppy caught in some blackberry bushes and they couldn’t get him out and she needed to come right away and did they have anything they could cut the branches with?

Refusing to let the girls’ panic infect her, Jenna ditched her reading glasses and got up from the table, shoving her feet into her abandoned espadrilles. “I bet Mr. Logan’ll have something we can use—”

“No! Don’t ask him!”

Already at the door, Jenna frowned at Blair. Not that she didn’t see Blair’s point—she could just imagine Hank’s reaction at being asked to rescue a puppy. Still— “I don’t think we have any choice, honey. I don’t even have a pair of gardening gloves, and toenail clippers are no match for blackberry bushes.”

Several minutes later, they found Hank at one of the other cottages, replacing some rotten floorboards in the porch. This time, the girls hung back and let Jenna do the talking. Not surprisingly, Hank frowned. But not for the reasons Jenna would have expected.

“Where is it?” he asked the girls.

“Just down the road a ways,” Libby said, dancing from foot to foot. “You know, where all those bushes are?”

“Yep, sure do.” He hoisted himself to his feet, clunking his hammer back into his toolbox. “Go on back to where he is. I’ll met you there.” Then he stopped, looking directly into first one set of frightened eyes, then the other. “Hey,” he said softly, then reached out and tugged on Libby’s ponytail. “It’s gonna be all right, you hear?”

Libby nodded, then grabbed Blair’s hand—Blair was standing gawking at Hank as if he’d just admitted his Martian citizenship—and yanked her after her.

“You…rescue puppies?” Jenna said, afraid she was gawking nearly as badly as Blair had been.

“From time to time.” Hank grabbed his toolbox and lumbered down the steps. As he passed her, his mouth twitched. “They’re real tasty this time of year.”

By the time Hank got there, Jenna wasn’t sure who was more frantic, the girls or the puppy. Her knees screamed from all the little stones and things embedded in them from kneeling in front of the bushes, as she yammered in baby talk in the vain hope of keeping the poor little thing from wriggling and getting himself even more tangled up. She’d also tried prying apart the branches with a pair of sticks, but they were hopelessly entwined.

“Move over,” grunted a low voice from behind her.

Between the girl’s moans and the pup’s squeals, she hadn’t heard the truck pull up. “Be my guest.”

“Hey, little guy,” Hank said gently, pulling on a pair of thick leather workgloves, then picking up a pair of rose clippers. “How on earth did you manage to get yourself stuck in there?”

All the while he clipped, he prattled to the little dog, who finally quieted down, transfixed by the sound of Hank’s voice. At one point, Jenna glanced over at the girls, on whom that voice seemed to be having a similar effect. Blair, especially, her arms wound over her middle, shot a look at Jenna that was equal parts wonder and confusion. The last branch snipped, Hank reached in for the puppy, cradling the shaking thing in his large, gloved hand, carefully inspecting the tiny black body for injuries. And just as his harsh features softened, as his perpetual frown gave way to a genuine smile when the pup eagerly licked his scruffy chin, so did something inside Jenna.

The girls, naturally, were right there, both cooing and oohing over the little thing. “Is…he okay?” Blair asked, her voice tense with caution, her gaze flicking to Hank’s for only an instant.

“Far as I can tell. A few scratches, maybe, but nothing major. My guess is he’s been abandoned, though. There’s no collar, and he’s pretty skinny.” Cupping the dog’s butt, Hank twisted him around in his hands and looked him in the eye. “You out on your own, Bubba?”

The dog started wagging his tail so hard, he nearly wriggled right out of Hank’s hands. He laughed, then glanced over at Libby, scratching the pup’s ears. “Your daddy’s got some antiseptic we could put on him, doesn’t he?”

“Uh-huh,” Libby said. “But then what?”

Hank looked at the pup, then at the girls, before lifting up the dog and looking him straight in his big, brown eyes. A tiny pink tongue darted out, desperate to make contact with Hank’s nose. This time, Hank’s laughter sent a tingle straight through Jenna, one that settled right at the base of her heart.

“I can’t take him,” Blair said, a little wistfully. “Meringue would have a fit.”

“Not to mention I would,” Jenna thought it prudent to add.

Libby giggled as the pup tried to nibble on her finger. “I can’t take him, either. Daddy says we already have too many pets.”

After a long moment, Hank said, “Well, then. I guess that makes him mine.” He pretended to glower at the girls. “But y’all have to name him. I’m terrible at naming things.”

The girls thought that was a good idea. Then Libby remembered their lunch—apparently that’s what was in the Wal-Mart bag by the side of the road—and thought the pup might like part of her ham sandwich, which he did. Then, of course, they had to take the pup back to Libby’s to show him off and get the antiseptic put on him, even though he was going to be Hank’s dog. After they’d left, Hank offered to drive Jenna back to her cottage, since he said it seemed stupid for her to walk back when he had the truck right here.

The ride took all of two minutes, which wasn’t nearly enough time for Jenna to process even half of her thoughts about what had just happened, let alone all of them. But she did think to ask him why he’d taken the dog.

“Why not?” He scrubbed a hand across his hair, which didn’t do a thing for his coiffure. “Maybe it’s time I had something else to talk to at night besides myself, y’know?”

His words echoed painfully in her own sparsely furnished heart as they pulled up in front of the cottage. Jenna got out of the truck, then turned, her arms tightly tucked over her stomach as she peered back inside through the passenger-side window.

“Thanks,” she said.

Slouched in his seat, his right hand still loosely gripping the steering wheel, Hank looked at her, his brows knotted for a second or two. Then, with a sigh, they relaxed. “I might prefer keeping to myself most of the time, Ms. Stanton, but I’m not an ogre.” He hesitated, then added, “I’m sorry if I gave you that impression.”

After a moment, unable to think of a single, even minimally intelligent thing to say, she nodded, then ran up the porch steps to the relative safety of the cottage, away from the yearning in those dark eyes she doubted he even knew was there. But once back inside, as she stood at the front window, watching him one-handedly steer the truck back down the drive and replaying the past half hour in her head, she knew there was no reason not to tell Hank Logan he had a daughter.

Now all she had to do was figure out how.

The girls had brought the as-yet-unnamed puppy back about an hour later, then stayed to play with him out in front of the office. Which is where they still were, giggling their heads off and generally driving Hank nuts, when Cal showed up, somewhere around four. The door was open, so Hank saw his brother squat down to play with the dog—Cal had always had a way with animals, which is what made him such a damn good horse breeder, Hank supposed—exchange a few words with the girls, then stand and head for the office. Hank also saw a bunch of albums and envelopes and what-all tucked under his brother’s arm.

Oh, Lord.

“Hey.” Wearing that cocky grin of his, Cal walked into the office, plunked his load onto the counter. “You got a dog?”

“Yeah, I got a dog. So?”

“Kinda small, don’t you think?”

“It’ll grow. What’s all this?”

“Ten minutes, Hank. That’s all I’m asking. Just go through it, keep whatever you want, I’ll take back the rest.”

“I don’t want any of it.”

Cal crossed his arms, his gaze almost fierce underneath his hat brim. “This is your family history, dammit,” he said, keeping his voice low. “It’s not gonna kill you to keep a couple mementos of it. And you wouldn’t believe some of the stuff I found up in the attic. Stuff I sure don’t remember ever seeing. Take this, for instance…” He riffled through the pile and extracted a tattered brown envelope, out of which he pulled an old tinted photograph in a cardboard photographer’s frames. Cal looked at it for a moment, then turned it around so Hank could see. “You ever see this before? It’s a picture of Mama when she was fourteen. I only ever knew her with gray hair, so this was a shock….”

It was a shock, all right. But for very different reasons. While Hank stood there, paralyzed, staring at the photograph, Blair came in, hugging the pup to her chest. “Libby’s gotta go home, and I said I’d walk her, so is it okay to leave the puppy here with you? I think he’s getting pretty tired.”

Slowly, Hank forced himself to look up from the photograph…into a face uncannily like the image in his hand. As he did, he caught Cal’s frown at his obviously flummoxed expression, then saw his brother’s gaze dart to Blair. Hank finally found his voice, told Blair, sure, go ahead and leave the pup. After she left, Cal pried the photo from Hank’s grip. “Holy sh—” He looked at Hank, confusion swimming in his eyes. “That is totally weird…Hank? Hey—you okay?”

Hank grabbed the photo out of Cal’s hand. “Watch the dog,” he muttered on his way out the door.

The pounding on the cottage door sent the cat streaking into her bedroom and shaved five years off Jenna’s life. Then Hank roared her name and irritation gave way to stark terror, that Blair was hurt, that a forest fire was bearing down on the motel—

She yanked open the door, recoiling at the fury blazing in Hank’s eyes. Before she got her mouth open, he thrust a photograph into her hand.

“That’s my mother, when she was fourteen. Look like anybody you know?”

Jenna blanched: it was all there—the red hair, the freckles, even the shape of the eyelids. “Oh dear God,” she whispered. “This could be—”

“Yeah. So how about you tell me what the hell is going on here?”