They exchanged Christmas gifts—Cheyenne gave her the Dolci perfume she’d been coveting, and she gave Cheyenne a pretty pearl necklace she’d bought in Martinique—and they played with her puppy, who was darling. But the conversation felt stilted. Although Eve was able to talk to Cheyenne about Anita and Presley, to express her condolences and concern, she couldn’t tell Chey what she and Callie suspected might be going on with Baxter. Not with Dylan there. That information was too personal to the group.
Understandably, Dylan didn’t seem to be a whole lot more comfortable in her presence than she was in his. She’d never known him to be the nervous type. From what she could remember, he’d always had a big chip on his shoulder, a “you can kiss my ass if you don’t like me” attitude. But he was obviously making an effort to be liked now.
They talked about where Presley might have gone, when Cheyenne should hold the service for her mother, how she’d pay for it, if she’d move out of the river bottoms as she’d planned. Eve wasn’t surprised that Cheyenne didn’t seem so keen on getting a house closer to town anymore. Then, out of the blue, Cheyenne announced that Dylan had quit smoking.
When Eve glanced over at him, he managed a rather pained smile as if he understood that hadn’t really flowed into the conversation naturally but was something he wanted her to know. “Better late than never,” he added.
Eve resisted a chuckle. This was serious business, no matter how charming that had come off. “It’s good to give your lungs a break,” she responded. “But I’m more concerned about whether or not you do drugs.”
How had she let that slip out? She’d promised herself she wouldn’t be confrontational. Cheyenne had begged for her support and she’d come here with the intention of giving it.
Fortunately, Dylan seemed to welcome the chance to defend himself. Pretending there wasn’t an undercurrent was hard for him, she realized. He wasn’t the type to fake niceties, and she respected that.
“I don’t do drugs. I can’t say I’ve never tried certain substances,” he admitted. “There was a time I did, a number of years ago. But I’m sorry about that now.”
She narrowed her eyes. “So the rumors are wrong?”
“They don’t pertain to me.”
Those rumors had come from somewhere but, whether his brothers deserved it or not, he didn’t push the blame onto them. Eve got the impression he was too loyal, which eased her mind more than the fact that he’d given up smoking. It showed her that he wasn’t willing to hurt others to protect himself.
“You have to judge Dylan on his own merit,” Cheyenne chipped in, obviously trying to sell her, too.
Eve told herself to shelve her disapproval and let it go at that, but she had one more question, and she figured she might as well ask it. “And the run-ins with the law, Dylan?”
“All in the past.” He raised his hands. “I swear. I haven’t been arrested for…at least three years. No more fighting.” He seemed so earnest Eve couldn’t help smiling.
“You really care about her.”
He looked her right in the eye when he nodded, but confirmation wasn’t necessary. His feelings were apparent in the way he touched Chey, the way he looked at her—even the fact that he was sitting here, putting up with the skepticism of her best friend. A guy like Dylan wouldn’t do that for just any woman.
Somehow his devotion made up for what Eve had lost. Maybe her relationship with Chey would never be the same. Eve mourned that and knew she would for some time. But she could tell Cheyenne was happy, and that was more important than anything else.
“She really cares about you, too,” she said. “I think that’s what has me so scared.”
Dylan’s smile slanted to one side. “I won’t try to cut you out if you don’t try to cut me out,” he said, and that was all it took to convince Eve she could give him a chance.
“Deal!” she said, and slapped his hand in a high five.
* * *
“See? That wasn’t so hard,” Cheyenne said as she held Lucky back from following Eve outside and closed the door.
“Easy for you to say,” Dylan grumbled, but Cheyenne knew he was teasing. Having Eve over had gone better than either of them had expected.
“My other friends will be the same way,” she predicted. “They’re all good people. Just like Eve.”
Her phone rang before he could say anything. She glanced at the clock, wondering who could be calling after ten. She didn’t recognize the number. It started with a 408 area code, which corresponded to Phoenix, if Cheyenne remembered correctly.
Maybe it was the police with some word on her sister. But when she hit the talk button, she couldn’t get anyone to speak.
“Hello?” she said. “Hello? Is someone there?”
No response.
“Could it be Presley?” Dylan whispered.
“Presley?” Cheyenne said. “Pres, is that you? If it is, say something. I’ve been so worried.”
Nothing.
“Please? I miss you! Tell me where you are. I’ll come and get you.”
Finally, she got a response. “You wouldn’t want me back if you knew the truth.”
It was her sister, all right. Was she talking about her involvement in Anita’s death? Or Crouch?
“I already know the truth,” Cheyenne said, but it was too late. Presley had hung up.
Cheyenne tried to call her back, but all she got was a recording. “This payphone doesn’t accept incoming calls.”
30
According to the conversation she’d just had with Chief Stacy, the police couldn’t do anything to help bring Presley home. She’d left of her own free will. She was an adult. She had the right to leave. But Cheyenne knew Presley couldn’t be doing well. She didn’t have any money, any clothes, any way to survive. Cheyenne shuddered to think how she must be getting by.
At least she was alive. If only they could find her and take her home before that changed.
She knew putting Anita’s funeral on hold while she searched for her sister was a problem. The undertaker wanted to have the service and get her buried. Anita was taking up space in his cooler. He’d said that once. He wouldn’t be making much money off the Christensens so he had no reason to be accommodating.
But Cheyenne couldn’t even consider burying Anita until Presley was back to pay her final respects. She saw Presley’s participation as a necessary part of her recovery. Presley had to come to terms with whatever happened the night Anita died, even if it meant going to the police to confess that she’d performed a mercy killing.