“Like…”
“Like how proud he’s always been of me.” Gabe stared into his beer, shaking his head. “He loved watching me play football, man. He was there at every game.”
“He’s still proud of you, Gabe.”
“Right.” Gabe rolled his eyes, but before Mike could say any more, he continued. “Earlier, out of the blue, my dad said that Reenie and I are the best things in his life. He said he wanted me to know, no matter what might happen, that he—” Gabe paused, drawing a line in the condensation on his glass “—that he’ll always love me.”
Conner Armstrong, who’d developed the Running Y Resort a few miles out of town and turned it into a tremendous success, came in, along with his wife, Delaney, and some of the cowboys who worked for them. Mike and Gabe waved to acknowledge their entrance. Conner had been a big help with the campaign so far, and Mike had always liked Delaney.
Conner and the others stopped long enough to say hello and chat for a minute or two. When they moved away, Mike went back to his conversation with Gabe. “Garth has been a good father, hasn’t he?”
“The best.” Gabe’s eyebrows lowered. “So why the sudden insecurity?”
“I can’t say,” Mike said, cringing a little at how literally he meant that.
“I’d think maybe he and my mom are having marital trouble or something, but Mom’s more devoted to him than ever.”
“How does he seem to feel about her?” Mike couldn’t resist asking. There had to be problems or Garth wouldn’t have broken his marriage vows.
Gabe shrugged. “He treats her well. I’ve never heard him say a negative thing about her. And he certainly demanded that Reenie and I give her the proper respect while we were growing up.”
“Whatever it is, it’ll blow over,” Mike said. Garth had probably already destroyed Red’s journal. The Smalls hadn’t even known the journal existed. Mike and Lucky were the only other people to know Garth’s terrible secret, and they were never going to say anything. Garth was probably just rattled by what could have happened. Once he calmed down, everything would be fine.
“I hope so,” Gabe said.
“Have you thought about what I said at the diner?” Mike asked.
“God, you’re not going to bring that up again, are you?”
Mike finished his beer. “It might not make me very popular with you, but sometimes a friend’s got to do what a friend’s got to do.”
Gabe studied him for several long seconds and finally nodded. “I guess that’s what makes you the kind of friend you are,” he said with a grudging smile.
MIKE WASN’T SURE what to think as he drove home an hour later. He and Gabe had spent considerable time talking about ways to start a viable business selling handmade furniture, and Gabe’s growing enthusiasm encouraged Mike. Gabe might actually follow through with some of their ideas. But Mike couldn’t figure out what to do about his own situation. Maybe he shouldn’t see Lucky for a day or two, take the physical aspect out of their relationship and try to get to the bottom of how strongly he felt about her.
At least he was leaning that way—until he drove past the Victorian and didn’t see her car peeking out from behind the old fountain. Then he couldn’t help turning in at the drive.
Where could she be? He hadn’t seen her at the Honky Tonk, and except for Billy Joe’s pickup, which was often seen around town in the wee hours of the morning, Jerry’s Diner had been deserted when he passed by. The gas station was about the only other business open so late, and he didn’t think she’d drive into town just to fill up.
Anxiety caused his muscles to tense as he parked and got out. After what had happened with the Smalls, he found himself imagining the worst. He should’ve called her.
The Smalls wouldn’t hurt her again; he was almost positive of that. He’d made it perfectly clear that they’d pay a high price if they did, and he’d meant every word. But revenge would be little consolation if she’d been hurt.
He jogged up the steps, rang the doorbell three times in quick succession and banged on the door. “Lucky? It’s me.”
The house remained dark. He couldn’t hear any response, no movement from within.
“Lucky?” He reached above the door for the key he’d located when he delivered her Christmas tree and was relieved to find it still there. Letting himself in, he glanced around.
The dark, quiet house had grown cool, as if Lucky had turned off the heat. That only increased his foreboding.
He charged upstairs. The furniture was there, but Lucky’s clothes, makeup and shoes—all her personal things—were gone, along with her luggage.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered and hurried back downstairs. Surely she’d left him a note, telling him where she was going and when she’d be back. Depending on how long it’d been since she drove off, she could be just about anywhere by now.
His heart pounded frantically as he headed to the kitchen. He searched the counter, the floor, even the fridge. No note. Nothing. The kitchen and family rooms were as empty as the rest of the house.
Mike couldn’t believe it. He’d been counting on her leaving; he’d thought it would solve everything. But it solved nothing. It hit him like a blow to the chest, nearly knocking the breath from him.
He had to find her. But until she sent him her address so he could forward her monthly check from the trust, he wouldn’t even know where to look.
Walking slowly into the living room, he stared at the Christmas tree they’d decorated together. The ornaments were still there, he noted dully. But the angel on top was missing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
GARTH SAT in his study while Celeste slept, the clock ticking loudly on the wall as he stared down at Red’s journal. He’d tried to make himself destroy it at least a hundred times over the past two weeks. He was terrified their housekeeper or Celeste would come across it while cleaning. But he hadn’t been able to burn the damn thing as he’d originally intended. It felt too seedy, too dishonest, to have stolen it in the first place. If he hadn’t found the door to the Victorian standing wide open when he’d gone to speak with Lucky, to plead his case, he never would’ve considered doing this, despite the book’s terrible ramifications.
But the door had been standing open. Seeing it as the answer he’d been praying for, he’d taken advantage of the opportunity—and now he could contain the past. What he did with the journal was his decision and no one else’s. It was better to perpetuate a lie than to let the truth hurt so many, wasn’t it?