Page 8

Eight

Stephanie

Cuts ’n Curls looks like pretty much any other hair salon.

A young girl smiles at me from behind a reception desk when I walk in, and directs me to a sitting area with three chairs, one of which is already occupied by a slightly older woman with a tired perm. She looks vaguely familiar in the way some people just do, and I can feel her scrutinizing me as I sit down.

“You’re new.”

I glance over at her and she looks back with a raised eyebrow, making it obvious she’s waiting for an answer.

“This is my first time at the salon, yes.”

I’m just guessing that’s what she’s referring to, since she didn’t specify what I’m supposed to be new to.

“Clearly, but I meant new in town,” she clarifies.

I wonder how she would keep track; Libby isn’t that big, but the population is still roughly three thousand, which is a lot of people to memorize. One more or less can’t be that obvious.

“I guess I am.”

I could’ve brushed her off or told her I’m just visiting, but this is easier. Besides, it makes more sense if I’m supposed to be looking for a place to rent, which is what I told Mitchel Laine’s girlfriend.

“I knew it,” the woman smiles triumphantly. “I’m Betty. You came through my lane at Rosauers the other day. I’d never seen you there before. You were talking to that vet lady.”

I try to recall the cashier who rang me through and suddenly the woman’s face falls into place. The recognition is immediately followed by a rush of anxiety. It’s not like me to forget faces, I don’t miss details like that. In my line of work that could be dangerous.

“I remember you,” I manage to tell her while struggling to control my breathing, which is threatening to run away on me.

“Stephanie, you’re here for a trim?”

I swing my head around to find Tracy standing in the reception area, a puzzled expression on her face when she recognizes me.

“Oh. You’re the one who was looking for a place to rent. You knocked on my door yesterday.”

I hope I don’t look like a deranged lunatic when I conjure up a surprised look.

“She’s new in town,” Betty pipes up helpfully.

I’m actually grateful, since I don’t know if I’d be able to get a word out right now, my throat feels like it’s closing up.

Tracy barely spares her a glance and motions for me to come. I force myself to follow her to the back of the salon where she points at one of the three washing stations.

“Sorry about her,” Tracy mumbles as she guides my head back over the basin. “She’s a tad nosy. If you want to know anything about anybody in town, she’s a better resource than our local newspaper.”

She turns on the faucet and starts to wet my hair with nice, warm water. I focus on the soothing motions of her fingers running through my hair, while she gives me the lowdown on Betty, who apparently turned into a busybody after her husband died way too young.

When she starts working shampoo into my hair with a firm scalp massage, I almost groan in pleasure, and by the time she wraps my head in a towel and encourages me to sit up, all tension has left my body. Any signs of anxiety are gone.

“Sorry again for disturbing you yesterday,” I apologize, taking a seat at her station.

She waves it off. “Not a problem. Did you find the right trailer?”

“I did, and you were right, it looked like a dump so I turned right around without even getting out of the vehicle.”

“Wise choice. Did you end up finding a place?”

“I did. In Libby, actually. Just a bit south of town. Also a trailer, but a nice one with a great view.”

I was once told the best lie sticks as close to the truth as possible.

She carefully combs through my hair and looks at my reflection in the large mirror.

“How much did you want off? You’ve got some dead ends we should probably take care of.”

She holds up a two-inch section of my hair.

“Yeah, something like that,” I agree.

I resist the urge to start asking probing questions, which is what I’d normally do trying to get information, but I’m using a cover, which means I need to be patient until the information comes to me. I don’t necessarily control the narrative, but if I’m lucky I may be able to guide it.

A bonus is Tracy likes to talk, and people who talk a lot generally share more than they intend to.

While she snips away with her scissors, she shares a bit about the run-ins she’s had with the neighbor whose trailer was for rent. I don’t have to say much, just an occasional commiserating grunt, but I listen carefully for any useful information.

“So, what brought you to this area?” she suddenly asks, before adding, “that is, assuming Betty is right and you are new here.”

This is my opportunity to try and forge a connection.

“Let’s just say, I needed to get out of Dodge,” I share in a soft voice.

She leans down, meets my eyes in the mirror, and mimics my conspiratorial tone.

“Man trouble, or trouble of the legal variety?”

I pretend to look around to make sure no one can hear.

“A bit of both. I found out my boyfriend was cheating and hit him with a golf club. Knocked him out cold.”

Tracy buys it hook, line, and sinker, bumping my shoulder with a wide grin on her face.

“Girl…good for you. That’s one way to keep those assholes in line.”

“Right. Except, now he’s looking for me and so are the cops, neither of which bodes well for me. So I packed my bags and headed north.”

Her hand lands on my shoulder, squeezing gently.

“You picked a pretty good area to hide out, trust me on that. A little off the beaten track, lots of room to disappear, and if things get too hot, you can be across the border in an hour and a half.”

“I hope so.” I feign a grimace. “I probably shouldn’t have shared all this with the first person who is nice to me.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Tracy assures me with a grin. “Just stay away from Betty, she’d have all your dirty laundry blasted across town before you could blink your eyes.”

“So noted.”

By the time I walk out of Cuts ’n Curls half an hour later, I’m not a whole lot wiser, but I have plans for lunch at Tracy’s place tomorrow.

I’m feeling pretty good about myself.

* * *

Jackson

“Are you busy tonight?”

My mother pokes her head around the door of the tack room, where I’m just returning Banner’s saddle.

We spent most of the day checking and mending fences, making sure the back fields are secure before we move some of the horses there for the warmer seasons now the snow has melted.

To be honest, I’d been looking forward to maybe taking Stephanie out for a bite to eat. Unfortunately, cell reception is spotty in that back section, so I wasn’t able to check with her but, depending on what my mother wants, that may turn out to be a good thing.

“Why?”

She smiles at me in a way I know means she wants my help with something.

“I have to pick up a horse just across the Idaho border outside Moyie Springs and I could use a hand, but Jonas has a meeting in town at eight. He can come with me tomorrow, but it has to be tonight.”

“Okay…what’s the catch?”

Because I’m sure there’s a reason she needs a hand with this one, when she goes out to pick up animals by herself all the time.

“The horse is in really bad shape. Neglected. I got a desperate call from a neighbor, who has tried to get the local sheriff to step in but has been unsuccessful.”

That’s not exactly a surprise, in larger communities those calls go to the humane society, who will come and investigate. However, in the less populated areas that responsibility falls on the shoulders of local law enforcement, and they often have bigger fish to fry. Especially since the laws protecting animals in both Idaho and Montana leave much to be desired. In most cases, it’s considered a misdemeanor, letting the offenders off with no more than a slap on the wrist, and making it barely worth the while for law enforcement to come out.

It’s ironic that in some aspects our wildlife receives more consideration and attention than our domesticated animals do.

“Apparently, the horse’s owner lives in a trailer down the road from the caller,” Ma continues, “and likes referring to himself as a sovereign citizen.”

Great. We’ve got our share of those. Often individuals tout that label to justify snubbing the law, as if that would make them exempt.

“Lovely. And you plan to steal this man’s horse?”

I move past her as I start making my way over to my cabin for a much-needed shower.

“Rescue,” Ma stubbornly corrects me, trotting to keep up. “Besides, he’s a sovereign citizen, what is he gonna do? Call the sheriff?”

“No, but he might feel justified shooting you,” I point out sardonically.

“Which is exactly why I have to pick up the horse tonight,” she explains, a little out of breath. “The neighbor told me he plays the slots at the River Inn Casino every Friday night.”

I stop in my tracks and turn to look at her through narrowed eyes.

“Does Jonas know the circumstances?”

She instantly sends a furtive glance at the ranch house, so I highly doubt it.

I have a feeling he’d have a thing or two to say about Ma putting herself in danger. Not to mention animal cruelty may not warrant a closer look, but law enforcement would come down hard on horse theft, even if it was to save the animal from a certain death. Seems backward if you ask me, but that’s how things are.

“He will…after,” she mutters.

When it’s too late for him to do anything about it.

I’m starting to wonder if Jonas actually has a meeting to go to, or whether that was simply an excuse to get me to go with her. Which, of course, I will because I know my mother; she’ll just go on her own. She’s more concerned about the horse than she is about her own hide.

“Fine. I’m taking a quick shower though,” I add. “And pack me something to eat. You’re driving.”

I have a handgun tucked into the back of my jeans, just in case, when I meet her by her truck twenty minutes later. She already has the small, single-horse trailer hooked up behind it. Waiting on the console between the seats are a bottle of water and something wrapped in tinfoil.

“Chicken, rice, and black bean burritos,” she clarifies when I get in.

Starved, I’m already shoving down the food before Ma pulls out of the driveway.

“Buckle,” she snaps, shooting a pointed look my way.

I comply and grin at the memory of what was a daily battle between us when my mother used to drive me to school. I wasn’t a particularly rebellious kid, I think, but I did use to give her a hard time about wearing my seat belt. I hated the feeling of being restricted. Still do, although these days age and wisdom have me usually buckling up without thinking.

“So what’s with you and that FBI agent?”

Her question comes out of the blue and catches me off guard.

“Stephanie?”

Her name flies from my lips without thinking and that fact already betrays more than I’m ready to share. I may be nearing forty, but this is my mother; she has a knack of tapping into things I’m trying to keep close to my chest.

“That’s right. Lovely name,” she adds around a triumphant little grin. “Pretty blonde? I think I’ve seen her at the ranch a few times.”

“Not since last year, you haven’t,” I point out, and it makes me wonder how Stephanie ended up on my mother’s radar. “Did JD blab?”

She snorts. “JD? I don’t think blab is a word I’d ever associate with him. No,” she assures me. “It was not JD. I helped Janey with vaccinations at the rescue yesterday. She mentioned Stephanie is staying in JD’s trailer, and you were there a few nights ago. I think that was the night I was waiting on the porch for you. Then I heard from Jonas about what happened with the search yesterday, and was a little worried when you disappeared before I had a chance to check in with you.”

I get why she might’ve worried, and feel instantly guilty I didn’t shoot her a quick text to let her know I was fine. I need to do better; I owe her that.

“Didn’t mean to worry you.”

She smiles when she glances over. “Oh, I know. I figured—or at least hoped—you’d sought her out last night. Given her profession, she’d be someone who’d understand the kind of day you had,” she clarifies.

Funny how that never occurred to me as a motivation for seeking Stephanie out, even though calm understanding is exactly what I got from her. That, and a serious hard-on that lasted all the way home. I’m finding even more reasons to like her, and there were plenty to start with.

Still, whatever is sparking between us can only be temporary. She has a job in Kalispell she’ll be going back to. It may not seem that far, but both our work schedules are highly unpredictable. Trying to grab time to connect, when there’s also at least an hour and a half drive separating us, is impossible. At least it would be in the long run.

“Yeah, I went to see her but, Ma, we’re just friends.”

She quickly hides the flash of disappointment I catch on her face, and I feel bad for the lie.

Because—perhaps against better judgment—friendly was the last thing I was feeling when I kissed Stephanie last night. Nor is the craving for another taste of her that has stuck with me all day.

But I don’t want to give my mother false hope.

A few minutes later, when her attention seems firmly focused on driving, I slip my phone from my pocket, and pull up last night’s return message from Stephanie.

Same here.

I wasn’t sure how to respond so I left it there last night, but now I suddenly feel the urge to check in with her.

Out with my mother picking up rescue horse tonight, but are you up for dinner tomorrow?

Just a few seconds later those little dots start dancing on my screen, announcing an impending response. I tilt the phone away when I catch Ma trying to sneak a peek from the corner of her eye.

The dots disappear, only to start up again, and I wonder if she’s trying to find a way to let me down easy. It sure looks like she’s got a lot to say, but when the text finally comes through, the message is only one, single word.

Sure.

Before I can change my mind—or she hers—I type out another text.

Pick you up at 6?