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Authors: Merline Lovelace
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call go to voice mail. I didn’t expect his brows to snap together and his expression to turn all hard and stony.
“I have to take this.”
I disengaged, wondering why the tendons in his neck had knotted. He flipped up the lid but didn’t say hello. Didn’t identify himself. Just snarled into the speaker.
“You know better than to call me at this number.”
He turned away, his entire body rigid. I hitched my sweatpants higher and tried to decide whether to stay where I was or give him some privacy. His next words killed my internal debate.
“Jesus, Margo! How could you let this happen?”
My eyes popped. What the heck was this? Former Spouse Week? First Charlie Spade shows up on my doorstep. Now Mitch’s wife— ex -wife—calls out of the blue. Not being particularly shy or discreet, I listened with unabashed curiosity to the terse, one-sided dialogue that followed.
“Yes . . . No . . . I will.” His knuckles went white. “I said I will!”
The cell phone snapped shut. When my tough, macho Border Patrol agent turned to face me, the look in his eyes shoved my breath back down my throat.
“It’s Jenny.”
Oh, God! The teenage daughter Mitch had seen only twice in the past four years. The daughter he’d shipped off to Seattle with her mother for their own protection. The daughter some lowlife named Rafael Mendoza had made vicious, unspeakable threats against.
“What . . . ?” I couldn’t breathe, could barely speak. “What about Jenny?”
“She’s run away.”
CHAPTER SIX
MY delicious anticipation of long hours spent in and out of bed with my handsome Border Patrol agent evaporated on the spot.
“Is Margo sure Jenny’s run off?” I asked with a catch in my throat.
Mitch didn’t talk much about the circumstances that had sent his daughter and her mother out of his life. He’d told me enough, however, for dread to hover front and center in my mind until he nodded.
“Jen left a note. Said she’s tired of Margo coming down on her all the time. Informed her mother that she’s going to hang with a friend for a while. Someone Margo doesn’t know.” He scraped a hand over his jaw. “I have to fly up there, Samantha. I have to make sure she’s safe.”
“Of course. Want me to check flight schedules while you call your boss?”
“Thanks.”
He had his cell phone to his ear before I unzipped the laptop I’d deposited last night on the glass-topped dining table that did double duty as my desk. I powered up, eavesdropping shamelessly while I waited for the icons to blossom on my MacBook. Mitch’s boss must have known the circumstances behind his separation from his only child. He agreed to put the Border Patrol agent on leave with minimal discussion of the reason for it.
I found a Southwest flight departing El Paso in a little over two hours. After a quick input of Mitch’s credit card number, he was booked.
“I need to change and get my vehicle back to the yard,” he said, his mind clearly already at twenty thousand feet and winging north. “Mind picking me up at the station and dropping me off at the airport?”
“No problem. I’ll get dressed and meet you there.”
He strapped on his utility belt with its various accoutrements, dropped a quick kiss on my nose, and departed.
With the absence of the two well-built males who’d occupied it, my tiny apartment seemed suddenly empty and sterile. Except for the scattered magazines and mail, of course, and the dust motes floating on the sunbeams that slanted through the windows.
I swallowed a slug of coffee and carried the mug with me into the bedroom. My sweatpants and tank joined the ABUs on the floor. I shimmied into jeans, a once-blue USAF T-shirt, and flip-flops before giving my hair another few swipes with a brush. Didn’t help. The chlorine had done a real number on it. I crammed on a Texas Rangers baseball cap, pulled the springy auburn mass through the back opening, and headed out.
The Ysleta Border Patrol Station
“I have to take this.”
I disengaged, wondering why the tendons in his neck had knotted. He flipped up the lid but didn’t say hello. Didn’t identify himself. Just snarled into the speaker.
“You know better than to call me at this number.”
He turned away, his entire body rigid. I hitched my sweatpants higher and tried to decide whether to stay where I was or give him some privacy. His next words killed my internal debate.
“Jesus, Margo! How could you let this happen?”
My eyes popped. What the heck was this? Former Spouse Week? First Charlie Spade shows up on my doorstep. Now Mitch’s wife— ex -wife—calls out of the blue. Not being particularly shy or discreet, I listened with unabashed curiosity to the terse, one-sided dialogue that followed.
“Yes . . . No . . . I will.” His knuckles went white. “I said I will!”
The cell phone snapped shut. When my tough, macho Border Patrol agent turned to face me, the look in his eyes shoved my breath back down my throat.
“It’s Jenny.”
Oh, God! The teenage daughter Mitch had seen only twice in the past four years. The daughter he’d shipped off to Seattle with her mother for their own protection. The daughter some lowlife named Rafael Mendoza had made vicious, unspeakable threats against.
“What . . . ?” I couldn’t breathe, could barely speak. “What about Jenny?”
“She’s run away.”
CHAPTER SIX
MY delicious anticipation of long hours spent in and out of bed with my handsome Border Patrol agent evaporated on the spot.
“Is Margo sure Jenny’s run off?” I asked with a catch in my throat.
Mitch didn’t talk much about the circumstances that had sent his daughter and her mother out of his life. He’d told me enough, however, for dread to hover front and center in my mind until he nodded.
“Jen left a note. Said she’s tired of Margo coming down on her all the time. Informed her mother that she’s going to hang with a friend for a while. Someone Margo doesn’t know.” He scraped a hand over his jaw. “I have to fly up there, Samantha. I have to make sure she’s safe.”
“Of course. Want me to check flight schedules while you call your boss?”
“Thanks.”
He had his cell phone to his ear before I unzipped the laptop I’d deposited last night on the glass-topped dining table that did double duty as my desk. I powered up, eavesdropping shamelessly while I waited for the icons to blossom on my MacBook. Mitch’s boss must have known the circumstances behind his separation from his only child. He agreed to put the Border Patrol agent on leave with minimal discussion of the reason for it.
I found a Southwest flight departing El Paso in a little over two hours. After a quick input of Mitch’s credit card number, he was booked.
“I need to change and get my vehicle back to the yard,” he said, his mind clearly already at twenty thousand feet and winging north. “Mind picking me up at the station and dropping me off at the airport?”
“No problem. I’ll get dressed and meet you there.”
He strapped on his utility belt with its various accoutrements, dropped a quick kiss on my nose, and departed.
With the absence of the two well-built males who’d occupied it, my tiny apartment seemed suddenly empty and sterile. Except for the scattered magazines and mail, of course, and the dust motes floating on the sunbeams that slanted through the windows.
I swallowed a slug of coffee and carried the mug with me into the bedroom. My sweatpants and tank joined the ABUs on the floor. I shimmied into jeans, a once-blue USAF T-shirt, and flip-flops before giving my hair another few swipes with a brush. Didn’t help. The chlorine had done a real number on it. I crammed on a Texas Rangers baseball cap, pulled the springy auburn mass through the back opening, and headed out.
The Ysleta Border Patrol Station
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