Alice Sharpe - The Baby Season

Digging in her pocket, she extracted a yellowed envelope. “Dolly Aames,” she said evenly, “sent this letter to my grandmother almost forty years ago. See, the postmark on the envelope says Tangent, January, 1964.”

He stopped the truck in the middle of the empty road, then turned to her. Face on, within the tight confines of the truck cab, his presence was overwhelming and she gulped.

“Let me get this straight. You’re trying to track down a woman no one has heard from in forty years? What are you, a private eye? A bounty hunter?”

“I told you, I work for a television affiliate in Seattle. I produce midday news programming.”

“Produce? I would have thought you’d be in front of the camera.”

“The real power is behind the camera.”

“Power, huh? You’re one of those.”

“No, I’m not one of those. I just enjoy putting things together. Besides, I hate makeup, and have more bad hair days than good ones. Now, about Dolly Aames…”

His gaze traveled up to her hair and back again. She could only guess its current condition, but as he didn’t sputter a rebuttal, she imagined the worst. “Is this woman an escaped criminal or a notorious husband killer?” he asked.

“Of course not.”

“Then why did you come all the way from Seattle to find her? Is she a relative?”

“No. She’s an old friend of my grandmother’s.”

“So you traveled almost two thousand miles just to look up an old friend of the family? Why did your grandmother wait so many years to look for her?”

“It’s complicated,” Roxanne said, hedging. She didn’t want to go into the details of her grandmother’s illness just to satisfy this guy’s curiosity. Besides, she could barely stand to think about Grandma Nell’s symptoms and what they might portend. She added, “Grandma wants to reunite a singing group they both belonged to a long time ago.”

“And how about you? What do you want?”

She stared at him, unblinking, then muttered, “I want to help my grandmother.”

“Hmm—” Shaking his head he added, “Has it occurred to either one of you that this Dolly either moved away or died?”

“Of course. But you have to start somewhere.”

He shook his head. “Well, I think that’s pretty incredible. And very naive.”

Opening the envelope, she took out a small, faded photograph of a young woman standing next to a fence. Each rustic post was topped with the bleached skull of a long-horn, making it a rather grisly, if unique, setting. She shoved it under his nose.

He took it reluctantly.

“I stayed in Tangent last night and asked around town—not that it did me much good because most everything was already closed when I got there. Anyway, no one knew Dolly Aames, but the guy at the motel said this photo was taken at the juncture of this road and the highway. He told me how to get out here.”

“Was that Pete at the Cactus Gulch or Alan over at the Midtown?”

“I guess it was Pete. I just stayed there one night and checked out this morning. I can’t believe you know his name.”

“It’s a very small town,” Jack said, handing the photo back. “Okay, I’ll grant you that this photo was taken here, more or less. Those skulls were something of a landmark for a long time until I got rid of them. Still, people came from miles around to pose with the damn things, so I don’t see that the photo means anything. I don’t know who Dolly Aames is.”

“Hmm—”

“Maybe Sal will,” he said slowly, as though hesitant to admit he might have a way of helping.

“Really? Who’s Sal?”

“Sally Collins, but you’re a braver soul than I if you call her Sally instead of Sal. I have to warn you though, she’s not quite as forthcoming about these things as I am.”

“You’re forthcoming? You’ve got to be kidding.”

He cast her a serious look. “Roxanne, has it ever occurred to you that Dolly Aames may not want to be found?”

No, as a matter of fact it hadn’t.

The house within the rolling hills turned out to be a sprawling white stucco structure with a red tile roof. Desert plants brought to life by vivid spills of flowers enhanced the aura of an oasis. Only a huge helium-filled bouquet of pink and white balloons tied to an old-fashioned pump provided a jarring note.

“Is this your place? It’s gorgeous.”

He cast her a speculative look as he circled the house and parked in front of a small barn. Next to it was another wooden building, this one long and low with a split-rail corral attached to one side. Within the corral were two horses who ambled over to the fence to stare at the truck and its passengers.

“Aren’t they cute?” she said. “What are their names?”

“The pregnant white mare is called Sprite and the bay gelding is Milo,” he said with a sidelong glance at her.

When Jack got out of the truck, the brown horse whinnied and the white horse tossed her head and snorted. After running a hand along their sleek necks, Jack reached back into the truck and snagged the pink box, keeping a firm grip on it in his large hand. His gaze met Roxanne’s, and he produced a shy grin.

It looked good on him, she decided. He really should try doing it more often.

This thought was cut short when a side door on the barn opened and out walked a large man with rounded shoulders. He wore a hat much like Jack’s though his was black and crisp instead of crumpled and dusty.

The newcomer slapped his leg and a shaggy black-and-white dog appeared.

Jack slammed his door. “Carl, this is Roxanne. How’s the new filly?”

Carl nodded his greeting, his gaze lingering on Roxanne’s face a moment longer than was necessary. Roxanne touched her cheek. Her fingers came away gritty.

“She’s doing great,” Carl said. “What about the south fence?”

“Fixed for now, but Monday morning you’ll have to get the boys to make it more permanent.”

Jack looked toward the house, then back at Roxanne, as though trying to decide something. Finally he said, “I’d like to check on the new filly. Do you want to see her?”

What Roxanne wanted was a phone, more water and a clue to Dolly Aames’s location. But Jack was watching her with a question in his eyes and it was impossible not to respond. “Sure,” she said.

He opened the barn door and entered, followed by Carl. Roxanne limped past him, watching the ground for rocks that might gouge her bare foot.

The barn was cool, narrow and deeply shadowed, smelling pleasantly of hay and horses. There were four stalls, a stack of bales at the far end and a smattering of equine paraphernalia hanging from walls and dividers. Only one stall was occupied. A palomino mare and her foal glanced at the humans with obvious curiosity.

“Ah, now, isn’t she sweet?” Jack said softly, draping himself over the gate and petting the mare’s velvet muzzle, his eyes on the baby. “There you go, Goldy. You got yourself a real beauty this time.”

The mare snorted and sniffed and managed to look proud of her offspring. The youngster stayed back by her mother’s flank, as though bashful.

Roxanne’s impatience with this diversion dissipated as her television producer instincts kicked in—babies of any kind sold a story.

The image of this little filly, for instance, and the strong, good-looking guy hanging on the fence admiring her, was great. Even the shadowed stall and the glint of sunlight from the open door spilling across the hay-scattered floor would come alive on the screen.

As for Jack? Well, besides an interesting face and eyes to die for, he had broad shoulders tapering down to a trim waist, and an absolutely top-rate denim-clad rear end. Add the way he moved, kind of long legged, and the way he spoke, kind of warm but with an edge, and you had a man captivating enough to interest any female with a pulse.