Dana Mentink - Buried Truth

“Thanks anyway.” She would not beg. She’d done that before and her own cowardly pleas still rang in her ears. If he would not cooperate, at least she could leave. She wrenched open the Jeep door and jammed the key in the ignition. It took a few moments before she realized the engine was not cooperating. After two more tries, she slammed a hand on the steering wheel. “Piece of junk,” she muttered.

Bill walked to her window. “I’ll give you a ride home.”

“No, thanks.” Riding next to him? Sitting beside the strong, silent man from whom she had run like a wounded animal? It was too much to bear. She shouldered her bag and got out. “I’ll walk.”

He sighed. “I’m going to have to follow you in the truck to make sure you get home, and it’s gonna take all night.”

“I can get home okay, Bill.” She felt flustered, embarrassed to be floundering in front of him, of all people. “I’m … I’m not the same person I was before.” She didn’t understand her need to tell him that she’d grown up, overcome her addiction. Most of all she hated the slight wobble in her own voice. Why should he believe her? Sometimes she didn’t even believe herself.

“It’s too long a walk and too remote an area.” He walked to his truck and opened the passenger side. “Get in.”

Forcing herself to take a breath, she tried to think rationally. He was right—it would take her hours to walk home and the strange phone call still bothered her. Surely she could handle sitting next to Bill Cloudman for the drive. It wasn’t as if the man would bore her with small talk. Just a few miles and it would be over. She looked into his dark eyes.

“All right,” she said. With as much dignity as she could muster, she got in. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

Bill grunted and took off at a good pace, but twice she caught him peering in the rearview mirror.

“Looking for something?”

“No.”

“So you really have no idea who trashed your house?”

He gave a noncommittal shrug. She shot him a stealthy look. There was a sprinkling of silver in his dark hair and he looked tired, more tired than she’d ever seen him. His broad shoulders seemed to carry some tension. She had the sudden urge to speak, in spite of herself.

“I heard about Johnny. I’m sorry.”

He blinked and the corners of his mouth softened for a moment. “Thanks. Me, too.”

She should have called him, sent a note at least, but she hadn’t had the courage. Her own weakness pained her.

They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. She was again struck by how much had changed in the time they’d been apart. She remembered riding in that very seat beside him, exploring the incredible landscape—until everything fell apart. The pain and humiliation of their last meeting rose up as strong as ever.

She’d begged and pleaded. Just let me go. I promise I’ll never drive drunk again.

He’d looked at her with eyes full of tenderness as he’d arrested her anyway.

The thought made her squirm and the truck seemed to slow to a snail’s pace.

The sun set into a pool of fire as they drove back to Rock-vale, followed by the appearance of a sliver of moon in a shroud of clouds that hinted at a summer storm. He turned off the main road and eased the truck along a twisted gravel path that served as the driveway to her father’s house. Perched on ten acres of land, it would be his retirement getaway.

If he ever can retire, she thought, feeling an uncomfortable squeezing in her gut. She’d cost him so much and he’d bailed her out so many times at his own expense. Sonny Fernandes would never admit it, but saving his daughter by paying for a treatment program and legal fees had wiped out any chance that he could enjoy his golden years anytime soon. She felt the stab of guilt again as she pictured him supervising a construction crew building a bridge somewhere in California.

Soon, Heather. You’ll prove yourself again so you can pay him back. All she needed was a story that would lift her out of anonymity and, if she was patient, Dr. Egan might be just the source—if he would trust her enough to give her access to a lab story. Her editor would have to run it, even though it wasn’t her beat.

She sighed as they drove past a pile of tangled branches. In the meantime, she would work on fixing up her father’s place. Not a glamorous job, but a work of love.

Bill pulled to a stop and Heather grabbed at her bag. In her haste she upended the purse, spilling the contents onto the floor. With clumsy fingers she shoveled the things back in and practically ran for the porch, calling out as she went, “Thanks for the ride.”

She let herself into the house with a surge of relief. She’d made it through the trip without saying something stupid—or worse, crying. It was over. The scrabble of paws on the floor announced Choo Choo, a graying Labrador mix. He lumbered up and presented himself for petting.

“Hello, baby. Did you miss me?” She got him a small chunk of boiled chicken from the fridge, which wouldn’t be too hard on his old teeth, and kissed his head. “Mama needs a shower, Choo Choo. You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had.”

She did her best to wash away thoughts of Bill and her sorry excuse for a career. Wrapped in a light robe and relaxed for what seemed like the first time that day, she padded barefoot into the kitchen for a glass of iced tea, gazing out the window into the darkened landscape. Her father’s property and that of his neighbor Charlie Moon were not actually on reservation land, but their acres mingled with Eagle Rock reservation in a seamless expanse of plateaus and gorges.

In the distant rocky canyon that divided her property from Moon’s, a light flicked on and off. She froze. Whoever was moving around had no business there, unless it was Charlie himself doing some night hiking.

Not likely, as he had a bum foot and a small child to take care of. It was impossible to tell if the intruder was actually on her property or Charlie’s, but one thing she knew for sure—whoever it was didn’t belong there.

She threw on some clothes, and grabbed her father’s rifle and a flashlight.

Choo Choo looked hopefully up at her.

“You need to stay here this time. I’ll be back soon,” she said, hurriedly pulling the door closed behind her.

Making her way as quickly as she could, sticking to the cover of the massive pines that clung to the rocks on either side of the canyon, she pushed forward, keeping the trespasser’s bobbing flashlight in view. Several times she had to stop and catch her breath, waiting for the gleam of light to show again.

Finally the light stopped and a softer, steadier glow took its place. A lantern. The intruder must have fixed on a spot to explore. She felt a sudden reckless anger surge through her. This place was entrusted to her, the only thing her father owned free and clear, and this person, whoever it was, was probably out looking for fossils to steal and sell on the black market. Or maybe it was some teens bent on finding a place to party. Didn’t matter. She was going to make sure they left and never came back.

“Hey, down there,” she yelled. Her voice rang through the quiet. “You’re trespassing on private property. You need to get out of here right now.”

The light was extinguished. She waited a moment to listen for the sounds of scuffling feet, but there were none. Flicking on her own flashlight, she beamed it down into the gorge.

A shot rang out, whistling past her head. She jerked back behind the tree for cover and readied her own weapon, heart hammering in her chest. Another shot sizzled by. From a crouched position she aimed the rifle high. Hopefully a warning shot would be enough to show the intruder who he was dealing with and convince him to leave.