Kristine Rolofson - The Husband School

“No. We were talking when she slid sideways.”

“Huh.” This was from Hip, a rescuer of few words. He removed the blood-pressure cuff from the girl’s arm. “Seems fine now. Should rest for a while, though.”

The patient frowned. “Can I sit up? You’re all kind of freakin’ me out.”

“That goes both ways,” Meg pointed out, and the girl had the decency to look embarrassed as Jerry and Hip helped her sit up.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“That’s okay. You’ve had a pretty tough morning, I think.”

Owen thought that might be an understatement, but he kept quiet while Hip asked Shelly—if that was her real name—if she felt dizzy.

“I’m fine. I just have to get out of here. The bus—”

“Is long gone,” Hip said. “Sit still. I’m gonna check your pulse again.”

Owen watched as three of the older men drifted back to their self-assigned stools, though he noticed they swiveled to face the action in the room as if they were watching television. He thought two of them looked familiar. The burly cook came out of the kitchen to pour fresh coffee and keep an eye on the register. Jerry planted himself in a chair and gave Owen a curious look. As did Meg.

“You weren’t gone long. Did you forget something?” she asked in a very polite voice.

“I was talking to Hip when the call came in.” Someone’s unconscious at The Shame. Hurry. Might need an ambulance. He wasn’t about to admit to his brief attack of social conscience about the damaged pedestal of the grizzly, which was what had brought him to the Dahl, where he’d found Hip, in the first place. “I thought he might need help, so I followed him over here.”

Meg didn’t look at him. “That was nice of you.”

He shrugged, uncomfortable. It was one thing to order breakfast, but standing next to her like this was odd. Come to think about it, everything about being back in Banner County was odd, including finding his old friend drinking at the Dahl at eleven in the morning.

“I’m okay now,” Shelly insisted.

Owen thought that was a stretch. From the looks of the skinny teenager, okay might not happen until the next decade.

“Tomorrow’s the doc’s day in town,” Hip informed them, still crouching by the girl’s side.

“She shouldn’t go to a hospital?” This was from Meg, who still appeared flustered.

“I can’t go to a hospital.” The kid stroked her little belly bump and looked defiant. Exactly how old was she? Fifteen? Sixteen? Someone needed to call child services. He exchanged a worried look with Meg, who gestured toward a booth where a battered leather purse and a faded blue duffel bag sat on the vinyl seat. Owen walked over to check it out. Shelly was traveling light, but he assumed she’d have some kind of identification.

“It might be a good idea to stay in town overnight and see the doctor tomorrow,” Meg fussed. “Just to make sure everything’s okay with the baby and you’re approved to travel.”

Hip grunted something in agreement, but Owen didn’t listen too carefully. He dug around in the purse until he found a cheap cloth wallet. Sure enough, there was a driver’s license inside, along with seventy-three dollars in cash. Shelly Smith. Smith? How convenient for a pregnant runaway, he mused, studying the Idaho license with a Boise address. According to the state of Idaho, Shelly Ann Smith turned eighteen on August 3 and lived at 3702 Broad Street.

Well, that was a start.

He didn’t examine the rest of her things, though he noticed a half-empty bag of candy, a thick packet of chewing gum and a pair of gray wool socks stuffed inside the purse. A small vial of pepper spray hung from a keychain clipped to a set of keys, so at least the girl had the sense to keep her feet warm and protect herself.

On the other hand, she was pregnant, practically broke and half starved. So much for sense.

“Where are you headed?” Owen asked, returning to stand where the girl could see him. “Maybe we can give you a ride.”

She shook her head and struggled to sit up. Hip helped her and she brushed her hair away from her face.

“She’s looking for her boyfriend,” Meg informed them.

Owen crouched next to Hip. “Tell us where he is and we’ll get him.”

“I, uh, don’t know.”

Owen looked at Meg, who shrugged. “That’s what she told me, too.”

“Son of a—” Hip clamped his mouth shut.

Ben Fargus decided to comment. “How the heck can you find someone if you don’t know where to look? I don’t get it.”

Shelly’s eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them back. “I know it sounds dumb.”

“You don’t know where he is right this minute?” Owen asked. “Or you don’t know where he is period?”

The girl’s silence answered the question.

“His name, then.”

“Sonny.”

“Sonny what?” Owen was suddenly very glad he’d never had daughters. His patience with teenage girls wouldn’t have lasted more than a month. Shelly began to cry and Owen watched Meg lean over and pat her back. He tried again. Surely the kid needed help with this, because Sonny wasn’t exactly an unusual nickname. “Sonny what?”

“Don’t yell at her.” This was from Meg, who glared at him with cool brown eyes. Yes, he recognized that expression.

“I’m not yelling.”

She didn’t look the least bit convinced. “Keep your voice down. You’re scaring her.”

He looked down at the kid blowing her nose into a paper napkin. “She’s got a lot to be scared about,” he pointed out. “You’d better call the sheriff or social services or someone who can get her some help.”

The girl squealed. “The sheriff?”

“No, sweetheart. We’re not calling the sheriff. You haven’t done anything wrong.” Meg turned to Owen and lifted her chin. When he was young and foolish, that stubborn chin had melted him right to his bones. Good thing he was older and immune.

“I’m out of here,” Shelly declared. She struggled to her feet. “Where’s my stuff?”

Hip stood, towering over her. “Whoa.”

“Got something to hide?” Owen asked.

“Got something to do,” was the snippy reply. “Lots to do.”

“Well,” Owen drawled, conscious of Meg’s protective attitude toward the kid. God forbid he interject some common sense into this situation. “So do I.”

He looked at Meg until she met his gaze. “Her last name is Smith and she’s from Boise. She’s eighteen years old and she has seventy bucks in her wallet. No credit cards, no checkbook.”

“You looked in my bag?”

Owen ignored the girl’s question and looked at Hip. “Call me about the bear.”

Hip nodded. “I can fix it there if Aurora says it’s okay.”

“Who’s Aurora?”

“She bought the place a few years ago,” Hip said.

“What happened to Mick?”

“A woman in Santa Fe.”

Well, that made sense. Mick and his father had been good friends, but the bar owner wasn’t the devoted family man Owen’s father had been. “Keep me posted, then.”

“Will do,” Hip promised, packing up his equipment.

And that, Owen decided, striding across the room to the door, just about maxed out his civic responsibilities for one day. He wouldn’t be coming back to town again anytime soon.

* * *

NOTHING HAD CHANGED, Meg realized, no matter how the man pretended to be pleasant. It had always been easy for Owen MacGregor to walk away. She certainly wasn’t surprised. He was as predictable as the bus driver who figured his schedule came first.

Why he had returned with Hip was a mystery, but Meg supposed he’d been curious about the emergency phone call. Not that he’d been interested in anything to do with Willing for fourteen years. So why now?