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“Hudson! Wait up!”
Spell broken, they both looked around to see Tamara dodging raindrops and fighting with an umbrella as she made her way toward them.
“I’d better go,” Becca murmured.
“We shouldn’t let so much time go by.” He lifted a hand in good-bye as Tamara arrived and Becca bowed out.
Call me, she thought but couldn’t say the words. She turned away and hurried toward her car, parked now by itself. The parking lot was nearly deserted with only Hudson’s truck, her Jetta, and a couple of other sedans parked near the front doors.
Business at the Blue Note was definitely not booming.
Once inside her Volkswagen, she started the engine. Through the blurry windshield, she watched as Tamara, still fighting with her umbrella, was grinning up at Hudson and shaking her head at her own clumsiness, obviously flirting.
So what?
Hudson took the umbrella from Tamara’s hands and held the door of his truck open for her.
An unwanted and uncalled-for spurt of jealousy sizzled through Becca’s blood.
“Don’t go there,” she warned herself, but couldn’t help but observe Tamara climbing into the cab, her red hair dark and drooping with rain, her smile as wide as a tropical sunrise.
Becca, hating herself for noticing, threw the Jetta into reverse and backed out of her parking slot. Hudson was firing up his old Ford as she drove past. She tried not to glance out of the corner of her eye, tamping down the foolish notion that he was still somehow special. The stark reality was that whatever she’d had with Hudson was over-and most of it had been in Becca’s mind anyway.
The light turned green but Becca didn’t notice, not until a car pulled up behind her and honked. She jumped and stepped hard on the accelerator, putting Blue Note, thoughts of Jessie and Hudson behind her.
Hudson’s night went from bad to worse.
As if the debacle at Blue Note hadn’t been bad enough, he’d had to drive Tamara home and make small talk while she tried to flirt with him. After dropping her off at her apartment, he’d returned home to find his foreman at his back door.
And Grandy Dougherty wasn’t bearing good news.
“Something wrong?” Hudson asked.
“Yeah.”
“Been here long?”
“Nah, just about fifteen minutes or so, enough to check the stock.” The older man stood on Hudson’s back porch, dripping rain from the brim of his baseball cap and looking as forlorn as his dismal tone of voice. It was pitch-black outside and the wind whooshed rain at them sideways, reaching harshly beneath the porch’s protection. Grandy ducked his head against its onslaught. “I’m sorry about this, but I’m gonna haft leave for a while. I got a grandkid in some big trouble, and I gotta take care of her and my son. I just wanted to talk to you in person rather than call, seein’ how this is so sudden and all.”
“It’s all right,” Hudson said, knowing that he would miss the handyman who had a way with livestock. “Why don’t you come in, get out of the rain?” Hudson waved the older man toward the door, but Grandy shook his head.
“Don’t really have time. The wife, she’s waitin’.” He glanced up at Hudson, then looked away. “Ah, hell! My Lissa, she’s the first grandchild, and she’s got herself in some trouble.”
He ran a tired hand over his forehead, adjusting his cap. “She lives up near Bellingham, in Washington, near the border with her dad and younger brother. My wife and I are going up there.”
Hudson nodded. “Okay.”
“You could call Emile Rodriguez, you know. Guy’s got ranchin’ in his blood and Emile, he’s always looking for a little extra work. He could help out if I don’t get back before Boston foals.”
“I’ve helped a mare foal a time or two before,” Hudson said, thinking of his Appaloosa mare. “So has Boston.”
“Yeah, well, then…I’ll get you Emile’s number. Just in case you need a hand or two.” Grandy headed down the two stairs from the back porch and into the inky, miserable night before Hudson could offer any further resistance. Hearing the older man’s truck’s engine cough and catch, Hudson closed the enclosed porch door against the storm, then leaned against its painted frame. The wind rattled the window casings on the old farmhouse. Hudson had made repair after repair to the place over the past ten years that he’d owned the ranch, but there was no escaping the fact that the building was old and full of cracks and its upkeep was a constant battle. He probably should raze the place and start over, but he didn’t have the time or inclination. A part of him loved this old house with its ancient beams, chipped paint, and years of hard work and toil etched into the woodwork.
The ranch had been his parents’ and after their deaths-his father to heart disease, his mother to cancer-the place had come to him and Renee. Renee hadn’t wanted any part of it. To Hudson, who’d spent his years after college buying and selling commercial real estate, the chance to drop out of the rat race for a while and settle into small-town farming and ranching had seemed like a golden opportunity. He’d bought out Renee’s share and he’d been settling into his new life for the last four years. It still felt like the right thing to do. The sometimes back-breaking work was welcome relief from the stress of “deal making” and “contract negotiations.”
As he walked back into the kitchen, he automatically looked around for his Lab mix, but Booker T. was long gone. He’d died the previous autumn and Hudson supposed it was a blessing. The poor animal had been half blind, all but lame, his death expected and, for Booker T., probably long welcomed.
But the old dog’s passing had left a hole in Hudson’s life. Maybe the hole had always been there even in his youth but had grown wider with time, not smaller. Losing the dog hadn’t helped, and losing Jessie…well, that still bothered him. He wondered about the body found up at St. Elizabeth’s. Was it Jessie’s? Did she die at the feet of the Madonna in that overgrown maze? If so, she’d certainly been killed.
