Running Blind Page 4

  The three stool-riders were still in place at the counter, but as soon as Kat reappeared they grabbed their tickets, slid from the stools, fished tip money out of their pockets, then ambled toward the cash register situated at the end of the counter closest to the door. A quick glance at the clock on the wall told Carlin they were leaving with ten minutes to spare. Kat efficiently rang up the tickets, ignored one customer’s attempt to flirt, and as soon as the last one left she flipped the sign on the door so it said “Closed,” then turned the lock.

  “I hate it when someone comes in at the last minute,” she explained with a slight grumble in her tone. “Throws off my whole schedule.”

  Carlin figured closing a little early had more to do with the “talking” Kat wanted to do, but because she was interested she asked, as she hung her jacket on a coatrack not far from the door, “When do you do your baking?”

  “If I have any special orders I usually stick around after closing to bake, so I don’t get overloaded during business hours. If I’m here late anyway, I’ll go ahead and bake for the next day, too. Otherwise I head home shortly after closing; baking usually starts as soon as the breakfast rush is over.”

  Carlin made herself handy removing the dirty crockery from the counter and, after a nod from Kat, took it through to the kitchen area. From her few brief stints as a waitress she knew there were all sorts of health department rules that had to be followed, and each state had different laws, so obviously things had to be done a certain way. Still, cooking was cooking and eating was eating, and some chores were the same except for the volume of what needed to be done.

  Kat didn’t strike her as a naively trusting person, despite the speed with which she’d offered the job, so Carlin waited for the questions to begin. Kat had acted on her own reasons, and she might or might not divulge them. That was fair enough, considering Carlin had already decided to keep some things to herself, too, such as her real last name.

  While the huge commercial dishwasher was running, they tackled the public area. Carlin did the mopping while Kat did the refilling and putting away stuff, though she kept an eye on her employer to see how things were done. Starting at the far wall, she mopped toward the kitchen area, scrubbing the floor with a solution that smelled like pure bleach and burned her sinuses. She wrinkled her nose. “Any germ that still lives after being drowned in this stuff deserves a nice cushy home on Easy Street.”

  “Any germ that lives could get my doors closed until it’s been hunted down and killed,” Kat returned.

  “Got it.” Carlin swabbed more bleach into a corner, unwilling to risk losing this job for a few germs, and in a vengeful tone said, “Die, you little bastards.” As soon as the words were out she mentally smacked herself in the head and darted a glance at Kat. “Sorry. I got carried away.”

  Kat shrugged. “That’s okay. I’ve called them worse.”

  “I try to watch my mouth,” Carlin confessed, giving another swipe at the corner, just in case. “The problem is I come from a long line of smart-asses, and things just … pop out.”

  “DNA’s a bitch.” Looking over at her, Kat suddenly grinned, her eyes lighting up. “I guess that explains your name, huh?”

  “Carlin? Yeah. At least they didn’t name me ‘George.’ ”

  They both snickered. Carlin relaxed more now that she knew she didn’t have to tamp down her more irreverent observations—everyone remembered a smart-ass, and not drawing attention to herself had been tough. On the other hand, staying alive was really good motivation, so she’d been working on being as anonymous as possible.

  “My mom loves George Carlin,” Kat said. “She’s always said any man who can make her laugh …” the sentence trailed away, as if some unexpected remembrance had derailed her thoughts.

  They worked in silence for a few minutes, but the quiet didn’t help. Carlin was getting antsier by the second. Why wait until Kat decided to start the questions? Why not begin with some of her own?

  “So, what made you decide to hire me? That was a fast decision, especially after I told you I needed to be paid under the table.”

  Kat looked a little startled, as if she hadn’t expected her new employee to take charge. She paused, her head tilting a bit to the side, her pale, clear eyes sharp as she gave Carlin a considering look. “I know what it’s like to be afraid of a man,” she finally said, her tone completely level. “Never again.”

  That simple explanation was good enough for Carlin. If she ever got out of this mess, if she was ever free and clear … she’d gladly help another woman who found herself in a similar situation. Call it karma, call it gratitude … call it one woman who had survived helping another to make it through another day. For now, Carlin decided just to call it good luck.

  As her employer, Kat could’ve asked for details, could’ve demanded them, but she didn’t. Instead she went to the jukebox, carefully avoiding the segment of the floor Carlin had already mopped while digging change out of her large apron pocket. She didn’t study the selections, just dropped in some quarters and started punching buttons, lining up a few songs for them to work by. As Kat turned around, the first song she’d chosen began to play. An instrumental Carlin didn’t recognize began, the notes filling the quiet café; Kat half-closed her eyes, her body moving in a gentle shimmy and sway. A moment later, Michael Bublé began to sing an upbeat version of “Cry Me a River.”

  Why that song? Carlin was suddenly tempted to tell Kat more. She wanted to tell her new boss that she had never cried over Brad, that it hadn’t been that kind of relationship, not ever. She had cried over some of the things he’d done, but mostly she’d been angry and frustrated—until Jina died, and after that things had changed. She didn’t cry now. Now, she worked hard at surviving.

  But Kat simply put on the music and got back to work. She didn’t speak, and Carlin pushed away the temptation to talk. Was this Kat’s normal way of doing things, or had she fired the jukebox up so it would be possible for them to work without speaking? Questions would inevitably come, but obviously not right this minute. Good enough.

  When “Cry Me a River” ended it was followed by Trace Adkins, with a kickin’ country song about bars and nice butts. Kat had an eclectic taste in music. Carlin was interested, but not surprised.

  Music filled the background, set the pace for their work, made it impossible for either of them to take notice of uncomfortable silences, because there were none.

  When she’d driven into Battle Ridge, Carlin had looked around and pretty much written the town off. She’d asked about a job out of habit, but hadn’t expected anything. She hadn’t expected she’d find herself here, mopping The Pie Hole, taking on a new job in the blink of an eye. And now she had a place to sleep, two meals a day, and she’d take in a little bit of cash along the way. Perfect. She wouldn’t stay here long. She couldn’t stay anywhere for very long. But she was safe for now, and that was enough.

  When the café was spotless and put to rights, they moved into the kitchen. The music came to an end, and there it was … silence. Everything unspoken seemed to hang in the air. Kat stopped working and turned to Carlin, looking at her with those arresting eyes.

  Okay, here it was. Carlin didn’t exactly hold her breath, but she went still, waiting. This was the moment, and it could go either way. If Kat didn’t ask, she wasn’t going to volunteer information. But if Kat did ask, she’d have to either lie or simply refuse to answer. Much as she would love to spill her guts, unload on a kindred spirit … The less Kat knew, the better off she’d be.

  But when Kat started talking, she went straight into a territory Carlin hadn’t expected. “If you’re going to be here awhile, there are a few things you should know.”

  Depends on how long “awhile” is.

  “There’s a drugstore and a grocery store at the edge of town. Neither of them is much to look at, but they sell the basics: mascara, tampons, cookies, milk. If you want anything fancy you’re going to have to drive into Cheyenne.”

&
nbsp; “Good to know.” Amusement at what Kat considered the basics made her lips twitch. But she wouldn’t be driving into Cheyenne, barring some kind of crisis. The bigger the town, the less comfortable she was. It was impossible to spot a stranger, but larger towns tended to have more security cameras, more curious cops, just … more. Besides, she didn’t have any exotic needs; it sounded as if she could get everything she wanted right here in Battle Ridge, Wyoming.

  “There’s a library just down from the hardware store,” Kat continued. “They don’t have a great selection of books, but they do have a decent fiction section and a couple of public computers, if you have need for that sort of thing.”

  “Thanks.” Public computers. Her cup runneth over. “I could stand to do a little reading while I’m here.” She saw no need to share the news that her heart had gone pitter-pat at the mention of a public computer.

  “And a warning,” Kat said ominously. “Stay away from the cowboys.”

  “Cowboys?”

  “Battle Ridge is lousy with them, I’m afraid.”

  “You don’t like cowboys.” The tone of Kat’s voice when she said the word made that a fact, not a question.

  “They’ll break your heart and leave you in a trail of dust,” Kat said dramatically, widening her eyes, but then she ruined her own show by laughing.

  “Did a cowboy break your heart?” Carlin asked, her tone as irreverent as her boss’s.

  “Oh, hell no. I grew up around here. I’ve known from birth that cowboys are to be avoided at all costs.”

  She could relate to that; since meeting Brad, Carlin hadn’t wanted a relationship with any man, for reasons both emotional and practical. The emotional part was kind of like the time she’d eaten a slice of bad pizza, and spent the night and next day throwing up; she hadn’t wanted pizza at all for the next several months. The practical part was, she couldn’t have a relationship when not only did she fully intend to keep moving around, but if Brad did find her and she was involved with someone else, that person’s life was then in danger. But instead of going there, she said, in her best John Wayne voice, “I’m sorry to hear you say that, little lady.”

  Kat laughed again, finished wiping down a stainless-steel counter beside the large stove, and directed Carlin and her mop to an area by the oversized freezer. Carlin smiled as she continued to clean. How long had it been since she’d relaxed enough to laugh?

  Too long. But at the same time, getting too comfortable in Battle Ridge would be a Bad Idea.

  They finished up at about the same time, and Kat said, “I officially call this finished, and in half the time it usually takes me. Good deal. How about a decaf, or a cup of tea?”

  Carlin glanced at the clock on the wall, a little startled to see how much time had passed. They’d been working for a couple of hours. Hard work deserved a treat. “Tea would be great.”

  “Something else to eat? There’s pie left. Or I could throw together some sandwiches.”

  “No, that’s too much—”

  “No trouble at all. I have to eat, too. I can either eat here, or I can drive home and eat, but it’ll be a sandwich, regardless. After cooking all day I never cook dinner for myself.”

  Her tone was wry, and completely honest. Carlin wasn’t hungry, but she knew she would be later if she didn’t eat something now. Besides, she couldn’t assume this little town was as safe a haven as it appeared to be, that Brad couldn’t find her here. She didn’t see how he could, but she’d underestimated him too often. She might well be running again tomorrow.

  “Okay, thanks. That would be great. I’m not picky, and I don’t have any strong likes or dislikes. Except for cabbage. I hate cabbage. And caviar. Blech. Whoever thought eating fish eggs was a good idea? And rutabaga. I don’t like rutabaga.”

  Kat waited a moment, then said, “Is that all?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Good. I can firmly promise you that I won’t make a cabbage, caviar, and rutabaga sandwich.”

  “Good God, that’s a repulsive idea,” Carlin said, shuddering.

  The sandwiches Kat slapped together were regular ham and cheese, and the two women sat on stools in the kitchen, eating and sipping hot tea. In between bites Kat shared tidbits about Battle Ridge. This was home for her, and while she loved the place, she recognized its faults. And yet she stayed. Carlin started to ask why, and stopped herself. She didn’t need to know; didn’t need to like Kat Bailey any more than she already did. Maybe the fact that this was home was reason enough for Kat to stay.

  Carlin didn’t want to get personal, but she did ask questions, about shopping and parking and business, about her new job, and the clientele—lots of cowboys, apparently. They even talked about pie, which was evidently a subject near and dear to both of them. Kat had learned the art of pie-baking from her mother, and Carlin loved to eat pie, so there was an instant connection. She’d seen some of her girlfriends get married with less in common with their new husbands than that.

  The shared meal and the conversation were nice. Comfortable. Carlin felt herself relaxing even more, almost as if something inside her was uncoiling. She shook it off, gave herself a good, hard mental poke in the ribs.

  Getting comfortable was not an option. Relaxing could get her killed.

  Chapter Three

  ZEKE HAD BEEN up for two hours, and the sun had been up for one. He was already frustrated, irritated, and so hungry he was ready to gnaw on anything that resembled food—even Spencer’s earliest attempts at cooking.

  The morning had started out at five a.m. with the discovery that part of the fence was down and all of the horses were out. He and all of the hands should have been heading out to the hay fields; instead they’d been cussing and chasing horses. The good news was that the horses hadn’t gone far and they’d stayed together. The bad news was that they evidently weren’t of a mind to go back into the fenced pasture, so rounding them up had taken longer than it should have. Spencer was the best on the ranch with animals of any kind, so Zeke had had to enlist the kid in helping with the horses, which suited Spencer just fine because he hated his cooking duties and made no bones about it. Unfortunately that meant the rest of the men either had to start the day without hot food, or be delayed. It was Zeke’s ranch, his men, and his call. First and foremost, he took care of his men, so his only remaining option was a late start.

  Spencer had tried to get by with serving muffins and cereal for the first meal of the day, he’d even tried doughnuts once. But without a hearty breakfast the men were all hungry before mid-morning rolled around, and hungry men were not efficient workers. They needed a hot, filling meal, and for now it was Spencer’s job to provide that meal, as well as two others.

  As soon as the horses were back in the pasture, Zeke told Spencer, “Throw together something hot and fast while we fix this fence.” They’d be working late tonight, thanks to the damn fence and the damn horses.

  “Sure, boss.” Spencer bobbed his head and headed for the bunkhouse kitchen at a fast trot. Zeke spared a brief moment of appreciation for the kid. The other hands rode him hard, teased him about all the shit chores that got thrown his way, but the way Zeke saw it, Spencer was showing his mettle by doing what was asked of him, instead of quitting. Give the kid another ten years or so, and he figured Spencer would be foreman here, bossing some of the same men who were giving him such a hard time now. Not all of the crew would still be here, of course; some would move on to other ranches, some to different jobs, but a few would hang in there. He had a good crew now, so he hoped they’d hang together for at least a few more years.

  “Hope he doesn’t cook that oatmeal shit again,” Darby grumbled as he nailed a heavy board into place.

  “We’d still be chasing horses if it wasn’t for him,” Zeke said, no temper in his tone but enough grit to tell the men to lay off Spencer no matter what he served up for them to eat—not that he’d be real thrilled to get oatmeal. It wasn’t that he didn’t like oatmeal … normally … but Spencer
’s oatmeal tended toward a gluelike consistency.

  They needed something more substantial for the long day ahead of them. Ranch work didn’t pay any attention to the clock; summer was short, and they had only a set amount of time to get enough hay cut and baled to last through the long winter.

  His ex-wife, Rachel, had called the winter weather “inhuman” and “brutal” and insisted no one with any sense would live here. If he wanted to be strictly fair, he had to admit she had some truth on her side, but “strictly fair” had gone out the window with the divorce, and as far as he was concerned she was a spoiled bitch who wouldn’t know what real work was if it bit her on the ass. He was a Wyoming native, he loved where he lived and what he did, and he figured everything else more than made up for the winters.

  The hard truth was that he hadn’t missed Rachel after she left. By then all he’d felt was a sense of relief at having some peace and quiet again. Hell, with Libby there taking care of the cooking and cleaning and his laundry, life had rocked on exactly as it had before Rachel had come along. She hadn’t made a place for herself, hadn’t put her stamp on the household, hadn’t taken over any of the decisions. Instead she’d left all of that to Libby, and spent her time sulking because there was no place to shop, no coffee bar, no friends nearby. She could have had friends; it wasn’t as if there weren’t women in town. But Rachel hadn’t wanted Wyoming friends. She’d wanted her friends—or others just like them—from Denver.

  Yeah, like people flocked to Denver for its great winter weather.

  Rachel hadn’t liked summer in Wyoming, either. Summers meant unrelenting work, from before sunrise until sometimes long after sunset, getting ready for winter. Hay became the most important thing in his life, and a bad growing season could spell disaster for the ranch. The ranch hands traded horses and four-wheelers for tractors. Every night he’d pray for good weather, because any rain caused a delay he couldn’t afford. His hay fields weren’t counted in acres, but in square miles; that was a lot of hay that had to be cut, dried, and baled. When he’d come dragging in at ten o’clock at night, after an eighteen-hour day, Rachel had wanted attention and he’d wanted a shower and then sleep, another thing that had made his wife very unhappy.