“Seriously?” She shifted her purse from one shoulder to the other. “You can’t just search some database for his name?”
“We still use a manual system in this county.” The old woman’s smile was tight. “I’ll get you the form.”
Tara’s heart sank as the clerk shuffled to the back of the office. She had enough cash for a couple nights in a motel or gas to drive back to Kansas City—not both. She picked up the pen tethered to the desk and drummed it against the wooden surface. Maybe she could trawl this Podunk town’s version of a downtown district, try to pick up some bartending shifts for the weekend. And there was that diner she passed on the way in, or that lunch place on the main street…
“I’m sorry to eavesdrop, but did you say you’re looking for a guy called Chance?”
Tara jerked out of her reverie. The question came from the woman who’d been in line in front of her, and was in the middle of filling out a form to have her ex-husband’s name taken off her deed. Tara guessed she was around twenty-three, mother of at least two, smoker. The security pass on her keychain suggested she worked at a nursing home.
“Chance McKinley. Sergeant Chance McKinley, actually.”
“You aren’t going to believe me when I tell you this, but I know him. Met him at a party once. Tall, brown hair, kind of lanky?”
“I drop weight like crazy on deployment. Normally I’m two-twenty, two-thirty, with a six-pack you can bounce a nickel off.” His smile was lazy, teasing.
“Too bad, I like ’em on the skinny side.”
“Guess this won’t last, then.” He reached across the pillow, wrapped a lock of her hair around his forefinger.
Her hand found his hip, tugged him closer. “Guess not.”
Tara swallowed hard. “That’s him.”
“My ex works with one of his buddies on the city road crew. Grady Reid. Big guy, real dark hair—you can’t miss him.” She glanced at her watch. “They probably haven’t knocked off yet if you want to try to catch him. They’re working on the hill next to Loco Lobo, over near the Presbyterian church.”
“How do I get there from here?”
“Go straight across Main Street, take a right on Fort Preston Boulevard, follow that all the way past the high school, then take a left at the last stoplight before you head out into the country, where the speed limit changes to fifty-five. You’ll see it.” She grinned. “I guess this is your lucky day.”
“Yeah,” Tara muttered, sweeping up her car keys.
The woman’s directions were perfect, as was her description of Chance’s friend, and less than fifteen minutes after leaving the courthouse she parked her car in the lot outside the Mexican restaurant and dodged traffic to cross the street where the road crew was laying asphalt.
There was no mistaking Grady Reid, who watched her approach.
“Church’s side entrance is closed,” he said as soon as she was within hearing distance. “You have to go around the front.”
Tara grinned. “I think that’s the first time in my life anyone’s mistaken me for a churchgoer. You’re Grady, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“My name’s Tara Lambert, and I’m looking for a friend of yours, Chance McKinley. You know where he is?”
Grady leaned on the end of his shovel, his face inscrutable. “What do you want with him?”
“Nothing bad, I promise.”
“Then you won’t mind telling me exactly what.”
She crossed her arms. “It’s personal.”
“But not so personal that he gave you his address, huh?”
“We haven’t spoken in a while.”
“I see.” Grady straightened, his posture asserting this conversation was at its end. “I’m sorry for your trouble, but if Chance doesn’t want you to find him that’s between you two. It’s not my place to interfere.”
Tara sighed in exasperation, slapping her arms down to her sides. “He knows who I am, we’ve just been out of touch for a long time. All I want is a phone number or an address and everyone in this town’s acting like I’m trying to break into Fort Knox. He’s just a soldier, for God’s sake, not some top-secret CIA agent.” She frowned. “He’s not, right? In the CIA?”
“Let’s hope not.”
“Are you sure you won’t help me? I swear I just want to talk to him, not firebomb his house.”
“Have you tried the phone book?”
Grady’s dry remark sliced through the last rope of her composure like a chainsaw. She fisted her hands until her nails stung her palms, jammed her back teeth together until pain shot through her temples and drew hot, shaky breaths into her tight throat. She’d waited so long, traveled so far, extended so much faith, and this no-account, pig-headed redneck thought it was a joke.
She fought the urge to kick Grady in the balls, to wrench that shovel out of his hands and crack it across his shins, slap that impassive look off his handsome face until he begged her to stop.
Instead she burst into tears.
Grady’s muttered, “Aw, hell,” barely penetrated the flurry of thoughts echoing through her mind in her father’s voice.
Pull yourself together, you stupid baby. How pathetic can you be? No one’s going to fall for that fake-ass crying so you might as well dry up, otherwise—
Grady’s hand was on her arm. She sniffed, blinked, looked up at him.
His voice was so soft she barely heard him. “He knock you up?”
