“I won’t.”
“It’s a nasty habit.”
“I’ve never seen you smoke.”
“I don’t. Not anymore. But I still have the aftereffects.”
“Maybe you should see a doctor.”
“Most doctors don’t welcome patients who can’t pay their bills.”
“What about the free clinic?”
He coughs again. “Nothing free about it. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with me. I may cough a little, but I always stop eventually.”
I cocked my head. “I guess that makes sense. Do you have any other books?”
“A few. They’re in a box inside my tent. You can take a look if you want.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I scrambled into his tent.
I breathed through my nose. Mr. Davis’s tent smelled…icky. Like phlegm and puke. Blech. The box of books sat in the corner, and I pawed through it. They were all paperbacks and all well used. I didn’t see anything that interested me until—
Little House in the Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder. It looked like a children’s book, but why would Mr. D have a children’s book? I grabbed it and scrambled out of the tent, leaving the flap open. His tent needed to air out.
“Find something?” he asked.
“Yeah, what’s this one?”
“It belonged to my daughter. She had the whole set.”
“You have a daughter?”
“Had,” he said. “She died a few years ago. Leukemia.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a form of cancer. Cancer of the blood.”
“Oh.” I frowned. “I’m very sorry.”
“Me too. She was way too young to die. But let’s not talk about sad things. There’s enough to be sad about. Read the book. I hope you like it. If you do, maybe you can get the rest of them from the library.”
“What happened to the others?”
“Who knows? This was the only one left after Melissa died.”
“Do you know what this one is about?”
He nodded. “I read it to Melissa when she was about your age. Maybe younger. It’s about a little girl who lived in the eighteen hundreds with her pioneer parents.”
“What does she do?”
“Well…she helps her mother churn butter. She sews. She has a corncob for a doll.”
I wrinkled my nose. “That sounds boring. Can I read yours instead?”
“This one?” He holds up Kidnapped.
“Yeah. I’d rather read about someone who’s kidnapped and has adventures than some girl who has a corncob for a doll.”
“Tell you what,” Mr. D said. “You read that one, and when you’re done, I’ll give you Kidnapped. Deal?”
“Okay. That’s a deal.” I took the book back into my tent and opened it.
I jerk my eyes open.
I’m still in the hotel room at the Carlton, clutching the horrible note Dale left for me.
I read it once more.
This will get you back to the ranch. Take today off.
* * *
Dale
I wasn’t asleep, just in a kind of meditative state. I’m so numb, and my senses… It’s so strange to not sense anything.
So what do I do?
I return to my childhood. My childhood, where my best friend was a Vietnam vet who lived in the tent next to ours. He introduced me to literature that day. I was always a good reader, and I turned into a voracious one after that day. I devoured Little House in the Big Woods, and after that, Kidnapped. Then Treasure Island and Little House on the Prairie and everything else both Laura Ingalls Wilder and Robert Louis Stevenson wrote. I moved on to C.S. Lewis, J. K. Rowling, Judy Blume, and J.R.R. Tolkien. Then, as I got older, Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, George Orwell, Margaret Mitchell, Harper Lee, and contemporary authors like John Grisham and Nora Roberts.
But Kidnapped still holds a special place in my heart.
After that day, I was never without a book in my hand.
Why this memory? Why now?
I rise and regard my phone on the nightstand. It’s eight a.m. Dale told me to take today off, but I will not. I scramble to the bathroom and take a quick shower. Then I don my red sundress and order a cab. By the time I reach the lobby, my taxi is waiting. I hastily give the cabbie the address.
“That’s a ninety-dollar fare, ma’am.”
I flash him the bills Dale left on my nightstand. “Just get me there quickly and you can have both.” I’ll be glad to be rid of them. I don’t want the reminder of Dale’s crudeness.
His eyes morph into circles, and he nods. “You got it.”
Chapter Two
Dale
“So the tasting went well.”
I look up from the pile of reports I’m eyeing. Uncle Ryan stands in the doorway to my office.
“Yeah. It went okay.”
“I hear our intern was a smash.”
I look back down at the papers in front of me. I haven’t actually read any words. It’s all a gray blur. “She did well.”
“Looks like she did more than well,” Ryan says. “She sold the hell out of the apple wine and your Cab Franc.”
I sigh and meet his gaze. “Yes. She’s a talent.”
He cocks his head. “Does that bother you?”