Chapter Two
Maverick
It’s eleven p.m. when my phone rings, jolting me out of a deep sleep.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice rougher than it should be, hoarse from the dust that I took in all day while assessing some land up on the ridge.
“Mr. Clay, I’m sorry to bother you so late. This is Angie Miller down at Huckleberry’s Diner. I have reason to believe that a mutual friend of ours is in trouble and I could use your help.”
I’ve only spoken to Ms. Miller once before, but from what I can tell, she’s a bit neurotic. I blame it on her youth. At twenty-two, you haven’t had a chance to test the world much yet.
“Who do you think is in trouble, Ms. Miller?”
“Do you remember Julie Baxter? You were working with her on some gold prospecting, but you—”
“I remember.” How could I forget? The woman is gorgeous with long dark hair, a pretty little face, and curves that don’t quit. “What kind of trouble does she have herself in?”
“Well,” Angie says, “she’s not exactly in trouble yet. She’s just gotten herself into a precarious situation, and I think someone should bring her back.”
“What kind of precarious situation? Let’s do each other a favor and be straight forward. It’s pretty late, Ms. Miller.”
She clears her throat. “Yes, of course. Well, she’s staying down at the City Line Motel in Colorado Springs. It’s this place lined with prostitutes and drugs. I’m afraid she’s gone off the rails or something.”
“What… like she’s using herself?”
Angie gasps. “Oh no. I didn’t think of that.Maybe.No. She wouldn’t,would she?She said something had happened, and she needed a break, but that doesn’t make sense because she has her last speech in town on Monday. She wouldn’t miss it. She’s worked so hard for this campaign.”
My mind goes blank as I try to follow this woman’s strange line of accusations. “So if you don’t think she’s on drugs, why should I bother her? She told you she wanted a break.”
“That’s what I’m saying, Mr. Clay! She doesn’t need a break. Julie is a brick house. I once saw the girl tame a mustang while she ate a cupcake. Women like that don’t need breaks.”
“Yes, they do. Everyone needs breaks.”
Angie huffs. “Look, if you can’t help me, I’ll go up there myself.”
“What are you going to do when you get there? Do you plan to drag a grown woman from her break? Give her some space.”
“At The City Line Motel? Where she could be murdered or grabbed by sex traffickers? Please, Mr. Clay!”
Having known Julie for a few weeks now, I’ve come to realize how stubborn she is. Dragging her out of a place she’s chosen isn’t going to get me on her good list, which is a place I’ve been trying to get myself since we met.
“Look, I want to help, but the last time I tried to tell her what was good, she took a stick of dynamite from me and blew up half the mountain on her own. Do you know how much damage that could’ve caused? I think you should have her check in with you and—”
“I heard a gun go off, right as she was hanging up the phone. I tried to call her brothers, but no one is answering. Please! I’d go up there myself if I didn’t think I’d make the problem worse.”
I suck in a deep breath and sit up from the bed, squeezing the bridge of my nose with the tips of my fingers. A gunshot is a different story. If Angie heard it on the phone, it was close to Julie. Calling her back would be fruitless, since she’s only telling Angie what she wants to hear. Truthfully, she probably wouldn’t even take my call. I tried getting her on the phone last week for an update on the mining project we’ve been working on, but she wouldn’t answer.
“I’ll check it out,” I say, standing from the edge of the bed to slide on my jeans. “I’ll text you when I know she’s okay.”
“Thank you!” Angie squeals. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. You have no idea how much I appreciate all this. Julie does too, even if she doesn’t know it yet.”
I highly doubt any of that, but at least I’ll have peace of mind knowing she’s okay.
Disconnecting the line with Angie, I strap on my pistol belt, toss on a t-shirt, and make my way out to the truck. It’s a solid hour’s drive into the city, but I get away with higher speeds once I reach the highway with no late-night traffic. Cops are scarce on this stretch of road. I suppose they don’t see the point in patrolling such desolate areas. This time it works in my favor. Last time, when I hit a deer, it didn’t. I waited nearly two hours for rescue services and another hour for a tow. Most people up here are okay with the isolation. It gives them a sense of independence, me included, but there are still times you wish there were more services around. Maybe I’ll talk the future mayor into some extra emergency facilities. At least it’ll give us a topic of conversation on the long drive back.
I laugh to myself at the thought oftalkingto Julie about anything. She’s pretty as a peach, but I don’t think a freshwater stream could convince her to drink if she were stumbling down dehydrated. I have no idea how I’m ever going to convince her that the City Line isn’t the place to be spending the night. This place has quite the reputation, even for an out-of-towner like me. At least twice a week it’s the scene for some nasty crime, almost always happening to people who didn’t even see it coming.
I pull off the highway, following the poorly lit exit toward Thompson Street, where City Line sits. I’ve only ever seen the place on the news, but in person it’s even worse. The parking lot is teaming with what looks to be drug dealers and prostitutes, all of them watching like a hawk as I pull my truck into the lot. I’m in the city now. You’d think there would be an actual police officer somewhere around this place.