Page 9 of Rawhide and Ransom

“Oh?” Hawk sensed there was more information forthcoming.

He wasn’t wrong. Johnny rushed to add, “I was told this was off the record, so I need you to keep this between us, but…” He went on to describe how Jane Doe had apparently pulled out her own I.V. and taken off barefoot. “They think she might’ve hitched a ride away from the hospital in a laundry truck. It’s hard to say, since the security camera on the loading dock wasn’t working that day, but it’s the best theory they can come up with.”

Excitement churned in Hawk’s gut. The level of spunk Jane Doe had exhibited the day she’d left the hospital reminded him of a certain somebody asleep on his sofa in the living room. Somebody he’d really hate to see take off in her current state.

A rustling sound outside his bedroom door made his head jerk in that direction. “Listen, I gotta run. Thanks for the information.”

“You bet,” Johnny shot back. “I’ll keep digging into the Gilbert family’s story.”

“Appreciate it.” Hawk disconnected the line and strode toward the door, yanking it open and stepping into the hallway.

A startled yelp stopped him in his tracks.

He found himself face-to-face with a very disheveled version of Miley.

“You scared me,” she squeaked, waving her good hand at him. “Stalking up on me like the big, bad wolf.”

“I live here,” he reminded, hating that he’d caught her off guard. It wasn’t his intention. Hoping to put her at ease, he turned on the nearest wall switch, flooding the hallway with light.

“Ouch!” She shielded her eyes from the sudden blast of brightness.

He raised his eyebrows at her. “There’s just no winning with you tonight, princess.” The spunky teen from earlier was gone. In her place was a hissing tiger. His gut told him she must be in a lot of pain.

“Not tonight.” She gave him a nasty look. “My arm is on fire!” With that, she stomped into the bathroom and slammed the door shut. Loudly. “Sorry about that,” she hollered at the top of her lungs.

He grinned and hollered back, “I’m gonna get an ice pack for your arm.”

“Or an ax,” she groaned, sounding miserable. “Might be easier to just chop it off.”

He hurried to the kitchen to follow through on his promise, pulling a zip-up plastic bag from a drawer and filling it with ice. His cabin was small enough that he could still hear the faint bleating sounds of pain Miley made during her pit stop. The bleating sounds were followed by the flush of the toilet and the faucet running.

Then the door to the bathroom opened, and she stomped to the kitchen.

He handed her the ice pack.

She accepted it, white-faced, and gingerly applied it to the inflamed area of her arm. “I’m not usually this awful. I’m really not.”

He didn’t consider any of her behavior to be what he would classify as awful. Just human. And young. Opening an upper kitchen cabinet, he pointed at the contents. “I keep my pain meds in here. You can double up on ibuprofen and acetaminophen. Just watch the dosages on the bottle, you hear?”

She cast a longing look at the open cabinet. “Load me up, chief,” she begged, hitching one skinny hip on the nearest bar stool.

He carefully counted out the pills on a napkin and poured her a glass of water to go with them. He liked feeling needed. Most people didn’t need him.

He slid the napkin and glass across the counter to her. “Prim said she called in a round of antibiotics to one of the pharmacies in town if you end up needing it.” Prim was the physician assistant who served the rez. She was also the one who’d stitched up Miley’s arm earlier.

“That’s good to know.” Miley reached for the pills with brimming eyes. “Not trying to weird you out or anything, but you remind me of my dad. So much,” she choked.

Her words tugged something elemental inside him. “Chayton Dakota was a good man.”

At the sound of her stepfather’s name, the tears welling in her eyes brimmed onto her cheeks. “Did you know him?”

“No.” He reached for a box of tissues and set them closer to her. “Wish I had.” All he’d done was read about the guy online. The articles he’d run across had made him sound like a wizard more than a gardener —a guy who’d been able to coax anything into growing.

She pulled a couple of tissues from the box and wadded them against her eyes. “I miss him so much, Hawk,” she wailed. “Nothing has gone right for me and my mom since we lost him. Nothing!”

It was a troubling statement to digest. Hawk rested his elbows on the bar and leaned her way. “You wanna talk about it?”

She nodded, weeping silently. It took her a few minutes to compose herself enough to start speaking again. “My dad died with like…no warning whatsoever. Shortly afterward, my mom broke the news to me that we were about to lose the farm, too. Then three weeks ago, she disappeared, and some nut job who looked like her showed up at the house, claiming to be her. It’s all so messed up!”

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