Page 2 of Jack

He caught them, set them down, and leaned over her. Spotted a couple uneaten doggie treats, a round chew toy and . . .wait—“Is that my sock?” He picked up a wool sock—the one that had gone missing last night by his bed.

“Misty!” Pearl grabbed up her Barbie doll, its red hair a tuft of tangles. Indeed, the remaining foot bore the mauling of canine teeth, and now—“Snowy chewed off her arm!” She held out the mangled appendage. “Oh, she was my favorite.”

Jack crouched next to her. “She can still be your favorite. Just because someone is hurt doesn’t mean that you can’t still love them. Maybe you love her more because she survived the Great Snowy Attack of ’25.”

Pearl nodded, wiped her cheek. “Okay. Thank you, Unca Jack.”

Aw. He pulled her tight against him, met West’s smile. See, maybe this was still what it was about—the happy endings.

He let her go, and West came in, handed him a cup of coffee. “I’m not sure she can afford the reward. I think there’s nothing but a few buttons in that jar.”

Jack laughed. “Let’s call this one a pro bono. You can pay me in breakfast. It smells amazing.”

“Bacon and eggs. We’re fancy around here.” West headed back into the kitchen, and Jack slid onto a counter stool at a long island in their newly remodeled home. They’d taken out the wall from the galley kitchen, added an island, opened up the dining area.

Natalie had put baby Amber down in a swing, strapped her in, and now slid onto a stool beside him.

“So, Nat, you have good news for me?”

“If you mean another gig, I’m also on the hunt.” Nat shook her head. “But I did manage to talk Sheriff Wade out of pressing charges for obstruction?—”

“Seriously—if they’d listened to me, no one would have gotten hurt.”

“I pointed that out. He’s just grumpy. It’s an election year.”

“Yeah, that’s why he sent SWAT in—sheesh, talk about overkill. I was already in the house, already talking the guy out?—”

“Which brings me to the next point. The family is making noises about suing.”

West set a plate of eggs and bacon in front of him. “More coffee?”

“Could you add some whiskey to it?”

West laughed. “Sorry. Dry house, and since when did you start drinking?”

“Haven’t yet. But I’m considering . . .” He shook his head. “This is why I never got my PI license. There was no binding contract, just me, following leads?—”

“That led to the police raiding a farmhouse thinking the family’s daughter had been kidnapped, only to have her shot, in a coma, her kidnapper dead,” West said, handing Nat a plate too.

“I still believe it was a lovers’ tryst. But the cops took one look at the guy—the much older felon out on parole—and said he’d kidnapped her.” Jack salted his eggs. “Although, for a while, I thought the same thing, so . . .”

Nat took the salt from him. “The sheriff had a press conference talking about the dangers of letting unlicensed, rogue reward seekers try to home in on an investigation. You made social media. Congratulations, Jack, you’re famous again.”

There went his appetite. “Probably a good time to leave Florida.”

Nat gave him a grim nod.

He sighed, his throat tight. “Tansy’s still in a coma?”

“Yeah,” West said. “The family says it’s medically induced, to keep the brain swelling down, but . . .” His hazel-green eyes softened. “You weren’t to blame, Jack.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“I meant it before. And I mean it now.”

Jack looked past him, out the window to where Aggie, his schoolie, sat on the driveway. On her last legs—or wheels, in this case. He’d heard some ticking in the engine on his way through Georgia. Maybe they both were ticking, ready for something different.

Although, Minnesota might not be therightdifferent.

---