Page 12 of Taken By the Bounty Hunter

I glance up at the bathroom.

He’ll be back any second. If he sees me using his phone, he’ll have to make sure it looks like I’ve taken it without permission. Thinking quickly, I dig for the tattered business card that I keep in my bra and has now migrated under my boob. I can feel the eyes of the lady at the next booth judging me. As I root around, I meet her gaze.

“Can I help you with something?” I ask, smiling sweetly.

She shrugs and looks away.

This card is the only thing my uncle didn’t find and confiscate before he locked me away.

Quickly, I type and retype a message. What kind of language would convince Jefferson it’s me, but would also not implicate my father if someone in the church reads his messages?

Eventually, I go with:

I have Georgeanne. She’s fine. We’re stopping at the superstore in ten minutes to pick up a birthday cake and a present. Let everyone at Mom’s house know I’ll have her home soon.

There. Jefferson will know what to do with that.

I hope.

Chapter Four

Jefferson

I pop some gum into my mouth and play dumb when the deputy pulls me over near the front gates of the C.O.C.K. compound.

Chewing gum makes a guy like me look extra dumb.

I slide on my aviators when I roll down the window, smiling at the deputy like a real dope.

When he asks me what I’m doing here, I speak slowly. “I’m here to serve some papers to Orlyn Moffat?”

I should have called it quits after yet another fruitless search this morning. Especially after Joaquin ripped me a new one.

But I can’t quit looking for Georgie.

“This is about the tenth time I’ve told you to stop harassing these poor church folks about that drifter,” the deputy says. I examine his badge and memorize his name and number like I’ve done a dozen times before.

The same one who gave me the phony address that led me to Bozeman and the run-in with that rescue group. I guess I should thank him. After all, he’s responsible for indirectly causing me to meet Georgie.

I continue to play dumb, smiling like an idiot. “I’m sorry. Is it really that many times? I lost count.”

The deputy sighs.

“Most folks acting on the court’s behalf do not announce their presence like this,” he says, waving his hand in the air, to indicate my car.

“I’m sorry,” I say, leaning out my window to speak to him conspiratorially. “It’s just that all my research tells me—and everyone in Darling Creek seems to think—this place right here is his primary address, so I have to keep trying.”

“Sir. We’ve been over this.”

“Let me ask you. Am I breaking any laws by being on a public right of way? Just curious.”

His jaw muscle ripples. “No.”

“Am I under arrest?”

Over the years, I’ve cultivated a way to ask these questions so I don’t get tazed. A super-dumb, aw-shucks, genuinely curious kind of way.

“Again. No. But I could get a warrant to search your car.”

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