Page 13 of High Velocity

“Would have to be some pretty massive needles to handle yarn that thick,” JD pipes up. “It’s called hand-knitting. Ma did a few of those.”

Janey, who has been unpacking the paper bags and setting out the food and some on plates the counter, claps her hands.

“Come on, guys. Let’s eat. I’ve got a lame horse waiting at the ranch.”

We fill our plates and sit down at the small kitchen table. It’s a little tight, but we manage.

I’m suddenly starving and dive into my sushi, quietly listening to Janey interrogate the guys about the search for the Argentinian ambassador’s son.

“Did Jillian come out with the dogs?” she asks.

“For two days,” Jackson responds. “Not even a hint of a scent.”

“Weird. You’d think there’d be at least some trace left behind. So what’s next?”

JD is the first to answer that question. “Next, we set up camp farther downstream. Given there is no detectable scent for Jillian’s dogs to pick up on, we’re now convinced he was swept away by the water.”

He goes on to explain how they’ll set up their communications tent just west of town, where the creek meets up with the Kootenai River, and will backtrack north to search.

“We think he may be hung up in the creek somewhere. You get clusters of fallen branches and downed trees in the creek during the melt. Wouldn’t be the first time a body gets tangled up in those.”

“So, this is a recovery operation now?” I question, sitting back to give my full stomach a little space.

“Yes. That’s the assumption,” Jackson confirms.

Janey shoves her chair back and gets to her feet. JD follows suit.

“So sorry to dine and dash, but I should really go see to Wolff’s horse.”

She starts collecting the remnants of dinner when I firmly stop her.

“Go, I’ve got these,” I urge her.

“I don’t wanna leave you with the mess.”

“You were responsible for dinner, so cleanup is mine.”

Jackson—who hadn’t budged from his spot—abruptly gets up as well, volunteering, “I’ll give you a hand.”

Before I have a chance to object, JD says his goodbyes while Janey collects her dog. I watch the three of them disappear out the front door.

When I turn back to the kitchen, Jackson is still standing by the table, his eyes fixed on me.

“Do I make you uneasy?”

Jackson

I have a hard time getting a proper read on her.

Last year she was confident, capable, determined; all qualities that attracted me to her. What I’m seeing now is insecurity and vulnerability, but the determination is still there. Oddly enough, I find myself equally attracted to this version of her.

Of course, it’s always possible she was all of these things all along, layered on top of each other. Something happened to peel some of those stronger traits back to reveal her softer underbelly. The difference between last year and now is, she doesn’t have her job to shield her.

“Why would you say that?” she answers my question with a question of her own.

A common evasion technique I’ve used myself on occasion.

“Do I? Make you uneasy?”

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