Page 14 of Combust
Her nameplate read “Tringstad.” She was a tall woman who looked like she was somewhere in her late thirties or early forties, with a short mop of curly brown hair and a pleasant face.
Cade wrinkled his nose at the smell of yet another wolf.
Great,he thought.This town’s run by wolf shifters. So, what the fresh hell are the Swansons doin’ here? Even I know that bear shifters and wolf shifters get along about as well as a mess of porcupines in a nudist colony.
“All right, you two,” Jacobsen said. “I’m about to head home. Deputy Tringstad is taking over, but I wanted to inform you that Maggie Swanson has declined to press charges against you, Mr. Brunborn. And Mr. Hunter, you won’t be charged, either.”
No charges?Cade blinked at that. He wasneverthis lucky. Now, all he had to do was figure out how to get out to the club to retrieve his truck. He was pretty sure that there weren’t any city buses.
“Great,” Andrew said, not bothering to hide his exasperation. “Now,ifI can finally have my phone back, I’ll call a rideshare or taxi and get out of this miserable little burg.”
Good riddance, thought Cade.
It might have been wishful thinking on his part, but he could swear that both Jacobsen and Tringstad were thinking the very same thing.
“Mr. Hunter,” Officer Tringstad said. “If you don’t mind staying for another hour or so, I can give you a lift over to the club. My sister Kymberlie says that your pickup is still parked there, safe and sound.”
“Sure,” Cade said. “I’m in no particular hurry, ma’am.”
It was true. Now that he’d allowed his temper to screw himself out of the job, there was nowhere he needed to be right now.
* * *
“You have a visitor,” Officer Tringstad called down the stairs an hour later, as Cade was finishing up a substantial and surprisingly-delicious breakfast of bacon, eggs, and fresh fruit, served with freshly-baked sourdough toast and a big cup of strong coffee.
If this is how Bearpaw Ridge treats its jailbirds,then I screwed up even worse than I initially thought.
He usually didn’t indulge in useless regrets. But it was hard not to think about the might-have-beens in a town that appeared to welcome all kinds of shifters, and fed them so well.
But his daddy had always told him,Best not to dwell on things you can’t change, son.
Cade would soon be walking out of here with his freedom and a full belly. Best to be grateful for what he had.
“It’s Dane Swanson,” Tringstad added. “Do you want to see him?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Cade answered, resigned.
He knew why Mr. Swanson was here. Though he had to wonder why the other shifter was bothering to withdraw the job offer in person.
Whatever Swanson had to say to him, Cade figured that he wouldn’t have an appetite afterwards.
No fool, he hastily shoveled in the last mouthful of scrambled eggs. For good measure, he crammed in half a slice of toast and chewed vigorously, combining the silky saltiness of well-cooked eggs with bursts of fruity sweetness. Along with the usual foil-wrapped pats of butter, there’d been a plastic condiment cup filled with jam tucked into the waxed cardboard takeout container.
Damned if those don’t taste like homemade raspberry preserves, he thought as he washed everything down with a swig of the excellent coffee.
The taste spiked a sudden, poignant flash of memory.
There’d been a huge old hickory tree shading the side of his childhood home in the Ozarks, with a rope-and-tire swing. One warm summer afternoon when he was seven or eight, Cade had been playing on the swing, peeping through the kitchen window every time he swung past it. Inside, Ma and Nan had been making jams and jellies in big blue-and-white enamel pots. The air was heavy with the sweet, mouthwatering scents of simmering blackberries, raspberries, and strawberries.
The vivid recollection startled Cade. After that long-ago night, it had hurt too much to recall what he’d lost, so he’d shoved the memories into the deepest cellar of his brain, where they’d withered and turned to dust.
Or so he’d thought, before a spoonful of jam resurrected a moment in time fifteen hundred miles away and twenty years ago.
Firm footsteps descending the stairs dispelled the cobweb strands of that sunlit day.
Cade wiped his mouth with the paper napkin, put aside the empty takeout box, and got to his feet.
Time to face the music.
