Page 222 of Haunted

Teague laughed. “Goodnight.” He closed the door.

Butch strolled toward the bunkhouse, his heart a little lighter.

Ball’s in your court, Sol. I’ve done all I can do.

Sunday, October 16

San Francisco

Sol stared at his monitor and told himself for the third time that day to get a grip. Putting this site together had been the stereotypical blood-out-of-a-stone operation, and it had been like that for two weeks.

No one to blame for that but me.

He’d checked his phone almost every hour for the first three or four days after Butch’s surprise visit to the club, until the message had gotten through—Butch wasn’t going to be in touch.

If anything’s going to happen, it’ll have to be me who initiates it.

Which was fair enough. This was his mess, right? He had to be the one to clean it up.

His phone rang, and for one split second he ignored his last thought in the vain hope Butch had changed his mind. He peered at the screen.

Alli.

It would have been easy to put the phone on mute, but he’d hardly spoken with another person during the last two weeks, and the guy behind the deli counter at Publix didn’t count. A lot of thinking and very little human interaction had left him craving the sound of another voice.

Preferably someone who wasn’t going to give him a load of grief, and where Alli was concerned, the call could go either way.

Fuck it.

Sol clicked Answer. “Hey.”

“I’m just calling to make sure you’re still coming next month.”

He frowned, the words not computing.

“November? Thanksgiving? Mom’s turkey that will feed the five thousand?”

Aw shit.

He could still cancel—family was the last thing he needed—but the knowledge that Alli would be crushed kept his mouth shut.

Besides, I gave her my word.

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Alli’s voice came over the phone.

“Something’s happened.”

Despite his warring emotions, Sol smiled. “Never could hide anything from you.”

“What can I say? It’s a gift. So tell me… does the lack of calls from you have anything to do with High School Guy? Apologies, but you didn’t give me a name. You had this dilemma, right?”

Had one. Still have one. And it’s not going to be solved until I do something.

“Solomon Peter Davenport, why do I suddenly have goosebumps?”

He winced. “You know I hate it when you call me that.”

“Did you go back to Montana? To that ranch?”

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