Cross Roads, page 4
“Friends at first sight?”
She ignored his jab. “I admire artists who can build something from nothing.”
Rohan scanned her loft for original paintings, but found only perfect replicas of well-known artists’ work.
“I told Carlie Beth as much,” she said. “One comment led to another, and before long, we were having dinner at Triple B.”
Nothing about her story triggered any red flags, but Rohan couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling he had about her sudden appearance at a time when someone was banging on BARS’s network doors.
If her background check hadn’t turned up one big sinkhole, he would’ve been satisfied with her answer. But her lack of personal history was a problem for him. A problem he intended to sort out, though not by partnering with her. For all he knew, the robbery and her subsequent need for their recovery services was an elaborate scheme by the Collective to get inside the lion’s den, so to speak.
He stood, ready to leave before he did something insane, like say yes. “It was good speaking with you, Miss Kamber, but I’m afraid BARS must go in another direction.”
“Another direction?” She rose in one fluid motion. “You have no more questions for me?”
He could ask her about her past, but she would no doubt share an elaborate tale, one she’d perfected for a decade. Best to save them both the time and aggravation.
“I have all I need in order to make my recommendation.”
“Which will be, what?”
“That we choose another copyist.”
“On what basis? You didn’t even ask to see my work.”
“I don’t need to.” He swirled a finger in the air. “Your artistry is all around us, and,” he nodded toward the easels, “I’ve observed your work in progress.”
An emotion he couldn’t interpret flashed across her features as she looked at the artworks displayed around her loft.
Hurt? Fear?
Her reaction confused him—like everything else about her. One more reason to not get tangled up with this woman.
A pang of regret arrowed through his midsection, surprising him.
Definitely time to go.
He spoke over his shoulder as he turned to leave. “Call the police and report the theft before your painting sinks too far into the black market’s underbelly.”
“I’m the best, Mr. Blackwell. You won’t find a better replacement.”
Rohan strode away, the truth of her words haunting him all the way back to the Friary.
7
Desperation propelled Lena to do the one thing she despised above all else—ask for help.
After her failed meeting with Rohan, she set out to find Carlie Beth, hoping the whip-smart blacksmith would have some insight into the Blackwell clan.
Lena didn’t have the time or resources to find a stolen painting and she couldn’t get the police involved. Not yet, anyway.
She considered trying the old phone number she had for Xander and asking him for a list of potential buyers. He was immersed in the side business side of the art world like no one else she knew. But the thought quickly came and went. Alexander Douglas was one of the many doors to her past that she had no wish to reopen.
Which left her with one option—persuading the super-hot recovery agent, who seemed not to trust her, to take on her case.
What had set him against her? After her initial conversation with Lynette, she had expected a commission at the conclusion of this morning’s meeting. But she was fairly certain Rohan had showed up on her doorstep with his mind made up.
Striding down Main Street, Lena headed toward a familiar blue awning in her so far fruitless search for Carlie Beth. As she neared the restaurant-bar-café, Lena’s stomach picked up the scent of coffee, bacon, and other deliciousness and let out an angry growl, reminding her of its empty state.
A bell tinkled above the door as she pushed inside.
She wove her way through a tapestry of diners, from solitary businesswomen to reels-scrolling young adults to laptop-engrossed whatevers until she reached the bar.
“What will it be?” Randi Shepherd, owner of Blues, Brews, and Books or, as the locals liked to call it, Triple B, asked a few minutes later as she poured a healthy chug of milk into a metal cup.
Lena closed the menu. “I’ll try the Southwestern omelet with a side of fruit.”
“Jalapeños or no jalapeños?”
“Today calls for spicy.”
Randi wiped her hands on a white bar towel. “One of those, huh?” She tapped Lena’s order into her tablet register.
“Unfortunately.” Lena clasped her hands together in a tight grip. “I’m looking for Carlie Beth Steele. Do you know where I could find her? She wasn’t at her smithy or Triskelion.”
“I expect her any moment. She’s filling in for one of my servers.” Randi studied her for a moment. “Anything I can do?”
Lena shook her head. “Not unless you have an owner’s manual on the male mind.”
Randi laughed. “Boyfriend trouble?”
“Lord no. Blackwell trouble.”
“Blackwell?”
“Shit. Forget I said that.”
“No can do, honey. Which one?”
If Lena could have bitten off her tongue, she would have done it in a heartbeat. It wasn’t like her to make that kind of mistake.
She didn’t know Randi well, but she and Carlie Beth seemed to be tight. They were both involved with Steele men, which sounded only slightly less frustrating than being mixed up with a Blackwell.
“Rohan.”
“Brainiac, quiet, gorgeous.” She turned on the expresso machine and raised her voice over the steam wand working its magic. “I’ve only seen him in the bar a handful of times. Never comes with a woman, never leaves with a woman.”
“Maybe he leans another way.”
Randi shook her head, grinning. “I didn’t say he doesn’t look.”
Lena recalled how he’d stared at her feet for a long while. If it had been anyone else, she would’ve felt uncomfortable about the attention. But sensing his admiration had left her slightly breathless.
“My interest lies more in how to change his mind than who he is or isn’t sleeping with.”
Randi poured the frothy contents of the metal cup into a paper one, covered it with a lid, and called out a name before turning back to Lena. “I might not know much about how Rohan Blackwell’s mind works, but I have intimate knowledge of Britt Steele’s. If I can crack my mountain man’s logic, I can surely help you with one of the elusive Blackwells.”
At the word “help,” Lena’s muscles contracted. That small, four-lettered word had jumpstarted every pivotal moment in her life. Every new beginning, every new adventure, every deep dive into hell.
New beginnings sounded great on the surface. Who wouldn’t want to reset their lives? Start over. A clean plate.
But no matter how much you licked, your plate would never truly be clean. Twenty billion bacteria lived on a person’s tongue. One of those bacteria was bound to be bad news. Bound to fester unseen until a new host happened by.
Lena smiled at Randi. “Thanks for the offer, but I’d best wait for Carlie Beth.”
The door to the coffee shop opened, and four laughing women crowded inside.
“Ask, and she shall appear,” Randi said, humor lacing her words. “This ought to be fun.”
A young blue-eyed woman led the pack inside, followed by a curvy brunette wearing a killer dress, then a bespectacled Amazon, and finally Carlie Beth.
The latter made eye contact with Lena and her smile broadened. “Hey, Lena,” Carlie Beth said, her cowgirl boots tapping across the floor. “What brings you to the B?”
Please don’t hug me, please don’t hug me.
Lena gripped her utensils tighter when the blacksmith gave her a one-arm hug and cheek press. She produced her most cordial smile. “You, actually.”
“Lena’s having man trouble,” Randi added, grinning.
“Join the crowd,” the youngest said, sticking out her hand. “I’m Evie Steele. Soon to be Conrad. My guy is a U.S. Fish and Wildlife Special Agent masquerading as a newsletter editor.” She made a face and air hissed between her teeth. Her hand waved in the air as if erasing her words off a dry erase board. “Dangnabbit, forget that last bit, would you?”
“What bit?”
Evie smiled, relieved. “I like her already.”
“I’m Brynne Steele,” the curvy brunette said. “Owner of La Belle Style and married to Grif’s brother, Reid, who’s a former Green Beret.”
The tall woman with glasses peered around Brynne. “Riley Kingston. I’m engaged to Coen, a Delta Force operator, and I’m Evie’s cousin.”
Lena’s head spun, wondering how she’d remember the women’s names, let alone their significant others’ names and occupations.
“Now you can see why we’re all uniquely qualified to help you figure out how to change Rohan’s mind,” Randi said, completely letting the whole feline litter out of the bag.
“Rohan?” Evie’s eyes lit up. “Blackwell?”
Lena swallowed hard, then nodded.
Riley pushed her blue-framed glasses higher on her nose. “I do love the smart ones.”
Carlie Beth tied a black apron around her narrow waist. “What do we need to change?”
Five pairs of eyes settled on Lena. How in the hell had she gotten herself into this situation? If Lynette or Rohan or any of the other Blackwells found out she was airing their business agreement—or lack thereof—at the local coffee shop, they would never hire her.
They might, in fact, spread the word that she was indiscreet, which would be a career killer. Not that she’d have a career to kill if word got back to Palmer that she’d lost his million-dollar painting.
Brynne climbed onto the stool next to her. “You can trust us not to share whatever you reveal. Once you’re part of the Sisterhood, your secrets are our secrets.”
Sisterhood.
The word freaked her out even more than “help.” It implied a bond, one impervious to a lifetime of stupid comments, late arrivals, missed birthdays, bad dates, and missing shoes.
But Lena knew—knew—bonds were as fragile as snowflakes. One degree up the thermometer and the meteorological piece of art would melt away.
She would never allow herself to bond with someone like that again. She wouldn’t survive it.
“Y’all barely know me,” Lena heard herself saying. “Why would you want to include me in your trusted circle?” She speared them all with a look of suspicion. “Especially since most of you are related, either through blood or marriage, to the Blackwells.”
“Randi and Carlie Beth have vouched for you,” Evie said, climbing onto the other stool next to her. “That’s good enough for me.”
“Me too,” Riley echoed, joining them at the bar.
Carlie Beth slid a plate with a fat omelet, hash browns, fruit, and a tin cup of salsa in front of Lena. “Sounds like it’s settled.” She winked at Lena. “Spill it, girl.”
Desperation kept Lena rooted in place rather than reverting to her normal MO, which would have been to exit the building and never return.
She’d had to master many things over the years, but finding missing objects wasn’t a skillset she’d needed to develop yet. If she had time, she could figure it out. Figuring things out was one of her superpowers.
But she didn’t have time. Soon, she would have to notify Palmer—and the police—about the theft. The longer she waited, the worse the senator’s response would be.
She picked up the tin of salsa and poured it over her omelet. “Fair warning. I don’t need to change Rohan’s mind about something trivial. What I need from him will also impact the family business.”
“In a nefarious or illegal way?” Randi asked.
Lena shook her head.
“Excellent,” Riley said, accepting a slice of warm banana nut bread from Randi. “An actual problem to solve. I was afraid we would have to save him from making a fatal error in his boot buying.”
Brynne shivered. “Lord, save me from men with no fashion sense.”
Despite the anxiety coiling in her stomach, Lena smiled. She had never been part of a sisterhood before. She liked these women, but she didn’t love them. Would never love them. She wouldn’t allow herself to develop such a deep connection.
She would take what they so freely offered and walk away.
Piece of cake.
Evie sent her a mischievous smile. “This isn’t even all of our gal power. If needed, we could also recruit Roni, Tessa, Joan, Sandy, Micki, Joss, and Maggie.”
“Let’s not forget Aubrey,” Carlie Beth said. “She’s old enough now to wreak havoc.”
Everyone laughed, except Lena. She was surrounded by kind, funny, generous women. Women who had accepted her—someone they barely knew—into their sisterhood. Lena found herself wanting to join them. If only to observe how functioning friendships worked.
But experience had shown her that linking her heart to others was the surest way to getting it broken. Which she’d endured far too many times already in her two-and-a-half decades.
So she did what she’d trained herself to do. Be present, put on her game face, and disengage her heart.
8
Wearing a loose pair of sweat shorts, Rohan padded out onto the patio outside his suite of rooms. He loved this time of the morning, when silvery light washed over the landscape, cleansing away the previous day’s hardships.
He unrolled a gray mat and positioned it toward the distant mountains, where the sun would rise above the gentle peaks soon. The morning was calm, quiet. Even the birds had yet to rise.
Two doors down, a light flicked on, casting a soft orange glow over the pavers outside the suite’s French doors.
Soon, Grams would emerge with her own mat, though it wouldn’t be made of foam. His grandmother would perform her morning meditation on a small rug her Navajo mother had handwoven after surviving the Long Walk. Twice.
In the mid-1800s, the United States government hungered for the land west of the Mississippi and took brutal measures to acquire it. The traditional homelands of the Navajo—or Diné—extended across portions of what is today considered Colorado, Utah, Arizona, and New Mexico. The Diné called this sacred land Dinétah—Among the People.
When the Diné refused to give up their land, the government employed a scorched earth campaign, led by frontiersman and Army Officer Kit Carson. Carson burned their villages, destroyed their water sources, and killed their livestock, all in an effort to starve them off their land.
It had worked.
In the winter of 1864, the Army forced thousands of Diné from their ancestral lands to Bosque Redondo Reservation in New Mexico, which was nothing more than an internment camp at a military outpost known as Fort Sumner.
Hundreds died during the Long Walk, an eighteen-day, three-hundred-mile trek, either from the elements, starvation, or Army execution. Four years later, the U.S.-Navajo treaty was signed, allowing those who survived the deplorable conditions at the camp to return, on foot, to some of their ancestral lands, a much smaller area in Arizona and New Mexico.
It was there that Rohan’s great-grandmother had woven the details of her story into her rug. A rug Grams used every day in honor of her ancestors and to never forget their many sacrifices.
Rohan went through a series of stretches before settling on his mat and facing the spot where, in the distance, soft silver-blue melded with a warm amber. Watching the dawning light and listening to the forest around him yawn to life lulled him into a meditative state.
For about five seconds.
No matter how hard he tried, his mind wouldn’t let go of all that had happened in the past twenty-four hours.
After leaving Miss Kamber’s loft, he’d returned to the Friary, intent on delivering his recommendation to Zeke and Lynette.
But his mother hadn’t been on the property and Zeke had been tied up in video conferences all day. Frustrated, he’d spent the rest of the day and far into the evening behind his monitors, searching for Miss Kamber’s digital footprint. She had to have one. Everyone did at their age.
Gen Z. The generation who would embrace the smartphone’s wonders and nosedive into its pitfalls.
If anyone was going to put out a post or video that would later haunt them when applying to colleges or interviewing for jobs, it was this eager bunch of Like-Share-Follow seekers.
But no matter how deep he’d dug, he found nothing but ether before Angelena Kamber’s fifteenth birthday.
He stretched his neck, left and right, releasing the gathering tightness. He had to let this go. Now wasn’t the time for distractions. No matter how beautiful or mysterious.
Once he shared his recommendation with Zeke and Lynette, he would forget about the forger and double his efforts on safeguarding BARS and his family.
Resolve in place, he calmed the ticker tape in his mind for ten minutes.
He’d take it.
When he got to his feet, he spotted Grams perched on a thick pillow, which sat atop her mother’s handwoven rug. A serene, patient expression on her beloved face as she waited for the first rays of the sun to spill over the treetops.
Rohan rolled up his mat and, without another glance to the east, strode back inside.
* * *
Two hours later, after Rohan’s workout and shower, he found the entire crew in the Theater, the open conference room where his family planned and strategized their asset recoveries.
Zeke sat at the head of the table. Liv Westcott, BARS’s new provenance consultant and the love of Zeke’s life, was to his right, along with Cruz, Phin, and Maddy Carmichael, the love of Phin’s life. Grams occupied the seat to Zeke’s left and Lynette was next to her.
The chair at the foot of the table was empty.
Shit.
Twirling a pen between his fingers, Cruz smirked, enjoying the novelty of someone besides him stationed in the hot seat for once.
Whoever sat across from Zeke became the focus of his brother’s considerable attention. Usually one of the first to arrive, Rohan avoided being Zeked. Until now.
