Last Chance At The Someday Café

What if he never saw Brooke again? Or worse, what if the next time he saw his daughter, she was an adult who came to find him and wanted to know why he’d never looked for her, never found her? He swallowed the panic and resisted the urge to smash something.

“Get out of your head, Morgan.” Jack’s voice broke into his thoughts.

“And you wonder why I listen to the music?”

“No, I don’t wonder.” Jack did look at Morgan this time. “Let’s get you a load, if we can. Hopefully, we can at least cover the fuel.”

“Hey.” Morgan pulled out a chair, spinning, then straddling it, stacking his thick arms on top of the back. “How much is this straining the business? Is it making it too rough on you?”

Jack didn’t stop typing, his fingers smacking the keys loud and hard. “No. We’re tight, like we always are, but we’re good.”

“Are you sure?” The tension Morgan could see in his brother’s shoulders denied the reassurances.

“Even if we aren’t?” Jack stopped typing and looked up. “She’s important to me, too. She’s my niece, Morgan. This is my mission, too. So get to work. I’ll get you a load.” He went back to typing.

“Thanks.” Morgan stood and carefully put the chair back. “I’m taking the truck for a bath. I’ll start my checks after we grab dinner.”

Jack nodded. “I’ll have your route mapped out by then.”

Outside, the afternoon sun was bright, but the wind was cold, cutting through him. He’d left his jacket in the truck, not needing it this morning. He smelled damp in the air. Sucky start of a run.

There’d been way too much rain this year. And the season wasn’t over yet. The last time he’d gone out, he’d been stuck in El Paso for two days, unable to get back because of the flooding. This time, if he got stuck, maybe it’d be closer to either Sylvie and Brooke, or home.

The big Peterbilt roared to life, purring beneath his hands, rumbling as he pulled across the yard. Nearly a dozen trailers sat parked inside the fence. These were empty right now, but by tomorrow, Jack would work his magic and the trailers would be out of here, on their way to being loaded, then delivered.

Two men headed toward the office. Phil and Brian—good men. Jack knew the crew better than he did these days. When was the last time Morgan had taken the chance to chat with them? He missed that. Missed time with his brother. He closed his eyes for an instant. He just missed downtime.

But finding Brooke was more important.

And if he missed anything, it was her.

He drove out of the yard, under the big steel sign he’d been so proud to hang—Thane Brothers Trucking. He’d worked damned hard to build this company. Hell, he still did, but what good was it doing any of them?

Damn Sylvie. He sighed and flipped on the stereo. Blaring the hard rock forced the emotions out of his head. He steered to the truck wash, not letting himself dwell on what did—or did not—lay ahead on this trip. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could do this, how much longer he could ask Jack and the others to shoulder his share of the load.

Sitting there, waiting for the attendant to guide him into place, Morgan wrestled with his indecision.

This run had to be a success. He had to find Brooke. When he’d first reported them missing, the authorities had done what they could. They kept him informed. But it wasn’t fast enough. Yesterday wasn’t soon enough to have his daughter back.

Morgan was running out of time. He knew it. He’d never stop looking, never stop searching for her. But he also knew Jack was lying to him. Things were tight, too tight. Jack needed him to get back in the office, to help run the company they’d built together. Morgan needed to do his job. He owed Jack and his crew that.

Damn it.

He couldn’t ask his brother or his men to sacrifice anything more. This had to be his last run. Either he found them and came home—or he didn’t and he gave up on this quest.

It was the right decision.

So why did it make his heart ache?

* * *

TIRED BEYOND BELIEF, Tara brushed the soft blue paint around the last doorframe. Doing the painting herself was one way she could save money on this venture. Over halfway done, she smiled. Done. What a lovely word.

Once these two walls were finished—and the furniture brought in—the Someday Café would be one step closer to reality. She’d be one step closer to true independence.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice came across the empty dining room, startling Tara. She’d thought she was alone. Her arms ached, and she hoped to finish soon. She didn’t have time for interruptions.

Still, she settled the brush on top of the paint can and turned. She knew she didn’t look her best. A shadow of blue teased at the corner of her eye. Honestly? She had paint in her hair? Again?

The woman standing in the doorway wasn’t anyone Tara knew. “Can I help you?” She wiped her hands on the tail of her paint shirt.

“Uh, yeah.” The woman stepped forward, extending a hand tipped with black-lacquered fingernails. “I’m Sylvie.” Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I thought you might be hiring.”

She was, but something about the woman jarred Tara. Maybe it was the black nails? Or maybe the pink-and-blue spiked hair? No. She squinted, trying to figure it out. The midnight blue lipstick on the lips that sported two metal rings? What’d they call those things? Snake bites? Ouch.

The youngest of six kids whose father had died when she was two, Tara had been coddled and nearly spoiled by her family—which sometimes left her ill-prepared for a world beyond their loving arms.

And leery of strangers. Like this Sylvie. But Tara knew it wasn’t the woman’s outer appearance that made her pause. No, it was the bloodshot eyes that lacked any warmth or caring.

“We won’t be open for a few more weeks.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I have a job at the T-shirt shop—my real one—so I’m not in any big rush.”

“Uh-huh.” Tara bit her tongue, holding back the question she knew she couldn’t utter. This wasn’t a real job? This place that had taken every dime of her savings and inheritance and then some? This restaurant that was her dream, and yet the hardest thing she’d ever done, wasn’t a “real” business?

Tell her aching muscles that.

Tara racked her brain for an excuse to end this conversation and get back to work. “Well, as you can see, I’m busy right now.” She gestured at the paint and drop cloths. “Maybe in a week or so I can get started on the applicants.” She’d already scheduled two interviews, but something told her she shouldn’t tell this woman that.

“Sure. I’ll come back.” Sylvie smiled and spun on her heel. At the doorway, she stopped and looked back. “This will look really cool when you’re done. But that old blue is awful. White’ll really brighten up the place.”

“Really?” Tara couldn’t hide her sarcasm. Keeping her mouth shut had never been a strength.

“Definitely. I studied design in school for a while. White is like a blank canvas.” She spread her arms wide. “I could help you design a whole new place.”

Tara didn’t want a whole new place. “Uh, thanks. I’ll let you know.” Tara could only stare, hoping the woman wouldn’t return. She left the way she’d come, the door slamming closed behind her.

Tara looked at the light blue paint she’d agonized over choosing and had spent the better part of a week putting on the walls. It was perfect and would look beautiful—she hoped—with the lace curtains she’d ordered.

The old-fashioned, homey, wood furniture was in storage until she finished painting, and the oak floor was scheduled to be refinished later this week.

Picturing those black fingernails putting out the lace doilies she’d bought at the flea market last week made Tara cringe.

No, Sylvie wasn’t a good match for this place. She was too rough. Too edgy. This place had no edge. It was about comfort food and relaxation.

Turning to her work, Tara forced herself to slow down and not slap the paintbrush against the wall. Old blue? Really? She reached for the long-handled roller and started on the next wall, all thoughts of taking a break gone.

As she worked, her brain kept time with the rhythm of the roller. Was she doing the right thing? Up. She’d worked too hard to have doubts now. Down. What if everyone thought like Sylvie? Up. Not everyone had blue hair. Down.