Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 72156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
I still always try to do the right thing.
Except with Falcon Bellamy. With him, I always do the wrong thing.
And God…it feels so right.
32
FALCON
“Hey, Lance,” I say into the phone. “What have you got for me?”
“Not much yet, but her address was easy to find.”
“Savannah’s?”
“Yeah. She’s renting half of a duplex owned by Old Man Shaw. You know, Jim Shaw.
“The Shaws, huh?” Another change. The Shaws were ranchers, and no one used to call Jim “Old Man Shaw.”
“Right. You were gone when they moved into town. Bought the duplex, and they live in one half and rent the other half out. They sold their ranch about five years ago.”
“Now I remember. I think Dad may have mentioned that to me. He bought them out.”
“It’s what you Bellamys do. Pretty soon your old man is going to own all the ranch land around Summer Creek.”
“That’d be a lot of land,” I say.
But I don’t doubt it. My old man has a kind of manifest destiny approach to ranching. He always has.
“All right. So what’s the address?”
“It’s a few blocks off the main drag on Oak Avenue. The house number is 445B. The Shaws live in 445A.”
“Thanks. Anything else?”
“Not yet.”
“And about Eagle?”
“That’ll take a while longer. I’m going to have to do some staking out.”
“Whatever you have to do,” I say.
“You got it.”
I end the call after scribbling down the address on an old grocery receipt. I tap it into my notes on my phone so I don’t lose it.
Today is Saturday, so she’s probably either home or out running errands. She got her laundry done on Tuesday, so she won’t be doing that.
I get into my car and drive from my house on Bellamy property into town. I cruise through the main part of town, looking carefully, but not seeing Savannah anywhere.
So I drive to the duplex.
I have no idea what kind of car she drives, and it doesn’t matter anyway, because the duplex is in an older part of town and the driveways are in the back, coming off of an alley. I park in the street a few houses down, and then I walk to Savannah’s door.
I ring the doorbell.
No answer.
I knock.
Again no answer.
It’s nearing dinner hour. Is she out? Does she have a date? The thought hits me right in the stomach like a ton of bricks.
I go back to my car and I’m ready to drive away when a Chevy Cruze drives past me, turning into the alley.
Hmm…
I wait a few minutes, and then I walk back to Savannah’s door, this time foregoing the doorbell and just using my fists.
I knock, noticing there’s no peephole on the door. She won’t know it’s me.
The door opens, and Savannah stands there, her mouth open when she sees me.
Her hair is pulled up into a tight bun, and she’s wearing a black skirt and blazer, a white satiny blouse, and black pumps.
“Falcon,” she says.
“Hi there. You look like you’re ready for a funeral.”
She swallows. “I just got back from one.”
Shit. Now I feel like an asshole. She just had a friend pass away. I should have thought of that.
“Your friend,” is all I say.
“Yes. Ashley. Her service was today in San Antonio. I just got back.”
“I’m sorry again for your loss.”
She nods. “What are you doing here?”
“I…”
What the fuck am I doing here? What is it about this woman that turns my mind into oatmeal?
“You want to have dinner?” I ask.
“I ate at the…you know.”
“Right.”
“A big spread,” she says. “Lobster, caviar, you name it. They spared no expense.”
“All right, then. See you next week.” I turn to walk away.
“Wait.”
Her voice pierces my heart. I turn. “Yeah?”
“I…”
“What, Vannah?”
She holds the door open, gesturing me to come in. “I really don’t want to be alone.”
I walk into her place. It’s a small living area with a couch, two chairs, and a coffee table.
Basic.
Then again, she just moved in.
“Then come to dinner with me,” I say. “You don’t have to eat anything. You’re already all dressed up.”
I, of course, am wearing jeans and a T-shirt. But this is Summer Creek. No one dresses up to go out to dinner here.
“Where do you want to go?” she asks.
I open my mouth but I’m not sure what to say. I asked her to dinner on a whim. “Doesn’t matter to me.”
“But you’re the one who wants to eat. I’ve only been to Papa Moroni’s and that other Italian place. What else is here in town?”
“There’s a Mexican place that’s decent, or we can drive into Possum Oaks down the road fifteen miles. There are some places there.”
I hope I’m not lying. For all I know these places could be closed by now with a whole slew of new restaurants having taken their places.
“Let’s drive,” she says.
“Sure.”
“I want to change, though.”
“You look great.”
“I look like I just came from a funeral,” she says. “Give me a minute.”