But where does a man without a penny, without an identity, without a friend in the world, actually go?
The keys jingled in his pocket as he walked and he took them out as he passed beneath a streetlight. Red Hot. A tractor dealership in Utah. Apparently no one had recognized his photograph. But maybe seeing a living breathing human being would be different.
If he remembered his geography, Utah was about four states away from New Orleans. A couple of thousand miles or so. It would take days to hitchhike there.
Well, it wasn’t as though he had anything else to do, was it? He kept walking.
* * *
KINSEY STOOD ON the front porch of the house facing her mother, Frances. The abrupt door opening had caused her to stumble backward in her heels, and now she held on to a flaking post to steady her nerves.
What a day.
“Where have you been all night?” Frances demanded. “I called three times. Why are you all dressed up?”
Kinsey knew she and her mom shared certain similarities in appearance. Both were on the petite side, though Kinsey was a couple of inches taller, both curvy, both with deep brown eyes. Kinsey’s hair was her natural shade of dark brown while Frances had dyed her hair her entire life. Currently reddish-brown, silver roots showed in the center part. Over sixty now, the years had started to show in the lines on her face and the sag in her shoulders. Kinsey had never understood why her mother settled for backbreaking, low-paying employment as she was well read and intelligent. Frances had stressed that no job was more or less noble than another.
Where they differed was internal: Kinsey open and curious, Frances suspicious and very much a mind-your-own-business woman. Kinsey artistic, sketching her way through life, as proficient at mixing paints as her mother was at whipping up pancake batter.
“We had a show,” Kinsey said, deciding on the spot to skip the details about the bicycle and the cowboy. “Let’s go inside.”
“We better not,” Frances said, softly closing the door behind her. She and Kinsey were now almost lost in shadows. Just a sliver of moonlight and the light filtering through a nearby window helped them see each other. “Bill is finally asleep,” she added. “He’s had a tough day and I don’t want to chance waking him and get him coughing again.”
“Were you waiting for me? I almost had a heart attack when the door opened like that.”
“I was afraid you were him,” Frances said, glancing behind Kinsey as though expecting someone else to materialize. Kinsey actually looked over her shoulder, but there was no one there that she could see. On the other hand, she couldn’t see much.
“Him who?” she asked, her mind leaping straight to Ryan. Had he said or done something upsetting? What? What could he possibly say or do? “What’s going on?”
“It’s Bill’s nephew, Chad. Bill got a note from him saying that he was coming today or tomorrow. I’ve been on edge ever since reading it. Bill doesn’t want him here.”
“Oh, dear,” Kinsey commiserated. She knew her mom didn’t get along with Chad. “Can you call him and tell him that?”
“Neither Bill nor I know his phone number. I don’t think he wants anyone to know how to reach him. That way, he can call all the shots. The last time he came, he accused me of stealing Bill’s coin collection. He prowls around here making demands.”
“Like what?”
“He wants me to show him all the things he remembers his uncle used to have, things like those coins and stamps and heaven knows what. And when he isn’t taking inventory, he’s eating, and guess who he expects to do all the cooking?”
“What can I do to help you?” Kinsey asked. For the life of her, she couldn’t think of a darn thing.
Frances took a deep breath. “When I couldn’t reach you, I called James Fenwick.”
“Mr. Dodge’s attorney?”
“Yes. You’ve met him.”
“Guy about fifty, kind of stuffy?”
“I wouldn’t describe him that way,” Frances said. “He’s been very kind to Bill. Lately he’s been helping him go through his collection of books.”
Kinsey could easily picture the room Mr. Dodge used as a bedroom. Every wall was covered with floor-to-ceiling shelves and each of those housed a wide array of books. She felt bad that she’d been less than flattering in her description of James Fenwick and now she mumbled, “That’s very nice of him.”
“Yes, it is. He’s one of the few considerate people left on the planet. Anyway, Mr. Fenwick is out of town on business, but he’ll come straight here when he drives home tomorrow. He said he’ll leave before dawn.”
“Good. What if I come by before work just to make sure things are okay until he gets here? Would that help?”
“Yes. Thank you. I know how busy you are.”
“I wanted to ask you something, Mom,” Kinsey added. “Do you know a woman named Sherry or Mary Smith?”
Her mother shook her head. “No. Why?”
There was no way in the world that Kinsey was going to add more stress to her mother. She omitted the fact that people had been asking about Bill Dodge’s housekeeper—she’d tell her that tomorrow when the poor woman wasn’t so overwhelmed. “No reason. I just heard the name.”
Frances nodded. “Come early, okay? Bill is better in the morning and always enjoys your visits. And heaven forbid, you don’t want to run into Chad.”
Though Kinsey had never met Mr. Dodge’s nephew face-to-face, she did know his name was Chad Dodge. If her mother was any judge at all, Chad was a greedy, demanding man. Everyone knew he was set to inherit this house when Bill Dodge died, but apparently he wasn’t content to wait.
Fatigue dragged at Kinsey as she agreed to be back bright and early in the morning. Her feet in the stacked-heel sandals hurt like blazes, her hair drooped down her sticky neck. Frances stepped back to ease open the front door and listen intently, her profile vivid in the stream of light flowing from within the house. Though still attractive, the years were taking a toll and Kinsey glanced away.
“I hear Bill coughing,” Frances said. “I have to go.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Kinsey said. “Try not to worry too much.”
Her mother slipped inside and closed the door behind her. Kinsey heard the slide of the dead bolt. It was a relief to collapse back into her car, start the air conditioner and polish off the now-tepid iced tea.
Fifteen minutes later, it was an even greater relief to turn onto Hummingbird Drive, a charming name for a decidedly ordinary-looking road. She pulled into her parking spot behind the house and got out, juggling the apple and banana she hadn’t eaten yet, longing for the privacy of her own space in the apartment above the detached garage and the cool softness of her bed.
A voice from the shadows made her drop both pieces of fruit and she whirled around to find herself facing a large man. Even as she gasped, he moved into the light and she saw who it was.
With a hand on her chest, she blinked unbelieving eyes. “Zane?”
He had knelt to retrieve the fruit. “I didn’t know for sure where you lived,” he said softly as he straightened up. “I knocked at the main house, but no one is home.”
“My