“Because I didn’t realize how bad it still was until I went inside to use your bathroom earlier. It’s the first time I’ve been inside your house in ages. You’re always at our place. Your house hasn’t changed since you moved in. What’s going on?”
“Leave it alone, Shane.” Clay spun and faced his friend. “I haven’t decided what I’m doing with the house yet, and if I rip out the walls downstairs, I’d have to pack everything up anyway. Remodeling takes time and I don’t have it right now.”
Shane replaced his hat on top of his head and held up his hands. Despite his friend’s gesture, Clay knew Shane wasn’t buying his excuse.
“Say no more. Sorry I mentioned it. Just know if you need any help—remodeling—I’m here for you.” He pointed to the chicken coop. “Let’s nail the roof on before I go.”
“I’ll do it when I get back.” Clay wanted this conversation to end—scratch that, he needed Shane to drop the subject...permanently. The sudden awkwardness between them seemed a mile wide. “I have to clean up and head out in a few. Thanks again for your help and I’ll catch up with you later.”
Clay headed for his 1940s farm house, leaving Shane no opportunity to say another word. He climbed up the porch stairs. Once inside, he closed the door and stared through the kitchen into the dark dining room. The room was filled with boxes instead of a dining table and chairs. He didn’t own much, but whatever he did was in those boxes. So were the memories of the woman and child he loved more than anything. Their deaths were on his hands and Clay wasn’t ready to let go...not yet.
* * *
IT WAS AFTER LUNCH when Abby poked her head through the entrance of The Magpie. The intoxicating aroma of fresh brewed coffee, baked bread and bacon enveloped her.
This is where he wants to meet me? A luncheonette?
“Don’t be shy.” A fiftysomething woman with a trendy layered bob called out as she entered the kitchen carrying an armful of dirty dishes. “Have a seat anywhere.”
Not that there was anything wrong with meeting in a luncheonette, it just wasn’t where Abby thought a P.I. should meet a client for the first time. For one, it wasn’t private, and in her opinion, it wasn’t professional, either. But Kay had raved about him. Though a stranger’s word didn’t really mean much, it was all she had to go on. Her heels clicked as she crossed the black-and-white checkerboard floor, the sound alerting her to how overdressed she was for somewhere this casual. She smoothed the front of her skirt and looked around.
The place was small and cozy with only a handful of people occupying the tables. Abby locked in on the man sitting at the counter. She was no private investigator, but she was willing to bet he was Clay Tanner.
The tightening in her chest at the sight of his angular jaw and tousled, sandy blond hair took her a bit off guard. His white long-sleeve Western shirt stretched across broad shoulders. A straw Stetson perched on the stool beside him.
Maybe there was something to Kay’s matchmaking, after all.
Abby halted as a statuesque waitress leaned on the counter, her face close to Clay’s. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of serving you twice today?” The ringlets of her ginger ponytail bounced with each word. Her pink uniform and white apron were a throwback to the fifties. The outfit worked for her. Not many people could pull off that look.
“I’m meeting a client here,” the man drawled.
Not one to miss a cue, Abby drew her five-foot-one-inch frame straighter—she was five-five if she included the heels—and approached the man.
“I believe you’re waiting for me,” Abby said.
He met her eyes and held them, not giving her the typical male once-over she usually received. Abby wasn’t sure if she should be flattered or disappointed.
He’s just polite. Real men don’t treat women as objects.
Screw polite. Abby wanted to give him the once-over, but she maintained eye contact for fear that, if she didn’t, she’d lose all control of her senses. She didn’t want to start panting over the man!
“I’m Abby Winchester.”
Deep sapphire-blue eyes flashed and somewhere in his face there was a hint of a smile. It made her wonder if he was one of those men who didn’t want you to think they were interested in you, even though they really were.
He gestured to the waitress that he was moving to one of the vacant booths across from the counter, and then returned his attention to her. “Abby Winchester.” The soothing way he said her name had her wanting to hear it again. He rose, long and lean, and held out his hand. Even with her wearing heels, he was a good foot taller than Abby. “Clay Tanner. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
The warmth of his grip radiated up her arm, causing a slight tremor along her spine. He motioned for her to have a seat in the booth. She slid in, tugging at the hem of her short houndstooth skirt to prevent it from riding farther up her thighs and becoming a belt. Some clothes weren’t meant for booth-scooting.
“Mr. Tanner.” Abby removed a black-and-white file folder from her Balenciaga tote and pushed it across the table. “I’m afraid I don’t have much to go on.”
“Hi, I’m Bridgett. Welcome to The Magpie.” Startled, Abby looked up at the woman. What she wouldn’t give to have legs that long. The waitress placed two glasses of water on the table and handed her a menu.
Abby didn’t need to look at it. She knew exactly what she wanted. The scent of bacon beckoned, causing her to crave her favorite sandwich.
“I’ll have a BLT on white toast, mayo on the side and an order of fries.” She returned the menu. “And a black coffee, please.”
“Sure thing, hon,” Bridgett said. “What about you, Clay? Bert made that jalapeño crawfish chowder you love so much.”
“How can I say no?” He beamed at the waitress.
“Coming right up.”
Abby followed Clay’s eyes and was pleasantly surprised when they didn’t wander to Bridgett’s retreating backside. Was it possible gentlemen still existed?
“Designer folder?” Clay opened the black-and-white fleur-de-lis file, revealing its hot-pink lining. “Now I’ve seen it all.”
“There is nothing wrong with being fashionably organized, Mr. Tanner.” She had purposely purchased the folder at the stationer’s to match the outfit she had chosen for their meeting. But now she felt silly.
“I’m not saying there is.” He leaned back against the booth. “However, if we’re going to work together, I insist you call me Clay. Mr. Tanner is my father.”
“Agreed,” Abby nodded. “Those are copies of my birth certificate and my father’s death certificate.”
Clay flipped through the pages. “Both documents list a different father.”
“My mom remarried when I was two. My stepfather adopted me years later. Legally, it changed all my records naming him as my father, but it didn’t sever my rights as Walter’s next of kin. A copy of all court records and my adoption are in there.”
“What makes you think you have a sister?”
“I arrived at the hospital the day after Walter died and a nurse gave me a handwritten note. She said he was adamant I received it. It said find your sister. Nothing more.”
“Do you have the note?” Clay asked.
“On me? No.” The piece of scrap paper was all Abby had left of her biological father. It was home, tucked safely in