FLOWERS and CAGES Read online

  "You make it sound like I had no choice." The merest suggestion that Colleen wasn't making her own decisions was the fastest way to bring color to her face. She could feel the blood rushing upward accompanied by a fair amount of heat. "It could be argued that I'm the one who kept you up. In more ways than one."

  "Neither of us has time for sexual innuendo, Red."

  "There was no innuendo. And never call me Red."

  With a grin, Dalton tapped her cheek, then tugged playfully on her hair. "If the shoe fits."

  So much for the warm and fuzzy. Colleen's eyes narrowed as Dalton lifted his phone. Red. Admittedly, when Dalton called her the dreaded nickname, she didn't feel the usual amount of animosity. However, it was annoying. An infinitely safer emotion than… Colleen put on the breaks. She wasn't willing to acknowledge the problem. Naming it would be a huge mistake.

  "I need to get going." Colleen slid the comb into her purse. "Do you mind making your call while I drive?"

  "It's ringing." Dalton grabbed the keys, tossing them to Colleen. "Let's go. I can walk and talk. Then sit and talk."

  The conversation was one-sided—on Colleen's end. However, it was obvious to anyone listening that Dalton's friends were on the other end. Mostly, he listened. His expression ranging from amused to annoyed. Occasionally, antagonistic. Now and then he would throw in a comment. Colleen had just pulled into the garage at her apartment building when Dalton took over.

  "I said I was sorry. Time got away from me. Yes, Ryder, I understand how to check my messages. If you shut up for five seconds, I will tell you what happened."

  For one panicked minute, Colleen thought Dalton meant what happened at the lake. When he started recounting his initial meeting with Tolliver, she rolled her eyes. Talk about self-centered. It isn't all about you, Colleen. Leaving Dalton to finish his call in private, she jogged up the stairs, unlocking the door that led directly into her kitchen.

  The attached garage had been the apartment's chief selling point. In a pinch, she could have left the T-Bird at her mother's. Sherry and Rick had plenty of room. However, her car was meant to be driven. Though it was a classic, she believed in enjoying the fruits of her labors. She hadn't put in all those hours bringing it back to life only to keep it locked away untouched. The Ford Motor Company produced the Thunderbird to be taken out on the road. As far as Colleen was concerned, sixty years later, the car's raison d'être hadn't changed.

  As she rushed around, changing from last night's dress to her daily uniform of shorts, a t-shirt, followed by coveralls, heavy socks and work boots, Colleen made a mental list of what she needed to get done. There were three jobs pending at the garage. Nothing major. Things—that if pushed—she could do with her eyes closed and one hand tied behind her back. Not exactly busy work, since they were the bread and butter of any mechanic. They paid the bills. However, it would be nice if something came in that was more of a challenge.

  Dalton's car would have qualified. But as she told him, no matter what she did, the Porsche was bound to break down again. It would be the equivalent of tossing his money—and her labor—down a garbage disposal.

  Braiding her hair, Colleen twisted the end into a loop, clipping at the base of her neck where it would stay out of her way. Challenges at work were hard to come by. She needed to find another project. Something along the lines of the Thunderbird. It would be nice to have a project in the hopper—one that made the tips of her fingers tingle with anticipation. She looked around. Something was bound to catch her interest. When she found it, Colleen would jump in. But not now. Today, she had to pay the bills.

  Colleen found Dalton in the kitchen. The cooler sat empty as he transferred the last of its contents into the refrigerator.

  "Everything looks like it survived the night. I tossed the potato salad—just in case. You can never be too careful when mayonnaise is involved. What?" Dalton asked when he saw her amused expression.

  "World-class drummer and food safety expert? That's quite a resume."

  "Food poisoning is no laughing matter."

  But there was a smile on Dalton's face as he carried the cooler to the garage. Stowing it where Colleen indicated, he took the keys from her hand.

  "Did you get things smoothed over with your friends?" Colleen asked as they climbed into the car.

  "They have my back." Dalton skillfully backed out of the garage, heading out of the parking lot. "Once I explained, and promised not to miss another call, things were cool."

  "It must be nice. That kind of support system is rare."

  Dalton nodded, his gaze thoughtful. "We work. On stage and off. We are as tight a group as you'll find. When I met Ryder and Ashe, I was content to drift from gig to gig. I wasn't interested in anything permanent. Or so I thought."

  "A wandering troubadour." Colleen could picture it. Have drumsticks, will travel. She felt a touch of envy.

  "We all were. Ryder was the one who wanted something stable."

  "Because of Zoe?"

  Dalton's fingers tightened on the steering wheel—enough to turn his knuckles white. The look he shot her sent a chill down Colleen's spine. She didn't know what she had said, but it was enough to drop the temperature in the car to a frosty level.

  "What makes you think that?" Dalton demanded.

  "Their story is common knowledge." It felt odd defending herself when she had no idea why. Colleen was sorry that Dalton was upset, but unless he explained, she wasn't going to offer up a blind apology.

  "Well, shit." Pulling next to the curb outside Dole's Auto Repair, Dalton killed the engine. With a sigh, he ran a hand through his hair, removing his sunglasses. Colleen saw wariness in his gaze. But it was the regret, the contriteness, which melted her growing anger. "My friends and I have a pact. We don't talk about each other to anyone outside the group. What I know about Ashe, or Ryder and Zoe, I keep to myself. And vice versa. It's a touchy subject."

  "You don't say," Colleen sniped, but it was done gently. When Dalton smiled, she felt the knot in her shoulders loosen.

  "Over the years, reporters have pumped us for information. Sometimes with flattery. Sometimes trickery. A few have attempted the old Mata Hari routine."

  "You'll have to explain that one."

  "They have tried to sex the information out of us."

  "Ah," Colleen nodded. She would have to keep on her toes. She wasn't used to hanging out with a man who made World War I spy references. Discovering that about him made Colleen like Dalton all the more.

  "The point is, I might have overreacted. Just a tad. I'm sorry, Colleen."

  "Raise that tad to a trifle, and we're good."

  "Consider it done." Dalton slid his hand behind Colleen's neck, pulling her in for a kiss. "I'm off to track down my sister and her wayward husband."

  "Good luck."

  "Dinner?"

  "Absolutely, I—" Suddenly, Colleen remembered something she had conveniently put out of her mind. "I'll have to pass—reluctantly. Today is my mother's birthday. My stepfather likes to make a fuss. Mom likes to be fussed over. It's one of the reasons their marriage works. There will be a big family meal. Friends. Cake. Presents. The whole shebang."

  "Sounds like fun. Is there someplace in town where I can buy your mother a gift?"

  Colleen's eyes widened. "Are you crazy?" Reaching over, she pressed the back of her hand to Dalton's forehead. "You don't seem to be feverish."

  "Fit as a fiddle." Taking Colleen's hand, Dalton brushed her fingers with his lips. "What time do you get off work?"

  "You honestly want to do this?" When Dalton nodded, Colleen abandoned the myriad of arguments swirling from one side of her brain to the other. In Midas, Sherry's birthday parties were as close as a person could get to a zoo—with the touch of a carnival fun house tossed in for good measure. An invitation was a hot ticket. Why shouldn't Dalton get a taste of what her mother's brand of crazy looked like?

  "Give me a ring around four o'clock. I'll let y
ou know if I'm going to be delayed."

  "Will do." When Colleen hesitated, Dalton gave her a gentle push out the door. "Relax. I can't wait to meet your mother. And about that gift?"

  "Try Weaver's down on Birch. Mom loves earrings. Think big and bold."

  Colleen watched as the T-Bird turned at the intersection. Dalton and her mother? In the same room? It had disaster written all over it—in big neon lights. There was one consolation. Sherry was easily distracted by shiny things. And in Colleen's opinion, Dalton Shaw was the shiniest object she had ever met.

  BUSY DIDN'T BEGIN to describe Colleen's morning. What had promised to be routine and uneventful, quickly turned into an unprecedented barrage of flat tires, blown gaskets, and one savagely ripped out carburetor.

  Gary Newcomb was practically in tears when the tow truck dropped him and his brand new Ford Explorer off at the garage. Gary wanted Colleen's sympathy. All she could give him was her expertise and a bit of advice. Never cheat on a woman who knows what's what under the hood of his car. Especially when that woman is his wife.

  "I didn't do anything I haven't done before," Gary whined, clutching the carburetor in his hand. "Why now? Why not the old Chevy I traded in last week? Hell, Colleen. How can I forgive a woman who could do such a thing?"

  "You should be down on your knees begging Stacey's forgiveness. And be grateful this is all the damage she did."

  Since Colleen had taught Stacey everything she knew about cars, if Gary's wife had been so inclined, she could have taken the Explorer's engine apart, holding each part for ransom. That's what Colleen suggested when Stacey called her around eight thirty. Now, two hours later, Colleen figured that Gary—and his new SUV—got off easy.

  "But—" Gary sputtered.

  Colleen had heard enough. Work was piling up. If Gary wanted a kick in the ass, she would be happy to oblige. If he wanted his truck fixed, he would have to get in line. "It will be a couple of hours. Maybe more. Leave the carburetor. Dole will call you when I'm done."

  Five minutes later, an irate Dole waddled into the work area. His face was red—redder than usual.

  "Gary Newcomb says you were rude to him. He's one of our best customers, Mac. I want you to apologize."

  "And I want a villa in the south of France. Neither is likely. But I'll bet I get my wish first."

  "You're too clever for your own good, Mac." Dole wiped at the sweat that poured down his face. More followed, making the effort a losing battle.

  Colleen sighed. Lifting the newly patched tire, she leveraged it onto her old English teacher's Chrysler. Since Mrs. Black was one of the few people in Midas that Colleen looked on with affection, she wanted to send the retired teacher on her way as quickly as possible. Dole was not helping.

  "If I were as clever as you claim, I wouldn't be working for you. But since I am," Colleen ratcheted the last lug nut into place. "Thank your goddamned lucky stars and leave me to it."

  "One of these days—"

  "What?" Colleen rounded on Dole, pointing the hydraulic wrench like a gun. "Go on," she urged when he took a step back. "One of these days…?"

  Dole held up his hands. Perhaps Colleen couldn't shoot him, but he wasn't taking any chances. "Don't get your panties in a twist. And get back to work. The bodies in the waiting room are piling up."

  "Here." Colleen tossed the wrench to Dole. He fumbled, but managed to hold on.

  "Jesus, that fucker is hot," he muttered, fumbling, but awkwardly managing to maintain his grip.

  No kidding, Colleen thought. She had the tiny burn scars to prove it. "See those?" She pointed at the four tires lined up in a neat row.

  Leery, Dole nodded.

  "I know your father taught you the basics. I patched the flats. Make yourself useful and put them on the cars."

  Colleen didn't wait around to see if Dole followed her orders. Taking a deep breath, she checked the board. Not bad. If she worked straight through lunch, she might get out of here by five. All things considered, she would take that.

  For the first time since she walked into the garage, Colleen had a second to take a breath. With a sigh, she started the next job. Some joker had clipped a stop sign turning onto Main Street. How it happened, he wouldn't say, though Colleen suspected alcohol was involved. But nobody had been hurt, the only casualty his side-view mirror. Shaking her head, she picked up a screwdriver and got back to work.

  Colleen hoped Dalton's day was going better than hers.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  AFTER LEAVING COLLEEN, Dalton made the obligatory phone call to his sister. Voicemail. Again.

  "I will call you one more time, Maggie. Three o'clock this afternoon. Answer or don't. It's up to you."

  The truth was, it didn't matter. Dalton had no intention of paying her or her husband another dime. It was time to leave his past behind him. Sad as it was, that past included Maggie. They were never close, but she was the only blood relative he knew. Keeping that tie had always seemed important. Now? He didn't feel the emotions he would have expected. Not a bit of guilt. Not a tinge of sadness.

  The only thing Dalton felt was relief.

  Dalton stopped the car in front of an old rundown building. In the parking lot, amidst some scraggly weeds, sat two pickup trucks. One red. One black. Both were old models but looked to be in fairly good condition. He exited the T-Bird, his boots stirring up a swirl of dust.

  The Thirsty Raven. Dalton's memories had little to do with the front parking lot. Ask him about the back area—the place of his arrest—and he could still describe the way it looked that night in vivid, Technicolor detail. What he did remember from seven years ago was commenting to his bandmates that The Thirsty Raven looked as though it was held together by a few nails and a prayer. Not much had changed.

  Dalton tried the front door. What would it hurt? To his surprise, the knob turned in his hand. His plan had been to take a look around, make his final peace, and be on his way. However, since he was here, and the place was open, he might as well go all the way.

  The door squeaked—loud and long. Funny, Dalton could recall the sound clearly. The bar and seating area were small. Smaller than the pictures in his mind. He supposed most of the places the band had played in those early days would be the same. Like returning to a childhood home where everything seemed miniature compared to his recollections. After years of playing sold-out arenas and massive concert halls, Dalton's perspective was different.

  As Dalton made his way across the room, he breathed in the scent of stale beer and industrial-strength cleaner. Now there was a smell he would never forget. Every small-town bar he had ever played carried the same unpleasant odor. Though the way his boots stuck to the floor, Dalton wondered why the fragrance left from the cleaner was so prevalent. From his estimation, the layer of spilled booze had been there for a long, long time. If anyone had mopped up in the last seven years, Dalton would be surprised.

  "We don't start serving until eleven," a man behind the bar called out in a raspy, smoke-roughened voice. He wasn't a young man. Or particularly old—at least in Dalton's estimation. "If you need a drink that bad, pick up a bottle at the grocery store."

  "I don't want a drink."

  "Then what do you want at—" There was a pause while he looked at his watch. "Jesus. Is that the time? Andy? You in the office?"

  "Yes!" Someone yelled through the open door to Dalton's left. "What do you want now?"

  "What the hell am I doing here at this time of the morning?"

  "We planned on going over the books for last month. Jesus, Willard. Your brain is like a goddamned sieve."

  "Fuck you, Andy." Eyeing Dalton with an air of suspicion, Willard slapped his hand down on the top of the bar. "State your business."

  "No business." Though he was enjoying the show unwittingly put on by Willard and Andy. "I'm just passing through."

  "Through Midas, I get. Through The Thirsty Raven? Son, this ain't no tourist attraction. You won't find one of t
hose until you hit Phoenix."

  Dalton was stuck for a comeback. What could he say? Seven years ago, I was arrested behind your bar. Mind if I take a look for old time's sake?

  "Are you talking to yourself again, Willard?" The man who wandered out of the office looked to be around fifty. Short and thin, his dark hair had receded so far back it wasn't fair to call what he had left a hairline.

  "No," Willard sneered, jabbing a thumb in Dalton's direction. "I'm talking to him. And don't ask me who he is. I haven't the slightest idea."

  "I do." Andy took a few steps closer. "I'll be damned. It is. I heard you were in town, but I figured it was wild gossip. We get a lot of that. This is the last place I figured to ever see you again."

  Willard peered over the bar. "Who the hell are you?"

  Dalton was about to answer, but Andy beat him to it.

  "This is Dalton Shaw, you old fool."

  Willard didn't look impressed. "And who the hell is he when the lights come on?"

  "You'll have to forgive my partner. There was a time when his mind was sharp as a tack. Time has dulled it considerably." Andy held out his hand. "I would say welcome back, but…"

  "I'm as surprised as you are." Dalton looked around. "It hasn't changed much."

  "Nope. Not much reason. Our customers don't come for the ambiance."

  "Or the music?" Dalton asked.

  "It's the truth." Andy shook his head. "Imagine, The Ryder Hart Band played here. It does give us a bit of distinction."

  "One night," Willard said under his breath.

  Andy rolled his eyes. "What's that, you old coot? If you have something to say, speak up."

  "I said," Willard's grumble became something resembling a shout. "The Ryder Hart Band played here for one night. They were booked two. Left us high and dry. Not very professional if you ask me."

  "Of all the—" Andy sent Dalton an apologetic look. "Willard, do us all a favor and read that newspaper clipping hanging behind the bar. The one that's been there for the past seven years."