"What does she hope to gain by finding him?" she asks, not because she cares for Cat but because she's trying to see if there's another angle to exploit.
I ignore the question because she doesn't deserve to hear anything about Cat's need to find herself. It's partly this woman's fault that her daughter is so lost. Instead, I say, "I'll give you half now for the name and the other half when I find him."
"What if you don't find him?" she asks, leaning forward with shrewd eyes.
"If I don't find him, then you don't get the rest of the money." I lean forward and hold her stare.
"That doesn't seem fair," she pouts.
"Take it or leave it." I was done negotiating and I knew she was going to take it. No way she was turning her nose up at $12,500 in cash right now.
Trish stands up from the table and walks back into the living room. I don't follow but watch her pull a small box out of a rattan chest on one end of the couch. She opens it up, riffles through, and comes back to me, sullenly handing me a piece of paper.
I take it from her and see it's a computer printout of a news article dated February 3, 2003. There's a grainy picture of a man wearing a military uniform with a beret. The title says, "Fort Bragg Soldier Awarded Bronze Star".
"I would Google him every now and then," she says, nodding down to the paper in my hand. "Found that a few years ago, but not really sure why I kept it. Was just curiosity, I guess."
My eyes move back and forth as I read the short article:
Fort Bragg, NC (AP): Sergeant Major Allen Henning with the 82nd Airborne Division was awarded the Bronze Star with Valor for selfless actions he undertook in Afghanistan that saved the lives of numerous soldiers. Sergeant Major Henning, along with fourteen other soldiers, came under enemy fire while stationed at Forward Operating Base Eagle in the Balad district of Afghanistan. After identifying the shooter in an Afghani uniform, who had already shot two soldiers under Henning's command, Sergeant Major Henning managed to return cover fire to enable others to get to safety. He then managed to wound the assailant, effectively disarming him and ensuring his quick capture by U.S. Forces.
The article goes on to say that Allen Henning is from Green Bay, Wisconsin and had joined the Army in 1990 at the age of eighteen. I know Cat is twenty-four, born in 1991, so if this is her father, that would have made him nineteen at the time.
I look up to Trish, who doesn't hold an ounce of fondness on her face for the man who gave her a daughter.
"What's the story with you two?" I ask bluntly.
She grimaces and sits back down at the table. "I was living with a friend in Fayetteville, North Carolina and met Allen there. He'd been in the Army only a few months stationed at Ft. Bragg. We had a brief affair and then I came back to Vegas. He apparently went on to do quite well for himself."
"Define brief affair," I push at her.
She shrugs. "We were together maybe four months. Because we were young and stupid, we were fucking like rabbits with no protection. I got pregnant and never told him."
"Why not?" I ask, trying not to let my lip curl up in disdain at her.
"He was gung ho about the Army, and I sure as shit didn't want to lead that type of life. He got sent to some school at a base in Alabama. He wanted me to wait for him back at Fort Bragg but as soon as he left, I used that opportunity to come back home to Vegas."
"You just left without telling him you were leaving?"
"Knew he'd try to talk me out of it. If he'd known I was pregnant, he would have followed me to Vegas. Allen was just one of those upstanding people, always doing the right thing. Was kind of dull actually."
Man, this woman is cracked in the head.
"If you didn't want to be tied down, why in the world would you even keep the baby?" I have to ask her. Because in the few minutes I've been in this woman's presence, I can tell she has no business being a mother.
"I didn't have the funds to get back to Vegas. Told my mom I was pregnant and abandoned, which wasn't the entire truth, but she wired me money to get home. She made me promise to keep the baby though as she didn't believe in abortion. So I had Catherine and lived with my mom for about three years. She pretty much took care of the baby until she died from a sudden brain aneurysm, then I had to step up to the plate and become a mom."
Yeah, lady... you most certainly didn't step up to the plate.
"Why didn't you just give Cat to her father if you didn't want her?" I ask, unable to hold the derision out of my voice.
"Because she had her uses," she says without an ounce of shame, still looking me in the face. "Tax breaks and government assistance."
"You have got to be fucking kidding me," I growl at her from across the table, pushing my chair back and standing up. "You kept a child because she helped you with taxes and food stamps? What the hell is wrong with you?"
Trish's face flushes red as she tries to defend herself. "I did the best I could. I never beat her or abused her."
"You neglected her," I spit at her. "You kept her from a parent who might have wanted to give her love and devotion. The only thing you love about your daughter is the money she gives you."
She shrugs again, not willing to engage me in a debate over her mothering skills. Instead, she says, "Look... how about I just get my money and you go on your fool's errand trying to chase Allen down? Not sure what you hope to accomplish with that, but that was the easiest twenty-five thousand made in the history of the world."
"Twelve-thousand-five hundred," I correct her as I pull my checkbook out of my back pocket. "You don't get the other half until I find her dad."
The disdainful task of handing money over to that woman complete, I jump in my Suburban and head back to the Bellagio, calling Bridger on the way through the hands-free Bluetooth.
"Fruitful discussion?" is how Bridger answers.
"Yeah... got the name of Cat's father. Allen Henning. Was in the Army, at least as of 2003 when he won a Bronze Star. Originally from Green Bay and was stationed at Fort Bragg. That's all I got."
"Piece of cake," Bridger says, and I will have to take his word on it. The man has dozens of contacts that provide all sorts of useful information, and I'm grateful he's helping me on this. "I'll have something for you by morning."
"Thanks, man," I say as I rub the back of neck, which is aching from the tension of having to actually be in Trish Lyons' presence.
"Sure thing," he says. "And your girl went home alone last night. Sat at the bar and drank water the rest of the night after that one glass of wine. Left around midnight. I'm assuming she went back to your place."
I wonder what Cat thought when she got to the apartment and I wasn't there. I left a note, intentionally vague, that just said I was going to be out of town for a few days and would call her when I could. That must have sufficed for her, as she hasn't attempted to reach out to me.
"Also got something on Cat's attacker," Bridger says, causing me to sit up straight in my seat, my aching neck forgotten. "Kyle identified him... says he's a member of the club but her attack was something he did on his own. It wasn't brought before the president and sanctioned. Sounds like he got a nice chunk of change that he kept all to himself, so the club wasn't happy at all about having heat brought down on them with no pay in return."
I grimace because just a minute change of circumstances--Kevin approaching the head honcho instead of some rogue member--would have meant we'd never get this information.
"What's that mean?" I ask.
"It means Kyle was authorized to tip the cops to where they can find the dude. Hopefully, he'll roll on Kevin or they'll find some evidence connecting them."
Hopefully.
Because until Kevin was behind bars, Cat wasn't truly safe. I hadn't liked the thought of leaving town, but Bridger confirmed Kevin had gone back to Vegas and that he'd keep an eye on Cat for me.
Knowing that fuckwad is here in Vegas and that I could do some serious damage if I could track him down has me vibrating with adrenaline. Wouldn't
be hard to get his address. Bet Bridger could whip it up for me in no time at all.
Shaking my head, I force myself to leave those thoughts by the wayside. If I'm lucky, I'm going to have Cat's father's location tomorrow morning and I'll be heading out to talk to him. I can't let Kevin waylay me just because I want the pleasure of breaking his face.
That's going to have to wait until I can get Cat's father back for her.
Chapter 24
Cat
I walk through the cavernous house made of logs and slate that will soon be transferred to me in name once Samuel's estate is settled. Until then, and with Kevin back in Vegas according to Richard, I decided to move out of Rand's apartment and back into the home I shared with my late husband when we visited Jackson.
The entire place is furnished and decorated in typical western flair with heavy pine furniture covered in leather and silk throw pillows in Native American palettes to soften up the look. Typical stuffed and mounted game trophies on the wall. Accent lamps done in cowhide and elk antlers.
It's unoriginal but homey, and if it were not the house I shared with Samuel Vaughn, I'd find it charming.
But instead, I hate this place because it's only purpose was to have a place to sleep when he brought me to The Silo. I have no intention of keeping it. Once things get settled, I'll sell and bank the money. Once I figure out what I want to be now that I've been forced to grow up, I'll have the financial freedom to chase new dreams, but I won't be doing it near anything that remotely reminds me of Samuel Vaughn. That means the Jackson house has to go at some point.
For now though, I'll take the refuge, as there's no way I could stay at Rand's place after how we left things four nights ago. I spent the rest of the night he left me at The Silo brooding and sipping at bottled water. He told me to do what I needed to do.
He essentially said I should fuck someone else if I needed to do that.
That was confusing to me at first because it almost sounded like he didn't care, but when I really thought about it, that's not what was going on at all. Rand was telling me to do what I needed to do, whatever that may be, to figure out what I want. He was hoping I'd figure out I wanted him, of course.
And, of course, I absolutely want him.
It's just that I don't think I deserve him.
So that night, I sipped at my water, brooded, and I thought about life, choices, consequences, and regret. I thought about love and lust, security and comfort. I didn't need anyone to paint me a clearer picture.
I know now that Rand Bishop is it for me. I'll never find another like him, and I'll never want anything more in the world than him.
I just had to talk myself into truly believing I could have it and not stain him at the same time.
So I went to the apartment, maybe in the hopes of letting him try to knock some sense into me, only to find him gone.
Nothing but a simple note:
Cat,
Be gone for a few days. Please stay--don't feel like you need to leave. Will try to call soon.
Rand
I must have stared at that note for twenty minutes, trying to glean something out of it to help me figure out what was in Rand's mind. Did he take off because he assumed I would indeed fuck someone else at The Silo? Was that his way of "accepting" my feelings that I'm not good enough?
Is he agreeing with me about that?'
The unmistakable and emphatic answer comes to me as clear as a bell.
No.
No way would Rand think that about me.
He's been my one true champion from that day he pulled me out of my car and brought me to his apartment. He's spent countless energy on validating and affirming me. He's never judged me once for my choices, and despite knowing the worst about me, he still desires me on both a physical and emotional level.
Which begs the question... if Rand can be that stubbornly set on seeing me as a good person, why can't I? I mean... I admire Rand. He's a smart guy. Well rounded, kind, and empathetic. He has good business sense and isn't a fool. So why in the hell would I even think to discount what he sees about me?
Why would I ever think that's not the entire truth?
Walking past the overstuffed couch in the living room, I reach out and straighten a throw pillow. My life has been reduced to fluffing pillows because there's nothing else to do but sit around and wait for Rand to come back.
No idea where he could have gone. I went to Westward Ink two days ago, but Pish didn't know where he was or when he'd be back. I considered going to the Wicked Horse and asking Bridger, but for some reason, I didn't think I could look him in the eye and admit I may have made a very big mistake by going to The Silo that night, which in turn, drove Rand away.
My doorbell rings, startling me with a shock of adrenaline because there's no reason for anyone to be at my door. I have no friends and my heart refuses to believe it would be Rand.
For a split second, I think about ignoring it because if it is Rand, then I'll be forced to make a decision on how I choose to view myself and what I believe I'm entitled to. Scary prospect, and I'm not sure I'm ready.
But then I decide to go for it because it could be a courier delivering papers from Richard regarding the transfer of monies, or it could be Detective Blanton with an update on the case.
Instead, when I open the door, I'm greeted by the smiling face of Callie Hayes.
The woman who hired me out of the goodness of her heart, only to have me quit on her after three days on the job. Yes, the day after my run in with Rand at The Silo, I went into campaign headquarters and told Callie I couldn't work for her anymore.
She asked why and I told her the truth.
That I now had quite a bit of money coming my way and didn't need the job.
She just smiled at me and nodded politely, not buying for one second that was the reason I was quitting. But because she's a professional, she wished me well and told me I'd be welcome back if I wanted.
I felt like shit leaving her like that, but the truth is, at that point, I had figured my life in Jackson, Wyoming was over. I felt like a fraud, and Rand had left. There was no reason for me to stay and continue to cultivate friendships. In fact, I had intended to hightail it back to Vegas. Even though there's no one there I love, it's still my hometown.
Yet four days later, I'm still here and watching as Callie pushes past me into my home. She looks around as she shrugs out of her jean jacket. It's late afternoon and the temps really start to dip at this time of year, but not enough to warrant a big coat.
"Nice place," she says conversationally.
"Um... thanks," I respond as I follow her into the living room.
She turns, smiling at me brightly.
I smile back, not so bright and with mostly confusion. "What are you doing here?"
"Checking in on you, silly," she says with a wave of her hand. "I didn't buy that shit about you having all kinds of money now and moving on with your life. Well, I totally bought the money thing... I mean, hello... your husband was a gazillionaire or something, but I refused to believe you were bailing on Rand."
"Rand bailed on me," I say quietly. I realize for the first time I'm a little hurt he left without any true resolution between us. The way he's left me wondering, mulling, and stewing over my life has me in knots, and I'm doing nothing but obsessing on how to untie those so I can have peace.
Huh?
Maybe that's what Rand intended all along to happen to me?
Shaking my head, I look at Callie. With my most confident voice, I say, "I appreciate you checking on me, but as you can see, I'm fine."
And she snorts at me with a major eye roll, and then just levels one cocked eyebrow at me.
I get a little miffed. "You don't know me so just level that look somewhere else."
"I know what it's like to love someone but they don't give you the same back in return, mainly because they're too stupid to realize it," she murmurs, her head tilted and eyes sympathetic. "I know because Woolf did it to me,
and I know how that made me feel. You're running away from Rand, and I can tell you... it's going to hurt him deeply."
My shoulders immediately sag and any thought I had of fighting her on this seeps out of me. I don't want to cause Rand pain. I don't want to be stupid and lose something that could be very good for me. I just don't know how to accept my own worthiness.
I look at Callie with misery-filled eyes. "I don't know how to do this."
"Do what?" she asks, taking a step toward me with hands coming out to grasp mine.
"Accept happiness--feel worthy--trust that Rand is really crazy for me. I don't know how to give credence to all of these amazing things I've never had before. It doesn't feel right... or genuine to me. I feel like a fraud."
"Why?" she asks, her eyes wide with curiosity. "Why would you ever feel that way?"
"Because I'm not the type of woman anyone respects. I sold out. Sold my own fucking self-respect and worth for the almighty dollar. I let myself be treated abominably because I didn't have the fortitude to demand better for myself. And here Rand Bishop is before me, almost perfect in every way a human can be, and he wants me to step off into a happily ever after with him that I'm sure is going to come crumbling down when he realizes the type of person I really am."
Callie stares at me and says, "Phew. That was a mouthful."
"He's too good for me," I say bitterly, pulling my hands from her.
"Does Rand know all your dirty secrets?" she asks me point blank.
"Well... yeah... I've told him everything."
"And how does he feel about all of that?" she asks, but before I can reply, she says, "I mean... does he berate you for your choices? Look down his nose at you? Mock you? Make you feel inferior? Does he constantly rub your nose in your mistakes and make you feel ashamed of yourself?"
I pull up straight, incensed on Rand's behalf. "Of course he doesn't. He's done nothing but call me a survivor. He's said my past doesn't matter."
"Then why the fuck are you letting it matter?" Callie asks sarcastically, and I feel like she'd love to add a thump onto my forehead for being so dense. "If you trust Rand, then you must believe what he says. If you believe what he says, then your past doesn't have shit to do with your future with him."