Stranger in Town - By Cheryl Bradshaw Page 0,26

But instead of taking a long, hard look at themselves and accepting responsibility for their part in the relationship, they fled the scene. At the first sign of trouble, they simply ended things, walked out. Men succumbed to the temptation of another woman, and women abandoned their own children, leaving them for someone else to raise. It was all about me, me, me. There was some level of independence that came with this, but no balance.

Of course everyone didn’t give up so easily, but it was happening all around me: to my friends, my neighbors, my loved ones. I didn’t understand how anyone could behave in such a disrespectful, selfish way and still feel good about themselves. Maybe because it wasn’t in me to do those things. I wasn’t a quitter. My relationships hadn’t always worked out, but when they ended, they ended honorably, and not because I’d been brainwashed into thinking life could be better in someone else’s bed.

CHAPTER 18

Mr. Tate had the kind of home that made me question what he did for a living and whether Harrison Ford’s eight-hundred-acre ranch was anywhere nearby, but there were no signs, no Hollywood tour buses, nothing to indicate the Indiana Jones star even lived around there. Maybe that’s what attracted Mr. Tate to the area in the first place. It was quiet and had neighborhoods that reminded me a lot of Park City—with the exception of the magnificent Grand Tetons in the background.

The exterior of his home was made of part stone and part wood, although I couldn’t tell what kind of wood. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen before. A detached garage sat to the left of the house, and judging from its size, a half a dozen cars could have fit in it. On the front of the house an American flag was bolted into one of the two square wood columns on the porch.

Everything about the area was perfect, except for the black Dodge Ram parked across the street. Obviously my message from the previous evening had not been received. The two of us exited our vehicles at the same time. But Cade was the only person with a smile on his face.

“Mornin’,” he said. “You look…rested.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I knew you’d show up sooner or later,” he said.

“What if it was later?”

He shrugged.

“I would have waited. It’s not like I have other pressin’ matters to attend to right now.”

“If Noah Tate was interested in talking to you, he wouldn’t have hired me. What do you plan to achieve by hanging around?”

“I figure if anyone can get him to talk to me, it’s you,” he said, pointing in my direction.

“I wouldn’t stick around to find out if I were you.”

He folded his arms.

“You want to find Savannah, don’t you? So do I—so does my dad.” He threw his arms in the air. “Hell, so does everyone. I’ve been thinkin’, maybe if you can get him to talk, I’ll let you work with me.”

He’d let me? I tried to stifle the laugh I felt coming on.

“No thanks. I’ll pass.”

“Now don’t be hasty,” he said. “Just give it some time, let it simmer awhile before you make your final decision. We can talk more about it later.”

“I don’t need your help. And I’m not going anywhere until you leave.”

Cade shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned back against the truck, allowing his cowboy hat to fall past his eyes. “Suit yourself.”

I felt the urge to throw a temper tantrum.

“What are you doing?”

“Sleepin’, I’m tired.” He winked at me. “You let me know when you change your mind, now.”

“I won’t, so you’d better—”

“Sloane?”

I turned.

Noah Tate approached us from behind. “What are you doing here—and who’s this?” he said, thumbing at Cade.

Before I could respond Cade’s hand shot forward. “Pleased to finally meet you, Mr. Tate. I’m Cade McCoy.”

Mr. Tate didn’t shake hands. He didn’t move. Without looking at me he said, “Next time you want to ambush me like this, Miss Monroe, call first!”

A few seconds later his front door slammed shut with a bang, locking us outside.

“Nice job,” I said. “Now he won’t talk to me either.”

Cade pulled on the tailgate of his truck. He eased it down and sat on the edge, patting the area next to him, like I’d be happy to oblige. I didn’t.

“Maybe we don’t need him to talk to us,” he said.

“Trust me, we do.”

He grinned.

“Is this the part where you tell me what you wouldn’t tell my dad?”

I crossed my