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Lord, help me. I’m in love with her.

It was the first time he’d ever allowed himself the full thought, though the emotion had been hovering in his heart for years.

He focused on the distant, shining body of water and beyond to the narrow line he knew to be Redemption River.

“We should head back down.”

One hand holding the puppy steady, Kitty said, “You must be starving.”

“I could use a bite.” And more space between the two of us.

“Me, too.” She stepped away from the window but lingered in the oddly shaped room for a few more minutes while he stood like a helpless teenager watching and yearning.

“I love this room, Jace. I’ve never seen anything like it. If I lived in here, I would turn this space into something I could use every day. It’s far too wonderful to be hidden away in an attic.”

Her innocent phrasing caught in his brain and spun in repeating circles.

If she lived in this house—an impossible thought he’d never get out of his head now that he’d seen her here.

LINDA GOODNIGHT

Winner of a RITA^® Award for excellence in inspirational fiction, Linda Goodnight has also won a Booksellers’ Best, an ACFW Book of the Year and a Reviewers’ Choice Award from RT Book Reviews. Linda has appeared on the Christian bestseller list and her romance novels have been translated into more than a dozen languages. Active in orphan ministry, this former nurse and teacher enjoys writing fiction that carries a message of hope and light in a sometimes dark world. She and her husband, Gene, live in Oklahoma. Readers can write to her at linda@lindagoodnight.com, or c/o Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.

A Place to Belong
Linda Goodnight

But the vessel he was making did not turn out as he had hoped, so the potter crushed it into a lump of clay again and started over.

—Jeremiah 18:4

For His glory. Always.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Letter to Reader

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

The day should have been perfect, one of those freshly-washed days after a spring rain when buds burst free from winter, birds sing and the world smells green.

Window rolled down and the engine of his Ford Super Duty rumbling pleasantly, Jace Carter was feeling good. Progress on the 1902 Victorian remodel was going well.

Overhanging oaks dappled sunlight onto the highway as he rounded the curve headed toward home. Ahead, a historic bridge spanned Redemption River and led into the small town of Redemption, Oklahoma.

He slowed to enjoy the view of the river, the way the willows wept over the railing, and the bridge itself, hand built by the town’s early pioneers. A man who made his living in wood appreciated good workmanship, especially when it had lasted more than a century.

The familiar thump of the road projected him onto the long historic bridge. He was craning his neck toward the rain-flushed river when the unexpected happened. A pair of screaming, water-soaked men bolted over the railing, arms waving frantically.

Jace’s heart bolted, too. He slammed on his brakes, yanked the wheel.

“Help! Help us!” Two hysterical men rushed to his window. Pale as plaster, terror dripped from both like the muddy red of the river dripped from their jeans and T-shirts.

Fear prickled Jace’s scalp as he listened to a disjointed, breathless rendering of the basics. Their boat had capsized. There was a man in the water. They couldn’t reach him.

He slammed the truck into park, killed the motor and leaped out to run down the slippery slope to the river. At first, he saw nothing but the thick, muddy water, swift and dangerous with the swell of spring rains.

“Call 9-1-1.” He tossed his cell toward one man and ran with the violent current, searching and praying for a chance to reel in the hapless victim.

His boots slipped. The thick bog slowed his progress. He spotted a red ball cap snagged on a branch. Hope leaped.

With his boot toes clinging to the muddy bank, he stretched. Missed. The swirling maelstrom ripped the cap away.

Behind him one of the men choked, “Jerry. Jerry.”

The noise of the current sucked the sound downstream with the red cap. With a sinking heart, Jace was convinced the same had happened to a stranger named Jerry.

By the time emergency vehicles arrived, Jace’s legs and lungs ached and he was wet and muddy to the waist. The two survivors wandered aimlessly along the banks in shock and grief of a day that had begun as fun and ended in tragedy.

Within the hour half of Redemption had joined the search. Jace didn’t hold out much hope at this point, but there was always a miracle.

“He could be halfway to the Gulf by now.”

Jace lowered a pair of binoculars to look into the grim face of Sloan Hawkins. They stood together with other volunteers on the bridge. The preacher was here. So were Trace and Cheyenne Bowman. Cheyenne, a former policewoman, had helped organize the search with efficient skill. The old Dumpster Divers, GI Jack and Popbottle Jones had arrived with the sirens. They knew the river well and were guiding police boaters toward hidden inlets and snaggy coves.

Below the bridge, ATVs revved and spit mud beneath their tires in a desperate attempt to find the man. That was the way of Redemption. People here cared. That warm acceptance was what had drawn him to the little town fourteen years ago when he was searching for a place to begin life for the second time.

Regardless of fatigue and the shivers of cold running from his muddy, wet feet to his torso, Jace couldn’t bring himself to leave.

Once, long ago, he’d been drowning, though not in water, and someone had reached out a saving hand. How could he not do the same?

The vision of a red ball cap floated relentlessly in front of his mind’s eye. If he’d been a few seconds faster could he have saved a man’s life?

A helicopter chop-chopped over the water.

A television news van rolled to a stop on the bridge, blocking the slow crawl of traffic to film the beehive of activity. A brunette in a blue News 12 windbreaker stuck a microphone in Jace’s face.

“Sir, anything you can tell us about the missing man? Did you see anything? What do you know about the incident?”

Jace shook his head and turned away, lifting his binoculars to scan the scene below. Tension tightened the muscles in his neck.

Sloan Hawkins, a securities expert with experience in handling situations with aplomb, stepped in to answer.

“From all reports, three men were riding the current. They capsized. Two made it out. One didn’t.”

“Did you witness the incident? Or talk to any of the victims yourself?”

Jace held his breath, hopeful that Hawkins wouldn’t point him as out as a possible witness.

“Sorry. Didn’t see a thing.”

Jace released the breath. Talking wasn’t his favorite activity, especially to strangers. Words could trip a man up if he wasn’t careful.

“Do you know the victim? Where are the other two men?” The reporter’s quick eyes scanned the bridge.

Sloan deferred, pointing the woman and her cameraman toward the gaggle of police units stationed on the flats directly south of the bridge.

The reporter sprinted away.

“Be dark soon.” Jace squinted into the western sky. He dreaded the moment when light would fail and hope would diminish.

By midnight, weary, disheartened searchers began to slowly leave and the search was called off until daylight.

“There’s a man down there somewhere.” Jace drew in a long breath and repeated softly, “Somewhere.”

Sloan clapped Jace on the shoulder. “Come to the house with me. Eat. I know you haven’t.”

“I couldn’t.” But he wanted to. He didn’t relish being alone on a night when he’d become too aware—again—of his own mortality.

“Sure you could.” Hawkins whipped out a cell phone—one of the fancy kind—and touched a single icon. “Annie, I’m heading home. Jace Carter’s with me. They’re calling off the search for the night.” He listened then laughed softly, though his expression was humorless. “Starved. Love you, too.”

The endearment made Jace uncomfortable. Or maybe envious. He’d never had that kind of casual, confident relationship with anyone. Never would.

But he’d accepted his lot in life. He’d created it, and he’d learned to be grateful for what he had. He made one final glance toward the river. Not everyone got a second chance.

Kitty Wainright stirred the pot of chili on Annie Hawkins’s beautiful vintage cookstove. “This will taste good to them after being out on that river.”

She and Annie, along with Cheyenne Bowman, had been in the middle of planning a fundraiser for the Redemption Women’s Shelter when word of the accident had come. Both Cheyenne and Sloan had left immediately to join the rescuers. Annie and Kitty stayed behind with the children, Cheyenne’s stepdaughter Zoey and Annie’s pair, Justin and Delaney. Annie had long ago put the two nine-year-old girls to bed after a call to Cheyenne. The preteen Justin still dragged his feet, miffed at being considered too young to join the search and rescue effort. Annie was allowing the late night as a salve to his wounded pride.

Outside a motorcycle engine rumbled. Justin leaped from the couch. “There’s Dad.”

He was out the door in an instant.

Kitty smiled inwardly. The snarly boy had blossomed under the tender-tough care of his father.

“I’ll set the sandwiches out.” As she moved past the coffee pot to the refrigerator, she hitched her chin. “Do you think they’ll want coffee this late?”

“Sloan won’t. I don’t know about Jace.”

“Me, either.” A building contractor who’d gone out of his way to help her after her husband’s death, Jace Carter had been in Kitty’s motel many times, but she couldn’t claim to understand him. “He’s so quiet.”

“Still waters run deep.” Annie grimaced. “Sorry. Poor choice of words. Jace is cute though. Nice guy, too.”

Kitty made a noise of agreement but didn’t pursue the conversation. Annie wasn’t finished.

“He looks good. Works hard. Obviously thinks you’re someone special.”

The comment surprised her. “What makes you say that?”

“Oh, come on, Kitty.” Annie waved a jar of mayo. “He spends more time at your place than anywhere.”

“I run a motel. An old motel that needs constant repair.”

“Uh-huh. There are a lot of old buildings in this town.”

Annie was right. Over a hundred buildings in Redemption were on the National Register of Historic Places and only an expert with Jace’s eye and skill could work on them. Kitty’s motel, a throwback to the fifties, was not on that list.

“Jace is the original Mr. Nice Guy,” she said.

“True. But have you ever considered that he might be the least bit interested in you?”

Kitty’s heart bumped. “No.”

Annie rolled her eyes. “Oh, girl. What am I going to do with you? You’re what? Thirty?”

“Thirty-one.”

“There you go.” She slapped a plate of sandwiches on the table. “Open those gorgeous baby blues and take a close look at Jace Carter. He’s a doll and he has a thing for you.”

“Annie, stop. You know I’m not in the market. Never will be.” The very idea gave her a stomachache.

Annie quieted. A nurse with a heart as big and warm as the sun, she knew Kitty’s history. “Dave was a great guy, Kitty. We all liked him, but he’s gone. Has been for a long time.”

Kitty bit her bottom lip. Seven years was a long time but memories never died the way Dave had. “I’m not interested in finding anyone else.”

“Really?” Annie’s compassionate green eyes bore into her. “Think about that, Kitty. Love is a beautiful thing. Too beautiful to live without.”

Didn’t she know it? Hadn’t she had the best in Dave Wainright? Insides squeezing, she tried to laugh off the conversation. “Oh, you newlyweds. All you think about is love.”

Annie arched one blond eyebrow but didn’t say anymore because at that moment the men trooped into the country kitchen. Fatigue pulled at their faces.

Kitty’s stomach quivered oddly when she looked at Jace Carter. She wished Annie hadn’t said such a silly thing. She’d never allowed herself to consider Jace as…well, as a man, but now she couldn’t help noticing. Average height, he bested her by several inches. The word neat always came to mind when she thought of him. But tonight his usual tucked in, tidied up appearance was disheveled and dirty. His brown hair was rumpled and tagged with dirt as though he’d run a muddy hand through it.

He had the softest, quietest eyes. Hazel she thought, though she’d never noticed before. And he had strong, carpenter hands, a little rough and work-scarred, but capable. She had noticed them before, the way he held a piece of lumber almost tenderly as though he could envision the beauty hidden inside. He was an artist with wood.

“You guys okay?” she asked to stop the flow of her thoughts. Annie and her suggestions.

“Rough night.” Sloan did the talking.

Sloan Hawkins, dark and dangerous-looking with blue eyes that could melt a rock, crossed the room to kiss Annie’s cheek. “Smells good.” He smiled a tired smile. “So does the food.”

Annie blushed prettily and swatted at her husband. The newlyweds’ sweetness put a catch in Kitty’s chest. She and Dave had loved like that. She glanced at Jace, saw him avert his gaze. He removed his ball cap, crushing it in those capable, tattered hands.

“I should go. I’m too dirty to be here.” The voice was as quiet as his eyes, warm, too, and manly.

“Don’t be silly,” Annie said. “Kitty, get him a towel, will you, while I put this food on the table?”

“Got it.” She hurried out of the kitchen, glad for the momentary reprieve from her own crazy thoughts. She was tired. That’s all.

Jace settled into the chair Sloan shoved at him, glad to be off his feet. He was cold to the core. Should have gone home, but when Sloan said Kitty was here, he’d been too tired to resist. Just looking at her helped soothe the ache of these last few hours.

Tonight her hair was swept up in a knot atop her head and held by a black doodad, but he’d seen it down before, long and pale. She was like a fairy tale, a blonde Rapunzel with a hint of Tinkerbell in her heart-shaped face and blue-bonnet eyes. Jace laughed at his fantastical thoughts but thought them again when he saw her coming toward him with a big blue towel.

“I warmed this in the dryer.” She draped the heated terry cloth around his shoulders. “You look cold.”

He was cold, inside and out. Tonight’s failed rescue chilled his soul.

“Thanks. Feels good.” The towel smelled good, too, clean, fragrant and warm. Or was that Kitty?

“You really should get out of that wet shirt. Sloan could probably loan you one of his.”

The rain had started, a soft drizzle right before they’d given up the search.

“I’m okay.” She couldn’t know that he would never remove his shirt in front of anyone. Ever. He was modest, yes, but more than that, he was ashamed.

Kitty hovered, and he searched for something, anything to say, but his useless tongue stuck to his mouth. He’d had no one to fuss over him since he was small, and having her bring him a towel or a glass of tea or a cheery smile felt good. Too good to ruin with words.

Ah, who he was kidding? If not for her motel and the work he did there, Kitty Wainright wouldn’t give him the time of day. The motel office was a shrine to her hero husband and according to the local gossip he’d picked up over breakfast at the Sugar Shack each morning, Kitty had openly declared herself a widow forever. As was her way, Kitty was kindhearted and good to everyone. Even a stray dog like him.

Which made them friends and neighbors and nothing else. Ever. He had long ago declared himself a lifetime bachelor, though his reasons were far less heroic than hers. He rubbed at his shoulder and remembered a time too ugly to forget.

“Let’s eat.” Annie waved her hand over the steaming bowls of chili she’d set at each place. “There’s plenty. Hope it doesn’t keep you up all night.”

They chuckled at the joke, knowing it wasn’t indigestion from the spicy chili that would keep them awake tonight.

They ate in silence until Justin broached the topic of to night’s tragedy. “Do you think they’ll find him?”

Sloan laid aside his sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. “Drowning victims are usually found.”

“But not always?”

“No. Not always.”

Annie shuddered. “Gruesome.”

“I wonder if he has a wife and family,” Kitty mused and Jace turned to look at her. “I remember when Dave was killed. The army sent an officer. Who tells a civilian’s wife?”

“The police.”

Annie said, “I wonder if it’s on the news.”

“Should be. There were reporters everywhere.” Sloan trekked over to the counter where a small TV hung from the cabinet. He positioned the screen toward the table.

In the months since Sloan Hawkins, purportedly the bad boy of Redemption, had returned to his hometown and married his high school sweetheart, Jace had come to like and respect the man. There was darkness in him, a darkness Jace recognized because of his own shadows, but Annie Markham Hawkins and a relationship with God had smoothed some of Sloan’s rough edges.

Jace knew about that, too—the lightening of dark places with faith. He’d be a dead man without Jesus.

A half-dozen fast-paced, loud commercials flickered across the screen while Sloan surfed through the channels in search of late-night news.

“Here we go,” he said, tossing the remote to the table as he returned to his food. “Chili’s good, Annie girl. Just what I needed.” He winked and squeezed her hand on the tabletop.

Jace suffered the familiar pinch of envy. No man was an island, or some such proverb.

“Hey, Dad. There you are!” Justin leaped up from the table to point. Sure enough, the camera scanned the scene at the river, then focused on Sloan’s face. Relieved that he didn’t appear in the shot, Jace listened as a digital Sloan repeated his comments to the reporter. He’d no more than thought the thought when there he was. The shot was only a flash as the camera panned but enough for him to recognize himself. Not once, but twice as the cameraman surveyed the rescue attempt.

“You look handsome, handsome,” Annie said, smiling at Sloan.

Sloan thumped a fist against his chest. “Hollywood will be calling. What do you think, Jace? Me and you. Made for TV?”

Jace forced a laugh as the rest of them chuckled at Sloan’s attempt to lighten the situation.

But chili curdled in the pit of his stomach. TV was the last place he wanted to be.

Chapter Two

Four days later Redemption still buzzed with the tragedy. The rescue had been scaled back, renamed a recovery effort, and moved downstream.

“Horrible,” thought Kitty as she whipped sheets from the bed in Unit 7 and tossed them in with a pile of towels for the laundry. The unit had been occupied by a reporter who’d decided the story was over and rushed off to film tornado devastation up in Cleveland County.

Linens in arms, Kitty left the scrubbing for later and stepped out into the spring sunshine. The morning was golden, though the weatherman said more rain was coming. Her fingers practically itched to be digging in the planter boxes and tiny gardens around each unit, but the ground was too wet. She sniffed the scents of grass and damp earth.

Up on the highway a trucker geared down with a low whine, a sure sign he was entering Redemption, not leaving. Maybe he’d stop in for a room. She could use the income.

From the roof of Unit 2, the whoosh-bang of a nail gun told her Jace Carter was on the job.

Kitty turned toward the sound, dropping the linens in the laundry room on her journey.

Balanced on his knees atop the roof of Unit 2, the quiet carpenter placed a nail gun against a shingle and fired. Her motel was old and the roof of this room hadn’t withstood the test of last week’s downpours. The inside was a mess, too.

“Good morning.” She shaded her eyes against a stunning glare and looked up.

She could barely see him. Just the curve of his back and the rubber-gripped bottoms of his work boots.

With a skitter and crunch of feet and knees against old-fashioned asphalt shingles, Jace came into view. Moving with studied care and smooth athleticism toward the edge of the roof and the extension ladder, he lifted a gloved hand.

Backlit in sunshine, tool belt low on one hip, brown hair neatly spiked and gleaming clean, Jace wore old jeans and a white and gray striped shirt. She’d never seen him in anything but neatly pressed long sleeved shirts. He was, she realized, a good-looking man.

Kitty ground her back teeth, annoyed at herself and at Annie for putting the notion into her head.

“Morning,” he said, voice low and soft. “I hope the noise didn’t wake you.”

“No. Of course not. I’m an early riser.” She figured he knew that already as much as he’d worked here. When he made a reach for the ladder, she stopped him. “Oh, don’t let me bother you. I only wanted to say hi and ask if you’d like coffee or something.”

“Got my thermos, thanks.” He smiled, a slow, almost cautious response that crinkled the weathered edges of gentle hazel eyes.

“How’s it coming?”

Jace was an excellent builder, a restorer of antique homes and furniture. He had far better jobs than repairing her cranky old lady of a motel. Yet he never turned her down. She’d never wondered about that before, but after Annie’s comments, she did.

“The roof’s pretty old.”

Kitty gnawed a bottom lip. “You saying I need a new one?”

“I can make it work.”

She knew he could. Jace was a wonder with the historic buildings in Redemption. Though Redemption Motel was certainly not a turn-of-the-century Victorian bed-and-breakfast. It was an old relic of the fifties, cranky, bothersome and a ton of never ending work. And she loved it. More because of who it represented than what.

“I’ve been thinking of renovating.”

Jace shifted. The tool belt dangling on one hip clinked, metal against metal. “Yeah?”

“Thinking.” She laughed. “No money for serious renovations.”

Motel rooms in a town the size of Redemption didn’t bring in big money. If not for the long-term renters who put regular cash in the coffers, she couldn’t keep the doors open. Those and the huge Christmas celebrations, Victorian style, and the Land Run reenactment in April kept the motel afloat. She made enough to get by, but there was seldom any money in the bank for extras. Some extra cash would be a blessing.

“We could work something out. Take care of the major issues. Let’s talk about it.”

“Okay. I wouldn’t want anyone but you tearing into my baby.”

Jace was scrupulously honest, always did more than she paid him for, and his work was perfection. Her cranky old lady of a motel looked much better since he’d begun doing the upkeep.

“I’d be disappointed if you did.” He hoisted a nail gun toward the graveled lot behind her. “You have company.”

Kitty spun toward the sound of tires crunching on the gravel, a sound she acquainted with paying customers. “Come to the office when you finish. I’ll fix you a sandwich and pick your brain.”

“Can’t guarantee you’ll find anything.”

With a laugh and a wave, Kitty hurried toward the office and the slender man exiting a shiny navy blue sedan.

Jace squinted against the morning sun and watched a moment longer as Kitty’s energetic stride ate up the ground. She was easily the most beautiful woman he’d ever known, inside and out. Delicate, feminine, but strong as a willow, she took his breath. Stole his brain cells.

A car door slammed and he heard Kitty’s lyrical voice speak to the newcomer though he couldn’t make out the words. A man of average height, on the skinny side and dressed in a business suit fell into step beside the cheery blonde proprietress of Redemption Motel. When they reached the office the man opened the old-fashioned screen door and waited while Kitty stepped inside. He followed and the door snicked quietly closed behind him.

A cloud passed overhead, blocking out the sunlight that was Kitty Wainright and setting the parking lot and the motel units in shadow. Jace frowned, gut tightening in the weirdest way. He squinted toward the closed door.

Something bugged him. A fierce, nagging protectiveness welled in his chest. Miserable, hot.

He waited ten seconds. The cloud moved on and he huffed derisively. He’d lived so long on the dark side he was suspicious of everything and everyone.

He bounced the nail gun against his thigh before turning back to the damaged roof.

The suspicions were in his soul, not inside the office of Kitty’s motel.

“Ahoy, Jace Carter.”

Jace glanced down at the ragged figure of GI Jack and lifted a hand in greeting. The old man dressed in ill-fitting castoffs and an army cap that had seen better days was one of Redemption’s eccentricities. Many took him and his partner, Popbottle Jones, for bums. Considering their propensity for Dumpster diving, maybe they were, but Jace found them to be the most interesting bums he’d ever encountered.

GI Jack was an artist, a junk artist who could turn pop cans and wire or cast-off buckets and hubcaps into something beautiful. Jace got that. In a way, finding the worth in the worthless was what he did, too.

Next to the grizzled old man stood a candidate for world’s homeliest dog. Most everyone in town knew about GI Jack’s pets—mostly strays he’d gathered together over the years. This one was Biscuit, a dog of unknown origins. The only thing Jace knew for certain was that Biscuit was a brown canine with lopsided ears, oversize feet, and as shaggy as his owner. He looked as if his ears had been sewn on out of leftover parts by a blind seamstress. One flopped low on the side of his head and the other stuck straight up on top. But the dog’s tail swished the air with such joyous abandon anyone with a heart would forget his looks and be charmed.

Jace thought of the new puppy at home, a bundle of wiggling joy himself. He didn’t know why he’d let the local vet, Trace Bowman, talk him into taking in an abandoned pup. Jace was gone all day, but the pup was sweet company in the evenings. When Milo was older, Jace planned to take him along for the ride.

“Funny that drowning victim has never been found,” GI said without preamble.

Jace sighed and shot the nail gun again. The drowned man wasn’t his favorite topic. Besides the nagging feeling that he’d not done enough, he’d taken plenty of good-natured ribbing about his cameo shots on the TV news. “Big river.”

“That’s what Popbottle said. Lots of snags and undertows to drag a man down.” GI withdrew a half sandwich from his shirt pocket and took a bite. “The widow’s got a leak?”

“More than one.”

“You’ll fix her up. She’s mighty fortunate to have a good builder willing to rush over anytime she needs help.”

“Least I can do.”

“I figure you got bigger fish to fry than that old roof. Ida June does this kind of repair.”

Though past eighty, Ida June Click still worked around town as a handywoman. She was a dandy, too, in her pink coveralls and lime green tennis shoes. “Ida June’s getting a little frail to be climbing on roofs.”

“Ha! Don’t tell her that. She’ll challenge you to a roofing contest.”

“And win.”

“Yep. And win. She’s a whirlwind, our Miss Ida June. Reckon you could say the same for our Widow Wainright. Mighty pretty, too.”

Jace grunted. Hadn’t he been thinking the same thing? All she had to do was step into view to make his eyes happy. Not that he’d ever tell her that.

“Mmm-hmm.” GI’s gray head bobbed up and down. “Too bad she’s set on being a widow forever. Too young, if you ask me, to give up on life.”

“I doubt she’s given up.”

“Then I reckon you did?” GI cackled at the look Jace shot him. “All right, all right. A shame though, two handsome people, both single and of the same faith—”

Jace pulled the trigger on the nail gun to drown out the rest. After the torment of the last few days—the drowning, the TV picture and noticing Kitty too much—he wasn’t in the mood for reminders of his single status. If he ever was.

“Saw that car pull in. Oklahoma plates but not local.” GI tore off a bite of his sandwich and handed it to the dog. With delicate nips, Biscuit accepted the treat. “Wonder what he’s doing at the motel?”

Jace wondered the same. “Reporter maybe.”

“Doubt it.”

So did Jace. The drowning story was over for the most part and the news media had departed. “Could be doing a story on the upcoming Land Run celebration.”

In late April of every year, Redemption returned to her 1889 roots by throwing a two-day festival that brought tourists and vendors from all over the country.

“Maybe. Looks kind of slick to me. Like a salesman.”

“There you go then. Maybe he sells hotel products.” Jace shot another nail. “You know, shampoo and soap.”

GI scratched the dog’s lowest lopsided ear. “I saw some damage on Unit 8.”

Jace squinted south toward the mentioned unit. Kitty’s motel was old but she kept it up. Rather, he did. Kitty worked around the place, too. She planted pretty flowers and kept everything sparkling clean. There was a long-term renter in Unit 8, and the regulars were the motel’s mainstay. “Yeah?”

“Shingles are off.”

“I’m nearly finished here. I’ll check it.”