Run Wild (2 page)

“I can handle them all day.” Patty waved over her shoulder, suddenly no longer acting interested in Natasha’s conversation. She jumped on the opportunity to show Greg she was quite capable of handling the office without Natasha’s help.

Greg followed Natasha out of the KFA office and into his home. Once Natasha had loved it here but with her cousins off doing their own thing, and new bounty hunters and an annoying office assistant on staff, there were days when she dreaded coming to work. It never used to be like that.

Natasha walked through the spacious living room, down the hall, and into the kitchen. It still smelled of bacon and maple syrup from breakfast. In spite of the house being an empty nest, more or less, Haley King still didn’t know how to make a small breakfast. Natasha wouldn’t be the one to point it out to Haley. There were days when bacon, toast, and juice grabbed from the kitchen was all she ate all day. She really should be more grateful for her new assistant, in spite of Patty’s prying methods and competitive nature. It was nice not wearing a Bluetooth all the time and being able to have a conversation without continual interruption. Or at least it should feel nice.

Natasha entered the empty kitchen, wondering what was wrong with her. She loved her job. She’d always loved this job. Or was it being needed that made her truly happy? She sighed heavily. That was just plain stupid. She was needed around here as much as she’d always been. It was just these strange phone calls about her father that had her upset.

“What’s going on?” Greg didn’t waste time the moment they were in the kitchen. He stood in the doorway and crossed his arms, resuming the stance he’d held at her desk, and watched her walk around the island to the refrigerator.

Natasha helped herself to a cold bottle of water. “This morning someone called about Dad.” She might as well start at the beginning. That phone call had bothered her, but she’d done her best to put it out of her head and not worry about it. Her father was a grown man, and he’d never sought her out for help. It didn’t appear he would this time, either. If he was in a jam, there wasn’t anyone on the planet better at getting themselves out of trouble than her dad.

“Oh? Why didn’t you tell me?” Greg cared about his brother, which was why he treated Natasha as a daughter. Greg was all about family. Her father didn’t get any of those qualities.

She’d always been grateful to her aunt and uncle. Natasha was always included in their family vacations. They had made sure she got to school every morning, and even during college her aunt and uncle were always there to help out financially and sing her praises when she did well.

Unscrewing the bottle, she put the lid on the counter and stared at the perspiration dripping onto her hand. “You were still out in the field working the Murry case.” It wasn’t a good answer, or even accurate. There had been times she could have mentioned it. Talking about her father made her feel awkward for some reason. “A man called asking questions about him.”

“What questions?”

“He asked if we were related and if I knew where he was.” She glanced up. “That was it.”

“Where was he from?”

She frowned. That should have been something she remembered foremost about the first phone call. Natasha might not be a private investigator, cop, or bounty hunter. But she’d been surrounded by law enforcement all her life. There were a few things she’d picked up along the way.

“His number was blocked.” She shook her head. “Uncle Greg, I guess it upset me a little.”

“You’ve been distracted all day.”

“And I’m sorry.” She wasn’t worried about her job being on the line. There was an unwritten clause in her job description: She would never be fired. As long as she kept up her work performance. She could do this job in her sleep, and had a few times. “The first phone call struck me as odd, although I couldn’t put my finger on why,” she admitted. “But this second caller was a bit more blunt. Dad’s in some kind of trouble, Uncle Greg.”

Her uncle didn’t bat an eye. “Tell me about the second call.”

“He was annoying.” She began pacing the length of the island. Downing more of the water before she put the bottle on the counter, she then pulled out the stick she’d just wrapped her hair around and began combing through her hair with her fingers. “Obviously, whoever these people are who are looking for Dad, they don’t know a lot about him. If they did, they sure as hell wouldn’t be calling me asking about him. Or demanding I drive up to Weaverville,” she explained, throwing her hands in the air.

“Weaverville?” Greg frowned. “Isn’t that up in the Trinity Alps?”

“Yup. Whoever called this morning wasn’t the same man who called me just now. The caller just now had a deeper, gravelly voice.” She gathered her hair at her nape and scowled ahead of her, staring at a bowl of fruit on the counter. “The first guy who called was gruff, almost mean sounding. He wanted to know if I was related to George King. I said I was. He wanted to know where Dad was. I said I didn’t know. He hung up. That was it.”

Natasha grabbed one of the apricots, took a bite, and looked at her uncle. He was watching her, waiting to hear the rest.

“The second guy, the call just now, was more conversational, I guess.” He had annoyed the hell out of her. She took another big bite of the fruit and began pacing. “I didn’t like the way he demanded I drop everything and come talk to him in person. Like he thought I would be able to give him more information about Dad if I saw him than over the phone.”

“Which you couldn’t do.”

“Which I couldn’t do,” she repeated. “I told him I didn’t know where Dad was, and although he seemed a bit surprised by that, he accepted my answer.”

Her uncle tapped his lips with his finger, studying her. Natasha knew the look. He wasn’t so much focusing on her as he was processing what she’d just said. Her uncle had always looked out for his younger brother, even when he hadn’t deserved it. Maybe George King was Natasha’s father, but she wasn’t under some childhood illusion that he was a good man. Her father loved her and was always happy to talk to her, when he was around, but he treated her like a distant friend, not a daughter. The man she stared at now was the closest she’d ever had to a dad.

“Did he tell you anything else?” Greg finally prompted.

Natasha finished off the apricot, tossed the pit in the trash can next to the refrigerator, then wiped the juice from her hands on the dishcloth hanging from the refrigerator handle. “He told me his name was Trent Oakley. He’s in Weaverville, California, and wants me there Monday at two
P.M.
to discuss my father.”

“Are you going?”

Natasha hadn’t given any thought to actually following through with the demand. Her uncle studied her, appearing serious about wanting to know. She admitted curiosity over these sudden phone calls. If her father was in some kind of serious trouble, she should help him, shouldn’t she?

She glanced through the other kitchen door that led into the adjoining dining room and in the direction of the office. “Honestly, I hadn’t thought about it. I guess Patty is trained,” she began, musing out loud. “She’d probably love the office to herself,” she muttered.

“It wouldn’t be more than an overnight trip.” Her uncle sounded as if she’d already made up her mind. “You can take one of the Avalanches. Number three is running well.”

Natasha needed to switch gears quickly to keep up with her uncle. He never let her use any of the Avalanches. Ever since he had bought two more black trucks that matched the first one he owned, the three trucks were used out in the field and by her uncle and aunt but no one else. Natasha had never considered asking to use any of them. City transportation had worked nicely for her over the past few years. The bus picked her up outside her apartment and dropped her off a block from KFA.

The back door opened and Aunt Haley entered, her hair windblown and her cheeks red. “I can’t believe I feel cold,” she said, grinning broadly at both of them. “It’s in the seventies and I’m ready to dig out a jacket.”

“Natasha might be heading up north Monday,” Uncle Greg announced, his voice a low grumble, although unless Patty had snuck into the living room she wouldn’t overhear them.

“What? Why?” Haley pulled a coffee cup out of the cabinet and reached for the coffeepot. “Where up north?”

“Someone wants me to go to Weaverville, California, to talk to me about Dad,” Natasha explained, giving the incredibly abridged answer.

“About George?” Aunt Haley’s interest was piqued. Although she just got her private investigator’s license a couple years ago, she had bounty hunter’s blood in her, too. Aunt Haley loved a good hunt and a good mystery.

“Natasha has received two phone calls today asking about George,” Greg explained, pushing away from the doorway and moving to the counter to pull down his cup.

Haley immediately took it from him and filled it with coffee. “You have?” she asked Natasha. “Are you okay, sweetheart? Did they upset you?”

“No,” Natasha answered slowly. “The first call didn’t bother me as much as it struck me as weird that they would call me. And I just hung up the phone from the second call,” she added, waving her hand in the direction of the office. “Uncle Greg overheard the call and thinks I should go up there.”

“What did they say to you?” Aunt Haley nursed her full cup as she sat at the kitchen table.

Natasha grabbed her water bottle, understanding they would now hash through and dissect every word of her phone conversations. It was what her family did, and overall, this usually meant she left the table with a clearer head. Although at the moment she was still pretty upset with Trent Oakley being so demanding.

Both her aunt and uncle sat facing her, listening attentively as she went over both phone conversations again. “The second call made me mad because the guy was such an ass,” she added. “He made it sound as if I didn’t have a choice about seeing him on Monday.”

“Sounds like George is in some serious trouble,” Haley said, glancing at her husband.

The two exchanged looks and Natasha watched them, knowing they were speaking volumes with the glances they exchanged with each other.

“I’m not sure if I have a current phone number for him, or not,” Greg muttered, digging in his pocket and pulling out his cell phone.

“Try giving him a call.” Haley looked ready to grab her husband’s phone and make the call herself.

Greg scrolled through his phone and shook his head. “I don’t have his number. I’ll do some checking, though,” he said.

“I’ll go up there,” Natasha decided. “I admit I’m curious about Dad.”

“Something isn’t right.” Aunt Haley blew on her coffee as she held it between her hands and rested her elbows on the table.

“I’d have to agree.” Uncle Greg leaned back, stretching his legs under the table. “Is there anything else you can think of about either call, Natasha? Even if it’s trivial, we need all information on the table.”

“Trent Oakley might be some kind of cop, or something. He said it was urgent he talked to me before deciding if any formal charges were pressed, or not.”

Her uncle was a good man, but a bit too protective at times. When he shifted his attention in her direction she felt it coming on.

“Maybe it would be better if I drove up there with you.”

“You don’t have to do that.” She didn’t hesitate. “I’m going alone, Uncle Greg. But I’ll call you the second I know anything.”

He stood without commenting and she watched, wary and knowing looking to her aunt wouldn’t offer her support. Aunt Haley would side with Uncle Greg.

“What was that man’s name again? Trent Oakley?” he asked, walking out of the kitchen.

Natasha didn’t go into her uncle’s downstairs office very often. It was his private sanctuary and where he often brooded when a hunt turned bad. She followed him now, though, with her aunt on her heels, and stood next to his desk, watching as he ran the check on the name. There were advantages to so much law enforcement surrounding her. Her uncle had some kick-ass programs at his fingertips.

“Trent Oakley,” Greg announced. “Or make that Sheriff Oakley.”

“Sheriff?” Aunt Haley said, leaning in from where she was on the other side of her husband.

Natasha didn’t say anything but instead stared at the picture of the man who’d demanded she appear on Monday.

“Thirty-five years old, black hair, green eyes, two hundred pounds, and six foot, one inch, according to his driver’s license.” Greg read the computer screen. “He was born and raised in Weaverville, California, and has been sheriff of Trinity County for six years now. Kind of young for a sheriff,” he muttered, running his cursor over the screen as he debated where to click next.

Even after Greg changed pages, searching for more information on Oakley, the picture of him stuck in Natasha’s head. Trent Oakley wasn’t at all how she’d imagined him looking. When she placed the gruff voice she’d heard on the phone with the picture of him online, which came from a driver’s license, it created a more thorough mental image.

Trent had thick black hair that waved around his face in soft curls. His green eyes were dark in the picture and stared hard at whoever took the shot. He wasn’t smiling, nor was he frowning. Instead it looked as if he would take the camera from the photographer if he believed them incompetent in any way. He was a lot taller than her but not as tall as her uncle or cousins. At two hundred pounds she imagined him well built, a regular mountain man. The picture had shown glimpses of a plaid shirt. She’d gotten one attribute about him right.