Cowboy Alibi. Paula Graves

looked down at her hands. “Doe,” she answered flatly, wondering if he’d think she was joking.

      He was silent a moment. She dared a peek and found him gazing at her through narrowed eyes, one eyebrow quirked. “Nice to meet you, Jane Doe. I’m Joe Garrison.” He paused, as if waiting for her reaction.

      Was she supposed to react?

      Of course she was supposed to react. What kind of guy wouldn’t comment on “Jane Doe”?

      “Do I know you?” she asked.

      His eyes narrowed farther. “Do you?”

      She shook her head, her wariness growing. “No. Sorry.”

      The bell over the front door rang, heralding new customers, a pair of college-age girls dressed for hiking. Grateful for the excuse to walk away, she grabbed a couple of menus and followed as they settled at the booth that Joe Garrison had recently vacated.

      She took their drink orders and returned to the counter to fill them. Joe Garrison’s gaze followed her as she worked. He didn’t even pretend not to stare.

      She was about to ask him if he’d like a refill on the coffee when Angela stalked out of the kitchen, her cheeks red with anger. She yanked the strings of her uniform apron and flung the garment onto the counter, stopping next to Jane. “I quit.”

      Jane looked at her, alarmed. “You what?”

      “Quit. Q. U. I. T. Boyd Jameson is a woman-hating jerk, and life is way too short for me to put up with his bull.” She started toward the employee break room, but Jane caught her arm.

      “Angie, you can’t—”

      Angela squeezed Jane’s arms. “Boyd always had it in for me anyway. There are other jobs. I’ll be fine.”

      But I won’t, Jane thought, watching her go. Angela was one of the few real friends she’d made in Trinity, Idaho, since she’d turned up wandering through the Sawtooth Mountains a few months earlier, half-frozen and memory-free. She’d gotten used to having Angela around the restaurant as a buffer between herself and Boyd Jameson.

      Jane finished the drink orders for table four and turned to Joe Garrison. “Refill?”

      “No, thanks. I’m ready for my check.”

      She didn’t know whether she felt relieved or disappointed. As unnerving as Joe’s attention might be, it was the first time anyone had ever made her the object of such single-minded focus. Well, that she could remember, anyway. It was flattering, if a bit disconcerting.

      She handed him the check. “Hope you enjoy the rest of your day. And come back to see us again.”

      She carried the drinks to table four. As she took their lunch orders, she caught sight of Joe crossing to the cashier’s desk by the door. One of the girls at table four made a low whistling sound. “Look at those jeans,” she murmured to her friend.

      Jane dragged her gaze away from Joe Garrison’s departing backside and returned to the kitchen to hand in the order. When she came back out, Angela stood by the counter, now dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. She gave Jane a quick hug. “I’m heading to the apartment to start making some calls about another job. When do you get off?”

      “In an hour. I’ll see you there. Maybe we can go for a walk in the park or something, get your mind off things.”

      “You’re on. See you soon.”

      Jane watched her friend go with a sigh. Behind her, the door from the kitchen swung open with a soft swish. “What’re you staring at, Jane? Don’t you have customers waiting?” Boyd asked.

      She tamped down a smart-alecky comeback that rose in her mind, well aware that she was in no position to be insubordinate. Unlike Angela, she didn’t have a lot of other options or the luxury of family in town to help her out if things got tight.

      She delivered the food to table six and stopped by one of her other tables to make sure everyone was happy with their orders, then returned to the counter to pick up a pitcher of water to offer refills. As she reached for the ice scoop, she saw that the cowboy had left her a tip. A crisp five-dollar bill—more than three times the cost of the coffee—lay folded neatly on the counter.

      Jane had picked it up and started to put it in her pocket when she realized there was something tucked inside. She unfolded the five to discover a business card from the Buena Vista Hotel. He’d written room 225 under the hotel address on the front.

      She stared at it, dismayed. Was that the point of his attention? Did he think he could swagger in and pick up the first waitress he set eyes on? Or had he chosen her because she looked particularly easy?

      She’d started to crumple the card when she realized there was something written on the back. She flattened it out, staring at the words etched in bold, black strokes.

      

      I know who you are.

      

      The card fell from her suddenly nerveless hands.

      

      THE APARTMENT was small and dingy, smelling of cheap soap and cheaper air freshener. There was only one bedroom and a worn sleeper sofa in the tiny living room. The living room was neat, so Clint guessed she was the one sleeping on the sofa.

      He’d taught her all about being neat.

      He was tempted to pull the bed out, to see if the sheets tucked inside smelled like her. He refrained, moving instead to the nearest window, carefully parting the curtains and gazing out through the age-warped panes.

      The apartment was on the second floor, overlooking a small park across the narrow street. Not much to it, really, a stretch of faded grass and a couple of stubby trees providing shade from the midday sun. It was April in Idaho, still cold enough that most people avoided the shade trees and took full advantage of the sun’s mild warmth.

      The rattle of the doorknob made him jump. She was early. He’d seen her work schedule when he stopped at the River Lodge Diner for breakfast that morning. She was supposed to be working until one, her roommate until three.

      Why was she home early?

      Clint skirted the sofa and pressed himself flat against the wall near the door. He didn’t want to give her a chance to run.

      The door swung open, blocking his view for a moment. It closed and he saw that the unexpected arrival was the roommate, Angela. She’d been his waitress at the diner that morning. No longer in uniform, she wore a figure-hugging T-shirt and low-cut jeans and carried a paper bag full of groceries tucked under one arm.

      She turned to engage the dead bolt and stopped short when she caught sight of him. The groceries slipped from her grasp, hit the floor and split open, spilling apples, a head of celery and a box of cereal onto the hardwood floor. She stared at him, recognition dawning in her blue eyes. Then she made a dive for the door.

      He stopped her, clamping his hand over her mouth. “We can make this easy or we can make it hard.”

      She rammed her elbow into his gut and scrambled away. Wincing, he caught her at the kitchen entrance.

      “Hard it is,” he said, dragging her into the kitchen.

      

      JANE GLANCED over her shoulder for any sign of Boyd Jameson. There was a lull in the lunch crowd, giving Jane a minute to use the pay phone by the kitchen entrance to make her call, but she didn’t want Boyd to overhear. Lucky for her, he didn’t seem to be around.

      “Buena Vista Hotel,” a woman’s voice answered.

      “I’d like to leave a message for Joe Garrison. I believe he’s in room 225.” Jane kept her voice down.

      “Would you like me to check if he’s in his room?”

      “No,” she said quickly. “I just want to leave him a message. From Jane.