Note: Hey guys, I'm currently on chapter nine of this fic on my document (whoo!) so I'm feeling pretty good about this story. On the other hand, it makes me prone to forgetting that y'all have no reason to love Trent just yet as much as, say, Skye. So sorry about the half-kidding complaint last chappie! And now that all our lead players are out and about, it's time for some serious conflict. Go read. :D
Chapter Four: Disillusioned
Nami shuffled her feet, uncomfortable under this man's stare. Some days in the past she'd wished, desperately, that he'd take those ridiculous sunglasses off so she could study his eyes and gauge their reactions. She needed no such help now, the shock on his face plain as any sunrise.
He blinked. "You…uh, you're back."
"On business," she replied sharply. His eyebrows rose up and reached the brim of his large, stupid green hat; after all this time, he still hadn't taken it off. Figured. "I'm working with the kidnapping. You know, of the doctor's baby girl?"
"Ah. That." He scratched the back of his neck. "You, uh, never told me you were doing any kind of, y'know, legal things."
"I don't think you ever asked, did you?"
Gustafa laughed at that. "Ha. Guess I never did."
She hadn't the time for this. She was supposed to be meeting the parents now, wasn't she? The doctor would be arriving home in an hour, and if she could question his wife—alone—so much the better. It had been Nami's experience that questioning marital affairs went better one on one.
Yet here Nami was, facing some blast from the past, and she couldn't for the life of her squirm away. Not this time. "So…you're still doing your music, I guess?"
"You got it." The guitarist rapped his knuckle against the instrument strapped on his back affectionately. "Got the melodies down right, but without you, my lyrics have been total duds."
"Practice makes perfect," she replied breezily as she cast her head over her shoulder. God, the sun was sinking already, wasn't it? "Look, Gustafa, as much as I love seeing you here, I've got to—"
"Oh, yeah, working. Got it." He nodded, his grin split wide. "So, I guess this would be better some other time, huh?"
She sighed in relief. "Exactly."
"Eight o'clock tomorrow, then. Breakfast at my place."
He took his leave, and Nami blinked, ready to protest. "But—"
"You owe me!" he shouted with a laugh, and Nami wished, with all her heart, that his words weren't true.
So maybe Doug hadn't exactly approved of keeping Steiner and Claire home free of charge and free of mistrust. Gwen should have expected it. After all, she had forgotten to edit out that simple minor detail that he'd snuck in while she was there, alone. "You can't know his true intentions, Gwen," he had sighed. "I'll let him stay because of the kid, but other than that, I'd kick him to the curb in an instant. But if he's gonna stay here, he's gonna work."
Still, even that welcome hadn't exactly made her nervous. So this meeting, well, it was pretty scary if it was causing her to shake and tremble like this, wasn't it?
"Who is he?" Steiner had asked, mildly intrigued. The thief had spent all morning slaving in the kitchen as her assistant, and Gwen had found that he did better at sampling the curry than distributing it. After the shouting fest that had ensued between them afterwards, the idea of Gwen taking the time to introduce him to anyone was enough to raise his eyebrows. Claire, who was lying on the bed, tried to copy him, but failed miserably.
"Just this guy," Gwen hedged with a shrug. "Um, his name is Bob, and I've known him since I was little, okay? So, I thought maybe you should meet him, because he comes here…basically…a lot."
Telling Bob hadn't been an issue. Bob was always so happy, so sincere—how could he hold anything against this stranger and his daughter in that big heart of his? Yet at the same time, how could Gwen respond to his overwhelming desire to meet them and say hello?
"Hm." Steiner revolved the thought in his mind, turning it each possible way before saying, "I'm not…sure…that I want to see anyone, beautiful."
"And why not?" Gwen retorted, stung. "Are my friends not good enough for you?"
"Not what I said, fair maiden. I've just been a little on edge around strangers since, well, since Claire's mother left us." He closed his eyes and let out a single sigh. "But if he is your friend, I will meet him."
"Okay. I'll, um, let him know." Gwen smiled, waved to the baby, and turned on her heel, the door closing behind her.
Damn. Skye paced the room and swore violently, making a frown spread across the baby's innocent face that opened up into a cry of alarm. What the hell was happening? He hadn't meant to see anyone, not at first; people were liars, were traitors, were dangerous. Hadn't it been bad enough that he'd taken that Gwen girl into confidence? Her uncle, too? And now, this—this—!
Damn, damn, damn. Kicking the post of the bed, Skye took in a deep breath, failing to calm himself. This Inn was too good to be true. That stupid girl's trust was too easily obtained. He could have kept traveling, kept hiding from place to place if it weren't for—well. If it weren't for the baby, he supposed.
Thoughtfully, he stared at her, this crying little girl. She had her mother's eyes, didn't she? Lovely blue eyes of the sharpest color. "You'll hypnotize them one day, won't you?" he chuckled to himself. His slender fingers brushed away her tears, and she continued to sob, scared by something only a child could name. "Those deep, ocean eyes. Someone could drown in those eyes, if they weren't careful."
His arm wrapped itself about her, and as he pulled her into his lap, a remarkable thing happened. He told Gwen about it later, in astonishment, and she'd laughed at him and shaken her head. "Didn't anyone ever tell you," she'd told him, "that sometimes, all a baby wants is to be held?"
Some things, Skye supposed, time never changed.
"So good to meet you, Detective Stone."
Claire smiled—something that was getting easier to fake by the day—as she surveyed what the mayor had declared her daughter's unofficial savior: a woman with cut-off khaki pants, artlessly cut red hair, and intelligent eyes. Too intelligent, Claire felt, as they ran up and down her figure shrewdly.
"Likewise. Listen, I'm going to have to ask you a couple questions—you don't mind, of course?"
"Of course not," the blonde agreed easily, seating them both down at her kitchen table. Her legs were crossed tightly, the blood no longer circulating as her heart sped up with both anticipation and an all-too-familiar fear. "What do you want to know?"
"Lots of things, actually." The detective waved some files in the farmer's face. "See these? They tell me jack except that your daughter is gone and that, allegedly, a certain 'Phantom Thief' Skye stole her off. So. Why would he do that?"
Certainly a blunt little spitfire of a detective, Claire thought to herself. "You read the note, of course."
"Answer the question."
"Well, it's not so simple," Claire answered. She played nervously with a curl that had fallen in front of her face. "Skye…oh, ask anyone about him: no one knows why he steals, or what for. He's a dreadful womanizer, and all the women here have, in some way, ah…met…his advances. So if you're implying anything—"
"Have I done anything but asked you to answer the question?" Nami objected. "And you've just raised two more: any reason he would switch from stealing objects to children, and why, of all the women here, would he center in on you?"
"I'm not an expert on kidnappers, Detective Stone," Claire snapped. "How should I know?"
Just be calm and composed, Trent had instructed her earlier. Answer the questions, tell the truth, and there will be no reason to suspect anything.
Suspect what? she'd inquired. He'd hesitated, kissing her once more before answering.
Suspect us, dearest, of hurting Willow.
All that came rushing back to Claire now as the redhead pursed her lips in thought, jotting something down on a pad of paper. "Hm, well, I suppose it's fair to ask your opinion, though. Because, so far, that's all we have going to show that a kidnapping took place, and that your baby girl didn't just crawl off somewhere."
"She couldn't have, though," the blonde blurted out, composure unraveling more by the second. "She had to have been taken, Detective Stone, I know it! And it was Skye. It had to have been Skye."
Nami let the pen balance on her knuckle, studying its ballpoint in something akin to boredom. "Fine. Let's say the writer of the unsigned note is Skye. What I want to know, then," the detective announced, "is what makes you so sure?"
Her mouth dry, and her excuses all but exhausted, Claire stood up from the table near to tears. "I'm not saying another word until my husband gets home. It's been a very trying past few days, and I'm sorry if a mother's instinct doesn't account for anything in your book, but it does in mine." A pause. "Do you have any children, Detective Stone?"
The woman didn't blink: "None."
"Then just, for once, accept the fact that I know just a little bit more than you do, and please get out of my house. Now."
It's obviously something she doesn't care to remember. Nami flipped all the notes in front of her like a hand of cards, eyeing each as a gambler would his odds. On the one hand, Claire seemed genuinely worried about her daughter; then again, who wouldn't be? Either way, she was being incredibly hostile and, what's more, she had practically shoved Nami out the door instead of answering anything.
So, then, did she not want to talk about Skye because they had a past, or because he did something she would rather not recall? Something violent, possibly?
No, no, that would help her case, not hinder it. If Nami were in Claire's position, she'd tell all; a man who hurt a woman once was liable to do it again. More likely, she'd had a not-so-squeaky-clean affair that her polished-and-pristine doctor of a husband wouldn't be able to stomach. It made sense, didn't it? Skye kidnapped her baby to spite her.
Than again, note aside, that was all speculation.
Suppose Claire had done it. She was certainly impetuous enough to do so. Maybe it was a cry for attention—God knows Nami had heard about the doctor's many hours away from home. Losing a child would force him to come closer to her. Losing a child would make her look like a good and worried mother. Blaming an old flame—or just an old flirt who'd gotten too close—could very well be sweet revenge and a way to renew her marriage all at once. And, if Claire knew where her daughter was, there would be no need for anything but faked hysterics.
Again—all speculation.
Hell with it, Nami needed facts. Her brain hurt from all this guesswork, and what was more, she sounded like a mystery novelist and not a detective. If the mother wasn't going to give answers, fine; she'd milk the other cow. That doctor seemed amiable enough. First thing tomorrow, she'd question him.
Tomorrow. Crap. Nami grimaced. Second thing tomorrow, anyway, right after breakfast with a certain guitar-strumming idiot who hadn't a damn clue when to quit.
The first thing that registered in Skye's mind upon meeting Bob was Good God, he could kill me with a single bear hug. And a bear wasn't too far from an accurate description; Bob's arms were pure muscle, and his face was etched with a simple villager's smile.
"So you must be Steiner!" he crowed, shaking the thief's hand roughly. "Nice to meet ya! I'm Bob, from down at the blacksmith's. And who's this pretty little girl?"
'Claire' was obviously just as scared of this strong man as Skye was, and she whimpered a bit as he scooped her into his arms. "That's my daughter," he answered curtly. "Claire."
"You weren't kidding," Bob laughed to the blonde beside him. "She is a cutie."
Gwen giggled, fingers toying with her ponytail. Skye raised an eyebrow, but said nothing; everything about Gwen, he noticed, had been changing since this burly man's arrival. For one thing, she bounced from one foot to the other with rapid indecision, and it caused her miniskirt to swish in what a girl would suppose to be a flirty way. Skye snorted. Blatantly obvious, more like it.
"Would you like some food while you're here, Bob?" Gwen chirped. "We've got soups, sandwiches, salads—"
"If I don't know what you serve by now, then Goddess help me, Gwen," Bob interrupted her with a grin. "But what about our new friend here—Sterner, isn't it?"
"Steiner," Skye corrected him rigidly. "And I know what's on the menu as well; I've been paying for my stay by working in the kitchen." It wasn't as if Bob had asked, or that it really mattered, but the idea of this bumbling giant knowing more than Skye about anything irked him to no end.
"Well! Then I'm sure you know by now that there's no finer cook than Doug's very own Miss Gwen." Another booming laugh.
Without a second thought, Skye promptly took baby Claire back into his own hands and gave Gwen a desperate glance. "We don't need to eat anything. Really, I'm sure Bob has other work to be done."
"Don't worry about it, Steiner!" Gwen answered from the kitchen. "This is on the house, and I want you to get to know the town. You don't need to skulk about here, you know. Everyone here helps everybody else."
"But to be honest, I'd gladly spend my time here more than I would any place else," Bob added good-humoredly. "So we'll be seeing a lot of each other, eh?"
A groan died in Skye's throat. "Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful."
"I like him," Bob announced. "A little stiff, and definitely too skinny to work in your kitchen, Gwen, but I like him."
The cook nodded, gazing at her companion every chance she could get without getting caught. He was too easy to read sometimes; some days she'd wished he was more begrudging about his feelings, just to give her the chance to misinterpret them and gain some shred of courage. Feelings. Huh. How long have I had those, I wonder? Long enough. "I feel bad for him," she replied. "He seems so proud, and yet he's…I don't know, there's just something almost vulnerable about him. I can't imagine what would make a woman leave her husband and child."
"It's a crazy world out there," Bob agreed. "But I agree—it's inhuman to leave an adorable baby like that!"
"Can you imagine, though? Being left like he was?" Gwen shook her head, the wind whipping back her hair. "I guess I can't blame him for being so suspicious of people. Trust is hard to give once you lose it."
"Well," Bob declared, "I figure everyone deserves the benefit of the doubt, anyway."
"I know you do. You're too good, Bob."
Gwen smiled, and oh God, it hurt so much to watch him smile back. Say it. Her hands—had they been this clammy moments ago? Her throat felt so full it threatened to burst; her heart beat so fast it might break. Now, Gwen. Beat it out of your system. Get whatever courage you've got left and—
"Do you remember when we were little?"
They weren't the words she'd been intending, but they worked just the same. Bob blinked his wide, honest eyes, and grinned. "Don't I! You and me, Gwen, we were peas in a pod, weren't we?"
"Remember how you'd help me get onto your father's horses? And how I'd always slip, but we kept trying, and then suddenly I could ride just like you?" The words were bubbling over now, practically overlapping. "We promised we'd be friends forever. We'd race all day and all night, and we promised that, someday, we'd have a ranch all our own to share."
"Gwen—"
"Do you ever think about that?" she begged, her boots stopped on the path. "Do you ever just find it on your mind, nagging at you, and suddenly you just want to go back and race all over again, as kids?"
Say it. Oh, Goddess, you're so close—just say it.
"Tomorrow. Tomorrow, do you…do you want it to be like that again?" Gwen cleared her throat and dared to look up at his eyes; her words left him stunned, nothing more. "Do you want to, maybe, spend the festival day with me?"
"Uh, Gwen." Oh no, he was scratching his head now—she steeled herself against it, willed herself to watch this agonizing display in silence. "Tina, well she and I…we're kind of going to try that, ourselves, tomorrow."
"Oh." All the anxiety, the pent-up expectation, seemed to decline with the release of that single syllable. Her arms wrapped about herself, struggling to keep some of the warmth those emotions had left. Everything felt cold now, numb.
"I'm sorry."
Gwen shook her head, the pity stinging like ice. "Don't be. Tina…she's a nice girl, a good farmer. Good racer, too, if I remember."
"Yeah." He nodded awkwardly, Gwen's hold on her emotions as weak as his own. A big strong arm pulled Gwen close and ruffled her hair, tears slipping down her cheeks. "Gwen—we were good together back then. Real good."
"I know," she sniffled.
"And there's going to be somebody good for you now, because girls like you don't go around wearing broken hearts for long. There's something good for you out there, I know it. Right, Gwen?"
"It's late," she whispered, pulling herself away. "Uncle Doug will want me home."
Bob's arms fell to his sides, limp. Her words had softened him, and he murmured, "Gwen, this isn't the end. Remember that, okay?"
Let it be, let it be, let it be. Gwen squinted her eyes shut, the path ahead too familiar and too assuming. Her boots clacked upon the stone, and God, what she wouldn't give to silent their conceited sound, their proud walk.
"Gwen, would ya marry me one day? When we're all growed up?"
All the time in the world she'd had, and yet she'd blown it in one night. The moon loomed overhead, lording over her with a sneer as it followed her all the way to the Inn. She slammed the door open and shut behind her, something wet pricking her eyes.
"Oh, good, you're back," Steiner called from the counter. "We're running low on salt—"
"For the love of the Goddess, you can figure out how to fix something as easy as that, can't you?" Gwen scoffed. "Shut up and get it done; I'm not in the mood to baby you tonight."
He stared, speechless, as she stomped off to her room, kicking off her shoes and throwing herself onto her bed. Soft, comforting blankets. Familiar, soothing sounds. Nothing had changed here in this room. Nothing had come crashing down.
"Course I will, Bob. You're the only guy I'd ever love."
She wiped her eyes on her arms and stared at the ceiling thoughtfully. All those years. All those wasted, wasted years.
"People change," Gwen reminded herself, yet even so, she wondered how exactly she, out of the billions of human beings living in this crazy world, had been the one to have forgotten the memo.