Bitter Crossing (A Peyton Cote Novel) Read Online Free PDF Page B

2:30.
    On the bedside table, there was a photo of her mother and late father. Charlie Cote had always supported her, having driven her all around the state to enter karate competitions and been the one to give her a copy of On the Line , a book about the US Border Patrol, when she’d been in her teens. She’d lain in bed reading of Jeff Milton, the quick-triggered cowboy who, after years of wielding his Colt .45 as a Texas Ranger, became the first Border Patrolman in 1904. She owed her career to her father.
    The house smelled of her mother’s Quebec shepherd’s pie. Most of Lois’s recipes called for enough salt to make Paula Deen cringe. She knew the shepherd’s pie meant she’d have to run an extra mile in the morning, but, she had to admit, it was well worth it.
    Something struck the side of the house just below her guestroom window, jarring her from her thoughts. She stood and looked out. Ash-colored clouds had given way. She watched a football arc against the pale sky.
    “Hi, Mom,” Tommy yelled and waved, his toothless grin wide, blue eyes aglow.
    When he attempted to catch the ball, it careened off his forearms and fell to the ground.
    She nearly flinched—not at the dropped pass, but at the sight of the man who’d thrown it.
    “Hi, Peyton,” Jeff McComb, her ex, said. “Hope you don’t mind that I picked Tommy up after school. I called, and Lois said it was okay.”
    “That’s fine,” she said. Then she noticed Tommy looking at her, reading her expression. “It’s great. It really is. Glad to see you spending time with him.”
    “Yeah,” Jeff said, “and, hey, I always liked you in hats.”
    He was referencing her black Border Patrol cap, her ponytail pulled through the opening in the back.
    “Not wearing it for you,” she said.
    He frowned.
    The backyard was small, separated from the farmland by dense pines. She looked at the tree line wondering what her mother had been thinking.
    “If you tried to return my call, my receptionist didn’t leave a message.”
    “I didn’t.”
    “Oh,” Jeff said and tossed the ball to Tommy. “Because I’d be happy to help you house-hunt. I know the market inside and out around here.”
    Was she being selfishly stubborn? If the guy who sent birthday cards and Christmas gifts but failed to call Tommy for months on end now wanted to be part of their son’s life, shouldn’t she genuinely encourage him?
    “Dad picked me up after school, Mom. Cool, huh?” Tommy threw the ball to his father, the sleeve of his gray Red Sox windbreaker flapping in the breeze.
    “Way cool, love. Aren’t you cold? What do you have on under that?”
    Tommy rolled his eyes.
    Her phone vibrated. She pulled it off her belt. “Cote here.”
    “Peyton, it’s Miguel.” She recognized the Spanish accent at once. “Scott asked me to call. He wants to know where to bring the baby clothes.”
    “Baby clothes?”
    “For the little girl.”
    “Oh, yeah. Just have him leave them on my desk. I’ll get them to her.”
    “Will do.”
    She hung up.
    “I see you still work a million hours a week.” Jeff caught the ball.
    “I still work fifty. Just like everyone else in my profession, Jeff.”
    He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped and threw the ball back.
    “I’ve missed him, Peyton. Missed you both, in fact.”
    She didn’t reply.
    “Hey, kiddo,” he said, “your mom looks like she could use something to drink. How about getting us a couple glasses of water?”
    “Sure, Dad.” Tommy beamed, thrilled to help his father. He dropped the football and dashed inside.
    “Wow, what a great kid,” Jeff said.
    She knew as much because she’d raised him—alone—since Jeff had left. She was within arm’s length and could smell his Polo cologne. He’d started wearing it years ago because she’d told him she liked it. He still knew how to dress, she had to give him that—chinos, Cordovan loafers, and a blue button-down shirt, untucked and open at the collar. But