Shallie sighed. She was really too worn-out for a sparring match, verbal or otherwise.

“Come on, Russ. I have my reasons. And I know you have rooms available—the vacancy sign is on.” Some of it was, anyway. “There aren’t any other cars in the lot, either.”

Russ spread his hands, his expression one of sly mockery. “Take your pick,” he said. “If you insist on being our guest.”

Wondering who the “our” might refer to, then promptly deciding she didn’t care, Shallie glanced at the rack on the wall behind the desk, where the room keys hung on tarnished hooks. No fancy magnetized cards at the Painted Pony; these were actual metal keys, with numbered plastic fobs attached. Most of the lettering was worn away, like the digits on the telephone dial.

“I’ll take Room 2,” she said, about to open her purse, which, she realized now, was pressed between her right elbow and her rib cage as though she’d expected to be mugged at any moment.

Russ arched his brows and set his bulk in motion. “Interesting choice,” he remarked dryly. “Room 2, I mean. Since that’s the one Crazy Christine dumped you in.” He didn’t wait for a response. “I don’t suppose you remember, you were so little, but I was the one who found you that day. Did I ever tell you that?”

“Yes, actually, you did.” Only about a thousand times.

He extended the key, fob dangling. “You were screaming at the top of your lungs,” Russ reminisced as if she hadn’t spoken. “You were naked, except for a wet diaper, and calling for your mama. By then, she was long gone, of course.”

Shallie resisted a sudden impulse to defend this woman, her mother, who was and most likely would remain a total stranger to her. Della’s story, when she could be persuaded to discuss the matter at all, had been pretty basic. Shallie was the daughter of Della’s half sister, Christine, which was why Della hadn’t been asked to sign a registration card when she checked in that long-ago day. She’d been “family.”

And oh, yeah, Della Schafer had been all about kinship.

All Shallie really had was a name and a birth certificate. According to that, her father was “Unknown” and her birthplace was Chicago.

The real reason the Schafers had taken her in was, of course, far more prosaic—their monthly check from the state, very little of which had been spent on Shallie, or even Russ and Bethanne, but that was neither here nor there.

The one thing Shallie had really wanted from the Schafers—the truth—had not been forthcoming.

Which was why she’d started an investigation of her own.

It hadn’t been easy or productive, any more than her search for Bethanne.