When the call connected, a sleepy male voice answered.
“Do you know what time it is?”
“It's Vincent.”
A pause.
“I'm awake.”
“Find me a family lawyer in Billings who handles grandparents' visitation and foster-care cases. Someone who actually goes to court. Not somebody who writes letters for a living and sends me a bill.”
“Tonight?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
The man on the other end sighed.
“What's happened?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Vincent, when you say nothing yet, that usually means somebody should start worrying.”
“Find the lawyer.”
He ended the call.
Walter stared at him.
“You don't have to do this.”
“I know.”
“We can't pay you back.”
“I didn't ask you to.”
“Sir, I don't even know you.”
Vincent's gaze lifted.
“That's the part you keep getting wrong, Walter. You don't have to know somebody before you decide whether they're worth helping.”
Walter's eyes shone.
For several seconds, he struggled to speak.
Then he looked away, embarrassed by the tears he could no longer control.
Evelyn leaned her head against his shoulder.
Vincent gave them the time they needed.
He knew what it cost a man to cry in front of strangers after a lifetime spent refusing to do it. He also knew that pretending not to notice could sometimes be the kindest thing another person could offer.
When Walter finally composed himself, Vincent slid the photograph toward him.
“Finish eating.”
Walter nodded.
Vincent looked toward the counter.
“Darla.”
She came over with a fresh pot of coffee.
“Can you put these two on the warm side of the dining room? Somewhere away from the door.”
“Of course.”
“And call the motel across the highway. Ask if they've got a room available for tonight.”
Walter started to protest.
Vincent held up one hand.
“You can argue with me tomorrow. Tonight, you're getting some sleep.”
Hector watched him with narrowed eyes.
When Darla led the couple toward a booth near the kitchen, Hector waited until they were out of earshot.
“You're getting involved in a family court case now?”
Vincent returned to his cold coffee.
“Looks that way.”
“You don't know whether they're telling you the whole story.”
“No.”
“You don't know what happened with that kid.”
“No.”
“You don't know if there's a reason the caseworker stopped the visits.”
Vincent looked at him.
“That's why we're going to find out.”
Hector rubbed a hand across his beard.
“You haven't done anything like this since—”
“Don't.”
The single word stopped him.
Hector sat back.
For a moment, neither man spoke.
Then Hector nodded toward the photograph Walter had left on the table.
“You know what you're doing, don't you?”
Vincent followed his gaze.
The little girl was smiling up at him from behind the scratched glass.
“No,” Vincent said honestly. “Not yet.”
He picked up the frame and carried it to the counter, where Walter was waiting for Evelyn to finish wrapping her scarf.
“Keep this somewhere safe,” Vincent told him.
Walter accepted it with both hands.
“Thank you.”
Vincent held his gaze.
“Tomorrow, we'll start finding out what happened.”
Walter looked down at the photograph.
For the first time that night, hope appeared on his face.
It was a small thing, fragile enough to break if anyone handled it carelessly.
Vincent had no intention of handling it carelessly.
He had made that mistake once in his life.
He had no intention of making it again.
The motel was called the Prairie Rest, a low building with a flickering vacancy sign and a parking lot full of trucks. It was not luxurious, but the rooms were heated, the beds were clean, and the manager did not ask Walter and Evelyn to explain why a group of leather-clad bikers was paying for their accommodation.
Vincent gave Walter the key himself.
“Room twelve. Breakfast starts at six. Keep the receipt.”
Walter looked at the key, then at Vincent.
“Why the receipt?”
“Because tomorrow, we're going to start putting things in order.”
“What things?”
“Everything.”
Walter swallowed.
“I'm not used to people making promises.”
“Good. Neither am I.”
Vincent turned toward his motorcycle.
He had not meant to say it quite that way. The words had come out before he could decide whether they belonged to him.
Walter looked as if he wanted to ask a question, but Evelyn touched his arm.
“Come inside,” she whispered. “We're freezing.”
Walter nodded.
Before they entered the motel, he turned once more.
“Vincent?”
The biker paused.
“Whatever happens with Rosie, I want you to know that we love her. We may be old, and we may not have much, but we've never stopped loving that child.”
Vincent looked at him for a long moment.
“I believe you.”
Then he walked away.
Back at the motel, Walter helped Evelyn remove her coat. She sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed her knees while he checked the radiator and the lock on the door.
They had stayed in dozens of motels during their younger years. Most had been brief stops on road trips to visit family or spend a weekend somewhere they had never seen before.
This room felt different.
It was the first place in months where neither of them had to wonder whether they would be allowed to remain until morning.
Evelyn looked around.
“It's warm.”
Walter nodded.
“Very warm.”
He placed Rosie's photograph on the nightstand.
For a long time, neither of them spoke.
Then Evelyn said, “Do you think he can help us?”
Walter sat beside her.
“I don't know.”
“He seemed like a good man.”
“He also seemed like a man who doesn't enjoy being told what he can and cannot do.”
“That might be what we need.”