Shoving the memory aside, she leaned back in her seat and gazed out the window, determined not to let the incident shake her. So she'd overreacted. If Erin had learned anything in the last several months, it was that she couldn't change what was already done. Another mistake heaped on top of a dozen others wasn't going to make a difference now.
Two slow, deep breaths and her nerves began to calm. For the first time since she'd climbed into the truck, she noticed the scenery outside her window as they drove toward Nick's house. She'd never lived in a small town before, but had fallen in love with Logan Falls the moment she'd arrived. Surrounded by endless fields of corn and wheat, neat white farmhouses and pastures dotted with cattle, Logan Falls was a typical Midwestern town. Cobblestone streets and brick storefronts distinguished the downtown area. A silver-roofed bell tower graced the top of the courthouse. Across the street, a fountain punctuated the center of the business traffic loop. Beyond, a redbrick school surrounded by maples and stately oak trees separated the downtown area from a well-kept residential neighborhood.
They rode in silence to a more rural area, the only sound coming from the occasional crackle of Nick's police radio. In the back seat, Stephanie stared out the window, her face pulled into a sullen mask Erin couldn't begin to read.
"It looks like Mrs. Thornsberry's home."
Nick's voice jerked Erin from her reverie. She looked over at him just as he turned the Suburban down a gravel drive lined on both sides by a white rail fence. Ahead, a white frame house with black shutters and a wraparound porch beckoned. Erin wasn't sure where she'd expected Nick Ryan to live, but it wasn't here. The home spread out before her looked like a happy place where children played and adults barbecued in the backyard. But on closer inspection, she noticed the signs that no children had played in this yard for quite some time. A swing set sat like an abandoned ship in a sea of lush grass. A basketball hoop mounted above the garage door was rusty, its netting torn and swinging in the breeze.
Erin smiled when she noticed the spotted horse grazing next to the rail fence. "Whose horse?" she asked, hoping to land on a subject that would brighten Stephanie's mood.
"That's Bandito," the little girl replied. "He's an Appaloosa."
"He's beautiful," Erin said. "Do you ride?"
"I used to be in 4-H and show in western pleasure and trail." Stephanie sighed. "But I don't anymore."
"How come?"
A sound of disgust emanated from the back seat. "As if you haven't noticed, my legs aren't exactly strong enough to stay in the stirrups."
Turning in her seat, Erin smiled at her. "Have you ever heard of therapeutic horseback riding?"
The little girl studied her with soft, intelligent eyes that held a lot more interest than she was letting on with her responses. "No."
"That's where kids with disabilities ride horses, work out their muscles and, basically, have a lot of fun."
"My dad says we're going to retire Bandito."
Erin risked a look at Nick. "Have you checked with her doc—"
"Steph is concentrating most of her time on physical therapy," Nick said firmly, then looked in the rearview mirror and smiled at her. "Aren't you, honeybunch?"
"Yeah, but I still miss Bandito," she said.
Deciding it might be a good idea to steer the conversation away from the riding aspect of horse ownership, Erin tried another approach. "Well, since you don't ride anymore, Steph, maybe you could just show him to me one of these days."
"Bandito doesn't like strangers," the little girl said.
Nick shot his daughter another look in the rearview mirror as he parked the truck. "That's enough, Steph. Deputy McNeal is trying to be friendly."
"Well, she keeps asking dumb questions."
He shut down the engine and opened his door, terminating a conversation Erin wished she'd never started. She got out of the truck, and watched as Nick unloaded the wheelchair. He opened the rear passenger door, scooped the little girl into his arms and set her in the chair.
"I don't mind waiting out here," Erin said quickly, when he started for the house.
Nick paused and frowned at her. "You may as well come in. Mrs. Thornsberry will want to meet you."
"Mrs. Thornsberry?"
"Stephanie's nanny."
"Oh." Feeling awkward, Erin fell into step beside him as he wheeled his daughter toward the front door. Being a cop in Logan Falls was definitely going to be different than being a cop in Chicago.
The farmhouse was set on several acres. A big maple tree shaded the side yard. Beyond, a small barn with Dutch doors and an adjacent circular pen stood as if in testimony that Bandito had once led a very busy life. The fact that Stephanie no longer rode her horse bothered Erin. Childhood was precious and she didn't want to see this little girl miss out on any of it.
The front door swung open. "Nick? Stephanie? For goodness sakes, what are you doing home this time of day?" A short, round woman with graying hair and bifocals greeted them with a maternal smile. "Do we have a guest?"
"This is Deputy McNeal." Nick looked at Erin. "This is Mrs. Thornsberry."
Relief trembled through Erin that Stephanie and Nick had a strong woman in their lives. Mrs. Thornsberry wasn't a day under seventy, but Erin could tell the instant they made eye contact that the woman was anything but frail. Mrs. Thornsberry might be only five feet tall, but behind that gentle facade and favorite-aunt voice lay the compassion and wisdom of a grandmother, and the iron will of a five-star general.
"I'm pleased to meet you," Erin said sincerely.
Mrs. Thornsberry's gaze was unwavering. "Welcome to Logan Falls." Her eyes settled on Stephanie, and she frowned. "Why aren't you in school, young lady?"
The little girl concentrated on her sneakers.
Nick squeezed his daughter's shoulder. "She showed up at the station. Said she wanted to ride with me today."
"Cutting class again, more like it." Though the nanny's voice was firm, Erin didn't miss the thinly concealed sympathy in it. Mrs. Thornsberry swung the door wide and walked back into the house. "Grab Steph's book bag, will you?" she said over her shoulder to Erin.
Erin lifted the book bag from Stephanie's lap.
Nick shot her a small, covert smile. "I think you passed inspection."
"I take it that's good?" Erin said.
"Took Hector a few tries."
Without waiting for a response, he pushed the wheelchair over the custom-made threshold. Erin followed with the book bag.
The first thing she noticed was the aroma of home-cooked food. Frank Sinatra's silky voice filled the air. The furniture was older, but of fine quality. A comfortable-looking sofa and matching easy chair sat in a grouping across from a console TV. In the dining room beyond, a sewing machine and bundles of fabric covered the length of the dinner table.
"You caught me mending," Mrs. Thornsberry said. "Stephanie, I expect you have homework." Without missing a beat she turned to Nick and looked at him over her bifocals. "Shall I call the principal this time, or do you want to?"
He grimaced. "I took care of it."
"Are you going to take her back to school?" the nanny asked.
"She wants to stay home today," he said.
"She's missed an awful lot this year."
"I'll see about getting her assignments, Em."
Nodding, Mrs. Thornsberry turned to Erin. "Would you like coffee?"
"We can't stay," Nick interjected.
"Oh, come now, Chief. Don't put me off. I just made a fresh pot of that hazelnut stuff."
"I don't have any homework," Stephanie complained.
Mrs. Thornsberry clucked her tongue. "Then why don't you go into your room and write me a nice letter explaining why you left school without permission again, honey?"
Stephanie rolled her eyes.
"I'll bring you some milk and cookies in a bit," the nanny finished. "Do you take cream, Deputy McNeal?"
The woman switched topics so effortlessly, it took Erin a moment to realize sh
e was speaking to her. "Call me Erin," she said. "Cream would be fine. Thank you."
Stephanie turned her wheelchair and started down the hall. Something warm jumped in Erin's chest when Nick followed, stooping to kiss his daughter's cheek. "Do as Mrs. T. asks, Steph," he said softly. "I'll be home in time for dinner."
The little girl looked at him from beneath long lashes. "Will you teach me how to play chess tonight?"
"You already know how to play chess." He touched her cheek with his knuckles. "You beat the pants off me last time."
She grinned. "I'll let you win."
"Deal." Nick held out his hand, and she gave him a high five.
"'Kay." The little girl wheeled toward her room. Erin couldn't help but feel she'd intruded on a private moment, but she hadn't been able to look away. The grim-faced police chief who'd berated her just half an hour earlier seemed incongruous with the father who dealt so gently with this child.
She was still staring when he turned toward her. The warmth in her chest spread when his gaze met hers. For an instant, she thought she'd never seen a man look so sad.
"Hell of a way for you to spend your first morning on the job," he said.
"It's okay," she replied, realizing the situation was probably just as uncomfortable for him.
"I should tell you up front that most of my deputies have picked Stephanie up at one time or another." He grimaced. "She's been cutting school. Most times, I'm around. But if I'm not, I expect whoever's on duty to drive her home."
"I'll be happy to drive her home when you're not around."
"Steph's a good kid. She's just going through a tough time right now."
"How old is she?"
"She'll be nine on Saturday."
Erin didn't have any idea what kind of birthday gift a nine-year-old girl would want, but knew she wanted to get her something. Anything to bring some joy—no matter how minute—into that little girl's life.
"How long has she been cutting school?" she asked.
"About a year."
Remembering he didn't wear a ring, she said, "Divorce is tough on kids, but they're amazingly resilient."
His jaw tightened, but he didn't look away. "I'm a widower."
The shadow in his eyes came and went so quickly, Erin wasn't sure she'd seen it at all. Appalled by her blunder, she cringed. "I'm sorry. I just assumed—"
"It's a common assumption. Don't sweat it."
Considering Nick was a widower, Stephanie's behavior took on a whole new light. A pang went through Erin when she thought of her own mother, and how lonely a young girl could be growing up without one.
"Here's your coffee."
Erin looked up, relieved to see Mrs. Thornsberry coming from the kitchen with a tray. The coffee smelled like heaven.
"Thank you," she said, accepting her cup.
"Did you invite Erin to Stephanie's party on Saturday, Chief?" the nanny asked.
Nick shot the older woman a warning look over the rim of his cup. "No."
Judging from his expression, Erin deduced he wasn't necessarily glad the nanny had brought up the subject. Erin couldn't blame him, after the way she'd reacted to his daughter's wheelchair. Besides, she didn't know any of them well enough to expect to get invited to a party. Vowing not to take it personally, she moved to let him off the hook. "I'll probably be tied up unpacking—"
"Nonsense," Mrs. Thornsberry said. "It will be a good opportunity for you to get to know Stephanie and Nick. Hector will be here, too. We'd like you to come—"
"She's going to be on duty, Em," Nick interjected.
Mrs. Thornsberry barely spared him a glance. "Well, maybe you can stop in for a piece of cake after your shift."
Nick's cell phone chirped. Murmuring a quick apology, he set his cup on the dining room table, tugged the phone from his pocket and answered with a curt utterance of his name.
"When?" he asked sharply.
His tone caught Erin's attention, and she set her own cup on the table.
"I'll be right there." Shoving the phone back into his pocket, he turned to Erin. "We've got an emergency call."
* * *
Chapter 3
« ^ »
Nick sprinted to the truck and jerked open the door. Emergency calls didn't come often, but when they did, he took them very seriously. Sliding behind the wheel, he snatched up the radio mike. "What do you have, dispatch?"
Vaguely, he was aware of Erin settling into the passenger seat beside him, strands of hair streaming out of her bun. Hell of a thing for him to be thinking about when he should have his mind on the voice coming over the mike.
"Code three at the Brass Rail Saloon," the dispatcher's voice said. "Robbery in progress."
"That's the second time in two weeks. Who called it in?"
"Passerby saw a white male in a blue shirt kick in the front door."
"Well, that's real subtle." He started the Suburban and slammed it into gear. Dust and gravel spewed into the air as he sped down the driveway. "Put out a call to the sheriff's office," he barked into the mike. "Tell Hector to put on his vest and get over there, too. No one goes inside. I'm on my way." Once on the highway, he flipped on his emergency lights, no siren, and floored the accelerator.
"Juvenile delinquents?" Erin asked. "Domestic disputes?"
He looked over to see her strapping on her seat belt. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes wide and alert. She looked excited. He wasn't sure that was a good sign. "Same place got hit last week," he said. "Patrick doesn't make his bank drops as often as he should. He lost over two thousand dollars. The perp carried a cannon."
"Are we going to go in?" she asked.
"I'm going to assess the situation."
"They could be gone by the time—"
"I'll go in if I think it's warranted."
"I'll cover you."
"I want you to stay in the truck." He whipped the vehicle around a corner at breakneck speed. "I want this low-key. No one gets hurt."
"You might need me to back you—"
"This isn't Chicago, McNeal."
"Last I heard perps with guns weren't limited to Chicago."
He glanced away from his driving and glared at her. He could almost feel the excitement coming off her. Uneasiness swirled in his gut. "If you've got something to prove, I suggest you do it elsewhere."
"I'm sure this will come as a shock, but I know what I'm doing."
"Why don't you prove it by following my orders?"
Nick ran the traffic light at Main Street
. He'd wondered when her ego would enter the picture. He wondered what he was going to do about it. Damn, he didn't need this headache.
The Brass Rail Saloon was at the end of the block. He pulled into the side lot of the adjacent building, out of sight. Dust billowed as the truck came to a halt. "Stay put, McNeal," he snapped. Pulling his revolver from his holster, he shoved open the door and hit the ground running.
* * *
The initial burst of adrenaline had kicked through Erin's veins the instant she heard the call come over the police radio. Now, as she watched Nick sprint across the parking lot toward the rear of the bar, she struggled to keep her frustration in check.
If you've got something to prove, I suggest you do it elsewhere.
That he'd ordered her to stay in the truck stung. She told herself he'd misjudged her. Just because she wasn't afraid to jump into a fray didn't mean she was overzealous. She merely liked police work. That heady rush that came with danger. The euphoria that followed an arrest that had been successful because of skill and police know-how. Nick didn't know her well enough to make blanket assumptions. She didn't have anything to prove—not to herself, certainly not to Nick Ryan.
Frustration choked her as she watched him disappear around the rear of the building. "Oh, this is just peachy," she muttered.
In her peripheral vision, she saw a car turn into the front lot. Not a sheriff's department vehicle, but an old Ford with wide tires and a loud engine. Erin held her b
reath as the vehicle stopped directly in front of the bar. The driver got out and looked around. He was the size of a bull and just as mean looking. An alarm jangled in her head when she spotted the butt of a pistol sticking out of the waistband of his jeans.
She told herself it was tension that had her hands shaking. But she knew intimately the many faces of fear. The heady rush of blood. The jitter of nerves. The coppery taste at the back of her throat.
It took her all of two seconds to realize she wasn't going to sit in the truck when there was an armed suspect in plain sight. Slipping her gun from her holster, she unlatched the door and stepped out of the vehicle. Adrenaline hummed through her muscles as she jogged to the building and pressed herself against the brick exterior. Except for the old Ford, the lot was empty. Nick was nowhere in sight.
Sticking close to the brick, she eased along the side of the building. The gun felt heavy in her hand. Sweat slicked her palm. Her heart beat out of control in her chest. She felt the flashback coming on and fought it, but the images rushed at her, playing in her mind's eye like a bad video. Danny lying hound and helpless. The blast of a gunshot. The smell of gunpowder and fear. Pain so sharp it took her breath.
Panting rapidly, sweating beneath her uniform, she shook off the memory, steeling herself against the deluge of emotions that followed. Not now. Not when Nick was relying on her. She couldn't let him down. Not like she had Danny.
Movement at the front of the tavern drew her attention. A second man had emerged from the front door carrying a brown paper bag. Nick's words rang in the back of her mind. She wondered if his orders included letting two armed suspects get away. On the other hand, two armed men against a single cop wasn't something she felt comfortable with—especially knowing what had happened the last time she'd faced those odds. She didn't have backup. She was still a probationary officer. She hadn't even been issued cuffs yet. But there was no way she could stand back and let them walk away with a bagful of money and the knowledge that they'd outsmarted two small-town cops. Erin figured she didn't have a choice but to stop them.
Heart pounding, she sidled toward the front of the building and waited. When the men started for the car, she stepped into view. "Police!" she shouted. "Drop your weapons!"
Cops and ... Lovers? Page 4
