Every Last Look

by Christa Wick

  Damn Naomi!

  I replaced the pillow then swiped angrily at my tears. Leaving my boots behind, I padded into the living room to find Barrett on the couch.

  Slow and gentle, I lifted the laptop perfectly balanced on his broad chest and placed it on the coffee table. Next, I picked up a pad of paper that had slid onto the floor.

  Seeing my name all over it, I began to read.

  From what I could tell, he had spent all night trying to solve one of my problems. But having the land meant nothing if staying in the area put everyone at risk.

  I put the notepad down on the laptop then claimed the last few free inches of the coffee table by perching on it. I watched Barrett sleeping. He still seemed strong and capable, but his relaxed features added a touch of vulnerability to his face.

  I had heard that vulnerability yesterday, especially as he tucked me into his bed, called me "love," and said he would fix things if I just gave him enough time.

  Giving him time meant giving Naomi time, too. Time to set another fire, time to point her next boyfriend’s car at me and whomever I was with, the gas pedal buried against the floorboard.

  An old pain ghosted through my hip as I remembered the last time I had stared through the wrong side of a windshield to see Naomi behind the wheel.

  Blinking the image away, I focused on Barrett’s face. It was more than masculine beauty that drew me to him. Integrity, generosity…

  I stood up and went to the side table where Barrett had left my bag. I pulled out a sketchpad and artist pencils purchased that Monday when Sutton tried to keep my mind off Barrett’s absence with a trip to Billings.

  I returned to my perch on the coffee table. Just looking at Barrett’s face brought all the pain of my impending loss rushing at me. But sketching him let me capture everything I felt about him without the pain of actually feeling it.

  Slowly, his face took shape on the paper. Strong jaw, mobile lips, long, dark lashes. I added shading, changing the vaguely attractive features into a replica of the chiseled good looks before me.

  Finished with my pencils, I put them down and rubbed lightly at the paper with my fingers.

  “Hey,” Barrett murmured.

  Caught in the act of recording him, I froze, only my gaze lifting to meet his.

  “Can I see?”

  I rolled my lips, swallowed hard, but handed the sketchpad over telling myself he would only see a good replica of himself. That’s all most people saw. Exposed to the exact replicas that cameras produced, the average person had grown distant and numb to the emotions contained in a sketch or painting.

  Gaze on the floor, I waited for Barrett to return the sketchpad.

  He didn’t.

  His long legs slid off the couch. His knees brushed mine as he sat up, his hands gripping the sides of the pad hard enough to bend the hundred plus sheets of paper.

  “You don’t draw me like this,” he rasped, “then say you’re going to leave.”

  I hadn’t said I was leaving. Not yet, at least.

  “Look at me, Quinn.”

  I studied the grain on his wood flooring.

  He put the sketchpad aside, parted his legs wider, grabbed the edge of the coffee table and pulled me and everything on it right up to him. His hands secured my hips, his thumbs hooking my belt loops like I might try to scurry away.

  “Look at me,” he repeated, his voice softening.

  Unable to see the floorboards anymore, I examined the nearly invisible patterns of the leather couch.

  Barrett sighed, but he didn’t pull away, didn’t push me and the coffee table from him.

  “I love you,” he said, his voice almost flat.

  “I love you,” he repeated, his tone strengthening. “Looking at that sketch, I think you love me, too.”

  My mouth stretched thin. A sharp sting pinched my nose. My throat constricted, the airway shrinking smaller and smaller as the muscles pulled tighter and tighter.

  Bringing his lips up to my ear, Barrett whispered.

  “I love you, Quinn. You love me, too, I know it.”

  I shook as his lips drifted toward my mouth, searing my flesh.

  Barrett pulled me onto his lap. Leaning against the back of the couch, he cradled me to him and kissed lightly at my temple.

  I wrapped my arms around his shoulders. With my face pressed tight against his chest, I confessed in muffled whispers.

  “Yes. I love you. Yes.”

  He stroked at my hair, his every movement meant to soothe.

  When his mouth found mine again, Barrett kissed me like he never had before. Tender, yes. Passionate, yes. But the depth and intensity were so much more than all those other kisses. One hand wound through my hair, controlling the tilt of my head as his tongue slid in. His other hand stroked down my arm, his grip proprietary as he reached my waist and curled his fingers around its side. His thumb rubbed at the padded jut of my hipbone until I squirmed with need.

  Only when he had me gasping with what I felt must surely be my last breath did Barrett pull back, offer one last caress of my cheek then leave the couch and head into the kitchen.

  “We’ve got a long day of kicking butt, love,” he called back. “We better get some breakfast in us first.”

  Slowly drawing every last molecule of flavor from my slice of bacon, I watched Barrett work on his laptop. I wouldn’t say he was providing a non-stop commentary, but he kept giving me highlights of what he was doing. First, there was an email from his brother Adler confirming that he had set up the meeting with the state’s Land Trusts division. Second was the reply email from the division’s Reed Sheppard re-iterating his availability.

  For as much bad luck as had plagued me since my arrival in Montana, Sheppard had a scheduled stop by the courthouse that day.

  “Forwarding Sheppard’s email to Judge Harrison and Cross,” Barrett advised. “I think maybe we can resolve this today. If not, we still have the fact that you cannot return to the property because of the ongoing investigation.”

  Swallowing the bite of bacon, I nodded and wiped my hand clean before I picked up the notepad.

  “When can he meet?” I asked.

  “Between noon and two, whatever is convenient for Harrison.”

  My face crinkled as I read Barrett’s notes. Handwriting that had started out smooth had devolved as the sheer volume of writing increased.

  “I can type it out with the additional information I didn’t write down last night if you want to handle the meeting.”

  I put the pad down and grabbed another slice of bacon.

  “Let me think on that a minute,” I answered.

  I had already met Cross once in person and interacted with him a couple of times before that over the phone and in email exchanges. I didn’t think highly of him, especially after meeting him at the ranch house. It wasn’t so much his words, but his expression and tones. While he had mostly ignored all but Barrett's presence, the few times the man talked directly to me or Lindy indicated he deemed it beneath him to talk to women on matters of law.

  Yeah, that was part of it. He had mansplained to me in that meeting and he’d done it before on the phone.

  I didn’t know about the representative from the state or the judge, but it felt like one or more of the Turks had to work with the department frequently and had built up enough goodwill to get the meeting so fast. That left the judge, who seemed sympathetic, but also a bit of a good old boy.

  Then there was the embarrassing fact that I had basically been comatose after the fire. If I shut down in the meeting, then Naomi would have really beaten me this time.

  “I think it’s best if you handle the meeting for me.”

  Barrett dipped his head in agreement. “I hate to say it, but we’ll get quicker results. These are all older guys we’re dealing with and they can be a little…”

  “Traditional?” I supplied.

  He grinned. “You have a nicer word for that than Mama does.”

  A tone sounded on his l
aptop. Barrett clicked the edge of his touchpad.

  “Judge has agreed. He can see us at twelve-thirty.”

  A second ping had him shaking his head.

  “And of course Cross waits to see what the judge is going to say.”

  “Does that mean he can’t come?”

  “No, he just wanted to see which way the wind was blowing is my guess. He says the time is fine.”

  Hearing something hit the front door, I dropped the last piece of bacon onto my lap, a small squeak of surprise turning my cheeks red.

  “That should be Siobhan,” Barrett soothed just as a triple knock landed against the door. “She was going to raid Maureen’s closet—with Maureen’s permission. You two are closest in size.”

  The knock landed again.

  “Hey, if you’re in there shagging, throw some clothes on and—”

  Barrett opened the door with a scowl. “It’s amazing how someone can be so helpful and annoying at the same time.”

  “Consider it a small fee for my on-call assistance,” she said, pointing at a suitcase for Barrett to bring in as she waltzed past him.

  Settling onto the couch, Siobhan wrapped me in a mama bear hug.

  “You doing okay? You looked a little numb leaving the station last night.”

  “I’m better than I was.”

  I rubbed at my warm cheeks, the embarrassment over my frightened squeak yielding to a sense of shame over how I had turned into an absolute zombie before.

  I still didn’t understand how Barrett could be professing his love to me after last night’s behavior.

  “So," Siobhan started, her words traveling a mile a minute. "I ran into Adler and he sort of suggested there’s a plan so you can keep the land…beyond the whole tolling factor during the investigation?”

  I grinned. “No secrets in Willow Gap it seems.”

  Siobhan shrugged. “That, or I’m already an excellent interrogator.”

  Returning from taking the suitcase into the bedroom, Barrett chuckled. “Please, baby girl, wait until you meet a real interrogator.”

  Siobhan sniffed in mock offense then wrapped me in another hug. “I have to get to work. Clay called in sick and there’s finally a bit of excitement, what with this whole thing about your sister.”

  “You’re shameless,” Barrett teased. “You’re eager to go to work because something terrible has happened.”

  She stuck her tongue out at her cousin. “That’s not it at all. I want to help take Little Miss Crazy down. Gamble said we already have an ID on the guy. Doris was on duty at the Tumbleweed fuel station when a California car filled two one-gallon containers with gasoline. She took down their plate because of how they looked.”

  Siobhan frowned. “She called them in before the fire was set, but she is always—seriously, always—calling things in and they never pan out. So…”

  I patted the young woman’s knee. “I understand. Probably ten percent of the kids in L.A. don’t dress much different from my sister, and they aren’t all arsonists. You can’t arrest someone just because they’re wearing black lipstick and a hoodie. The only people at fault for the fire are Naomi and this guy.”

  “Yeah,” Siobhan agreed, her frown relaxing. “This time of year, we only have two patrol cars out during the day. Not a good chance they would have crossed paths with your sister even if they were on the lookout for the car.”

  Siobhan snuck in one last hug then stood up. “Anyway, Gamble was hoping you could stop by this afternoon.”

  Barrett nodded and walked her to the door. “We’re meeting Judge Harrison at twelve-thirty. We’ll come by straight after. Maybe it will all be good news by then.”

  I mustered up a smile, but I only expected things to get worse.

  24

  Quinn

  Sheppard was the last to arrive at Judge Harrison’s office, but he came bearing sweets from Marla’s Cafe, Willow Gap’s only restaurant.

  “On the house,” he announced, placing them on Harrison’s desk. “Marla heard I was heading on over to see you, Steve, and insisted I bring some with me.”

  Sheppard descended into a throaty chuckle then lobbed a wink at the judge. “Sweets for the Sweet, I think.”

  Harrison grumbled and pushed the box away. “Ever since my Shelly passed, Marla's been trying to get enough extra pounds on me so I’m too slow to run away. I’m lucky she never learned how to rope.”

  Seeing how Cross eyed the box of sweetbreads and cupcakes, Harrison pushed it closer to him.

  “Do help yourself, everyone. No reason this can’t be a pleasant visit.”

  Cross dove into the box, grabbed a thick slice of zucchini bread and placed it on a blank sheet of paper. Barrett and I declined with a wave and a polite smile.

  Leaning back in his chair, Harrison glanced at his pocket watch then nodded at Barrett. “Seeing as your mouth is empty and you set up this little meeting, you might as well start talking…”

  He paused then dipped his head toward me. “Unless Miss Whitaker planned on addressing the issues.”

  Except for Barrett, I smiled at each man in turn, starting with the judge, then Sheppard and, less warmly, Cross.

  “Barrett has a far better grasp of the issues we wanted to discuss today,” I demurred, my voice pure sunshine without sounding saccharine.

  I had dressed the part, too. Siobhan had brought both pants and blouses plus a navy skirt with a pretty floral print. I had chosen the skirt and a fluttery white blouse. I had also used a very light hand with the makeup Siobhan had added to the haul.

  Judge Harrison nodded with approval, his gaze flicking to Barrett.

  “Shep,” Barrett started. “I’ve looked over how Jester tied up the land if the State gets it. Seems to me, all the State will benefit is an annual payment from the cellular company for the tower’s placement. Unlike the provisions covering Miss Whitaker’s possession of the land, the State can’t transfer the land, can only cull timber for fire management, can’t lease it for anything.”

  Sheppard swallowed a bite of frosted lemon cake before agreeing.

  “On top of that,” Barrett continued. “The State will have to do fire management, which will cost you as much or more than that cell tower brings in.”

  Seeing the bullet point on Barrett’s notes earlier, I had worried about my own fire-related duties. He had explained the same rules didn’t apply to private owners. I would check into the issue just the same, but that was a panic attack for some future day. First, I needed to gain title to the property.

  “True,” Sheppard agreed, folding the cupcake paper. “Jester’s gift to the State was anything but. Although the hundred years prohibition won’t hold up.”

  Harrison scratched a note on a nearby pad of paper. “Still, that land would easily be tied up for at least a couple of decades.”

  “Certainly not decades,” Cross tried to intervene.

  Harrison and Barrett shot the attorney a hard look. The man returned to dissecting his zucchini bread.

  Barrett directed the second prong of his argument at Judge Harrison.

  “Now, I don’t know much beyond how to be a halfway decent cowboy and how to jump out of planes and fight fires, but I don’t figure the law is so inflexible that it would actually work against what Jasper wanted.”

  Nodding, Harrison took another glance at his pocket watch.

  “It’s clear,” Barrett continued, “that Jester wanted Quinn on the land long enough she might decide to stay in the county, maybe live on the land itself, and become a part of our community. The only person he intended to benefit was Quinn. Not the State and certainly not any other relatives. He specifically wrote them out of his will.”

  “He did,” Cross agreed. “All others in general, and two of them specifically by name. Those were the only other living relatives he knew of.”

  “My mother and half-sister,” I noted before resuming my passive role in the discussion, my hands calmly folded in my lap, my entire exterior a charade to hide
the tension gripping my insides.

  “And now one of those relatives cut out of the will has tried to thwart Jester’s wishes,” Barrett said, his tone growing harsh. “Sheriff Gamble has already identified the arsonist as Quinn’s half-sister Naomi.”

  Harrison made a few more scratches on his notepad, a scowl darkening his features.

  I offered up a silent prayer that the scowl was for my half-sister and not a bad sign of my own chances of resolving my claim to Jester’s land.

  “So I figure,” Barrett said, ignoring Cross once more and focusing his attention on Sheppard and the judge, “that Quinn and the State can come to some agreement.”

  Chuckling, Sheppard reached into the briefcase he’d brought to the meeting. “I thought we might be heading this way, so I talked to our legal department.”

  He pulled out a thick stack of papers held together with a binder clip. Removing the clip, he peeled off half of the papers and handed them to Judge Harrison.

  Starting to pass the second half to me, he pulled back when Cross reached for the papers.

  “Now, aren’t you the estate’s attorney, Mr. Cross? If so, I don’t think there’s anything for you to do here but listen.”

  “Well, Miss Whitaker will need assistance in reviewing—”

  “Conflict of interest,” Harrison grunted as he read through the pages. “Miss Whitaker, you are certainly within your rights to get the assistance of another attorney, but this is drafted in plain language. As I read it, you would agree to limited development on the land for the first ten years. During that time, you can build a primary residence on the original home site and add a second hunting lodge not to exceed the size of the new primary residence. You can lease access for up to two cellular towers and harvest up to ten percent of the timber in addition to timber removed for fire management purposes. That’s all for the first ten years. After that, you would be free to do with the property as you wish. If you must sell in those ten years, the buyer is subject to the same restrictions for the remainder of the ten-year term and the State has the right of first refusal…”