The Strong, Silent Type

by Jule McBride

  Swallowing hard, she glanced between the bathroom door and the stairs again. Scenes from countless movies flashed through her mind, where characters left the shower running while they made getaways. Dylan could so easily swing out of an upstairs window, into the waiting branches of a snow-laden tree. He’d climb down, leap to the ground and...

  Leave me.

  Well, if he wanted to, he would, and there wasn’t anything she could do about it. Now that she knew he was alive, now that she’d held him again and they’d made love, she felt almost pathetic in her need to cling. And she still desperately wanted answers about their wedding day. Not that posting herself in front of the bathroom door and standing vigil while he showered was making her feel any less foolish. If he wants to leave so badly, then let him.

  The doorbell pealed again, this time with a more insistent double ring. Blowing out a sigh, she headed downstairs. Love wasn’t supposed to be this way. No, it was supposed to be like...

  Like...

  Shutting her eyes for a second, she allowed herself to recall every inch of the body she’d held last night Both her hands and heart had remembered every inch of Dylan: not just the dips and curves of his chest and smooth shoulders, but also the way he’d moved against her. And inside her. Even now, the recollections brought emotional and physical pangs of longing. The changes in him were so remarkable, and yet she knew he was the same man. He still had all that tangled golden hair curling between his pectorals, which was so unlike the black hair on his head that he’d obviously dyed.

  “It’s probably Mom,” she whispered, wondering who was at the door. Or Leland, looking for a repeat of last night’s arguments. Or maybe one of the cowhands, bringing information about possible summer rentals for the ranch’s guest cottages.

  Not that Alice really cared who it was. She didn’t have time for visitors. She needed time alone—with Dylan. He hadn’t yet told her how he’d made himself look so physically different, or why he’d chosen this particular time to return to Rock Canyon. Was it because he’d known she’d been about to marry Leland? Her heart clutched. She wanted—no, needed—the opportunity to explain why she’d considered doing so. There was so much she and Dylan needed to talk about. And yet, they’d exchanged so few words....

  Crimson heat flooded her cheeks as she thought about what they had exchanged. Enough to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the man in her shower really was Dylan. She’d recognized his body, and now the heat burning her cheeks spread through the rest of her.

  Pausing before the front door, she glanced through the peephole. “Sheriff Sawyer,” she whispered dryly. It wasn’t her mother, after all. She should have known. Why did the sheriff have to show up now? Why couldn’t he have waited an hour or two? Just until she’d talked to Dylan?

  If I ever get a chance!

  Standing with her hand on the doorknob, Alice wondered again why Dylan had stayed. He hadn’t said. He’d merely surveyed her a long moment, then stepped away from the door and headed for the shower.

  “I almost wish he hadn’t come back.” The unexpected words came on a bitter sigh. As much as she loved him, he owed her answers, and he didn’t seem very inclined to talk. At moments, she felt as if he’d appeared simply to torture her. And frankly, she’d had enough torture during the past year and a half.

  “All right,” she muttered when the doorbell rang again. Swinging the door open, she found herself face-to-face with the sheriff.

  “’Morning,” she said noncommittally. As a rush of biting air tunneled through the open doorway, blowing her hair and stinging her cheeks, she suddenly wished she’d showered. Her hair was held back with two barrettes, and she’d thrown on rumpled maroon sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt. She looked like hell. Somehow, being better dressed might have made it easier to stand her ground. Still, she wasn’t about to invite the sheriff inside, not after their exchange last night.

  He seemed to know it. He merely surveyed her, his bulky frame filling the doorway. His dark, suspicious eyes darted past her, probing every nook and cranny of the living room. Her eyes drifted over his red down vest pulled over a red-and-black plaid flannel shirt, then stopped on a small light blue nylon sports bag. Its strap was looped over the sheriff’s shoulder.

  His eyes returned to hers. “Mind if I come in?”

  She glanced over her shoulder and listened for the shower, which she was glad to hear was still running. “Sorry,” she said. “I wish you’d called. This really isn’t the best time.”

  He pulled on a pair of black leather driving gloves, appraising her all the while. “Is he still here?”

  She shot him an innocent look. “Mr. Gerald Williams, you mean?”

  “Yeah,” the sheriff said softly, his breath fogging the air. “Mr. Williams. Who the hell else would I mean, Alice?”

  She didn’t bother to keep the animosity from her voice. “He’s here, but he’s in the shower.”

  The sheriff’s grimly pursed lips said he’d had enough of her shenanigans. “Alice, would you please let me in? I need to talk to that fellow.”

  “He’s unavailable. And,” she couldn’t help adding, “I don’t think I much care for your tone.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Well, guess what?”

  “What, sheriff?”

  “I don’t much care if you like my tone.”

  “Please,” she said, determined to keep the conversation somewhere in the ballpark of amicable. “I’m very sorry, but I happen to be busy right now.”

  Rocking back on the heels of his cowboy boots, he gave her the once-over. “Yeah,” he said, drawing out the word. “It sure looks like you’ve been busy.”

  His suddenly hooded eyes made clear exactly what he thought she’d been busy doing. Hot temper coursed through her. “Do you really think that such a remark will convince me to invite you inside my house?”

  “Who knows? It might. You did invite a complete stranger inside, so there’s no telling what motivates you.”

  “Keep it up—” she shot him a tight smile “—and you might even rate some home-cooked muffins and coffee, too.”

  Her sarcasm only made him livid. “I need to come in,” he said flatly.

  She returned his stare. “Is that right? What for?”

  “To question your houseguest.”

  The bitter biting wind was blowing right through her sweatsuit, and she clamped her teeth together for an instant, to stop them from chattering. “Do you have a warrant?”

  “No, I don’t have a warrant! Dammit, Alice, I don’t need a warrant to come in your house! I know you!”

  “And that means you can ignore people’s civil rights?”

  “Civil rights!” Sheriff Sawyer fumed. “Have you lost your mind? We’ve got an unsolved murder in this town. And I want to know who that man is.” Poking a finger past her, the sheriff pointed toward the living room.

  She said, “Does Mr. Williams need a lawyer?”

  “No!” the sheriff snapped.

  She shrugged, wishing she wasn’t about to freeze to death. “Then I’ll bring him down to your office when he’s out of the shower.” She glanced down. “And after I’m more appropriately dressed.”

  The sheriff’s eyes slid past her again, into the living room. He glanced up the stairs. “Just what do you think is in here?” she said haughtily. Murdered bodies? A murder weapon?

  “You know,” he said, “for the record, I’ve got to say that I don’t like your attitude.”

  “I didn’t like yours when you all but convicted Dylan,” she returned.

  “You’ve already told me, Alice. Many times.”

  As far as she was concerned, he had yet to hear it enough. “Well, now you’ve heard it again.”

  Blowing out a murderous sigh, he shoved his hands on his hips. “Can you bring him down in the next couple of hours?” Before she could answer, he all but thrust the blue nylon bag at Alice. “Here. Clarisse down at the Blue Sage Motel in town ID’d Mr. Williams from the Polaroids I took
at the hospital. Clarisse said he was carrying this bag when he checked into the motel. Said he paid cash and—”

  “You had no right to take pictures!” Alice exclaimed, her mind catching up. She should have known better than to leave Dylan with the sheriff. “He, uh, Mr. Williams is not suspected of any crime, which means you don’t have any right—”

  “We’ve already been over this, Alice. I have every right.” The sheriff’s eyes became dark beady points. “Why do you care about this man, anyway? And I still want to know why you called him Dylan.”

  That was one question she’d rather not answer. Instead she straightened and said, “Now, Sheriff, I want you off my porch!” She knew she was making even more of an enemy out of Sheriff Sawyer, but she wasn’t letting him question Dylan before she did.

  “Go ahead,” the sheriff said. “Keep locking horns with me, girl, and see where that gets you and your...friend.” He said the word as if it were something dirty, his eyes dropping slowly over her. “Rest assured, Alice,” he finally continued, “I’m keeping tabs on you. And I expect you to bring that man down to my office within the next two hours.”

  She was starting to feel downright sullen. “I said I’d have him there, didn’t I? I have to drive to the hospital and pick up my paycheck, anyway.”

  “You bring him in,” the sheriff said succinctly, “whether you have anywhere else to go or not.”

  “Judge, jury and executioner,” she said. “You’re treating this man the same way you treated Dylan. When are you going to start acting like a sheriff again?”

  “When my daughter’s murder is solved.”

  Her heart thudded. And she hated herself for pushing him so far. But didn’t he understand that his obsession with Jan’s murder had pushed him away from solving it?

  The sheriff’s eyes were now as dark as coals. “Alice,” he said, “it might be wise to remember that you were the intended murder victim.”

  A shudder rippled through her. “That was never proved.”

  “Lying there, Jan looked just like you. And she was wearing your wedding veil.”

  Guilt Hooded her. What if he was right? What if she, not Jan, was supposed to have died? “That doesn’t mean I was the intended victim.”

  “Think about it.”

  She was. She remembered running her hand over the blood-covered white dress, trying desperately to staunch the countless wounds. In that second, she’d realized how much she and Jan looked alike. Someone wanted to kill me, she had thought.

  Now words from the phone call she’d received yesterday played in her head, and she felt faint. She bled like a pig. And you know what, Alice? I thought she was you. I said to myself, “Dylan, you’re going to cut your pretty little wife.” Feeling sick, she realized the sheriff was still glaring at her. Why couldn’t he just leave her alone? She wanted to sink back inside, where the fire was warm.

  “If you want to protect this man, this stranger, then that’s fine,” the sheriff was saying. “But by the end of the day, I’ll probably know whether or not he’s really Gerald Williams. If the man’s got any kind of record, which most vagrants do, then I’ll definitely know who he is, since we’re running his prints.”

  She gasped. “You can’t fingerprint a man without cause! When did you—”

  This time, the sheriff didn’t smile. “At the hospital when you left the room to get coffee.”

  Her heart started beating too fast. Back in high school, a bunch of the popular guys—Dylan included—had pulled a typically juvenile prank and run naked down Main Street after a regional basketball playoff. The boys had been charged, fingerprinted and sentenced to four Saturdays of community service. No doubt the prints were still on file. Which meant Sheriff Sawyer would soon find out that the man upstairs was Dylan Nolan.

  Terror coursed through her. Realizing how carefully the sheriff was watching her, she did her best to mask her emotions. “You had no right to fingerprint him,” she argued righteously, with more confidence than she felt. “He committed no crime.”

  The sheriff’s smile didn’t meet his eyes. “Last night, the man was unnamed, unconscious, and he’d been hit by a car—”

  “Your car,” she reminded him.

  He nodded. “Exactly. Given the circumstances, I was within my legal bounds. Now, Alice,” he continued, almost drawling the words, “when it comes to legal bounds, you’d just better make sure that you’re within yours.”

  She was getting furious. “Meaning?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Unfortunately, she did. She was hiding pertinent information. And the sheriff was no fool.

  “And. Alice?”

  She glanced up, meeting his eyes. “What?”

  “One more thing.” The sheriff jerked his head, drawing her attention to the county car in her driveway. For the first time, she realized Leland was here. She’d been so intent on the sheriff that she hadn’t noticed Leland leaning against the driver’s-side door, facing her house.

  She stared at Leland a long moment.

  He stared back, not moving. His arms remained crossed over his chest, and his long, lanky jeans-clad legs were crossed at the ankles. Even though light flurries fell and snow from the drifts blew, he stood there, slowly, thoughtfully pulling at his mustache.

  “Leland,” the sheriff said softly, “is going to be watching you, too.”

  It sounded like a threat. Her eyes shifted from Leland to the sheriff. “What’s between me and Leland doesn’t concern you, Sheriff Sawyer.”

  The sheriff didn’t look convinced. “Oh,” he said as he turned to go, “absolutely everything in this town concerns me, Alice. ‘Sides, Leland’s a pretty angry young man.” The sheriff shot her a smile. “Which means he’s highly motivated to help me figure out why you’re so cozy with that fellow in there.”

  Cozy. She started to defend herself, but they’d been cozy, all right. And the sudden, bright color burning in her cheeks was the admission of it. Not that it mattered. The sheriff had already turned away. Warily, Alice watched him make his way down the shoveled stone path to the driveway. Without offering her so much as another glance, Leland circled the car, got in and slammed the door.

  Everything seemed strangely silent. Too silent. And then Alice realized the shower had quit running. Her heart pounded with panic, and before she even realized she was doing it, she slammed the front door shut, whirled around and ran upstairs. Stopping breathlessly in front of the bathroom door, she realized she was still clutching the nylon bag the sheriff had given her. Her tone was sharper than she intended. “Are you in there?”

  No answer. Then a gruff, “Yes.”

  Turning abruptly, she headed back downstairs. She started to put another log into the wood burner, but there wasn’t time. Glancing guiltily toward the stairs, she tossed the bag onto the couch. Well, if he caught her going through his things, too bad, she thought. She had every right to seek answers, didn’t she? Sitting down, she opened the bag’s zipper and rummaged inside, finding a pair of jeans, a couple of shirts...

  She frowned. Something was wrong.

  Staring into the bag, she wasn’t sure why she thought so. Nor did she fully understand what possessed her to grab Dylan’s clothes and bring them to her nose. She inhaled. Strange, but the clothes didn’t smell like Dylan. Alice shook her head and kept rummaging.

  “Nothing,” she muttered, glancing nervously toward the stairs again. “What did you expect?” No doubt the cops had been through everything here.

  There were socks. A couple pairs of briefs, though last night, Dylan had been wearing—and had always worn—boxers. Suddenly, she saw something drop; gold flashed from the hem of a shirt to the couch. Her eyes settling on a chain, she dug both hands between the couch cushions until her fingers closed around something flat and round, like a coin.

  She gasped. Years ago she’d given this medallion to Dylan. For a second she clutched it to her chest, holding it over her heart. Wherever Dylan had gone, he’d taken this wi
th him, and just the thought filled her with warmth and joy.

  Finally, real proof that the man upstairs was Dylan.

  Lovingly she ran her thumbnail around the locket, finding the catch. But when it fell open, her heart turned to ice. Inside was her picture. She remembered it well—a black-and-white studio picture of her, wearing a plain black off-the-shoulder dress with a single strand of pearls.

  But now little pinpricks dotted her face. It was as if someone had repeatedly stabbed the tiny picture with a knife. And across the picture, written in red letters—so small she could barely read them—it said, See her bleed.

  Chapter Eight

  See her bleed. The words were still playing in Alice’s head when LaVryle said, “Sure, I’ll get your paycheck for you, hon.”

  “Thanks, LaVryle.” Alice glanced anxiously toward the corridor, as if Dylan might appear. Would the man really stay in the front lobby, where she’d left him? Or would he use this opportunity to vanish?

  Alice looked at LaVryle again. Usually, nothing more than watching the older woman could lighten Alice’s mood, but now she had to force a smile as the head of personnel rummaged through a desk drawer. LaVryle was definitely something to behold; at less than five feet tall and carrying more than a few extra pounds, she was well past retirement age, and yet every inch of her girth still communicated an enviable love of life.

  Alice wasn’t feeling quite so positive at the moment.

  “Darn if your check isn’t still locked up in that safe,” LaVryle said. Licking the remnants of a chocolate cookie from her fingertips, she hopped up from her desk. As she crossed the office, the western-style boots protruding from under her jean skirt made sharp clicks on the tile floor. “Be right back.”

  “Thanks,” Alice said. “I appreciate it”

  As LaVryle disappeared into an adjacent room, Alice caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the doorway’s glass. She’d smoothed her hair, pulling the blond strands back with ivory barrettes, and she’d donned her best brown wool slacks and a camel blazer. Amazing. How could she look so well put together under the circumstances?