Full Contact

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  Staying safe was second nature to her. She always knew, at any given moment, where her safety spots were.

  She didn’t alter her course, though. Not yet. Though she wanted to. But because she wanted to run for cover, she maintained her trek.

  Slowing her pace, Ellen controlled her breathing with effort, her gaze pinned to the spot where the bike would appear—a stop sign at the corner. Waited to see who would roar past her.

  Sam Montford had a new motorcycle. But it had a muffler, or something that made it run much quieter than the noise pollution she was hearing.

  Sheriff Greg Richards had one now, too. He’d bought it as a gas saving measure. His bike was like Sam’s—the quieter variety.

  And there he was. A body in black leather on a black machine framed by shiny chrome. She didn’t have to know anything about motorcycles to know that this monstrosity was top-of-the-line. It even had a trunk-looking thing that was big enough for a suitcase.

  Ellen noticed, without stopping. Shortening her stride, she jogged. And watched.

  Black Leather was not from around Shelter Valley. Of that she was certain. The bike and black leather were dead giveaways. The ponytail hanging down the guy’s back was advertisement for outsider.

  Tensing, Ellen paused, jogging in place at the end of Tory’s driveway. If the guy turned onto this street, she was running to the front door.

  If not, she’d continue with her run. Her day. Her life.

  Her mother was having a family dinner tonight— Rebecca and her husband, Shelley and, of course, Tim, who still lived at home—and Ellen was bringing brownies for dessert. Brownies that weren’t yet made.

  She also had to stop by the Stricklands’ house to collect the mail. And she wanted to call Josh. It was an hour later in Colorado. Her son would be in bed before she got home from her mother’s.

  With his feet on the ground on either side of his mammoth machine, the biker mastered the weight between his legs, seemingly unaware of the disruptive noise he was emitting along the quiet and peaceful streets of Shelter Valley.

  A light blue Cadillac drove by. Becca Parsons—the mayor. Becca was Martha’s best friend. Ellen’s youngest sister, Rebecca, was named after her. Ellen could see the woman’s frown from a block away.

  Hot-rod engines simply didn’t belong in Shelter Valley.

  BLACK LEATHER DIDN’T SEEM to see the car at all. He sat there, gunning his motor with a gloved hand, unaware that within minutes Sheriff Richards would be all over him.

  Or at least, right behind him, finding a reason to stop him and determine his business in town. And if that business wasn’t just passing through, Black Leather would be on the radar. The heroines of Shelter Valley—the core group of women whose strength and nurturing of each other and everyone else in town were the glue that held Shelter Valley together—would convince him so sweetly to exit their borders, he would never know the departure wasn’t his idea.

  That was how it worked around here. The people of Shelter Valley would help anyone. They were compassionate. Welcoming. And anyone who didn’t emulate the town’s values and ways was encouraged to find happiness elsewhere. That’s what kept Shelter Valley what it was—a town that embraced and protected in a balance that was even enough to create a form of heaven on earth.

  At least most of its residents, including Ellen, thought so.

  Black Leather picked up his feet, his gaze locked straight ahead as Becca drove past. He yanked on his throttle one more time.

  Ellen watched the thirty-second episode, her chest tight, and wondered at the man’s audacity. Wondered why she didn’t simply go say hello to Tory. Ask how the kids were doing during this last hot month of summer.

  “Ellen? You okay, sweetie?”

  Tory’s soft voice floated to Ellen from the front steps. The thirty-one-year-old stay-at-home mother looked as put together and beautiful as always.

  “I’m fine,” Ellen called with easy assurance, staring down the street.

  Black Leather leaned. He was turning in the opposite direction. She breathed a little easier and with a wave to her mother’s much younger friend, resumed her course down the street. As she increased her pace, Black Leather glanced her way, pinning her with a stare that struck at her core.

  Then he was gone.

  But the memory of him wasn’t.

  The man had guts. And the seeming intelligence of someone who would house bulls in china shops. Fortunately, he was not her problem to worry about.

  HE’D SPENT TIME IN MORE boring places. But Jay Billingsley couldn’t remember when. Or where. He was ready to leave. Every place and every activity the quiet desert city had to offer he’d already been to and done. And he’d been in town only twenty minutes.

  Didn’t bode well for his future, since for the foreseeable part of it, he was here—living in the furnished home a few blocks from the clinic where he’d be working part-time at a job that satisfied him. He’d already made arrangements to rent the property on the edge of Shelter Valley on a month-to-month basis. The hours he wasn’t at the clinic he’d be hell-bent on completing the tasks that had forced him to come to Shelter Valley.

  He’d driven by his new place. Didn’t try the key he had in his pocket because the boxes he’d had shipped weren’t due until tomorrow morning. The pool in the backyard was pristine with a rock waterfall. And there was a fire pit for grilling. For once the real thing was even better than the picture.

  Really, it wasn’t Shelter Valley’s fault that he was in a rank mood. Wasn’t anybody’s fault. Not even his.

  Not many guys would like being forced into distasteful situations.

  Best get on with it. His life’s motto. Which was why an hour after he’d driven into—and around—his latest home base, Jay showed up at the clinic looking for Dr. Shawna Bostwick, the psychologist who had so effusively accepted his offer to practice clinical massage under her auspices. She had a small room at her clinic ready for him to use and some patients to refer to him.

  “You’re Jay Billingsley?” The young woman’s shock wasn’t carefully enough disguised.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He bowed his head, his hands crossed in front of him, standing the way he’d learned while waiting in the mess line during his eighteen months on the inside.

  Back to the wall and cover your balls, as he privately described it. Those months had taught him other life lessons. Accept what you can’t change. Don’t expect anyone else to watch your back. Being still is the best way to assess the opposition. Adopting a subservient stance is the fastest way to disarm others’ defenses.

  Eleven years on the outside and, whenever he was being negatively judged, he still reverted to the man he’d become while doing time for drug possession.

  Some lessons lasted a lifetime.

  “You, uh, ever been to Shelter Valley?” The pretty blonde seemed to be somewhere around his own thirty-two years.

  He waited until she looked him in the eye and said, “No. I’d never heard of the place until a month ago.”

  Her smile, though tentative, seemed genuine. “You might be in for a surprise.”

  “I doubt it,” he said easily. Then something about her, or about the damned town, had him adding, “I’m good at what I do, Dr. Bostwick. I’m in this business because I care. Because I want to help people. You can rest assured that I won’t let you down.”

  She grinned at him. “I’ve read your résumé. I’m not worried. But I do think you might want to get your hair cut. And lose the vest.”

  “My only transportation is a motorcycle.” He told her what she’d find out soon enough anyway. Who would have believed he would find a Western town without a Harley dealership? Or any other signs of motorcycle ownership? “Leather deflects bugs and is more impervious to wind.”

  “And the hair?”

  He shrugged. He could have cut it, if he’d wanted to give a false first impression. Jay was who he was. A free spirit. A man who didn’t conform to social pressure. His hair told people that
up front.

  And it reminded him every single day that his freedom was in personal expression and belief, not in the making of his own laws—either moral or physical.

  “It’s taken me eleven years to grow it.” That was all the explanation anyone would get.

  Jay noticed the doctor’s firm backside at the tail end of the blue blouse that hung over her jeans as he followed her down the hall to his new space. The room would suit and, once his table arrived tomorrow, he would set up quickly.

  He’d only been in town an hour and had already seen two very fine-looking women—a jogger and his new professional sponsor.

  Too bad he wasn’t in Shelter Valley to have sex.

  JAY SWAM IN THE NUDE. His temporary backyard was completely enclosed by a cement block privacy fence. He had to traverse the entire length of the pool four times to get what he determined to be one lap. Somewhere around forty lengths he lost count.

  The cool water sluicing against his skin was like the wind pulling at his hair when he rode full-out. A communion between nature and man—raw life. Something he could trust. Count on.

  When his body was tired enough to stay put on the stool awaiting him inside the house at the breakfast bar, he hauled himself out of the deep end and grabbed the jeans he’d left in a pile on the patio.

  Zipping the pants with care born of practice, he grabbed a cola from the fridge and glanced at the neatly stacked folders awaiting him. Usually his investigative skills itched to be used. This time, Jay was reluctant to begin.

  Finding the man who’d deserted him—who’d walked out only weeks before Jay’s mother’s murder—was on his top ten list of things he most wanted to avoid. Right up there with going back to prison.

  Or ever again being out of control of his mental faculties.

  His aversion to the task at hand was the only reason he was glad to hear the knock on his front door. The uninvited intrusion delayed having to open those folders.

  He wasn’t so sure he hadn’t jumped from the frying pan into the fire when he saw a uniformed lawman standing on the front porch. “Jay Billingsley?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Sheriff Richards.”

  Greg Richards, Jay read the official identification the man held out. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

  He hadn’t done anything wrong.

  “You have a second?”

  As many of them as he wanted to have. “Sure.” Jay stepped back, leaving Greg to come in, close the door behind him and follow Jay to the second of the two bar stools at the kitchen counter.

  He offered the lawman something to drink, retrieved the bottle of water Richards requested from the fridge. The sheriff perched on the stool, both feet planted on the floor. The man’s hair was dark. Short. Proper.

  “I had some complaints about that motorcycle of yours.”

  Jay met his gaze head-on, drinking from his can of cola while he did so, his bare feet resting on the silver metal ring along the bottom of his stool. “There a law against motorcycles in Shelter Valley?”

  “No. I’ve got one myself,” Richards said, and Jay reminded himself that those who judged prematurely generally ended up making asses of themselves. “But we do have noise restriction laws.”

  “No semi engines after six o’clock?” Jay guessed.

  “No excessive noise within city limits, period.”

  “Who defines excessive?”

  “I do.”

  Jay nodded. Less than twelve hours in town and he was already being run out. If only the sheriff knew how happy Jay would be to oblige….

  “I’ll run my machine on low throttle in city limits.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  The lawman hadn’t opened his bottle of water. And he wasn’t leaving, either.

  “There something else?”

  “I talked to Martin Wesley. He says you’re renting this place month to month.”

  Jay had found Martin’s rental ad on the internet. “That’s right.”

  “He says you’re a medical massage therapist working with Shawna Bostwick.”

  “That’s right.” And if Jay was a betting man, he’d put money on the fact that Richards had already been in touch with the pretty doctor for confirmation.

  “We don’t have a lot of call for that around here. Seems like you’d find more work in a city like Phoenix.”

  “Or Miami,” Jay agreed, “which is where I’ve lived a lot of the past ten years.”

  “So why here? Why now?” The sheriff’s expression wasn’t unfriendly. But he wasn’t making small talk, either.

  “I’ve got some business in the area.” Until he knew what he was going to find, his father was his secret. “Personal business.”

  “And when you’ve completed your business? What then?”

  Shrugging, Jay took another sip of cola and tried not to get depressed. “Who knows?” He wondered what the hell his life would look like when he was through messing it up.

  “Is a life here in Shelter Valley among the choices?”

  At least he could put one man out of his misery. “No.”

  “You did some time in prison.”

  Were there laws against that in Shelter Valley, too?

  Jay didn’t respond. There was no point. Richards had access to Jay’s records. The man knew what he knew and he’d make of it what he would.

  “Possession with intent to sell.”

  Those were the charges. He hadn’t had a hope in hell of proving his innocence. Mostly because he’d been high on cocaine when the cops raided the frat party he’d been attending.

  It didn’t help that his so-called friends had all been rich kids with daddies—or more importantly, daddies’ lawyers—who made sure that Jay, the scholarship kid without family, took the fall.

  Still, he’d made choices. And he’d deserved to pay for them.

  “I hope that it’s just coincidence that you’ve chosen to work in a clinical environment.” The sheriff’s words threw Jay for a second. Until he put it all together. Clinics had drugs, giving him potential access to them.

  “I was arrested at a frat party. We were doing cocaine. No one there was making a living off the stuff,” he said. “My professional record is as available to you as is my criminal one, Sheriff. You’re welcome to take a look at that, too. I don’t use drugs, nor have I been caught with any in my possession.”

  “I’ve seen your professional résumé. You come highly recommended. In the field of medicinal massage, but also as a private investigator. I’m told you’ve done some impressive work assisting detectives with cold cases.”

  “Mostly volunteer.”

  “You don’t make a full-time career at anything.”

  “I’m not a white picket fence kind of guy.”

  “Most people who can’t settle down have something to hide.”

  “Criminal types, you mean.”

  “You said it. Not me.”

  “I did my time. And I learned my lesson. I do not make choices that could send me back to prison. Ever.”

  “I’ll bet that makes your mother happy.”

  “My mother was killed during a home invasion when I was a baby.”

  “Your father then. Grandparents. Siblings. Whoever was hurt when you were sent to prison so young.”

  “No one was hurt.” At this rate Jay was going to need another fifty or so laps in the pool to calm down enough to get to work. “My only living relative—the aunt who raised me—passed away during my freshman year of college.”

  “You ever been married?”

  “No.”

  “What about girlfriends?”

  “No one serious.” Not that it was any of this man’s damn business.

  “Any close friends?”

  “Not that I can think of offhand.”

  “You have no one at all.”

  Jay felt exposed by the shock in the sheriff’s voice. And forced himself to answer the question, too. “No.”

  Now the other man k
new Jay’s dirtiest secret. He was completely alone in the world. No meaningful relationships. He’d never had anyone with whom he felt close. Had no idea how to be a member of a family unit. Let alone the head of one.

  “Any more questions, Sheriff?”

  Jay’s voice must have had more of an edge than he’d intended. Leaving the unopened bottle of water on the counter, Sheriff Richards stood and moved toward the front room. Before he reached the door he turned, a look of concern lining his face.

  “We aren’t unforgiving folks,” he said, his hands at his sides. “Nor are we unwelcoming. We’re just protective of our way of life out here. It’s why we’re all here, and not in some other place. The people of Shelter Valley have chosen a lifestyle that makes them happy. It’s my job to protect that as well as to protect them.”

  And an ex-con with long hair and secrets roaring into town on the back of a Harley didn’t fit.

  Jay couldn’t agree more.

  “We’re a family here in Shelter Valley. A big, overgrown family sharing a homestead in the desert. We all look after each other’s kids, and after each other. But I guess you wouldn’t understand that.”

  No, probably not.

  And he sure as hell wasn’t selling his bike or cutting his hair to make them all happy.

  At Jay’s continued silence, Richards opened the door. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around,” he said. “Call if you need anything.”

  Jay had the oddest feeling that the guy’s offer was sincere.

  “Come back anytime,” Jay offered in return. But only after he’d shut the door firmly behind the other man.

  THE ROAD WASN’T WELL TRAVELED. Two dirt tracks was the extent of it. Ellen bumped along easily, breathing in the peaceful mountain air through the open window of her green Ford Escape, appreciating that the temperature dropped so drastically in mere minutes as she left behind the hot desert that she also adored.

  Each time she made this bimonthly trek she felt torn. Part of her wished that Joe Frasier could open himself up to a move to town, to having more than only her and Sheriff Richards in his life. And part of her understood why Joe clung so voraciously to his mountaintop home. Life made sense out here.