by Hope Ramsay
He grunted as he flipped through the photos of himself. “You snuck up on me,” he muttered.
“Yeah. I have a talent for that,” she said.
He didn’t react to her snark. Instead he kept flipping through the photos without comment for half a minute until something stopped him.
A frown rumpled his brow, and he squinted at the screen. “What the hell is that?”
“What is what?” She sat beside him on the bench.
He angled the camera in her direction, so she could see the small screen. It was one of the photos she’d taken of the heron, right before the gunfire had thrown her into the flashback.
“It’s a heron.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.” He pointed at a small red speck in the background. She had used a big depth of field so the background was in focus. “What’s that?”
“I have no idea. I wasn’t photographing that.”
“It’s red.”
“Yeah, so?”
“You might see some red berries out in the swamp this time of year, but that is not berry red. You see orange safety vests out there all the time. But not red ones.”
“It could be a bird. A cardinal?”
“No way. You got a way of blowing this up?”
“Sure. I’ve got my computer up at the house, why?”
“Because I have a bad feeling about that photograph. Jimmy Marshall was wearing a red golf shirt the day he disappeared.”
She stared at Stone while a familiar chill crept through her body from her head right down to her boots.
Stone shouldn’t have said anything. He should have simply asked for a copy of the photo. But no, he’d had to open his mouth. And the minute he told Lark about Jimmy Marshall, her face drained of color. She suddenly transformed into the sick and troubled woman he’d found out at the golf course a week ago.
When had he stopped thinking about her as a problem and started thinking about her as one of his own? One of the people he was sworn to defend and protect.
He couldn’t say. But the frightened look in her doe eyes put a kink in his gut. Damn. What was wrong with him?
He should never have looked at her photos. He should have stood behind her and helped her with the rod. He should have made a move while they were standing together that way. He should have…
Well, it was water under the pier now. He stood up. “C’mon, let’s go look at that picture. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
She took her camera back and gave him a stiff-shouldered shrug. “No, I’ve got a feeling it’s something.”
“Why would you say that?”
She put the camera around her neck. “Because I have a talent for capturing shadows.”
She turned and hurried up the riverbank. It took him a minute to snag his pole and tackle box. Giving her a head start.
He’d seen her photos. They captured light, not shadow.
He ran after her. “Wait, Lark.”
She didn’t wait. She marched up to Hettie’s house and through the door. By the time he caught up, she had already fired up her laptop.
“What did you mean back there? About the shadows?”
“It’s like I said before, sometimes I wish I shot images without a memory card.” She looked up at him, her brown eyes bright.
“The photo of the heron in flight was a beautiful thing, Lark.”
“Not if it’s also a photo of a dead body.”
“But you don’t know that.”
“No, but that’s the way it always works. The shadows are there in the background. Always.”
Her voice grew rough, and the brightness in her eyes turned into tears. She fought them bravely and turned her focus on the computer and her camera, despite the fact that her hands were shaking.
Stone stood there, not certain what to do. He wasn’t a very smooth guy. He had virtually no experience with women. He’d already blown his chance for flirting down at the river.
Now Lark was on the verge of a meltdown, and it was partially his fault. Sharon rarely had crying jags, but then Sharon had never been to war, had never seen the things Lark had seen.
“Here. Here’s your damn photo,” Lark practically choked on the words and then she stood up and walked into the kitchen.
Stone forgot all about the photograph and followed her. She was standing by the sink, staring out the window at the river, but Stone had a feeling she was a million miles away. He had a lot of buddies who came back from the Gulf War with post-traumatic anxiety. He knew the signs. She was deep in its grip.
For some reason, war had never affected Stone that way. He’d seen terrible things, lost buddies, done things that he didn’t want to remember. But all of those things had made him stronger somehow—more determined to keep the people he loved safe. He hadn’t done a good job of that with Sharon, and in some ways, that failure just ticked him off.
Well, here was someone who needed him right now. And he wasn’t going to stand there and do nothing.
So he walked up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. “It’s going to be okay,” he said.
He halfway expected her to argue with him, but instead she surprised the crap out of him by turning around and wrapping her arms around his middle.
She fought against that first sob. And he admired her for it, but he knew somehow that she needed to lose that battle. He didn’t say a word. He just stood there being strong for her.
She fell apart in his arms. And it was all right. For the first time in a long, long time he felt useful. Like he understood why God had put him here. He was here to hold Lark while she confessed her fears, fell apart, and put herself back together again.
And he discovered that Aunt Arlene was right. Pouring yourself into something that wasn’t alive anymore made the hole inside seem deep and vast and endless. But giving himself to the living made him feel complete. It was almost as if he could feel his heart beating again for the first time in years.
Lark sat in the passenger’s seat of Stone’s police cruiser, a blanket tossed over her shoulders and a Styrofoam cup of coffee clutched in her hands. A weather front had come through an hour ago, and a cold, miserable rain had started to fall.
She shivered.
After she’d embarrassed herself by getting tears and snot all over Stone’s crisply pressed uniform shirt, she had insisted on leading Stone into the swamp and showing him where she’d shot the heron in flight. It hadn’t taken them more than ten minutes to find the dead body. By that time, she had completely resigned herself to the fact that the little speck of red in the background of the photograph was the late James Marshall.
Not that anyone could have recognized the dead man after he’d spent a few days in the swamp. But Stone said it was Mr. Marshall, and she was ready to defer to his judgment.
The Allenberg County Sheriff’s Department arrived on the scene pretty quickly, and within half an hour of the body’s discovery the swamp was filled with flashlight-toting deputy sheriffs wearing bright orange rain slickers.
They left Lark alone. And despite her fear, she found herself framing and shooting photos. Each photo was a battle with her nerves. But she managed to find the shutter and press it. Again and again.
She captured the scene: The cop cars with their lights ablaze. The trickle of water down a windshield. Drops of water on a bright yellow body bag. But these photos were different. Stone Rhodes appeared in every single shot. He seemed to be the only human being she was brave enough to frame in her lens. With him in the photo, she could find the courage to press the shutter.
Without him there, however, she would have been a shivering wreck.
If she were good at lying to herself, she would have come away encouraged by her progress. But she was a terrible liar. She couldn’t fool herself. Her flight to Africa left in just a few days, and she wasn’t ready. She was going to have to call Greg and let him know.
And if she wasn’t ready to go back to Africa, where the hell did she belong? That was a tru
ly terrifying question. Because wherever she went, she was going to be utterly alone. Aside from her war correspondent friends, she didn’t have much of a life, and with Pop dead, she didn’t have any family either.
Stone opened the cruiser’s back door, pulling her from the dark thoughts that assailed her. He tossed his wet hat on the backseat, then took his place behind the wheel.
He wore a big, heavy raincoat, and he was drenched. Despite his Stetson, his hair clumped damply along the back of his skull; even his eyelashes looked waterlogged. She studied every detail of him, cataloging his face. This is how Stone Rhodes looks when his hair gets wet. This is how Stone’s whiskers look after a long day. This is how the light from the overcast sky makes his eyes go a little gray.
She thought it might take a lifetime to learn everything there was to know about his face.
He turned toward her. “I guess I should thank you. Sheriff Bennett refused to do a grid search of the swamp when we found Jimmy’s car a few days ago. If you hadn’t taken that photograph, we might never have found him, and his wife would have been left to wonder.”
“Was he murdered?”
“Not clear. He was shot in the head, but it could be self-inflicted. Jimmy was having some problems. We’ll have to wait for the coroner’s report.”
She nodded and took a sip of her lukewarm coffee.
“Just in case this wasn’t a suicide, I want you to move back to town.”
She turned. “Why?”
“Because until just recently, Jimmy was living in the river house where you’re staying. And while there is good reason to think he might have committed suicide, there’s also good reason to think that he might have been murdered. Jimmy was kind of a screwup. And he was into something—there were irregularities down at the chicken plant, and he was the CEO. Hettie was making him clean up his act, but it wouldn’t surprise me if we were dealing with something nasty. And as long as that’s the case, I want you where I can keep an eye on you.”
“I’m a big girl, you know.”
He turned his gaze on her like a truth-seeking missile. “I know that, but I’d feel better if you were living someplace neutral. So I called Momma, and she’s getting the apartment above the Cut ’n Curl ready for you.”
“But—”
“I know you love to argue, but I’m not going to argue about this. And the next time you want to take a long walk in the swamp, I would appreciate it if you would let me know first. It’s just stupid for anyone to go off into the swamp on their own. We have gators and poisonous snakes out there.”
“And other living things,” she said. Like hunters.
Stone held her stare, and to her surprise the corner of his mouth lifted just a little. “You know, I admire you. Most any other woman would be shocked and horrified by what we found out there today. You stood around and took photos.”
She turned and watched the water droplets on the windshield. It was easier when she didn’t have to look at his face. His face made her brain short-circuit.
“Sheriff Bennett has claimed jurisdiction over the case, you know,” he said. “This swamp is outside the town limits. Which is why I’d appreciate it if you would let me see the photos you took today.”
She turned, her heart pounding. “I’m not a crime scene photographer.”
His eyes gentled, and she found herself drawn up into the heat and the kindness she found there. He knew some of her secrets. “I know that,” he said, “but I’d like to see them anyway. You never know what small thing, like a speck of red in the background, can break a case wide open.”
She shivered. “You won’t like the photos I took today. You won’t find anything remarkable in them,” she whispered.
“You can’t be sure of that.”
She closed her eyes and sagged back against the seat. “I’m pretty sure.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re in every one of them,” she confessed in a hoarse whisper.
She heard him exhale, but she didn’t dare open her eyes to look at him. She’d just confessed that she was infatuated with him. And she wasn’t about to explain how he looked like Carmine Falcone, or how framing him in her lens made the shadows disappear. If she was going crazy, then she’d try to go crazy in a dignified way.
Thankfully, he didn’t respond to her confession. Instead, the engine of the Crown Vic roared to life. He pulled the cruiser onto the road, the windshield wipers thumping and the tires hissing over the wet pavement.
Ten minutes later, he pulled the cruiser up in front of Hettie’s river house. “I’ll help you get your things,” he said.
She hazarded a glance in his direction. It unsettled her right down to her core. He was so handsome and so steady. She couldn’t let herself fall for him. That would be stupid. “I’m okay on my own.”
“No, you’re not.” This was not an argument. It was a statement of fact.
“You come out here on patrol every night. I feel perfectly safe out here.”
“I know. But with you in the apartment above the Cut ’n Curl, I’ll have Momma looking after you, too. And don’t underestimate the abilities of my mother.” He gave her one of his rare smiles, complete with all those sexy lines at his mouth and eyes.
“And,” he said, reaching out to run his finger through her damp, shaggy hair, “Momma’s going to want to give you a makeover. I take that as a real positive sign all the way around, and I’m not normally a positive thinker.”
She cocked her head. “A makeover?” Her voice kind of squeaked, but mostly because of the electricity Stone’s touch had created all across her scalp and down her spine and right into her middle.
He grinned like a wicked co-conspirator. “Yeah. I personally don’t think you need a makeover. I think you’re okay the way you are, kind of like a firefly, tiny but bright and fierce. Momma, on the other hand, ascribes to the notion that natural beauty can always be improved upon, and she’s going to try to improve you.”
“And you’re telling me this, why?”
“Because if you play along with Momma, she’s going to help you get your daddy’s ashes scattered at Golfing for God. She likes you. She’s been telling everyone in town all about your photo album theory. I wouldn’t be surprised if Reverend Ellis figured out a way to use this idea of us all being one big family of man in his sermon on Sunday—it’s the sort of Christmassy thing that he would probably do.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Honey, I don’t kid about this. Your photo album comments have gone viral in Last Chance. And that means Momma is going to watch over you like an angel. And that makes me feel good. So you’re just going to have to get with the program, because I’m not arguing about this.”
“But—”
“Lark, I’m a small-town policeman. And policing in a place like Last Chance requires the ability to manipulate churchwomen and hairdressers without them knowing that they’ve been manipulated. So, see, the makeover is going to be entirely Momma’s idea. And I’m asking you to play along with it.”
Laughter snuck up on her. It started as a little giggle, but grew into a full-blown guffaw that made tears leak out of the corner of her eyes. Laughing pushed back the shadows. It was a gift from some wonderful, clean, safe place that she had forgotten about.
“So,” he said, once she had stopped giggling, “you’ll move into the apartment above the Cut ’n Curl, and you’ll let Momma do this thing. For me?”
“I’m afraid,” she said.
“I know,” he whispered back, his eyes so sober and honest.
“I’m not talking about my camera. I’m just saying that I’m not a big-hair, lots-of-hair-spray kind of girl.”
He ran his hand through her hair, like he was tousling a child’s hair, but it was so much sexier. “Yeah. I like that about you. I’ll grump and tell Momma that I don’t want you to be changed too much. That should help.”
Time seemed to hang suspended for a moment as his hand stalled in her hair, and then he pulled
her gently forward. She came willingly, knowing that this was what she’d wanted since last night. This time he didn’t kiss her cheek.
The kiss was softer than she expected—almost shy and tentative, but incredibly warm and unbelievably erotic. She had never been kissed like this before.
And in a corner of her mind she knew, without question, that she had more experience in kissing than Stone Rhodes did. But somehow that didn’t matter. This kiss was not about recreational sex, or passing the time, or having fun.
No, Stone Rhodes was not a guy like that. And when he decided to kiss someone, he moved in like a marine, with clear intent. His kiss was deliberate, as if he’d been thinking about it for some time.
But there was nothing deliberate about the groan that escaped him when she deepened the kiss. There was nothing planned about the way his hand pressed the back of her head, or the way her own palm found the side of his face and explored the texture of his beard.
And it wasn’t surprising that, by the time they managed to pull away from one another, the inside windows of the cruiser had gone all steamy.
They stared at each other for a moment, but neither of them was ready to discuss what had just happened. One thing was certain, though: If Stone Rhodes wanted to keep her safe, even from phantoms, she was going to let him.
Hadn’t she been fantasizing about a man like this since she was seven?
“I don’t have a lot of luggage, but you can help me pack Pop’s car,” she said. Her voice was surprisingly strong and clear considering the way her heart was pounding in her chest.
“Good.” He turned and snagged his Stetson from the backseat, then opened the cruiser’s door to a cold, hard rain.
CHAPTER
13
David looked up from his lunch to find Lizzy Rhodes standing over him smiling. His face grew hot.
He’d been trying to avoid Lizzy all day. Not so much because Mom disapproved of her, but because of the crazy way he’d felt last night when he’d kissed her good night. He still hadn’t quite come to terms with the fact that Lizzy seemed to like him back.
