by Paula Graves
“Because we are so much more together than we can ever be apart.” She crossed to where he stood and caught his hands in hers. “I ground you so you don’t go too far afield. You challenge me so I don’t become hidebound by logic and rules. Alone, we try to play both roles, but we’re no good at it.”
He closed his eyes and bent his head until their foreheads touched. “I want you here, Cooper. And, God forgive me, if the Swains weren’t after you, I’d keep you here with me.”
Tears burned her eyes, but she blinked them back. “I’m willing to take the risk.”
“I’m not.” He pulled back, letting go of her hands. “I need to wash that blood off the porch before anyone else sees it. With some luck, nobody at the clinic will mention what happened tonight to any of the Swains.” He turned to leave, not reacting this time when she called his name.
She sank onto the end of the bed, struggling with the tears that just wouldn’t leave her be.
Logic told her he was absolutely right, and she had always been the kind of person who turned to logic first for the answers she sought. If she stuck around, not only was she putting her own life in danger but she was making it that much more difficult for Scanlon to pass himself off as Mark Shipley, the disabled vet who wouldn’t mind getting involved in something illegal if it meant he could make some fast cash.
But if Scanlon had taught her anything over the last few years, it was that logic wasn’t the only way to look at a problem. Intuition could be valuable, as well.
And her intuition said there was more going on here than just a backwoods family of meth dealers. Scanlon was in more danger than he seemed to realize. She knew it, bone deep. And the thought of leaving him behind, with nobody but Adam Brand, in his big office hundreds of miles away, to watch his back, was a nightmare scenario she couldn’t allow to happen.
* * *
SCANLON HAD HOPED for a little luck regarding Isabel’s visitors the night before. But the minute he stepped inside the Bolen Bluff Urgent Care Clinic, his hopes were dashed by Davy McCoy’s nasal drawl. “What’s this about a girl at your cabin?”
Scanlon found Davy sitting a few feet away, holding an ice pack on his left wrist. Scanlon ignored Davy’s question and nodded toward the man’s wrist, which looked as if it had swollen to twice its normal size. “What did you do to yourself?”
“Dillon Creavey pushed me into a gully on the way back home last night. Said he was just kiddin’—like hell! I guess I was blitzed, ’cause I didn’t realize ’til this morning how bad it hurt, so I came to get Doc Canning to take a look.” Davy grimaced. “She’s busy right now, but she gave me an ice pack for my wrist—said it might help with the pain and swelling.”
“Nice of her,” Scanlon commented.
“She said some guy and his kid had an accident up in the woods near your cabin, and some woman helped them out.” Davy’s expression was more salacious than suspicious, Scanlon noted, but that didn’t mean some of the other Swains wouldn’t find the story more troubling. “Someone in your cabin.”
“My cousin,” Scanlon said. “Just getting out of a bad marriage, and her ex is the rough sort, so she asked if she could stay for a night before she headed out of town. Said she didn’t feel safe in a motel.”
“Bet she had the scare of her life, then, with a couple of strangers showing up on her doorstep.”
Scanlon managed a laugh. “Nearly peed her pants.” Over Davy’s bark of laughter, he added, “I guess she’s tougher than she looks, though, ’cause she said she handled it just fine.”
“Doc Canning said she did a good job bandaging the kid up. But you should have told us you had a girl up there.” The humor in Davy’s voice faded as if he’d finally remembered that Scanlon was still on probation with the Swains. “You know Addie and the boys like to know when strangers are around.”
“I didn’t know she was coming—she just showed up. And she’s already gone, so there’s nothing to talk about.”
“She must’ve been mad when you hied off hunting while she was there. Leaving her alone and all.”
“Reckon she was glad to be alone for a while. Apparently her creep husband never let her have a minute to herself.”
Davy nodded. “Well, okay. I’ll tell Dahlia she ain’t got nothing to worry about, then.”
“Dahlia knows?”
“She’s the one that brought me here, since I can’t drive real well with my wrist all swollen up like a watermelon.”
“Where is she now?” Dahlia was the jealous type—he couldn’t be sure she wasn’t headed up to the cabin right now.
“She said she had to go on to work—said I could call Dillon Creavey to come pick me up here since he was the jackass who knocked me into the gully in the first place.” Davy eyed Scanlon. “What are you doing here?”
“My hand’s been hurting me,” Scanlon lied, rubbing the scar on his left hand. “Just thought I’d get it checked out, make sure there’s not some more nerve damage going on. But it’s not even hurting me right now. Maybe it was just one of those phantom pains people talk about.”
“Bet that’s it,” Davy said with a nod. “Say, reckon you could give me a ride back to my place when Doc Canning’s done?”
Scanlon needed to get back to the cabin and try again to get Adam Brand on the satellite phone to arrange Isabel’s extraction, especially now that the Swains had an inkling she was here. He’d given the SAC a call earlier, but Brand hadn’t answered the phone. But he couldn’t say no, not without raising Davy’s suspicions. “Sure.”
Lori Canning came out of the back, talking to an older woman who was walking with a cane. The doctor was a pretty woman in her early thirties, with dark red hair and green eyes. There was enough resemblance to the Swains to tell she was related, but as far as Scanlon knew, she didn’t want anything to do with the family business.
She nodded to Scanlon. “Heard y’all had a little excitement up on the ridge.”
“Yeah, I hear my cousin’s a real Florence Nightingale.”
“Did a good job wrapping up Tommy Brubaker’s head,” Lori said with a smile. “If she’d like to volunteer here at the clinic sometimes, I’d be glad to have her.”
“She’s halfway to Nashville by now,” Scanlon lied. “But next time I talk to her, I’ll tell her you said so.”
“Y’all gonna jaw all day or am I gonna get an X-ray?” Davy complained.
Dr. Canning shot Scanlon an apologetic smile and took Davy back into the exam room area.
Knowing Davy would probably be back there for a little while, Scanlon walked outside and crossed the street to the service station facing the clinic, digging change from the pocket of his jeans. He stuck a couple of coins into the slot of the pay phone on the outside wall of the service station and dialed Dahlia’s cell phone number.
After five rings, the call went to her voice mail.
Maybe she was screening, he thought, trying not to get worked up. He’d called her using the pay phone a couple of times before, so she should recognize the number. But she could already be in a meeting at her office and ignoring all calls.
Or she could be at his cabin, looking for the mysterious woman Lori Canning had told her about.
He couldn’t leave now, not after promising Davy to give him a ride home. That would make him look more suspicious than ever. Plus piss off Davy at a time Scanlon was trying to worm his way into the Swains’ circle of trust.
But if he didn’t warn Isabel that danger was coming—
The satellite phone. It was in the lock box, but Isabel knew him well enough to guess the digital code that would open it. She’d probably try to answer it, knowing the caller on the other end of the line was likely to be Adam Brand. Isabel would love to tell her former SAC what she thought of his lies.
Scanlon dug for more change. He had enough for four more calls—would she figure out the combination in time?
* * *
THERE WAS A PHONE RINGING IN THE HOUSE somewhere, the tone so muted that i
t had taken a couple of rings for Isabel to figure out what she was hearing.
Scooping up the folder of notes she’d been perusing, she ventured from Scanlon’s bedroom into the hallway. The ringing sound was louder closest to the hall closet.
The satellite phone was ringing.
Had to be Adam Brand calling Scanlon—should she answer?
An image of her former SAC’s face, so gentle and sympathetic as he comforted her the day he delivered the news of Scanlon’s death filled her mind.
Smarmy, lying bastard.
She opened the closet and pried up the floorboard, sitting back on her heels in frustration when she saw that the phone was locked up in its metal box. A four-digit lock code on the lid of the box glared up at her in challenge.
The phone stopped ringing, and she stared at the digital code. “Guess you win this time,” she murmured.
Then the phone started ringing again.
She grabbed the box up and stared at the code. What would Scanlon use for the code? Not his birthday or the last four digits of his Social Security number—that would be too obvious. It would be something personal to him, something almost nobody else would know about.
She thought a second, and remembered a running joke between them, something he called her when he wanted to drive her crazy.
On a hunch, she punched in the number 4-9-9-9.
Izzy.
The lock clicked open.
She grabbed the phone before it stopped ringing again. “Yes?”
“I knew you’d figure out the code.” Scanlon’s voice greeted her on the other end of the line, startling her. He seemed to be calling from somewhere outside, light traffic noise competing with his low tone.
“Is something wrong?”
“Dahlia knows you’re at the cabin. Or at least, she knows some woman is at the cabin. Dr. Canning told her in passing. Look, I’ve tried calling her cell but she’s not answering. Be on guard—she’s jealous. She might come looking for you. I can’t talk any longer—I’m on my way back as soon as I can get there.” He hung up the phone, leaving her rattled.
Okay, Dahlia knew there was a woman at Scanlon’s place, and she was the jealous type. What were the odds she’d actually come here to try to confront the woman?
Pretty good, she decided, jumping into action. Hiding in the closet was the standard operating procedure around here when intruders showed up, but Isabel didn’t think a closet would stop Dahlia McCoy. It might even be the first place she’d look, to see if there were women’s clothes in the closet with Scanlon’s. The hall closet, with its three rows of shelves, was entirely too small to accommodate a grown woman.
She was going to have to hide outside somewhere.
The first step she took was to open the bedroom window, just far enough that she could slip outside easily enough. She also kept the satellite phone on her, sliding it into the front pocket of her jeans.
In the bedroom closet, she found a dark camouflage backpack she’d noticed when she had hidden there before. She packed the portfolio of notes on the case into the backpack—she didn’t want those notes to leave her sight for a minute—and added the contents of her clothing and personal items from the knapsack the FBI had delivered a couple of days earlier. No point in leaving evidence behind for Dahlia to find.
The last thing she checked was her Beretta. The clip was full—she’d never had a chance to use it back at the hotel, so all the ammunition was still there. She chambered a round, though she couldn’t imagine any circumstance where she’d have to shoot Dahlia McCoy, and sat on the end of the bed to wait.
She didn’t have to wait long. First she heard the sound of an automobile driving up the soft dirt track to the cabin, followed by the faint thuds of footsteps on the front porch. Within seconds, a soft rattling noise drifted back to the bedroom, the metal-on-metal clicks of a key in the lock.
She had a key to his house already?
Isabel padded quietly to the bedroom window and heaved first the backpack, then herself, outside, landing lightly in the clump of high grass next to the wall of the house. Closing the window until only a slim crack of space remained between the window and the sill, she crouched in the grass and scanned the woods behind her for any sign of movement. Except for the faint sound of new leaves rustling in the light April breeze, she heard and saw nothing.
Keeping her eyes on the woods, she focused her ears on what was happening inside Scanlon’s house.
She heard footsteps clicking on the hardwood floors in Scanlon’s bedroom, unsurprised that Dahlia McCoy would start there in her search for the other woman in Scanlon’s life. She’d find nothing—thanks to Scanlon’s heads-up, Isabel had time to erase herself from the cabin.
Before the end of the day, she realized with a sinking heart, she’d be erased permanently, on her way back home to Gossamer Ridge, with a bunch of new regrets to replace the old ones.
“I know you’re here.” Dahlia’s deceptively sweet voice carried through the narrow gap in the window. “That tourist saw you. I know you helped his son—very noble. I’m not here to scratch your eyes out or anything trashy like that. I’d just like to know what I’m up against.”
Isabel arched her eyebrows. She wasn’t sure she entirely believed Dahlia’s reassurances. Could be a trick to get the other woman into range of her claws.
Inside the room, she heard the snick of the closet door opening, and smiled at her foresight. Suspicious women always went for the bedroom closet.
She dared a quick peek. The intruder was tall and blond, just as she’d suspected. As Dahlia turned away from the closet, Isabel got a quick look at her face, just before ducking back out of sight. Pretty, too. Scanlon’s usual type.
A new sound drifted toward Isabel, coming from somewhere down the mountain. A vehicle engine, the sound rough and familiar. Scanlon’s old Ford pickup truck.
She flattened herself against the house to be sure nobody could see her from the dirt clearing that served as Scanlon’s parking area. The nose of the Ford pickup came into view, barely, around the corner of the house. The engine cut and the door creaked open.
Bootfalls rang on the porch, loud enough that Dahlia surely heard him coming. Sure enough, Dahlia’s heels clicked quickly toward the front of the house. Scanlon’s voice boomed from the front room a moment later, loud enough that Isabel could hear it from outside.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Chapter Eleven
Dahlia’s answer to Scanlon’s query was too faint to discern, to Isabel’s frustration. She wished she could sneak back into the bedroom to better hear the conversation, but she wasn’t foolish. Better to wait and let Dahlia clear out. Scanlon would tell her whatever he thought she needed to know.
And that was the problem, she thought with a grimace. What would he edit out? She was getting a little tired of Scanlon calling the shots about what she could and couldn’t know about his operation here in Bolen Bluff.
To her surprise, their voices came nearer, and within seconds, both Scanlon and Dahlia were in the bedroom, only a few feet from where she crouched below the window. She could hear their conversation perfectly now.
But did she want to? To what lengths would Scanlon have to go in order to appease his girlfriend?
“You’ve gotta get over your jealous streak, Dahlia. You broke into my house looking for a woman who ain’t even here—”
“I know she’s here. Lori told me she was quite the angel of mercy for some poor tourist whose son was injured. Is that the kind of woman you like?” Dahlia’s voice had lowered to a purr. “Is she as pretty as I am?”
As much as she hated herself for it, Isabel wondered how Scanlon would answer.
“She’s my cousin and she was in trouble. I gave her a place to stay last night, and now she’s gone.”
“Is that really true?”
“Do you trust me or not?”
“I don’t know,” Dahlia admitted. “I want to.”
“I don’
t get what you see in me,” Scanlon said doubtfully. “I got a bum hand. I barely make enough in government handouts to keep food on the table and gas in my truck. Why would a woman like you look twice at a loser like me?”
“You’re the only man in this town who’s not a Swain.”
“That’s flattering.” Scanlon’s voice was quiet, as if she’d hurt him. Isabel’s gut tightened painfully.
“I’m sorry. This place is like poison. I don’t know why you ever wanted to live here.”
“It’s quiet,” he answered. “Simple.”
Even though she knew that Scanlon’s reasons for being here in Bolen Bluff were anything but simple, she found herself drawn in by the plaintive tone of his voice.
“Too quiet,” Dahlia murmured.
“Look, we haven’t said we’re exclusive, have we?”
Isabel raised her eyebrows at Scanlon’s question.
“I thought it was understood, or I wouldn’t have wasted my time.” Dahlia’s voice came out haughty and tense.
“Well, it’s not.”
After a moment of dead silence, Dahlia spoke, her voice dark with anger. “Is that your way of saying we’re done?”
Isabel held her breath, waiting for Scanlon’s answer. While she knew that having a connection to the Swain clan was a benefit, she wasn’t looking forward to hearing Scanlon groveling to get back in Dahlia’s good graces.
But his answer was unexpected. “That’s up to you, Dahlia. You willing to do this, no strings?”
Isabel winced. Harsh, Scanlon.
“I’ll have to think about it,” Dahlia said coolly. “Because you’re right about one thing. I can do better.”
Her heels clicked an angry cadence across the hardwood floors, slowly fading. The front door opened and slammed shut, and her footsteps echoed across the porch.
Isabel crouched low as she heard the soft purr of an engine start at the front of the house. She waited until the sound of the car had nearly died away before she unfolded her body, wincing at the aches and twinges.
