“I’m assuming you don’t want me to mention that we’re chasing down the suspect.”
Maggie would probably figure that out as soon as she made it to the Murchison building, but why poke a bear before you had to? “You always were the smartest girl I’d ever met, Emmy McKay.”
She left Grif a voice message, then called in the incident to the sheriff’s office and gave a detailed rundown of the events and timeline, conspicuously leaving out the fact that she and Cash had been engaged in what promised to be a hot make-out session at the time the brick introduced itself to the window. When she disconnected, she looked over at him. “They requested that we remain on scene.”
Cash’s response was to take the eastbound onramp onto the interstate.
Emmy sighed. “As much as I’d like to think that we can find the truck, this is probably a lost cause. They have too much of a head start on us.”
She was right, but damned if he wanted to admit it. So he spent another fifteen minutes weaving in and out of light interstate traffic without seeing a single Ford truck. Which had to be some kind of cosmic aberration hereabouts. Finally, he took the Canton exit and busted a U-ey to return to Steele Ridge.
When they pulled up in front of the Murchison building, two squad cars were there and a trio of Maggie’s deputies were checking out the scene from the sidewalk. Before Cash and Emmy could do more than step out of the truck, Maggie was pushing through the front door, scowl on her face and brick and paper in her gloved hands. “I need a couple of evidence bags over here,” she yelled.
Deputy Blaine hustled over and held open a big baggie so Maggie could drop in the brick. Then she slid the threat into another. With nothing in her hands, she pointed an accusing finger at Cash. “Where were you? Dispatch told you to stay put.”
“I thought I might be able to follow the truck we saw racing away.”
With her commanding stride, Maggie approached him and thwapped him upside the head.
“Hey, that’s police brutality.”
“No. It’s big sister discipline.” She turned her death-ray stare on Emmy. “And you? Even if this one is an idiot, you should know better. And don’t even try to tell me you’re both SWAT team members. This wasn’t SWAT business and you know it.”
Emmy held up her hands. “Pleading guilty and asking for forgiveness.”
Maggie huffed and waved them inside. “I need to ask you a few questions.”
They gathered near the staircase that led up to Emmy’s apartment, and Maggie asked, “Where were the two of you when this happened?”
“Outside on the sidewalk,” Cash said.
“Doing what?”
Cash slid a look at Emmy, who lifted her chin and said, “Kissing.”
As if what they’d been doing could be explained so simply.
“Well, that’s just great.” Maggie braced her hands on her hips. “I assume you had your eyes closed.”
“Until we heard the brick go through the window,” Emmy told her. “I was facing the street and saw the truck speeding away. And before you ask, no, I didn’t see the plate number.”
“That message was obviously meant for you.” She pointed at the evidence bag. “Anyone you know of who isn’t happy you’re in Steele Ridge?”
Emmy hesitated, but Cash knew he had to say what was on his mind. “A couple of the guys on the TMT thought it was bullshit that Emmy came on board. Stan Jackson’s been especially outspoken.”
“Oh really?” Maggie said.
“And I…uh…might’ve had a chat with him after our training exercise.”
“What kind of chat?” Emmy demanded.
“Exactly the question I was about to ask.” Maggie rocked back on her heels and stared him down.
“Everyone thought the position was mine, and when it wasn’t, there was some grumbling. When Emmy gave him some pointed feedback after our training exercise, Jackson was pissed. Just name-calling and stuff. I told him that wasn’t gonna fly with me.”
“What exactly did he call her?”
Yeah, this wasn’t looking good for Jackson. “Bitch.”
“And what does Stan Jackson drive?”
Aw, shit Stan. What did you do? “A dark blue Ford F-150.”
8
Before Maggie had a chance to wrap up the interview, Cash spied a pink moving truck pulling up outside. The side panels were neatly painted with the words Kingston Farms. Cash’s family called the thing Wilbur just like they had all the trucks that came before it.
His dad stepped out and Shep emerged from the other side. Puck stayed inside the cab with the windows rolled down, but he moved over to the driver’s side and gave Cash a doggie grin. His dad and Shep disappeared around the back and when they came back in sight, they were lugging two big pieces of plywood.
Emotion made Cash’s heart double in size. Damn, he loved his family. They might all make him crazy from time to time. They might chastise like Maggie, give advice like Way, or terrorize like Riley, but Cash wouldn’t trade one of them for anything. He hustled outside to greet his dad and brother. “News traveled quick.”
“Maggie called,” his dad grunted out. “And I let Grif know we had it taken care of for now.” Cash’s old man was in his late fifties, but all his farm work kept him in good health and amazing shape. Kingston Farms was a local success story, having grown from his dad’s hobby to a major supplier of farm-to-table produce for local restaurants.
Even though his dad was plenty buff, Cash grabbed a corner of the plywood to take some of the weight.
Together, the three of them angled the board against the brick on a patch of sidewalk that was sprinkled with glass.
“Got a nail gun, broom, and dustpan in the truck,” his dad told him. “Need to clean up the sidewalk and inside.”
Smart. They didn’t need to crunch around in the mess and possibly track it around more. Besides, crap like this made Shep twitchy. Right now, he was glowering at the random bits as if they had personally affronted him. If the window had somehow broken into a pattern instead of a chaotic mess, Shep would’ve stood there gazing at it like a lovesick lemur all night long.
Cash retrieved the cleanup stuff and went to town, sweeping up quickly but thoroughly inside before attacking the pieces outside on the sidewalk. God, what would’ve happened if he and Emmy had been a little closer? She might’ve been showered with glass. Cut to pieces.
He imagined her, slices all over her soft skin, blood dripping onto the ground. He’d seen some of the worst the world had to offer, but that freeze frame of a damaged Emmy floating in his mind twisted his stomach in a way he’d never before felt.
“You okay, son?” his dad asked, picking up the nail gun Cash had set aside.
Cash shook his head to clear it. “Just glad no one was hurt.” He grabbed a piece of plywood and slid it toward the shattered window. “If you two will hold this in place, I’ll secure it.”
Shep slipped on heavy-duty ear protection and said, “Dad’s gun holds fifty-five nails.” He had a fascination with all kinds of numbers and patterns, but loud noises weren’t his jam. That was one of the reasons he spent most of his time outside and had established himself as a rock climber and occasional adventure guide.
They braced the wood against the window frame, and Cash nailed it up. Whoomp. Whoomp. Whoomp. The second piece went up, and within five minutes, the hole was covered. Grif probably wasn’t going to be happy with the eyesore they’d created, but he’d have to get over it. Cash’s priority was Emmy’s safety, not that the Murchison building now resembled a crack house.
While he, Shep, and his dad were DIYing, Emmy and Maggie had been huddled together near the staircase, their conversation too low for him to catch.
“Good thing you were here when it happened,” his dad said.
“I guess Mom knows, too.”
“I can’t keep anything from her these days.”
If that wasn’t the truth, Cash didn’t know what was. He loved his mama like no one else on
this earth, but she’d been hell on wheels since retiring from her career as an environmental engineer. She was used to being in charge and in full-steam-ahead mode. That hadn’t changed. “Surprised she didn’t demand to ride along with y’all.”
“Ah, well, that reminds me…” His dad’s words trailed off as he walked back to the truck. When he returned, he was carrying a misshapen lump under a hand towel. When Cash was riding the ambulance, a covered package like that was almost always bad news. One time after a chainsaw accident, the patient’s brother had given Cash a towel-wrapped bundle. One peek inside revealed the chainsaw wielder’s left hand. Turned out, it wasn’t a salvage job.
His dad thrust the lump toward him, and Cash backed up a step. “What is it?”
“Food.”
Definitely suspicious. “Something you made?” Like that was possible. If his dad had cooked it, it wouldn’t have been wrapped up like something bound for the backyard in a shoe box.
“Mom’s started a baking phase,” Shep said, his gaze trained on the lump as if it might attack at any second. Smart man. You had to be ever vigilant around Sandy Kingston’s cooking. “She said that if you can make zucchini bread, you should be able to make eggplant bread.”
“Have you tasted it?” Cash asked.
Shep’s head shake was definitive, bordering on violent. “Even Puck wouldn’t eat something like that, and Mom knows I’m not much for purple vegetables.”
“Her feelings will be hurt if I bring it back home.” His dad’s smile was both evil and apologetic as he shoved the bread into Cash’s hands.
“Maybe you could tell her you forgot to give it to me?”
“She’d just bring it to you in person.”
Resigned, Cash stuffed the loaf under his arm. Against his side, it had the consistency and weight of a medicine ball. Maybe he could toss it… Nah, if he tried to feed that down the garbage disposal, he’d have to replace it. “What are we gonna do about her cooking?”
His dad laughed. “Let her ride it out and hope to hell she gets bored soon.”
Maggie joined their group, and Cash scanned the room for Emmy. She was propped up against the wall and looked as if she hadn’t slept in a week. He needed to get her upstairs and into bed. And if, after their kiss, the thought of crawling into it with her skidded across his mind, he was only human.
“Sweet. Looks like Cash drew the short straw this week.” Maggie poked at the bread under his arm. “Feels like fruitcake.”
“Eggplant bread.”
“Bless your little heart.” She grinned and socked him in the arm. Then she sobered again. “I’ll be looking into this brick thing. Me, little brother. This is my job. Your job is to squirt water on stuff and patch up people’s boo-boos. You do yours, and I’ll do mine. You hear me?”
Oh, he heard her all right. That didn’t mean he planned to actually listen. “I’ll want an update tomorrow,” he told her.
“I’m assuming you plan to stay here tonight?” she asked.
Cash’s dad and Shep were listening to the conversation with obvious interest.
“I’m not leaving her alone.” He was still trying to wrap his mind around the idea that Emmy wasn’t marrying some other guy. And that the guy had fired her because she’d said no.
But hadn’t he done something similar? Rejected Emmy after she’d rejected him?
In an uncommon show of affection, Maggie leaned in and kissed Cash’s cheek. While she was close, she whispered, “Be careful, Cash. She’s not the only one who could be hurt.”
Uh-uh. He was a grown man, not some moon-faced kid. He could look out for himself.
Dude, you kissed her. Publicly and with plenty of tongue.
One kiss was just that. A kiss. People did it all the time—hell, they did a lot more than kiss—without getting all tangled up emotionally.
Then again, Cash had always been able to resist Emmy McKay about how the Cookie Monster handled the temptation of a warm, fresh-baked treat. Dude, you are on an Emmy-free diet for the rest of your life.
“My eyes are wide open, big sister.”
“From where I’m standing, they look like they have stars in them.” She patted him one last time, and his family meandered out the front door.
Cash locked up behind them. When he turned around, Emmy had slumped to the bottom stair tread. “Maggie’s on the case,” he said.
A skeptical smile touched Emmy’s lips. “Maggie, huh? I guess that means you have no intention of talking with Stan Jackson.”
“I never said that.”
“Let’s go now.” She got to her feet. Judging by the narrow-eyed, tight-lipped expression on her face, he half expected her to lift her fists and bounce around on her toes like a boxer ready to go another round. “Or I’ll confront him without you.”
Maggie would love it when she found out he’d ignored her. Again.
But if Stan was fucking with Emmy, he was crossing a line from professional pique to criminal intent.
“We’ll take my truck.”
By the time they made it to Stan Jackson’s place, a run-of-the-mill duplex not far from Barron’s Park, Emmy wasn’t just concerned, or even angry.
She was pissed.
She couldn’t afford to lose control of this team. If she did, the whole thing would collapse.
And Cash had her back, at least on this. Did that mean he was simply accepting her authority as they’d discussed earlier or something more?
When he parked, she shoved out of the passenger side and stalked toward the door. She paused before beating the wood with the side of her fist like she wanted.
Be calm. Be in control. But be ruthless.
Cash came to stand beside her, and she knocked politely on the windowless wood door.
When Jackson opened it, he had a can of Coors Light in his left hand and a TV remote in his right. “What do you want? I’m not on shift.” Then he glanced to the left and realized Cash was with her. Jackson’s lip curled up in a sneer as if to pin Cash as some kind of traitor. “I’m missing the game.”
“Who’s playing?” Cash asked him.
“What?”
“What are you watching and what teams?”
“NBA All-Stars.”
“Where were you earlier tonight?” Emmy prodded him.
“What do you mean?” He knocked back the rest of his beer and glared at her. “I just told you I was watching the game.”
“So you weren’t anywhere near the Murchison building?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’ve been home all fucking night. What is this, some kind of curfew?”
“Someone threw a brick through a window at the front of the building,” Emmy said, watching for any change in the man’s belligerent expression. Nothing. He was a cold SOB that was for sure.
“Okay.”
“I live on the second floor of that building.”
“Congratulations.”
“Jackson,” Cash said, his voice low and growly. “We saw a dark Ford F-150 screeching away afterward.”
Jackson repressed a beer belch behind the remote before saying, “And this is my problem why?”
“Don’t play the idiot. Did you throw a brick through that window tonight?”
“I thought you were a friend, Kingston,” he barked out. “But I can see a hot piece of doctor ass has changed that. Fuck you. Fuck you both.”
Before he could close the door in their faces, Cash caught him by the shirt collar. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Jackson gave Emmy a disgusted up-and-down. “Like I would waste my time on her.”
9
Back at the Murchison building, Cash walked Emmy inside and she asked, “Do you believe him?”
“A few days ago, I would’ve said yes.” He wiped a hand down his face. “Jackson is rough around the edges, but I’ve never seen him downright shitty like this.”
“I obviously bring out the best in people.”
“I’ll be keeping my eye on him.�
�� He led Emmy toward the stairs to the second floor. “But for now, let’s get you upstairs.”
“I can get myself home from here.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before, and look what happened.”
“I have to lock the front door behind you.”
“I already locked it because I’m staying.”
She glanced away and back again. “Cash, what happened earlier…”
Obviously, she didn’t know how to describe that kiss. Neither did he. Mistake? No, he couldn’t go that far.
But lips on lips didn’t have to mean a damn thing. Wouldn’t mean a damn thing.
“Let’s chalk it up to getting caught up in the past, so if you’re worried that I think I’m sleeping in your bed tonight, don’t be.” Even if his thumping heart and elevated pulse said his body would like nothing better.
“I think we both know that kiss was very much about the present.” Emmy smoothed a palm across his cheek, and he suppressed a shudder. “And although I will be fine by myself, I know how stubborn you can be. If you want to risk sleeping on that psychedelic vomit couch, who am I to argue?”
He followed her upstairs and dropped the eggplant loaf on a small section of countertop in the apartment’s efficiency kitchen. The hunk of flour, sugar, and unlikely vegetable landed with a thud.
“What is that?”
Cash whipped away the dish towel and realized his mom’s victim looked even worse than he’d imagined. She’d surrounded the bread with plastic wrap—which had probably given his dad a coronary—and it looked as if someone had wrestled a charred sow into a pair of see-through leather pants. “That is the question of the century. My mom retired recently and decided she’d take up cooking.”
Her forehead creased in a way that gave him the dangerous impulse to pick her up and hug her, keep her close and safe, Emmy contemplated the bread. “Has she considered knitting?”
Good God. That would probably be next. Then Cash and his brothers and sisters, who’d already sacrificed their stomach linings, could expect things like wearable potholders and sixty-foot-long scarves to show up on their doorsteps. “Hey,” he said, “you’re providing the bed. I figured I’d pitch in breakfast.”
Tasting Fire (Steele Ridge: The Kingstons Book 2) Page 8
