Denim Detective

by Adrianne Lee

  The Shanahan land spread over nine hundred acres of rocky earth, scattered pine and rolling hillsides with the river winding through the farthest corner. The main house and outbuildings, barns and corrals were a half mile from the arch, visible in the distance. She slowed as they came into view and Beau shot past, his Jeep raising a plume of dust that sifted down over her vehicle.

  But instead of heading for the ranch house, he veered into a side road that would eventually end at the hunting cabin out by the river. As though he’d communicated with her, Deedra understood at once and followed. There they could talk alone. If they went to the house or the barn, they risked running into his uncle Sean, who ran the ranch, or into Pilar, their housekeeper.

  Both would ask too many questions.

  Likely all the questions Beau wanted to ask.

  She rubbed her lower back, absently stroking the pain, as she eased up on the gas pedal to avoid the worst of the dust. The cabin roof appeared on the horizon, and with its sighting came a slew of unbidden, taunting memories. She and Beau had usually ridden out here on horseback…to share a romantic picnic, a lovers’ rendezvous.

  Those times seemed so long in the past.

  Light-years between now and then.

  Beau drove faster, as if rushing to that happier time, as if hurrying away from what their lives had become. But she could have told him running away wouldn’t help or heal. Some things had to be faced head-on.

  Life was not for cowards.

  Deedra couldn’t look away from the rough-hewn structure. The cabin hugged a ridge that sloped to the river, perched high enough to avoid the occasional flood, low enough to accommodate desired privacy. Built of logs and river rock, the single-story structure sported vaulted ceilings, a new steel roof and hardwood floors. A maintenance crew serviced it twice a month, dusting, cleaning, oiling the logs, keeping the freezer and pantry stocked with foodstuffs.

  Here, as in town, the door was never locked. Trust thrived in this small corner of a world where barred windows and triple lock doors were the norm.

  The irony that the trust between Beau and her had been broken here, of all places, wasn’t lost on her.

  Beau skidded to a stop and slammed out of the Jeep. He hobbled up the wide log steps, across the wraparound porch and in through the massive door. She couldn’t see his face, but she would bet his handsome features were twisted in pain, pain that cut clear to the bone.

  The kind of pain no pill could buffer.

  She’d thought the abuse and neglect she’d suffered during childhood had hardened her heart beyond reach, but first Beau, then Callie had cracked through the years-old armor and touched her in that most deep, most private place. She’d been so slow to trust, so cautious about casting off each tiny piece of that self-preserving shield and…so deliriously happy once she had.

  Until Floyd Mann.

  Something as cold and impenetrable as forged steel swept through her core, and Deedra felt her resolve calcify. She would never be vulnerable to anyone again.

  She got out, took a deep breath of air so fresh and warm it ought to have exhumed the cold from the depths of her. Instead she shivered as though an icy breath grazed her neck. She shifted around and glanced at the surrounding hillsides. If someone had a rifle trained on her…

  Her mouth dried. She scrambled onto the porch, the memory of the day she’d left giving speed to her feet, fear to her belly. She hustled through the door, shut it and leaned against it, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath.

  Beau stood at the fireplace, his formidable shoulders hunched, his attention on the crackling kindling, on the flames that licked through the dried scraps of wood, grabbing hold and flaring ever higher, scenting the room with pine. Another memory stirred within Deedra. Was he recalling it, too? The night they’d made love on that grizzly-skin rug, their passion as wild and fierce as the beast itself, their naked flesh as hot and hungry as the flames, their cries of ecstasy reaching into the rafters and filling the cabin with the sounds of joy and life.

  The night of Callie’s conception….

  “Private.” He cut through her thoughts. “To talk—”

  “You don’t need to explain,” she interrupted.

  He stared at the fire, his back to her as though he couldn’t bear to look at her, whereas fifteen minutes ago he’d seemed unable to tear his gaze from her.

  She stayed at the door, feeling safer away from the windows, away from Beau, away from her own confused emotions. “I understand.”

  “I’m glad you do, because I don’t understand any of this.” Leaning on the cane, he dragged a hand through his thick hair, but still didn’t look at her.

  She wanted to pull him around, to make him face her, face this. But she stood frozen at the door, her own gaze bouncing, landing everywhere but on him.

  Nothing had changed in this room, not the masculine decor of trophy heads and prize-winning trout that graced the walls, not the mission leather furniture the color of a buckskin pony, not the way the sun glinted off the river every afternoon to glare against the large picture window.

  No, the room hadn’t changed, she had. She no longer felt comfortable or welcomed here.

  The scant space that separated them seemed Continental-Divide wide. Tension tugged her nerves so taut she feared they’d snap. “What happened to your leg?”

  He turned then, avoiding her glance as if to avoid her question. His expression told her she wasn’t going to like his answer. “I, er…was, ah…shot.”

  She blinked, shocked, though she knew she shouldn’t be. A cop risked getting shot on a daily basis. A cop’s wife lived with that fear. But somehow the reality was stunning. “How…who…?”

  He glanced away, avoiding her gaze again.

  And she knew. “Mann.”

  He wouldn’t confirm it. But his silence made her certain. His face reddened, fury tightening his generous mouth into a thin white line. “I don’t want to talk about Mann. I want you to tell me why the hell you ran? Why the hell you didn’t let me know whether you were alive for two damned months?”

  “Well, if you don’t want to talk about Mann, then you don’t want to hear why I left.”

  He swallowed hard, his big hands curling into fists, one at his side, one on the cane. A lock of his mussed hair brushed his forehead. His eyes were tired, weary in a way she’d never seen, full of pain and vulnerability and a darkness like thunderclouds roiling in the distance.

  She felt the sudden urge for something strong and bracing to see her through the storm ahead. “You should probably get off that leg. I’ll make some coffee.”

  “I’d rather have JD straight up.”

  Oh, yeah. Jack Daniels. Both strong and bracing. “Okay.”

  She went to the kitchen cabinet where the liquor was kept, pulled out two jelly glasses and filled each three fingers high. When she returned, Beau sat in one of two oversize chairs, his leg propped on the ottoman.

  She handed him a glass, then sat on the chair facing his, on the edge of the deep cushion. He’d put a log on the fire before settling down. The heat felt good. The whiskey felt better, searing her middle and calming the butterflies in her stomach.

  Deedra took a second swallow, then steadied her gaze on the face that had once made her heart sing, on the eyes that had once made her feel precious and pure, on the mouth that had once made her glad to be a woman.

  How could it have gone so wrong? How could she have come to resent this man so much that she hadn’t considered his feelings before doing what she’d done?

  But she knew.

  He was supposed to protect her. But he hadn’t. Couldn’t or wouldn’t. It didn’t matter. He’d failed her when she’d needed him most.

  She wasn’t sure she could ever forgive him for that.

  “The night I…left…I was coming back from Butte. The car behind moved into the oncoming lane, and then veered too close while passing me on Route 2, side-swiping me.” She cringed, recalling the jarring bump of
vehicle against vehicle, the awful sound of metal scraping metal. “You know how nervous I was about driving after the accident. This left me absolutely shaking. I stopped at the edge of the road to check the damage to my car. The other driver pulled over about twenty feet ahead. I figured he was going to exchange insurance information. The next thing I knew, he’d pulled out a rifle and was shooting at me. I dove back into my car and somehow managed to turn it back toward Butte.”

  “Did you get a look at the assailant?” Assailant. Cop word. He wore an unrelenting scowl. Likely recalling what the doctor had told him about her state of mind two months ago. Her fantasies. That, and Beau’s need to be right—the need being his way of covering his fear.

  “It was too dark, and I only realized later that the person had turned off the inside light of his car, because I couldn’t see anything but the flashes of gunshot.”

  “You could have used your cell phone. Called nine one one. Called me.”

  As though she hadn’t thought of that. As though she hadn’t risked her life getting back into the car and taking off as fast as the car would go. She’d expected his disbelief, his lack of understanding, and yet it infuriated her. Damn it all. She’d done the right thing. Taken the only option left to her.

  “I called your cell phone. Your pager. The ranch. Your office. The dispatch operator gave me the usual runaround, said you were ‘unavailable.’” I deduced that to mean you were chasing a tip about Mann.”

  “I was.” He shrugged, his whole demeanor defensive, unapologetic. “It was my job.”

  “Well, if I could have reached you, I’d have told you where to find him.”

  Beau gripped the jelly jar with white knuckles, but he wore a confident smirk. “He wasn’t on Route 2 shooting at you.”

  “Wasn’t he? Did you catch him that day? Did you find him wherever your ‘source’ told you he’d be?”

  His smirk fled. “Well, no, but—”

  Being right held no triumph for her. She took another hit of whiskey.

  He said, “Why didn’t you call nine one one?”

  “What for?” She shook her head. “A temporary fix? Until the next time Mann ambushed me?”

  “I would have kept you safe.”

  “You didn’t. You weren’t there. You were never there. I had no one but me. So I took myself out of the equation. Took off. Moved to a different state. Changed my name. My appearance.”

  “Without a thought as to how I’d take your disappearance coming so soon on the heels of losing Callie.”

  His words rang with bitterness, bringing back his earlier question: Had we really reached a point where you thought I wouldn’t care if you were alive or dead? Maybe they had.

  “I was physically ill, out of my mind with fear, so terrified of Mann, I had to disappear or die.”

  Beau finished his whiskey and clunked the drained glass onto the end table. “It was the cruelest, most selfish thing you could have done, Deedra.”

  If his glare pinned her, his words shamed her. She knew she didn’t own all of the anguish and pain she saw in him. Okay, some of it belonged to her, but she hadn’t meant to hurt Beau. Or had she? Had she been so hurt by him that she’d wanted, needed to hurt him back? Oh, God. She might have. “I’m sorry, Beau.”

  “Sorry? Sorry!” His eyes darkened to a green as cold as the dead of winter. “Sorry, my ass. You put me through hell. Where have you been? Hiding out with your old buddies?”

  Deedra flinched. If he intended to bring up her past, she needed more whiskey.

  “More?” she asked, gathering his glass.

  “No.” He caught hold of her wrist. The contact electrified the delicate skin there. He released her as though he’d felt the charge, too. “I’ve had enough.”

  “Well, I haven’t.” She hurried to the cupboard and refilled her glass. She walked back into the room and stood standing over him. “Freddie did help me…initially…but I haven’t spoken with him since.”

  “Freddie,” he spat the name. Beau hated the life he’d rescued her from. Hated Freddie Carter in particular.

  But she owed Freddie more than she could ever repay, more than Beau would ever know. She’d run away from home at sixteen. Like so many other naive teens, she’d had no idea what life on the street held in store for lost children. Freddie Carter had saved her from a pimp. Shown her how to survive by using her wits instead of her body.

  She’d kept ahead of the game most of the time, except when Beau had caught her stealing apples from that grocery store in Buffalo Falls and arrested her. Big cop. Tough cop. She’d had an attitude. He’d had a heart.

  She’d forgotten his heart.

  She gulped the whiskey.

  Beau had shown her what it meant to be loved.

  She’d forgotten that, too. She took a step toward him and felt herself sway. Booze and an empty stomach. Plus anemia. Not a good combination. She’d better sit down. She headed toward her chair. Her toe snagged the edge of the grizzly-bear rug. The next second she found herself airborne.

  For a man with a bum leg, Beau reacted with a speed and grace he’d mastered as a boy catching and roping calves. He snatched her from disaster and tucked her gently onto his lap.

  She wanted to stand, but the effort was suddenly too much for her. The world began to spin, growing blacker and blacker. Her head dipped to his shoulder, settling in the spot that had always seemed created for her.

  The last thing she heard was Beau calling her name.

  Chapter Three

  The sniper crept down the slope toward the hunting cabin hefting a loaded, high-powered, long-range rifle. Grumbling, cursing. If Deedra hadn’t spooked a while ago, she’d be lying next to that rental car in a pool of blood. The bitch had more lives than a cat.

  Well, this time her luck and her lives had run out. She’d avoided this grim reaper for the last time. “I just need one clear shot.”

  Beneath the cruel sun, the sniper stole toward the gurgling river, hunched like a big-game hunter stalking prey, each step wary, each glance aimed at the huge picture window.

  Though Deedra had seemed spooked earlier, the sniper felt sure that neither Shanahan had noticed the dirty, dented pickup following them from the cemetery. They’d been too caught up in their own drama to glance twice at a driver in a cowboy hat; hardly a remarkable sight in Buffalo Falls.

  Figuring they were headed to the ranch house and that shooting Deedra would have to wait for another day, the sniper had almost turned back toward town. But their setting out for the cabin was pure destiny—opportunity blown in on the winds of fate.

  Proof. The Universe agreed. Beau Shanahan had a lesson to learn. His actions had consequences. He had to hurt with an agony that only came with losing the things he most cherished.

  Soon his suffering would be exquisite.

  The sniper took quick furtive steps to a boulder balanced on the riverbank and squinted against the blinding sunlight that reflected off the wall of window. Damn. Better to view the prey through the scope.

  The sniper lifted the rifle and peered into the lens.

  Ah, there she was. Deedra. Lying on the sofa. Beau sat on the edge of the middle cushion, staring down at her supine body. His back to the sniper. Beau held her hands in both of his. So, he’d forgiven her for disappearing. For hiding from him.

  Next step, make-up sex. A sweet loving reunion. A short, fatal uniting.

  Smiling, the sniper stretched out on the boulder, hefted the rifle, then sighted the target. Deedra’s chest filled the lens. There. The bull’s-eye. That tiny area between her breasts caught in the crosshairs. That one clear shot.

  Chapter Four

  “Deedra?”

  She opened her eyes, but the glare off the picture window at Beau’s back had her slamming them shut again. Her head ached. Her stomach, too. A moment passed before she could squint up at him. Her focus cleared, and she read concern in his eyes.

  “My God, Dee, what happened?” As though he’d been holding his breath,
air rushed from between his sensual lips to feather her face.

  She caught a hint of whiskey mixed with Beau’s own scent, and a need deep inside her reached out to him. She wanted to taste that mouth, wanted him to bend down and take her in a mind-numbing, body-warming kiss that would wipe away all the fear.

  “You aren’t a woman who faints.” He studied her face, seeking answers not intimacy. “Are you ill?”

  “No, I…I haven’t eaten much…today…and the whiskey…”

  “That doesn’t explain why your hands are so cold I can’t warm them.”

  She realized only then that he held her hands between his large warm palms, rubbing them in a quick back-and-forth chafing motion, but no heat transferred from his flesh to hers, no blood found its way to her fingertips. She tried making light of it. “I might be a bit anemic.”

  “A bit?” His ebony brows dipped together as the reason dawned in his eyes. “You haven’t had the surgery, have you?”

  His voice rang with a tenderness she hadn’t heard since…since what seemed like forever, and for a second or two she felt as though the chasm between them had narrowed to a distance both could span. She yearned to touch his cheek, graze her fingers down that fierce jaw, watch the green of his eyes slip from grass to jade, watch the concern melt to passion.

  “You haven’t had the surgery, have you?” he asked again.

  “No.” She tried to pull her hands free but hadn’t the strength and instead settled deeper on the sofa. Then she frowned. How had he juggled her dead weight from the chair to the sofa with his leg injury? “It’s one of the reasons I came ho—back.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I know.” A flashing glint from outside caught her eye. She glanced sharply at the picture window across from them, but sunlight, reflecting off the river, had turned the wide expanse of glass into something akin to a movie screen. She was presented a delightful vision of Beau’s strong back and shoulders straining against the plaid of his western shirt.