by Zoe York
What shirt would she be wearing today? He stopped at the corner of the food truck as soon as he spotted her. Pink. She bent to pick up trash from a table, and he ignored the rush of blood that bypassed his brain and dove straight to his balls. But what struck him today and didn’t sit well with him was the way she pulled on her shoulder after she dumped the garbage in the barrel. It hit him with the force of a charging bull. Fuck him for never noticing before. She was exhausted. He could see it now. Plain as day. The pinch at her shoulder blades, the slump of her shoulders when she thought no one was looking. He pushed off the corner and moved to intercept her. “Here,” he said gruffly as she turned his direction, her hands full of paper plates and cups, the top one filled with plastic silverware and napkins. “Let me.” He took them from her and made the trip to the barrel. “Why doesn’t Dottie make a big sign telling everyone to pick up their trash?”
“Because then I’d be out of a job,” Elaine answered quietly.
Come to think of it, why had Dottie kept Elaine on? Elaine was right. There was nothing for her to do here but pick up trash and pour coffee refills. And when push came to shove, people could do that themselves too.
“But thanks for your help.” She smiled shyly at him, pink staining her cheeks the same color as her shirt. “I’ll grab your coffee.” Air stuck in his lungs. The pink shirt was his new favorite color.
He should move to a table. Have a seat. But instead, he stayed planted in the middle of the picnic area, tracking Elaine as she wove through the tables to the coffee maker, and then carefully made her way back. He’d almost hugged her the other day, when they’d dropped her off. But in the end, he’d forced himself to take a step back even though every cell in his body yelled at him to move forward. The urge came over him again. Pull her flush, so he could feel her softness molding against him. Instead, he held himself still, bracing for the zing of contact when she handed him his cup.
Her eyes flew to his when they touched, and she froze as he wrapped his hands around hers. Chickory. Her eyes were as blue as the wild chickory that grew in the ditches alongside the highway. He zeroed in on her mouth, noticing for the first time tiny lines of tension, as if she worried too much when she was alone. Could he kiss that tension away? Suck on that sweet lower lip until she cried out from the madness of it all? And the corded muscle at her neck… would that soften after an orgasm or four? God, he was half hard at the thought.
No. No. No.
Too young. Single Parent. Keeps the doors unlocked. The laundry list torpedoed through his head. Reluctantly he released her, taking the cup. He was doing the right thing by staying away, but why did it leave him so deflated and generally pissed off?
“Tell me again why you’re making a third career out of being a stalker instead of asking the girl out?” Weston asked after Elaine had moved away.
He’d been so focused on Elaine’s mouth, he hadn’t even noticed Weston approaching. So much for being alert to danger. Elaine had his senses befuddled and turned upside down. Travis took a gulp of the scalding coffee, the burn jolting his mind away from his cock. Too much more of this, and his taste buds would be gone.
Weston crossed his arms, looking pissed. “Well? I’m waiting.”
“You really want me to say? Out loud?”
“Yes,” he snapped. “I want you to hear with your own ears how stupid your reasons are. Go on.”
Weston could push all he wanted on this one. He wasn’t giving in. “Fine. For starters, she’s a resident. She’s too young. She refuses to lock her doors.”
Weston glared at him and scoffed. “This has nothing to do with Elaine and everything to do with shit you still can’t let go of. When you gonna stop carrying those guys around with you like a ball and chain?”
He grimaced at the analogy. He’d carry his fallen friends as long as he needed. “It was my fault. I was lead.”
“Bullshit,” Weston spat. “We all thought that kid was safe. You just happened to be the one who voiced it.”
“Because I was lead,” he gritted. “And I gave the order to let him go, and we lost half the team because of it.” And what made him sick, what he couldn’t reconcile in the punishing quiet of a lonely dark night, was that the scared look in the young boy’s eyes was the same damned look he’d seen in Colton’s eyes the night he’d kicked his brother off the ranch. He’d been a heartless bastard that night, and in some fucked up way the Universe had of evening the score, he’d taken a look at that scared kid halfway around the world, and thought of his brother. His guilt had killed his teammates. Fuck. That.
Weston’s voice softened. “Can’t you see how this is eating you up? Stopping you from living in the here and now? It’s time to shake things up. Run for sheriff.”
“Who’s running for sheriff?” Dottie asked as she held out the coffee pot.
Travis clenched his jaw. Jesus, that woman had the hearing of an owl at midnight.
Weston pushed his shoulder. “Travis is.”
Dottie looked him over, a critical light in her eye. “Lord knows you’d be a sight better than that Lawson.”
That got his attention. Why would Dottie have an opinion about Lawson? Furthermore, why was it bad? You had to be a real chump to get on Dottie’s bad side. Then again, the diner had been like a newsstand. Maybe Dottie had heard something. It was why he made a point of coming in around lunchtime every day and sitting at the counter. All he had to do was sip his coffee and listen to the chatter. It had nothing to do with the pretty young woman in the pink shirt and the jeans that perfectly framed her curves currently scrubbing the picnic table.
“You’ll need a treasurer to file, and there’s your lady,” Dottie tilted her chin in Elaine’s direction. “I’ve never seen a girl as good with numbers as she is.”
Travis’s head snapped up and he looked over to Weston. He looked like the Goddamned Cheshire Cat. “I suppose you knew this too?”
Weston shrugged, grinning shamelessly. “I suspected. Haven’t you seen her add a bill and calculate tax in her head? Perfect every time. And she can do it faster than I can with a calculator.” He shook his head and tsked. “For someone who can calculate bullet speed and wind drift and hit a target dead on from 200 yards, you’re remarkably clueless. Oh, wait…”
Weston was going in for the kill. He could feel it.
“Maybe it’s because you were too focused on the sway of her hips to notice anything like her math skills.”
And bullseye. Dottie swung the weight of her gaze toward him, eyes narrowed. “I always suspected, but I couldn’t say for sure. You make her your treasurer, Travis. Lord knows I can’t pay her much of anything right now, and her second job disappeared when the library got destroyed. But–” She wagged a finger at him “You be good to her. That girl has had enough trouble thrown at her for three lifetimes. I don’t want to hear you’ve behaved badly.”
There were few things as uncomfortable in life as being scolded by Dottie. “I will be a perfect gentleman.” Even if it killed him. “But what does a campaign treasurer do?”
“In a small race like this, keep track of your expenditures and receipts,” Weston answered. “Help you budget. They can help with fundraising.”
“Fundraising.” What in the hell was he getting himself into?
“You’re going to have to raise money. Ask for donations.”
“Oh hell no. Not while we’re recovering. I’ll pay for it myself. If I do it.”
“I can look into the campaign finance laws here, but you can probably do that too, although campaigns can get pretty expensive.”
“How much are we talking?”
“Forty, maybe fifty grand for a county race.”
Travis’s stomach pitched. “You’re kidding.”
Weston shook his head. “Welcome to politics.”
He had a nest egg that would more than cover the expense. But he’d always imagined using it to refurbish the ranch and get it running again once he retired from the police force. He’d do i
t now, but you couldn’t be a ranch of one. So he’d continued setting something aside each month for someday. But what if someday never came? Should he pull some of it now? Challenge this Lawson character? Lawson’s name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it.
Dottie and Weston waited expectantly. Was he supposed to tell them now? No way. He wasn’t doing that. But he wasn’t comfortable saying flat out no either. “I’m not saying yes, but I’ll think about it.”
Dottie clapped her hands. “Good. I want to see Steve Lawson get what’s coming to him.”
Weston gave him a look that spoke volumes. He was so screwed.
Chapter 6
Travis stood at the top of Main Street where Dottie’s Diner belonged, scanning for possible trouble spots. Normally the view from Dottie’s down Main Street brought a smile to his face. You couldn’t get more America & Apple Pie than Prairie on the Fourth of July. In past years, Main was decked out in red, white, and blue bunting, with flower baskets hanging from the light posts. This year, the contrast couldn’t be more stark. No bunting. Not even light posts. Only a road bordered with cleared lots waiting to rebuild. But the city council had been adamant the parade go on as usual. So demolition teams had worked double shifts alongside residents to remove the last of the rubble. Prairie might be down, but she certainly wasn’t out, and the upside of their work was that construction would be ready to begin July 5th.
He reached for one of Dottie’s famous biscuits piled high on the hospitality table and coated it liberally with strawberry jam before popping it into his mouth. A quick glance at his watch confirmed that parade participants would start arriving any minute. The mayor’s office projected double the usual crowd this year. But double the people meant a headache for logistics and crowd control. He hated doing it on a holiday, but he’d called the whole squad to work double shifts today.
Thanks to the storm, people were curious about Prairie’s recovery. He couldn’t blame them. Seeing the town pull together had been nothing short of miraculous. In past years, they’d struggled to find volunteers to help place baskets of small American flags along the parade route. This year, they’d come out of the woodwork and were finished by the time the sun peeked over the hills.
Gunnar Hansen pulled into the lot towing a horse trailer and rolled to a stop, elbow hanging out the window and shaking his head. “Still can’t get used to it.”
“Me either. Although I like this view better than the one right after the tornado.”
Gunnar grimaced, grief momentarily flickering across his face. “Me too. Me too. And we’ll like it even better next year.”
“We will. Now let’s get those horses unloaded. I appreciate you letting us use them this morning.”
Gunnar flashed him a smile. “Happy to help Prairie’s finest keep up their image.”
They walked around back, unloaded the horses and led them to a makeshift corral they’d erected where the building next door to Dottie’s had once stood. Gunnar tossed a saddle blanket over the horse closest. “This is Buzz, and the horse you’re saddling is Ricky. They’re our largest animals. Ricky is a bit more lively than Buzz, so I’d recommend him for you.”
“You don’t think I can handle a feisty horse?” Weston asked, joining them.
“You’re a pretty good rider for a city boy,” Travis acknowledged.
“Thank Horses Helping Heroes.”
“I’m gonna move the trailer outta the way. See you day after tomorrow when Hope gets back?”
“Not me.” Weston shook his head. “Boss-man put me on shift so he could go play cowboy.”
“Perks of being the boss.” Travis grinned.
“Catch you then.” Gunnar hopped into the cab and pulled out onto Main.
Travis checked his watch again. “Time to get this show on the road. Traffic cones set up?”
Weston nodded. “Volunteers are directing traffic, and I’ve got three guys on the outskirts.”
“Good. See you back here for the start?”
Weston gave him a mock salute and turned. Travis headed down the street, scanning for potential threats. There never was one, but he couldn’t help it. He was always on high alert when the crowds were big. People had begun to line the streets with lawn chairs and picnic blankets. Music blared from a speaker system by the ‘grandstand’ – basically a set of choir risers someone had pulled from one of the local churches with a few folding tables covered in bunting and a PA system. As usual, the Mayor, Wilson Watson, would be acting as emcee.
When he finished checking the parade route, he circled back to the staging area via the food truck. But not to check on Elaine or scan the playground for Dax. He was just making sure everything was under control. He immediately spotted Elaine looking harried. The truck was crowded with out of towners. The picnic benches were full up, with many eating while standing. Elaine was flipping them as fast as she could. He checked his watch. Twenty minutes before he and Weston had to mount up. He made a beeline for her through the crowd, tapping her shoulder and bracing himself for the zing of electricity. “How can I help?”
Her eyes brightened, and his throat squeezed tight. “You sure it won’t tarnish your image?”
“Makes me more approachable.” It was true. People were naturally afraid of the uniform, so doing things like helping bus tables, petting dogs, or stopping by the playground went a long way to build relationships in the community.
“Great. Can you change the trash barrels? They’re overflowing.”
“On it.” He made his way to the trash cans, stopping behind the food truck first to pull fresh bags out of a locker that had been salvaged from the part of the school damaged by the tornado, and which now acted as a utility closet for the food truck.
Armed with rubber gloves and fresh bags, he mashed the trash into the can, knotted the bag and replaced it with a new one. Grabbing all four bags, he crossed to the dumpster and tossed them in, followed by the rubber gloves. Making a mental note to ask the rest of the squad to check on the cans throughout the morning, he skirted the throng, catching Elaine’s eye and waving. Thank you, she mouthed, bestowing another smile on him that warmed him more than Dottie’s coffee on a cold day. Surely Dottie would close down the truck for the parade? He’d hate for Elaine and Dax to miss it.
Just as he arrived at the staging area, a commotion sprang up on the far side of the lot. Weaving through clowns, 4-H-ers, trick riders, and a marching band from one of the big high schools in Kansas City, he discovered the source of the problem. A large man in a navy suit and white straw cowboy hat stood arguing with a tiny woman in a traditional Mexican gaucho costume.
“What’s the problem?”
The woman, Luci Cruz, turned to him, eyes flashing. “This man’s car is spooking my horses.”
The man also turned to him with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I was just explaining to the little lady that she needs to move her horses.”
Travis bit back a chuckle. Little lady, huh? Nobody called Luci Cruz little lady.
“Este cabrón que finge ser un vaquero dice que estamos robando su sombra. Pero, mira! Él está en el lugar equivocado.” She waved her parade number at him.
“Tranquila, hermanita,” he answered, grateful for the cover of a second language. The guy looked familiar, but Travis couldn’t place him. Whoever he was, he had the false air of a used car salesman. “Me ocuparé de este imbécil.”
Lucy crossed her arms, scowling. “Simplemente no quiere caminar detrás de la mierda de caballo.”
A rough laugh escaped Travis before he could stop it. Probably. Wouldn’t want to mess up his too shiny boots. He turned to the man and extended his hand. “Can I see your parade number?”
The smile left the man’s face for a fraction of a second. “No need for that. The little lady just needs to move her horses over with the others.”
This triggered another round of Spanish from Luci, which only increased the man’s scowl. If this guy was going to be an asshole, he could be a bigge
r one. “Luci is in the right place. Your paper please.” His voice came out clipped.
“Lee, find that damned piece of paper.” The man shouted angrily at the driver of the shiny red convertible, decked out with American flags and spinning silver pinwheels. God, the thing was as gaudy and fake as he was. Who was this guy? He dressed like he was from Texas, not Kansas. Or going to a wedding. But everyone in these parts wore their best black Stetsons to a wedding. Travis dropped his gaze to the car door. STEVE LAWSON for COUNTY SHERIFF, it read in bold letters. No wonder the guy was trying to hang onto his temper. You couldn’t be an asshole in public if you were running for office. And all of a sudden, the loose end that had been flitting around his head slipped into place. He had met Lawson once before. Well, seen him. And he hadn’t liked him then either. The guy had given a speech at a Police Union conference in Topeka a few years back. He’d come across then as a know-it-all blowhard with a mean streak, and from the looks of it, he hadn’t evolved.
Travis stepped up to the driver, who reluctantly handed over the paper. Biting his cheek so he didn’t grin, he turned to Lawson. “Turns out you belong in the lot across the street.” Travis waved to an empty lot on the other side of Second Street, which ran parallel to Main.
The smarmy smile was back. “Surely, Travis.” The man’s eyes drifted to his name tag. “You can let us stay here a bit longer? I’d be mighty grateful.”
So this guy was pouring on the charm because of the badge? And he was treating Luci Cruz like dirt? Travis’s stomach churned. Fuck this asshole and the horse he rode in on. If he even knew how to ride a horse. Travis clenched his jaw, breathing in through his nose before he spoke as firmly as he could. “Sorry. That’s not how we roll here. Wouldn’t be fair to the rest of the participants. You’ll have to vacate the spot.” Travis gave him a tight smile.
