No Mercy

by Cheyenne McCray

  After they spread out their meals, and Christie had grabbed a couple of Cokes from a small fridge cleverly disguised as a cabinet, they started to eat.

  Christie brought up the topic of the small memorial they’d had for Nate in the mountains and the subject weighed heavily on Belle’s heart.

  “It was beautiful.” Christie sighed. “It almost felt like Nate was there, you know?”

  “Yes.” Belle pictured the white daisy she had dropped over the ridge and how it had floated down. “I wish I had stayed in touch with him more than the couple of times we spoke.” She thought about the conversation at the Den and learning what everyone was up to. “I wish I would have kept up with everyone.” Yet that would have meant Dylan, too, and she wouldn’t have been able to handle that.

  “Heck, Belle.” Christie brushed strands of long red hair from her face. “I live in Bisbee, and I didn’t keep up with everyone. If anyone feels guilty for not keeping in touch, it’s me.”

  Belle shook her head. “Don’t think that way.”

  Christie tilted her head to the side. “Only if you don’t.”

  “I guess regrets don’t really serve a purpose.” Belle let out her breath. “All we can do is change what we do from this point on.”

  “Agreed.” Christie washed down a bite of her food with Coke.

  They ate their sandwiches in silence for a few moments as Belle turned everything over in her mind from the call to the memorial, to the gathering and Dylan’s statement that he didn’t believe Nate committed suicide. Belle figured that Christie was also thinking about Nate and the CoS.

  Christie took another sip of her Coke then placed the can back on her desk. “You started a new job, didn’t you?”

  Belle set her sandwich on its wrapper. “I had to quit.” She explained her boss’s refusal to let her take time off for Nate.

  Christie scowled. “What an ass.”

  “Christie…” A warning tone came from behind her and she and Belle looked up to see that Salvatore had walked out of his office. “Language like that is unbecoming of you.”

  Belle’s first instinct was to narrow her eyes, but she worked to keep her expression placid.

  Christie winced and looked at Salvatore. “Sorry, baby. I was just a little upset for Belle.”

  “Regardless, you should keep yourself above foul language, mi mariposa.” Salvatore placed his hands on Christie’s shoulders from behind and leaned down and kissed her on the top of her head.

  Still gripping Christie’s shoulders Salvatore raised his head and looked at Belle. “What happened?”

  Belle shrugged. She didn’t want to explain again, but it would have seemed rude not to. “I don’t have a job now. My boss wouldn’t let me take off time for Nate’s funeral, so I quit.”

  “That’s a shame.” Something flickered in Salvatore’s eyes, but he moved to the desk and reached into the café bag. “Mine?”

  “Just the way Christie ordered it for you.” Belle picked up the remaining half of her own sandwich.

  For the first time, Belle wished the man would leave, but he seemed intent on hanging around. Maybe it was because she wanted Christie to herself for a while.

  Christie looked at her husband. “Dylan doesn’t think Nate’s death was a suicide.”

  Salvatore stilled. In a casual movement, he looked at his wife. “Oh?”

  She nodded. “Nate sent all of us postcards and Dylan doesn’t think Nate would have sent them if he had intended to kill himself.”

  A sinking feeling weighted Belle’s stomach. She didn’t like that Christie had brought up anything about the CoS to her husband. It was personal, especially the postcards.

  “Nate sent cards to all of you?” Salvatore leaned his hip against Christie’s desk. “Including you, Christie?”

  “I’m sorry.” Christie looked apologetic. “I was so upset about Nate’s death that I forgot to tell you.” She leaned down and opened a large drawer in the lower left side of her desk. She brought out a purse and pulled out a postcard of Bisbee’s Mule Pass Tunnel.

  She turned over the card when the glass doors to the office opened.

  They all looked in that direction and Belle’s heart made a strange swooping sensation.

  Dylan.

  He looked so damned good. He wore a blue overshirt with a black T-shirt beneath. His worn Wranglers fit him well and hugged his hips and athletic thighs perfectly.

  The crazy urge to go to him, press her body against his, and wrap her arms around his neck to kiss him, almost made her dizzy with need. She wanted to slide her hands down his chest, feeling the hard muscles beneath her palms. And my God, she’d never seen biceps as powerful as his. Her body reacted just to the sight of him, her nipples hardening beneath her sweater and an ache developing between her thighs.

  If he was surprised to see Belle, he didn’t show it. He took off his Stetson and nodded in Salvatore’s direction. “Salvatore.” In turn he said, “Hi, Christie. Belle.”

  “Hi, Dylan,” Christie said. “I have the postcard right here.” She flipped it over. Something’s off about it, like the others’ postcards.” She read it aloud,

  Christie,

  I hope life and all that goes into it is treating you well. Time has flown by and it’s been much too long.

  One of these days we’ll have to go out for ice cream. I’ll always remember how much you love strawberry dipped cones. You know how chocolate is my favorite flavor and I’m ready to hit the Dairy Queen again.

  Watch your step.

  Love,

  Nate

  “Nate hated chocolate.” Christie shook her head. “He was a vanilla man all the way. What do you think he was trying to say to us?”

  Dylan extended his hand and Christie gave him the postcard. He tucked the card into the pocket of his overshirt.

  Salvatore looked mildly curious. “Each of your friends in the CoS received notes like this?”

  Christie nodded. “And everyone says there is something off about their note.”

  Salvatore folded his arms across his chest and leaned his hip against Christie’s desk as he looked at Dylan. “My wife said you believe Nate’s death wasn’t suicide.”

  “It’s possible.” Dylan gave a casual shrug. “Our investigation is standard procedure.” He turned to Belle. “Mind if I walk with you to your hotel?”

  Considering her hotel was across the street, she didn’t really need to be escorted. But then she thought about the man standing in front of the museum, which was right before her hotel, and a shiver traveled her spine. She’d pick a few uncomfortable moments with Dylan over a creep.

  “I don’t mind at all.” She wrapped up the rest of the sandwich and stuffed it into the now empty bag. “My postcard is in my room at the hotel, so it’ll be a good opportunity to give it to you.”

  Christie wore a disappointed expression. “You’re leaving already?”

  Belle smiled at Christie. “I’ll call you and we’ll get together.”

  Dylan put on his western hat and touched the brim as he nodded to Christie before looking at Salvatore. “Have a good one.”

  Belle gave Christie a hug, smiled and said goodbye to Salvatore, and went with Dylan out the glass doors of the office.

  Dylan and Belle walked in silence through the plaza. Voices of shoppers echoed through the large building that decades ago had housed Phelps Dodge Mercantile.

  When they walked outside, Belle looked across the street and was relieved that the man who’d been there earlier was nowhere in sight.

  Belle’s arms prickled with goose bumps and she rubbed them with both hands.

  Dylan studied her. “Is something wrong?”

  “Not really, I guess.” Belle met his gaze. “It’s just that earlier, when I was getting lunch from the café, I saw a man standing in front of a white car right over there.” She gestured to the museum across the street. “I could swear he was staring at me. It gave me the creeps.”

  Dylan narrowed his brows. �
��What was the make and model of the car? Do you remember anything about it, like markings or damage?”

  “The front fender was a little banged up.” Belle shrugged. “I don’t know about the make and model. Why?”

  He didn’t answer her question, just asked one of his own. “What did the man look like?”

  “Hispanic.” Her forehead wrinkled in thought. “Five-nine or five-ten, round face, black hair and clean-shaven. He was thickset with big arms.” She shook her head. “That’s all I can remember.”

  “You must have gotten a pretty good look at him.” Dylan had his phone out again and was typing notes onto the device. “What was he wearing?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “Beige slacks and a white button-up shirt. I didn’t notice his shoes, but I think he was wearing a gold watch.”

  “Anything else?” He looked up from the screen.

  She shook her head. “That’s all I can remember.”

  “Let me know if you see him hanging around again.” Dylan holstered his phone, frowning. “Stay away from him if he does come near you.”

  “Okay.” Her skin tingled as Dylan put his hand at the small of her back and looked both ways before guiding her to the crosswalk.

  They reached the black iron fence in front of the red brick museum. On the other side of the fence, in front of the museum, was old mining equipment used in the late 1800s in Bisbee’s copper mines.

  She put her hand on one of the fence’s black railings and turned to Dylan. “Why would anyone be watching me?”

  Dylan shook his head. “I don’t know that anyone is watching you.” She released the rail and he guided her down the sidewalk that went around the museum. “But I may have seen a vehicle matching that description hanging around. I’d prefer to err on the side of caution.”

  Belle and Dylan walked to the back of the museum to a steep street. A little jog to the right was the infamous Brewery Gulch and straight ahead was a Mexican restaurant. They crossed the street and walked uphill to the entrance of the Copper Queen Hotel, which was built in 1902.

  They walked up the stairs and he pushed open a pair of wood and glass doors that led into the lobby. Once the largest city between St. Louis and San Francisco, Bisbee had seen its fair share of well-known individuals. Some of the many famous guests who had stayed in the Copper Queen over its historic past included John Wayne and President Teddy Roosevelt, Stephen King, and J.A. Jance.

  The hotel was also considered by many to be haunted, but Belle hadn’t experienced any activities related to local spirits.

  She and Dylan walked up the stairs and she dug the big brass key out of her purse. The hotel still used real keys for its rooms. He took the key from her and opened the door that swung open to reveal the room she was staying in.

  Belle had one of the hotel’s smaller rooms filled with antique furniture, including a full-sized bed and a writing desk. Simple nightstands with small, pretty tiffany lamps were on either side of the bed. The walls were papered with roses, and drapes covered the windows. The TV seemed out of place in the old-fashioned room that also had Internet, which seemed odd in a room that took one back over a hundred years.

  She set her purse on a quaint wooden armchair. She slipped out of the blazer she wore and hung it on the back of the chair in front of the writing desk. When she turned to face Dylan, he had closed the door behind him and locked it.

  The air in the room suddenly seemed too thin to breathe as they stared at each other. He was so tall and virile, a dominant man in every way. He looked rough and untamed.

  She knew how gentle he could be. She’d never forget the way he’d touched her and loved her in the sweetest ways.

  Time flew backward and she remembered when she’d looked at him for what she knew would be the last time, and how hard it had been to keep him from seeing it in her gaze.

  An ache started at the backs of her eyes, and pain welled up inside her. Old memories, old wounds that had never healed. And secrets. Secrets too great to bear.

  A tear rolled down her cheek and she wiped it away with her fingertips, wishing she could take it back.

  He looked at her almost helplessly, but caring so deep in his gaze that it made her want to crumble.

  More tears flooded her cheeks.

  “Oh, sweetheart.” He crossed the few paces between them and took her in his arms. He held her to him, his big body seeming to swallow her with comfort. “Shhh.” He gripped her so tightly that she felt more secure and cared for than she could remember—since leaving him all those years ago.

  She cried harder, trying to hold back sobs, but failing.

  He held her and held her.

  CHAPTER 7

  It was like the years slid backward, to another place and time, as Dylan held Belle in his arms again. He pressed his face against her dark hair, breathing in her feminine scent as he did his best to comfort her. She felt sweet and soft and perfect in his embrace.

  He rubbed her back, feeling the tension in her muscles and wanting to ease it. He moved his hands in circles, her face against his chest, her tears soaking through his cotton T-shirt.

  “I’m sorry.” She sniffed and drew back. “I don’t know why I broke down like that.”

  “Nate’s death was a big blow.” He held her by the shoulders. “I have a feeling you also have a few things you need to work through and get off your chest.”

  “It’s been a hell of a week.” She searched his gaze. “I think one of the hardest things is seeing you again.”

  He brushed his knuckles along her cheekbone. “Why is that?”

  “You should know.” She sighed. “I left you without an explanation. I just ran, and I know I hurt you.” She held her hand to her heart. “I didn’t want to leave. If I thought there was any other way, I never would have. And I never would have hurt you.”

  He tucked hair behind her ear. “I would have done anything for you.” He still would, but he wasn’t sure that was something he should say aloud.

  “Like I said before, that’s one of the reasons I left.” She looked down, staring at his chest before she looked up at him again. “Promise me you won’t go to see my stepfather.”

  Dylan said nothing as anger burned in his chest. He couldn’t make that kind of promise.

  “Dylan?” She searched his gaze. “Please.”

  A stirring of longing took hold of him. He cupped her face in his palms. “God, how I missed you.”

  She gripped his T-shirt in her fists and raised her tear-stained face to his.

  He couldn’t help himself. He lowered his head, slowly, giving her a chance to say no, to push him away.

  She did neither. Instead, she rose on her toes, her fists still gripping his T-shirt, and brushed his lips with hers.

  The groan that rose inside him came from missing her for what seemed like a lifetime. He took her mouth, kissing her with an intensity that he’d never felt before. Her lips were so soft, and when he slid his tongue into her mouth and tasted her, it was like going back all of those years and tasting her again for the first time.

  The intensity of her kiss matched his own and a low groan escaped him. She was so soft in his arms, a memory come to life. He wanted to take her to bed and make up for all of the loving they had missed.

  He struggled to think clearly as need and desire burned bright. She moved her palms up his T-shirt to his shoulders and slid her fingers into his hair, knocking off his Stetson. It hit the floor with a soft thump.

  Each movement she made seemed as urgent as his, if not more so. It was as if she’d been craving this ever since she’d left and she wanted to make up for lost time. Just like he did.

  Her low purr vibrated through him. He remembered her making that sound every time they’d made love and he almost followed through with his desire to sweep her into his arms, lay her on the bed, and cover her body with his.

  She had filled out, and no longer had a girlish figure but the real curves of a grown woman. He wanted to explore those curves with hi
s hands, his mouth, his tongue. He wanted to taste her again, to hold her, to make love to her.

  It might have been the hardest thing he’d ever done, but he took her by the shoulders and put just enough space between them so that their bodies weren’t plastered together. But he continued to keep a grip on her, their gaze holding and not breaking.

  God, she was beautiful. He’d always thought she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever known. From childhood through high school he’d been in love with everything about her. He didn’t think she’d known it until their freshman year in high school, when he’d taken her for a walk under the bleachers at a football game.

  Her chest rose and fell, clearly breathing as hard as he was. She swallowed. “That was probably not a good idea.”

  He studied her for a long moment. “You’re going through a lot. I can see it in your eyes.”

  She looked down before meeting his gaze again. “Thank you.”

  Despite the fact that he wouldn’t take advantage of her when she was so vulnerable, he couldn’t help the disappointment that swelled within him when she’d agreed. He moved his thumb to her cheek. “I missed you.”

  Her eyes glittered and he thought for a moment that she would cry again. “I missed you, too.”

  He pressed a kiss to her forehead. He had to change the subject or he’d take her in his arms again and this time he wouldn’t let go. “Why don’t you show me that postcard?”

  “Oh.” She went to the antique writing desk and picked up a bag on the desk chair. She dug inside and drew out a postcard. She looked a little teary and choked up as she did.

  When she handed it to him, he read it through. “It’s similar to the others.”

  Belle seemed to compose herself and her voice was steady. “The part that was off on mine was about my dog biting him.”

  Dylan stared at the card. “Your dog was pure white and he refers to it as brown.”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  He read it a second time. “He was trying to tell us something.”