by Stacy Finz
At first, Colin just stood there, breathing hard. But little by little he seemed to emerge from his fury-fueled adrenaline rush, take in the crowd that had begun to assemble around them, and stared down at his hands, now covered in blood.
“Shit,” he said, and hightailed it out of the Ponderosa too fast for anyone to stop him.
Harlee started to run after him, but made a split-second decision. She turned around, found the hunter leaning against the wall trying to stanch his bloody nose, and kicked him in the balls. Then she went after Colin.
Colin drove as far and fast as he could go, but with his gas gauge almost on empty, he wound up at Sophie and Mariah’s construction site. He parked, got out of his truck, and bent over, resting his palms on his knees, letting blood flow to his brain.
Brain? That was rich. If he had a brain, he wouldn’t have lost it back at the Ponderosa. But seeing that dude with his hands all over Harlee, forcing himself on her, had set him off like a bottle rocket. Then his fight instincts had kicked in and he’d overreacted. Old habits die hard. In Donovan, if you didn’t fight to kill, you died.
Going in so young, Colin had been particularly susceptible to the gangs and the lifers, who had nothing to lose. Luckily, he’d honed his skills at the California Youth Authority, where survival meant becoming the meanest scrapper in the yard. Together, he and Latwon, his one and only friend, had covered each other’s backs.
Last he’d heard, Latwon was back in, doing a third strike on a drug rap. He was never getting out. And at this rate, Colin would be going back in.
He fished his cell phone out of his back pocket and hit automatic dial.
“Hello?” Al’s voice came across groggy, like he’d been sleeping. Colin looked at his watch. It was one in the morning.
He’d wanted to kiss Harlee when the clock struck midnight. He knew it was crazy, given that he’d just kicked her to the curb. But he couldn’t seem to make himself stay away from her.
For an hour he’d circled the Ponderosa, working up the nerve to go inside, doing his breathing exercises. When he’d finally mustered the courage, Darla had been standing by the bar and told him where to find Harlee. That’s when he saw the dude pawing her and became too blinded by rage to even notice the crowds.
“That you, Colin?”
“Yeah,” Colin said. “Sorry to wake you.”
“You call to wish me a happy New Year, or what?” Al sounded more alert now, disguising his concern with flippancy. Colin knew the tone well.
“I’m in trouble, Al.”
“Where you at?”
“Not far from home.” Colin didn’t want to tell Al that he’d run like a little pussy. He got back in his truck because it was cold as hell and cranked up the heater.
“What did you do?”
“I got into a bar fight—beat up someone.”
“You went into a bar?” Al asked, sounding more surprised that Colin had worked up the nerve to go into a public place than the fact that he’d pummeled the hell out of a guy.
“The Ponderosa. The dude was pushing himself on a friend of mine.”
“You hurt him?” Al asked.
Colin exhaled. “I don’t know how badly. The police chief broke it up. Shit, Al.”
“He didn’t arrest you?”
“I left.” Colin had walked away from a crime scene and ditched Harlee when she needed him. Hell, who was he kidding, he’d scared her to death. He’d seen the way she’d backed away from him, stared in horror, like he was a goddamned berserker.
“Go home,” Al told Colin. “If they come for you, call me. But don’t buy trouble. We’ll pay the chief a visit together. And Colin?”
“What?”
“Why were you going inside the Ponderosa?”
Colin shoved his hand through his hair. “To go bowling.”
Al chuckled. “Bowling? That’s good, Colin. Bowling’s good.”
The next day, Al parked his cruiser on the square. “You sure the chief’s working on New Year’s Day?”
“No.” But Colin didn’t want to wait. The guy he’d beaten up could choose to file charges anytime. Fighting was a clear violation of his parole.
“All right,” Al said. “Fix your tie.”
Al said he should wear a tie, which was ridiculous because he never wore ties. No one in Nugget wore ties. But Colin had relented, just wanting to get this over with. Harlee had left six frantic messages on his machine. He hadn’t called her back for fear that by now everyone knew he was an ex-con.
“Let me do the talking,” Al said, getting out of the car.
Last night, there’d been so many vehicles crammed inside the square that Colin had had to park a block away. Today it looked like a ghost town. He supposed that everyone had stayed home either to sleep it off or to watch the game.
They went inside the Nugget Police Department to find Rhys standing in a tiny kitchenette, fidgeting with a fancy coffeemaker. He glanced up at the door.
“Chief Shepard?” Al said, and Rhys took in his suit, lizard cowboy boots, and the outline of his shoulder holster.
“That would be me. What can I do you for?” He nodded a greeting at Colin.
“You working on a holiday, huh?”
“It’s a small department,” Rhys responded. “Either one of you know how to get coffee out of this thing?”
Al walked over to the machine, checked to make sure there were beans in the grinder and water in the reservoir, did something to a dial, and flipped a switch. The coffeemaker made a loud whirring noise and all three of them stood there watching coffee drip into the pot.
“Y’all want a cup?” he asked, reminding Colin that Rhys had been a cop in Texas. As the story went, he’d fled Nugget at eighteen and wound up in Houston working as a narcotics detective. He’d come home last year to care for his ailing father and take over the town’s beleaguered police department.
“I’ll take one,” Al said. Colin shook his head no. “I’m Al Ferguson, by the way. Department of Corrections.”
“Yep,” was all Rhys said.
No show of surprise. No questions like: Why does Colin have a parole officer? What did he do time for? Which in Colin’s mind meant Rhys already knew. The chief had probably run Colin when he’d discovered the meth lab in the Lumber Baron’s basement last year. The question was, did everyone else in Nugget know?
Rhys handed Al a mug and led them to his office. “I’m gonna keep the door open so I can hear anyone coming in.”
Al nodded. “We’re here because Colin’s concerned over what happened last night at the Ponderosa.”
Rhys didn’t say anything at first, just sipped his coffee. “We got the guy to the hospital. Made sure he and his friends made it out of town this morning. The busted nose will heal. His sperm count . . . not so much. Nothing to be done for that now.”
Sperm count? Colin had nearly split the jack-off’s head open. No reproductive organs involved.
“Is Colin facing possible charges here?”
“Maybe a lawsuit, but I doubt it,” Rhys said, taking another long drag of his coffee. “As far as charges: We don’t arrest people in Nugget for rescuing citizens in distress. Although from where I was standing, this particular citizen has a hell of a kick.” He grimaced and moved in his chair uncomfortably. “Right in the nut sack.”
Colin tried not to crack a smile.
Rhys leaned across the scarred oak desk. “Look, Officer Ferguson, Colin’s a law-abiding, productive member of our small community. Those flower boxes out on the square, he built ’em. The benches too. Besides being one of the most sought-after carpenters in these parts, Colin keeps his nose clean. So we’ve got no problems.”
“Good,” Al said, and got to his feet. “We know you’re busy, so we’ll get out of your hair.”
Colin also stood and Rhys nodded at him. There was a world of meaning in that simple head bob. I’ve got you covered, but don’t screw up, because this is my town, these are my people, and I’m watching.
> Fair enough, Colin thought, because right now he felt so damned relieved that even the police chief knowing his sordid past paled in comparison to a parole violation that could put him back inside. Rhys was a thorough cop who looked after the townsfolk of Nugget like a ferocious mama bear. It should come as no surprise that he knew the backgrounds of each and every one of his residents. In fact, Colin respected the hell out of him for it.
That didn’t mean he wanted his past to become public record, or grist for the gossip mill.
He followed Al to the car and got in. Al waited for him to buckle up before pulling out of the square and driving up Grizzly Peak. “I think that went pretty well. Good guy, that chief.”
“Yeah,” Colin said, staring out the window, wondering how to handle this with Harlee. So she’d kicked the guy in the balls, huh? His chest expanded with pride. Good for her.
“So who’s this friend of yours?”
Al must’ve been reading his mind. He had a way of doing that sometimes. Spooky. “Just a neighbor. Her mother buys my furniture to sell in her shop.”
Al slanted him a sideways glance. “This neighbor get you to go bowling?”
“It’s a whole group, Al. Not a lot to do in this town.”
“I’ve never known you to mind that. And I’ve never known you to join groups. The crowd didn’t bother you?”
Colin had never gotten a chance to find out. Not with that dickhead molesting his girl—okay, Harlee was not his girl. But rushing to her rescue had distracted him from the throngs of partygoers, which under normal circumstance would’ve had him in full-blown panic mode. “I’m getting acupuncture for that.”
“Acupuncture?” Al was a good old boy, born and raised in the San Joaquin Valley. Definitely not the type to embrace ancient Chinese medicine.
“What of it?” Colin spat.
“Nothing, if it’s working.”
The truth was Colin had only gone the two times. “It might be.”
Al tried to hide a smile. “Or maybe it’s that neighbor. What did you say her name was?”
“I didn’t,” Colin said. “Look, she’s a newspaper reporter and she’s only visiting. So please don’t go talking to her.”
They pulled up in front of Colin’s house and Max came bounding toward them. He was getting the hang of the newly installed dog door. Occasionally, Max would wander down to Harlee’s house, but he always came back.
“When did you get a dog?” Al got out of the car. Colin had hoped he’d just go home—salvage the rest of the holiday.
“He’s a rescue. I found him on a job site.”
Al crouched down to pet Max. “Good-looking fellow.”
“Not when I first got him. Someone had dumped him and the poor guy was pretty mangled.”
Lifting his head, Al gave Colin an assessing look. “Let’s go inside for a few minutes.”
It was cold outside, maybe in the high twenties. Colin wouldn’t be surprised if it snowed again. There was a note taped to the door. Colin took the paper down and stuffed it in his jacket pocket before Al could remark on it.
“You want something to drink?” He led Al into the kitchen, not sure if he wanted to search the house first. Pretty stupid since Colin would’ve had all night to rid the house of any guns or drugs. But maybe Al just wanted to mark it off his books so he wouldn’t have to get back to Nugget for another few months.
“No, but I’m hungry,” Al said. “Never had breakfast.”
Not for the first time Colin wondered if Al had a wife and kids. The guy had been pretty stingy with personal details. All Colin knew was that he lived in Quincy.
He hung up his jacket, got eggs and bacon out of the refrigerator, and popped an English muffin into the toaster. It was the least he could do, given that Al had dragged his ass out of bed to take his call in the wee hours of the morning, then drove more than forty minutes on a holiday to smooth things over for him with the chief.
“You keep this place so damn clean.” Al sat on a bar stool, taking in Colin’s kitchen.
Colin knew he was a neat freak. It was probably a control issue. In the joint you had no say over your environment. You shit and showered when they told you to. No privacy whatsoever. When he’d first gotten out, just using real eating utensils—metal forks and knives, instead of the standard-issue plastic prison spoon—took adjusting to.
“I want to talk to you about this whole thing,” Al said, watching Colin flip an omelet. The room had filled with the scent of bacon.
Colin didn’t have too many good memories of his childhood, but sizzling bacon was one of them. If he could smell it wafting through the cottage into his bedroom, it meant that his mother hadn’t been too drunk to get out of bed. “You want coffee?”
“I’m fine. That stuff the chief had was good caffeine. You got any juice?” Colin pulled a jug out of the refrigerator and poured Al a glass.
“You did good calling me like that, Colin. A lot of guys get scared and wind up making it worse for themselves. You kept your head. Hell, boy, you’ve already beaten the odds.”
Most ex-cons didn’t make it past three years before screwing up and getting thrown back in. Colin had been on the outside for nearly four years.
“Then again, you never were like the rest of them,” Al said, hovering over the plate Colin had pushed in front of him. “Always a fish out of water. But, son, you have to make a life for yourself. The furniture, the carpentry, this house—all good. All anchors. But I like that you’re finally getting yourself a social life. This newspaper reporter, she good people?”
That was parole speak for, Does she have a sheet? A drug or alcohol problem? Basically, can this woman get you in trouble?
“Pure as the driven snow.” Colin handed Al a couple of napkins. “Don’t talk to her, Al. She’s just a neighbor who occasionally invites me to things. She doesn’t know about my past and I want to keep it that way.”
Al nodded in acquiescence. It wasn’t like him. He never skimped on the job. As much as he advocated for you, Al was a hard-ass. Part of his job was keeping an eye on Colin’s friends and family and making sure they weren’t bad influences. For whatever unfathomable reason, Al had decided to make a concession this time. For Colin.
“What makes you think she doesn’t know?” he asked Colin.
Because if she did, Harlee wouldn’t want anything to do with him. “I just know. She’s from a nice family. Dad’s a doctor and mom owns a store. Her brother is a cop.” He looked at Al pointedly.
“The chief is a cop. He seems to like you.” Al wiped up the rest of his omelet with his muffin and popped it into his mouth.
“His wife likes me,” Colin said. “I helped restore her inn.”
“Even more reason not to like you.” Al let out a harsh laugh, and Colin got the impression that he might’ve had a bad experience in that area.
“This neighbor the one who told you about the acupuncture?” There went Al again with his spooky powers of deduction.
“Yeah,” Colin said.
Al got off his stool, went to the sink, rinsed his plate, and put it in the dishwasher. “I’ve gotta go.” He slapped Colin on the back. “Glad we could have this talk. Stay out of trouble.”
Colin waited to hear the door click closed and Al’s tires on the gravel road before going into the mudroom to get his jacket. Searching the pocket, he found the note, unfolded it, and read.
Where are you? I’ve been calling like crazy and even came by your house right after you left the Ponderosa last night. Came by this morning too. But you weren’t there. Please let me know you are okay. I’m very worried.
Harlee
Colin noted this time there were no hugs and kisses. Colin banged his head against the pine log wall. What the hell was he supposed to tell her?
Chapter 15
If Harlee didn’t hear from Colin by noon, she planned to put out an all-points bulletin. Or at least she’d get Wyatt to do it. Or maybe even the chief. He’d seen the whole thing go down. He kn
ew how freaked out Colin had been.
Now that Harlee had had time to think about it, she’d come to the conclusion that a combination of his demophobia—the crowd had been elbow to elbow—and seeing Hunter Boy maul her had strained him to the limits. It was the only way to explain his feral behavior. Especially taking off like that at the end.
In the meantime, she kept herself occupied by running a background check for DataDate. Even on holidays, the Internet remained open. And so far, everything about Paula Duggan’s boyfriend had checked out. Except one crucial problem.
According to his social security number, Eric Wong was dead.
She’d already had Paula double- and triple-check the number. Finally, out of frustration, she picked up the phone, called Brad, and explained the situation.
“Either it’s a mistake,” Brad said, “or the guy got himself a fake green card. It happens all the time. Let me guess: He works in Silicon Valley.”
“Yep,” Harlee said. “How much trouble can he get into if he’s caught?”
“Look, I’m not ICE, but it’s a pretty good guess that he’d be deported.”
Eric might not be a bad person, but if he got deported, he’d be geographically undesirable. And that would seriously suck for Paula. “Thanks, Brad. And happy New Year.”
“You too, Harveyleigh.” He always called her that. It used to bug the bejesus out of her; now it just made her laugh.
She heard someone knocking on the door, quickly got off the phone, and ran down the stairs. Colin!
“I was getting ready to call search and rescue,” she said, pulling him across the threshold and shutting the door. “Where’s Max?”
“Home,” he said.
“I’m so glad you’re okay. Where’ve you been?”
“After I left the Ponderosa I went for a drive. Tried to cool off.” He ran his thumb along her cheek. “Did he hurt you, Harlee?”
“Hardly. He was a drunken troll. Nothing I couldn’t handle.” Not exactly true. Until Colin had come along, she’d been in a bit of a fix.
