Her Colton P.I.

by Amelia Autin

  Next time? What makes you think there’ll be a next time, hot shot? The thought hit him out of the blue, and he stopped to consider it. He’d come up with some ideas for trapping the McCays when he was at the hospital this afternoon waiting for Ethan and Lizzie’s baby to be born, and they had to get going on that pretty damn quick. Now that Jim Murray had given them the go-ahead, he needed to coordinate with Annabel and Sam, who were supposed to stop by for breakfast tomorrow. If they were successful, in less than a week Holly wouldn’t need his protection anymore. Which meant she’d be free to...return to her old life. Her old life outside Houston, more than three hundred miles away.

  Devastation sliced through him—another shock. He didn’t want Holly to leave; he wanted her to stay. And Ian and Jamie, too. He’d realized this afternoon that all three had crept under his emotional fences. He just hadn’t recognized how firmly entrenched they already were in his life.

  Not even a week, the rational side of him protested. You haven’t even known her a week.

  That didn’t seem to matter—somehow he and Holly just clicked. Not only in bed, although he couldn’t believe how perfectly matched they were, as if she were made for his earthy brand of loving. He had no doubt he’d pleased her, too—no way could she fake her response, especially the last time. But their sexual chemistry had its roots in something deeper. He wasn’t sure what to call it, but a connection existed between them. An emotional connection.

  He examined that word—emotional—and acknowledged that somehow it fit. Problem was, he wasn’t sure exactly what it meant to him. Even worse, he wasn’t sure what it meant to Holly.

  * * *

  The pealing of the doorbell woke them. Holly unwrapped herself from where she’d migrated in the night—splayed across Chris’s chest—and pushed her tousled hair out of her eyes. She clutched the top sheet, wrapping it firmly around her. When she was finally able to focus, she glanced at the clock on the nightstand and realized it was already close to seven thirty.

  She nudged Chris’s shoulder—the one she’d been using as her personal pillow—and said urgently, “Wake up, Chris! Someone’s at the door.”

  He awoke with a start, looking from Holly to the clock, and groaned. “It’s Annabel and Sam,” he informed her. He was out of bed in a flash, retrieving his jeans and shirt from where he’d left them hanging on the back of the bathroom door. “I forgot to tell you they’re coming to breakfast,” he said as he pulled his jeans on commando and zipped them up. His shirt was halfway on before he realized it was inside out. The doorbell pealed again and he ripped his shirt off, turned it right side out and tugged it on.

  He ran a hand through his shaggy hair—and oh, how she hated that it fell right into place as if he’d brushed it—then added, “They’re coming to have breakfast with you and me so we can make plans for catching the McCays in the act. I’ll go let them in and take them into the kitchen. You can come in after you’re dressed.”

  He was almost out the door when he turned back, snatched Holly up from the bed into his arms and kissed her senseless. He took his time about it, too. “Good morning,” he whispered when he finally raised his head. His eyes were an intense blue, and Holly couldn’t think of anything to compare them to. “Thank you for last night.” Then his expression morphed from romantic hero to hard-as-nails PI. “And for God’s sake, don’t let Annabel see that satisfied look in your eyes—she’s a bloodhound. Sam, too, but Annabel’s a woman—she’ll know exactly what put that look there.” Then he was gone.

  * * *

  “About time,” Annabel said when Chris finally opened the door barefoot. “I thought I was going to have to use my key.”

  Chris stared at her, perplexed. “When did I give you a key?”

  “You didn’t. I asked Peg, and she gave me a copy. She gave me the alarm code, too.”

  “What the—” He started to say hell but remembered just in time he was trying to break the swearing habit. He shepherded Sam and Annabel toward the kitchen while his guilty conscience gave him hell for all the times he’d said “crap” yesterday. You’re supposed to be cleaning up your language, his conscience reminded him. Not just for Susan and Bobby, but for Ian and Jamie, too.

  Annabel was still explaining about the key. “I asked Peg what her cleaning schedule was, what days of the week she came out here, and I told her I’d swing by regularly to check on her. I also told her I’d stop by every few days when she wasn’t here, just to keep an eye on the place for you.”

  Chris was touched. “Thanks, Bella.”

  Annabel said gruffly, “Just part of my job—serve and protect,” as if pretending she hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary. When they walked into the kitchen, she glanced around, then said drily, “Nice breakfast.”

  “Coming right up,” Chris told her. “You and Sam have a seat. I kind of overslept this morning.” He quickly dumped food in the dog’s dish and checked there was still water. Then he grabbed bowls from the cabinet, spoons from the drawer, and slapped them on the table. The gallon of milk from the fridge was followed by boxes of Cap’n Crunch and Cheerios from the pantry.

  “Are you frigging kidding me?” Sam asked. “Cap’n Crunch?”

  “Hey,” Chris said, feigning hurt. “It’s one of the basic food groups.”

  “I thought we’d at least be treated to your signature French toast,” Annabel said.

  “I was planning on it, but I told you, I overslept.” Chris turned back to the counter to grab a couple of paper towels for napkins when he sensed rather than heard Holly walk into the kitchen. He swung around and barely managed to keep the betraying smile off his face. She was dressed as she normally was, in jeans and a cotton blouse—a deep, rich yellow this time. But now that he knew what she looked like without her clothes...

  “Good morning,” Holly said, smiling at Annabel. Then she turned to Sam. “I’ve already met Annabel, but you must be...Sam, right? Sam Colton?” She held out her hand. “Chris said you’re a detective with the Granite Gulch Police Department. I’m Holly McCay.”

  As soon as Sam let her hand go, Holly glanced at the table and said longingly, “Ooohhh, Cap’n Crunch. I haven’t had Cap’n Crunch since I was little.” Then she reached for the Cheerios box instead. “But I shouldn’t.”

  Chris heard the regret in her voice. He poured Cap’n Crunch into a bowl and handed it to her. “Indulge. Once in a blue moon won’t hurt you.”

  “Thanks.” The smile she gave was one some women reserved for a gift of expensive jewelry, and Chris couldn’t help returning her smile.

  Out of the corner of Chris’s eye he could see Annabel’s head swivel from Holly to him and back again, and he could almost see her radar antenna quivering. Crap! He quickly amended the thought to crud, but it didn’t come anywhere near expressing his fear that Annabel had somehow divined he and Holly had slept together. Just because he’d given her a bowl of Cap’n Crunch.

  Chris tried to deflect Annabel’s attention—and Sam’s, too, for that matter, since Sam was giving him the once-over and doing the same to Holly—by saying, “Before I forget, I should tell you I went to the prison yesterday, and I got my clue.” He snorted. “Biff.”

  “Biff?” Annabel measured Cheerios into a bowl and added milk. Then she handed the cereal box to Sam. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Chris turned the coffeemaker on, leaned back against the sink and crossed his arms. “Beats the heck out of me.” He glanced at Sam. “Mean anything to you?”

  His brother shook his head. “Doesn’t seem to match the other clues. Texas. Hill. B. Peaches. Remember Trevor’s theory that Matthew buried Mama on her parents’ property in Bearson, Texas? That house sits on a hill, and there’s a peach tree in the back yard. So all those clues fit. But Biff?”

  “Sounds like a name,” Holly volunteered.

  “Yes, but...I can’t th
ink of anybody in the family by that name,” Annabel replied. “Not even if it was a nickname.” She turned to Chris. “Did you ask Trevor?”

  He stiffened. He couldn’t help it. “No,” he said curtly. “Couldn’t reach him yesterday. Left a message on his voice mail. And Ridge’s, too.” Annabel looked as if she were going to take him to task over his attitude toward Trevor, but he cut her off, warning, “Don’t start, Bella. You can ask him if you want.”

  Which effectively ended that conversation. Chris’s gaze moved from Annabel to Sam, who had his head down and his attention focused on his breakfast. Then Chris’s gaze ended up on Holly. She was acting as if nothing was wrong, but she’d poured cereal into a bowl for him—his beloved Cap’n Crunch—and was adding milk. Just as if he were as young as her twins. Their eyes met, and for a moment they were alone in the room. “Eat your breakfast,” she said eventually in a composed voice. Her “Mommy” voice, which she used with Ian and Jamie.

  A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Yes, ma’am.”

  * * *

  Sam and Annabel had left an hour ago, promising to start setting their end of things in motion. Holly was talking with her sons on the phone in the master bedroom. Wally at his feet, Chris was sitting in his office, brooding. Not over the plans they’d made about the McCays, but about his clue, Biff. And about Trevor.

  A voice from the doorway said, “Want to tell me what that was all about?”

  He swiveled around in his chair. He didn’t ask “What do you mean?” because he knew. “Trevor and I have...issues.”

  “No! Really?” Holly said in a fake shocked tone. She moved into the room and took a seat on the sofa. Wally bounded over, tail wagging, and Holly scratched him behind his ears. “Want to talk about it?”

  He did and he didn’t. He knew what Holly would say. The same thing Annabel said—he wasn’t being fair to Trevor. And he didn’t want Holly to think he was holding on to a grudge like an eleven-year-old kid...although he was.

  He sighed. “It’s ancient history. And I know I should let it go. I know that. Annabel has told me often enough. But—”

  “But you can’t.”

  He shook his head.

  “So what is it you can’t let go?”

  He didn’t answer right away, tying to marshal his thoughts into some kind of order. Finally he said, “Trevor is three years older than me. I practically worshipped him as far back as I can remember. He could do anything in my eyes. And he was a great brother. I mean, he never seemed to mind when I tagged along after him, although three years is a pretty big gap in children’s ages. He taught me to read when I was four. How to slide into second base when I was seven. How to throw a perfect spiral when I was nine, even though my hands weren’t big enough to really hold the football right. He taught me so much...” The memories were all coming back to him, making his throat ache.

  “So what happened?” The gentle, nonjudgmental way she asked the question told him she didn’t want to know because she was curious. She wanted to give him the opportunity to talk about something he’d kept bottled up inside him for years.

  “My father murdered my mother, that’s what happened,” he said flatly. “All seven of us were sent to separate foster homes. I was eleven. Trevor was fourteen.” He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat that belonged to the eleven-year-old boy he’d been. “Trevor never made any attempt to stay in touch with me. I saw him a few times a year, but never at his instigation. Only during court-mandated visitation we all had with Josie at her foster parents’ home. And when Josie decided she didn’t want to see us anymore, that was it.”

  “Oh, Chris.” Two little words that spoke volumes about Holly’s tender heart.

  “That’s not all of it,” he told her. “The story is that when Trevor turned eighteen he tried to get custody of Josie—the baby of our family. She was only seven at the time. But I always wondered just how hard he really tried before he headed off to college.”

  Holly’s eyes closed as if she were holding back sudden tears, a conjecture that was confirmed when she opened her eyes again and they glistened. “What did Trevor say when you asked him?”

  “I never asked him.”

  There was a long silence. Then softly, “Why not?”

  Why hadn’t he asked Trevor? When Chris had finally reconnected with all his brothers, why hadn’t he asked Trevor why he’d abandoned him? Why hadn’t he asked him about Josie?

  “Because...” Because why? he asked himself. “Because a grown man doesn’t ask another grown man those questions.”

  “Oh, Chris.” The same two words she’d said before but this time was slightly different. Even though the maternal tenderness was there, even though he could hear how she ached for the lost and bewildered eleven-year-old boy he’d been as well as the man he was, there was also a note of something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Then it came to him. It was the same way all the women in his life had from time to time said, “Men!” As if the workings of the male mind were incomprehensible to women, and their feelings about it could be condensed down into one word that all other women automatically understood.

  Despite the emotions churning inside him, something about it tickled his funny bone. “Stupid, huh?”

  “Not stupid.” She looked down at Wally at her feet and scratched his head again. “But if you never ask, you’ll never know.” She raised her eyes to his. “And I think you need to know, Chris, one way or the other. You need closure. Just like you need to know where your mother is so you can bring her home. So you can give her a decent burial. Just like you need to find out what happened to Josie. Closure. You’ll never rest until you have it. One way or the other. Think about it.”

  She stood and snapped her fingers at Wally, who immediately rose. “Come on, boy,” she said. “I think it’s time to let you outside.”

  Chris stared at the door through which Holly had just left, thinking about what she’d said, and realized she was right in one way. But she was wrong, too. Because there was another reason he’d never asked his brother why he’d abandoned him—he was afraid to know the answer. Because the answer might be...that Chris hadn’t been worth the effort.

  Chapter 14

  After lunch Chris told Holly, “I need to take a ride out to my grandparents’ place to check on something. It’s about an hour from here, in Bearson. Come with me?”

  It was worded as a question, but Holly knew it wasn’t really. Chris didn’t want to leave her alone in the house, not even with an alarm system and Wally to protect her. Thinking of the dog made her ask, “What about Wally?”

  “We’ll take him with us. He can run free to his heart’s content out there—the house sits on a hill overlooking several acres.”

  “Okay.”

  “Need to call Ian and Jamie before we go?”

  Holly was touched Chris had asked, but she shook her head. “I called them right before lunch. They’re having a blast. And besides, Peg has my cell phone number. I hardly ever use it—”

  “I know.”

  He knew because he’d been hired to find her. The reminder made her shiver, wondering what would have happened if the McCays had hired a different private investigator, one without the strong moral conscience that was such a large part of Chris’s makeup. She sent up a little prayer of thanks that Chris had been the one who’d found her and the twins. And that he’d taken them under his protection.

  “Well...anyway,” she said, “Peg has my number if anything comes up, and she knows to call me.”

  “And we won’t be that far away,” he reminded her.

  “Right.” She smiled. “When did you want to leave? And is what I’m wearing okay?”

  The wicked gleam in his eye as he looked her over sent warmth surging through every part of Holly’s body, reminding her of last night. The way he wouldn�
��t let her be shy with him. Especially the last time, when he’d coaxed her into letting him do unspeakable things to her body. Unspeakable things she wished he would do again. And again. But all he said was “If you’ve got boots, wear them. Otherwise you’re fine. Five minutes okay?”

  * * *

  Chris had laid a blanket down in the back of his truck and had fastened Wally’s leash to the side when Holly came out of the house, tugging the door closed behind her. “You want to lock this, Chris? And I don’t know how to set the alarm.”

  He quickly hooked Wally’s collar to the leash, then jumped down and headed to the house. “You should have reminded me to explain about the alarm the first day. All you do is this,” he said, showing her, then making her repeat the six-digit code after him. He locked the door and resettled his black Stetson on his head. “You ready?”

  They drove west, picking up US-380 and crossing over the southern tip of Lake Bridgeport, then through Runaway Bay. At Jacksboro they switched to TX-114. The truck ate up the miles—Holly smiled a little to herself and didn’t say a word about the speed-limit signs they passed. But she trusted Chris and his driving, so she wasn’t unduly worried they were going a good ten miles per hour over the limit.

  He slowed as they drove through the little town of Jermyn, then resumed his earlier speed. “You seem to know the way,” she said for something to say.

  “I’ve been here before. We visited my mother’s parents every couple of months when I was a kid. But after Matthew mur—after we went into foster care, no. And my mother’s death was the death knell for my grandparents. They went downhill quickly after that, is what I heard, and I never saw them again. I didn’t even know they were ailing—but that’s probably why we had to go into foster care permanently—they weren’t able to take care of us. They passed away a month apart.”

  He was silent for a moment. “My brothers and sisters and me—we own the place now. No one wants to live there, but no one can bear to sell the place because it’s where Mama grew up. We all chip in to pay the taxes and the upkeep—well, not Josie but the rest of us. And we rent out the acreage to the farmer across the road, who keeps an eye on the house for us—vacant houses are easy targets for vandals and migrants—we gave him a fair reduction on the rent to do that.”