TroubleToysTemptingCowboys

by Jennifer LaRose

  But she didn’t want him to go.

  God, she thought she’d found happiness. But just that quickly, it had been stripped away. Why? Why did life throw bad situations in with the good? Why was the bad so devastating? It wasn’t as if she’d violated any law—she faced murder charges. How? How was that even possible? Who hated her so much they wanted her in jail? Who stole her supply case and planted the murder weapon inside? Why hadn’t she insisted Detective Gowen or Officer Wilson to examine her front door for tampering? If they found any visible marks now, they’d assume she’d intentionally created them to save her own ass. Yes, she definitely needed a good lawyer.

  Did court-appointed attorneys give their all in defense cases, or was it just another paycheck to them? She’d been handed a bad rap. She needed someone who specialized in murder. The option to sell her car was open, but that would unravel an entirely new string of problems.

  She slipped into her shoes, grabbed her purse and left the apartment, double-checking the locked door behind her. Today’s lunch break would consist of skimming the yellow pages for a specialty attorney. Somehow, someway, she’d collect the money, even if it meant squatting down and kissing her brother’s ass for a loan. No, she wanted no part of that. He wouldn’t agree unless she promised to make amends with his mother. There wasn’t enough money in the world for that.

  * * * * *

  Brock tossed the map on the passenger’s seat of his truck and backed up the long, paved driveway to the abused children’s shelter. He’d spent all morning on the phone, pulling teeth and promising favors to Sheriff McNeely to obtain the specific address. It sat about eight miles south of Tiff’s place. He hadn’t realized the kids were hidden in seclusion for safety purposes until the sheriff explained things. It made sense though. And now that Brock agreed to let McNeely hang him by the balls if he spilled the address to anyone, he’d be mighty careful keeping his trap shut.

  After exiting the truck and trudging up two concrete porch steps, he rang the bell. A petite blonde woman answered the door, standing cautiously behind the metal partition while peeking her head around the edge. “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m here to drop off a donation. Is Tiffany Stoler available?”

  “Just a moment, please,” she said, closing the door. The lock clicked.

  Tiff had better show herself, or he’d park his ass on the road and wait for her shift to end. The woman had a lot of explaining to do. Not only had she not shown up for dinner yesterday, but she hadn’t answered any of his calls. At eight o’clock last night, he’d taken a trip to her place. She’d told him firmly through the door to go back home. He’d turned his ass around and marched to his truck, no questions asked. But the brush-off had weighed on his shoulders all damn night long. If he’d done something wrong, he deserved to know what it was.

  He glanced at the building and the property surrounding the single-story house. Spacious additions had been built on the northern and southern ends. The red bricks were a shade darker than those on the original structure. Trees and bushes lined the ditch, concealing the entire house. Children’s voices and laughter echoed in the distance. He imagined they were playing out back behind the tall privacy fence. One day he wouldn’t mind having two or four kids prancing around his farm.

  The lock clicked and the door opened. “What are you doing here?” was asked at his back. “We don’t allow visitors without prior arrangements.”

  “I’m not visiting. I’m donating.” He took a long hard look at Tiff in her navy blue business suit. Mentally, he whistled through his teeth. She looked good despite bloodshot eyes and puffy lids. A little bit of black makeup was smudged beneath her bottom lashes.

  Her upper lip took on a sudden quiver. “How’d you find the shelter? I never told you the location.”

  “Connections.” The visual of a rope tied around his testicles caused his teeth to clench. “We’ll let it lie at that.” He tilted his hat, making contact with her gaze, but she immediately looked down at the concrete porch. “I recall telling you once to say goodbye if you chose not to see me again. I reckon you owe me an explanation.”

  She folded her arms across her waist. Nodding slightly, she squeezed her elbow, her knuckles whitening. Her teeth chattered, but the outside temperature topped ninety-nine degrees, so it wasn’t because she’d caught a chill. “I’m sorry, Brock.”

  “I’m not in search of an apology, Tiff.”

  “I haven’t been able to function much during the past couple of days. I don’t want to tell you goodbye, but…” She spun, offering a view of her back. Her head bowed and shoulders jerked slightly.

  The but knotted the pit of his stomach. Being told to take a hike oozed from that single little word. “I reckon you thought by ignoring me I’d just go away?”

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “I don’t work that way. You knew before ever wrapping those long legs around my hips that if you want rid of me, you have to tell me to my face.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not what I want. It’s what’s best.”

  “What brought you to that conclusion?”

  “This isn’t the appropriate time or place to talk about this.” She sighed. “I’ll call you later. What are you donating?”

  “It’s in the back of the truck.” He glanced at the brand new, sparkling white washing machine hitched in the bed. “Tell me where to haul it, and I’ll be on my way.”

  She lifted her head. Seconds later, she turned around. Her mouth dropped open and big teardrops filled her eyes. She stepped close, took hold of his hand and squeezed. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  A tear slid down her cheek, but she swiped it away quickly as if hoping he hadn’t noticed.

  “Just doing my part for the kids.”

  Before he took his next breath, she wrapped her arms around his back and rested her face on his chest. Her shoulders racked as a bucketful of tears found a home in his shirt. Damn, he’d never witnessed her sensitive side. It tugged on his heart.

  He rested his chin on the top of her head and stroked the soft hair along her back. It smelled as fresh as rain. “Now, don’t get all soft on me, darlin’. I enjoyed helping you wash clothes. I’m just trying to simplify things for you. You shouldn’t be lugging piles of clothes home.”

  She brought her hands forward and fisted his denim collar. Sluggishly, she shook her head back and forth. “It’s not that.”

  “Then what is it?”

  Her fists tightened to the point he thought they’d rip through his shirt. “I’m a suspect in Mr. Woodenhaven’s murder.”

  His hands halted and shoulders stiffened. “I reckon I didn’t hear you clearly.” He gripped her biceps, holding her at an arm’s length.

  Her gaze dropped to her feet. ”They said I’m a person of interest. I see no difference between the two.”

  “Hell, Tiff.” He paused to lift her chin with an index finger. “Where’d they come up with that bullshit?”

  “They found one of my supply cases in his apartment.”

  “How’d it get there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, shit, that’s not enough to pin you with his murder.”

  She batted tears from her lashes. It trickled down the apple of her cheek, and she once again hurried to wipe it away. “The murder weapon was inside it. It matches my kitchen knives. They confiscated them and my case. Someone is setting me up.”

  “All they need to do is test it for fingerprints.”

  “Are you crazy?” Her eyes widened. “If it’s one of mine, they’ll find my fingerprints all over it. What am I going to do?”

  “Did you tell them you’d spent the evening with me?”

  She removed his finger from her chin and squeezed his hand between both of her palms. “Yes.”

  “I’d be willing to set them straight on a few facts.”

  “They know who you are. For some reason they haven’t called to check out my alibi.” She brought h
is hand to her cheek, settling his palm tightly against her skin as if seeking restitution in his touch. Her eyes fluttered shut. “I don’t want you involved. It’s why I’ve been avoiding you.”

  “Damn it, Tiff, don’t shut me out. Let me help.”

  Her eyes shot open. “What if I go to jail? The police would have arrested me Saturday night if I hadn’t promised not to flee.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I just explained why. Why should I disrupt your life as well? It’s better if I break away from you now rather than being forced away later.”

  “There will never be a good time to break away.” If she only knew the impact she’d made on his life. He’d evolved from her one-night protector to friend and lover. Not a single minute within the past eleven days had gone by without wanting her in one form or another, whether he’d been naked in the shower, or baling hay. Until she’d walked through Bobby’s front door, he hadn’t realized how lonely his life had been.

  He enjoyed the daily physical labor on the farm, turning a dollar, and the solitude of his humble home. At times, when he craved a bit of excitement, he used to drive into town for a few drinks, and maybe some female companionship. But Tiff had turned those things around a bit.

  Nah, his life wasn’t pitiful—it just wasn’t as rewarding or full as he thought it might be at his age. At thirty-two, he had a lot of good things going on. Now with Tiff in his favor, he was starting to feel fulfilled. “Let’s keep our wits about us, and take things a day at a time.”

  “But if I’m convicted of murder—“

  He placed an index finger over her lips. “We’re not going to let those type of thoughts hound us.”

  “But they suggested I hire a good attorney. I can’t. I don’t have the money.”

  He pulled her to his body, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist. “I’ll hire the best attorney this side of Texas.”

  “No! I won’t let you do that. It could cost thousands of dollars.”

  “I’m not worried about the money, Tiff.”

  “But you barely know me. Why would you do that?”

  He rubbed her neck in little circles. Damn, she was tense. With good reason. “I reckon I kind of like you.”

  “Well, I kind of like you too, but it doesn’t mean I’m going to take your money.”

  “Then we’ll consider it a loan. I imagine we can work out some type of payment plan.”

  She stepped out of his arms, wiping her eyes. “I have to get back to the children. We’ll finish talking about this later.”

  “Show me where to drop that washer.”

  After loading it onto a dolly and walking it off the truck down a plywood ramp he’d borrowed from Trevor, he hauled it to a small utility room attached to the back of the house, separate from the kid’s section. Tiff stood in the doorway while he set it in place between a utility tub and a dryer. He imagined she watched his every move while he hooked it up. He didn’t mind. His denims were known to have taken her mind off troubles once before. With his ass sticking in the air and upper body working beneath the utility tub, he reckoned he’d offered her an enhanced view.

  Hell, he hated witnessing her upset, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do. His hands were tied. Murder? He hadn’t known her long, but knew she wouldn’t kill a spider if it bit her, let alone a human. “I’m all done,” he said as he stood, shoving wrenches and screwdrivers in his back pocket. “How about dinner at my place? We’ll finish our discussion then.”

  She was chewing on her thumb nail, staring at the floor, but gave a quick nod.

  He closed the gap between them in three long strides. “Are you going to show this time?”

  She nodded again as he slid his fingers beneath her hair, settling them on the back of her neck. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure this out,” he said, pressing his lips to her forehead. He’d tried giving her a touch of hope, but that was probably easier said than done. One hell of a boulder full of unease sat on his shoulders. She was correct in stating her fingerprints would be all over the damn knife—he just hoped the fool who’d used it wasn’t smart enough to obscure their own prints.

  She gave him a gentle squeeze. “I’ll see you around six.”

  When she turned to walk off, he smacked her behind, but she didn’t even flinch. He watched her amble down a short, beige hallway. Her heels clicked the tile, but the bounce was absent from her step. Right before she’d disappeared through a door, her head slumped forward.

  Damn.

  He left the building through the back exit, walked to his truck and fired the engine. He didn’t know if she had any friends who could relieve her mind a bit. Certainly, he doubted her charming brother could. Maybe she hadn’t told him yet. Maybe she decided not to. Regardless, Brock needed to make tonight extra special.

  Fifteen minutes and six miles of road later, Trevor’s house appeared. He backed the truck to the barn and unloaded the ramp, then lingered in the driveway, kicking up gravel while waiting for Trevor to wander outside. The man always had his nose close to the window. Rarely did Brock have to knock on the door when visiting. Hell, last night, he hadn’t shut off the truck before Trevor appeared on the porch. The man made a great watchdog.

  Three minutes passed, then five without any trace of him. Brock walked to the house and knocked on the screen door. “Trevor?” No response. What the hell? He’d told him last night he’d be returning the ramp this afternoon. He didn’t want to leave the damn thing and run off. In the country, he wouldn’t think twice about returning tools with no one home.

  He knocked again. “Trevor?” After thirty seconds ticked by, he opened the door and entered the house. A blast of cool air hit him in the face. It damn near felt as if he’d stepped inside a cooler. The family room was quiet and still. In the distance, music flowed from one of the bedrooms. He followed it down the hallway. An unmistakable odor of candle wax grew strong while he approached Trevor’s bedroom door. It was partially closed. He knocked twice, which aided in sliding it open a few more inches.

  “Trevor? You in here?” Slowly, he pushed the door completely open. The curtains were drawn, but there was enough light to see Trevor lying belly-down on the bed, hands tucked beneath his head, elbows pointing outward. He was naked except for a white bath towel covering his ass. The bedspread and sheet lay bunched at the foot of the mattress. “You damn skunk, get up. I’ve been outside howling like a wild coyote, trying to get your attention.”

  Trevor didn’t move, nor utter a sound. Brock took a step into the room. A pile of clothes sat on the floor at the end of the bed. Two empty glasses and a few wine bottles were scattered on the carpet. A women’s bra and panties were strewn on the dresser.

  He took another step, situating his fingers in his mouth to whistle Trevor awake. As he moved closer, he saw a hand lying on the carpet alongside the heap of clothes. Dropping his fingers from his mouth, he walked to the foot of the bed. A naked woman with long blonde hair lay on her stomach facing the dresser, eyes closed, mouth open as if she’d lain there to go to sleep. She was mighty attractive. But the women Trevor brought home always were.

  It must have been one hell of a night. No wonder they wouldn’t wake up. Brock grinned while yanking the sheet off the bed to drape over her backside. “Pardon me, ma’am.” She didn’t stir, or at least pop open an eye. Hell, she didn’t move an inch.

  He squatted beside her and patted her hand. “Ma’am?” Hell, she was cold. Damn Trevor’s need for an overabundance of air conditioning to cool down his raging testosterone. “I reckon you might want to get up and throw on some clothes.”

  Since the pat to her hand hadn’t provoked a response, he shook her arm. God damn, not only was she cold, she was as stiff as a fucking board. What the hell? He placed his hand in front of her face. She wasn’t breathing. Gently, he laid his palm on her back, anticipating movement, but again, nothing.

  His gaze shot to Trevor. “What the hell did you do?” He’d pick the son of a bitch up by h
is hair and scrub the room with his balls if he’d hurt the woman. But that wasn’t Trevor’s nature—he was a lover. And as Brock took a closer look, he noticed Trevor shared the same peaceful expression.

  Brock froze.

  He glanced around the room. No furniture overturned. No indication of a fight. An unopened bottle of wine sat on the night table next to an open, smaller bottle. Other than their clothes, the empty bottles and glasses scattered on the floor, nothing else seemed muddled.

  He charged to the bed and palmed Trevor’s shoulder. He was just as stiff and cold. “God damn—” Brock ran to the bedroom light switch and flipped it on. Trevor’s skin was purplish-blue.

  Brock sprinted to the woman. Her skin was also discolored. “Jesus Christ!” Yanking his phone off his belt loop, he dialed 911 and headed outside.

  He wanted no part of the scene, and waited in the driveway while the police cruisers and ambulance arrived. Hell, just two days ago he’d brushed past a crime scene. But it wasn’t a friend, and he hadn’t witnessed any dead bodies. This was personal.

  Despite his quick take of the bodies, he hadn’t seen a speck of blood on either corpse, or in the room. Corpse? What the fuck was he thinking? That was his buddy inside. Trevor deserved more respect than that.

  If he could grasp his damn bearings, he might be able to think a bit. Not that analyzing the situation would do any good. But what the hell had happened in there? It appeared they’d fallen asleep peacefully and died. How was that possible?

  He ought to quit wondering and assuming things until he received facts from the police. A man couldn’t wander upon deceased people, though, and not question what had gone wrong.

  When the coroner’s van pulled in and parked behind the ambulance, Brock’s gut twisted. It’d been many years since he’d lost someone close. Seven years ago a massive heart attack took his mamma. Eleven months later, his grief-stricken pa crossed the pearly gates to find her. That man hadn’t been sick a day in his life before her death. Day by day he’d withered away from a broken heart.