by Olson, Mal
“The boards on the deck need replacing. And I intend to install new countertops in the kitchen.” Eventually, he’d get rid of the olive green appliances, but for now they served their purpose.
“If you want to earn your supper, you could win some points with Rambo by taking over the daily brushing ritual. The brush is over by the door.”
****
Her canine buddy shadowed her while she retrieved his brush, and when she sat on the floor, he stood next to her, statue still, and all but purred with the first stroke over his thick fur. As she continued brushing, Brandy thought about all the dingy days at the shelter for homeless juveniles, the grim walls and cramped space in her room at the state boarding school. She felt the familiar empty hollow sensation in her chest… would she ever feel like she belonged in a place like this?
“So you like this, huh, big guy?”
Rambo nuzzled her hand, an impatient nudge meant to keep the action going. She continued stroking his silky coat, finally working her way around to his chest.
He sang a little song, and his crooning kept her hand stroking until her stomach started to growl from the aroma of food wafting through the house. This is what home feels like. Warmth spread through her chest, erasing the hollow feeling. But home was a place that belonged to others, and she’d never felt anything like the sensations bombarding her at the moment as she sat in her FTO’s great room. Brushing his dog. Blade cooking for her.
Rambo lavished the back of her hand with a barrage of wet kisses.
“What a handsome brute you are.” Admiring his shiny coat, she set the brush aside and swiped at hairs that had collected on her uniform trousers.
Rambo stood posed beside her, a soldier at attention.
“What?”
He woofed and tipped his head.
“You are a mooch. That’s it for now, boy.”
Still, he worked it and nestled on his belly beside her, his big dark eyes entreating her.
“Hey, you two, break it up. Soup’s on.” Blade set down two plates of spaghetti buried in a thick sauce. “I’ll get the garlic bread out of the oven.”
She moved to the kitchen sink and helped herself to the bottle of liquid soap. “You really know how to spoil a girl.” Lathering up, she noted that Blade had changed into jeans and a T–shirt, which clung to the honed muscles of his chest.
The man was total eye candy. How was a women supposed to control her craving for something that sweet?
“Would you like a beer or a glass of wine?” he asked.
“No thanks, I don’t drink.” Not anymore. The school of self–survival had taught her to stay away from alcohol. “I saw too many kids progress from booze to weed and then cocaine, heroin, and God only knows what.”
He nodded and hesitated. “Do you mind if I have a beer? If it’s a problem I won’t—”
“Go ahead.”
He opened the green refrigerator, pulled out a cool one, and turned to study her. “You’re a tough one to figure out.”
She swallowed and looked away. “Not really.”
“Um, about your mom… If you want to talk about…”
“I don’t”
“I think there’s stuff buried inside, and if you’d let it out, it’d help.”
She shrugged.
“You know, Brandy, baggage can affect a person in a lot of ways. I don’t want to see that load on your back keep you from becoming the best deputy you can be.”
“My history won’t keep me from doing my job.” She strode to the table. “Hey, I’m starving, and this looks good enough to eat.”
Blade followed, and she sat, immediately digging into the mountain of pasta. “Ummm.”
After a couple of minutes, she glanced up, and to her mortification found Blade leaning against the back of his chair, still studying her, making her feel like she was the star of Oliver.
“This is excellent.” She set down her fork and pretended to chew the food she’d already inhaled. Great, what next? Would she break out into a chorus of Food, Glorious Food? “Sorry. You’d think this was the first square meal of my life.” Sup, sup, suppertime.
“It’s been a long time since lunch,” Blade jabbed his fork into his pasta.
“Yeah, mountain air… gives you an appetite.” The truth was, attorney fees had left her food allowance on the slim side. Until her next paycheck, her cupboard was down to Ramen noodles and canned tuna.
But food lost its priority when Blade brought the amber bottle to his mouth and closed his lips over the rim. Her mouth tingled from the mere thought of those lips closing on hers. She got lost watching the way the muscles in his throat worked as he swallowed.
FTO. FTO. FTO. Her brain scrolled the no–fraternizing rules across the screen in her head, the ticker–tape message loud and clear.
Fraternizing—a novel way of describing what she wanted to do with Blade Beringer. She pried her gaze away from her field training officer as Rambo settled at her feet and let out a soft contented whimper.
“Looks like you’ve got my dog wrapped around your finger.”
“What? I think it’s the other way around.”
“No kidding, he’s never taken to anyone like this before.”
“Smart dog.”
“He’s an excellent judge of character.”
“Or a pushover for anyone who lavishes him with attention.”
“He knows a good woman when he sees one.”
Brandy tamped down the warm feeling Blade’s comment induced and tried to ignore the way his hair played in curls across his forehead as she shoved the last forkful of spaghetti into her mouth.
“More garlic bread?” He held out the plate.
“If you insist.”
He laughed. “Knock yourself out.”
Once she’d polished off her food, she blotted her lips with a napkin. “Thanks, that was great.” She glanced toward the sink. “I’ll do the dishes.”
“No need to. Believe it or not, that green machine over there actually works.” He jumped up and grabbed their plates. At the sink rinsing dishes, Blade said over his shoulder, “Sorry, I don’t have anything planned for dessert.”
She clamped her mouth shut. Not touching that one. Not even with a long–handled spoon… Really, why did she have to twist everything he said? Because he’s hot, and sometimes, like ninety percent of the time, the look in his eyes filled her with molten lust.
But you’re stronger than that.
She stood and grabbed her silverware, spun around, and collided face to shoulder with the object of her frustration. A reflex backward jerk sent her stumbling over Rambo’s tail. And oh, Lord in heaven, the next instant she was in Blade’s arms, her nose pressed against his pulsing throat, her breasts tight against the hard wall of muscle that was his chest. A warm, earthy, fragrance like mountain pine filled her lungs.
Heat shot through her, heat that the air conditioning hadn’t a prayer against. With her heart hammering in rhythm with his, with his body welded to hers, the man in the slim–cut jeans sent her willpower wheeling. Her body mutinied as her pulse throbbed low in her groin.
For a second, she considered exploring what lay beneath the denim. Teeny little briefs. She’d bet money on it. Probably fire engine red.
Rookies can get their asses kicked out of this department for a lot less then exploring what’s under their FTO’s jeans.
Aw, hell. Get out of my head already, Christiansen.
But the message struck and stuck. She broke loose. Took a breath and stepped backward, reeling from the close encounter.
“Skip Coogan… we really should talk about him.”
As a mood breaker, her stepfather’s name worked wonders. Blade stiffened and stepped back, stuffing his hands into his pockets, expanding the distance between them until they were suddenly miles apart. “What about him?” His expression couldn’t have been more unnerving, his eyes suddenly focused in a defensive glower.
Brandy wished she’d kept her mouth shut and th
at she was still on the receiving end of Blade’s usual warm expression rather than the stone cold threat darkening his face. But when it came to justice or righting an injustice, nothing and no one could intimidate her. She’d already put off the Skip Coogan discussion far too long. “I don’t think you know him as well as I do.”
Rambo barked, a growl rumbling in his chest. He charged the patio door, then ran toward Blade and sat at alert, awaiting his command. A second later, a flicker of lightning flashed against the darkening sky. Rambo must have sensed the brewing storm.
The next instant, the patio door exploded. Oh my God, the dog had sensed more than the storm.
Brandy lurched back from a hailstorm of glass that spewed over a small throw rug, over Rambo’s bowl, and over the wood flooring. A rock that had skidded across the satin–finished hickory landed at her feet. She jumped then lunged toward Rambo, dodging the mess, attempting to keep him from walking through the shards of glass. With one hand, Blade grabbed Rambo’s collar and with the other, he nudged Brandy aside.
Through the jagged opening in the center of the glasspane, a fiery cross glowed from the field beyond. It blazed against the ominous, cloud–brimmed sky, burning dangerously close to the small storage barn. Uncomfortably close to the forest of thirsty summer pines and acres of dry tinder.
“Damn it!” Blade yelled on his way out the side door with Rambo at his heels. “Call it in.”
Brandy dialed 911, then rushed outside, following Blade and Rambo.
“It sure as hell didn’t take them long to find out where I live.” Blade grabbed the garden hose that was hooked up to the spigot on the side of the house and shouted, “Crank that faucet, will you?” He ran toward the flaming cross, gripping the nozzle trigger. At the same time, Rambo took off, chasing the taillights of a vehicle, unidentifiable in the shadowy dusk as it bounced down the drive, speeding away.
“Rambo, nein! Hier!”
At Blade’s command, the dog halted, but his gaze remained locked on the shrinking red dots. Meanwhile, Brandy struggled with the rust–gummed faucet until the aged rubber hose bulged as water burst through. She ran to help Blade, who had dragged the hose its full length—had to be over a hundred and fifty feet. He started spraying. “Grab a shovel from over by the fence.”
When she returned with the shovel, Blade handed her the hose, and he began throwing dirt on flames licking the dry grass that bordered the forest. Brandy squeezed the nozzle of the hose and drenched the ground on the leading edge of the fire.
Soot mixed with sweat on Blade’s back while Brandy’s shirt glued itself to her skin.
At last, Blade smothered the last bit of flame gulping at one lone tuft of half–burnt prairie grass. Brandy ran back to what was left of the cross and aimed the hose, drenching the pile of charred sticks until Blade took the nozzle from her, and she realized the threat was over.
They stood next to the scorched swath of earth, staring at each other, listening to the wail of fire trucks. The drama was over. Thousands of acres of pristine timber had been spared devastation.
The Neo Nazis had issued a warning, and the sheriff’s department wasn’t going to ignore it nor give in to it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
All that was left of the fire and the roughly assembled cross were a couple of embers, twinkling in the dusk. The firefighters double–checked the perimeters to make sure there was no sign of flames in the grassy area between Blade’s meadow and the forest, and then left.
The disaster had been averted.
“Hell, these guys are working really hard at pissing me off.” Blade found himself staring at Brandy catching her breath, her face dirty, her forehead sweaty. Now that the imminent threat was over, his thoughts rolled back to what she’d been about to say before that rock had come crashing through his door.
“Yeah, I’m with you on that.”
Their long–awaited conversation loomed like a wraith in the smoky aftermath. What the hell was she going to accuse Coogan of? Dread churned in his stomach. As a cop, he’d seen the worst, and his mind spun with possible scenarios.
In the shadows of night, she stood three feet from him, looking bedraggled but beautiful, strong, maybe defiant, and on edge. She rubbed her arms and shivered despite the warmth of the smoke–tinged air. Part of him wanted to wrap her in his arms and hold on for dear life.
But another part pulled taut and mean across his ribs while his darkest secret hammered his brain. His biological father had molested his mother. Men like his biological father took advantage of young women, not men like Coogan.
“So what do you make of this?” Brandy’s question cut into his thoughts.
“A burning cross is the Neo Nazi’s calling card. Obviously, they’re ramping up their war against the sheriff’s department. More specifically, me.” The son of a pervert.
“This is serious. They could have burned thousands of acres of forest,” Brandy said, talking around the subject eating at Blade’s gut. His stomach continued to churn. He knew in his head that he was projecting his own issues onto Brandy’s situation, but he couldn’t shake the dread that settled over him every time he thought back to… He’d spent too many years agonizing over a man who preyed on young girls. A man who was still out there someplace. The man who had sent his mother into hiding and made life miserable for Blade. The longer Blade chewed on memories of that bastard and what he’d done to his mother, the more his resolve hardened. He’d find him. The creep couldn’t hide forever.
But Skip? No way was Skip like that piece of low–life scum.
He fisted, then flexed his hands.
Abrupt or not, he spit out the question that had taunted him since Brandy’s comments about Skip. “So, Brandy, what about Skip Coogan?”
Her eyes widened.
“Did he… you know… hurt you?”
Somehow she read his anguish. “No, it’s not anything… sexual…”
The lump in his throat dissolved and left space for cutting words to edge past. “Jesus, then what’s your big revelation? You can’t go around demeaning a man’s character, implying things—especially about a man like Coogan.”
“He testified against my mother. There was never any solid proof against her, but Skip’s statements cast enough doubt to ultimately convict her of murder on circumstantial evidence.”
“That’s it?” Blade didn’t mean to come off flippant. But he was so filled with relief, knowing her problem with Skip had nothing to do with the man’s character or integrity, that he didn’t care if his remark upset her.
She heaved a sigh of exasperation.
He heaved it back. “Sometimes a man’s got to do what’s right, no matter the consequences.” And no matter how much Brandy wanted to clear her mother’s name, Blade wasn’t going to allow her to do so by defaming the man who was the closest thing he’d ever had to a real father.
“There’s more.”
Blade crossed his arms over his chest and silently waited for her to continue.
“I think he could have… been part of the frame–up against her.”
You think? “And you came up with this theory when?” The words came out more calmly than he’d thought possible after an accusation like that.
Her glance fell away. “When I was eleven.”
He scrubbed his hand across his face and almost laughed. Ridiculous. Remaining silent, he waited for her to build her case. She didn’t. And the longer Blade chewed on her accusation, the more it agitated him. Likewise, the longer he gazed into her eyes, the more he realized she was dead serious. The stench of the allegation was so potent it smothered the remaining tinge of smoke in the air.
Even so, Blade refused to turn this into an angry debate.
“Jesus…” What eleven year old would believe their mother was guilty of murder? “And have you uncovered anything that would justify reopening the case?”/
“I’m working on it.”
“But a jury convicted your mother on evidence presented in a court of law. T
hat means twelve men and women had no reasonable doubt about her guilt.”
“Because Skip lied. He lied about so many things. He lied about misplacing his gun.”
“And you know that because ?”
“For one thing, I know my mother. I know she would never have murdered anyone.” She stood, pinning him with a look of pure determination. “Evidence was mishandled during the trail. And there were questions about the actual whereabouts of Skip’s friend Joey Secada, his alibi, that night. Someone claimed they saw Secada in Madison, seventy–five miles away from the murder scene in Milwaukee.”
When he didn’t reply, she huffed away, hiked to the faucet, and gave it an angry twist. She silently startled when the pipes retaliated with a noisy thud.
Blade took a couple more beats to sort his thoughts. As he studied the sun–bleached curls scattered across Brandy’s damp uniform shirt, he saw in his mind the very young girl she’d been at the time. A girl who had lived through immeasurable heartache. She’d witnessed her mother’s murder trial and heard a judge sentence her to prison. And apparently she’d become determined to take the world on her eleven–year–old shoulders.
Since finding that article on the computer the other night, Blade had read everything he could get his hands on about the Marilyn Abbott murder. Skip had been involved with the victim. Brandy’s mother, Skip’s wife, had discovered the affair. Even though Brandy didn’t want to believe her mother could commit murder, Blade knew human beings were capable of out–of–character violence when pushed to their limits.
He looked into the toughened yet tortured expression on her face, and his heart twisted. He had to help her find the truth, and he’d bet his life she was wrong about Skip.
Skip represented everything Blade was not, a respectable man who came from generations of honorable men who’d worn the badge before him. Running his hand across his nape, Blade slicked the damp hair curling against his neck.
“Maybe you don’t really know Skip as well as you think you do,” he said quietly, with more compassion than he knew he possessed. Long moments later, he added, “There’s a banquet in his honor Thursday night. Maybe you should come along as my guest? And renew old acquaintances?” In his heart, Blade believed that once the mature Brandy met Skip, she’d realize she was wrong about him.
