Tangled Webs

by Irene Hannon

  “Anything urgent?”

  The fortyish Beaumont Police Department office manager set a square Styrofoam container on his desk. “Not unless another complaint from our resident atheist about the church bells ringing too early on Sunday merits that description.”

  “It doesn’t. What’s this?” He tapped the carton with the Walleye Café sticker plastered to the top.

  “Lunch. I didn’t have any decent leftovers from last night to bring.”

  “You don’t have to feed me, Lynette.”

  “If I don’t, you’re going to waste away. You’re too thin already—and I bet you’ve dropped another ten pounds in the past six weeks.”

  More like fifteen . . . but worry had always killed his appetite.

  “You’re going to spoil me.”

  “You could use some spoiling. You’ve had a tough row to hoe. And for the record, we’re all with you. I bend the good Lord’s ear about you and the missus every day. Lee and I put in a word for you every night during our blessing before dinner too.”

  “I appreciate that. A person can’t have too many prayers. What’s on the menu?” He tapped the container of food he didn’t want.

  “Meatloaf. Hazel said it was extra tasty today. The sides are garlic whipped potatoes and string beans. You eat every bite.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Why don’t you take your lunch out to the patio? The fresh air might perk you up. Bill’s out there.”

  Spending a half hour making conversation with one of his three full-time officers was the last thing he wanted to do. Too much effort.

  “I think I’ll go through the mail while I eat. Cross one item off my to-do list for the afternoon.”

  “Suit yourself.” She started to walk out but stopped at the door. “Oh, there was one unusual piece of mail. I didn’t open it, because it was addressed to you and marked personal and confidential. From someplace in Nebraska.”

  “That’s a little outside our jurisdiction.”

  “More than. I thought it might be from a friend or relative instead of official business.”

  “I don’t know a soul in that part of the world.”

  “Could be an old college pal or Army buddy who wants to get back in touch.”

  “Or a clever marketing ploy that’s a sales pitch for some new gadget we don’t need and can’t afford.”

  “Yeah. Like the letter we got last year from that company trying to convince us the department needed hazmat suits.” Lynette hooted. “About the only noxious material we deal with in Beaumont is Tinkerbell’s poop.”

  One side of Roger’s mouth quirked up. “How many citations have we issued to Sarah Clay for ignoring the clean-up-after-your-dog ordinance?”

  “I’ve lost count. But she’s paid enough of those twenty-five-dollar tickets to buy a bench or two for the town square, I can tell you that. Poop for benches—not a bad trade, if you ask me. And on that appetizing note, I’ll leave you to enjoy your lunch.” She exited, closing the door behind her.

  As the brief moment of levity faded, Roger sighed. Hungry or not, he had to eat. Might as well get it over with.

  Flipping up the lid of the container with one hand, he reached for the stack of mail with the other.

  A third of the way through his meal, he found the letter Lynette had mentioned, postmarked on Saturday in Linden, Nebraska. Not an ad or solicitation, based on the address that had been written in a slightly shaky hand—unless this was some new marketing gimmick.

  Curious.

  He set his fork down, slid the letter opener under the flap, and extracted two sheets of paper, also handwritten.

  The first line told him this wasn’t junk mail.

  Dear Chief Burnett: My name is Len White—and by the time you receive this, I will be dead.

  Meatloaf forgotten, he leaned back and read every word.

  Reread them.

  As he finished his second pass, his adrenaline was pinging. Could this be for real?

  Setting the letter on his desk, he scooted over to the keyboard and began googling.

  Less than ten minutes later, he closed his browser, sank back in his chair, and stared at his screen.

  Everything fit.

  Unless someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to concoct an elaborate practical joke, the letter was real.

  And if it was . . .

  Another surge of adrenaline shot through him.

  If it was . . . it could solve all his problems.

  Was it possible this was the answer to his prayer?

  No!

  As the booming denial from his conscience reverberated through his mind, Roger crimped the edges of the stationery between his fingers and acknowledged the truth. God had no hand in this. It wasn’t an opportunity but a temptation—and those came from a far different source.

  Yet how could he pass up this chance to help Leah?

  Tossing the letter on the desk, he rose and began to pace.

  It was wrong to even consider reneging on the principles he’d followed since the day he pinned on his first badge. The author of this letter expected him to abide by the law and do the honest thing.

  But maybe you don’t have to do it right away.

  He tried to tamp down the voice of temptation . . . but it was loud. Insistent. And there was some logic to it. After all, the incident described in this letter was ancient history. The course he was contemplating might not be honorable, but no one would get hurt. He could always leave this letter, with a note of his own, for someone else to address after he was gone.

  It’s still wrong, Burnett. A betrayal of public trust. You know that.

  Yeah. He did.

  The aroma of the cooling meatloaf roiled his stomach, and he strode over to his desk, shut the lid on the container, and shoved the food to the far side.

  He was a law-upholding public servant with a spotless reputation. No whiff of scandal had ever tainted him in his two decades as chief here. He always took the honorable course, did what was right.

  But . . . what was right in this case? Which was the greater good—helping Leah or taking immediate action on this letter?

  A knock sounded on his door, and his heart stumbled. Shoving the letter and envelope under the stack of unopened mail, he retook his seat and folded his hands on the desk. “Yes?”

  Lynette cracked the door and stuck her head inside. “Sorry to interrupt your lunch, but you asked me to let you know when the mayor had a few minutes. He can meet with you in ten, if that works.”

  “It works. I’ll walk down to his office.”

  She inspected the takeout container. “Tell me you ate that.”

  “Some of it. I’ll have the rest for dinner.”

  “You want me to put it in the fridge?”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” He passed the food over.

  She weighed it in her hand. “You didn’t put much of a dent in this.”

  “I wasn’t too hungry.”

  Her features softened. “Worry can do that to a body. Not this body, mind you. I keep Hershey in business when I’ve got a load on my mind, as this proves.” She patted her generous hip. “I’ll say this, though. Leah’s blessed to have you. Not many men would make that long drive day after day, month after month, to keep an eye on the situation and be certain she’s getting the best of care.”

  “Thanks.” The word scratched past his throat.

  “I’ll let the mayor know you’re about to pay him a visit.” She retreated, the remains of his lunch in hand.

  As her heels tapped down the hall, he dug the letter out from under the pile, guilt gnawing at his gut. Unless he found a way to pay the bill at Woodside Gardens, Leah wasn’t going to be getting the best of care for much longer.

  But if the information in this letter panned out, he’d be able to not only pay the overdue bill but all the bills to come—with plenty left over once Leah was gone to let Len White repay his debt to society . . . or most of it.

  Assuming, of course, th
at he was willing to compromise his principles and ignore everything he’d always professed to believe about obeying the law.

  He rose again, stuffed the letter back in the envelope, and tucked it in his pocket. After all these years, a day or two delay wouldn’t make any difference in the big scheme of things. He didn’t have to decide now.

  So he’d sleep on it. Do some research. Think the situation—and the ramifications—through in detail.

  And in the end, whatever he decided, he’d follow through without a backward glance.

  Finn McGregor was a hard worker.

  Mug of tea in hand, Dana watched from behind the repaired screen in her living room as he hoisted another rotten plank and tossed it on top of the others he’d ripped off the dock. He’d been at it for an hour and a half, moving at a steady, measured pace since he’d pulled in and unloaded the supplies from his SUV.

  And the reason she knew that?

  She’d taken far too many breaks to peek out at her volunteer handyman.

  Dana blew out a breath. This was not the best use of her time. She’d promised to have the manuscript on her computer finished by the end of the week, and she needed to hunker down if she wanted to meet that deadline.

  But Finn McGregor was one big distraction, with those alluring green eyes, biceps that spoke of long hours in the gym or physical labor, and proven heroic qualities.

  Go back to work, Dana.

  Right.

  She started to turn away . . . only to have the gray skies that had threatened rain all morning suddenly open.

  Her gaze flicked back to the figure on the dock. He stopped, scooped up his tools and jacket, and sprinted up the hill.

  Directly toward her porch.

  Lungs stalling, she backed away from the window. Watching him from a distance was fine. Up close and personal . . . much more unsettling.

  Once he clambered onto the porch, she lost sight of him—but wherever he was, he was going to get drenched. The rain was coming down in sheets, and the gusty wind was blowing it his direction.

  Ask the man in, Dana. You know he’s safe. You’ve listened to Mark’s voicemail three times.

  Except there were different kinds of safe.

  She might be physically safe with Finn McGregor, but she wasn’t as sure about her heart. The man exuded an action-figure magnetism that appealed to her.

  Which made no sense.

  If she’d come here to get away from action and excitement, to seek a quieter life, why was she attracted to a guy who radiated energy and a subtle, coiled tension that suggested he was always on high alert?

  No answer came to mind—but much as she might prefer to keep her distance, letting him get drenched by a cold rain was downright uncharitable.

  Shoring up her defenses, she marched to the door, flipped the lock, and pulled it open.

  He was standing a few feet away, back against the wall of the cabin, jacket zipped to his neck, auburn air glistening with moisture.

  “It got a little wet out there.” He gave her a half-hitch grin as he nodded toward the dock.

  “I noticed. Would you like to come in?”

  A glimmer of surprise, along with some emotion she couldn’t identify, flickered in his irises. “Yeah. Thanks.”

  Finn pushed off from the wall and she retreated into the house.

  He followed her, filling the cozy living room with a powerful presence that dominated the space.

  She moistened her lips. “Would you . . . uh . . . like something to drink?”

  “That would be great.” He eyed her half-empty mug. “Is that coffee?”

  “No. I’m partial to tea.” She shifted from one foot to the other. “But I have soda and orange juice and hot chocolate and milk . . .”

  Milk?

  Sheesh!

  Like this guy was a milk drinker.

  “I can do tea.”

  But not by choice, based on his stoic tone. A gun-brandishing man who kicked down doors to save a woman in distress probably drank black coffee with grounds in the bottom.

  “I . . . uh . . . can offer you several choices.” She walked toward the back of the cabin.

  Though his sport shoes were noiseless on the floor, she knew he was following her. His presence in her wake was almost palpable.

  She kept her back to him as she retrieved a mug, set the kettle on the stove, pulled out the basket of tea . . . and did her best to regulate her respiration.

  When she at last faced him, he was standing beside the kitchen table, looking at the computer monitor. She read the words on the screen.

  Cindy touched his face. “That’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.”

  “It was my pleasure. And so is this.”

  He grasped her hand, pulled her close, and lowered his head until their lips . . .

  Dana cringed.

  Why, oh why, had she stopped editing in the middle of a romantic scene, when there was much, much more to that book?

  Finn transferred his attention to her, his expression speculative.

  She thrust the basket of tea toward him. “Help yourself.”

  As he took it, she leaned over, shut off the monitor, and lowered the screen on her laptop. “I’m a book editor. That’s one of my projects.” As the explanation popped out, she frowned. Why had she felt the need to clarify?

  “Really?” He selected a bag of caffeinated black tea. “That sounds interesting. Do you work for a publisher?”

  “Not anymore. I used to be a senior editor, but after I came here I started freelancing.”

  “Who did you work for before?” He pulled the string loose and let the bag dangle.

  She watched the hypnotic sway of the tea bag as it swung below his lean fingers—until the kettle began to whistle, yanking her back to reality. “Let me . . . uh . . . get your hot water.”

  Pivoting away, she busied herself with the mug and the kettle, taking as long as she dared. Hoping he’d let the subject of her work history drop. She didn’t want to talk about her recent past. With him—or anyone.

  Yet if this man . . . this mesmerizing stranger who’d invaded her house and her life . . . pushed, she had a sinking feeling she might spill her guts.

  And unless Finn McGregor was as adept at handling teary-eyed women as he was at confronting would-be bad guys, he might find more than his tea bag in hot water.

  Finn took the steaming mug Dana held out to him and gave her trembling fingers a discreet perusal.

  Strange.

  Was she still spooked from Sunday night? Uncomfortable talking about her background? Freaked out by his presence in her house?

  All of the above?

  He dropped his tea bag into the water, swirling it around, giving her a chance to answer the question about her publisher as the liquid darkened.

  “I have some cookies, if you’d like a snack.”

  She was changing the subject . . . but who was he to question her dodge? There was plenty of stuff in his own background that was off-limits too.

  “I never turn down cookies.”

  “Have a seat.” She gathered up some papers at the far end of the table, tapped them into a neat stack, and pulled a package of Oreos out of the cabinet. “Sorry I can’t offer homemade.”

  “No worries.” He claimed a chair. “I grew up on store-bought. My mom was too busy raising three rambunctious boys and running a graphic design business from the various far-flung outposts where my dad was stationed to do much baking.”

  “Was your dad military?” She perched on a chair at a right angle to him.

  “State Department.”

  “Oh.” She took a sip of her tea. “In his voicemail, Mark said you had a military background. I thought it might be a family tradition.”

  Narrowing his eyes, Finn wrapped his hands around his mug. How much did Mark know about his career—and recent history?

  Very little, if Mac had been his usual discreet self.

  As logic kicked in, he relaxed. His oldes
t brother wasn’t the type to run off at the mouth about family business. In all likelihood he’d offered his college buddy no more than a topline explanation—a fact Finn intended to verify during his next conversation with his brother.

  “It’s a family tradition in the sense that both my brothers were military too.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “That’s unusual. Did you serve together?”

  “No. We’re competitive enough without going head-to-head in the same outfit.”

  “Were you deployed overseas?”

  His stomach tightened. Deflect. Deflect. “Yes. So you never told me what publisher you worked for.”

  She stalled by taking a sip of tea, but in the end she answered with a name even a nonliterary type like him would recognize.

  “Impressive. Does that mean you lived in New York?”

  “Yes.”

  No wonder he’d picked up a touch of big-city polish.

  But why had she ditched the bright lights and what must have been a coveted job for an indefinite stay in a cabin in the middle of a national forest in Missouri?

  Before he could figure out how to diplomatically pose that question, she finished off her tea in a couple of long gulps and sprang up. “I think I’ll get a refill. Would you like . . .”

  All at once she swayed and groped for the back of her chair.

  Finn vaulted to his feet and grabbed her shoulders. “Whoa. Steady there. Are you okay?”

  Those big hazel eyes blinked at him. Once. Twice. As if his neighbor was having difficulty focusing on him.

  When she didn’t respond, he gently pressed her back into her chair. “Look . . . why don’t you sit again for a minute?”

  She didn’t resist.

  “Would you like me to make you another cup of tea?”

  “No, thanks.”

  He retook his seat, watching her. Twin creases had appeared above her nose, and she was shaking again. Not visibly, but he’d felt the tremors running through her.

  What was going on with this woman? Surely today’s nervousness couldn’t still be a reaction to his break-in.

  Was it somehow connected to her reason for hiding away in a secluded cabin in the woods?

  Tempted as he was to explore the second question, probing could shut her down. Better to start with the first one and hope it opened the door to further discussion.