by Irene Hannon
Besides, based on what the chief had said, the town vandals had never done any bodily harm. There wasn’t any personal danger.
She hoped.
Whistle at the ready, she edged the front door open, verified that the porch was empty—and blew as hard as she could.
Then, grabbing Pops’s Winchester and praying no one was lurking in the shadows, she dashed for the lake.
Dana was in trouble.
The shrill, urgent screech of the whistle brought Finn instantly awake, no vestiges of sleep slowing his reaction time—a life-saving talent cultivated by every one of his combat buddies.
Thirty seconds later, gun and knife in hand, he was out the door.
Chest heaving, he closed the distance between his cabin and Dana’s as fast as his less-than-one-hundred-percent leg allowed. Not fast enough to suit him . . . but a vast improvement over a few months ago.
Halfway there, he smelled the smoke.
Another surge of adrenaline propelled him forward at hyperspeed along the familiar path.
As he at last broke through the tree cover near the lake, the flames came into view.
The shed—not the house—was on fire.
Good news . . . except the gusty wind was blowing burning fragments of the outbuilding toward the house.
He sprinted toward the cabin, following the curve of the lake as the distant wail of a siren drifted through the chilly night air, searching in the dark for Dana.
There.
She was huddled on the dock with her grandfather’s Winchester.
He altered his course.
The instant she spotted him, she laid the rifle on the planks, flew his direction, and launched herself into his arms.
“Are you okay?” He held her tight, his lips against her hair as tremors coursed through her. From fear . . . cold . . . both?
“Y-yes.”
A lie, based on her shaky response.
“What happened?”
“I woke up. Smelled that.” She directed a quick glance toward the shed, which was glowing against the night sky, the acrid scent of billowing smoke polluting the fresh spring air. “The vandals came b-back.”
The sirens got louder.
“You called 911?”
“Yes. After I whistled for you.” She shivered again.
“Let’s get you back in the house, where it’s warmer. Your feet must be freezing.”
She studied her bare toes. “I didn’t stop for shoes.”
“We’ll find you some socks too. Come on.” Keeping one arm around her shoulders, he retrieved the rifle and guided her toward the cabin.
As they reached the porch, flashing lights began bobbing through the trees rimming the access road. A few moments later, a Beaumont police car pulled in behind the cabin. An officer emerged, surveyed the burning shed, and circled around to join them.
“Officer Bill Waters, ma’am. The fire truck should be here soon. It takes a few minutes for the volunteers to assemble.” He gave the shed a dubious perusal as part of one wall collapsed, sending a pyre of fiery sparks swirling toward the black sky. “She’s burning really hot, though. They may not be able to do much. Any injuries?”
“No—but she’s cold. We’re going inside.” Finn kept walking, urging Dana toward the door.
“Right. I’ll stay out here until the truck arrives, keep an eye on the fire. You folks go on in. We can talk in a few minutes.”
Finn guided her through the door and toward the couch. “Socks?”
“There’s a pair of slippers Mags knitted for me on the floor in my room.”
“Sit tight.”
He found them at once, the yarn faded and patched. They weren’t in any better shape than that oversized sweater she favored.
The one that must have belonged to her beloved Pops.
Throat tightening, he retraced his steps down the hall and joined her on the couch, the flicker of the flames casting eerie shadows on the drawn shades. After flipping on a light, he sat beside her.
She held out her hand for the slippers, but he set them on the floor. “Let’s warm your feet up first.”
He bent down, lifted her legs into his lap, and began to massage her ice-cold toes.
“You don’t have to do that.” Her protest was lame, and she made no attempt to pull free.
“I don’t mind.” Vast understatement. Giving this woman a foot massage any time of the day or night would be no hardship. “Any idea what happened out there?”
“No. I didn’t hear a sound, just smelled the smoke. It was a full-out blaze when I called 911. The shed’s been there forever. The wood has to be dry as kindling.”
Another siren pierced the silence.
“Sounds like the volunteer fire department has arrived.” He kept working on her feet. “Was there anything of value in there?” As far as he could tell from his few forays inside, it didn’t hold much besides a few dusty tools.
“No. The rowboat was all I cared about, and you salvaged that.”
Except it was punctured with plugged-up holes.
A knock sounded on the door. Finn released her feet and tugged on her slippers. “Stay put.”
He twisted the knob and found the police officer on the porch.
“The fire department thinks it would be safer if you came outside until they have this under control. The wind is blowing a lot of burning debris toward the cabin, and the wood in most of these old buildings is dried out. They’re watching it, but they’d feel better if you were farther away.”
“We’ll be out in a minute.”
Finn explained the situation to Dana, downplaying the danger to her cherished cabin, then helped her into a fleece jacket and sturdier footwear.
Officer Waters was waiting for them on the porch. “Why don’t you sit in my car while I ask a few questions? It’s warmer there.”
They followed the man to his vehicle. Finn tracked the blowing debris, the heat from the fire warming him despite the distance. No way around it—the shed was going to be a total loss.
The officer went through a short list of questions as he stood beside the open back door, but Dana could offer no clues about the culprit.
At last the man closed his notebook. “The fire people will go over the scene in the light of day. We might even contact the state fire marshal’s office if it seems suspicious.”
“I don’t think the fire started on its own.” Dana stared through the window at the raging inferno located much too close to the cabin.
“I’m inclined to agree this wasn’t an accident.” The man’s radio crackled to life, and he pulled it off his belt. “Excuse me a minute.” He walked far enough away that only his end of the conversation was clear. “Chief . . . Yes, I’m there now . . . No . . . Pretty bad.” The man’s gaze shifted to the cabin. “It’s fine, and they’re watching the blowing sparks . . . Yeah, I will . . . Got it.” He rejoined them. “You folks feel free to wait here while I have a word with the fire captain.”
As he strode away, Finn turned to Dana. “You holding up?”
“Yes. But I’m not liking that this person—or persons—came back so soon after the boat and dock incident.”
“Me neither.” Much as he hated further disrupting her peace of mind, he wasn’t going to lie.
She pulled her jacket closer around her. “So what do you think is going on?”
“I wish I knew. Are you certain you haven’t made any enemies in town?”
“Yes. I haven’t been to town often enough to make any on this trip.”
“What about in the past?”
“No. On previous trips I always stuck close to Pops. I’ve met a lot of the Beaumont residents, but I never got chummy with any of them or did anything to offend anyone. And Pops was well liked.”
“Has anyone approached you about selling the place?”
“No. I understand the market for rural property is very slow. And I haven’t said anything to anyone about selling, either.” She burrowed deeper into her jacket. �
��Did you ever give that button to Chief Burnett?”
“Not yet. I didn’t think it was that urgent. My plan was to swing by his office Monday—that would be tomorrow at this point.” Finn hesitated. Should he tell Dana about his discovery of trampled brush in the woods on Friday night, after their boat ride? Or would that spook her more?
“What’s wrong?” She peered at him through the darkness, posture stiffening.
The woman had great intuition.
Better to brief her. Forewarned was forearmed.
As he told her what he’d found, she listened in silence. It was impossible to read her face with only the distant, flickering flames illuminating the interior of the car.
After he finished, she let out a slow breath. “I don’t get any of this. Why would someone be spying on me?”
“I have no idea—but this whole thing is beginning to smell bad. Two incidents in the space of a few days is suspicious. It’s almost like someone is targeting you.”
“But the vandals hit the picnic grounds more than once too.”
“This close together?”
“I don’t know.”
“One more question to ask the chief when I hand over the button.”
“I’d like to come with you—and I’d prefer to do it today rather than wait until Monday.”
“Fine with me. I’m sure the officer here tonight can pass on a message that we’d like to see him.”
Another shower of sparks billowed into the night sky as the roof of the shed collapsed. Finn took her hand as she cringed.
“Pops built that himself, not long after he and Mags bought this place.” The light from the roaring fire flickered over her features, illuminating a demeanor that was more pensive than sad. “He wasn’t the handiest guy with a hammer and saw, though. The shed always listed to one side.”
“I noticed. I assumed it was from age.”
“No. It was like that from the beginning. Mags was always afraid it would collapse someday while he was inside. Ironically, she was always threatening to burn it down.”
Was that a touch of . . . humor . . . in her voice?
As if sensing his scrutiny, she looked over at him. “I’m sorry it happened this way, but Mags would be happy to see it gone. To be honest, I am too. I always worried it would fall down and kill someone. And I never liked the spiders that lurked in the dark corners, either.” She shuddered.
He squeezed her fingers. “That’s one way to put a positive spin on this.”
“Better than crying over things you can’t change, as Pops would say if he was here.”
“Okay, folks, they’ve got the fire under control now.” The officer pulled open the back door of the squad car. “You can go back inside the cabin if you like.”
While they slid out, Finn passed on their request to the officer.
“Sure thing. I’ll leave a message for the chief to swing by here after he visits his wife in Potosi. He always runs over there after services on Sunday, but he’ll be back by noon. Not much sense hanging around all day anymore now that she doesn’t recognize him.” The man shook his head. “Sad situation. They had such a great marriage. An inspiration to all of us.”
They shook the man’s hand, and Finn walked Dana to her door. “Will you be all right the rest of the night by yourself?”
She motioned toward the fire crew. “I think I’m going to have company for a while. I’ll be fine.”
“You sure? I could sleep on your couch if that would make you more comfortable.”
A weary smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “That wouldn’t make you more comfortable. Your feet would hang over the edge.”
“I’ve bunked in worse places. I wouldn’t mind.”
“I would. Go home and get some sleep during what’s left of this night. We both need to be alert for our conversation with Chief Burnett tomorrow.”
He could argue . . . but Dana was right. There would be activity here for an hour or two, and it wasn’t likely whoever had done this would try another stunt tonight—or after daylight began to brighten the sky.
“I’ll see you about noon, then.” Angling his body to shield them from view, he leaned down and brushed his lips over hers.
“Mmm.” She rose on tiptoe to meet him. “Not a bad end to this night, after all.”
More like perfect, as far as he was concerned.
As a matter of fact, he wouldn’t mind ending every night like this.
But Dana was smart to be cautious about rushing their relationship. Being impulsive in any aspect of life—from a Ranger mission to a romantic commitment—was dangerous.
Yet as he set off back through the woods to try to clock a few hours of shut-eye, he was more certain than ever that while he might be saying good-bye to Beaumont in ten days, his relationship with Dana was just beginning.
13
Wayne Phelps’s place was in dire need of a hefty dose of TLC.
Setting the brake on the squad car, Roger surveyed the overgrown yard, the drooping gutter, the peeling paint. Jackson would turn over in his grave if he could see how his son had let the place fall apart. The Beaumont native might not have had a lot of money, but he’d taken great pride in the house he’d built for his bride forty years ago, God rest their souls.
Maybe the market garden business wasn’t as successful as Wayne had always let on.
With a glance at the brooding clouds massing overhead, Roger swung his legs out of the car and pulled himself to his feet. Listened.
The buzzing drone of cicadas and the distant woof of an angry dog were the only sounds of life on this quiet Sunday evening.
He circled around to the back of the house, wove through some rusty lawn furniture, and walked to the edge of the garden at the end of the backyard, where Wayne grew his organic produce and herbs.
The two-acre plot was in slightly better condition than the house and front yard . . . but not by much. While the rows of produce were distinguishable, weeds were making serious inroads.
It, too, was deserted.
Either Wayne wasn’t home, or he was inside. Hard to tell, since the door was closed on the detached garage.
Didn’t matter, though. The man would be back at some point. And Roger wasn’t leaving until they had a long talk about the fire this morning at Leo’s place—and the subsequent conversation he’d had with Dana and her neighbor. Neither of them had been happy . . . and he couldn’t blame them.
He shoved his fingers through his hair. What in the world had Wayne been thinking? If a gust of wind had blown some of that burning debris onto the roof of the cabin, the place could have caught fire. Dana might have succumbed to smoke inhalation before she could get out.
If that had happened, Leo’s granddaughter would be dead.
Roger rubbed at the gnawing pain in his belly. It was bad enough to ignore a meth lab in his backyard, but to stand by and let Wayne take chances that could have fatal . . .
“Evening, Chief. Need some produce?”
Roger swiveled toward the house. Wayne stood on the back porch, wearing worn jeans, a Red Hot Chili Peppers T-shirt—and a less-than-welcoming expression.
“Not today.” He walked toward the man, hooking a thumb toward the garden. “But how’s business?”
“Could be better, thanks to the punk economy.” He folded his arms and leaned a shoulder against a weathered upright beam on the porch. “If you aren’t in search of the world’s best organic arugula, what can I do for you?”
“We need to talk.”
“About what?”
“I think you know.”
Wayne’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure I do. Why don’t you tell me?”
“Let’s go inside. I don’t like discussing private matters in public.”
“You know . . . you caught me at a bad time. I was just getting ready to go out.”
Roger straightened up and rested his hand on his pistol. “That wasn’t a request.”
The other man’s gaze dropped to the gun. Rose
. Met his square on. His jaw took on a slight, defiant tilt. “Fine.” He spun around and disappeared inside, letting the screen door slam behind him.
Roger followed him into the living room.
The inside of the house was even less well kept than the outside. Empty bags of chips lay crumpled on the couch. A few beer bottles decorated the end tables. Kernels of popcorn dotted the carpet.
“Okay, I’m listening.”
No invitation to sit—not that he’d have accepted one. This was a conversation better held standing.
“I know you’re the one running the lab on Leo’s property, Wayne.”
The man’s face went blank. “What are you talking about?”
“Cut the games. I have pictures.”
“Of what?”
“You. Wearing a black hoodie and carrying a backpack. The images are stored in a very safe place—as I’m certain yours are.”
A few beats ticked by. Then Wayne shrugged. “So what? You can’t do anything with them or I’ll produce mine. It’s a stalemate.”
“It was . . . until you set fire to the shed on Leo’s property.”
“You don’t have any proof of that.”
“Not yet . . . but the state fire marshal’s office will be investigating. Are you that certain you didn’t leave any incriminating evidence behind?”
“Yeah.” A touch of uncertainty undercut his attempt at bravado.
“I hope you’re right . . . because I can’t look the other way if they find any real evidence. Like this.” He pulled out the ziplock bag containing the button and dangled it from his fingers. “Familiar?”
Wayne’s complexion lost some of its color. “Where’d you get that?”
“Dana Lewis’s neighbor found it wedged beside the seat in the rowboat. I’m thinking a search of this house might turn up a match.”
“You’d need a warrant for that—and you don’t have grounds to get one.”
“That’s true. But if you keep pulling stunts like last night’s fire and this”—he swung the bag back and forth before tucking it back in his pocket—“someone else could find incriminating evidence that links you to one.”
“You better not let that happen.”
