High-Stakes Loving [King's Bluff, Wyoming 2] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)

by Fiona Archer

  “Wagner and that bitch won’t stop until they’ve destroyed any chance of Reagan winning this election.” Hell, just saying the words left his stomach in knots. “I don’t give a fuck what it takes, but I’m not letting some limp-dicked bastard and his spoiled, skinny-assed sidekick crush Reagan.”

  “By ‘whatever it takes,’ I hope you don’t mean something that will end with me breaking you out of one of Caleb’s cells.” Mike’s laugh croaked with wryness. “Because my days of climbing onto roofs and knocking out guards are long over.”

  Damn, it was tempting, if only to show Mike he wasn’t nearly as physically done for as he believed.

  Quinn put the truck in gear and then eased them down the drive toward the side turnoff to the cabin. “No. I mean we’ll be smarter, tougher. Wagner’s not the idiot some believe. He’s smart enough to know that in a small town with limited county funds, Darcy’s accusations of financial mismanagement would hurt our girl. You know the gas station took down their Vote Reagan sign?”

  Mike’s jaw dropped. “What?”

  “Yesterday I needed to buy gas. When I went inside to pay, I mentioned the missing sign. They couldn’t look me in the eye, saying it must have been the wind. Turned out they’d lied.”

  The owner had turned green when Quinn spied the corner of the sign sticking out of his trash can. Then he’d puffed out his chest and told Quinn he had his reputation to protect. Apparently being associated with Reagan’s campaign was tantamount to being pro-crime.

  Quinn had barely managed to keep from thumping the little weasel before walking out.

  “Combine that with the shadow over her dad…” Mike’s voice drifted off. His sigh said it all.

  “Yeah.” Quinn steered the pickup under the covered parking area. “So our number one goal is to back Reagan up at all times. Don’t bully her detractors. Use your brains, wit.” Quinn shrugged as they neared the back porch. “Hell, use charm if needed.”

  Under the light at the back door, Mike’s eyebrows reached his hairline. “Charm? Me?”

  Quinn shook his head. Hell, if it came to that, they really were fucked.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mike folded his arms across his chest as the late June sun warmed his back. “So, what do you think?”

  Danny Scott’s mouth turned down as he stared at the four weed-laden vegetable beds. “Wow, this is even worse than I imagined.” His sneaker-covered foot kicked at the dirt, sending up a dusty cloud.

  Okay, it wasn’t exactly the Garden of Eden but there was potential. He hoped. “Hey, nothing worth doing comes easy, right?”

  Like gaining Danny’s trust in him. It had taken more than one afternoon’s soda and sandwich discussion at the Youth Café for Danny to drop his guardedness. The fact the kid had nagged his mother to allow him to help establish the veggie garden was a major win for Mike.

  “I s’pose.” Danny finally glanced up from performing his visual autopsy of the beds. “You have everything we put on the list? I doubled checked with my gardening books from the library. If we don’t have the compost and stuff, then this garden doesn’t stand a chance.”

  Mike rolled his eyes. “Give me some credit. I went over our list with Reagan. We have everything. There’s compost, water granules, something called ‘blood and bone.’” He chuckled as Danny’s eyes lit up. “And mulch for when you and Reagan eventually deem the soil plant worthy.”

  In apparent relief, Danny flashed a smile. “If Miss Edwards has checked it over, then I guess it’s okay.”

  Thanks, kid.

  “Danny, I’m sure Mr. Langley knows what he’s doing.” Hannah Scott’s soft rebuke came from the back porch where she stood with Reagan. Her brow knitted as she glanced at her son.

  “Mom, everyone at the café calls him Mike,” Danny advised his mother in a paternal tone.

  “And I’m okay with that.” Mike stepped in, warding off any rebukes from Hannah.

  “Well…all right then.” The small woman, dressed for work in jeans and the market’s green polo shirt, walked down the back steps.

  Reagan gave Marvin, who had braved a visit outdoors courtesy of a trail of sardines, a pat on his head as the tabby sat spread out on a wooden bench. The feline lifted his chin at her departing figure, as if wishing her well.

  “Let’s get to work.” Reagan followed Hannah down the stairs. She shoved her hands into a pair of garden gloves, stained from use. Years-old jeans and a red T-shirt hugged her in all the right places. Black sneakers with red laces protected her feet. A red scarf was wrapped around her ponytail, setting off the whole ensemble.

  Damn, she was cute—in a sexy “you’re the little submissive I want to tie up with that red scarf and ravage” kind of way.

  Mike watched as the women walked the twenty or so feet to join them at the beds.

  He gave a careless wave. “Danny’s got good reason to be cautious. I’m here for the muscle. It’s him and Reagan I’m counting on to lead this project. Which reminds me.” He stayed in place and kept his voice even. “Mrs. Scott, Danny told me you don’t want him accepting money for his efforts here. While I admire you teaching him to help others, I’m going to be working him hard and putting some muscle on those shoulders of his.”

  The adults chuckled at Danny’s woe-infused groan before Mike continued. “I wouldn’t feel right not paying him.”

  Memories of his first meeting with Danny and him leaving a small donation for the soda and sandwiches flashed before Mike. A proud family.

  Hannah chewed her bottom lip as her gaze flitted between Mike and her son, who was busy rolling his shoulders.

  “Reward for effort. That’s a good lesson too,” Reagan said softly, her tone encouraging. “Trust me when I say we have years of neglect to clean away before even thinking of planting. This is more than a one-Saturday job.”

  And, if things worked out, he planned to employ Danny for yard work around the cabin. That would wait for later. But like with her son, this shy widow’s trust would only be gained by small steps. And considering her experiences with her late husband, Mike didn’t blame her for being wary of who spent time with her boy.

  After a few more seconds of deliberation, Hannah’s face lost its guardedness. Brightness shone in her green eyes. “Okay, you’ve won me over.” She glanced at Mike. “And if Danny gets to call you Mike, then you should call me Hannah.”

  Mike smiled. “Will do, Hannah.”

  She glanced over at Danny. “Be good, okay?”

  “I’m always good.” Danny swung an arm around his mom, giving her a squeeze. Mike noticed their shoulders meeting at the same height. While Danny might be a short-ass compared to kids his own age, he’d soon tower over his obviously proud mom.

  And speaking of growing boys, he said, “We’ll give him a good feed at lunch and then drop him at the café around four this afternoon.”

  Hannah nodded, her gaze fixed on Danny, who with a garden hoe clutched between his hands began testing its effectiveness at weed eradication by thrashing it into the soil.

  Yeah, maybe he should rely more on Reagan for any expert tips.

  Hannah looked like she wanted to say something but instead gave a wry smile at her son’s enthusiasm. She looked over at Mike, her brows raised. “At least you know what you’re in for. Call me if you need to. Moira and Tom at the market are really understanding with me having personal calls, especially if it relates to Danny.” With a quick wave, she headed over to the late-model Ford and was soon driving away.

  Mike dodged a clump of quack grass that had dislodged from the garden hoe as Danny swung it high. What he lacked in skill, the boy certainly made up for in gusto. “Okay, kid, let’s start building up those shoulders.”

  And hopefully, some more trust. If he could succeed with Danny, then he knew the other kids who had hung back, maybe sensing Mike’s own nervousness, would follow. They had to, right? Or else what the hell kind of career fuckup had he made?

  * * * *

  Quinn lifted
his glass and drained the last of his iced tea. Tiny shards of ice cracked between his teeth as he crunched and sucked on the frozen chips. He could almost hear his mother’s voice rebuking him. Which reminded him. Tomorrow it was his turn to call. The weekly chats with his folks were an institution. Even Mike was expected to get on the phone and report in. And as much as they both sometimes grumbled, neither of them ever forgot the ritual.

  And speaking of parents, he glanced down at the sheet of paper in his other hand.

  Earlier this morning, Caleb issued an official update outlining the probable cause of Julie Edwards’s death. Short and to the point, it disclosed the impact injury to the back of Julie’s skull, the date of her death, and other relevant information.

  He and Mike had explained to Reagan early this morning about the impending release of the statement and its contents.

  She’d taken the news well, if anything encouraged that something was being done to smoke out a killer, and in her eyes, take the emphasis off her father.

  He’d carried his empty glass over to the sink and was headed toward the front door when his cell phone rang. He glanced at the screen. King’s Bluff Gas and Go. Calling to apologize to Reagan? Yeah, right.

  His words to Mike last night joyfully bit him on his ass. Use charm.

  “Quinn Sullivan.” Okay, so he was no George Clooney but he didn’t growl either.

  “I…you have to.” A female voice, older, broke off. Then a muffling sound, like a hand being held over a mouthpiece. “Sam Edwards, h-he didn’t do it.”

  Quinn stopped mid-stride. He kept his voice low, gentle. “You have some information, ma’am?”

  “He didn’t mean it.” A tremor shot through her voice. “I know he didn’t. His nightmares. He screams out.”

  “Who does, honey?” Quinn moved to the table. Reaching for a pen, he scribbled down the garage’s number on the pad.

  “Doesn’t matter. It wasn’t Sam. Please believe me,” she pleaded.

  A soft click rang in his ear. The line went dead.

  “Damn.” He hit the speed dial for Caleb. No point ringing the garage and spooking whomever had just called.

  “Sheriff King.”

  “Caleb, listen. I’ve just had a caller—female, older, say about fifties or more—claiming Sam Edwards’s innocence and stating some other ‘he’ didn’t mean to do it.” Quinn ran in the direction of the bathroom where Mike was showering off the dirt from this afternoon’s gardening. “The number came up as the gas station.”

  Caleb’s manner was all business. “I’m about fifteen minutes away on the road into town. I’ll make a call to Gus. For now, this needs to be kept low-key. I don’t want to start people pointing fingers without any facts.”

  “Exactly. Reagan’s dropping off Danny Scott at the Youth Café. We’ll head into town and wait for you there.”

  “Stand by for my call.” He hung up just as Quinn shoved open the glass to the shower.

  He ignored Mike’s curse. “Listen up. I got an anonymous call from a woman stating Sam Edwards is innocent. Call came from the garage.” He threw a towel at Mike. “Obviously she didn’t think through the whole concept of caller ID or at least hoped we wouldn’t track it so fast. Sounded panicked as shit. I told Caleb we’ll wait for him at the Youth Café.”

  Mike’s eyes were hard, mission focused. “Good idea.”

  Quinn headed to their bedroom. Located inside one of the polished wooden cabinets was their gun safe. He entered the combination and then withdrew two Sig Sauer P226s and spare clips. Factor in the knives both he and Mike carried in their boots and he felt a little less naked.

  Sure, he didn’t plan to use any of them on a woman who’d made one phone call, but he couldn’t throw away years of training that had saved his life more than once.

  A soldier went into any battle ready to strike if necessary.

  Mike, running his fingers through his wet hair, joined him as he neared the truck. Quinn handed over the weapons and started the truck’s engine as Mike stored them in the lockbox under the front passenger seat. They’d be going to the Youth Café first. That was no place for them to be carrying loaded pistols.

  Success depended on corralling this reluctant informant and getting her to speak. Then maybe, just maybe, they’d be able to give Reagan two things she desperately wanted, that being justice for her mother, and hell, maybe even proving the innocence of her father.

  * * * *

  “You did great today.” Reagan smiled at Danny, who sat across from her, his face smudged with dirt.

  Danny’s grin came after a yawn stretched his mouth impossibly wide. He’d weeded, dug, raked, and edged those garden beds into submission like a trained professional. “You think we can plant those seeds soon?”

  “Next week for sure. And those petunias you potted for me look fantastic.”

  After two goes, he’d worked out how much soil was required to fill the pot so that the pink-and-white-striped flowers were high enough over the pot’s rim. That was the thing when trying a hand at something new. A person needed to have their fair share of do-overs.

  Mike had sat beside Danny on the back steps and laughed, nudging him with his shoulder. He had reassured the boy that if it was left to Mike, he’d have probably forgotten to add in soil entirely.

  After hearing the stories of how Danny’s deceased, deadbeat father had never missed the opportunity to ridicule him, Reagan surmised the kid’s chuckle had been fueled more from relief than amusement.

  And she guessed Mike had known it. Once Danny had turned back to his task, somberness had veiled the ex-sniper’s face, as if he was reliving a moment from his own stark childhood.

  It had been all she could do not to run over and hug them both. Not for the first time, she thanked the Almighty for blessing her with a dad as loving and generous as Sam Edwards.

  She drove down Victoria Avenue, finding a parking space right out in front of the café. “Too easy. Now I just have to pick up next week’s volunteer schedule for Mike and I’m done.”

  As they entered the building, she noted a fair-sized crowd centered more around the computers and beanbags. Danny adjusted the strap of his backpack. “Lots of people. I think I’ll read over there.” He gestured toward a chair near the back of the main room.

  Reagan collected the schedule from one of the volunteers and was about to say her good-byes when she spotted Vicki Aitken through the doorway leading into the back kitchen.

  For three days she’d left messages but to no avail. Talk about avoidance. It wasn’t like she wanted to hound the woman, more reassure her. Now was her best chance.

  And to do so, she needed privacy.

  “Danny, can you do me a favor?”

  The boy shrugged. “Sure.”

  “I need to speak to Mrs. Aitken, but I’d appreciate it if you could keep anyone from coming into the kitchen. I’d rather no one saw me speaking to her.”

  Danny studied her, his forehead crinkling. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, I just need to discuss something sensitive with her and you know how it is, people want to join in and interrupt. So can you keep my secret?”

  His face relaxed, concern replaced with understanding. “No worries. I won’t tell anyone. There are drinks and stuff over there on the counter.” He pointed to an assortment of water bottles and juices. “So we’re set.”

  “Thanks, kiddo.” She hugged him before heading toward the back kitchen. Seriously, that kid had such an old head on his shoulders.

  She dug into her handbag and turned off her phone as more insurance against interruptions.

  Vicki’s back was to the doorway. She’d just dried a coffee mug, placing it in the cupboard, when Reagan entered.

  The older woman turned at the sound of the door closing. When she saw Reagan, her face paled. She clutched the dish towel against her chest, twisting it between her two fists.

  Wow, Reagan guessed Vicki was stressed, but this was overload.

  She spok
e in a firm voice. “Vicki, I think it’s time we spoke, don’t you?”

  The woman’s face crumpled. Her lips trembled as a flood of tears fell down her cheeks. “Oh, God, Reagan, I’m so sorry.” Her shoulders heaved with the enormity of her sobs.

  Reagan rushed forward to hold the woman gently by her shoulders. Lining her up with a chair, she then pushed the trembling woman to sit. “You’re not to blame, Vicki. It was a simple mistake. I’m not going to say anything.”

  But Vicki wasn’t hearing her. She was bent over in the chair, her upper body swaying up and down as she sobbed softly.

  Reagan rubbed her upper arms, trying to install some comfort, warmth. “Honey, you really don’t need to worry. We’ll fix things.”

  “No. Nothing can be fixed now.” Vicki sat up in the chair, her head falling back before she blinked up at Reagan. “I need to tell you something.” Her gaze darted to somewhere over Reagan’s shoulder. Vicki’s reddened eyes widened a second before she gasped.

  Reagan spun around.

  Leonard Aitken stood in the doorway, staring at his wife. Shock slackened his features before slowly, as if a sun setting and taking with it all the man’s energy, his shoulders slumped.

  Surely her husband should be able to calm Vicki and get some sense out of her. “Leonard, I’m glad you’re here. Vicki’s so upset. Honestly, this whole thing with the accounts will blow over.”

  Leonard ignored her as his hollow gaze zeroed in on his wife. “You know, don’t you?”

  Vicki nodded mutely.

  Know what? Neither of them was making any sense. Reagan’s gaze flittered between the married couple.

  The retiring councillor stepped through the doorway and then closed the door behind him.

  “It wasn’t what you think.” He stared at his wife and raised his hands up in front of him, fingers spread out. “It was an accident”

  An unnatural stillness filled the air around her, pressing into her from all sides. The hairs on her skin lifted, shooting a flurry of shivers over her body.

  Vicki stood, still twisting the towel in her hands. “Len, don’t do this,” she pleaded, her voice thick with tears.