by Julee Baker
Dear God in heaven—he wanted to kiss her. Wanted to kiss her in the worst way. Wanted to kiss her more than he had ever wanted to kiss a woman in his life. Wanted to wrap his arms around her and hold her till she didn’t hurt anymore. Till he didn’t hurt anymore.
It shocked him to his core. He froze.
Hawk forced his gaze from her lips back to her eyes. Pooling tears spilled down her cheeks. Then, as her gaze dropped to his mouth . . . she drifted closer . . . looking so desperate. His own eyes start to sting.
Neither breathed.
Not a man to break promises, Hawk broke one then—big time—moving his hands gently to the sides of her face, his thumbs tenderly wiping the tears from her flushed cheeks.
The next thing he knew, the salt of her tears was on his lips—tasting her pain as he kissed a tear away. With a groan of surrender, he moved an arm around her back as the other hand pushed through her hair to cradle her head. A frown creased his brow as he pulled her to him and pressed his lips to hers. Lake’s own soft sound registered in his hearing as she moved into the kiss. Her arms circled him in response—a desperate pain seeming to release its hold—his—hers—theirs—who could tell for sure—neither thinking—only feeling.
Hawk could feel her heart pounding through her chest—or was that his?
The cooler door squeaked open slightly. “You two workin’ things ou . . . Uh, I guess sooooo.” Sam’s voice trailed off on an incredulous note as he let the door click shut again.
The spell broken, color drained from Lake’s face, leaving her with the look of a deer in headlights, tear trails smudged down her cheeks. With a faint sound of shock, she pushed away from Hawk and shot out the cooler door, shoving past Sam.
The confounded sheriff turned after her. “Lake?”
She waved an arm behind her in the universal—go away—motion, shaking her head as she ran through broken plates and spilled cupcakes, out the swinging stainless doors. They heard Suzanne’s “Lake . . . honey . . .” then the bell on the front door as she fled the café.
***
To say that work stagnated for the next few days was quite an understatement. Every morning, best intentions in hand, she got River off to school and attempted to throw herself into Timeframes—and each day disintegrated into a repeat of the day before—elbows on work table, chin resting in palms, a cup of cold, spiced chai and contemplation of a life that was getting her nowhere. Oh, she kept up the charade for River’s sake, but that’s all it was—a charade.
The scene with Hawk in Suz’s cooler played on an endless, unforgiving loop through her mind. What she would give for a switch that would turn it off. Night or day, it didn’t matter. Could you in fact, die of embarrassment? She had to be getting close.
Hiding out. That’s what she was doing. It wasn’t like her. Lake’s head settled in her palm as she sipped a bit of the cold chai. Why? How had she ended up in Hawk Matthews’s arms? Well, more than his arms. That kiss. Goosebumps shivered their way up her arms. She could feel her ears pinking at the thought. But, oh—there had been such a connection in that moment. Lake rubbed her forehead. What an absolute traitor she was. Get a little emotional and fall all over your worst enemy.
That’s when, that pesky voice inside her head, or heart, whichever it was—that annoying one you try to ignore when you know you shouldn’t—that one—started up again. Louder and louder. Matter of fact, since the scene in Suz’s cooler, it wouldn’t shut up.
She groaned and laid her forehead down on the blessed coolness of the worktable and reached over to turn off the radio. Trying to mask the voice with noise hadn’t worked. Another groan. Her parents had brought her up to be truthful. Truth was the hallmark of a good photographer . . . a good person, for that matter. This game of chess she was playing with truth—denial would never win. She should know better—but it was so hard. Consciously or subconsciously, making Hawk Matthews the bad guy had been her easy-way out—or so she thought.
It didn’t feel so easy anymore.
He’d been right on the money. Had named the real reason for her embarrassment. Seeking relief from her own fog of pain, she had inflicted pain on another. She had been unfair, she winced inwardly—horribly unfair, to him.
Oh, God . . .why? The cry, buried deep in her heart surfaced again, but this time, it took breath.
Lake pushed herself away from the table and slowly stood. Realizing what she had to do, she headed upstairs to her little bedroom. There, she hesitated in front of the antique mahogany dresser. The reflection in its faded silver mirror, showed a woman with truth on her face. She stared back at the stark accusation.
She moved her focus to the bottom drawer—to face a different kind of reflection. That’s where she’d buried it—the same day she’d buried her parents. Stuffed it under a couple of old shirts she never wore anymore—effectively shut away.
Or so she thought. But truth cannot be imprisoned. She couldn’t purge the knowledge from her heart. Couldn’t bury it in the bottom drawer and certainly couldn’t lock it away forever.
Face-it Lake.
I still don’t understand . . . just feel so broken . . . help me . . . deal with . . . all of this. Give me strength.
Taking hold of the tarnished brass handles, she pulled the drawer open, pushed the old shirts aside, picked up her long-neglected Bible and started down a new path.
***
Hawk’s last few steps to Lake’s studio progressed at a slower and slower pace. He hesitated in front of the door and turned to look over the rooftops of Harmony’s shops, over the firs behind them, out toward the mountains, considering. Over the past ten years or so, he’d been involved in more than his fair share of dicey situations. He’d repelled down some gut-wrenching cliffs and clawed his way up again, injured party in tow. He’d jumped out of airplanes, faced surly bears and even delivered a wilderness baby—and never felt any of it in his knees. So, what was it about this woman that made them feel like rubber?
Maybe the fact he’d lost it in the cooler? His teeth clenched. What had come over him?
Shake it off man. Hawk composed himself and walked the last few steps to the door. He had intended to return her camera after the last GRRR meeting, but, considering how events unfolded that day in the diner—definitely best to postpone.
So, here he was, three days later, camera in hand, along with a coffee and a paper sack containing a pecan roll that Suz had assured him was Lake’s favorite—ready to make amends for his impulsive behavior. Not so much for the feelings he felt, but for the moment—and way—he’d chosen to express them. Lake had been so vulnerable that day, he should have been stronger . . . should have taken time to . . .
Yeah. Shoulda’, coulda’, woulda’ . . . didn’t.
No going back now. With his free hand, he grabbed the doorknob and entered the studio, slowly, not knowing for certain if he’d meet with a heavy object lobbed in his direction.
He needn’t have worried. No sign of her.
He took a good look around. Strange. The studio was unlocked, photographs spread all over the table, computer still on. Wherever she went, it looked like she’d be back in a few minutes.
Hawk set the sack with her camera on the worktable and the coffee and pecan roll far away from her photos, on a side table. It wouldn’t be much of a peace offering if he spilled coffee on her project. He walked over to the front window and waited, hands on hips, watching people pass on the street. Maybe she wasn’t coming back soon.
She should lock her door.
After five minutes of shifting from one foot to the other, he noticed Sam going into his office across the street and decided to leave.
Maybe it would be better to have the picture message he left on the camera speak for him, anyway. Hawk congratulated himself again on the brainstorm of adding the photo to the camera. Right. Let that pave the way. She had a soft spot for Elle. Maybe that would work in his favor. The more he thought about it, the better he liked
the idea anyway. All he was going to do today was drop the camera off and mention that he added something at the end.
Hawk readjusted his bark colored Stetson and headed for the sheriff’s office.
***
Lake spent over two hours that morning reacquainting herself with favorite passages, ending with her father’s and her favorite, the twenty-third Psalm.
She was no closer to the answers she craved and probably never would be while in this world, but, in her heart, she felt she’d taken the first few steps.
A little before eleven a.m., Lake moved back downstairs, and was met by the amazing smell of her favorite Colombian coffee and . . . she sniffed sharply . . . a fresh baked roll?? With a frown, her eyes scanned the room for the heavenly aroma’s source. Through the front window, she caught sight of the broad-shouldered back of Hawk Matthews crossing the street, headed toward Sam’s office.
Note to self—get that bell for the front door.
What was up? Hawk—here in the studio? She zeroed in on the origin of the tantalizing aromas on the desk by her computer.
Huh . . . Curious. She looked out the window again as he disappeared into Sam’s office. Lake blinked a few times considering what this meant.
A peace offering?
Hmm. No sense wasting a perfectly good cup of coffee and pecan roll. Lake sniffed the sack. No more skipping breakfasts, she was ravenous as a wild dog. It was too much to resist. With another quick glance to the window, she tore into the sack.
The sweet, gooeyness melted in her mouth and the strong, black coffee made for an excellent chaser. It would be easier to determine what this was about if she had some fuel in her, right? So, Hawk had been here . . .
That was when she spied another sack sitting on the worktable next to the Timeframe photos.
What? Lake worked the sack open with her unsticky hand. The sight of the contents sent her into a coughing fit when a bite of roll stuck in her throat. The rest of the roll tumbled to the floor. She moved away from the worktable. The coffee almost followed the roll, but she managed to get it settled on a stool, away from the proofs.
Not believing her eyes she rushed to the sink and washed pecan roll goo from her hands, making little excited noises as she sped along, then hurried back to the sack.
Christmas in April—her camera. She hugged it like a long-lost friend. How had he . . . where had he . . . why had he?
Lake raised her eyes. Thank you. Then, turned them out the window again, reformulating the picture of the camera’s rescuer walking across the street . . . And thank you, Hawk Matthews.
Forcing her attention back to the matter at hand, she addressed the next question. Could her photos still be intact? Lake had high hopes, since she had specifically ordered a waterproof case, not merely a water-resistant one.
The camera turned on immediately. A good sign. She walked over to her computer desk and sat down, eyes stilled glued to the camera’s screen.
“Yes. Yyyyyyes. YES.”
Lake wasn’t much of a dancer, but that day she choreographed one lively, spontaneous, happy dance. As she reviewed the camera’s files, she discovered that all appeared to be intact.
She slipped the stick from the camera into the computer.
“You’re not getting away from me again,” she told the “Sunshine on Shadow” photographs and quickly made not one but two backups. The next four hours were spent examining and making adjustments to some of them. Were they as great as she remembered?
Even better. She couldn’t remember being more excited about a set of photos. Her eyes squeezed shut. Mom and Dad, do you see this?
Goosebumps—big time. A feeling came over her that she couldn’t explain—like they did know. She felt it. Well Lake, wasn’t that what you professed to believe all your life? But, truth be told, what had happened to all that belief when faced with her worst crisis?
Mulling this over, Lake almost overlooked the extra photo that had been added to the very end of the file of pictures. Squinting, she looked closer at the tiny icon, showing what looked like a picture of Hawk beside Elle and a . . . sign? Puzzled she clicked to enlarge it.
There sat Hawk Matthews, on the front steps of his cabin, devastating smile on his face, one arm draped over Elle, who was grinning her best doggy grin, Hawk’s other hand holding a sign that read, “Wilderness Survival Class - Community College - Sign Up”, and a phone number.
SIX
Photo Frame
H
awk left the photography studio and headed toward Sam’s office that morning feeling pretty satisfied with his plan. Upbeat. Hopeful. Good to feel those feelings again—until John Colter ran smack into him on his way out of the sheriff’s office.
What was Colter doing in the Sam’s office?
“Watch where you’re going Matthews,” Colter growled.
“You don’t own the sidewalk.” Hawk ground back.
Colter backed up a little and smiled his crooked smile, “Give me a little time.”
“You’ve taken up too much of my time lately.” Hawk narrowed his stare. “But, tell you what, I’m feeling generous today, I’ll give you two seconds to get out of my way.”
“Gladly.” Colter moved aside with an exaggerated gesture. “I don’t want to delay your talk with the sheriff. I do believe that he’s anxious to talk to you, about that sheep killing mongrel of yours.” With a self-satisfied chuckle, Colter sauntered down the sidewalk, still chuckling.
“What the—?” He didn’t finish the statement as he met Sam at the door.
“What’s Colter talking about?” Hawk asked, concern creasing his brow. Sam looked grim.
“You’d better come inside. We’ll talk there.”
They both gave a brief glance at Colter’s receding figure and headed into the Sheriff’s office.
Sam moved to his desk and sat, motioning Hawk to one of the chairs in front of the desk. Sam looked mighty uncomfortable. What was Colter stirring up now? Hawk had a pang of sympathy for his longtime friend. As sheriff, Sam had to follow procedure. At least he could tell Colter exactly what he thought of him. Sam didn’t have that luxury. He knew Sam better than anyone. Two guys couldn’t have a friendship pushing twenty years and not read the other guys opinions well. He marveled at Sam’s patience.
“What’s he talking about—sheep killing mongrel?”
“Come in. Sit.” Sam was looking more uncomfortable by the second, kicking up Hawk’s adrenaline another couple of notches.
“Yeah, a, well . . . I need to ask you a few things Hawk . . . about Elle, that might tic you off, but I need to get some info. It’s all part of the job.” Sam motioned for Hawk to sit again.
“John Colter has filed a complaint against you. Well, technically—you as the owner of Elle. You know that land he bought west of Shadow?” Hawk nodded and Sam continued, “Well, he went and put sheep on it.” Sam tossed his Stetson onto a pile of papers on the desk, put his hands on his hips and continued, “He’s claiming Elle has been over there—that she killed a number of lambs.”
Hawk let out a hoot of a laugh, but stopped short when Sam didn’t join in.
“You are joking . . . Elle? My dog. My dog, Elle?” At Sam’s silence he got serious. Fast. “That’s ridiculous and you know it.”
“I do know it, but the thing is, he showed up with these.” Sam shook his head and shrugged, hesitating a little before he pushed the photos across the desk at him.
Hawk looked down at the stack of photos, then raised an eyebrow at his friend.
“You need to look at those.” Sam dipped his head at the photos.
“Why are you letting that creep manipulate you like this?” Hawk’s mood darkened as he scowled his way through the stack of photos, then tossed them back on the desk and leaned back in the chair. Seven photographs, showing what looked like Elle chasing the flock. Even more condemning for the dog, were two grisly ones, that looked like her, standing over what used to be lambs, b
ut had been reduced to small piles of bloody wool and bone.
“This is nuts.” He shoved the photos back at Sam. “It’s not her. A lot of dogs look similar. It’s not her. She would never . . .”
“Yeah, I know. But it definitely does look like her.” Sam thumbed through the stack again. “You have to admit . . .” He pointed down to a couple of the most damaging photos. “Look at the dark band around this left hind leg and toward the tip of her tail. The dark ear tips.” Sam looked at him and shook his head. Elle was family. Sam should understand. His dog, a lovable but usually inert bloodhound named Slug, was family to him, too.
Sam continued, “This doesn’t look good.”
His temper flared. “I don’t care what it looks like. It’s garbage and you should know it.”
“I have to deal with facts, Hawk.”
“The fact is, you should know it.” Hawk fired back.
“Does Elle have free run of the area?”
“You’ve got to be joking. Hawk crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair. “Out where I am? C’mon. You know the answer to that. Of course, she does. How many times have you brought Slug out to my place and they’ve chased each other around? Elle chases Toes off the place all the time . . . the occasional rabbit . . . barks at deer that wander in. She always stays close. Never goes much farther than the main road unless I’m with her. I wouldn’t let her out if she did. She’s never been gone on her own long enough to make it clear over to Colter’s property. That would take her . . . an hour minimum, round-trip. And look at the blood . . . she’d have it all over her . . .” Hawk rubbed the back of his neck and snorted. “Never happened. No way. No how.”
“Well . . . I know you’re not gonna like this, but I may have to come out and pick up Elle for a while. Till this gets sorted out.”
The chair made a jarring scrape as Hawk stood and glared at Sam. “You could try.”
Sam stood his ground, but sighed deeply. “Listen, Hawk. Do you think I enjoy this? This is the last thing in the world I want to do. But I’m not fooling around here. This is serious. You’re going to have to find a way to prove where she was at these times.” He pushed a list at Hawk. “I can’t explain these away on my own.” He threw a frustrated glance to the photos on the desk.
