Man's Best Friend (The Dogmothers Book 6)

by Roxanne St Claire

  Fine. What was another half hour after twenty damn years?

  He grabbed his backpack, checked out with the night-shift dispatch, and headed out into the cool autumn air. He strode across the grass to the Bushrod statue looming high in the middle of the square. The playground was quiet at this dinner hour, and only a few dogwalkers were around as the first of the white lights started to sparkle on the trees.

  An older man sat on the bench in front of the statue, alone, tapping a phone, a ball cap pulled low over his eyes. Declan approached slowly, waiting for him to look up.

  When he didn’t, Declan glanced around, then took a chance. “Kirby?”

  He finally met Declan’s gaze. His seventy-something face was weathered, his expression blank. “Captain Mahoney.”

  Declan nodded and sat down a foot or so away from him. “Thanks for coming out of hiding,” he said. “I understand it’s not easy to track you down.”

  “Exactly the way I want it. But for this case?” The man almost smiled. “I had to.”

  Something in the way he said it put Declan on edge. “Is that so?”

  He faced forward, giving Declan his profile of a bulbous nose and soft jowls. “It’s haunted me, that fire.”

  “That makes two of us,” Declan admitted. “Why?”

  “Because there was something there I couldn’t see,” he said. “And I can always see what others can’t. But it was like I took months to put together a jigsaw puzzle, got to the end, and a piece was missing. Pissed me off, I tell you.”

  “Do you have any theories?”

  He blew out a noisy breath. “Always got theories, son. Starting with the fact that there were two burn patterns associated with different accelerants, and two possible ways that fire could have started.”

  “So your theory is that the seat of the fire wasn’t the linseed oil-soaked rags?” Declan’s mind went back to the files. “All the evidence was consistent with that.”

  “Not all the evidence,” Kirby said. “Yes, there was a burn pattern consistent with combustion on the outside patio. Was that possible? Yes, but I saw the container. In person. You probably saw pictures.”

  He nodded, remembering them.

  “The top snapped on,” Kirby said. “And I didn’t think that top could have been blown off unless the person who put it on didn’t snap it in place before walking away.”

  Evie’s distracted, erratic, artiste mom? “That’s possible.”

  “Think about it. This woman is a painter, right?” When Declan nodded, Kirby continued. “A painter knows what linseed oil can do. She went to the trouble to put her rags in a container, cover it, and place it outside. She knew what could happen on a hot night, so of course she snapped the lid into place.”

  And it sure had been hot that night. He remembered the heat even in the mountains. And Mrs. Hewitt might be a bit bizarre, but she wasn’t dumb.

  “So what are you saying? The wind didn’t blow the top off?”

  He gave Declan a side-eye and raised a brow. That was exactly what he was saying. “That inside burn pattern was consistent with lighter fluid being squirted on the wall,” he said. “That wall was directly adjacent to the patio where the combustion happened. So the question I couldn’t stop asking is which burn pattern represented the accelerant and which happened because another fire had started? You get me? What was inside and what was outside? Were there two fires or one?”

  “But there also was a lighter collection, so lighter fluid could easily have splashed on the wall.”

  “True,” Kirby said. “There were a few lighters in that room, all being cleaned and polished that day, along with a very large tin of lighter fluid that was stored there for that purpose.”

  “All this was in the investigation files,” Declan said. “The lighter fluid caught fire when the wall between the worktable and the outside caught fire.”

  “Uh-huh. Right.”

  “Which sounds more like ‘not a chance,’” Declan noted with a dry laugh.

  “All I know is that there were burn patterns of squirted lighter fluid inside,” he said. “That doesn’t happen from combustion.”

  “What do you think happened?” Declan asked, his chest tightening.

  He was quiet for a long time. “I’m an arson investigator, Captain, not an accident investigator.”

  “So you think this fire was arson. Do you think someone could have broken into the house, where four people were sleeping, and set the fire?”

  “Or…” He lifted a brow, and Declan knew exactly what he thought. “Someone already inside the house.”

  A member of Evie’s own family.

  “But none of those pieces fit, either,” Kirby said. “I couldn’t get the why, and if there isn’t a why, then there isn’t a case.”

  Exactly. No one in that house had a reason to destroy the property or risk lives.

  Unless…someone did, and the investigators hadn’t figured that out.

  “So I had to ask myself why the lead investigators finally decided to ignore my rarely wrong gut instinct,” Kirby continued. “And I hate to say it, but my instinct went to someone on the inside.”

  “Of the house?”

  “Or the department. As a firefighter yourself, you know what a nightmare it is to lose a good man.”

  Declan stared at him. “What are you saying?”

  “Maybe they didn’t want to see the truth. Maybe someone in that fire department hid the last piece of the puzzle.”

  A hot, sickening burn started low in his stomach. “What piece? That my dad made a mistake?”

  “Possibly.” He nodded, mouth turned down. “Men do make errors, even ones you think should be up on a pedestal as high as that guy right there.”

  Declan didn’t even look at the statue, but kept his eyes on the man next to him. “My father may have died because of his own error in judgment. It happens. But that didn’t start the fire.”

  “True,” he agreed. “So who else might they be protecting?”

  “I have no freaking idea.” Irritation snaked up his spine. “Why don’t you spell it out for me?”

  “Because my theories are just that—guesses. You were there.”

  “No, I wasn’t,” Declan shot back. “I was up in the mountains and not on duty that night.” Otherwise, maybe they wouldn’t be sitting here having this frustrating conversation.

  “You were in the department, though. You had to hear something of the conversations.”

  Declan grunted, remembering the thick, soup-like fog he’d lived in. “I didn’t go to work much after that fire. They gave me some time off to take care of my family.” And hide in that emotional basement.

  “Have you ever looked at the firefighter roster to see who was there that night? Including volunteers?”

  “I didn’t see that in the file for the investigation, but I could probably get my hands on it.”

  “Do that, because firefighters can be arsonists,” Kirby said. “Some of the best, in fact. And the list of all the volunteers. Don’t forget them.”

  “The fire was contained fast. Only one group of volunteers was called in.” Suddenly, Declan’s shoulders felt heavy with the weight of what he was doing. Did he want to reopen the investigation? All he wanted to do was close it—in his head and heart.

  “So talk to them. Now that twenty years have passed, someone who wasn’t willing to talk back than might be willing now,” Kirby said. “And, of course, you have to look at the property owners to see what they had to gain.”

  “From losing a house that’s been in the family for more than a hundred years?” He heard his voice rise with disbelief. “No amount of insurance could cover the treasures in that house.”

  “It’s not always insurance,” Kirby said. “Sometimes, they want to cover up something. In fact, covering past misdeeds is, in my experience, a far more common reason to start a fire than to get money. Especially for people that rich.”

  Declan considered that, but what would anyone liv
ing in Gloriana House want to cover up? But then, how well did he know Evie’s parents? Another sickening sensation spread through his chest. Was he really sitting here considering Evie’s parents as suspects in the fire that killed his father?

  God, maybe he really did want to sabotage this relationship.

  “Or sometimes,” the man said, flipping his phone over and over in his hands, “it’s about money, but not in the way you think.”

  Declan looked skyward at the cryptic words. “What do you mean?”

  His hands stilled, and he turned to Declan, looking him directly in the eyes again. “Max Hewitt donated thousands of dollars to the Vestal Valley First Responders Organization. Still does, actually. Did you know that?”

  “Of course I know that.” He shifted on the bench. “You think they could have protected him because he’s a top donor?” His body hummed with the need to reject that idea, to rip it out of the universe and stomp on it. “The guy couldn’t hurt a fly.” The cliché was the best he could do, considering how his head was exploding from the conversation.

  Kirby lifted his shoulders and made a face. “Just keep asking why, son. You’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  “If there’s a bottom to get to.”

  The other man exhaled and sat back. “Now it’s my turn to ask you why. Why now? Why after twenty years? Why did this suddenly become your mission?”

  “It’s not a mission,” he said. “I wanted to find out what happened, because I can’t…” Let it go. “Because I want to know.”

  “Be careful what you wish for,” Kirby said with a dry laugh. “And don’t ignore the fact that the house was full of something that starts a fire…lighters.”

  “They’re not going to tell me anything,” Declan said.

  “You sure? Find one that puts out the highest-temperature flame, and you’ll have your lighter. That fire burned stunningly fast, probably at thirteen hundred degrees Celsius. That’s a certain kind of lighter, a 1300, and it ain’t what Grandpa used to puff on his pipe.”

  “Got it.” Declan closed his eyes, remembering the array of lighters on display.

  “Hope that helps, son.” He pushed up to a stand.

  No, it didn’t help. It made things worse. “Can I call you if I have any questions?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t. I’m retired and would like to stay that way.” He threw Declan one more look. “Just don’t dig too deep. In my experience, the answer is right in front of you…if you want to see it.”

  He nodded once, pulled the ball cap low, and walked off, leaving Declan staring up at Thaddeus himself.

  He sat there for a long, long time, letting it all play out. Could Max have set that fire? Or was there a skilled arsonist? And was the fire inside the house the reason Dad had powered through to the sunroom and got trapped when the burning veranda above him collapsed?

  Or was this just the ramblings of an eccentric old man who liked to find arson where there may have been none?

  All he knew now was that this was keeping him from the one person he wanted to be with.

  Not to mention that if Evie had any idea that he’d had a conversation like this—about her own family—it would break her heart. And God knew he was never going to do that again.

  No. He was going to have a baby with her, and if everything went according to the plan he was still formulating, he was going to spend the rest of his life with her.

  He’d already let this damn fire ruin half his life. He wasn’t going to let it ruin the rest.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  When six o’clock came and went, Evie started to wonder if Declan wasn’t going to show. But his delay gave her a chance to get Granddaddy situated for the night, then feed Judah and run him through a short rehab session.

  With both her patients exhausted and in their respective beds, Evie showered, put on some makeup, and picked out a tank top and soft cotton skirt, taking more time selecting lace undies than the actual outfit. She’d made Declan’s favorite sandwich, opened wine, and lit candles on the farmhouse table in the kitchen, but it was after seven when she heard Declan’s truck door in the driveway.

  Curious why he hadn’t texted he was on his way, she took her wine to the front door in time to see him climb out, grab a backpack, and take a minute to look up at the sky and sigh.

  She stepped out onto the porch. “Are you having second thoughts, Captain?”

  He turned, stared at her for a long moment, then let his gaze roam over her the way he used to that summer when they knew where they were headed, but didn’t know when or where.

  “The only thoughts I’m having…” he said as he walked toward her, cracking that unhurried Mahoney smile. He reached her, took the wine, sipped it, then leaned over to kiss her. “Are kinda dirty.”

  A sexy hot tendril curled around her insides. “I was starting to feel stood up.”

  “I had…business.”

  She searched his face, more because of his tone than what he’d said. “Everything okay?”

  He studied her for a moment, sliding a hand under her jaw, giving her chills when his palm grazed her skin. “It is now.”

  “I made us hoagies,” she said. “Your favorite Italian with extra cheese and no onions.” She led him into the house. “Are you hungry?”

  He nodded, still sort of staring at her.

  “Yeah, I’d call that hungry,” she joked. “Ravenous, in fact. So why don’t we—”

  He stopped her with a kiss, hard and hot, wrapping his arm around her and drawing her into his body. “Food can wait,” he said. “I can’t. I honest to God cannot wait another minute for you, Evie.”

  She folded against him, looking up. “Then don’t.”

  He kissed her again while he closed and locked the door, then ushered her toward the back, somehow knowing exactly where they were going. He stopped to lean against a wall to intensify the kisses, his whole body so hard and powerful she felt like she was melting into the board-and-batten panels.

  “Not bad for post-twenty-four-hour shift,” she murmured.

  “And I didn’t sleep five minutes.” Tunneling his fingers into her hair, he lifted her head to get to her throat.

  “A lot of calls?”

  “Very few.”

  “Then why didn’t you sleep?” she asked.

  “’Cause I felt like a kid on Christmas Eve.” He glided a hand down her neck and slowly caressed her breast. “Presents waiting to…”

  She bit her lip and looked up at him, dragging her hand down the front of his T-shirt. At the bottom, she let her fingers graze the button of his jeans. “Unwrap,” she finished for him.

  He chuckled into the next kiss, his whole body responding against her. “Ho, ho, ho,” he teased, caressing her back and angling her hips against his. “It’s Christmas in October.”

  She kissed him again, a whimper escaping as their tongues touched like the opening notes of a long, beautiful symphony.

  Still holding each other, still kissing, he stepped her back like they were dancing. “Hope Judah sleeps heavy, or else…”

  “He’s sound asleep. Come.” She walked him to the little suite of rooms behind the back stairs.

  It was dark and got even darker when she closed the bedroom door, but she easily guided him to the bed. He set his backpack on the floor, very carefully, glancing at Judah.

  “I don’t want to wake him,” he whispered.

  “Listen to that dog snore,” she said. “He’s underwater-treadmill tired.”

  He smiled. “It works?”

  “Like a charm. Christine was mightily impressed. Do you need a light?” she asked.

  “Only if you want me to find protection.”

  She’d thought so much about this moment, this question, this issue. “How’s your health, Captain?”

  “Flawless. Checked constantly. Yours?”

  She gave a dry laugh. “I’ve been celibate since my last doctor’s appointment.”

  With a moan, he leaned down and kis
sed her, guiding her to the bed. “Gotta change that situation, stat.”

  “Yes, please.” She fell onto the comforter with him, wrapping her legs around him so her skirt slid up, gasping at the way his body fit against hers. They rolled once, then again, refusing to break the kiss as he worked her top over her head, and she did the same with his.

  He took a moment to appreciate the pretty lace bra, or maybe what was in it, then easily unhooked it, taking a much longer moment to admire her bare breasts. His gaze seared her, and then he touched her skin, and that burned hotter. He dipped his head to plant a kiss on her breast, nearly taking all her breath away.

  “And the protection?” He lifted his head to look into her eyes. “Because, Evie, I want to make love to you with or without…consequences. I want you. Before anything or anyone else, I want you.”

  “So, are you saying this is not about a baby?”

  “It can be, but…” He stilled his hand, giving her a serious, smoky look. “First and foremost, it’s about us.”

  “Declan.” She stroked his cheek, feeling the stubble from a long shift and the face of a man who couldn’t be better, on any level. “I never dared to dream this could happen. Well, that’s not true. I dreamed it a lot. Awake and asleep dreams.”

  His eyes shuttered at her words. “Same.”

  “And in my dreams, we were always in love.” She couldn’t stop now. She had to tell him the truth. He had to know before they made love. “Not trying to make a baby and not trying to make up for lost time. But you and me…in love.” She sighed against him, kissing him with her lips parted and eyes open. “I wanted that more than I wanted sex.”

  He looked at her for a long time, his heart hammering so hard she could feel it.

  “Then let’s start this the right way,” he whispered.

  She stared back, silent.

  He curled his arms under her, elevating her a little bit as he looked into her eyes. “I love you, Dr. Evangeline Hewitt. I loved you then, and I love you now. I might have stopped living for twenty years, but I didn’t stop loving.”

  “Oh.” She exhaled the word on a whispery sigh, feeling like she could float on the happiness of that. “You love me.”