Dust Up with the Detective

by Danica Winters

  Murder in Montana is never simple

  Every dead body in Butte is someone’s kin. Detective Jeremy Lawrence has investigated so many wrongdoings, but he still never imagined how it’d feel to be standing over his own brother. Until now. Thankfully, he has the help of Deputy Blake West, a woman he’s known his entire life—and wanted for as long as he can remember.

  It’s been forever since Blake has seen Jeremy, and she has questions for the hot-as-sin lawman. But her interrogation must wait once she learns the killer has set his sights on Blake’s daughter. They promise to put family first, but time is running out to uncover the Lawrence family’s secrets—and rebuild what Jeremy and Blake thought they’d broken long ago...

  “The person behind this doesn’t have respect for law enforcement. They think they’re above the law. They’ve killed once, and they won’t hesitate to do it again. If we get close, our lives might be in danger.”

  Blake shook her head. “Just because we made a mistake in there,” she said, pointing to the office, “doesn’t mean that you have to be dramatic. We’re fine.”

  Her words made goose bumps rise on his arms. Anytime he’d ever gotten complacent in his job, or thought he was safe, was when he’d found himself in trouble.

  “Think about it, Blake.” Her name felt like velvet on his tongue; it even tasted sweet. He paused as he just looked at her for a moment.

  “What?” she asked, locking eyes with him. And when she did, all he could think about was closing the distance between them.

  DUST UP WITH

  THE DETECTIVE

  Danica Winters

  Danica Winters is a multiple award-winning, bestselling author who writes books that grip readers with their ability to drive emotion through suspense and occasionally a touch of magic. When she’s not working, she can be found in the wilds of Montana, testing her patience while she tries to hone her skills at various crafts—quilting, pottery and painting are not her areas of expertise. She believes the cup is neither half-full nor half-empty, but it better be filled with wine. Visit her website at danicawinters.net.

  Books by Danica Winters

  Harlequin Intrigue

  Smoke and Ashes

  Dust Up with the Detective

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  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Deputy Blake West—A former Butte sweetheart, Blake wanted nothing more than to escape the tiny backwoods mining town, but circumstances—and a child—kept her tied down. Finally standing on her own two feet, she finds that she must not only break free of the demons from her past, but also fight the power that wants to keep her relegated to the shadows.

  Detective Jeremy Lawrence—The Missoula detective is called to the scene when his brother goes missing and is presumed dead in his mine claim. When he arrives, he finds his family in shambles and a world built of memories—some that were better left behind.

  Gemma West—Mother to Blake West and her biggest supporter—though they often don’t see eye to eye.

  Megan West—Blake West’s daughter, and the most important person in Blake’s life.

  Robert Lawrence—Owner of the Foreman Mine who is missing and possibly dead. He is the delinquent black sheep of the three Lawrence brothers.

  Tiffany Lawrence—A woman with a past filled with drugs, lies and deception. Married to Robert Lawrence, but has the spirit of a gypsy and the soul of a killer.

  Mayor John Engelman—Small-town mayor who believes he is not only above the law, but that he makes the law.

  Judith Davy—The mayor’s wife, but just like her husband doesn’t let the law stand in the way of getting what she wants.

  Todd O’Brien—Landowner and hermit who wants nothing more than to be left alone—especially by law enforcement as they never see eye to eye on land-use practices or his midnight shootouts.

  To Herb—

  You make everything possible.

  Always and forever.

  Acknowledgments

  This book wouldn’t have been possible without the help of my community. Major thanks to the Missoula County Sheriff’s Office and Brenda Bassett for their time and patience in helping to answer questions. Sergeant Prather, it was an honor to have had the opportunity for a ride along and to pick your brain. Your advice was invaluable. And to all those who serve our communities, you and your family’s sacrifice are appreciated. You help to make the world a better place.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Excerpt from Blame It on the Cowboy by Delores Fossen

  Chapter One

  Everything in Montana was measured by time, not miles driven, not quality and not sacrifice. For example, the trip from Missoula to Butte took just under two hours. And her boyfriend? Nearly three months. At sixteen, the relationship had been too short to be called serious, yet long enough to leave her with a child. Then, in less than ten seconds, the relationship was over and she had been left with a beautiful daughter and fading dreams.

  That was thirteen years ago. Thirteen terrifying, humbling and gratifying years. Nights spent soothing her daughter when she had ear infections, and days spent struggling to get where she was—a sheriff’s officer with a steady job and a stable income. She was the only one strong enough to support her mother and her daughter. They needed her.

  Dreams were for those who could afford them—and that would never be Blake West.

  Her antiquated patrol unit’s radio crackled to life as the 9-1-1 dispatcher’s voice filled the car. “Blake, your mom called. Said there’s some kind of issue up at your place.”

  She picked up the handset. “Dispatch, feel free to remind my mother that nine-one-one is to be used for emergencies only.”

  “You tell your mother that,” the woman said with a laugh.

  Blake shook her head, as she thought about telling her throwback-to-another-era Irish mother that she wasn’t to do something. Blake had a better chance of convincing the Pope to give up being Catholic.

  “Really, though,” the dispatcher continued, “she said your cell wasn’t working. She sounded really upset.”

  Blake picked up her cell phone. Just like half of Silver Bow County, there was no service today where yesterday there had been—just another perk of living in a state where technology was an unreliable amenity.

  “Is Megan okay?”

  “She didn’t say. Just said she needed you to come home.”

  Blake stepped on the gas as she turned the car down the set of roads that led to their house. “If she calls back, tell her I’m on my way.”

  She flicked on her lights and sped down the pothole-ravaged road that
led to the house on the outskirts of the mining-centered city of Butte. At one time the historical city had been beautiful with its brick buildings and Old West charm. There had been an uptick in the mine’s activities around the city in the 1990s, but now it was a decaying mass of run-down miner’s row houses and the home of a pit full of water so toxic that it even killed the birds that dared to land on its surface.

  Most of those left in town were small-time miners, those who hoped the large mine operations would open again someday, or those who had retired from the Pit. It was the city of the strong, a city of survivors—just like Blake and her mother.

  Gemma West could handle anything. If she was as upset as the dispatcher said, something had to be majorly wrong.

  Had something happened to Megan? She was old enough to know the rules, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t done something to put herself in danger.

  Blake took a series of long breaths as she forced herself to remain calm.

  Megan was probably fine.

  She pulled to a stop in front of their beige ranch-style home, which rested behind a mature, though chemically stunted, pine. Near its base was a scar from her father’s car the day he’d left so many years ago. She’d always hated and loved that tree. It was a visible reminder of days and lives spent scratching and tearing away in the mines that were the fulcrum of the corrupt city and how that city and its vices had destroyed her family. No matter how many years went by, the tree would never grow, never change. Too much damage had been done.

  “Mom! Megan?” she yelled, hoping they would step out the front door to meet her.

  It was dead quiet. She made her way up the steps and opened the aluminum screen door with a rattle.

  “Mom, you home? Megan?” she called, her voice nearing frantic tones only a dog could hear.

  The smell of home cooking, the kind done by generations who didn’t care about waistlines or cholesterol, wafted from the kitchen.

  “Mom?” she asked, moving toward the scent of fried chicken.

  Something was terribly wrong. Her mother could hear a car coming from ten miles down the road, and she was notorious for meeting Blake at the front door, judgment in hand.

  She moved to call for her daughter but stopped as the sound of the back door’s rusty hinges screeched.

  She wasn’t alone.

  Out of instinct, she reached down and put her hand on her Glock, unclicking the snap that held it safely in its holster. After slipping the gun out, she raised it, ready to meet whatever or whomever she would find in the kitchen.

  The old wooden floor creaked as she tried to sneak down the hall. Pressing her back against the wall, she readied herself.

  Had someone broken in? Was someone trying to take her daughter?

  Her daughter.

  She lowered her gun. Maybe it was just Megan. The girl loved to surprise her—to jump out from behind walls and make her scream. If it was, she couldn’t let her law enforcement training come into play. She couldn’t risk hurting someone she loved.

  “Megan, is that you?” she asked, trying to sound playful instead of terrified. “Pumpkin, you need to answer me.” She lowered her gun and hid it behind her hip as she eased around the corner and into the kitchen.

  On the counter under the window, a fresh plate of fried chicken sat cooling, its oil oozing into the paper towel underneath. A can of beans was next to the plate, the can opener still resting on its lip, as if her mother had been opening it but had suddenly been called away.

  A movement outside caught her eye as something scuttled across the backyard and disappeared behind the shed.

  The hair on her arms rose. What is going on?

  She took a step toward the back door.

  Megan’s scream pierced the air. The sound resonated from the darkened shed.

  Blake ran outside. Gun raised. Ready. If someone was hurting her daughter, they would die.

  Through the thin particleboard door of the shed, she heard muffled voices. She stopped, trying to quiet her breathing as she listened. She could barely make out her mother’s voice.

  She moved to the door. “Get down! Get down on the ground!” she yelled, kicking open the door, smashing it against the wall.

  Megan was sitting at the table, her back to her. A man stood in the shadows, his arm raised. He was holding something.

  “Put down your weapon!” Blake ordered.

  The man moved, and a thin light from the tiny, dirt-covered window reflected off the blade of a hacksaw.

  “I said put down your weapon!” She aimed her gun at his center mass.

  The man looked at her. In the shadows she could make out only the whites of his eyes and the slight movement of his lips as he started to speak.

  “Mom, no!” Megan turned around. Her round face was covered in sweat, and her eyes were wide with fear.

  She raised her hands. Her wrists were in shackles.

  Blake’s finger trembled on the trigger as the man slowly lowered his weapon to the floor. “What in the hell do you think you are doing to my daughter?”

  Chapter Two

  “Not every situation requires a gun,” Gemma said as she walked up the steps to the back door. “You scared poor Megan. Didn’t she, honey?” Her mother wrapped her arm around her daughter and gave her a reassuring squeeze.

  “I’m fine, Grandma, really.” Megan tried to wiggle out of her embrace.

  Blake snorted lightly. If the girl was a bit older, she would have realized that, for good or bad, no matter how much she struggled, she would never be out of Gemma West’s grip.

  “I’m sorry about this mess, Jeremy. Having a gun pointed at you isn’t much of a thank-you for your help in trying to get Megan out of those handcuffs,” her mother continued.

  Blake looked over at Jeremy Lawrence. She’d always thought of him as the gangly neighbor she had once had a crush on, but seeing the grown-up detective now, it was clear he was nothing like the boy she remembered. Now he stood tall with impossibly wide shoulders, a chiseled jaw and the piercing green eyes of a stranger. Everything from the way he walked, solid and firm, to the way he watched their every move, in control and ever vigilant, screamed alpha man.

  “You’re a tough one, Megan,” Jeremy said as he held the door for them. “You remind me of my daughter. I think you’d like her. Once she got ahold of my handset and started playing Simon Says on the radio. It was funny, except for the fact that it was on a live channel. I thought the dispatchers were going to lose it.” He turned to Blake and smiled like he understood what she was going through as a single mother.

  She gave him a thankful nod, but he couldn’t possibly know how hard it was. How each day she was plagued with Mom-guilt—the overwhelming fear that no matter what choices she made, she should be doing more for her daughter. As it was, she tried her best to be there for Megan, but because of the crazy nature of her job and her unconventional schedule, Megan was often left with her grandmother—who never missed an opportunity to remind Blake of all the things she could do better.

  There was no way Jeremy could understand all the hats she had to wear to make it through the day.

  “Were you mad when your daughter messed up, Mr. Lawrence?” Megan asked him as she made her way into the house.

  Jeremy shook his head as he smiled at Blake. “It was my fault. It hadn’t occurred to me she would play with my scanner.”

  “See, Mom, he wasn’t mad when his daughter screwed up.” Megan looked back at her as if gauging her residual anger.

  “I’m not mad,” Blake said as she followed her mother and daughter inside. “I just don’t understand what possessed you to take my handcuffs out of my drawer and put them on. You had no business—”

  Jeremy put his hand on her lower back as he followed her inside and let the door close behind them. His hot,
familiar touch made her stop midsentence.

  “I’m sure she didn’t mean to upset you, Blake. Did you, Meg?” he asked, smiling as he gently moved his hand away, leaving behind the warmth of his touch.

  Did he know what he was doing to her? The last man who had touched her, at least in that way, had been Megan’s father. Sure, she and Jeremy had known each other as children, but he couldn’t touch her so familiarly—not when their friendship had existed a lifetime ago.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” Megan said.

  “Jeremy’s right. It’s your mom’s fault,” Gemma said as she moved through the kitchen. “If she wouldn’t have left the handcuffs where you could find them, none of this would have happened.” She turned to face Blake. “And it would have been nice if you would have answered your phone.”

  She loved her mom, but the jab pierced deep, puncturing the little bubble of guilt that she tried to keep out of reach. Her mother was right; she had messed up. She shouldn’t have left her cuffs where Megan could find them. But... “Mother, I have no control over where and when my phone works—you know this.”

  “Well, I don’t think you have any business traipsing around the county without a phone that works. Do I need to call the sheriff to make sure you get a satellite phone?”

  She looked to Jeremy. He didn’t need to hear any of this. The last thing she needed was another officer thinking she was incompetent, or worse—that she needed her mother to fight her battles.

  He gave her a Cheshire-cat grin, the same mischievous grin that he’d always used to get them out of trouble when they were kids.

  “Mrs. West, is that your famous fried chicken?” He motioned toward the plate on the counter.

  Her mother took the bait, brightening up at the chance to feed a man. “Oh, are you hungry? Why don’t you have a bite?” True to her nature, the question was more an order than a request. “I’ll throw the beans on, and it’ll be ready in a jiff.”