by Lynn, Sheryl
“It’s a human tendency to resist that which we need the most.” She could stand here and stare into his beautiful eyes all day long.
“Straight up, okay? No games. We’re friends, good friends. That’s kind of weird for me, because—” he shrugged “—I don’t know many women who are friend friends. Know what I mean?”
She guessed where this led, and tamped the urge to argue. He needed to say what he needed to say.
“You’re right. I do think you’re sexy. I’ve thought about asking you out. I even dream about you. But I don’t want to wreck our friendship. I don’t want to hurt you.”
Or himself.
She pressed her hand over his and closed her eyes. The irony of the situation didn’t escape her. As a young woman, when her body was firm and unscarred, when her sexuality was at its ripest, she’d never felt the tug of love or lust. Her husband had been more of a business partner than a soul mate. Lovemaking was a way to relieve stress, not share intimacy. She’d had neither the time nor the inclination toward what she’d mistakenly thought of as frivolity. Now here she was, middle-aged, battle-scarred, past the age when men ogled her on the street or lusted after her in their hearts, and she’d found a man who put a flutter in her heart and a thump in her belly. The very first time she’d looked into those velvety brown eyes, caught a whiff of his vibrantly masculine scent, was captured by his smile, she’d known he was it.
What she lacked in gorgeous femininity, she’d gained in wisdom. Wisdom counseled patience. “I understand.”
“It’s not you.” Worry strained his voice. “It’s me.”
“Okay.”
He used both hands now to hold her face. She couldn’t have stopped staring into his eyes if she’d wanted to—which she didn’t. “Damn it, Diana, I mean it. You keep looking at me like that…I’m only human. We’d be a disaster. You’d end up hating me. I’m not good enough for you.”
“But you still want to kiss me. Hold me. You feel the connection.”
His big chest rose and fell in a heavy breath. His hands were warm against her skin, his palms work-roughened, but tender. “Yeah.”
“You may as well kiss me, then. Or we’ll never get out of here.”
He huffed a dry laugh. “You make me insane.” But he kissed her, soft and sweet, a close-mouthed kiss of barely restrained passion. When she slid her arms around his waist, she felt him trembling. He lowered his hands to her shoulders. She touched the tip of her tongue to his lips. Electric. He reacted as if it felt electric to him, too. She liked that. She liked the way his scent seemed to darken, liked the slight thrust of his groin against hers, liked the coiled power thrumming through his big body.
She would have liked a whole lot more, but he was far from ready to surrender.
“Gotta quit this,” he muttered and stepped back, still holding her shoulders. His eyes were black, hot and gleaming. “Got a job to do.” His voice had roughened. He released her, giving her a wary look as if fearing—hoping?—she’d jump him. He pulled a trooper hat from the cruiser. “Tuck up your hair, put this on. You’re riding shotgun, and I mean that literally. If we run into trouble, I expect you to follow orders. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” She grasped her hair and twisted the mass of it against the back of her head. She pulled the hat down low.
He finally smiled. “You look goofy.”
“You look mean.”
“I am mean. God help any dumb bastard who makes a run at you. Get in.”
She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had acted so concerned about her. Perhaps no one ever had. She loved it. Just as she was falling in love with him.
TATE STRODE INTO the sheriff’s station. He wasn’t worried about running into Agent Albright or his buddies, since Gil had given him the all clear. The sheriff was also aware that Diana was safely tucked away—somewhere. He wouldn’t ask.
Gil was in his office, filling out budget reports. “Run for sheriff,” he said without looking up from the paperwork.
The non-sequitur baffled Tate. “Excuse me?”
“I’ve been doing this twenty-six years. Started out on the volunteer roster, then when King McClintock took office, he sent me through the police academy in Denver. I was undersheriff for more than fifteen years. Lord, but that’s a big chunk of life gone.” He put down his pencil and rested a cheek on his palm. “I walked into my house last night and the place was full of grandkids. I yelled at Little John for jumping on my easy chair. What kind of life is that, eh? A man making babies cry because he’s wore out from working a job he’s too old to be working.”
Tate rubbed the back of his neck. He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. It wasn’t like Gil to complain.
“You’re the best cop I’ve ever met, Tate. You’re too damned smart to be running a broke-down old bar. Election is coming up in November. I don’t intend to be on the ballot. So run for office. The pay is lousy, the hours are worse and the paperwork will turn your hair gray. It’s the perfect job for you.”
Gil was serious. Tate sat and rested a foot on his knee. He folded his hands over his chest. ‘No one would vote for me. Most people still call me “that New York boy.”’
Gil snorted. “Sheriff’s election is nothing more than a formality. Shoot, ain’t had a contested race in as long as I’ve been voting. Only reason they hold an election at all is ’cause that’s what the charter demands, and the county commissioners are too busy bickering about street lights and new seating for the rodeo arena to change it.”
Odd hunger filled Tate. He loved this town. Even more depressing than losing the bar, was the idea of having to move away for the sake of a job. “I’ll consider it. Later. Right now, where’s Coles?” “Deputy,” Gil said in a voice loud enough to carry into the main station room, “the Bernadette O’Malley case is now in the hands of the FBI. You will keep your nose out of it. Unless they ask directly for your input, you will not discuss it in or out of this station. Do you understand?”
This, Tate decided, was what he loved best about this small-town police force. The sheriff upheld the law, but if the law was at odds with what was right, Gil always went with what was right. In a massive, many-layered, bureaucratic organization the brass tended to forget the difference between wrong and right, and cared only about staying out of trouble.
Maybe he would run for sheriff.
The secretary rapped her knuckles on the office door. She looked as if someone had shoved dirty socks up her nose. “Sheriff? Agent Albright is here to see you. Again.”
“Tell him to cool his spurs. I’ve got business to finish up.” As soon as she stepped away, he whispered, “Dollars to donuts says he’s got himself a warrant.”
A knot in Tate’s guts jerked tight. He and Gil played a dangerous game. They could end up under investigation, or worse.
Gil rose, his smooth Ute face placid and thoughtful. With a flick of his finger at Tate, he walked to the door. “Deputy Raleigh, I’ve had non-stop complaints from bicyclists over on Whitehorn hill. Go convince speeders to slow down. And convince those damned cyclists that traffic rules apply to them, too.”
“Roger that, sir.” He nodded at Albright on his way out of the station. The feeb wore a hard, smug smile that confirmed in Tate’s mind the existence of an arrest warrant.
Tate hoped like hell Gil was able to convince the FBI that interrogating Tate about Diana’s whereabouts would be a waste of time. Because then he’d have to break the law and lie. And from what he’d heard, federal prison was a nasty place to be.
GIL VANCE, TATE DECIDED, was a genius.
The Maya Valley was long and narrow, the length of it running north to south. Grant Road was the only paved road connecting to a major highway. There were plenty of ranch and forest roads heading off east or west, but they were gravel-topped, narrow and, depending on the weather, not always passable. Outsiders tended to stick to asphalt. Whitehorn hill was at the south end of the valley and Grant Road curved up and over it, offering a magnificent
view of the Maya River and a heart-thumping scare to anyone who ignored the caution signs. It turned steep on the north side, so vehicles headed toward Mc-Clintock had to drop into low gear and brake. From the vantage point of a turnout at the bottom of the hill, Tate could easily record the make, model and license plate number of every passing vehicle.
On a sunny summer day like this one, out-of-town traffic consisted mostly of recreational vehicles inching down the hill and four-wheelers looking for some off-road action in the foothills surrounding the valley.
Tate considered hired assassins to be predators. Not especially intelligent, but clever enough to learn from their mistakes. After the fiasco at Diana’s farm and again on Main Street, hit men would realize their big-city street tactics wouldn’t work in this country. The next hitters could be disguised as tourists or campers or fishermen. They’d be more subtle in their mode of attack.
There were quite a few bicyclists wearing alien-head helmets and fluorescent spandex. Tate enjoyed a good workout as much as the next guy, but huffing and puffing over hills at this altitude struck him as just plain dumb. Instead of flagging reckless bicyclists or speeders, he flipped his lights to let them know the law was watching. He focused on recording passing vehicles.
He listened with half an ear to radio traffic. A quiet day, which was a good thing since dispatch was conspicuously not contacting him. Good old Gil, keeping him off the FBI’s radar.
The telephone rang. Tate’s heart lurched. Diana was under strict orders not to use her borrowed phone unless it were an emergency. It was Gil. “Your shift is almost over, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thought you might like to know, Albright and I attempted to execute a warrant. Can’t seem to find Ms. Dover though.”
“Huh.” Tate grinned.
“Ran by her farm, too. If you happen to hear from her, tell her the chickens and bees are doing fine. I collected a couple dozen eggs. I’ll drop them off at the Shack.”
“If I see her, that’s what I’ll tell her.”
“I was sitting here looking over time logs. You have a couple of vacation days due you,” Gil said. “We’ve got a use it or lose it policy around here. You better take those days.”
Albright must have blown his eyeballs when he realized Diana had slipped away. Tate hated leaving Gil to take the heat.
As if reading his mind, Gil said, “I mean it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m giving Agent Albright my full cooperation and to show him what a good old boy I am, he and his cronies are having supper at my place.”
Translation: when Tate dropped off the cruiser and logged out of the station, Albright would be otherwise occupied. “Yes, sir.”
At six that evening, Tate pulled the cruiser into the station lot. He went inside, logged out and handed the vehicle list to the dispatcher. He didn’t need to tell her what to do with it. All rental cars would be red-flagged.
“Have a nice vacation,” she called when he was walking out.
He loved this town.
He headed over to the Shack. The number of people clogging Main Street dismayed him. So many strangers, any of whom could be a hired killer on the prowl. He slipped in through the bar’s back door and entered his apartment. It struck him as even shabbier than usual. Drab, utilitarian. The house where he’d grown up had been cluttered and colorful and full of life. When he got married, the first thing Lisa had done when they moved into an apartment was embark on a frenzy of curtain making, picture hanging and furniture arranging. He’d teased her about nesting, but their pretty home had made him proud and humble at the same time.
Diana’s house was homey and comfortable and pleasing to the eye. A place to leave the troubles of the world behind. Sanctuary.
“Cut it out,” he growled at the yearning in his soul, and peeled out of his uniform. He removed all insignia and his name tag, then dropped it in a bag for the laundry. He packed an overnight bag with clothes, toiletries and extra ammunition.
He entered the kitchen.
Consuela had the place humming with her young relatives. Cooking food filled the air with steam. The dining room sounded packed.
He called Consuela’s name. She turned around, her smile as dazzling as it was shocking. He couldn’t recall her ever smiling at him. Her cheeks were flushed, her apron was filthy, and she looked so radiantly happy he felt certain a doppleganger had shoved the real Consuela into a closet and taken her place.
“Is everything going all right?” he asked.
“Couldn’t be better!” She practically sang.
It hit him that she’d been waiting for this opportunity, most likely for years.
“I’ll be out of the loop for a while. Can you fill out the time sheets. I’ll pick up—”
“You think I can’t handle payroll? You don’t trust me?” She pulled a sizzling basket out of the deep fryer. She waved him off as if he were a stray dog begging food.
Chewing over how useless he felt, and whether that were a good feeling or a bad feeling, he left the Shack.
Suspecting the FBI might put a tail on him, he drove the short distance to Walt Buchanan’s carpentry shop. He pulled the Bronco around back where Ric Buchanan’s Jeep was parked. He entered the building.
“Mr. Tate!”
He smiled at Ric’s daughter. Jodi sat before the keyboard of a computer. “How’d you sneak that contraption past Walt?” he asked her.
“I finally wore him down,” the teenager assured him. “His accounting system is positively archaic. He keeps receipts in shoe boxes. I told him I’d input everything and set up a system so simple that even he can use it.”
“Sounds good. Is your dad around?”
“In the paint booth.” She jumped to her feet. “I’ll get him.”
Poor Ric, he thought. Jodi was nearly six feet tall, a golden-haired stunner who grew more beautiful by the day. Ric didn’t allow her to date, but he was fighting a losing battle in keeping besotted boys from sniffing around. She pounded on the door hard enough to be heard over the noise of the fans and air compressor. Wearing a respirator, Ric opened the door. At spotting Tate, he pulled the mask off his face.
“Hey,” he said. “What’s up, jarhead?”
Tate crooked a finger. “Need a favor. Can I switch vehicles with you?”
Ric dug into his jeans pocket and pulled out a ring of keys. He worked a key off the ring and tossed it across the shop. Tate caught it with an overhead swipe. He took his Bronco keys off his ring and laid them on a workbench. It amused him that Ric asked no questions, but that’s how he was. If something needed doing, Ric just did it.
Jodi fingered her chin, her eyes wide and innocent. “I’m learning how to drive. Can I practice in your Bronco?”
“Jodi,” Ric warned.
“Fine by me,” Tate said. “It’s not like she can do it any damage.”
“Thanks a lot,” Ric muttered.
Tate had heard Ric’s horror stories about teaching his daughter to drive. Jodi was as bold and reckless as she was beautiful. Ric swore that every lesson shaved five years off his life. “I owe you, man. Gotta go.”
He drove off in the white Jeep. If anyone spotted it on McClintock Ranch, he or she would assume it was Ric or Elaine and think nothing of it.
He reached the rutted, weed-choked driveway leading to the lodge. A sturdy chain blocked access. He left the Jeep parked and slung his overnight bag over his shoulder. He dialed Diana’s number, let it ring twice, then hung up, waited a few seconds, then dialed again and let it ring three times. The prearranged signal would let her know he was here. He stepped over the chain and walked up the driveway.
The rustic old lodge came into view. Shaded by towering pines, it was squat, dark, and rather malevolent looking. Even with the front door standing wide and the shutters open, it didn’t look inviting. He wondered if this were such a good idea after all. Bad things had happened at this place. He shoved such superstitious drivel out of his head.
With her back to him, she was splitting firewood. Her chambray work shirt hung from a tree branch. The wide straps of a sports bra was all that covered her back, proving her figure was as nice as he’d always imagined. Her back was smoothly muscled, shiny with sweat, so pale it seemed formed with mother of pearl. Her jeans snugged over the swell of her hips and rear, but gapped erotically at her long, slender waist.
A shaft of sunlight caught her hair, copper fire, rich gold, colors he hadn’t even known existed. She bent over to pick up pieces of wood. His groin tightened.
Damn it, he did want her, all of her. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t remain emotionally detached from her. It didn’t matter if she could see beneath the surface, see into his heart, read his thoughts, recognize the pain. He wanted her body and soul—even if it meant letting her get close.
Tippy burst from the weeds and barked, running toward him.
Diana squealed and spun about, the axe clutched in both hands.
He held up his hands. “Sorry. Didn’t you hear my phone signal?”
She blew a harsh breath and lowered the axe. The sports bra was far more modest than most bikini tops. For a while it had been the fashion for female joggers to wear them without a shirt. Still, as he approached, he made a point of keeping his eyes on her face. She swiped sweat from her brow.
“You startled me. I didn’t hear you drive up.”
“The chain.”
She rested the axe against the chopping stump and reached for her shirt. He couldn’t resist a quick peek at her breasts and belly. He had a thing for bellies. None of that washboard, boyish look for him; he liked them soft and round. Pretty navels were the height of sexiness.
Her belly was pale and looked as smooth as silk.
Something was wrong. His mind couldn’t quite register exactly what it was. Her breasts were small, or at least, one breast was small, a mound against the stretch cotton. The other side of the bra puckered like an empty sock.
