“Good.” Steve looked around. “Place looks good.”
“Can’t take credit for that.”
The dark eyes focused on his. “No?”
“Take it this isn’t police business, since we dealt with all of that already.” He lifted his beer. “Also this.”
“No, son” was all Steve said.
“What can I do for you?”
“Well, first of all, we got the kids’ class tomorrow. Just wanted to make sure you were gonna be there.”
Clay sighed. “Look, man, you don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t. Now just…hold your tongue for a second and listen, will you?”
Clay nodded and did as he was told.
“I got something I want you to know about.”
“What’s that?”
“Had an interesting conversation today.”
“Yeah?”
“Talked to your boss—”
“Ex-boss,” Clay cut in.
“Right. Special Agent in Charge Jean McGovern.” Clay waited for the old man to get to the point. “Has a lotta good things to say about you, son. She mentioned, very much off the record, she’s been working closely with Internal Affairs on some issues out of her field office—Baltimore.” He took a long, slow swig. “Said she had concerns that a certain field agent had gone rogue, working for personal gain rather than for the agency.”
“Okay,” said Clay with a sense of foreboding. She means me. He looked over the yard and waited for the sheriff to go on.
After a big inhale, Steve met his eye and said, “Guy who left the scene the other night? Special Agent Tyler Patrick Olson, ATF?” Clay’s throat closed up. He waited. “Boat blew up. Late last night. Fishing off the coast of Virginia. Early prognosis, entirely off the record, is suicide. Your boss was reticent with the details, as you can imagine.” He looked at Clay. “What’s your take on that?”
Something drummed in Clay’s ears, so hard, he could barely hear himself ask, “Anyone else on that boat?”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
“Any word on his wife and kids?”
“My understanding is that his family is safe.”
A breath in, a big swig of beer, and Clay nodded, pushed back the questions, no matter how hard they burned. Tyler did this to himself. Homicide or suicide, whatever it was, he’d made the choice. That didn’t make it any easier to swallow.
“McGovern claims you been having some issues. Psychological, she said.”
“Also off the record?” Clay asked with a wry twist to his mouth.
The sheriff answered with a chuckle. “Yeah. Said you’d been shot. Shrink wants you on meds for PTSD and—”
“Not doing the meds, sir. Don’t care who—”
“Slow down, kid. I’m not going to force you to do anything. It’s not why I’m here.”
“Then why are you here?” Clay asked before adding a belated, “Sir?”
Steve sipped at his beer. He was almost dainty in contrast to Clay’s slugs. “I thought you might want to stick around.” He slid a sly look at Clay. “’Course I’m not too keen on an ATF agent walking around in my community with untreated PTSD. Hanging around good citizens like the doc here and not taking care of yourself.”
After a brief moment of irritation, Clay looked at the garden and the sky and the beer in his hand, and he let it go. “Think I’ll figure it out,” he said through tight lips.
“Not trying to tell you what to do, but I’ve seen people come back from places and—”
“I’m good,” Clay said. It was probably true.
“You sure ’bout that?” The man turned to Clay, sharp eyes focused right at him. “Wouldn’t want you hurting yourself. Or anybody else.” He leaned away, reached into a pocket, and came out with a folded up piece of paper. “We’re a small town, but we got us some top-notch shrinks and—hold your tongue and let me finish, son.” Clay’s mouth snapped shut. “You feel things getting out of hand, don’t wait until it’s too late. Don’t wait until you’re so far gone you can’t go back. Give one of these people a call; take care of yourself. If I’m not mistaken, you’ll be staying here with the doc, which means you’ve got more than your ass to worry about now. And all I’m doing is making sure everybody comes out good. You feel me?”
The paper, white against Steve’s dark skin, shook slightly in the few beats it took for Clay to give in and take it. Without a word, face so red he wished he could hide it, he pocketed the list, unsure whether to be pissed or grateful for the man sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong.
After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, the man spoke again. “Anyone tell you I was the first black sheriff they ever had in Blackwood?”
“No, sir.”
“First one in this part of the state. Been a while, of course. Now they got lady sheriffs and everything,” the man finished with a grin.
“Well, that’s real—”
“Not done.”
“Okay.”
“You know the most important things I learned on the job?” Steve held up his beer, stopping Clay from trying to answer what was, clearly, a rhetorical question. “No rule book has all the answers in it. Not one right way to do things. You got to be smart, and you got to be fair. That’s what matters. It isn’t about being a man of the law so much as being a man. A good man.” He looked hard at Clay now, waiting for some sign, some understanding.
“Yeah. Yes. I get that.”
“Thought you might.” Steve’s eyes flicked over him before the sheriff took another deep slug.
“Anyway, all I’m saying is that you don’t have to look the part around here to get the job. Although,” he said with a wink, “it’s always a good idea to know the right people.”
“Whoa, Steve, I’m not trying to—”
“Yeah, well, I am. I’ve been at it twenty-five years and I got myself a girlfriend and all I want right now is to enjoy life. Been looking for someone to pass the torch to. Wasn’t ready to retire till the right man—or woman—came along.” Another sly look. “Wondering if maybe I found him.”
“Look, you’ve known me two weeks. I can’t—”
“Come to work for me. I’m low on deputies. When the time’s right, I’ll campaign for you. They’ll vote you in. I can retire. Your lady can keep her man, and you can stay here and feel useful again,” Steve said, crushing his can before setting it down. “I think everybody’d be getting pretty much exactly what they want, don’t you?”
Clay finished his beer and hesitated before accepting another.
“Why? I’m not the kind of—”
“You’re me.” The sheriff’s words stopped Clay with a surprised blink. “You’re the guy who figured he wasn’t worth a damn. People think you’re the bad guy, the monster, ’cause of the way you look, but inside”—he flicked Clay’s chest before leaning back, the wicker creaking under him—“you’re solid.”
The man’s dark eyes on his were steady, trusting. It felt good to have that kind of confidence pointed his way. Someone who got it.
Christ, don’t let me cry.
Clay set his beer on the table, got up, and went into the house, ran some water into a glass, and slugged it back. For about thirty seconds, he stood by the sink, waiting for the buzzing to subside, until he remembered it was already gone. Slowly, he sucked in one breath after another, waited, waited, and… Nothing. No buzz, no frantic scream, no mashed-up, frenzied thoughts. Instead, there was just…him. Him.
With a big, honest breath in, he went back out onto the porch and had that second beer with the sheriff before waving him off. He stayed out there alone for a while after that. Alone in a house that felt like home.
Something caught Clay’s attention—or, rather, the lack of something. He left the porch, stood on the steps, and stilled, head cocked, eyes roving over the
yard. The quiet yard.
No cicada opera. A couple of insects sawing out their tunes here and there, but the loud, overwhelming cacophony was gone. Here one second and gone the next. Gone.
And with that silence came clarity. His mind, fuzzy and painfully blurred for so long, felt suddenly bright and clean.
Christ, could he do it? Could he stay?
What the hell would he do with himself here? He could work on George’s place, fix the shit that needed fixing, do that summer martial arts camp for the kids…but eventually he’d just be the loser camping out in her bed, bringing nothing to the table. That wouldn’t work for them long-term. He needed a job. Did he have it in him to be a cop?
Inside, he heard a creak and turned around to see George standing in her work clothes.
“Cicadas are gone,” he said, oddly choked up.
A hushed “Oh” fell from her lips. She came out and joined him on the top step, her eyes filling with tears before they overflowed and ran down her cheeks on a sob.
Hesitantly, he put an arm around her, relaxing when she sank into him.
“But you’re still here,” she said. “I left work, sure you’d be gone, and then I saw your truck, and now—”
“Not going anywhere, baby,” he said, taking her in his arms. “I’m home.”
* * *
Overhead, thunder rolled, finally here. George kept her head on Clay’s shoulder and stared at the sky, willing the storm to break. She wanted something to ground this bright, hopeful feeling.
“Got a job offer,” said Clay.
She stilled and stopped hoping. “Did you?” A flash of lightning got the chickens squawking, and George’s chest tightened.
“Yep. Right here in Blackwood.”
“Okay.” The tightness in her chest became a flutter, which she ignored.
“Not exactly an offer. More of a suggestion, which I guess is a start.”
“Oh my God, Clay.” She lifted her head and smacked him on the shoulder. “If you’re going to string me along, I’ll turn around and go right back inside.”
“No.” He smiled. “No, stay, baby. Stay. I just… I need to ask you a question.”
“Ask away.” A drop fell on George’s head, heavy and warm, but still, they didn’t move.
“If…you know, the hormone thing you did. If it worked and you’re pregnant. I guess… It’s early, and we don’t know where we’re going with this, but…would it be so bad to have a baby with me? Instead of… I mean, I know I’m still pretty fucked up, but…”
“No,” she whispered. “No, it wouldn’t be bad at all.”
“I’ve been diagnosed with PTSD. I mean, I was, before. I thought you should know that.”
“I…I figured.”
“You’re not afraid of that? Of me?”
“Are you kidding? I trust you with my life.”
“Good,” he said, looking away. “Few nights ago, before all the shit went down, you also asked what or who I’d want to be? In the future. If I had one.”
She thought back and remembered the urge she’d had to know him then. Such a short while, but it seemed like ages ago. “Yes, I remember asking you that.”
“Well, this is it,” he said, taking hold of her hand, his voice competing with a closer growl of thunder, immediately followed by a sharp, angry flash above them and a patter of raindrops. “This, right here with you. I want to be a man you’d love. That’s what I want. I want to feel needed; I want to keep this small town safe. I want to make a baby with you one day. I want to make you smile and lose that sad look you get.”
“I look sad?”
He shrugged in answer, rain dotting the fabric at his shoulders.
She clasped his hand back, loving the rasp of his skin against hers. “I don’t feel sad now.”
“No? You looked a little sad coming up here.”
“That was when I still thought you’d be leaving me.”
“What if I were the Sheriff of Blackwood? Would you still want me then?”
“Really?” she said through a giggle, her hand going to his face, suddenly wet from the pelting rain. “I told you. I want you here. I want you with me.”
“God, I want you, George. I’m…I’m bad at this stuff, but I love you so much.” His arms pulled her into a hard, soggy embrace. “So much it fucking hurts.”
“I love you too, Clay,” she said, letting him take her lips, loving the heat of his tongue, the smell of him and sodden earth, together more elemental than anything in the world.
“So, you’re okay with me just…you know, hanging out?”
“Hanging out?”
“I keep trying to picture going back there. The old job. So weird, ’cause it’s what I am, or was. What I did and…I doubt you’d like Baltimore, anyway. And I’ve got to be wherever you are, George.” He paused and looked up at the sky. “Besides, this place sort of grows on you, you know?”
“Yes,” George said, laughing. “Yes, I know exactly what you mean.”
Clay might have said I love you again after that. At least, his mouth formed the words, but George couldn’t hear a thing because the heavens opened up and gave them everything, deafening them. She put her lips to his and felt the rightness of this kiss. Hot and elemental, sweet and so full of love. Their tongues touched and danced as they sipped at each other, sharing rather than taking.
George laughed as Clay nipped at her lip. She laughed with the sheer joy of being alive and loving him. The joy of second chances, third chances, and in a strange way, coming back from the dead.
Water fell, sheets of it, washing them clean with the strength of waves, nothing so paltry as the patter of raindrops. The sky, alive with thunder and lightning, was angry and beautiful and so unbelievably inconsequential compared to what was happening right there on earth, where love reigned harder, stronger, and fiercer than anything the world could throw their way.
Order Adriana Anders’s next book
in the Blank Canvas series
In His Hands
On sale August 2017
Read on for a sneak peek at the next volume in the Blank Canvas series.
Dark and moody Luc Stanek craves a quiet life. But when a desperate woman lands, bloodied and branded, on his doorstep, he finds himself pulled into her world…and determined to save her no matter the cost.
Abby Merkley joined the Church of the Apocalyptic Faith as a child, and the brands marring her skin mark her as little more than the charismatic leader’s property. Only Luc is able to see her for the woman she truly is. Determined to win her freedom, Abby and Luc will fight the only family Abby has ever known…for a future neither is certain can be theirs.
1
The bolt cutters didn’t, as promised, slice through the fence like butter, but they did the job. Judging from the way the sun cleaved through the bare trees, casting long skeletons of shadow, it was close to noon.
Which meant she had to hurry.
Peeling back the chain link wasn’t easy the way her hands were shaking, but she managed to do it without cutting herself. Thank the Lord, or else Isaiah would wonder what she’d gotten into and send someone scouting.
Abby’s wool coat had to come off before she could slide through the hole, carefully avoiding the gleaming edges of fresh-cut metal. And for some reason she couldn’t quite explain, she undid the ties at her chin and threw her bonnet down as well. She walked through the vines on the other side of the fence, gazing at row upon row of bare branches. Which made her worry. Would Grape Man have work for her without grapes on his plants?
He had to. He had to.
As she drew closer, something else occurred to her: What if he wasn’t here? She hadn’t seen him drive through. But then, she’d walked the half hour to the back fence, which would have given him plenty of time to leave without her knowledge. The thought had her racing mes
sily between the army of dry, brittle-looking plants, crucified on the mountainside.
The smell of woodsmoke was the first sign that he wasn’t far. He was home, at least—thank goodness.
Past a wood shed and through the open picket gate she went. She climbed the three porch steps, breathless, her sopping hem hugging her calves uncomfortably. Before she had time to stop herself—because if she stopped, if she thought this through, she wouldn’t do it—her knuckles rapped on the door.
Out of breath, face prickly hot and the rest of her body chilled, Abby waited.
Nothing. No shuffling, no footsteps, no sound at all besides the creaking floorboards beneath her feet.
She turned and scanned the buildings: the henhouse with its little yard full of chickens, two older shed-like structures, and that big refurbished barn to crown it all. Was he all the way up there?
Abby tromped back down the sagging steps with a renewed sense of purpose, ignoring the chafe of shoes that had seen better days—shoes that weren’t made for running.
Ladies aren’t meant to run, Hamish used to say. She swallowed back the memory. He’d been gone for weeks now. And a good thing too. Nobody deserved the pain he’d endured in those last days.
Nerves buzzing, she circled the cabin, which looked a lot worse up close, and went through the back gate and up the steep slope to the barn. Everything felt strangely off, like stepping through a mirror and seeing things the wrong way around.
The barn, it appeared, was the only building he had worked on since taking over—the only thing, besides the vines, that the man seemed to care about. It was enormous and built right into the boulders that crowned the mountain. It had fresh boards and a perfectly straight door that hung slightly ajar. Tentatively, Abby knocked on the thick wood. Too quiet. He wouldn’t hear a thing from inside, but she felt hesitant, weighted. There were no grapes on the vines, and all was quiet inside the barn. Just a few months ago, the place had been a hive of activity.
Five months ago, while Hamish was dying and Abby barely had time to glance outside, much less spy on the neighbor.
This place, so silent now that she desperately needed help, intimidated her. But nothing would be worse than going back without accomplishing her goal.
By Her Touch Page 33
