Had Pete just said he loved her?
Had he then apologized for it?
Why on earth had she thought they could be anything more than friends? She’d known better. Or should have. Never. Again.
And yet… He loved her.
She’d been crazy about him for years. Wanting him. Fantasizing about him. Resisting her feelings for him…
“Ma’am?”
Zoe looked up into the concerned face of the guy in the cowboy hat and boots. She winced. Ma’am? When had she ceased being a Miss? And when had she stopped walking?
“Are you all right?” With that drawl, he was definitely not a local boy.
“I’m fine,” she muttered and brushed past him.
She risked a glance toward Ryan Mancinelli’s front porch.
Pete was no longer there, but Mancinelli leaned against one of the pillars, watching her.
She wondered if everyone was watching her, and her face burned.
She dropped to her knees beside Jack Naeser, noting the bandage on his head had soaked through. “How are you doing?” She caught his wrist, palpating his pulse. Focus on the patient. Put everything else out of her mind.
The man scowled. “I’ve got a whopper of a headache.”
“I don’t doubt it.” His heart rate was slightly elevated.
“His head’s still bleeding,” Mrs. Naeser said.
“I see. Head wounds do tend to bleed profusely.” But Zoe didn’t like the looks of him. He was paler than before and a sheen of sweat glistened on his face. “Mrs. Naeser, those prescriptions he’s on, are any of them blood thinners?”
“Yes. I think it’s called war—war something.”
“Warfarin.”
“That’s it.”
Crap. “You might want to get your purse and that list now.” Zoe looked toward the semi, relieved to see Tony DeLuca and Vickie Spencer, the crew from Medic One, dragging a gurney around the jackknifed rig. She waved them toward her.
Before they reached Zoe and her patient, a younger woman, who Zoe recognized as the Naesers’ daughter, jogged up. “What’s going on? Is Dad going to be all right?”
Zoe caught Mrs. Naeser’s gaze. “Why don’t you both go get her purse?”
“Okay,” Mrs. Naeser said, but Zoe noticed the woman and her daughter didn’t budge.
“What’ve you got?” Tony DeLuca asked.
Zoe fired off a quick summary on the patient, including the warfarin. “I want a new BP. And let’s get him on the gurney and elevate his legs.”
The three medics didn’t need to say it out loud. They all knew they were dealing with a patient who was getting shocky.
As a team, they moved the gurney next to Naeser, took a new set of vitals which revealed, as Zoe had suspected, a lowered blood pressure, and started him on oxygen. Tony helped him onto the cot with a pillow under his lower legs, and Zoe and Vickie covered him with a light blanket and strapped him down.
The daughter’s voice rose over the stethoscope plugged into Zoe’s ears as she rechecked Naeser’s BP. “What’s going on?”
Zoe looked up. Mother and daughter clung to each other, both wide-eyed. She held up one finger to them and finished listening to the thud-dub of Naeser’s heart while releasing the blood pressure cuff’s valve. “One-oh-eight over fifty-six,” she announced to Vickie. Zoe turned to the worried pair. “He’s bleeding a little heavier than normal because of the warfarin. Tony and Vickie will be taking him to Brunswick. He’s in excellent hands.”
Both women nodded.
Zoe focused on the daughter. “Can you drive your mother to the hospital?”
“Yeah.”
Tony clapped Zoe on the back. “We’re taking off. We’ll get an IV started once we get him in the ambulance.”
Zoe waved, and Tony and Vickie wheeled the gurney and patient away.
“We’ll be right behind you, Dad,” the daughter called after them.
“Drive safely, okay?” Zoe told her.
The young woman gave her a weak smile, but her gaze shifted over Zoe’s shoulder, and the smile faded.
Zoe turned to see Ryan Mancinelli headed their way.
“I need to talk to you,” he said.
Zoe could have sworn his words were directed at her instead of his wife or mother-in-law.
But his wife strode toward him and gave him a shove that staggered him. “Stay away from me and my family, you bastard. I don’t ever want to see you again. Do you hear me? We’re through!”
In the next moment, both women were screaming at Mancinelli, who held up his hands in surrender and babbled apologies to no avail. Zoe looked around frantically for Pete. She was still furious with him, but she feared a murder was imminent unless someone intervened. Preferably someone big and commanding, carrying a sidearm.
Instead of Pete, Kevin trotted their way. At the same time, she heard her name being called. Earl waved at her from beside the Rav4. He and the two firefighters had their patient stabilized on a backboard and gurney.
Without waiting for more blood to be shed, Zoe grabbed her jump kit and ran.
Saturday was supposed to be Pete’s day off.
Sleep had been sparse. He never needed a reason for insomnia, but the look on Zoe’s face last night haunted him into the wee hours of the morning. When he did drift off, he dreamed he was in the center of an angry mob closing in. By five a.m., he was showered and shaved. By six, he’d had breakfast and three cups of coffee and was sitting in his basement workshop.
He worked a third coat of linseed oil and beeswax into the heavy stock of the reproduction Jaeger flintlock rifle he’d been building for almost a year. With any luck, it would be ready for this fall’s deer season.
Fall. Three months away. To be quickly followed by winter. Bitter cold, icy, snowy, blustery winter.
Unless he took Chuck up on his offer.
Pete brushed an arm across his forehead. No way. Maui would not be good fit. He wasn’t cut out to live in paradise.
Was he?
He dipped his rag in the small can holding the oil, letting the excess drip off. He stared at the amber droplets and replayed recent events in his mind. How could one man so completely derail a relationship in only two days?
He’d handled everything wrong. Everything. From criticizing Zoe’s interest in helping a little girl to dredging up her less-than-stellar history with men—as if his history with women was anything to brag on—to last night’s angry outburst, which very publicly humiliated both of them.
Damn.
Pete smoothed the oil onto the stock and watched the grain pattern darken. If only he could oil his brain and bring a solution to his stupidity to the surface.
His cell phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. Thank heavens. He draped the oily rag on a hook, wiped his hands on a paper towel, and picked up the phone. The station’s number filled the screen.
“Chief,” Seth said when Pete answered. “I’m sorry to bother you so early, but Ryan Mancinelli called here for you. Said he needs to talk to you. And he sounded like it was pretty important.”
“I don’t suppose he said what it was about.”
“No, sir. I asked. He said he didn’t want to get into it on the phone.”
Pete rubbed his right temple. “Any word on Jack Naeser’s condition?” If anything had happened to Naeser, Mancinelli might be seeking protective custody.
“No. Do you want me to call the hospital and find out?”
“That won’t be necessary. Do you have a call-back number on Mancinelli?”
Pete jotted down the number as Seth read it to him. Five minutes later, after washing his oily hands, Pete placed the call to the township’s hedge lover.
“This is Chief Adams,” he said when Mancinelli answered. “I
understand you wanted to talk to me.”
“Yeah, I do.” His voice sounded tight over the phone. “Can I meet you at the station?”
Pete checked the clock on the wall. “How soon?”
“Eight o’clock?”
“Fine. How’s your father-in-law?”
There was silence on the line for a moment, and Pete thought they might have been cut off. But he heard Mancinelli take a breath. “I don’t know. My wife isn’t answering her phone. At least, she isn’t answering for me.”
Pete wasn’t the only one screwing up relationships this week. “Is that what you want to talk to me about?”
Pete was prepared to assure the kid his mother-in-law could not press attempted murder charges, but Mancinelli replied, “No. That’s not it at all.” There was another long silence before he said, “I have information about Holt and Lillian Farabee.”
Fourteen
Groggy from a Friday night of nonstop calls and little sleep, Zoe sat in the ambulance garage office at the desk, filling out the last incident report. The coffee in front of her would do nothing to hinder slumber if she could only manage to sneak off to the bunkroom. The morning sunshine streamed through the large picture window, promising a gorgeous Saturday. Which meant folks would be outside, playing sports, riding motorcycles—and getting injured.
Her cell phone buzzed in her cargo pants pocket. She pulled it out and checked the screen, but didn’t recognize the number. For a moment, she considered ignoring it, but touched the button to answer the call instead.
“Zoe? It’s Holt.”
The grim tone of his voice tightened her chest. “Holt? Is something wrong?”
“No, no. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I have some business I need to attend to today, and Mrs. Kroll will be visiting her husband. I was wondering if you know of someone dependable who could watch Maddie for a few hours.”
A babysitter? Zoe rubbed the space between her eyes, trying to coax her brain into action. With Patsy Greene in Florida and Rose Bassi still somewhere out west, her first two choices weren’t available. But an even better choice leapt to mind. “Sylvia,” Zoe said.
“Who?”
“Sylvia Bassi. She loves kids.”
“Is she…” His voice sounded strained. Cautious. “…reliable?”
Zoe laughed. “As reliable as they come.”
A shadow swept the room as a pedestrian passed the window.
“I hate to be a pest,” Holt said, “but if I call her, she won’t know me from Adam.”
“I’ll call her and have her phone you at the house.” The front door to the office scraped open, and Zoe looked up to see Pete with the sun at his back. In a flash, all her conflicted emotions steamrolled over her. Joy. Longing. Pain. Heartbreak. She turned her attention back to the phone. “Unless you’d rather have her call your cell?”
“Either is fine.”
“And if I can’t reach her, I’ll call you back and let you know.”
Holt, sounding relieved, thanked her and hung up.
Zoe hesitated, staring at the screen and the End button. Clicking it would mean having to deal with Pete. She could feel his gaze on her. And no footsteps from the back indicated anyone else was coming to invite him in. She tapped the screen and rose to face him.
Deep creases furrowed Pete’s brow. Wearing a faded t-shirt and jeans, he stood with a hand on the doorknob as if unsure whether he was coming or going. Or staying.
Zoe let the phone slide back into her pocket before crossing her arms. “Did you want something?”
He winced. Opened his mouth. Closed it again. And stepped the rest of the way inside, shutting the door behind him. “How about a do-over?”
He looked so uncomfortable, Zoe had to resist an urge to smile. “A do-over? Of what?”
“Of yesterday. And Thursday night if I can get two.”
Zoe pretended to consider it. “Nope. No do-overs.”
He lowered his gaze. “Damn.” Raised an eyebrow in her direction. “Well then, can you just throw something at me? Or punch me? I deserve it.”
“Is this your way of saying you’re sorry?”
“God, no. I tried that last night and it made things worse.”
They stared at each other for several long moments, the silence only broken by the staticky transmissions from the scanner on the shelf above the desk. Zoe unfolded her arms, planting her hands on her hips instead. “You really suck at apologies, you know.”
“I do. Yeah.” He gave her a hint of a grin. “But what they lack in quality, they make up for in sincerity. I really am sorry.”
“For what?” There was the little profession of love he’d already apologized for.
He must have thought of that, too, because he took a moment to weigh his words. “For being a jackass?”
Zoe gave him an exaggerated eye roll. “I guess that’ll do.”
He stepped toward her with an extended hand. “Friends?”
She looked at the hand. Friends? So they were back to that? Well, maybe it was for the best. She slipped her hand into his. “Friends.”
But he held onto it for longer than a friendly handshake, and the heat of his skin against hers sent a flush of warmth all the way up to her cheeks.
Gently slipping from his grasp, she said, “You’re out and about early on a Saturday.”
“I’m meeting someone at the station at eight. I thought I’d swing by here on my way.”
“On your way?” The police station was a little more than two blocks up the hill from Pete’s house in Dillard. The ambulance garage was two miles away at the other end of Phillipsburg.
Pete grinned sheepishly. “Okay, I took the long way around. I hated the way I left things with you yesterday.”
“Who are you meeting?” Zoe thought of Holt saying he had business to attend to. Police business?
A fleeting scowl crossed Pete’s face. “Ryan Mancinelli wants to see me.”
Zoe hid her relief. “How’s his father-in-law doing?”
“I haven’t heard.”
“Keep me posted, okay? He had me a little worried.”
Pete’s eyes had grown guarded again and he glanced at his watch. “Okay. I’d better go or I’ll be late.” He gave her a look she couldn’t quite decipher before leaving.
She watched him pass in front of the big window. He may have apologized, in his own way, but he was keeping her at arm’s length about something. And she suspected the something was Holt.
Which reminded her… She pulled her phone back out and scrolled through her address book in search of Sylvia’s number.
No way was Pete going down that rabbit hole again. Zoe didn’t need to know the reason he was meeting Ryan Mancinelli was because he claimed to have information about Holt and Lillian Farabee.
Pete slid behind the wheel of the Explorer, fired it up, and headed back to Dillard.
Zoe hadn’t exactly accepted his fumbling excuse of an apology with wild abandon. But had he really expected she would? While he might have hoped she’d run sobbing into his arms, offering her own request for forgiveness—along with a promise to give Farabee the boot and never see him again—Pete knew better. As long as Farabee was in the picture, Pete had two options. Prove the widower was indeed guilty, followed by refraining from any and all I-told-you-sos. Or prove Zoe was right and Farabee had nothing to do with the explosion, followed by the biggest apology of Pete’s life, which may, or may not, have the desired effect.
Something else bugged him. Who was she on the phone with when he’d arrived? He’d wanted to ask. Casually. And up until a few days ago, he would have. He was a cop. Being nosy was a hazard of the job. Zoe understood. Or used to. But he had a feeling he knew who she was talking to. And if that was the case, her answer would have put a
n end to any kind of reconciliation he’d been attempting.
His SUV’s dashboard clock read 7:56 as he wheeled into the lot in front of the station and parked in his usual spot. A shiny, but dented Impala with the Vance Township insignia took up another slot, and a massive black Ram pickup with “Ryan Mancinelli Building and Remodeling” painted on the side took up two others.
Bells on the front door jangled as Pete pushed through, his travel mug of coffee in hand. Seth sat at Nancy’s desk, sifting through some papers. He looked up. “Hey, Chief. I put Ryan Mancinelli in the conference room.”
“Good. Any word on Naeser?”
“I haven’t heard anything. Do you want me to call Nancy and ask about him?”
“Yeah. Anything else going on around here I need to know about?”
Seth grinned. “It’s your day off, or have you forgotten?”
Pete glared at his officer. “Smartass.” As chief of police, days off were little more than wishful thinking.
“It was a busy night. Besides the pile-up involving Naeser and Mancinelli, there was a minor car versus tree on Covered Bridge Road. Drunk driver had a nice goose-egg, but wasn’t feeling any pain.” Seth ticked off a half dozen other relatively minor calls before tipping his head toward the rear of the building. “Nate’s back in the bullpen getting ready to head out on patrol. I’m looking for some phone numbers in Nancy’s stuff so I can finish one more report and then I’m outta here.”
Pete nodded approval. “Do me a favor. Catch Nate before he leaves and tell him to wait for me. I want to talk to him.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ryan Mancinelli sat at the conference table, facing the door, and rose when Pete entered. He swayed as if he’d caught a breeze, and his bloodshot eyes widened, leading Pete to wonder if the kid had been drinking.
Pete motioned for Mancinelli to sit and eased into the chair across from him. “You said you had information on the Farabees?” Unblinking, Mancinelli gave a quick nod. When he didn’t respond, Pete asked, “What kind of information?”
Mancinelli looked down at his hands, which were clasped on the table in front of him, as if he were praying. “They were having problems.”
Annette Dashofy - Zoe Chambers 03 - Bridges Burned Page 13
