by Paula Graves
“You don’t have to do that. I can pack them in his little backpack to take with him. But are you sure you want to do this? I don’t want him to interfere with your work.”
“I’m sure. It’s the only thing that makes any sense. The point of bringing him here is to protect him from the people trying to use him against you. Hiring a babysitter neither of us knows isn’t going to work, is it?”
She shook her head quickly. “No.”
“Do you trust me with him, Briar?” His green eyes were darkly intense as he met her troubled gaze. “Do you trust that I will protect him for you?”
There was no good reason why she should, she knew. He was little more than a stranger to her, and his motives were anything but unselfish. He was bitter and angry at his life at the moment, and even when he wasn’t, he possessed the sort of driving ambition that could make a man grow self-focused and myopic.
But for some reason, she found herself nodding in answer to his question. “I do. I trust you to protect him.”
“Then it’s settled? At least until we try the system and find it wanting?”
“Yes,” she said. “But I have a condition.”
His eyes narrowed warily. “Another one?”
“Yes. You need to learn how to shoot a gun the right way. No more of that aiming at the ground and hoping nothing bad happens.” She allowed herself a little smile at his expense. “If you’re going to try to look like a good ol’ boy to win an election, the least you owe your constituents is to walk the walk as well as you talk the talk.”
Chapter Six
“How long have you been shooting?” Dalton asked a couple of hours later as he peered at the rather sad results of his first target-practice round. He’d hoped to acquit himself better, but he wasn’t surprised to see how badly he’d failed.
Briar tucked an errant curl behind her ear and cocked her head as she studied the holes in the target. “My uncle Corey gave me my cousin Dan’s .22 when I turned eight. Dan was getting a bigger one, and Uncle Corey knew I’d been wanting a gun of my own. Of course, my daddy taught me to use a rifle earlier, I guess when I was six or so.”
“That young?”
She shot him a look that made him feel like an idiot. “If you’re going to have guns in the house with kids around, you need to teach them young that they’re not to be toyed with. I’ve already introduced Logan to my pistol and my shotgun. He knows not to touch them, even if they’re not loaded. When he’s a little older, I’ll teach him how to shoot.”
“My father wasn’t much of a gun person.” Almost as soon as the words escaped his lips, he felt a hot wave of embarrassment flush through him. He felt Briar’s gaze on him but he couldn’t quite meet her gaze. “Lucky for Dana Massey, huh?”
Not too long ago, his father had taken a few potshots at Dana when she’d started nosing around in her mother’s past. Apparently, his father and grandfather had feared she was getting too close to the truth about Dalton’s parentage, and they’d decided to take dire steps to stop her. But it had been his father who’d ended up with a bullet in his shoulder and a future in jail stretching out in front of him. “Dana thinks your father didn’t really want his shots to hit her. That’s why he missed so badly.”
Dalton handed her the borrowed rifle and walked a few steps away. “I think he was just a bad shot.”
When she didn’t say anything else, he ventured a quick look at her. She was just looking at him, a thoughtful expression on her face.
It struck him, not for the first time over the past couple of days, that Briar Blackwood was a pretty woman. It wasn’t the kind of polished beauty he met in his work or even the corn-fed cuteness of small-town beauty queens who rode parade floats or won the local pageant crowns. She wasn’t wearing a stitch of makeup, and her hair was a mess, but he found he liked looking at her anyway. She had a natural sort of prettiness that came from good health, good genes and, he was beginning to believe, a good soul.
He had seen earlier at his house that she felt out of place there. She’d tried not to let it show, but her poker face wasn’t nearly as good as she’d probably like to believe. She didn’t enjoy feeling obligated to him, like some poor mountain girl he’d taken pity on.
He didn’t pity her, though. She was, in many ways, a remarkable woman. A strong woman, with discipline, integrity and guts.
Dalton had done his homework on Briar Blackwood before he’d ever approached her, looking into the basics of who she was and what kind of life she’d lived before and after marrying Johnny Blackwood. She had been born a Culpepper, and a person didn’t grow up in Bitterwood, Tennessee, without knowing a Culpepper was more likely than not to break the law. How she’d dodged that family tradition he didn’t know, but her record was clean, and now she was that most rare of creatures, a Ridge County Culpepper who wore a badge.
She’d married Johnny Blackwood when she turned eighteen and remained his wife until Johnny’s death nine years later. She’d worked as an emergency services dispatcher while going to community college part-time to get her criminal justice degree. She’d gone through the Bitterwood Police Academy and graduated with honors back in December.
By all accounts, she was a good-hearted, hardworking woman liked by one and all. He certainly couldn’t claim such a thing about himself, not since his life had gone so askew. There were plenty of people who didn’t care much for him at all, starting with the Bitterwood chief of police.
Doyle had arrived at the rifle range about fifteen minutes ago. Dalton had spotted the chief about the time Briar finished her brief primer on shooting a rifle. Doyle must have seen Logan with Detective Nix, who had agreed to watch the boy at the police station while Briar gave Dalton shooting lessons. No doubt the prospect of watching Dalton make a fool of himself on the range had been too tempting for the chief to resist.
“Doyle’s here,” he told Briar.
“I know. I saw him earlier.” She switched out the target to a new one. “Come on. Let’s give it another try.”
She’d showed him how to load the rifle earlier, and fortunately, he was a quick study. Her nod of approval when he had finished reloading felt like lavish praise.
“Remember, you’re not pulling the trigger. You’re pressing it. You want as little movement in the rifle as possible. Don’t close your eyes when it fires. You want to keep looking at the target. Guide it in.”
He slanted a look at her, and she grinned a little sheepishly.
“I know it sounds like hokum, but the thing is, if you’re focusing on getting that round into the target, your whole body is aligned toward that goal and you’re just going to make a better shot.”
He settled the rifle barrel on the bench rest and sighted the target through the scope.
“And breathe,” she added. “Just breathe.”
He focused on the target and tried to rid his mind of everything but that one center spot he wanted to hit. But clearing his mind seemed to be something he could no longer do at will.
So he did the next best thing. He focused his thoughts on Briar and Logan. He’d promised to help her protect her son, and if he had to spend hours every day on this range, shooting this bloody rifle and suffering the scrutiny of Doyle Massey, he’d do it. He’d given himself this task, inserted himself into their world for his own purposes.
Competence was the least he owed them.
He pressed the trigger. The rifle kicked but he held it as steady as he could, keeping his eye on the target.
The bullet didn’t hit center, but it was close.
“Nice,” Briar said softly from her position a few feet away.
He couldn’t hold back a satisfied grin.
He took his time and fired the next three rounds into the target. None of the three got as close as the first round, but his aim was considerably improved over his earlier e
ffort.
“Not bad at all,” Briar told him as they studied the target more closely. “You’re pulling a little to the right with your shots, though. You’ll need to figure out how to compensate for that.”
Dalton started to answer when he saw Doyle walking toward them behind Briar’s back. He tried not to react, but he couldn’t seem to keep his lips from pressing into a thin line of annoyance.
“How long are you going to keep hating him for being your mother’s son?” Briar asked softly without turning around.
“I don’t hate him.”
Her eyebrow twitched upward a notch, but she didn’t comment.
“Second try was pretty respectable,” Doyle commented when he got close. “Pulling a little to the right, but not bad at all.”
Dalton wanted to snap out some brilliant cutting remark, but he didn’t want to do it in front of Briar. He settled for something milder if not entirely friendly. “Town not keeping you busy, chief?”
“Overseeing the shooting range is part of my job description.” Doyle turned his gaze to Briar. “Logan’s got my entire station wrapped around his little finger. I’m pretty sure we’re about to make him an honorary police officer.”
She flashed the chief a toothy grin that made Dalton’s breath catch. Damn, but when she smiled, she just lit up everything around her. It made him want to make her smile more often. God knew, she’d had little enough to smile about in her life.
“I’ll go take him off Nix’s hands,” she said, glancing at Dalton. “Chief, would you sign Mr. Hale out of the range for me?”
Dalton opened his mouth to protest, but she was already well down the firing range. He clamped his mouth shut and looked at Doyle.
“How’s she doing?” Doyle asked, ignoring the glare Dalton couldn’t keep in check.
He sighed. “She’s remarkably resilient.”
Doyle smiled a little at the description. “She is that.” He gestured with his head for Dalton to follow him.
They walked down to the range master’s kiosk, where Dalton handed over his visitor’s badge and signed out of the range. From there Doyle kept stride with him as they crossed the grassy no-man’s-land between the police station and the firing range.
“You’ve lived here all your life,” Doyle said after a few moments of silence. “Has there always been this much trouble with the bad elements around these parts? Or is this something new?”
Dalton was surprised by the question. Not so much by the content as the fact that Doyle spoke as if he actually wanted Dalton’s opinion. “It’s both, I guess. They were always around—the drug dealers, the militias, even the anarchists. But recently, thanks to Wayne Cortland, they’ve coalesced. And they’re a hell of a lot meaner and more effective now that they’ve joined forces.”
“It’s an odd coalition,” Doyle mused. “Although I guess maybe it’s the anarchy element that’s holding them together.”
“That and the money. They get to wreak havoc on civilization and make obscene amounts of cash doing it.”
“But what do they do with that cash? The elements we’re after are still out there in the hills, living like they always did.”
Dalton thought about the question for a moment, realizing it was an angle to his investigation he hadn’t really given proper thought before. “I don’t know. I guess that’s something we should find the answer to.”
Doyle nodded. “I guess it is.”
Dalton stopped as they reached the back entrance of the police station. “I’m investigating what’s left of the Cortland crime organization.”
Doyle nodded. “I know. I’m engaged to your colleague, remember.”
Dalton managed a smile. “I hope you realize how lucky you are to be marrying her.”
“I do.”
“I don’t hate you.” Dalton bit his bottom lip as the words spilled from his mouth and hung in the warm air between them. He hadn’t meant to blurt them aloud, but he found he wasn’t that sorry he had.
Doyle’s eyes narrowed slightly, but his lips curved at the corners. “Duly noted.”
“I’m not ready to be part of your family, either.”
“Nobody expects you to.”
He looked away from Doyle’s understanding gaze, not willing to go past this declaration of a truce.
“Have you talked to your father recently?” Doyle asked.
The muscles of Dalton’s neck and shoulders tightened until they ached. “That’s none of your business.”
“You’re right.” Doyle nodded toward the door. “After you.”
They walked in silence to the stairs. Once there, Doyle paused, his jaw tightening as he looked up the flight of stairs.
His leg, Dalton thought. The chief had broken his leg a little over a month ago in a car crash.
A car crash Dalton’s grandfather had engineered.
Doyle hadn’t been out of the cast long. “Take the elevator,” Dalton suggested.
Doyle glanced at him. “I need the exercise.” He started up the stairs, clearly favoring the bad leg.
“You’re a stubborn fool,” Dalton called up after him.
Doyle turned at the landing, grinning at him. “Takes one to know one.”
Dalton took the steps two at a time, blasting past Doyle before they reached the top.
“Show-off,” Doyle muttered.
To Dalton’s surprise, he felt a grin creeping over his face in response.
He didn’t wait for Doyle, striding quickly down the corridor to the detectives’ office, where he found Briar sitting on the edge of Walker Nix’s desk, her jean-clad legs dangling as she watched Nix reading one of Logan’s books to him while the little boy blinked to stop himself from nodding off. Dalton paused in the doorway, suddenly feeling like an interloper.
Doyle limped up behind him, stopping beside him in the doorway. He looked at the homey little scene for a moment before murmuring, “Nix is like family to Briar.”
She thinks the world of him, Dalton thought, watching the smile play across her face. What would he have to do to make her smile at him that way?
And why did it matter?
“What do you really want from them?” Doyle asked softly. His tone wasn’t accusatory, Dalton realized. Just curious.
“I want to keep them safe.”
“Why?”
Dalton closed his eyes. “I don’t know.”
Doyle gave him a light thump on his chest as he hobbled past him. “Maybe you should give that some thought.”
Briar looked up at the chief’s approach, her gaze sliding past Doyle to lock with Dalton’s. He felt a shimmery sensation in the center of his chest as those solemn gray eyes held his and a faint smile played across her full lips.
Why did he want so badly to keep them safe, badly enough to upend his orderly life to bring them into the heart of it?
Doyle was right, as much as Dalton loathed to admit it. He needed to figure out his motives, and quickly. Because he’d worked too hard for too many years to let his plans be derailed by another reckless decision.
* * *
DALTON HALE’S GAZE was so focused and relentless that Briar imagined she could feel it brushing across her cheek like a gust of wind. He’d come in with his half brother—had something happened between them on the walk to the station from the firing range? Neither looked any worse for the trip, so she assumed they’d avoided getting into a tangle. But Dalton’s silent scrutiny was really starting to wear on her nerves.
“What?” she asked finally after she’d strapped her sleeping son in his car seat in the back of the Jeep.
“What what?” he countered drily.
She opened her own door. “You’ve been lookin’ at me for an hour. Do I have spinach in my teeth?”
“Did you eat sp
inach today?”
“Don’t be so literal.” She slid behind the steering wheel.
Dalton’s mouth curved as he settled in the passenger seat beside her. “You don’t have spinach in your teeth.”
“Then what?”
“I heard the chief offer you the night off. Why didn’t you take it?”
It wasn’t an answer to her question; Dalton’s sudden scrutiny had started a while before Doyle had made the offer. But she supposed a question was better than another few minutes of unadulterated appraisal. “I believe in carrying my weight. I don’t want special treatment.”
“I don’t think the chief or anyone else would think otherwise.”
“Why don’t you call him Doyle?” she asked, even though she knew the question was none of her business. Still, if he could unnerve her by staring at her all afternoon, she supposed she could dig under his skin a bit with an impertinent question. “I know you don’t see him as your brother, but he has a name besides the chief.”
Dalton’s mouth tightened. “I don’t know. I suppose it’s a way not to think of him as a person.”
“That’s a lovely sentiment,” she drawled.
“You don’t know what it’s like to learn your whole life is a lie. So you don’t have standing to judge how I handle it.”
She felt the sting of his quiet rebuke. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I don’t.” She pulled the Jeep out of the police department parking lot.
After a long silence, Dalton spoke, his tone softening. “No, I’m sorry. I know you and everybody else want things to be easier for all of us. I just don’t think easy is in the cards.”
“My mama always said that nothing worth doin’ is easy.” She shot him a grin, surprised when he returned it.
“Everybody’s mama says that.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not true.” She looked away from that toothy, surprising grin, pressing her hand to her chest as if she could calm the sudden acceleration of her pulse.
“I don’t know why I’m doing this,” he said a few minutes later, after a steady silence had fallen between them.
