by Kait Nolan
Miranda was counting on it.
She collected her keys from Brody. Ethan joined her, his guitar case in one hand. They headed toward the remaining vehicles.The crowd had thinned out during the last set. And no wonder. It was nearing eleven and a work night.
“So what did you think?”
Miranda knew he wasn’t asking about the cumulative performance. “As apologies go, that was…something.”
“‘I’m a dumbass, please forgive me’ just doesn’t have quite the same lyrical resonance.”
She huffed a laugh.
“Seriously, I should’ve called.”
It was gratifying to hear the admission. “Why didn’t you?”
“Because of how bad I wanted to approximately five minutes after I dropped you off.”
Whatever girly flutter she felt at the fact that he’d wanted to call was overshadowed by the complete foolishness of his explanation. “Ethan, you are seriously challenging my initial impression of you as a logical man.”
“Let me see if I can explain in a way that doesn’t make me look like any more of a jackass or like a crazy man.” He stopped walking and turned to face her. “Everything—our date, that kiss, you—it was all more than I was expecting.”
“And more is bad?”
“No. Yes. Not exactly.”
He was flustered. This capable, intelligent, interesting man was flustered. About her. That was a little more balm to Miranda’s wounded ego.
“I’m not looking for more,” he said.
She crossed her arms, struggling not to take offense at that. “Ethan, what exactly is it you think I want? Because if I have somehow given you the impression that I am in a rush for marriage, two point five kids, and a picket fence, let me assure you that I’m not. I mean, one of these days, probably, but right now, I don’t have time for serious. I am up to my eyeballs in debt. Between my student loans for med school and the business loan on my practice. A practice that’s doing well but still requires ninety percent of my time and effort. What I’m looking for is some fun to squeeze into that other ten percent. Which is about where I figured you were, given you’re only a handful of months into a new job, in a new town.”
His lips twitched and he looked off toward Hope Springs for a moment before bringing his gaze back to hers. “I mentioned the part where I’m a dumbass, right?”
Her mouth gave an answering twitch. A man who could admit he’d been wrong was worth a second chance. “You did.”
“Fun and simple is exactly what I’m looking for. You’re exactly what I’m looking for.”
Wasn’t that an appealing thought? “Okay then. We’re on the same page.”
“Looks like. Although I do have one non-negotiable condition.”
“Oh?”
“I’m an old-fashioned guy. One woman at a time. So long as we’re having fun together, it’s just with each other.”
“Even if I weren’t inclined toward monogamy myself, you’re the first guy to catch my interest in two years. That won’t be a problem for me.”
“Alright then.” He finally reached out again and touched her, tucking that hair behind her ear, the pads of his fingers skimming her cheek. “It’s late. You should probably be getting home.”
Her skin hummed with awareness and the desire he’d kindled with his song earlier. She thought about inviting him home with her, getting started on some of that fun. But it was late, and she thought they both needed a little time to be easy with each other again. “Yeah. There’s just one thing you should know.”
“What’s that?”
“I lied earlier.”
He went brows up. “About what?”
“Well, a half lie. I don’t bake chicken pot pie. I do make homemade tamales.”
His smile spread like warm molasses on biscuits. “Time and place, Legs.”
“When is your next night off?”
“Sunday.”
“Perfect. That gives me all afternoon to roll them. Say six o’clock?”
“I’ll be there.”
As they reached her SUV, she popped the back hatch and tossed in her folding camp chair. Slamming the liftgate, she frowned. Her Grand Cherokee seemed oddly low. Had she parked in some kind of a dip?
Ethan noticed, too, and flipped on the light on his phone. “You’ve got a flat.”
“Seriously?” She moved around the end of the Jeep to look, pulling out her own phone. “Well, damn it. That’s exactly what I wanted to be doing at eleven PM on a January night. Changing a tire in a pasture.” She went back to the rear to get the jack and the spare.
“Miranda, don’t touch anything.” The serious tone had her pausing.
“Why?”
“Because you don’t have just one flat. You have four.”
“I what?”
From where he crouched by the front driver’s side, he looked back at her, expression grim. “Someone punctured your tires.”
She made a quick circle around, as if seeing it for herself would somehow change the truth. “Why would anybody do this?”
“You piss anybody off lately?”
“Other than Clarice, who I haven’t even seen since that day in the diner? No. I can’t imagine pissing anybody off enough for this.”
“You haven’t had any run-ins with anybody else?”
“No. I—wait.” Surely Ralph Slocombe wouldn’t do something like this. “I had a patient last week who got upset when I denied him more prescription painkillers when he’d used up his last round too fast. But I don’t think he can move well enough to do something like this. He’s got a serious back injury and a lot of chronic pain.”
“All right, I’ll talk to him. Find out if he’s got an alibi for tonight. Meanwhile, let me get some stuff from my truck.”
Frustrated and upset, Miranda crossed her arms and waited as he did his cop thing, taking pictures of each tire, taking her statement and making notes for a report.
“C’mon. I’ll take you home.”
“What about my car?”
“I’ll see that the tires are dealt with tomorrow.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to say she could deal with it herself. She could call for a tow just as easily as he could. But there was something about letting him take care of this annoyance for her. Maybe because it let him be, in a small way, the hero he so clearly wanted to be. And maybe because it was nice to have a hero, for once. “Thanks.”
Chapter 10
Ralph Slocombe lived in a rundown, single-story ranch built sometime in the 1970s, judging by the sandy yellow tone of the brick. An aging Chevy pickup sat beside an equally well-worn minivan in the driveway, in front of an open garage door. The interior of the space was littered with all the detritus of yard care, covered in a coating of dirt and dust that indicated it hadn’t been used in a good long while. The patchy front lawn was more weeds than grass, and the mailbox listed to one side. The whole place looked tired, as did the woman who came out of the house as Ethan stepped out of his cruiser.
She paused the digging in her purse—probably searching for car keys—and stopped by the door of the minivan. “Can I help you, officer?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m Chief Greer. Does Ralph Slocombe live here?”
Her hands clutched at the purse. “That’s my husband. Is something wrong?”
“I just need to ask him a few questions. Is he home?”
“He’s right inside.” With a nervous flutter of her hands, she gestured toward the house. “I’ll just take you to him.”
Ethan offered her a smile and followed her into the house, through the garage door. It led into the kitchen, by way of a laundry/mud room combination. Breakfast dishes were piled in the sink, but the room was otherwise spotless. That wasn’t the case for the living room Mrs. Slocombe led him to. The sagging furniture matched the man sprawled out in a recliner in front of the TV—threadbare.
“Did you forget somethin’, Birdie?”
“The police are here.”
Ra
lph’s head whipped toward his wife, then to Ethan. “What’s this about?”
“I needed to ask you a few questions, Mr. Slocombe. I’m Chief Greer.”
Suspicion clouded the thin man’s face, and he asked again, “What’s this about?”
“Where were you last night, say between eight o’clock and eleven PM?”
“Right here at home. We had dinner at six-thirty and watched some reruns until bedtime.”
“What time did you go to bed?”
Ralph’s thin lips pursed as he seemed to consider. “I don’t know. Nine-thirty. Ten?”
Ethan glanced at his wife. “Do you happen to remember, Mrs. Slocombe?”
“I went to bed at nine. I don’t know what time he went to sleep. He didn’t come to bed.”
Ethan looked back to Ralph, brows raised in question.
“I been sleepin’ in the recliner on account of my back. I got a lot of pain from an old injury, and I don’t want to toss and turn and keep Birdie awake.”
Birdie nodded. “I can still work, and he doesn’t want to wear me out.”
“Thoughtful.” And convenient. It meant she couldn’t truly verify his alibi for the time in question.
“What is it you’re pussy footin’ around to see if I done?”
“Someone was out at Hope Springs last night, vandalizing a vehicle at the bonfire.”
The man looked truly baffled. “And you think I’m the one who done it?”
“It was Miranda Campbell’s SUV. I understand you had a bit of an altercation with her last week over your prescription.”
Ralph pushed the footrest down and struggled to sit up. Ethan didn’t miss the way his cheeks flashed white beneath the hot flush of anger. Pain. The man was definitely in pain. Because he’d overdone it with the vandalism last night? Or had he been in bad enough shape he couldn’t have carried it out?
“Did she send you out here after me? I ain’t done nothin’ to her. I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”
“I understand from some of her staff that you were pretty upset last week.”
“I’m in pain. I’m always in pain and the drugs don’t last long enough so I can work. I gotta depend on my wife, when it’s my job to take care of her. I ran out and she wouldn’t give me more. Yeah, I was upset. I apologized for it, and I didn’t do nothin’ against her. She’s just doing her job. Ain’t her fault the rules are what they are.”
Ethan tried a different tack. “May I ask what kind of injury you had?”
“It’s my back. Was an on the job injury from a few years ago.”
“Where did you work?”
“Heirloom Home Furnishings. They closed well before you got here. Greedy corporate fuckers moved the factory to Mexico. I ain’t been able to keep steady work since. Had to go on disability.”
Ethan filed that away. “I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Slocombe.” He wasn’t gonna get any more out of this interview. “That’s all the questions I have. I appreciate your time this morning. Mrs. Slocombe, I hope I haven’t made you late for work.” He nodded and let himself out. On his way back to the cruiser, he glanced at the Chevy, checking the tires and undercarriage. Dried mud caked them both, but it was red clay, not the dense grayish brown mud he’d heard locals refer to as gray gumbo. As the latter still coated the soles of his own boots from meeting the tow truck out at Hope Springs first thing this morning, he thought it unlikely Ralph Slocombe was their guy.
When he got back to the station, Ethan studied the photos of Miranda’s tires as he sucked down a Hot and Sassy from The Daily Grind. He could only hope the double shot of espresso in the drink would make up for the sleep he didn’t get last night.
Her tires hadn’t just been punctured. They’d been slashed. There was a violence and anger here that niggled at him. This kind of thing tended to be personal rather than random. And that meant someone was very, very pissed off. Was it the same someone who’d keyed her car? Or had that truly been Clarice Morris and this was someone else? Was this the end of it? One destructive burst and done? Or was this just the beginning of something bigger? Something that would target Miranda herself instead of her belongings. Or was it a case of mistaken identity? Hers was hardly the only dark SUV to have been parked at Hope Springs last night.
It had been the only one left when he got the wrecker out there this morning to pick it up after he’d taken crime scene photos in the daylight. Lou Jenkins had had plenty to say about the issue, none of it actually helpful. But he’d promised to send his nephew to Lawley after four new tires if he didn’t have the right size already in stock. Miranda would have her car back today.
Wandering out into the bullpen, he clipped the pictures to the top of the bulletin board. “We had some vandalism last night out at the bonfire. Y’all have been here longer than I have. Do either of y’all remember somebody doing something like this in the past?”
From the desk where she was working on reports, Rowan shook her head. “I don’t remember anything.” Not surprising. As the newest member of the force and another out-of-towner, she wouldn’t be in a position to have heard much.
Inez considered. “Oh, well now, there was that incident with that Newell woman a couple years back.”
“Tell me.”
The dispatcher eased back in her chair, tapping her chin. “Let’s see...she was brought up on stalking charges. Best I can remember, she found out her man was cheating on her. Then he dumped her. Nobody would’ve blamed her for pulling a Carrie Underwood and carving up his truck—which she did. But she went beyond that and started harassing the new girl. A little bit might have been understandable. But there were phone calls, a fire, and yeah, some vandalism. The girl was scorned right and proper.”
“Did she do time?”
Inez shook her head. “No. She ended up getting sentenced to a court-mandated psych eval and inpatient treatment. Must’ve worked. Haven’t heard a word about her since other than gossip rehashing the original story.”
“Do me a favor and pull the file.”
While he waited, Ethan studied his newest recruit. “How you holding up?”
Rowan shrugged. “Everything’s good here. Back in Houston…”
“You don’t have too long before the trial.”
“No.”
“You worried?” Ethan couldn’t quite imagine having to testify against former colleagues.
“Less worried, more just ready for it to be over. I’m building a life here, and I’d like to get on with it.”
“You adjusting to small town life okay?”
“I’m finding it surprisingly satisfying. What about you? Dallas this is not.”
“I’m getting there.”
The corner of her mouth tipped up in a smirk. “I expect a certain blonde doctor’s helping that cause along.”
Was absolutely everybody paying attention to his love life? “Could be.”
“Here it is, Chief.” Inez came back with a folder.
Ethan ignored Rowan’s grin, thanked Inez, and retreated to his office with a Coke. Popping the top, he prepared himself to read all about the escapades of one Delaney Newell. The mugshot had him pausing. Delaney Newell was the red-head from his hunter safety class. The one who worked for Miranda. The one who’d been at the bonfire last night. Did she have some kind of beef with her boss? A quick review of the reports in her file had him grabbing his keys to go find out.
Miranda was considering whether she could just attach the coffee maker to an IV drip by the time Ethan showed up mid-afternoon. Her patient load had been insane, and she was having serious regrets about not making it into bed sooner. Especially as she’d lain awake regretting the practicality that had kept her from having the buzz of good sex to make up for the loss of sleep. But the sight of him swinging through the door of the clinic with that long, rangy gait had her spirits and energies lifting. Then she saw the green and white striped bakery box.
“Afternoon, Doc.”
She could hardly tear her eyes off the box in his
hand. “Are those cupcakes from Sweet Magnolias?”
“They might be.”
“Don’t play with me, Chief. I’m a desperate woman when it comes to cupcakes.”
“Somebody told me you had a habit. Consider me your dealer for the day.” He lifted the lid to reveal a half dozen Better Than Sex cupcakes.
Miranda whimpered—actually whimpered—and grabbed for one. “Sweet baby Jesus, you are my hero.”
She bit in and the blend of devil’s food cake, caramel, and sweetened condensed milk burst on her tongue, the sugar hitting her bloodstream in a rush that was, despite the name, not quite as good as sex. Still, she gave a little moan and didn’t miss the way his eyes darkened. Did he know what these were called or had Carolanne picked them out?
She peeled away more of the wrapper to devour the other half. “So is this your way of softening the bad news that my car isn’t actually ready?”
“Nope.” He pulled the keys from his pocket. “Just had Lou drop it off. You’re good to go. He said you can settle about the bill later this week.”
“You’re just racking up all kinds of points today.”
He huffed a laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind. Is there somewhere we can speak in private for a minute?”
Miranda wasn’t sure if she should be concerned or if he was just looking for somewhere to slake a little of the desire still humming between them. She couldn’t read him. He didn’t have the kind of gravely serious expression she’d come to associate with their conversations about Rene and Harley Forbes. “Come on back to the break room.”
He trailed her down the hall to a faint chorus of “oooooo” from the peanut gallery. Miranda was in too good a mood from her cupcake to flip them off. She finished the last bite and shut the door. “Before you say whatever it is you don’t want them to hear, I need to say something.”
“All right.”
“Thank you.” Curling her fingers in the front of his uniform shirt, she lifted her lips to his for a lazy, open-mouthed kiss. Without hesitation, his hands dug into her hips, dragging her closer. He angled his head, taking the kiss past a well-intentioned thank you and into does this door have a lock? territory.
