by Freya Barker
"Are you leaving?" she directs at me, when she sees me stand. "I was just bringing you guys fresh coffee and a warm muffin."
"I gotta run, but if you don't mind, I'll take some of that coffee and a muffin on the run."
"Yeah sure, I'll get you a travel mug."
With a two finger wave for Gus and a chin lift to a still scowling Neil, I follow Emma to the kitchen where she hands me a travel mug and a paper bag with two muffins. I bend down to kiss her cheek, and have to chuckle when I hear Gus growl behind me again.
"Oh for Christ's sake, Gus!" Is the last thing I hear before heading out to my truck.
Kim
"Come here, Boo. Momma's gonna take you for a walk."
As always, my babe is at the door when I come in and inevitably jumps up, backing me into the front door by way of greeting. He then runs to the backdoor, waiting to be let out after what usually is a long day without relief for him. Just because I'm home earlier than normal, doesn't seem to change the routine for him. Except where usually I'd have something to eat first, let him out for a quick piddle, feed him and take him for his walk, today I want to get his walk out of the way before I take my shoes off.
A little confused—my dog is a huge, goofy Great Dane—he saunters back to me and sits down, an expectant expression on his face. I clip the leash on his collar and grab a poop-bag.
My house sits toward the end of Canyon Drive on the northwest side of Cortez. It's a single-level bungalow surrounded by some mature trees and otherwise has gorgeous views of the mesa with the mountains in the distance. It tends to get cold in the winter, because it is a bit exposed to the elements, which is probably why I was able to pick it up for a steal three winters ago. At that time I'd still been working through employment agencies, mostly short-term contract work that could take me as far as Durango on a daily basis, but I couldn't resist the amazing bargain I was getting. During my years in Vegas, I saved up a nice nest egg. Never needing much to survive on, I was able to tuck away most of my earnings and my sometimes generous tips into savings. When I came back to Colorado, after things in Vegas turned sour, I wanted to stay as far away from Grand Junction as possible, even though I knew work was probably easier to come by there. So Durango was where I ended up first. Once I'd gotten a good gander at the rugged beauty of the mesas though, Cortez became my home.
I allow Boo to pull me along a little. I use walking to empty my mind as much as I can. It's a great way to let go of stress at the end of a long day, and today has been particularly stressful.
We turn right at the end of our drive where the paved road ends and turns into a dirt road. I often walk that way because from there we have some gorgeous trails that loop through the mesa and I can let Boo have a run. In the three years I've had him, he's never run off far or for very long. He generally just likes to sniff and maybe chase a rabbit or some other small animal before returning to me. This time of year, there can still be snow on the mesa. Not tons, but enough to give it a very wintery look. Some days the sun can get so strong, you actually see the snow slowly disappear, but the nights are cold and we still get the occasional snowfall. Nowhere near what January and February usually bring though.
When thoughts of the day's events start crowding my mind again, and the cold biting wind starts numbing my face, I call Boo and turn around. When we get close to the road, I stop and click on his leash and we make our way home.
The first thing I see is a familiar silver truck in my drive and it freezes me on the spot. Since seeing that man behind the wheel, there've been a million thoughts tumbling through my head. My first thought had been that he was a family member to the Walkers, but as far as I knew, they had no offspring. Still, could be a nephew. Next I thought he might have had something to do with the attack, but that doesn't feel right. And now that the truck is parked in my driveway, I don't know whether to be scared or excited.
Boo is getting impatient and wants his dinner I'm sure, because he's pulling hard now, forcing me to move. When I turn into the drive, I see a patrol car with Sheriff on the side, parked behind the silver truck. I couldn't see it from the road. Two men are standing under the carport where my front door is. One is wearing the sheriff's uniform and looks familiar. I've seen him in town a time or two. The second man is so much taller standing up than he was sitting down in the diner earlier. My gaze drifts over his full length, from his boot covered feet, up his long legs, thick thighs toward his broad chest and finally reaches his beautifully chiseled face. His dark eyes focus on me with such intensity, it makes the sweat break out on my forehead, despite the cold temperatures.
Boo is growling at my side and despite his giant poops and endless appetite, I'm grateful I bought a dog that big.
"Ms. Lowe?" the sheriff asks and Boo barks in response.
"Yes?" I follow more timidly, hanging on to Boo who is starting to snarl. I'm worried he'll get loose and attack an officer of the law. That would probably not be good.
With two hands I pull him back, barely containing him when the tall man takes a step forward.
"You can let him go." I don't think I've ever heard a deeper voice. Not up close anyway. I can feel the vibrations of his deep bass in my body.
"I don't think...it's probably...I think it's safer—" I stammer before he interrupts.
"Trust me. You can let him go."
"It's better if I lock him—"
"Let go." His voice is commanding which is an instant red flag.
"Really?" I'm more than a little riled now. Especially since the sheriff is just standing there looking way too amused. "You want me to let him go? Fine. Consequences are yours. Go, Boo." I drop his leash and my protector immediately lopes to Mr. Intimidating, and jumps up on his shoulders where he starts... licking? What? What's become of my hundred and fifty pound body guard?
"Boo, down," the deep voice rumbles, and to my astonishment my baby drops to all fours, sits his ass down and looks up adoringly at him.
The sheriff begins to speak. "Ms. Lowe, sorry for the interruption, but I have a few questions for you about this afternoon's events. Mr. Whitetail here was kind enough to accompany me. I understand you passed each other in the Walkers’ driveway?" At this last question my eyes are pulled from my supremely disloyal pooch toward the sheriff, who still sports a smile.
Mal
"Maybe we can continue this inside? It's freezing and I have to feed my dog."
I've been struggling to keep a straight face since she came up the drive with her massive dog. I'd have picked a small little lapdog for her if any. Cats seem more her speed, but she walks up, all five foot nothing of her, with this fierce looking dog that looks like a cow and is named 'Boo.' Luckily I've always had an easy affinity with animals, as opposed to people. That's why I wasn't worried when the big pooch started growling. Somehow even the most vicious of dogs will heed me when they hear my voice. They seem to accept me as their alpha immediately.
In contrast, it takes me a long time to warm up to, let alone trust another person. I even had to learn to like and appreciate my brother again. The turning point for me was being able to help his wife give birth when she went into labor unexpectedly during a party. It wasn't just seeing how he was with Katie or with his son, it was the fact that he seemed to want me there with them. No reservations whatsoever. His trust in me bolstered my trust in him.
The moment Kimeo passes me and slaps her hand against her thigh to call her dog, I gesture for him to follow her, something he does immediately.
"She’s something else," Drew mumbles to me, but with his eyes firmly on her very ample backside. That causes an uncomfortable prickle at the back of my neck.
"Back off," I snap before I have a chance to examine my rather uncharacteristic impulse. I'm pretty even-keeled and rarely get ruffled, but Drew's interest somehow strikes me wrong. My interest in the little Nizhóní seems to be a bit more than professional.
My words have Drew turn to me with a small smirk on his lips. "It's like that, is it?"
I try to ignore his remark, but as I'm holding the door and he walks past me into the house, I can't help myself.
"She's part of a case. You'd best remember that. Besides, from what I've seen of you, you like them young and curvy. Are you getting bored with your parade of young, leggy and thin chicks and want to try a taste of an older woman? A fat one at that?"
I don't know what possessed me to say that shit other than trying my best to distract him from her. For the case—of course. But even though I whisper it to him while still outside, I can tell she's heard—at least part of it. She's turned to the counter, her back toward us and ramrod straight, and her movements jerky. Fuck.
Drew elbows me hard. I glare at him and just catch him mouthing 'asshole.' Yeah.
"Look," I start, wanting to... explain? Hell, I don't know what I'm thinking but I feel like the giant fuck up I am. She turns around with a forced smile on her face, pointedly not looking at me, but at Drew.
"So Sheriff, I never caught your name?" she asks him.
"Drew Carmel, Ms. Lowe. And this is Malachi Whitetail. He is an investigator for GFI, a local security and investigations firm."
Her eyes flick in my direction briefly before settling back on Drew. "Do you know if Mr. and Mrs. Walker are okay?"
"They're well looked after, Ms. Lowe. Both are expected to make a full recovery although Ezhno may be hospitalized for a while. He is undergoing some tests."
"Please call me Kim, everyone does. Glad to hear they'll be all right. I'm curious though, what exactly does a security firm have to do with the Walkers?" She bends over to put a bowl of food in front of her dog and straightens back up, determinedly avoiding my eyes.
"We'll get to that shortly, but first let me ask you a few questions." Drew swiftly detours the conversation.
"Very well, would you like to sit down?"
Without waiting for an answer, she leads us out of the kitchen and into a surprisingly spacious living room where she sits down in a large club chair. The only option open to Drew and I is the equally large sofa. Drew sits down and I opt to lean against the fireplace mantle and stay standing. This allows me to see her in profile, as she keeps her attention on Drew, while he goes over the day's events with her. I'm only half listening but closely observe her body language, more interested in what she might be hiding than what she actually shares. Yet after half an hour of detailed questioning, her body tells me nothing more than that she must have some Latin blood in her. It's the way her hands seem to fly around, emphasizing what her mouth is saying. Her small hands captivate me and each time they move I find myself thinking how they'd feel on my skin. Not sure where that comes from. She sure as hell is nothing like the women I occasionally hook up with. Just like Drew, I gravitate toward tall, leggy and preferably stacked. Not short, round and trying hard to be invisible. But she's not really invisible, is she? Not to Drew either. He seems as intrigued by the subtle hints of a bright fire underneath as I am. Still, when she describes noticing me at the diner and recognizing me in the Walkers’ driveway, her posture shrinks, as if she's making herself as small as possible.
I am quickly able to deduct the fact that this woman is not knowingly involved but harbors suspicions of her own about the land sales. Two other things become clear to me though; she works hard at being overlooked, keeping her head down and her light hidden, and I've wounded her. It’s glaringly obvious by her cold body language and icy demeanor. Both directed only at me. Dammit.
The only time she briefly looks at me is when Drew invites me to explain my involvement.
"Oh wait!" she cries out, scrambling out of her seat and disappearing into the kitchen. She comes back with her purse in one hand and waving an envelope in the other. "I forgot I still had this, the letter I was supposed to hand deliver."
With a quick look in my direction, Drew takes the envelope and rips it open. His face hardens before handing it to me.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Walker,
I am writing you out of concern. I may have come across as aggressive in pursuing the sale of your property in the past, but I am not ruthless. Unfortunately it would appear that I have unwittingly thrown in my hat with a buyer who has somewhat different views on the methods of persuasion. I'm therefore strongly encouraging you to take the last offer I proposed in order to avoid undue pressure placed on you.
Yours respectfully,
Martin G. Vedica
Son of a bitch.
CHAPTER THREE
Kim
"What is it? What does it say?"
A chill runs down my back when I see the grave looks the sheriff and Malachi exchange, before collectively turning to me.
"Where is your boss?" Malachi asks, without answering my question.
"San Antonio—why? What's in the letter?"
"And he's expected back when?"
"I talked to him this morning, he says Monday. But what—" I try again but he turns away and addresses Sheriff Carmel, cutting me off.
"We need to get into the office."
"Not sure we'll be able to get a warrant signed before Monday, my friend. If there's enough here for one to begin with."
"Then I'll go in," he offers in his deep rumbling voice, but the other man shakes his head.
"Can't do that, Mal. It would make whatever you come up with unusable."
"Inadmissible maybe, but not unusable."
Tired of being ignored I clear my throat. "Excuse me—but can someone tell me what's going on?"
Wordlessly, Malachi hands me the letter, which I have to read twice to make sure I understand.
"I was right," I say out loud, with a feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach.
"What are you talking about?" the investigator asks, but instead of addressing him—the poison of his words burrowing under my skin—I turn to the sheriff. "I've had a bad feeling about this land deal. Normally everything goes through me: setting up meetings, planning trips, sorting documents, writing letters. In the past couple of months, Martin's been evasive and secretive. He's having people come in for meetings I never arranged for him. He's booking his own flights to Texas—this San Antonio trip is the third one in two months. The kicker is, other than asking me to do a title search way back when, I haven't seen any paperwork or documents, until he handed me this letter. It was the second time he asked me to personally deliver something to the Walker farm."
Looking from a set of intense blue eyes to an almost familiar, and certainly more intimidating set of dark ones, I straighten my shoulders and push on. "I can do it," I offer, lifting my chin to show my determination."
"What? What are you talking about?" This from Malachi whose eyes I meet full on for the first time since I overheard him say what's been ingrained in me since childhood.
"I have a key," I offer by way of explanation.
"Hell no."
"Was planning to do some overdue filing this weekend..."
"I said no."
His bossy tone rubs me the wrong way and I plant my index finger squarely in his chest. "Who are you to tell me what to do?"
Malachi stands unmoving, simply looking down at me with those eyes that show a lot more emotion this close up. A soft chuckle from behind me reminds me of the sheriff's presence. Maybe not so smart to blurt out my intentions when the county's top lawman is in attendance. I back away from Malachi, realizing how ridiculous I must look, my five foot three form facing off with his six and half feet—or thereabouts—leanly muscled length. No wonder the sheriff is amused.
"Hate to say it, tempting as it is since you have a valid reason to be there, but I can't let you do that," he says, his smirk disappearing. "Until we find out what we're dealing with it could be unsafe. You should just go about your business and leave the investigating up to us."
Typical brush off.
With the letter in hand and a promise to be in touch before Monday, when Martin's supposed to be back, the sheriff takes his leave.
"You heading out too, Mal?" he says when he's abo
ut to get in his patrol car, looking behind me where I can sense his friend lurking behind me.
"Yup." Comes the answer from much closer than I'd expected. A steady look is directed over my shoulder, lasting a touch more than is comfortable, before he slides behind the wheel and backs out of my drive.
Now what?
I turn slowly and am faced with the broad expanse of what is visible of his chest under the thick parka. The man is not moving, forcing me to tilt my head way the hell back to look at him.
"Excuse me." I try to get him to move.
"I can hear the wheels in your head turning, so I'll tell you again. Do not get yourself involved. Do not find an excuse to go on a solo expedition"—I bristle at the bossy tone, when he bends down and gets right in my face—"And do not go into the office until you hear from us." Then he grabs me by the shoulders and sets me aside so he can slip past me and out the door. Well.
I try to stay pissed as I watch him back up as well, but the hot tingle where his hands touched my body is too distracting.
_
Saturday mornings I meet Kerry for yoga at the Heart and Core Yoga Studio on Main Street. I'd told Kerry some time ago when she caught me dozing off in the middle of a conversation, that I had a history of almost constant fatigue. She immediately invited me to go with her for her yoga classes. She said it helped her sleep better at night and actually gave her more energy during the day. I always avoided any type of exercise other than walking, simply because any time I tried to do more, my joints would ache for days after. I'd been told swimming was a good way to get some movement in without putting undue strain on the joints, but that would involve wearing a bathing suit. That is so not gonna happen. I don't think I've been in the water, other than the shower, since I was maybe twelve years old. That was in 'fat-camp,' where my mother sent me to lose weight. Another childhood memory I'd rather forget. I did start going to yoga with Kerry though.
