Set the Dark on Fire

by Jill Sorenson

  “Darlene,” Clay said gently, bending down and wrapping those thin arms around his neck. “Let’s get you to your room.”

  She roused a bit, but didn’t fight him. “Clayton? Is that you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Deputy Clayton Trujillo, at your service.” He lifted her off the couch as if she weighed nothing.

  “I want to dance.”

  “Sure thing, honey. Let’s dance this way.”

  Luke waited alone in the living room, thinking he couldn’t have imagined a more awkward scene. Why was Jesse’s child bride living like a pauper, and leaving her baby in the care of a falling-down drunk?

  He wasn’t here to evaluate anyone’s parenting skills, but he did give his surroundings a cursory examination. As a state employee, he was under a legal and ethical obligation to report any evidence of child abuse.

  Other than the bottle on the table, and an empty glass next to it, the place was tidy. The carpet was worn but clean, the space free of clutter, and the air smelled faintly of pine-scented furniture polish. On the entertainment center, above the TV, there was one framed photo, a close-up of Tamara cradling a newborn Grace.

  The young woman came back into the hallway, baby on her hip, at the same time Clay returned from the bedroom. He sidestepped to let her pass, but she stopped in her tracks, as if his proximity flustered her. The near-collision was so emotionally charged that even Luke felt uncomfortable, and he was ten feet away.

  “Thanks,” she muttered, as if she was grateful for Clay’s assistance but resented its necessity.

  Clay shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “It’s no big deal.”

  The baby in her arms continued to cry. “She’s hungry,” Tamara explained, casting another worried glance at Luke.

  He introduced himself quickly. “I need to ask some questions about Jesse. It will only take a few minutes.”

  “Fine,” she said, lifting her chin. It had a decidedly stubborn tilt. “Have a seat.”

  Luke waited for her to settle in on the couch, Clay at her side, before he took the only other chair, a sturdy oak rocker with a faded blue seat cushion.

  Tamara Ryan wasn’t at all what he’d expected. She had a silky cap of brown hair, cut bluntly across her forehead, and a slight overbite that gave her a cute, mousy look. With her heart-shaped face and velvety brown eyes, she was attractive, but hardly a femme fatale.

  Jesse had thrown Shay over for this mere girl? Or had he been caught with this sweet young thing and made to pay the price?

  Having little choice in the matter, for the baby was still fussing, Tamara reached beneath her shirt and unfastened the cup of her bra. Although she tried to stay modestly covered, little Grace wanted a clear shot at her target. The baby gripped the edge of her mother’s shirt in her chubby fist, revealing the inner curve of one pale, milk-swollen breast.

  Luke averted his eyes respectfully, turning his attention toward Clay while she got the baby situated. The deputy was also looking in the opposite direction, his jaw set in anger, a dull stain coloring his cheekbones. Public breast-feeding was much more common among Indian women, so it didn’t faze Luke, and it shouldn’t be fazing Clay.

  Maybe he felt as though Luke should have offered to wait while she fed the baby in the other room.

  Having been raised by his mother, off-reservation, Luke would understand if Tamara was reluctant to nurse her baby in front of a stranger. What he didn’t get was how anyone, especially a man, could be offended by the sight. He was baffled by the Anglo hang-up about breasts, although he could certainly relate to their masculine fascination for them.

  As Grace snuggled in and began to suckle in earnest, some of the tension eased from Tamara’s face. She still looked tired, and far too young for motherhood, despite her body’s apparent readiness for the task, but now she also appeared serene, like an underage Madonna.

  “How old are you?” he couldn’t help but ask.

  When Clay flinched at the question, Luke had to wonder if he had a hankering for very young girls, too. Perhaps this one in particular.

  “Twenty-three,” she answered, glancing at Clay, reading his discomfort.

  Surprised, because she looked about seventeen, Luke did some quick math. Maybe the girl had actually been legal when Jesse had started messing around with her. “How long have you and Jesse been married?”

  “Five years. Separated for most of it.”

  He guessed that Grace had come into the picture during a period of time they weren’t separated. “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  Her mouth twisted wryly. “A month ago. At least.”

  “He doesn’t visit Grace?”

  “Sometimes he comes when I’m not here. We don’t get along.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because he’s a lying, cheating bastard.”

  Luke couldn’t argue that point. And yet, he’d come here to ask invasive questions, not to agree with her. “Do you have proof of his infidelities?”

  “Proof?” She let out a harsh laugh, blowing the hair off her forehead. “No. But I’d have to be blind, and an idiot, not to know about his other women.”

  “Shay Phillips?” he asked, struggling to maintain an aura of nonchalance.

  When her eyes darkened, he knew she harbored a slew of ill feelings. He had to admit he had some of those himself. Although Luke didn’t consider Jesse his rival, or his equal, he didn’t like picturing Shay with another man. “Yes,” she said. “And more besides.”

  “Yesenia Montes?”

  Her brows rose. Then the implications of his question sank in. “What, exactly, are you investigating?”

  “The accident. Jesse was the last person to see her alive.” That we know of, he added silently.

  Tamara returned her attention to Grace, who had finished feeding on one side. She lifted the baby and began to pat her on the back. “I don’t know anything about him and Yesenia. To tell you the truth, I’d be surprised to hear he was with her.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because although she’s a cheap whore, she comes at a price. And Jesse never had to pay for anything in his life.”

  Luke glanced at Clay, who seemed to not only agree with that description, but to burn with resentment over it. On the way over, he hadn’t asked about Clay’s relationship with Tamara, because he wasn’t sure it was relevant.

  He still wasn’t sure. But it was pretty damned interesting.

  Luke leaned back in his chair, averting his gaze once again as Tamara finished burping Grace and settled her in to nurse on the other side.

  “Do you need anything?” Clay asked her quietly.

  “You’ve done enough.”

  “I can do more.”

  “I don’t want your money.”

  Clay cast an annoyed glance toward Luke, probably wishing he would leave them alone for a minute. He didn’t. “You gonna let your mom look after Grace while you’re in class again?”

  “No,” she whispered, her eyes wet. “I’ll have to drop out.”

  “Don’t. I’ll watch her.”

  Her head jerked toward him. “You would do that?”

  “Of course,” he said in a stiff voice. “I’m off work at three every day. That will give me plenty of time to get here before you have to leave.”

  She moistened her lips, hesitant. “I’ll think about it.”

  He nodded curtly and dropped the subject.

  “I—I’m not a bad mother,” she said after a long pause, pleading with Luke, meeting his gaze. “Grace is in a good day care while I’m at work, but she stays with Mama when I have a late-afternoon class. I’d never have left her if I’d known …” She shook her head helplessly. “She usually doesn’t start drinking this early.”

  Luke told her he believed her, because he did, and not to worry. Grace was asleep now, safe and cozy in her arms. He wondered if times had been this hard for his own mother, and guessed that they had.

  There was no way he would come between th
em.

  Clay said good-bye and they both left in somber moods, contemplating the situation in shared silence. Luke wasn’t a meddler, but he had a case to solve, and like it or not, Clay was wrapped up in it.

  “You have some kind of claim on her?” he asked, meaning Tamara.

  Clay’s blue eyes narrowed. “No. Why?”

  “A man doesn’t usually offer that kind of assistance without …” He tried to think of a way to put it delicately, because Clay looked like he wanted to punch him, “… a return on his investment.”

  Clay’s lips thinned. “Some men.”

  Luke shrugged, dividing his concentration between Clay and the road. “You always take care of Jesse’s leftovers?” he asked, prodding harder.

  “She’s my niece,” he said between clenched teeth.

  “Tamara Ryan is your niece?”

  “No. Grace is. Jesse and I are brothers.”

  Luke searched his face for the resemblance, but he didn’t see it. As the town rebel, Jesse had the requisite dark good looks and bad-boy attitude. With his light eyes and sun-streaked ponytail, Clay was Jesse’s polar opposite in appearance and demeanor.

  “We have different mothers,” he muttered.

  Ah. Everything became very clear. Jesse was legitimate and Clay had been born on the wrong side of the blanket. Literally.

  Were the half brothers the best of friends or the worst of enemies? If Luke wasn’t mistaken, Clay was infatuated with Jesse’s wife. Had Tamara Ryan played up their rivalry, pitting one brother against the other, or was she just another innocent bystander?

  Luke could say one thing for Tenaja Falls: it wasn’t boring.

  16

  Just before 8:00 P.M., Shay stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom, adding volume to her hair and applying another layer of mascara. From the confines of Dylan’s bedroom, where he’d been holed up since dinner, System of a Down was blaring. Every time the bass line picked up, the shelves rattled.

  Home sweet home.

  She stepped back from the sink and studied her appearance, wanting to make sure she’d nailed the look she was going for. Tousled blond hair, check. Rock ‘n’ roll T-shirt, short denim miniskirt, check. Smoky eyes and cinnamon lip gloss, check.

  Yep. She looked like trailer trash.

  Even her bruised knee, which any lady with class would have the sense to cover up, was on proud display. If anything ruined the ensemble it was her shoes. The black suede Steve Madden pumps had been an indulgence, but they were still kind of wild.

  Coco Chanel, she wasn’t.

  Shay flashed her reflection a bitter smile. When the doorbell rang ten minutes later, she grabbed her silver metallic purse and rapped a quick good-bye to Dylan on his bedroom door.

  Instead of Clay, she was met by Angel Martinez. “Wow,” the girl said, taking in Shay’s skyscraper heels and short skirt. “You look …”

  “Like a hooker?”

  Angel’s eyes jumped up. “No! Are you kidding me? You look hot.”

  Shay smiled, accepting the teenager’s compliment with a grain of salt. Angel was wearing an alarming number of hoop earrings, a scarred leather wristband, and a black tank top cut low enough to show off the kind of cleavage Shay had always longed for.

  “You want Dylan?” she asked, stepping aside to let the girl in.

  Angel flushed. “Well, yeah. I mean, I just wanted to talk to him, if that’s all right—”

  Shay lifted a hand to ward off her stammering. “I’ll get him for you.”

  Pounding on the door was useless when Dylan was blasting the stereo, so Shay just walked inside, resigning herself to his wrath. He was sitting at his desk, math book open, scrawling numbers on lined notepaper.

  How anyone could study with all that racket was beyond her.

  When she put her hand on his shoulder, he startled. He looked past her, to where Angel was standing in the doorway, and came to his feet so fast the chair fell over. He was wearing his usual attire for hanging around the house, basketball shorts and nothing else. Judging by the stricken expression on his face, and Angel’s renewed flush, he may as well have been standing there naked.

  Horrified, he rushed to put on a T-shirt and turn down the music.

  Good grief. Shay would have laughed if the exchange hadn’t been so painful to watch. Although Dylan and Angel had looked pretty cozy the last time they’d been in his bedroom together, they were obviously uncomfortable now.

  Post-hookup awkwardness. Shay recognized it well.

  When the doorbell rang again, she excused herself, leaving her brother and Angel to their own devices. This time it was Luke on her doorstep, and unlike Angel, he didn’t miss the nuances of her eye-popping outfit.

  “Nice,” he said sarcastically, tearing his gaze from her bare legs.

  “Clay said he was going to pick me up,” she said.

  “I told him I would.”

  She let out a frustrated breath, annoyed with Luke’s high-handed behavior. She also couldn’t help but notice how delicious he looked in plainclothes. His gray T-shirt accented his broad shoulders and clung to his flat belly, and his faded blue Levi’s fit him to perfection. There was nothing more flattering to a man’s body, in her opinion, than button-fly jeans.

  With her heels on, she only had to look up a few inches to meet his eyes. If he was feeling the effects of a sleepless night or having second thoughts about giving her the brush-off, it didn’t show on his face. His expression was guarded, his jaw freshly shaved.

  “Are you ready?”

  She hesitated, all of the emotions she’d been carrying around inside her threatening to rise to the surface. Post-hookup awkwardness, to the nth degree. “I’m ready,” she said, taking a deep breath and stepping out into the night.

  Luke knew exactly what Shay was doing.

  Her outfit, her eyes, her body, her attitude; everything about her screamed easy. He’d never been more certain that she wasn’t.

  Luke wasn’t much of a drinker, but being from Vegas, he was familiar with singles bar dynamics. There was a way men acted around women they’d already had, women they knew they could have again through very little effort. None of the men at the Round-Up treated Shay with disrespect or nonchalance. If anything, they seemed afraid to approach her, like she might incinerate them if they got too close.

  Well, she did look hot.

  The first thing she’d done, after telling him he wouldn’t get anywhere with the locals if he didn’t sit down and order a beer, was engage Clay Trujillo in a game of pool. Yes, it was provocative, to show up with one man and flirt with another, and it was naughty to stretch across the pool table in a skirt that short. But she and Clay, Luke finally realized, had about as much chemistry as siblings. Every time she bent forward, Clay looked around the bar warily, daring the patrons to ogle her tush.

  They still did, just not as openly as they wanted to.

  There were only two other women in the bar, a raspy-voiced cougar who’d already propositioned him, and a busy, busty waitress. Both had seen Yesenia Montes leave with Jesse Ryan on Friday night.

  Lots of the men had seen her, too. Yesenia got around in more ways than one, and she’d been spotted several times over the course of the evening, standing outside the bar, strolling along Tenaja’s main drag, and waiting in front of the café. No one had admitted to picking her up or seeing her get picked up, so Luke made a mental log of the sightings and moved on.

  He was no closer to solving the case, no more able to control the intensity of his attraction to Shay, no less conflicted by his feelings for her.

  As he watched her lean across the table to hit the eight ball into the corner pocket, calves flexing, tattoo on her lower back flashing, he had to admit he was no longer concerned about her sexual history. He didn’t really care how many men she’d been with in the past. He just wanted to be the only man in her future.

  Luke almost sputtered out a mouthful of beer at the untoward thought.

  This morning seemed l
ike a hundred years ago, but he’d been very clear about not wanting to repeat the mistake they’d made. They were all wrong for each other. Christ, she was ten years younger than he was, and ten times more wild. He wasn’t sure he was going to stay in Tenaja Falls, and she was a hometown girl through and through.

  Even if he wanted to settle down, he wouldn’t choose a woman like her to do it with. She was too hot to handle.

  Wasn’t she?

  Shay made her shot and looked up, her laser blue eyes zeroing in on Luke. With some difficulty, he swallowed, replacing the bottle of Bud on the top of the bar because his hands were shaking. As if sensing his sudden vulnerability, she straightened, handing off her cue to Clay and moving in for the kill.

  Luke watched her approach, unable to tear his eyes away from her body. Her faded black T-shirt was vintage Stones, the infamous image of the wagging tongue. He knew by the way her breasts moved beneath it that she wasn’t wearing a bra.

  When she maneuvered onto the bar stool next to him, he had to wonder if she was similarly bare under that tiny skirt.

  Sweat broke out on his forehead.

  With a knowing smile, she grabbed his bottle of Bud and took a sip. Her hair was loose tonight, falling in sexy waves to the middle of her back. He wanted to stick his hands in it. Her mouth was plump and moist and red, and when he thought about what he wanted to do to it, his skin overheated and his jeans got tight.

  She let her lips linger on the rim of the brown bottle, torturing him. “You want to dance?”

  Dance? He couldn’t even stand. “No.”

  “Why are you here?” she asked suddenly.

  “Here, in this bar?”

  “In this town.”

  He took the bottle away from her, plagued by dirty fantasies in which she ran her tongue up and down the neck. “I needed a job.”

  “Did you get fired?”

  Luke hesitated, caught off guard by her question.

  “Las Vegas is the city of vice,” she murmured, studying his face. “What’s yours? You don’t strike me as a gambler. Too uptight. And it can’t be alcohol. You’ve been nursing the same drink for an hour.”