Quinn Security

by Dee Bridgnorth

  The souvenir shop, Devil’s Advocate, was situated on the corner of Bison and Main, and Rachel was in one hell of a hurry to get there before Alighieri could slip away all over again.

  By the time Rachel slapped the phone back into its cradle, she had no idea if she’d thanked Dispatch. She hustled to fold up her hand-scrawled map, tucked it into the pocket of her dress-blues as she stood, and was making a beeline for the door without a second thought.

  Dante Alighieri had returned to the Fist and Rachel had every intention of bringing him in for questioning.

  ***

  As PO Rachel Clancy was storming up Main Street on foot, Devil’s Advocate being right next door to the police station, Shane collected one very hot-tempered Whitney Abernathy from her father’s office—they’d migrated there to argue so that they wouldn’t have to watch their words or volume—and escorted her out onto the sidewalk where he’d parked his pickup truck. All of this was much to the chagrin of the sheriff, who complained and shouted threats that Shane was certain he’d never be able to make good on.

  “You’re coming to my cabin,” he informed her as they climbed into his truck.

  As Whitney yanked her seatbelt on, she insisted, “He’s so stubborn!”

  And you aren’t? was Shane’s immediate responding thought, but he kept it to himself.

  “Daddy’s more concerned that I’m spending time with you than he is about the fact that no one in all of the Fist knows where Delilah Dane is!”

  “You asked him about Delilah?” he said as they drove along Main Street, coming upon Bison Road where Dante Alighieri had parked his flashy Lexus.

  Neither Shane nor Whitney took any degree of notice of the luxury vehicle that was sticking out like a sore thumb in their town. Nor did they spot PO Rachel Clancy stalking around the car as she, at times, glanced at the dark and locked-up souvenir shop where Delilah had been renting the apartment above for all the years she’d lived here.

  “I’ve mentioned Delilah to him several times,” she told Shane, as he accelerated along Highland Highway, heading in the direction of Yellowstone where they would cut north and eventually pass Quinn Security and come to the Quinn cabins. “He’s so undisturbed by her disappearance that he doesn’t even acknowledge the question!”

  Shane had overheard enough of their argument to understand that the sheriff’s primary concern was squared firmly in his daughter’s wellbeing; Shane’s sudden involvement with her being his biggest nightmare realized. He didn’t want to incite Whitney any further, however, so he kept his mouth shut and let her run out of steam.

  As he turned off Highland Highway and then drove past the Quinn Security cabin, coming into the private land all five brothers had built their cabins on, Whitney hadn’t cooled her heels one bit.

  It brought a smile to his face. He couldn’t say he minded her fire. Part of him wouldn’t mind outfitting her in lady-fatigues and setting off into Yellowstone to hunt. He’d never met a female version of himself, and not that Whitney fully fulfilled that vision, but she came damn close.

  “There’s nothing your dad can do for Delilah that I can’t do faster,” he assured her as he took hold of her hand across the console. That seemed to calm her. She met his gaze before he returned his eyes to the dirt road, coming upon his cabin that was first on the right. “We’ll handle it together, okay?”

  “You mean you’re not going to try to ditch me?” she asked with an edge of accusation in her tone.

  “I couldn’t even if I tried,” he promised, rolling to a stop and throwing his truck in Park before he pulled the key from the ignition. “You’ve proved as much to me.”

  “That sounds like a compliment,” she said optimistically. “I’ll take it.”

  They climbed out of the truck and as they neared the door, Whitney slowed when her cell phone began vibrating in her purse.

  Shane proceeded to key in to his cabin as he heard Whitney start barking into her cell. Given her tone and the content of her combative responses, he had to assume that Rick was on the other end of the line, probably calling to forbid her from going anywhere except for straight home to her own cabin.

  He pushed the door open as Whitney paced in furious circles out on the dirt beside his truck.

  He didn’t get so far as turning the foyer light on. His gaze had locked onto the wooden floor where another Polaroid photo was resting, face up.

  His heart punched hard in his chest cavity and he froze at the dimly lit image in the photo.

  Delilah.

  Jesus H. Christ, he thought, chilled at the picture.

  He shot a sly glance over his shoulder at Whitney, who was still consumed in her argument, but winning by the sounds of it. She was completely distracted so he made fast work of stooping to grab the Polaroid, which he shoved deep into his pocket without studying it.

  He flipped the light on finally and turned to wave Whitney in. Once he got her attention—he figured saying anything would only confirm for the sheriff that she had in fact gone off with Shane so he’d kept his mouth shut—she padded on into his home, hotly wrapping up her argument as they entered.

  Shane shoved his hand into his pocket, feeling the brand-new photo that was as incriminating if not more so than the other he’d received. The other—the image of Shane and Delilah tussling in what appeared to be a violent argument—was also in that pocket. He’d slipped it in earlier in case Whitney had the notion to look in his glove compartment for some reason.

  “Coffee?” he asked as they came into the living room.

  “Why not?” she said, sounding defeated as a result of her phone call.

  Shane made fast work of filling the coffeemaker with grounds and water then pressed it on to brew as he told her, “I’m going to use the bathroom. Make yourself at home.”

  He chose the second-floor bathroom, feeling his heart rate elevate as he climbed the stairs. He was sure to close and lock the bathroom door before he pulled both photos from his pocket, focusing first on the one he’d just received.

  As he let out a rocky breath of thanks that Whitney hadn’t discovered the photo, he studied it closely.

  It was Delilah, unconscious or dead, he couldn’t decide.

  There was no blood. Instead, her limp body, eyes closed and limbs loose, was stretched across his living room couch.

  It chilled him.

  His living room couch.

  His.

  Jesus.

  Whoever had Delilah had broken into his cabin. They’d set her body down on his couch, slumped upright, her head cocked lifelessly against the couch back, legs splayed loosely, feet barely touching the wooden floor.

  It looked bad. Really bad. First a violent fight. Then Delilah seemingly dead in his cabin. If these photos found their way into the wrong hands, Shane would be arrested and likely convicted without preamble.

  Larry Hardcastle came to mind, as he ran the faucet water in case Whitney was listening out from the first floor. He flushed the toilet next. Could the drunken and sorry excuse for a stepdad have the wherewithal to break into Shane’s cabin? He could hardly see the man successfully picking locks, but Larry certainly had the strength to haul an unconscious or possibly lifeless Delilah Dane into this house.

  He couldn’t make heads or tails of it. All he knew was that someone wanted Shane quaking in his military boots. And ultimately, they wanted him out of the picture.

  Shane would’ve liked to think that the one saving grace in this nightmare was that Polaroids were one of a kind. The camera spat the image out. There was no film and therefore there could be no developing duplicates. But it hardly settled his sour stomach. Whoever had snapped off this photo could’ve snapped off a second one for safe keeping. It didn’t bode well.

  He emerged from the bathroom, having tucked both photos deep into his pocket and made a beeline for his bedroom. Under the bed there were several firearms cases holding various shotguns, rifles, and handguns. He selected a smaller case that contained a Glock, lifted the gu
n out, and set both pictures inside against the black foam interior, then returned the gun on top.

  It was the best he could do at the moment.

  He had Whitney downstairs.

  He’d have to deal with this later.

  As he trekked downstairs, lumbering down the treads, he hoped like hell that Delilah Dane wasn’t dead.

  Chapter Ten

  WHITNEY

  Whitney felt more than slightly groggy as she slid into a red vinyl booth across from Shane in Angel’s Food. She’d had more than her fair share of coffee at Shane’s cabin last night. Shane had barely touched his mug, and all the extra caffeine did wonders for keeping her tossing and turning and preventing her from reaching a deep level of sleep.

  As she opened a giant, laminated menu, sensing more than seeing that Lucy Cooper was padding around and tending to her section since it was the middle of the breakfast rush, Whitney tried not to feel off balance.

  Lucy was—or had been—her closest friend. But it seemed that as soon as the ethereal blonde had connected with Kaleb Quinn in a very real and lasting way, she’d all but forgotten about her friendship with Whitney.

  Whitney spied her for a moment as Lucy refreshed one of her customer’s mugs of coffee. She felt raw and terrible, like she was studying a stranger.

  Likewise, the man across the table.

  She’d shared Shane’s bed last night, but nothing had really happened. It had been odd. As soon as he’d trekked down the stairs, having used the bathroom, it had seemed he was guarded, as though he’d turned back into the hard-mouthed, serious soldier she’d known him to be before they’d come into each other’s lives. The man who had spoken so openly about being with her, the one who had touched her tenderly and sexually, the one who had essentially set her heart on fire was nowhere to be found. Instead, Shane seemed reserved. He’d withheld eye contact. He’d been tight-lipped in conversation. And as he’d rushed her into bed just to put an end to the day, he’d dodged her every question and comment about what was suddenly going on with him.

  In the dark of night, he’d held her as he’d fallen asleep, and though it had been intimate, Whitney had known—she could feel—that he had checked out.

  Why?

  She knew that her immature stomping fits and childish manner—the side of herself that only her father could bring out—was far from attractive. She had to figure that, having witnessed her argumentative display with Daddy at the precinct, Shane probably lost a touch of interest. But then again, he’d seen her like that before. Most everyone in the Fist had. His sudden change of mood had to be about something else.

  Regardless, she promised herself that she would conduct herself with levelheaded maturity the next time her father intentionally tried to ruffle her feathers.

  As she folded her menu, having decided she would order what she always got whenever she was in the diner, she noticed the front of her Yellowstone uniform wasn’t tucked into her khakis quite right and correctly the problem. Then she had an honest go of broaching some semblance of conversation with the man who had avoided all of her similar efforts last night.

  “I think we’re in Lucy’s section,” she commented.

  Shane’s dark eyes were glued to his menu and he didn’t meet her staring gaze as he responded, “Is that a problem?”

  “She’s been withdrawn ever since she got together with your brother,” she stated then decided she might subtly indicate how sudden changes in mood and behavior tended to irk her. Maybe he’d get the hint that way. “We used to be so close and then it seemed, without warning, she was off living some brand-new life. It’s like her mind is elsewhere. I really hate that.”

  “Not being the center of attention?” he asked, and it felt like a slight jab.

  “I don’t have to be the center of attention,” she defended. “I’m just saying that Lucy became withdrawn and reserved, like she needs to hide from me. It’s hurtful. I really hate it when people do that.”

  She made a pointed effort to lift her eyebrows and stare at him in a way that would convey she was also talking about his own recent change in mood.

  He didn’t soften. Didn’t empathize or try to explain himself. But he definitely got it.

  Hardening as he was known around the Fist to do, he told her, “You have to let people do what they do. Not everything is about you.”

  “Why are you being so cold?”

  “Like I said, not everything is about you,” he reiterated and she didn’t like it.

  “Fine,” she allowed. “So, you being the ice king isn’t about me. Then what’s it about?”

  Before he could respond, not that she got the feeling he would, Lucy padded over to their table with a steaming pot of coffee in her hand, her order pad clamped under her arm as always.

  “Mornin’ guys!” she said in her usual folksy manner, but the cheer in her voice sounded—to Whitney’s ears—forced.

  “Hiya, Lucy-goose,” said Whitney, fighting hard to get some eye contact with the friend she felt like she’d lost and certainly missed. “How’s life?”

  “Great,” said Lucy, upbeat but without any attempt to connect with Whitney.

  It was heartbreaking.

  “What’ll it be?” she asked as she upturned their mugs and proceeded to fill each with coffee.

  Whitney felt the strong urge to confess how much she missed her, how she’d like to hang out, how she was more than willing to get to know Kaleb Quinn. Was that what the cold shoulder had been about? The fact that Whitney had tried to drive Kaleb away from Lucy when they’d first started connecting? Whitney had only been so fierce about it because she hadn’t wanted Lucy to become another of Kaleb’s sexual conquests. She had only tried to save her friend from getting her heart broken. Clearly, it had backfired.

  Instead of addressing the rift that had come between them, Whitney told Lucy, “I think I’ll go with scrambled eggs, hash browns, and a side of bacon. How’s Kaleb?”

  Finally, Lucy looked down at her with those big, twinkling blue eyes of hers that Whitney missed so much.

  “He’s fine,” she said, and it sounded a tad accusatory to Whitney’s keen ears. “He’s recovered.”

  “Lucy,” she said, keeping her voice whisper-low and sincere. “I’m sorry I shot him. I didn’t know it was—”

  “I’ll have a huge pile of bacon,” Shane interrupted, and Lucy jotted the order down as if Whitney hadn’t said a thing about nearly killing her significant other.

  “I miss you, Lucy-goose,” she pleaded. “I’m sorry.”

  Lucy let out a sigh as Shane grew noticeably uncomfortable across the table.

  Whitney insisted, “If Shane can forgive me, I wish you would, too.”

  “It’s not about that, Whit,” said Lucy whose resolve to avoid her gaze was quickly crumbling, thank goodness.

  “But it is about what I saw out there on the street that night, isn’t it?” she guessed. “Look, Lucy, I know you’re different. I don’t have a problem with that. I just want my friend back.” When Lucy only stared at her, a glimmer of missing Whitney too welling up behind her eyes, Whitney added, “I really wish all of you guys wouldn’t act like I’m about to rush off and tell my Daddy every last damn thing about y’all. I’m not the enemy.”

  Lucy looked to Shane as if to double-check whether or not that was true.

  Then she said, “We’re a bit slammed, but I’ll put a rush on your breakfast order so that you aren’t late for Yellowstone.”

  And with that Lucy padded off towards the kitchen, never having responded to Whitney’s heartfelt plea to reconnect.

  Crestfallen, she slumped in her seat and barely had enough appetite to sip her coffee.

  “It’s not about you,” Shane offered.

  It was the wrong thing to say as far as she was concerned.

  “Then what’s it about? Huh?”

  “You saw her out on the street that night. You saw Kaleb. You need to let them handle what’s going on with them without prying.” />
  “I’m not prying,” she said defensively. “I want my friend back.”

  She knew exactly what she’d seen out on Main Street that night. She’d seen a wolf. She’d shot it. Her mind had nearly bent in two as she’d watched Kaleb appear where the wolf had been. Lucy had turned into a ball of blinding light then vanished. But her friend didn’t want Whitney’s help and support and friendship? She wanted to run off with Kaleb Quinn and abandon all that she had with Whitney? Whitney had every right to feel hurt, didn’t she? And now Shane wasn’t even on her side?

  They waited in silence for their breakfast to arrive, Whitney staring out the window at the whole of Main Street waking up, Shane studying her at times if not glancing around the diner.

  When finally Lucy neared them with their hot plates of breakfast, she offered, “Just give me time, Whit,” as she placed their meals down in front of them.

  It wasn’t much, but it would have to be enough for now.

  After breakfast, Shane drove her to Yellowstone where she jumped out of his truck before he’d even thrown the gear shifter in Park. She knew he’d be at her heels, he was her bodyguard technically and had every intention of sticking to her like glue until the dark feeling of being watched no longer plagued her, but she wasn’t about to do him any favors by waiting up for him.

  When she reached the corral stables, Ronnie was spreading a fresh bale of hay across a trough for the horses. Buttons let out a happy nay at seeing her, but all Whitney could think about was Lucy, their torn friendship, and how Delilah Dane was somewhere out there, another failed attempt at friendship that Whitney couldn’t seem to do a damn thing about.

  “Hey,” Ronnie greeted her. “You track down Delilah yet?”

  “No,” she said darkly.

  “She isn’t here today,” he informed her, which was absolutely no surprise to Whitney. “But that dude came around again.”

  The dude he was referring to had to be Larry Hardcastle, a man that Ronnie had wrongfully assumed was some kind of boyfriend to Delilah.