Jeannie Watt Page 10

Translation—you’ve had time to get turned down for six different loans. She jacked her chin up and narrowed her eyes.

  “I’ll risk the embarrassment, Ryan. The house is not for sale and I want you to stay away from me.”

  “Yeah, Tara? Just what will you do if I don’t?” He hooked his thumb in his pocket. “Seems to me, there’s not much you can do.”

  “You might be surprised at what I can do,” she bluffed.

  “Oh, yeah?” He stepped forward. “Why don’t you show me?”

  The smug challenge was too much for her. Tara took a deep breath…and screamed.

  The startled expression on Ryan’s face was well worth the strain on her vocal cords and her pride. She would have much rather popped him in the nose again, but he’d obviously been expecting that. This seemed a better option under the circumstances.

  He muttered, “You bitch,” and then he was gone, the door swinging shut after him as several people came charging down the hall.

  “T-Tara?” Ernest Stewart stuttered, obviously thinking that if something had frightened Tara Sullivan, it had to be bad. “What happened?”

  Tara pressed a hand to her heart. “I saw a rat.”

  “A rat!” Sandra looked faint, but Eva Martini’s eyes widened and then narrowed.

  “Don’t be silly. We have never had a rat in the convention center.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Martini, you have.”

  A few minutes later Ernest was arranging traps under the direction of Eva and Sandra. Tara felt bad about her ruse, but she had to prove to Ryan he couldn’t push her around, or he would certainly continue.

  Make an offer on her house…she’d rather torch it than see the Somerses own it.

  She shivered as she stepped out into the startlingly bright sunlight and felt the heat wash over her. She wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep for about ten hours, but she still had to drive to Elko to pick up the three antique dressers she’d bought over the phone a few days before.

  Aunt Laura had packed the house with antique furniture, most of which was now stored in the barn, but she had favored the unusual over the practical and there weren’t enough usable dressers for all of the bedrooms. Tara’d been lucky enough to hook up with Mrs. Felton, an elderly lady from Elko who pronounced herself an antique broker, even though she was actually more of a yard-sale broker, and through her had managed to pick up enough pieces at a fairly reasonable cost to finish furnishing the bedrooms. These pieces would be her last—if they were indeed in as good a shape as Mrs. Felton insisted they were when she had named her price.

  It didn’t matter, Tara thought as she pulled onto the highway that led to the interstate. With the reunion only weeks away, she’d take whatever she could get.

  It was close to ten o’clock and the moon was well above the horizon by the time Tara, exhausted, turned back off the interstate onto the state highway leading to Night Sky. The dressers, which had thankfully turned out to be well worth the asking price, were riding nicely under their protective tarp and the thunderstorm that the weatherman had predicted hadn’t materialized. All in all, a very rotten day had turned into a pretty good evening.

  As she rounded a sharp corner, a red safety flare all but blinded her. She yanked the steering wheel to the left to keep from hitting the rear bumper of a sedan parked half-on half-off the side of the highway.

  Tara cursed as her dressers hit the side of the truck—hard—then bounced to the other side, and finally to the cab as she braked. Once she was at a stop, completely off the road, unlike the other car, Tara looked over her shoulder. Was this an actual driver in distress or a ploy to stop an unsuspecting motorist? They were in the middle of nowhere on a little-traveled road….

  The sedan, which looked very familiar in the red glow of the flare, had a white distress hanky fluttering from the antenna. Tara opened her door and got out, no longer leery of possible consequences. She only knew one person who drove a classic Cadillac and carried white hankies. Dottie Gibson. And unless she was mistaken, that was indeed Dottie huddled behind the wheel, looking terrified.

  Tara grabbed her flashlight and, thinking first things first, stalked to the back of her truck to inspect her dressers. She lifted the tarp and was happy to see that none of the wood had splintered. They were probably scratched, but not destroyed. She dropped the tarp and stood for a moment looking at the frightened figure in the dangerously parked sedan.

  Tara used the flashlight to illuminate her face as she walked back to the car, hoping she didn’t look too ghoulish in her attempt to make herself recognizable to the frightened woman. No sense further terrifying the old…she swallowed as she saw the expression on the woman’s face. Fear, chagrin and…relief?

  “Flat tire, Mrs. Gibson?” Tara asked as Dottie rolled down the window. Dottie nodded, her eyes round.

  “Have you called for help?”

  “My cell phone is dead and I forgot my charger.” The woman’s voice cracked on the last word. “My husband told me…he said…”

  “It’s okay,” Tara soothed. She knew how cranky Mr. Gibson could be. He rivaled his wife. “Have you been here long?”

  “Twenty minutes.” Tears started welling in the woman’s eyes.

  Twenty minutes alone, wondering who or what might come by. Tara could understand her anxiety. “You can use my phone if you want to call him while I change this tire.”

  “Oh, that would be…” Dottie’s eyebrows went up. “You can change a tire?”

  “I’ve learned to do a lot of things for myself.”

  Dottie nodded thoughtfully. “I…I suppose you have.” She rolled her window the rest of the way down. “If you could change this tire, well, I could get home and David wouldn’t know I had this flat. He hates it when I go to visit my sister in Elko when it’s late, but I had to go. She’s tailoring a dress for me…it had to be fitted….” Dottie’s words trailed off. “He said something like this would happen and he insists I have the phone. If he knew how careless I’d been—”

  “The sooner we get started…” Tara suggested.

  “Yes. Yes.”

  “The first thing we need to do is get your car into a safer position,” Tara said. “I’ll move my truck and you can park there where it’s level, but be sure and get all the way off the road.”

  “Oh. Can I drive on a flat? Won’t it damage something? David said—”

  “It won’t hurt if you just pull it forward a few yards and it’ll be a lot safer.”

  Dottie looked first dubious and then determined as she cranked the ignition. “Yes. I’ll park right where your truck is.”

  Tara had the tire changed in less than fifteen minutes.

  “Tara…”

  “That should do it, Mrs. Gibson.” Tara wiped her hands on her jeans.

  “I have some moist towelettes,” Dottie offered and Tara smiled.

  “No thanks. Just take it easy into town. You have no spare and the tire I put on is a little low on air. I’ll follow you until my road.”

  “I do need to pay you.”

  “Thank you, but no,” Tara said firmly as she started walking to her truck. “Good night.”

  “Tara?”

  Tara raised her hand in a dismissive wave, got into her truck and waited until Dottie finally glanced at her watch, then got into her own car, started it and pulled onto the road. Tara waved again as the woman drove slowly by, the hankie still fluttering from the antenna.

  Pay her, indeed. Tara smiled. She’d been paid in satisfaction and poetic justice and wouldn’t have it any other way.

  In spite of Ryan, in spite of everything, she felt great.

  IT WAS OFFICIAL.

  In the back of his mind, Matt had known it was coming. It was the lieutenant’s next logical move in his bid to get rid of him without risking a harassment suit.

  Matt opened the certified letter and read the notification that he was required to partake in an FFD—Fitness for Duty—exam before returning to patrol. Failure to comply…


  Matt scanned the rest of the letter and then dropped it on the kitchen table.

  Rumor had it Lisa had gone out with the lieutenant a couple of times after she’d broken up with Matt. Gee. What could the lieutenant have wanted? A little information on Matt’s stress level and stability, perhaps? Any signs of domestic violence? Fits of rage?

  Matt knew for a fact that Lisa had seen none of the above, and she would have been honest about it, but she had seen obsessive focus, insomnia, lack of appetite. Warning signs. Things to report to the lieutenant.

  Matt picked the letter up and shoved it back in the envelope, disgusted.

  This was his legacy from his father, a supposed top cop who, along with two other officers, had been stealing recovered money and drugs for years. Ironically, the scheme had come to light shortly after his father had been killed. So in a sense, the old man had gotten away with it, while the other two officers had been arrested and charged.

  The department had naturally suspected Matt of being a co-conspirator, but he’d eventually been cleared. On paper anyway. But suspicion lingered and the lieutenant was the most suspicious of all. He firmly believed Matt had to be involved and he subsequently made Matt’s life a living hell. If he couldn’t indict Matt, then he was at least going to force him to quit his division. But Matt never once considered it, because quitting was the same as admitting guilt. So he’d become “supercop” instead, proving that he was not his old man. Proving the lieutenant was wrong. Proving that he was a good officer.

  It had almost killed him.

  Well, Matt thought as he put the letter in his suitcase, he wasn’t going to let this exam get to him. It was meant to be a slap in the face and it was, but for the past few days he’d been feeling better, sleeping better, and he planned on continuing that way—at least for as long as he was in Night Sky.

  Focusing on Tara’s problems had helped him shove aside his own, temporarily at least.

  Matt’s leave was running out, but the house was progressing on schedule and Luke had finally been able to pitch in. His new medication was working better than the old and the inflammation in his joints had diminished to the point that he was able to put in a few hours a day in the gardens. The shift in his attitude had been tremendous and he’d left Tara’s early that day to have his reaction to the new medication checked. If it was acceptable, then he’d finally be allowed to give up iced tea in favor of his preferred beverage. Matt was supposed to meet him for dinner that night and either celebrate or commiserate.

  When Matt headed out his back door to the Owl, the curtain moved in the kitchen window of the house next door and his neighbor, an elderly lady he’d never met, gave him a little wave and then disappeared. It was a common occurrence, one Matt had found disconcerting at first, but was finally getting used to. Sometimes he even waved back.

  As he opened his gate, he saw Luke walking stiffly down the alley toward the casino from his own house.

  “You all right?” Matt asked when Luke got closer. The tubby cat had followed Matt across the yard and now he rubbed his head on Matt’s jeans. Matt absently leaned down and scratched the animal’s ears before he realized what he was doing and straightened back up. The cat rumbled with pleasure.

  “Other than going all to hell, I’m fine.”

  “How’s the new miracle drug?” Matt fell in step with Luke.

  Luke grinned. “I’m going to try it out tonight. It’s called Budweiser.”

  A few minutes later, Matt opened the door of the casino and let the older man precede him in. A group of men trooped out at the same time, shoving and jostling one another, knocking the door out of Matt’s hand and Matt suddenly found himself eye-to-bloodshot-eye with Eddie Johnson.

  Eddie paused for only a second, his lip curling, but as he moved on, he bumped Matt with his shoulder, hard enough to make Matt take a step backward. Eddie gave a satisfied snort.

  Matt reined in the gut impulse to teach Eddie some manners, knowing there were other things to consider. Like legalities. A pack of nasty-looking friends. The FFD letter tucked away in his suitcase.

  He had a temper, but he wasn’t stupid.

  Matt shook his head and pulled the door open again, entering the dimly lit casino just as Luke was heading back out, a concerned frown on his face.

  “It’s fine,” Matt said as he let the door swing shut behind him. Luke shook his head and expressed his opinion of Eddie and his friends in one succinct plural noun. Matt grinned.

  They settled at the bar and Matt watched the action surrounding the pool tables while Luke ordered two Buds with an air of deep satisfaction.

  The twenty-to-thirty-something crowd was there, laughing and drinking, doing all of the things that a twenty-to-thirty-something crowd was supposed to be doing. Front and center was Ryan Somers, shooting a pretty good game of pool and flashing a smile that would have made Tom Cruise proud. Just watching him made Matt’s blood pressure rise. His mouth tightened as he realized that if this had been the first time he’d seen Ryan, he would have read him wrong. And he was good at reading people. He didn’t think Ryan would have fooled him for long, but now he understood how cautious Tara might have fallen for him. The guy was a hell of an actor.

  “Well, well,” Luke muttered, turning to see who Matt was frowning at, “if it isn’t golden boy.”

  “Don’t think much of him?” Matt asked with interest.

  “He’s two-faced,” Luke said as he turned back around in the booth.

  Matt raised his beer to his lips and drank. “He seems to have a lot of friends.”

  “He’s good at being two-faced. I arrested him once while I was working weekend auxiliary here for the sheriff’s. Nothing too serious, but he was one snotty, petulant kid after he couldn’t charm his way out of the situation. Downright ugly when crossed. Daddy rescued him, though, so he never learned a damned thing. You know the story.”

  Oh, yeah. Matt nodded. He knew the story. Knew it well.

  “I think he’s been bothering Tara lately.”

  “How?”

  “He was at her place a few days ago. Tara wasn’t happy about it. Since then I’ve seen him drive by a time or two.”

  Luke thought for a moment and then shook his head. “My read on this kid is that he’s a petulant bastard, but he’s not dangerous. I don’t think he has a lot of follow-through.”

  “You sure?”

  “Not one hundred percent, but he spends more than he makes and if he wants Daddy to keep giving him extra cash, he has to keep up the public image. Daddy wouldn’t like him to do anything that would hurt the Somers name. Neither would his betrothed.”

  “He’s engaged?”

  “Oh, yeah, just recently and to quite a catch. She’ll inherit the biggest land company in the valley someday. She’s usually here with him. She must be busy with reunion stuff.”

  Another group, wearing matching fluorescent orange shirts, headed for the tables.

  “Is there a pool tournament or something tonight?” Matt asked.

  “Yeah, I think so. Jack keeps trying things to get a Monday night crowd in here. I think this is tag-team pool or something. This is one of his saner ideas.”

  “What else has he tried?” Matt asked as Ginny slid two more beers across the counter, compliments of Jack. The older man picked up his bottle, saluting Jack before he looked Matt in the eye.

  “Trust me, son, you’re better off not knowing.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  USUALLY WHILE TARA worked, she was figuring strategies to finance Nicky’s education and pay off her loan, but today she found herself wondering just what was eating at Matt.

  They worked on the second floor for most of the day, Tara painting first the bathrooms and then the long hallway while Matt reinstalled the stripped and refinished molding, and wired the antique-looking light fixtures that had just arrived.

  He moved from room to room, brushing past her in the narrow hall, focused as ever on his work, except today he was almost too focused on
his work. At one point she had stepped backward, inadvertently treading on his foot as he went by and he’d caught her by the waist in a sturdy grip, sending sparks of awareness through her body before he released her and continued on to the end bedroom to finish the wiring there.

  Matt installed all of the fixtures at about the same time Tara started her second and final coat on the hall. He paused to survey her handiwork.

  “Got another roller?” he asked after taking a look at the long stretch of wall ahead of her.

  “Yes.” She pushed loose strands of hair off her forehead with the back of her hand and then she saw a hint of amusement light Matt’s eyes for the first time all day.

  “Let me guess,” Tara said. “I have paint on my face.”

  “A little,” Matt replied, tilting his head and studying her.

  Tara refused to give in to the impulse to check her reflection in one of the bathroom mirrors. “Yes, I have extra rollers. They’re down in the mudroom, next to the paint.”

  Matt was back a few minutes later with a roller and tray and an extra gallon of paint. Tara kept working, oh-so-aware of him as he opened the top of the gallon can and slowly stirred the contents.

  He started painting on the wall opposite her, moving down the long passageway, rolling paint at approximately the same speed as she was. They continued to paint, back to back, with rock music playing softly in the background. At times they bumped up against each other in the narrow space, but neither of them broke the silence.

  They hit the end of their respective walls at the same time and stood side by side, rollers in hand, facing the last six-foot panel that ended the hall and connected the freshly painted surfaces.

  “If you want—” they started at the same time and then Matt looked down at her and smiled. Finally.

  “We’ll do it together,” Tara said, impulsively slopping a line roughly down the center with the end of her roller. “Race you.”

  And then she dipped her roller and began to paint her side with short, swift strokes. “Loser cooks,” she said, dipping the roller again.

  Matt frowned at her as if she were a nut, and then took the challenge.