by Freya Barker
I’m just scouring the closet for clean linens for the bed, when my phone rings.
“Hey, girl,” I answer, seeing Sophie’s name pop up on my screen.
“Hey back. S-so are you ready for us?”
“Getting there. I was just looking for sheets to put on the bed.”
Sophie snickers. “You m-mean you were able to find them under all those boxes?”
“Hush up. I’ll have you know every last one of them is unpacked.”
“Progress,” she teases, knowing me all too well. “Have you m-met any new people yet?”
I shake off the mental picture of teasing hazel eyes in a striking face, before answering. “A few. Mostly through work, though. I did go out for dinner last night.” I don’t tell her that I’d been so rattled by a handsome cop; I completely forgot to pay my bill. Nor that when I returned half an hour later to settle my bill—completely mortified at the discovery—apparently said cop had settled up the tab for me. How fucking embarrassing.
“On a date?”
“No, by myself. Pub grub. It’s a cool place, actually. Apparently a hangout for local first responders. Roman will get a kick out of it. I’ll take you guys there, they’ve got decent food and they have Guinness on tap.”
“S-sounds good to me, although I’ll take a pass on the Guinness, that’s m-more your s-speed.”
Ever since I’ve known Sophie, she’s stuttered, but she’s grown more confident over the years, and—although I hate to admit such a thing—having Roman in her life has brought her out even more. I doubt she even notices her stutter herself these days. “No worries, I’m sure your man is willing to toss a few back with me.”
“His arm won’t need twisting,” she confirms with a chuckle. “Anyway, reason I’m calling is to give you a heads-up that we’ll be on the road tomorrow morning. We’re aiming to s-stop in Roswell for the night. Roman wants to get his geek on and have a look around. Then the plan is to get to S-Shiprock the next day, m-maybe s-stay a night there or in Farmington, and we s-should hit Durango s-sometime on Wednesday, if that’s s-still okay.”
“Of course! Can’t wait, girl.” I grin ear to ear.
They’re planning to stay until Saturday. I’ve already cleared my afternoons for the second half of this coming week. That way I can get some work done in the mornings while they do their own thing, and have the rest of the day to do fun stuff.
I’ve been so busy, I haven’t had much of an opportunity to explore Durango myself. I’m looking forward to that.
“No luck?”
Jen, one of the nurses on the burn unit, stops me as I pass by the nurses’ station. She’s the one who’d left a message this morning, alerting me to a possible new candidate for the program. The patient had been in a fire over the weekend and had sustained burns to thirty percent of his body. He’s scheduled for his first skin graft surgery this afternoon.
“Not a good match, I’m afraid. Not with his history of substance abuse. I’m sorry.”
“I was afraid of that,” Jen admits. “I had to try, though. I feel for the guy.”
“Of course,” I quickly respond. “And I appreciate it. I wish I had the freedom to accept everyone into this trial.” I don’t have to say more, she knows I’m not just talking about this patient, but the little girl down the hall. She’s remains in a medically induced coma and continues to fight for her life. “How is Missy?”
“Still hanging in. Hurts my heart to see those parents struggle to cling onto hope.”
It is sad. I’ve seen them a few times in passing since I’ve had to give them the bad news, but have given them their space. No matter how much I want to show my support, it doesn’t do them any service.
“I hear ya.” I smile at her sympathetically. “I best be heading back upstairs. Talk to you later.”
With a wave I head for the stairwell—the only kind of exercise I’m willing to engage in. Already focused on my next appointment, I’m not paying particular attention to my surroundings.
“Looking for Doug Boynton. I have a few questions.”
It’s not just the mention of the patient I just left, but the sound of the voice, that has me turn around.
Casually leaning against the counter at the nurses’ station is none other than the man from the pub. Keith. Fucking hell, if possible, he’s even more striking in daylight. I, on the other hand, am like freaking Cinderella. Daylight is not my friend. Every freckle, frown line, wrinkle, and blemish stands out like a beacon on my face, screaming ‘well past expiration date.’
To avoid him seeing me, I quickly swing around and reach for the stairwell door, but his voice stops me.
“Running?”
Keith
I noticed that mop of red hair right away, even tied back in a stern ponytail looking like it might hurt. Instead of calling out, I turn to the desk and ask for the patient I’m here to see. I’m very aware when she spots me, and then promptly turns her back.
Against better judgment, I call after her. “Running?”
That does the trick. Funny, somehow I knew challenging her would have a better chance of succeeding than simply calling her name. She not only stops in her tracks, but also swings around and marches right up to me, shoulders back, head high. Oh yeah, she does not like being accused of cowardice.
“Keith? Was it?” she snaps, forced to look up at me at such close proximity. She doesn’t fool me, she remembers, as well as I recall those big green eyes behind the red-rimmed glasses and the abundance of freckles covering her face and upper chest. I want to bet they don’t just stop there. “Can I help you?”
“You work here,” I state the obvious. I hadn’t really pegged her for a doctor, but I could be wrong. She’s dressed better, albeit moderately so, in a plain white dress shirt, gray slacks, and a pair of flats. Barely noticing the presence of the nurse I’d been talking to, I focus on those eyes, betraying she’d at least spent a passing thought on me these past couple of days, regardless of what comes out of her mouth.
“I do. Therefore there is nothing for me to run from.” She layers on the bluster. Liar.
“Good to know.” Too bad I don’t have the time right now to challenge her. I get the sense I might enjoy chipping away at that tough, confrontational exterior.
She visibly bristles at my grin before grinding out, “Did you come to collect? I believe I owe you a dinner.”
“Actually…” I turn a raised eyebrow to the nurse, who is obviously following the interaction with intense curiosity.
“Yes, of course. Right,” she mumbles. “Mr. Boynton is in room three twenty-four. Second on your right.”
Looking back at the prickly redhead, I tip an imaginary hat. “I’m afraid I’ll have to take you up on that invitation to dinner some other time…duty calls. Good seeing you again, Autumn.” Her barely suppressed snort, and the dramatic roll of her eyes, has me chuckle all the way to the unfortunate Mr. Boynton’s room. I’ll be collecting on that dinner at some point, I now know where to find her.
I’m eager to get some answers from Doug Boynton. Yesterday the fire inspector confirmed arson, which makes it my case. It’s on the board as Ramirez’s—since I’m not technically on the rotation anymore—but as I mentioned to Tony, I need to get my teeth into something or I’ll go fucking insane. Crime analysis was sent in as soon as we found out fire inspection was done with the scene, and a preliminary report was on our desks this morning.
By the time I was done questioning the victim, I was convinced he didn’t set the fire. I was also convinced someone had targeted the man specifically. Doug mentioned he’d come home to find a bottle of Jack on the trailer step. An alcoholic, among other things, he didn’t question too closely where his poison of choice came from. He can remember drinking that afternoon, but little else.
The moment I walk out of the hospital, I call Ramirez.
“Was a bottle of Jack found at the scene?”
“Daniels? Let me check the report. I’m pretty sure there was menti
on of bottles, but I don’t know if they were specified. Hang on.”
I find my Tahoe and climb behind the wheel while I wait for Tony to dig up the information. “Any time now.”
“Hold your horses, Blackfoot. There’s an itemized list that was just added to the report. They found thirty-nine liquor bottles: thirty-eight empties, and one with some residue.”
“Tell me that’s the Jack Daniels.”
“Sure is. What’s the significance?”
“Our alcoholic vic found a surprise bottle on his doorstep the afternoon of the fire,” I enlighten him.
“The Jack.”
“You’ve got it.”
“You’re thinking the arsonist dropped off a present,” Tony clues in right away.
“Bingo.”
“And I take it you want it analyzed—stat?”
“A gold star for the grasshopper.”
“Kiss my ass, Blackfoot.”
“I’ll take a pass, Ramirez.”
I’m still grinning when I hang up the phone. Feels fucking great to be using my mind for something other than administrative and procedural shit.
Autumn
With a frustrated expletive, I toss my purse on the couch, sending my poor cats scattering.
I have not been able to concentrate on a damn thing since that embarrassing encounter this morning. What annoys me most is once again he had me flustered, and I don’t fucking fluster for anyone. It didn’t stop me from checking out his ass in those well-worn jeans as he sauntered down the hall, though.
Then Jen’s questions started, which I tried to evade, but she was persistent and I ended up walking away without a word. Guess I didn’t make any friends there either. Serves me right for striking up a conversation with a stranger in a goddamn bar.
I offer the cats an apology by way of scratches and dinner and scrounge through the fridge for my own. Not that I feel like cooking, with my luck I’d start a fire.
Grilled cheese it is. Works well with the massive glass of wine I poured.
I’m just licking the crumbs from my fingers when a ping on my phone announces an incoming text. Probably Sophie letting me know they’ve arrived in Roswell.
It’s not.
It’s him.
Unknown number: I like your gorgeous hair better loose.
Before I have a chance to check myself, I’ve fired off a text of my own.
Me: I’m cutting it off tomorrow.
Chapter 4
Autumn
“You stood me up.”
It was easy to spot Evan, with Durango Fire Department printing on the back of his navy T-shirt and the short-cropped russet hair.
I stopped in to pick up a few last minute things on my way home. Sophie texted me this morning that they expected to hit Durango late afternoon, giving me a couple of hours to put a decent meal together. I was just about to grab fixings for salad when I see him picking through avocados in the produce section. He swings around at the sound of my voice.
“I did?” He looks genuinely surprised.
“Last Saturday night,” I explain, “I got all dolled up…” That’s a lie. “…Little black dress, makeup, killer heels—ready for a night on the town—but guess who didn’t show? Bullshit play, dude.”
His mouth starts working, but no sound comes out. “I was…I thought…shit.” I suppress a chuckle, but he catches it and his eyes narrow. “You’re pulling my leg.”
“Mostly,” I confess, grinning. “I did show up at The Irish. Ended up having dinner alone and tried to make nice with one Durango’s finest.” He picks up on the sarcasm too, lifting an eyebrow in question.
“Call came in right at shift change. Was well into the night before I got home,” he explains. “I’m going on call again, but maybe we can try for tomorrow night? I wasn’t lying, I usually do drop in for a few beers at the end of my shift.”
“No can do. I’ve got friends arriving from out of town today. They’re staying until the weekend.”
“We’ll have to do it next week then. Maybe you should give me your number, so I can get in touch with you.”
He holds out his phone and it takes me a minute to take it from him. I don’t want to create expectations. “Just friends, right?”
“Promise.” He lifts his hand in a Boy Scout salute. “You look too much like my sister.”
“Shut up.” I punch him for good measure, but I have to admit I’m relieved and put my number in his contacts. “And don’t bail on me, you’ll kill my self-esteem. Turns out I’m not that good at making new friends.”
His eyes narrow at my reference to my first pub experience. “Durango’s finest, huh? Who’d you try to make nice with?”
I shrug. “Dark moody guy, name of Keith. You know him?”
“Blackfoot?”
“I wouldn’t know, he never said. Are there more guys named Keith on the force?”
“Nope, just the chief.”
“That’s hardly a creative nickname,” I point out. “Just because he’s Native American.”
“Not a nickname,” Evan says, smiling. “He’s the chief. Chief of Police.”
“Get the fuck out the door—him?” There’s no way I can reconcile that sexy voice and fine ass in faded jeans with my mental image of what a Chief of Police should look like. A cop, yes, I could see that—one who’d probably like to push boundaries—but chief?
“Relax, it’s only temporary. Not a position he exactly chose to be in.” He tilts his head, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “But now I’m curious, you say you tried to make nice?”
“It was nothing,” I try to evade, waving my hand, but Evan isn’t going to make it that easy.
“Oh, I bet it wasn’t nothing,” he teases, nudging my shoulder with his. “Knowing Blackfoot, and what little I’ve seen of you, guaranteed there would’ve been some kind of fireworks.”
I’m still thinking about his words when I pile my groceries in the car. Not sure what Evan was implying, but I can’t deny even thinking about Keith Blackfoot causes my blood pressure to rise.
When I walk into the house, I pick up the few flyers shoved through the mail slot, drop them along with my groceries on the counter, and quickly change out of my work garb into something more comfortable.
My original plan had been to cook a big piece of meat, but Evan changed my mind. He’d been picking up supplies for the firehouse and mentioned he was doing tacos tonight. I’m not a big fan of tacos, just because they’re so damn messy. I do, however, have an awesome taco pie recipe somewhere that can be prepped beforehand and then just tossed in the oven for half an hour before dinner.
Twenty minutes later, I have chicken breasts and thighs simmering in a mix of stock, lime juice, palm sugar, cumin, and a few chopped jalapeño peppers. That’ll sit for a couple of hours until I can pull the chicken apart. I check the recipe sitting on my counter, when I spot the corner of an envelope sticking out from between a couple of flyers.
I hardly get mail here. The only things coming through that slot with any regularity are the wasteful amounts of flyers from local stores, restaurants, and car repair places. I don’t even look at them.
It’s a plain white envelope with my name on it. No address, no sender. Just my name handwritten in print. Curious, I slip my finger under the flap and tear it open. The note inside looks to be torn from a notebook.
ENJOY!
Only the single word is written on it. I flip over the note, check the envelope, but there’s nothing else. Maybe just some weird advertising gimmick I don’t get. I toss it aside, and turn back to my taco pie recipe.
Close to five, the doorbell rings. The house is clean—and smells amazing, if I say so myself—the table is set, I just need to toss the flyers in the blue box. That’s when I notice the note again. On a whim I shove note and envelope in the kitchen drawer, before jogging to the front door.
“You’re here!”
Gorgeous Sophie with her shiny blonde hair is a perfect contrast to her dark an
d ridiculously handsome boyfriend. I barely get a chance to open the door all the way before she pulls me into a tight hug. With at least a few inches on me, I have to lift my chin not to get smooshed against her shoulder, but I can just roll my eyes at the man behind her. I’m not usually one for public displays of affection, but I willingly let Sophie have a moment. Roman shakes his head, grinning, as I try to dislodge from her hold.
“It’s s-so good to s-see you!”
I step aside and urge her inside. “You too, girl. Get in here.”
“Nice place,” Roman mutters as he steps through the door, giving me a brief one-armed side hug in passing. “Smells great too.”
“That’s because it’s food,” Sophie points out before turning to me. “I s-swear, fancy lingerie and fine perfume is wasted on the m-man, but wear a ratty old s-shirt cooking bacon, and next thing I know he’s having m-me for breakfast.”
The man in question doesn’t seem in the least insulted, and is already lifting the foil off my taco pie.
“Don’t touch,” I warn, slapping his hand. “And don’t even think about eating anything other than pancakes in my kitchen for breakfast.”
“So how are you liking Durango?” Roman asks after dinner.
“Love the hospital. State-of-the-art facility and the staff is top-notch. I really enjoy working there, but I miss my girls.”
“Awww, we m-miss you too.” Sophie leans over and squeezes my hand. “We were out for girls’ night last week and Tory pointed out drinking just isn’t as m-much fun without you there. We all agree.”