by Gorman, A.
Pouring two fingers of scotch, he held the glass to Abby’s lips, and like an obedient child, she followed his spoken directions and drank. She coughed, her body jerking from the burn. Hopefully the hard liquor would absorb the shock and ease the tension the hot shower hadn’t.
After tending to her cut, dabbing antiseptic ointment on the wound, he covered it with a butterfly bandage. All the while, he continued to explain what he was doing. He hoisted her into his arms and carried her into his bedroom, the only room which had a bed, and laid her gently on the mattress, where she immediately drew her knees up to her stomach. Quiet sounds of distress escaped her lips.
She looked so desolate. Her body shuddered, sending a sharp poker straight through his heart.
At a loss for what to do, he stripped out of his damp shirt and jeans, remaining in his boxers, and climbed in beside her, curling his large frame around hers protectively, and gave her what little comfort he could. All the while, a million and one questions darted about his head.
The most insistent: Had she really killed old Hank?
Chapter 2
Jarrod woke to the scent of an apple pie, antiseptic, and a loud banging on his front door. He shifted, and a body rolled into him—a female body. The previous night came rushing back, and he was awake quicker than ever. Abby. Blood. Abby’s confession.
He glanced at the woman in question, a frown marring her brow even in sleep, her pink lips parted, and her breathing soft and even.
Dark eyelashes rested against honey-toned skin, speckled with the odd freckle or two.
He really hoped she hadn’t killed the old bugger. He could fix her car, take her to the prom, and distract her from her ass of a stepfather, but he couldn’t save her from whatever came next if she’d taken a life.
Cursing himself, he dressed quickly in clothes he found on the floor and headed to the door. He could’ve prevented this. If only he’d stood up to Hank and told him to leave her alone. He shuddered thinking about what the bastard had done. For Abby to defend herself—and there was no doubt in his mind that that’s what she’d done—Hank had to have done something extremely horrible where she’d had to fight for her life.
Bile rose. He’d failed his best friend. He knew what type of man her stepfather was, and he’d done nothing to encourage her to leave.
He opened the door as Harley rose his fist to knock again. He studied the other man’s face, the harsh lines and morning stubble. He looked like he’d been up all night and no doubt had been.
A cold fist curled inside his belly. That didn’t bode well for Abby…or Hank.
“Come on in, Harley. I’ll make some coffee.”
“Appreciated.”
Harley stepped inside. Only ten years older than Jarrod, he maintained his health and fitness on his own farm west of town, the small community not requiring a full-time cop.
Hitting the button on the kettle, he fumbled around with the mugs and prepared the coffee while he tried to sort himself out. Abby needed him, and he needed to be thinking clearly.
Harley didn’t give him time to prepare. “I need to talk to Abby.”
The protective surge zapped to life. “She’s sleeping.”
“No, I’m not.”
He glanced toward the doorway that led from the kitchen to the hall and further on to the bedrooms at the back of the house. Abby stood nervously, her teeth worrying her lower lip. Her eyes were darkened by shadows. She still wore his shirt, having nothing to change into, her long legs spilling out from beneath the hem and her auburn hair a tangle of knots. Her arms hugged her body.
“How are you, Abby?”
Her gaze moved from Harley’s to his before drifting back. The fear in her hazel eyes left him feeling shattered. He crossed to her and placed a supporting hand on her shoulder, giving her a quick squeeze. She smiled gratefully, and together they approached Harley.
She wet her lips. “I’m fine, Harley.”
Jarrod pulled out a chair and maneuvered her into it before turning back and finishing the coffees, taking down another mug from the cabinet for Abby.
When he was done, he placed them down on the table and took a seat beside her.
“Can you tell me what happened last night, Abby?”
Harley, he noted, spoke softly, like he was dealing with a skittish mare, and he was thankful the man had waited until he joined them to begin his questioning.
Abby needed people on her side. People who gave a crap. He sensed it was about to get a lot worse before it got better.
She swallowed. “I don’t remember much. Just coming home from work. I barely made it inside before Hank went off about how messy the house was. It wasn’t, though. But he’d been like that all week.”
“Like what?”
“Spoiling for a fight. I’m careful about not giving him any ammunition. But lately he’d been drinking more and yelling for no reason.”
Jarrod snorted. Like Hank needed a reason. He was simply a bitter old man who liked terrorizing the one person who ever cared about him. God knew why. Abby was just the type of person to care about everyone and probably too afraid to leave him unattended lest he drink himself to death.
Harley shot him a quelling look. He nodded his head in answer. He would try not to make any further comments.
“So he was yelling at you?”
“At me. At the world. Who knows? I shouldn’t have, but I sassed him. Told him to go to hell. That’s when he threw his beer bottle at me. Hit me in the head.”
She raised her hand and touched her forehead, pulling back in surprise when her fingertips grazed the bandage. The area around had inflamed, but not alarmingly so, and held a purple tinge.
He pushed back his anger. He’d not known Hank to be a violent drunk…though he knew he could tear anyone to shreds with his words. He’d been the perfect emotional abuser.
“That’s when it all goes blurry.”
His hand curled around his mug so tight that the porcelain burned his palm and he thought it might break.
A soft hand covered his, and he glanced down. Anger and humiliation warred. He should be the one comforting her, not the other way around. He wasn’t the one who had been injured by a man who should by all rights protect and love her.
Letting go of the mug, he turned his hand and held hers in a show of solidarity. He was on her side, now, forever, and always.
She seemed to gather strength from his small action and continued, “When I woke, it was dark and cold, and there was a horrid smell. I stumbled…found the light switch…”
Her breathing changed, became erratic. He shifted closer and wrapped an arm around her shoulder.
“It’s okay, Abby. Take your time.”
Her face sought cover in his neck, her breath fanning on his skin before the Abby he knew turned back to Harley, back straight, gaze steady. That was his girl. Nothing kept her down long.
“Hank was on the floor. Blood everywhere. I tried to help him. Do CPR. His eyes…what did I do to him?”
So he was dead. He’d been hoping differently. If only to save her the pain. Her distress washed over him in waves. Tidal waves. Endless in their flow, pulling him under until his lungs burned for fear of drowning.
Jarrod forced his brain past the emotions burying him. He needed to think clearly, rationally. He cleared his throat.
“Without an attorney, you can’t use that.”
Harley’s impassive gaze found his. “He was shot, Abby. Did Hank own a gun?”
“Yes.”
She nodded, unaware she was digging her own grave. He squeezed her shoulder hard, and she yelped.
“No more questions.” His voice was a sharp whip.
Abby shook her head. “No. I want to know. He kept a gun in the corner. I touched it once. Hank caught me. I was eleven. He almost broke my wrist. I never touched it again.”
She’d never told him that. Now it made him wonder what else his best friend hadn’t told him. Had last night been the first time Hank had bee
n physically violent, or had she covered for the old man, knowing he wouldn’t have tolerated Hank laying a finger on her? The bastard may have been able to push around a girl much smaller than him, but Jarrod had been his height and weighed forty pounds more at fifteen. Plus, he had the added advantage of not having a liquid diet.
“No, he usually expressed his anger in words.”
Jarrod tuned back to hear Abby’s reply. Harley, too, appeared to be interested in that morsel. The cop surveyed her arms, his gaze running over her exposed skin. A prickle of unease had his muscles tightening. Not in a protective way, but something else.
His breathing returned to normal as Harley stood.
“Am I under arrest? Do you have to take me in?”
He focused his attention on Abby. Her voice broke again. She looked so fragile. He rubbed a thread of hair at the nape of her neck between his thumb and forefinger. Soft like silk. He also knew from memory the color burned like a wildfire in the sunshine.
“We’re not sure what happened last night. We’ll continue to investigate until we have all the answers. Until then, I advise you not to leave town. You’ll also be unable to return home until the residence has been released. For now, it’ll remain a crime scene.”
Abby paled.
He wasn’t sure what to do to help her. Except…“She’ll be here.”
Her bottom lip took a beating. “I promise.”
Harley nodded. “I’m really sorry, Abby, for your loss. Hank was a difficult man, but I know you cared about him. Whatever the investigation uncovers, I’ll remember that.”
The door slammed after Officer Lowe. The severity of the situation hit Abby hard, leaving her almost unable to breathe. She had awoken when Jarrod rolled from the bed, his familiarity easing some of the confusion she’d been swamped in. She’d wanted to hide beneath the covers, the bedsheets still holding his heat. But more importantly, she wanted to know what happened to Hank. She swallowed against the tightness in her throat. And if she’d had anything to do with it like she suspected.
Hank was dead. What would she do now? She might not have a choice in the matter.
Panic collected in her belly, and with each passing second, the intensity of it grew until she was almost swallowed by the tsunami of coppery fear.
Had she killed Hank? Today, she couldn’t believe it, but last night she’d been adamant. She remembered that much, walking through the cold night, the wind howling about her ears and her voice persistent inside her head, words on repeat. I killed him.
The scrape of a chair against the floorboards had her jumping. She’d forgotten Jarrod sitting beside her.
“No more talking to Harley without a lawyer. Am I understood?”
The warning was clear in his voice.
Frowning, she stared up at him. “You think I killed him.”
That hurt. He was her oldest friend. Over twenty-five years and he didn’t know her at all. Why she was upset she couldn’t say. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t questioned herself. But hearing it from his mouth felt like a betrayal.
It didn’t make sense, yet nothing of the past twenty-four hours did.
A headache pounded. She rubbed her temple.
“What I think, honey, is that if you did kill Hank, there was a damn good reason. That you were protecting yourself.”
If you did. Her heartache eased. If there was a time she needed him on her side, it was now.
His dark gaze held her captive. “Why didn’t you tell me it had gotten worse?”
She inspected her nails. “Because I knew what you’d say.”
“I’d have told you to leave him to rot.”
He handed her two aspirins and a glass of water. She choked them down and drank the last of the water before placing the glass in the sink.
“Exactly. I couldn’t do that.”
“He didn’t deserve your loyalty.”
A swipe against her cheek wiped the errant tear away. “I know.”
She couldn’t explain why she stayed. Except that in a way she loved him. He was an old cantankerous prick, but he was also the only father she’d known, her own leaving well before she’d been born.
That and she knew he’d have ended up in a bad way if she’d left. Not that she’d prevented that.
“He’s not worth your tears.”
Abby swallowed with difficulty. “I know. Thank you for being there for me. For taking care of me.”
A sudden memory appeared. A flash, nothing more. His hands on her naked flesh. Her cheeks heated at what he may have seen. She tried to be adult about it, that he was concerned, not ogling her body. Not that she should care. Her body wasn’t too bad, maybe a little too curvy, having been a bit liberal with the bacon and fried chips, but thankfully working at the roadhouse, on her feet all day, kept most of the calories from her hips and ass.
He wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly. She melted against him.
“You’re welcome, Abs. I’m glad you came to me.”
She hadn’t been conscious of where she’d been going last night. It appeared she’d headed toward him on autopilot, knowing she would find a safe haven.
Chapter 3
Abby blinked at the sudden light as she stepped outside. Adjusting the wide-brimmed hat she’d found on the peg beside the back door, she glanced around the yard, searching for Jarrod.
The stinging bite from the sun penetrated her cotton shirt. Heat rose from the ground, the air hot and suffocating, providing no relief.
She tugged at her waistband, the old denim unapologetic.
“Hey, handsome. Where’s Jarrod?”
Thunder, a purebred with glossy cocoa fur, trotted toward her as she neared the corral where he’d been placed for exercise.
He was a handsome beast, much like his owner. And like his owner, when it came to her, he didn’t have many boundaries. He sniffed at her pockets, much as a police officer would pat down a suspect. Thunder’s ears flickered when he didn’t find what he was looking for.
She gave him a pat, his short fur soft against her palm.
“Sorry, Thun. I don’t have an apple for you today.”
The stallion snorted and shook his head at her, admonishing her for the oversight.
A smile stretched her lips as she rubbed her hand down his nose. “I promise I’ll make it up to you.”
“Stop spoiling my horse.” Jarrod appeared from behind the barn, the muscles of his back playing beneath the tight confines of his shirt as he shifted the hay bales he carried into the bed of his truck. Her gaze lingered, sweeping over the rest of his deliciousness. Toned thighs, wide shoulders, hard chest, chiseled jaw with a couple days’ growth, and sun-kissed skin glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. His dark hair, currently shielded by a Stetson, was cropped short, and his chocolate eyes reflected concern and friendship, which set her heart pounding.
Abby had trouble finding her voice. “Jealous? I’ll bring you an apple too, if you’d like. Now, what can I do to help?”
She tugged on her shirt, barely breathing in it and the old pair of jeans she wore, leftovers from a sleepover a decade ago she guessed by the tightness of fabric around her bust and hips.
“Wouldn’t want you to get dirty before work.”
Her gaze skittered away. “They told me to take the day off.”
“They’re probably just being considerate. Don’t read anything into it.”
He knew her too well. She had been thinking they wanted to distance themselves from a potential murderer. Even she questioned herself.
Still, it stung.
She’d already cleaned up from breakfast, and Jarrod wasn’t like Hank; there’d been no mess to tidy. Now she had too much time on her hands.
“I guess.”
Even to her own ears, she didn’t sound convinced.
“Well, I could use some help checking the back paddock. Had a few fences down of late.”
Nodding eagerly, Abby trailed behind him as he retrieved Thunder from the corral. She fl
ushed as he vaulted into the saddle of his stallion, his muscles rippling. He held out his hand. As they’d done time and time before, she took his offer, placing her foot on top of his in the stirrups and allowing herself to be hoisted behind him. Using one hand around his waist as an anchor, she settled in as the horse began a slow trot.
Abby shuddered at the feeling of his strong thighs pressed against hers, his muscles flexing as he directed the horse. The moisture in her mouth dried.
Inhaling man, spice, sweat, and horse, she widened her senses to encompass the scent of earth, livestock, and the lavender Jarrod’s mother had planted around the house many years before retiring out west.
Closing her eyes, she tilted her chin toward the sky, her face heating beneath the sun’s hot rays. A warm breeze tickled at the curls framing her face that were too short to fit in her ponytail.
She loved this town, the people, and the life she’d built, little though it was.
She knew nothing else. Born and bred here, she’d die here too, but where would she be? In a prison cell?
All her good feelings left with a whoosh, and uncertainty filled her, knotting her belly.
“Abby.” The warning growl in his voice said he’d felt the bleakness of her thoughts and the tension ratcheting up her body.
Shaking her head to clear her morose thoughts, she sat up straighter, her fingers clutching at Jarrod’s stomach when she almost lost her seat. He caught her leg with his hand as though that alone would keep her astride the horse.
Her heart leaped into her throat, and her eyes slammed shut at the feeling of his hand, the heat seeping through the denim. A tell-tale throb began, as though directly linked to his touch, impersonal as it were. She squirmed, his large body between her legs blocking her from squeezing her thighs together to find relief. She stared at his back and focused on breathing and not on the man she’d known practically all her life and now suddenly saw him as the last ice cream bar in the supermarket during a heatwave.
When they arrived at the far west edge of the property, Jarrod slowed the horse, then deftly slid from the saddle and reached to help her down with strong, capable hands to her waist. He planted her safely on the even ground.