The Strong, Silent Type

by Jule McBride

  Sheriff Sawyer thrust a stubby-fingered hand through his thick silver hair. “Dammit, Alice. As an old family friend, I’m giving you one last chance to talk. I still want to know why you called him Dylan last night.”

  “And I want to know why you put him in that interrogation room,” she retorted. “Need I remind you he’s here of his own volition? Which means, at the very least, he should be in your private office, comfortably drinking a cup of hot coffee.”

  Sheriff Sawyer rolled his eyes. “Gee,” he returned dryly. “Maybe he’d like to sample some of our jelly-filled doughnuts, too.”

  “The offer would have been hospitable.”

  The sheriffs eyes narrowed. “One more time, Alice. Are you going to tell me why you called that man Dylan?”

  “I’ve told you. I don’t know why. Maybe wishful thinking.”

  The sheriff was scrutinizing her. Obviously he knew there was more to it. “Like I said, this is your last chance.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “What are you going to do? Arrest me?”

  “You’d better believe it,” he returned. “If I find out you’re withholding information, it’ll be the least I do.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “You should be, girl.”

  Suddenly she swallowed hard. Oh, she didn’t much like Sheriff Sawyer, not after the way he’d handled the investigation into Jan’s murder. But maybe he was right. She shoved her hands in the pockets of her camel blazer. The locket was still there, next to her folded paycheck, its metal surface feeling as smooth and cold as the paper envelope. She felt a warning tremor in her throat. “Please,” she managed to say levelly. “I’ve said everything I intend to. Now, can we just get this over with?”

  “Your pleasure. You can wait for him in the lobby.”

  Her lips parted in astonishment “No way.” She jerked her head toward Dylan. “I’m going to be in that room, watching your every move.”

  “Whatever.” Without another word, Sheriff Sawyer headed for the door. “Just don’t say I didn’t give you a last chance to come clean with me.”

  She followed the sheriff into the corridor. “He doesn’t need to talk to you,” Alice reminded again.

  As the sheriff opened the door to the interrogation room, he said, “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  Alice crossed her arms and leaned against the ugly pale pink wall while the sheriff seated himself across from Dylan at the metal table. Hazarding a glance toward the two-way mirror, Alice thought she saw a shadow. So much for civil rights in Rock Canyon. No doubt Leland was in there, watching.

  Lord, let’s just get this over with. Alice sighed. She was starting to feel downright tired from worry and fear. While she was too afraid to keep pushing Dylan, she wasn’t scared enough to confide in the sheriff. Besides, what could she really say? That she’d recognized Dylan’s eyes?

  You could show “Sheriff Sawyer the locket.

  The sheriff’s voice drew her from her thoughts. He said, “What is it you want?”

  Raising a dark eyebrow, Dylan surveyed the sheriff. He didn’t fidget, the way most men probably would under such careful scrutiny. Leaning slightly forward, he rested his forearms on the table. “Want?”

  “Yeah,” the sheriff clarified. “Here, in Rock Canyon.”

  “To pass through peaceably,” Dylan returned. “Like I said, I was down in Cheyenne, and I heard there might be work around these parts.”

  “Is that right, Mr. Williams? You were down in Cheyenne, huh?”

  Dylan nodded. “Sure was, sir.”

  “Then how do you explain this?” From his vest pocket, the sheriff pulled a small, transparent bag tagged with a neon green evidence sticker. Alice recognized the type of sticker, it was the same kind the police used when they removed items from bodies in the ER. She squinted. Inside the bag was a ticket.

  “According to this—” Sheriff Sawyer tossed the bag onto the gray metal table “—you just came from L.A. The ticket was with your bag in the motel room”

  “Then you had no right to take it!” Alice said.

  The sheriff glared at her. Dylan remained utterly still.

  “That’s illegal search and seizure!” Alice had no idea if that was true—she was hardly a lawyer—but it sure seemed as if the sheriff had overstepped his bounds. Of course, he’d probably cover his tracks so he wouldn’t get in trouble.

  The sheriff was piercing Dylan with another hard stare, which Dylan met dead-on. “Like I said, Alice,” the sheriff continued, still looking at Dylan, “I’m within my rights. I know what I’m doing.”

  “Enough to cover yourself,” she muttered.

  “Enough of your mouth,” warned the sheriff. She glanced at Dylan, who remained expressionless, and she was about to respond, when a sudden knock sounded—three quick raps on the door.

  “What?” the sheriff shouted.

  The door swung open and Leland’s head popped in. He didn’t grace her or Dylan with so much as a glance. “Sheriff, you’re needed out here. Some stuff just came through that you’re gonna be real interested in seeing.”

  The sheriff glanced between her and Dylan. “Don’t either of you two move.”

  She gave a nod of acquiescence, which was more than Dylan offered as the sheriff left the room. She glanced at Dylan. He met her gaze, his eyes looking dark and thoughtful, but he said nothing. She was determined not to. Why, she didn’t know. Maybe out of sheer perversity. If he wanted to play the strong, silent type, fine. She could wait.

  It seemed forever before the sheriff reentered the room. When he did, he didn’t look good. In fact, he looked older, almost haggard, as if the few minutes away had aged him full years. Alice realized he probably hadn’t slept last night. Probably since having a stranger in town put his radar on alert. He’d been sure he’d found a lead to his daughter’s murderer. Now his dark eyes seemed to sag, the skin beneath them turning fleshy and slack. Lord, what kind of news had the man just received?

  “Nancy?” she couldn’t help saying.

  “She’s fine,” the sheriff said gruffly.

  “Thank God,” Alice said, pressing a hand to her heart. And yet she knew it was only a matter of time until Nancy identified Dylan. Surely, Nancy was wrong.

  Sheriff Sawyer reseated himself, then he cleared his throat. “Looks as if we’ve got some real interesting news.” He slid two sheets of fax paper across the table, and Alice stepped closer to get a better look. It was just as she feared. On the pages were fingerprints. She squinted. She’d assumed Dylan’s prints were still in the sheriff’s files, but this looked more official, like something downloaded from a national database.

  “Mr. Devlyn,” the sheriff said slowly, his hard, uncompromising eyes settling on Dylan. “I think you’d better start talking. And you might want to begin with what you’re really doing in Rock Canyon, Wyoming, carrying a fake ID. With your background, you sure as hell don’t need money or a job on a ranch.”

  For the first time, Dylan spoke. “Did I miss something here?”

  The sheriff’s voice was level. “I’d like to remind you that you’ve crossed state lines. We can make a federal case out of this, if we choose.”

  Devlyn? Edging nearer, Alice continued staring down at the fax. Sure enough, the fingerprints identified this man as someone named Stuart Devlyn!

  “Who?” Alice said shakily, her voice sounding strangled to her own ears. “Who did you say he was?”

  The sheriffs assessing eyes settled on her, and his lips twisted into a slight smile. “Maybe you’ll think twice next time,” he said coldly, “before you ask strangers into your home. Your mother’s worried sick. She called me this morning. And if your father were still alive, he’d tan your ever-lovin’ hide.”

  Her pulse was racing. She turned her eyes to Dylan. Or to the man she’d thought was Dylan, but whose’s real name was apparently Stuart Devlyn. He stared back. And that fool face—that devastatingly gorgeous fool face—was every bit as unreadable as it was moments before
. Feeling suddenly faint, Alice stepped back again, shrinking against the wall for support.

  But those eyes, she thought in panic. They’re Dy-lan’s eyes. I’d know them anywhere. I know I’m not wrong! What on earth was happening? She knew those beautiful brown eyes the way every woman knew the eyes of her lover. Countless times, she’d seen them spark with honey-gold fire. Or darken with passion, becoming black-streaked, like tiger’s-eye stones.

  Please, oh please, she thought, her knees weakening. She couldn’t have been wrong! She couldn’t have allowed a stranger into her home! Into my bed! Her throat constricted and fire flooded her cheeks. What could she say now? That she’d only brought this man home because she’d been sure he was Dylan in disguise?

  Nothing in the room was moving. Not her. Not Dylan. Not the sheriff.

  But suddenly, every inch of her was burning. She tried not to remember the things she’d let him do to her. How he’d ravished her half-clothed until she was hot and damp with sweat and wanting more.

  She tried to forget, but in her mind’s eye he was jerking down her hose and panties. With a pang, she felt his hard heat thrusting up—against her, in her. Shame coursed through her veins. She’d been so brazen, wrapping her legs around his back, urging him inside her.

  Now she felt sick. “Who?” she said hoarsely, the one word reverberating in her ears. Oh, please, she thought once more, her mind still unwilling to believe it. Tell me I didn’t make love to a stranger.

  “About time you took some interest in your gentleman caller,” the sheriff said dryly. “Restores my faith in the morals of today’s youth.”

  Damn the sheriff. He seemed to be enjoying himself now. And damn Stuart Devlyn, too. Whoever he was. She stared at him in shock, her eyes livid with accusation. There wasn’t a thing she could say in front of the sheriff. If she did, she’d be admitting she’d thought the man was Dylan. She wasn’t about to tell the sheriff that.

  But the man had known.

  And everything in her piercing stare called him on his deceit. She’d never have slept with him if she hadn’t mistaken him for her husband. He knew it, too. Countless times last night, she’d tried to get him to admit he was Dylan, and now she knew exactly why he hadn’t.

  Her voice shook. “You say his name’s Stuart Devlyn?”

  “Stuart Devlyn,” the sheriff repeated.

  Devlyn. She was still so stunned she couldn’t move, but the name tugged at her consciousness. In her stupor, she was only vaguely aware that she’d heard it recently. Where?

  Oh God! Images of the Lang Devlyn estate rushed into her mind, and she remembered this man’s intent expression as he’d watched reports of the musician’s murder. Stuart Devlyn? Lang Devlyn? Surely there was no relation!

  Oddly, the man who was apparently Stuart Devlyn looked just as stunned as she did. Very slowly, he lifted the two pages on the table and scrutinized them. “Where did you get these?” he asked.

  The voice moved through her, sounding so much like Dylan’s. But it was different, too. Deeper and richer. It was as if the last year and a half had made Dylan confront cold hard realities that could be heard when he spoke.

  But, of course, this wasn’t Dylan!

  The sheriff was watching him, just as she was. “Get what?”

  “The prints.”

  “Right off your fingertips, at the hospital last night”

  “Impossible,” the man muttered.

  The sheriff shrugged. “Two of my boys were in the room, and watched the whole process.”

  The man leveled the sheriff with a steady stare. “You took them off my fingertips?”

  The sheriff looked testy. “That’s what I just said, Mr. Devlyn.”

  “Stuart Devlyn,” the man repeated, still scrutinizing the papers. “These were on file,” he said slowly. “I...don’t recall being arrested in the past.”

  “You weren’t.” The sheriff looked at him oddly. “Your family wanted prints on file with the police, I guess in case anything ever happened to you. Like kidnapping. I guess it’s not uncommon when you’re from a prestigious family with money.”

  “Money?”

  “That’s right,” said the sheriff. “Look, Stuart, we’ve got some talking to do. First, I still want to know what you’re doing in my town with a fake ID that says you’re Gerald Williams. Second, you need to return a call to Lieutenant Louie Santiago in Los Angeles, California.”

  The man still looked surprised. Alice’s heart was hammering. So he was from a rich family? And damn the sheriff for suddenly kowtowing to him because he was rich.

  He said, “I need to call L.A.?”

  The sheriff leaned forward, losing his deferential tone, which Alice was glad of. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing here. Your father was just murdered in L.A. You know that, right?”

  The man glanced away, and the faraway look in his eyes reminded Alice of how he’d looked last night, with those eyes glued to the television screen. A shudder went through her as she remembered the scene at Lang Devlyn’s estate: the still shot of the quiet lake, the stationary swings. It looked like a dead paradise.

  “He was murdered,” the man said slowly. “I know that, yes.”

  “And now it looks as if you hopped on a plane and came here right after it happened,” Sheriff Sawyer said. “Not to worry. The Bel-Air P.D. has a lead on someone. But they desperately want to question you. Which means they want you on the very next flight. There’s one tomorrow morning that can get you to a connector in Cheyenne. Sorry, but Rock Canyon isn’t exactly a hub.” The sheriff sighed. “Right now, they want your word you’re coming.”

  “Okay. I’ll go.”

  Sheriff Sawyer stared at him. “You know I’d just as soon hold you. I’ve got a number of questions, myself.”

  The man said nothing.

  “You’ll stay in town tonight?”

  The man finally nodded. “If something comes up tonight, I’ll be at Alice’s.”

  She gaped at him. This was an outrage! What on earth was happening? Stuart Devlyn, son of a recently slain, once-famous rock icon, had just waltzed into her life. He’d slept with her—and all while he’d known she thought he was another man.

  Somehow she found her voice. “I think Mr. Devlyn might find other lodgings for the night.”

  He said, “Can we discuss this when we’re alone?”

  “Guess not,” she returned, hardly caring that the sheriff was listening. “Because I never intend to be alone with you again.” And then, right before she whirled around and slammed through the door, she furiously tossed over her shoulder, “Mr. Devlyn.”

  Chapter Nine

  He wasn’t but twenty feet behind her, following her across the ice-slick parking lot toward the Toyota, so she kept moving, ignoring his urgent voice that came on a sudden gust of freezing air. “Wait, hear me out.”

  She was half inclined to stop, if for no other reason than it was the longest sentence the man had spoken all day. Maybe even since last night when she’d first laid eyes on him. But she’d had it with his strong-silent-type routine. Who was he? And what kind of game was he playing? A dangerous one? Her heart wrenched. It didn’t make sense that the man had shown up in her life like this. And why do his eyes look so much like Dylan’s? Why does kis body feel the same? How could I have been wrong?

  “And why’s he here now? Following me?” she murmured, bitter air knifing into her chest as he pursued her. Once more, the words ran in her head like a mantra. See her bleed. See her bleed.

  “Alice—”

  “Get away!”

  He didn’t. At least she didn’t think so. Not that she turned around. Another shudder moved through her, feeling doubly unsettling since it was from both fear and the cold. Who was this guy? And was there a reason why he’d appeared in her life when things were so precarious? Was it an accident? Coincidence? Thinking of Leland, she felt a slow icy stab jabbing at her heart. Well, she’d been right to break the engagement. The last hour in the s
heriff’s office proved that. So did the angry glimmer she’d seen in his eyes. She no longer even felt guilty about calling off the wedding. She only felt...

  Terror. It curled through her veins as she recalled the almost predatory, possessive darkness in Leland’s indigo eyes.

  “Alice, I’m only asking you to stop for a minute.”

  Because she speeded her steps, going faster than the treacherously slick pavement really allowed, the rubber treads of her stylish fur-lined ankle boots lost traction. She gasped as she slipped, felt a muscle pull in her thigh, then she caught her balance and kept going. Twenty more feet and she’d be safe inside her car.

  “Alice!”

  At the urgency of his tone, she wrenched her head. The blustery wind blew back her hair, and she tried to ignore the tearing of her eyes and the sting of wind on her cheeks. Past Stuart Devlyn, she could see the yellow-brick building housing the sheriff’s office, and she half wished she was back inside. Even facing Sheriff Sawyer and Leland was better than facing Stuart Devlyn.

  Giving up and whirling fully around, she glared at him, fighting panic. “I’m warning you,” she ventured. “Leave me alone.” As if a mere female warning would stop a man like Stuart Devlyn.

  But he did stop. Even from ten paces, she could see the watchful determination in his eyes. She glared back, fury vying with fear. Surely his being here wasn’t unconnected to the other things happening in her life. She thought of the locket in her pocket again as her blazing eyes traversed the waning gray afternoon light. It was another bitter day, the kind where the air turned chalk-white and everybody’s skin looked bloodless. A sudden blast shot through her wool coat with all the cold force of a bullet. She couldn’t believe it. The jerk in front of her didn’t even have God’s good grace to be freezing. His thigh-length navy pea coat wasn’t heavy enough for the weather, and yet he wore it open, the unbuttoned sides snapping like whips. He looked good, too, and she resented that—his wavy black hair blowing in the wind, flowing away from his chiseled face.