The Lonesome Lawmen Trilogy

by Pauline Baird Jones

  While she waited for it to chill, Dewey began to shed his “Earl-ness,” removing the prosthetic weight from around his belly, the mouth device that changed his jaw line and teeth and pulled off the bulbous nose. Flecks of the adhesive he’d used to keep it in place stayed on his skin, and he looked like a deflated clown with Earl’s clothes hanging off his rangy frame.

  She tipped his chin toward the light and dabbed away the blood. She started to apply the pack, but Dewey took it from her, holding it against his rapidly swelling lip.

  “Next time I come at you from behind, I’ll wear a bell.”

  “Next time don’t come as Earl.” She straddled a chair as her knees went from fight to flop. “You been Earl all along or you just look like him for tonight?”

  “If you don’t know, I ain’t gonna tell you.” His grin widened toward unrepentant, but quickly shrank into a wince.

  “You just did.” She was gonna have to find a way to exact justice from his sorry hide. “What’s so important you had to scare ten years off my life to tell me?”

  His suddenly sober expression told her it was bad.

  “Ollie’s dead.”

  Beyond bad. She was glad she was already sitting down. “What?”

  Despite her turbulent past, Phoebe and all of Phagan’s young thieves were careful to avoid violence. Dewey had been known to joke that a gun added a nickel or more to your basic B&E time, but their caution had more to do with their refusal to embrace the methods of those who had afflicted them in the past. Each job, each game, was meant to disarm their target covertly, electronically if possible. First they went after the money, then after their freedom by tipping off Phagan’s Fibbie—who they all knew by name and reputation, but not by sight.

  Their success rate was remarkable, despite the Fibbie’s unrelenting pursuit, and had been, until now, casualty free. Until Phoebe’s turn to avenge the past, until her game. She tried to pull up Ollie’s picture in her head, but how could she? In their shadowy, chameleon world, reality was whatever they each decided it was. Her lips numb, Phoebe said, “Harding?”

  “His pit bull, Stern, probably.”

  They’d done their homework on Barrett Stern before starting the game, but apparently they hadn’t done it well enough.

  Phoebe shook her head, rejecting the reality of his death, not Dewey’s guess on who might have killed him. “This wasn’t Ollie’s game.”

  “He wanted in.”

  “He didn’t want to die.” Phoebe looked at Dewey, feeling the pain of loss from the present and the past combine inside her like the chemicals in the ice pack interacting. Phagan’s first rule was never to let the past intrude on the present, but it was hard to manage when she was facing that past head on.

  “He knew the risks.”

  Risks Phagan wouldn’t let her take. The gallantry factor. No feminists in Phagan’s world. That was about to change. Pain, rage, and frustration combined to form a new emotion: resolve.

  “What do we do now?” she asked.

  “Phagan sent me a new kid. He’s pretty good. Lots of potential. He could do what Ollie was going to—”

  “We’re out of time. My egg is hatching as we speak. We can’t push back the time-table now.” She looked at him. “There’s only one person who can do it. Me.”

  It was Dewey’s turn to shake his head.

  “Yes. I planned it. I’ve played it more than anyone.”

  “In virtual reality,” Dewey objected. “It’s not the same thing.”

  “It’s my game. Harding’s my target. My risk.” She stood up and crossed to the refrigerator, anxious to avoid his eyes for a few minutes. They were far too penetrating and might see the profound, poisonous terror welling up from deep inside her.

  “Phagan—”

  She cut him off. “—will know I’m right.”

  “You think so?”

  She turned in time to catch a slight, crooked grin turning up the side of his mouth that wasn’t puffy. “I know so.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” She lifted her chin. “I’m going all the way with this one.” She popped the top on the soft drink she’d taken out and drank deeply.

  He stood up, too. “Okay. We move on Harding’s RABBIT Sunday night.” He hesitated, as if he wanted to say more.

  “What?”

  “Phagan gave me the green light to up the ante—and the heat on Harding if you’re up for it.”

  Phoebe tensed, powerless to stop herself. “When?”

  “Harding’s got his engagement party tomorrow. Rumor has it he’ll be announcing his run for governor tomorrow, too.” He waited several seconds before adding, “I’m going to try to get you an invite. If you can you face him?”

  Face him. Face Peter Harding in person. Could she do it? She was stronger than that girl who had run from him. Run from what he’d done to her sister. She could feel the roots she’d put down in Phoebe’s life anchoring her on one side, while the sucking mire of the past pulled at her from the other. It was like being a schizophrenic Pandora facing that closed box, debating whether to open it.

  Phagan thought she was strong enough for the game. And Phagan was always right. No reason not to believe him now. It was time she stepped onto this path and faced her demons. A sort of peace pushed back her fear.

  “I’ve been waiting seven years to face him.” Dewey didn’t look convinced, so she added, “I’ll do what I have to.”

  He flicked her cheek gently. “You always do, darling.”

  He hefted the spent ice pack, then tossed it into the trash and took a handful of pistachios out of his pocket. He shelled them, tossing the hulls in after the ice pack.

  “You staying the night?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Kevin, the new kid, isn’t ready to be left alone all night.” He finished his pistachios and brushed his hands down his pants, then gathered up his Earl accoutrements. He hesitated, then said, “I’ll beep you if—”

  “I know.”

  When she’d let him out, she padded down the hall to her room, not expecting to sleep, but her body was wiser than her mind. It ejected thought and surrendered to the sleep it needed, sending her deep and sound until close to eight, when the sun found a space in her blinds and put a beam of light across her face.

  For a moment she lay there listening to a robin’s cheery sounds outside her window while last night’s events crept back to the forefront of her mind. With a quick movement she tossed back thought and blankets, stripped off the tee shirt she’d slept in, replacing it with bike shorts and a brief top. When her hair was secured in a rubber band, she left, passing through the kitchen like a comet. She needed to clear her mind for what was ahead. Forward motion always helped her more than twisting in the wind of thought.

  On the street, her feet pounded the pavement. She ran hard until halfway up the first hill, then settled into a steady rhythm. This was a dangerous time for her. That the past was stalking her future gave fuel to her run.

  She had to control the game or lose it all.

  * * * *

  Jake pulled his truck to a stop on the other side of the street from Phoebe’s house. He set the brake and studied the tidy structure in the daylight, forcing himself to wait to get out and cross the street, fighting back an unprofessional and unwelcome eagerness to see her again.

  Her property was almost picture perfect, with neat flowerbeds outlining the house and front walk. A row of pine trees divided the approach to the garage from the tiny back yard enclosed in a picket fence. In the center of the backyard was a swing set, minus the swings, with a small trampoline underneath.

  Before he could puzzle out the why of that, a tingling on the back of his neck had him twisting to look down the street.

  It was well worth the lost sleep, this first view of Phoebe jogging down the hill toward him with an effortless grace and a minimum of clothing. She’d pulled her dark hair back with something and it swung from side to side with each concussio
n of feet to ground. Her tanned body was sleek, glistening with exertion.

  Without a break in stride, she vaulted the picket fence, jogged to the trampoline and used it to launch herself up until her hands closed around the crossbar of the swing set. She hung for a moment, then, with the full drag of her body on her arms, she pulled herself up in a series of chin-ups.

  It looked as if Jesse wasn’t the only Mentel with a good grip. Jake resisted the urge to flex his arms as he got out and crossed the street. She was lifting a leg to hook it over the bar.

  While he was still wondering how to make his presence known, Phoebe spotted him from her upside down position. He saw her hands open and swore, bounding over the fence. As he ran toward her, she tucked, pulling her legs in, trying to bring her body around. If the clearance had been an inch less, she wouldn’t have made it. An inch more, her feet wouldn’t have hit the tramp at an angle that sent her rebounding forward to slam into his chest.

  He had a couple of seconds to brace himself before she hit him dead center, knocking the wind out of his lungs and his feet out from under him. As he went backwards he wrapped his arms around her and tried to relax into the collision with mother earth. It helped, but not enough.

  When he could speak, he said, “Nice tackle.”

  She laughed breathlessly. “I’m sorry—are you all right?”

  “Oh, yeah—” The words came out a bit more emphatic than he’d planned and he quickly asked, “Are you all right?”

  “Hey, I been slammed into rock. This was much nicer.”

  “Yeah.” Sandwiched between hard earth and her body, Jake only had to lower his gaze slightly to get an eye full. With an effort, he looked up at the clear blue sky and tried to count away temptation. He was well past ten when she rolled off him.

  “That better?”

  He grinned. “Yes and no.”

  “Diplomatic.”

  “My mom required it of all her sons. Sometimes quite forcefully.”

  The thought of anyone requiring anything of Jake made Phoebe smile. As if he heard her thought, humor lit his eyes. Her gaze was hooked by his and she sobered as pleasure bloomed in her midsection. He’d looked good in the night. He looked even better in the light.

  Live it all the way or don’t do it at all, Phagan was wont to say, without ever defining what living was, but it was now quite clear she hadn’t been.

  She sat up, wrapping her hands around her knees. “You ever heard that country song about the difference between lonely—and lonely for too long?”

  “Yeah, I have.”

  “I think—” she looked at him, her gaze sliding the length of his body before returning to his face— “I been lonely for too long.”

  Before he could react, she jumped to her feet.

  “Do you want a cup of coffee or something? I need to shower before we talk.”

  Talk about what? He scrambled upright and followed her inside, led by the sway of her hips in tight shorts and by curiosity about the questions she didn’t ask him. In the kitchen, she pointed out the coffee paraphernalia. “Just help yourself. I won’t be long.”

  He took her at her word and rummaged through her cupboards, assembling the necessary items for a bad cup of coffee, since she didn’t have the makings for a decent one. He spooned stale crystals into his cup and went to the sink to run some hot water. Stirring the nasty-looking brew with a spoon, he studied his surroundings. The kitchen was clean enough for the small piece of debris on the floor to stand out like a sore thumb. He knelt, felt a kick of shock when realized it was a pistachio shell.

  Inside the trash were more shells, as well as a spent ice pack. He sighed, hearing the water start in the back of the house. After a pause, the flow changed from tap to shower. To get rid of his mind’s inclination to ponder Phoebe in the shower, watering sliding off her body, he headed down her hallway. There wasn’t anything to see but an unused guestroom without invading her bedroom, so he turned back. He took one sip before deciding he didn’t need coffee that bad.

  The other door out of her kitchen led to a living room, rustic but comfortable, the furniture light and blocky. Two crossed ice picks hung above the fireplace. Only scenery shots on the walls. No books. No magazines. No newspapers. The boots she’d worn last night were tossed in a corner, her purse on a table just inside the front entry. He walked into the room, then wheeled in a circle with his senses stretched out. The room was almost impersonal, but still managed to exude a comfortable sense of permanence and serenity that he tried to fit into the Phagan and Dewey Hyatt setup—and couldn’t.

  He heard the shower shut off and turned back to the kitchen, his thoughts spinning in a kaleidoscope that wouldn’t make a pattern. He almost didn’t see the mark on the white wall, a few inches below eye level.

  He leaned close and studied the brown flecks without touching them.

  Blood.

  Odd place to find it. Did explain the ice pack. Sort of. If you had a good imagination, which he did.

  He headed for the kitchen, frown between his brows and regret in his heart. Even without the lust factor, he liked her. Obvious that life had kicked her around more than a little bit, without making her bitter or mean.

  Sometimes he hated his job.

  FIVE

  Phoebe stopped in the doorway of her kitchen, taking the opportunity to study Jake before he noticed her. He’d implied he was job hunting while talking to Chet, but Jake didn’t look hungry enough to be job hunting. And he was too Boy Scout to be one of Harding’s goons.

  He reached up, making her carabiner wind chimes perform with a flick of his wrist and rational thought fled. Sunshine from the window flooded over him, finding the gold buried in his dark hair and putting shadows in the laugh lines that fanned out from his eyes. He’d exchanged last night’s boots for comfortable tennis shoes but stayed with the tight jeans, tee and flannel, this time a soft blue plaid. He’d left the shirt unbuttoned, its sleeves rolled almost to the elbow, giving her an unrestricted view of every curve and hollow of his strong wrists and long-fingered hands.

  Her blood warmed, as if Jake were a reflector for the sun. His chin angled her way, leaving her no time to prepare for the jolt when his blue gaze found her. He smiled, deepening the laugh lines and igniting a sultry hunger in her midsection.

  “All done?” He grinned a welcome that made her insides go soft.

  He was far too sexy to be trusted. She propped a shoulder against the doorframe, her smile emerging from the deep well of her own longing. “You aren’t looking for a job, cowboy.”

  Did he stiffen? His grin turned crooked, but wariness crept into his eyes.

  “I never actually said I was looking for a job. That was Chet’s idea.”

  “Chet’s not too observant.”

  “And you are?” Jake picked up the coffee he’d made. One sip reminded him why he’d set it down in the first place.

  “I try to be.” She straightened, pulled open the fridge, and bent to retrieve a Diet Coke from a lower shelf.

  Jake watched her snug shorts ride high, the fabric stretching over the taut cheeks of her bottom. He tried to look away but found the path of least resistance irresistible, since it let him follow the smooth, tender length of her legs. Cool air flowed out the open door but it made no headway against heated want. He rubbed the beads of sweat from his forehead and told himself he was in serious trouble if he didn’t pull himself together. He didn’t care.

  Phoebe straightened and slammed the door shut, then turned to face him as she popped the top on her can. “So tell me, why are you standing in my kitchen, not drinking my lousy coffee?”

  He hesitated, his brain lacking the needed blood for a clever response. That left only a plunge into an explanation without any idea where he was going. “I could try to bullshit you with a story about being a reporter, or an author doing research—my personal favorite—or maybe a guy looking to buy a bar.”

  “But you won’t?” The arch of one dark brow was openly skeptical.<
br />
  “No.” He tried to look straightforward. It was easier to produce an honest expression when he wasn’t telling the truth. Honesty was far more nerve wracking. “I have too much respect for your intelligence to bullshit you.”

  Phoebe’s laugh was throaty, full of sex. “That’s a good line. I can’t wait to hear the rest of it.”

  The rest of it. Right. “Yeah, well, there isn’t much more. I hate to admit it, but I’m just…curious.”

  “Curious?” The word pursed her mouth, still moist with soda.

  “That’s right.” He gave a mental wince, but there was no going back, so he went with it. “It’s the way I am. Sometimes I just wonder how things work. I mean, I’ve probably been in hundreds of bars since I reached the age of consent and never thought about what makes them work.” He shrugged. “Then I’m in JR’s last night, and it hits me. Like a bolt of lightning.”

  “Curiosity.”

  “That’s it. No deep, dark secret. Just…curiosity.”

  He swallowed dryly and smiled an invitation for her to trust him into the skeptical furnace of her gaze.

  The kicker was, Phoebe almost did trust him. It was just screwy enough to be true. He could be a curious guy. Yeah, and I’m the president’s lady.

  The look in his eyes made it easy for her. Phoebe couldn’t, wouldn’t trust easily. Whatever he was, whether his interest was in her or the bar, she couldn’t afford to trust him. He didn’t have to be a bad guy to be dangerous to her.

  She had to know and know fast, what he was after, so she straightened and stepped close to him, giving him a smoky smile. She’d played the vamp before, but this time it wasn’t playing. Or maybe it was that playing didn’t feel right.

  “Well, Curious Jake, I hate to see a man with an itch he can’t scratch. So why don’t you come with me today and I’ll share with you the deep—” she smoothed the collar of his flannel shirt, her hands just brushing the sides of his jaw— “dark secrets of bar management. Then you won’t have to be curious anymore. You’ll…know.”

  Again Jake swallowed dryly. “Sounds…interesting.”

  “Oh, yeah. It’s interesting all right. About as interesting as watching grass grow.” She snagged a minute bit of lint from the collar of his shirt and flicked it away, knowing she’d moved past research to playing with fire. Lovely, warm fire. “That just leaves one important point to be decided.”