by Nancy Bush
“You two go to Big Bart’s often?”
“Every week or so. It doesn’t draw too many folks from Prairie Creek, and usually, since we’re sitting at the bar, any flirting looks like good clean fun.”
“Do you remember anyone else who was at the bar that night?”
Allison reeled off a few names, all of whom had already been questioned. Sam had compiled a list of patrons from the receipts and the bartender’s recollection of that night.
“Anyone there that you didn’t recognize? Strangers?”
“Mmm … yeah. There was a dude at the bar. Kind of a cowboy.” The description of the tall man in black was familiar.
“You talk to him?” This could be the guy Grady Chisum mentioned.
“Well, yeah … when Doc went outside to take a call,” she admitted.
“Find out where he was from?”
“It was just a little flirtation,” she said, as if Ricki had made a judgment call. “I asked him, ’cause I knew he wasn’t from around here, but he didn’t tell me.” Allison’s smile fell away from her face. “You think that was him, don’t you? The killer?” The lines between her brows creased her pretty face. “God, I hope I wasn’t coming on to a killer.”
Ricki inclined her head noncommittally. “Thank you for being forthcoming.”
Allison shrugged. “Stu was the one who was worried about me talking to you. He’s protective that way.”
Protective of his reputation, Ricki thought. “Doc’s a good man. Known him all my life.”
Both women stood up. Allison headed toward the door, but paused in the vestibule. “It could have been me.”
“What?”
“If I hadn’t been with Stu that night, I would have given that guy some play. He could have killed me instead of that Barstow woman.” She squeezed her eyes shut and shuddered. “I’m telling you, Deputy, life is short, and it’s scary to brush that close to death in a cowboy hat.”
The phrase rolled through Ricki’s mind over and over again as she drove back into town.
Death in a cowboy hat.
After today’s fire, she felt like it was time for some more soul searching about her decision to move out here, to the land of cowboy hats and gun racks. Maybe Brook was right; maybe they’d be better off packing up and heading back to New York, where neighborhoods and streets were crowded with people who acted as a natural crime deterrent, and where the cops were just minutes away.
She called Sam on her cell phone. “I’m heading back home. I met with Allison Waller and she flirted with the guy in the black Stetson at the Buffalo Lounge. She said if it weren’t for Doc, she mighta gone for him.”
“You’re thinking this stranger’s the killer?” Sam asked.
“I don’t know. How’d it go with Dodge Miller?”
“Fine. Better than you’d expect,” Sam said with a note of surprise. He explained that the cranky butcher had actually invited Sam into his trailer, apologized for the night before and allowed Sam to search the place.
“I was hoping he could give us something,” Ricki said, somewhat disappointed.
“It would have been hard for him to get to Big Bart’s by midnight that Saturday night,” Sam said. Miller claimed to have been visiting his kids in Cheyenne until late Saturday, and his son and daughter had confirmed his story. “It’s possible if he drove the interstate at ninety, maybe a hundred miles per hour.”
“In snow conditions?” She let out a breath. “Nah.”
“Crazier things have been done out here.”
“Now you’re humoring me.”
“Maybe, but I can see you’re discouraged.” His voice was soft, surprisingly patient. “I’m just trying to hook you back into the case, make you hungry for justice.”
“Oh, I’m hungry for it,” she said vehemently. “I’m starving.” She thought of her daughter’s tearstained face, gray with soot. “After what happened to Brook today, I’d do anything to get this killer.”
“So, it’s back to the stranger in the black Stetson.”
“Yeah …” Her voice trailed off as she reached Prairie Creek’s main street. “Where are you?”
“I dropped back into the station, but I’m leaving.”
“Going home?”
“Heading that way.”
“Okay,” she sighed.
“You’re playing the ‘what if’ game, aren’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You can’t get your mind off Brooklyn’s close call today. What if the fire had spread faster? What if she hadn’t made it out alive?”
Ricki felt her eyes burn with tears. “She’s okay. She’s with Delilah tonight.” She drove by the station. “I see your Jeep.”
“I see you,” he said, stepping outside, the phone to his ear. He signaled her over, and Ricki wheeled into the lot.
She stopped beside him and rolled down the window. Suddenly, she was bone-weary. “All I want to do is go to bed, but my bed is not inhabitable tonight.”
With the smoke damage and broken window at the foreman’s cottage, it would take a few days to get the place back to normal. Even then, Ricki wasn’t sure she had any desire to go back.
“Come home with me,” Sam said. “I’ll take the couch.”
She tilted her head. “They’ll find room for me at the lodge.”
“Do you really want to go there?”
“No,” she admitted.
“I can offer professional protection, twenty-four-seven. You know you’ll sleep better with a big, strong man around to keep you safe.”
He scared a smile out of her.
“And I’ll be the perfect gentleman.”
Well, that was disappointing. Still … she would feel safe with Sam near, and the truth was she didn’t want to leave him. “I have to be at the house early tomorrow. Even though Delilah’s taking care of Brook, I—”
“You need to make sure she’s okay,” he interjected.
“Yeah,” she said.
“Leave your truck here and get in the Jeep,” he said, and Ricki swept her jacket from the seat and did just that.
Sam’s house was off a busy state road, but it was far enough back in the trees to feel secluded.
“Should I be worried about making a path through your bachelor pad?” Ricki teased as she waited for Sam to unlock the front door. “I’m envisioning a trail of socks and underwear and stacks of cardboard pizza boxes.”
“I have my vices, but living with raccoons is not one of them.”
He opened the door and revealed a tidy living room. Golden light washed over a rust-colored sofa, white shag rug and brown leather chair.
“Nice,” she said as she followed him in.
“Here’s my downfall.” He turned to what should have been the dining room. Covered in newspaper, the room was a graveyard of shiny metal parts.
“What is this?”
“It’s my workshop. These are parts for two snowmobiles that I’m reconditioning. I like to tinker.”
“And you don’t use the garage because … ?”
“It’s cold out there. Besides, I’ve never used this room. You want a drink? Wine or beer?”
“Beer sounds good.” She needed something to take the edge off.
He opened two bottles and started a fire in the potbelly stove. As heat began to suffuse the room, they talked about the old days in Prairie Creek, when Sam and Colton were high school students and were paid a good wage to help out with the cattle.
“Those weekends when we branded the calves …” Sam shook his head, looking off into the distance. “That was good money for a kid in school.”
“That was one time I was glad to be a girl.” Ricki would never forget those roundups. The noise and smell of bawling, mud-caked animals. The stink of manure and burning hair. “I worked one of them, and that was my last. I don’t think girls are meant to witness a castration.”
Sam grinned. “Maybe. But it’s no picnic for a guy, either.”
Somewhere near
midnight, Ricki yawned and Sam said they might as well get some sleep. She rose and stretched, thinking how Sam had been true to his word—the perfect gentleman. As he grabbed a blanket from the closet and showed her into the bedroom, she realized it would be up to her to take things to the next level.
“Can I get you anything else?” he asked as they stood beside the double bed, neatly made with its puffy red plaid quilt.
“Just one more thing.” She rested her hands on his upper arms, tentative. When he didn’t blink, she allowed herself to move closer, her body leaning against the rock-hard wall of his chest, hips, pelvis and legs. “How about a kiss good night?”
His eyelids were nearly closed as he brushed her lips gently, then latched on, fiercely, hungrily.
His hands pressed into the small of her back, then slid down to cup her butt. When he pulled her against him and showed her how much he wanted her, she groaned in pleasure.
Before she knew it, they were rolling on the bed, stripping off their clothes, talking about a condom in a haze of woozy desire. Naked with Sam, flesh against flesh, she felt her body reel with yearning, and she couldn’t get enough of the taste, smell and feel of him.
At last, he was poised over her, her bare limbs pressed to his, her hands discovering the sinewy muscles of his back and the swell of his tight butt.
“Are you sure?” he asked, his eyes afire, his voice a rough whisper.
That was the thing; in this random world, at this moment, the only thing she knew for sure was that she wanted him.
“Yes, Sam,” she said, her voice clear and decisive. “Yes.”
PART THREE
by Nancy Bush
Chapter Twenty-Two
Delilah tiptoed out of the bedroom, taking a last look at Brook’s sleeping form. She was curled up on her side with the little white kitten tucked around her neck. It had been a long night where Brook, in her twin bed, had actually reached across to Delilah and clasped her hand until she’d fallen asleep. The girl had been deep down scared, and who could blame her. Delilah had asked if she wanted her mother, but Brook had just squeezed her hand harder, and Delilah had been happy to be a maternal surrogate.
Now she made her way to the stables, walking through the brisk morning air, her cheeks numb from the frigid air. In the midst of the craziness the night before, she’d heard rumblings that Babylon had foaled, and she planned to see the newborn colt before anyone else was about, wanting this moment to herself.
What she didn’t want was to admit to the rest of her family that she was a failure. A failure in life, a failure in love and a definite failure in her career. When Daniel Selkins had brought her in for an audition and then bent her roughly over his desk, holding her down with one hand and ripping at his belt buckle with the other, she’d been so stunned it had taken her a full ten seconds to react, and by that time he’d ripped her panties down to her ankles and was trying to drive himself between her legs.
She’d grabbed the phone charger and twisted around. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but she’d yanked it from its tether and slammed it into his eye. Hard.
With a yowl of pain he released her, but needless to say, she didn’t get that part or any others in the future. Her reaction had pretty much ended her career as an actress. From that point forward she’d worked behind the camera instead of in front of it, and though she liked production work all right, it wasn’t the career she’d planned when she left Prairie Creek behind.
She had never told a living soul what happened. As far as her acting career went, it had died a quick death from the moment she resisted Selkins’s amorous attack. She’d never been offered another seriously good role since. Still, she’d stayed on and found some happiness in production. She’d even told herself she might find a soul mate in one of the actors or directors or even production guys, but that was a dream. There had been a lot of dates, some romantic entanglements and one relationship that had lasted nearly ten months, but there’d never been any real chemistry. Not since Hunter Kincaid.
Grimacing, she stepped carefully down the path to the stables, her cowboy boots slipping a bit on an icy patch. She was a cowgirl at heart. Always had been, always would be, though she’d denied it in herself so long that she’d almost begun to believe it. Now, long years since she’d kicked the dust of Prairie Creek from her heels, she was back again. She’d pretended to Ricki that she was just here for the wedding. That there was no chance she would stay. Was that the truth? She didn’t know. But even with all the fear, drama and danger going on in her Wyoming hometown now, she was kinda glad to be back.
If it weren’t for Hunter, she might stay for good.
She made a growling sound beneath her breath, then sighed. How tragic. Letting one man influence her so much. One teenaged love affair. It was ridiculous, but no matter how hard she tried to dislodge the memories from her brain, it was damn near impossible.
Thinking about Hunter brought back the scene from that night: his long legs and lean body at the front of the great room, his dark hair, slightly long, his face smeared with soot, his blue eyes narrowed in that suspicious way all Kincaids seemed to view Dillingers and vice versa. She’d tried to regard him objectively. Good-looking. Lean, in that cowboy way she loved. Nice enough, probably, at least to anyone other than a Dillinger. Great smile, when he scared one up.
She’d half convinced herself that she was over him completely. Why shouldn’t she be? It had been years and years since their illfated, secret affair. She’d started to believe that he had no real effect on her anymore, that she just didn’t care. Then he’d shown kindness to Brook, and all Delilah’s rationale and defenses failed her after that. She’d looked at Hunter and remembered how it had felt making love to him, had sensed the same melting feeling in the pit of her stomach, the same treacherous heat between her legs. Good. God. Those feelings had been the bane of her existence when she was a teen. She cringed inside, remembering the way she’d followed him around like the proverbial lovesick puppy. She’d been so pathetic back then, so lovestruck, so willing to lie down in the hay and beg him to take her.
Even now, with his face swimming behind her eyes, she could feel something weaken and grow molten inside her, and her cheeks heated despite the cold.
What a pisser.
Throwing open the door to the stables, she was greeted by warmer air, and she quickly rattled the sliding door back into place to keep out the cold. Kit Dillinger, her red-brown hair tied back in a braid, her attention on the newborn colt, looked up from the box and shot her a sideways glance.
“Hi,” Delilah said as she approached the stall. Inside was a ruddy-coated colt with a bright white blaze, all knees and ears and eyes and skinny ribs. Delilah sucked in a breath as his mother nuzzled him, damn near knocking him over with her long nose. Her heart swelled into her throat, and for a moment she was afraid she was going to embarrass herself and actually cry.
Pulling herself back from that precipice, she cleared her throat and said, “What a sweetheart.” Kit glanced from Delilah back to the colt and nodded. “Davis around?” Delilah asked her.
“Out with the herd.”
It wasn’t like Delilah had anything particular to say to the ranch foreman. She just wanted to be out of the house and near the new little guy. Give herself time to think about something other than the wedding, the terrible things going on in Prairie Creek and last, but certainly not least, Hunter Kincaid.
And she also needed to think about herself, what she planned to do next. She didn’t think Southern California was the answer anymore. She wanted her life to start. Family life. With or without a man.
At thirty-three, she wanted to have a baby and she didn’t want to wait.
The little colt looked at her from behind his mother’s flank. Delilah could feel herself respond and she had to turn away from Kit’s probing gaze as she glanced her way again. “Does he have a name yet?” she asked.
“Firestarter,” Kit said. “It’s what I call him. He was born last night
during the fire.”
“It’s a good name,” Delilah told her. At first she’d been taken aback, what with the fires and murders going on, but on second thought she decided the name fit the little horse with the reddish coat.
She left the stables a few moments later, tucking her chin inside her scarf, though she was almost glad of the biting wind; it helped cool the rise of emotion inside her. The last thing she needed was to break down and make a complete fool out of herself just because her maternal hormones were on overload. Good Lord, she was a mess. And everyone thought she was so capable. So in charge. So able to magically transform her father and Pilar’s wedding into something extra special. Bullshit. All she really wanted to do was bury her head under her pillow and wait for everything to pass.
Which was a chicken’s way out. Here Ricki was off searching for a murderer and Hunter was examining the fires for clues to the arsonist, while she spent time just thinking about herself and the dissatisfying life choices she’d made up till now.
She glanced toward the mountains, blue-gray in the distance, and her mind touched on the kidnapped girl from Big Bart’s. Skinned and frozen and left at the Pioneer Church. And then Mia. And even a coyote … defiled out on Dillinger land…
And the fires.
Wiping off her boots on the front doormat, Delilah then headed inside and up the stairs to her bedroom. Just before she reached her door she saw Ricki step quietly from the room and softly close the door behind her.
“There you are,” Ricki said softly, pulling Delilah down the hall away from the door. “How’d last night go? Was Brook okay?”
“She was fine. She’s tough.”
“I felt bad running out on her, but she wanted to stay with you.”
“I was glad to be there for her,” Delilah assured her. “How are you doing? You’re in yesterday’s clothes. I can smell the smoke.”
“Can you?” She sniffed and made a face. “Oh, yeah. I just came back to change but the cottage is a mess. I didn’t even go inside. The rest of my clothes probably smell even worse.”
“Where have you been?” Delilah asked.