by Christa Wick
“No,” Walker rumbled. “You couldn’t have.”
“Two down, three to go,” Siobhan chirped, coming up behind us.
Walker and I turned as one. A quick side glance at Walker revealed his cheeks were as pink as my own, but I suspected a different reason behind the color. I was slightly embarrassed to have my potential love life commented upon. Walker, on the other hand, looked like he wanted to give his younger cousin a tap on the rear and send her to the kiddie table.
Siobhan jiggled her phone at us, her expression open and innocent. “Crossword levels. Finish three more and I go from easy to intermediate.”
“Weren’t you here last Sunday?” Walker mumbled at his cousin as he walked me over to the sofa.
“And yesterday,” a deep voice interjected.
I looked to find a mountain had entered the room carrying a tray almost as oversized as he was.
With a scowl in Siobhan’s direction, he set the tray down on one of the coffee tables. “She tried to set me up with Royce’s sister.”
“She’s pretty,” Siobhan protested. “And she has a doctorate in something or other.”
“I’m sure her husband considers her an excellent catch,” he said, rolling his eyes as he approached Walker and me.
“Barrett,” he said, offering his hand. “The middle of Mama’s boys.”
“And the orneriest,” Siobhan snorted, hanging her purse on a hook in the hall. “The woman wasn’t wearing a ring, so how was I to know?”
Shaking my hand, Barrett sighed and leaned in. “Siobhan’s trying to clear the local field of competition by marrying off the prettiest women to her brothers and cousins.”
I looked from Barrett to Siobhan. The young woman tilted her nose in the air and offered a shrug, her shoulders cloaked in guilt. I couldn’t imagine Siobhan actually worrying about competition. No doubt she had a thick body, but the curves were in all the right places. She had an hourglass figure like the models men liked to pin on a wall in their garage. Her naturally black hair was thick and long. Looking at Siobhan’s eyes and the exotic bone structure of her face, I would guess that her mother’s family had more than a trace of Native American blood. All around, the young woman was a knockout. Standing next to the beauty, I felt like faded wallpaper.
“Let’s get some of that lemonade Barrett brought in,” Walker said, his hand landing softly against the small of my back.
His smile beamed down on me, making me feel at that moment like the most beautiful woman in the world.
The sensation faded when everyone moved into the formal dining room half an hour later. As the gently lobbed questions piled up, I felt like a stranger freshly arrived in a strange new land.
I glossed over the basics. Only child, my mother Phyllis a career-focused city planner, my father Greg a ranger.
“That’s a real case of opposites attract,” Emerson observed, his gaze shifting from me to Walker then back to me.
“Well, both were dedicated professionals.” I smiled as I said it, but my cheeks hurt from forcing the expression. With both parents working long hours that spilled into the evenings and weekend, I had been on my own a lot.
“Does our large family seem weird?” Siobhan asked. “You being an only child and all.”
I shrugged. “My parents were so clearly ‘one and done’ that I never thought about siblings. My mother was always ranting about carbon footprints and urban population explosions. She had binders full of graphs on poverty rates, downward trending high school graduation numbers, crime statistics.”
Frowning, I dropped my gaze to the plate of food in front of me.
“I guess that’s why I sort of followed in my father’s footsteps—at least the nature part of it. As a ranger, he had all those moments of absolute solitude in his work.”
“Kismet,” Siobhan smiled, her sparkling gaze landing to the right of me. “We’re always trying to get Walker to climb down from his trees.”
Walker turned the key in the ignition. “I should stop for gas before taking you back to Billings.”
Drowsy from too much good food, I nodded.
“I hope that wasn’t Turk overload in there.”
I shook my head. “Everyone is so lovely.”
He cocked a brow. “Even Siobhan?”
I grinned. “She’s like a puppy.”
“That hasn’t been house trained,” he added, shifting the truck into drive and pulling away from his mother’s home.
Once we were off the ranch, his shoulders relaxed. I didn’t realize there had been any tension in them until I saw it melt away. Reaching over, I rested my hand on the closest of those strong shoulders. I stroked a finger along the line of his jaw, my body beginning to thrum when I noticed his eyelids growing visibly heavy.
“Not safe, Ash,” he warned, the corner of his mouth curling in a lazy smile.
Taking one hand off the wheel, he wrapped it around my knee, his middle finger stroking along the inside of my leg. His touch moved higher up my thigh, the strokes turning to a rough massage before he pulled his hand away and sighed.
“Not safe at all.”
I slid my leg out of reach.
“Your truck, your rules,” I joked, remembering that first day of getting a ride from him.
Walker slowed down and made the turn toward Willow Gap. I studied his face as he drove. He was still relaxed, his mood easy. My own mood was a close mirror. The only thing troubling me was the issue of just how traditional a man Walker Turk was.
He definitely wasn’t so traditional that he shrank from the chance at a really hot kiss and a snuggle. But that had transpired in his brother’s office and again when we had to leave for his mother’s. Walker had ready escape routes both times.
So what about when we reached my place? Should I invite him in, or maybe sort of invite him in by signaling he wouldn’t be turned away if he asked to stay?
Passing the city limits sign for Willow Gap, it struck me how much in the middle of nowhere we were. Nearing seven on a Sunday, only two businesses were open—the gas station and, beyond that, a diner. Even in the middle of a typical weekday, there weren’t that many stores. Most of them catered to the work-related needs of the surrounding ranches. As Siobhan had joked before the trip on the ATVs, the convenience stores were filled with more tools than tampons.
Walker pulled to a stop alongside a gas pump.
“Twin tanks,” he said. “This will take a few minutes. Need anything from inside?”
I shook my head, smiling when he got out and I had a chance to study the backside of his jeans without him knowing.
He closed the door. My mouth pushed into a pout for all of two seconds before I turned to stare out the front windshield. The gas station was close enough to the restaurant that I could read its sign.
Marla's Cafe
The name tickled a few brain cells. I knew it wasn’t from driving past the place. As small as Willow Gap was, I still hadn’t driven through this part of town.
Opening my clutch, I pulled out my phone and hit the search bar. The only result was a document in my notepad app titled “Identify.”
I opened the document and, five lines down, saw the restaurant’s name. The lines above and below were more food joints. This was one of Deacon’s stops where he’d written on the back of a cheap paper placemat filled with advertisements.
By the time Walker finished pumping gas and climbed behind the wheel, I couldn’t stop bouncing in my seat.
“You didn’t sneak into the store and eat a bunch of candy while I had my back turned, did you? Maybe a dozen Red Bulls?”
I shook my head, my grin too big to try to talk around.
“Marla’s Cafe,” I said after a few more seconds.
Walker cocked a brow, his amusement turning to confusion.
“Deacon made notes,” I explained. “On takeout bags and the like. I figure the notes on the bag relate to the area where the restaurant is at.”
“Wouldn’t he have put all those not
es into a computer or something.”
“Not the gossip,” I answered. “If you put everything you hear into an investigation file, it becomes part of the case file and subject to discovery. The prosecution could be left unable to prove a charge beyond a so-called ‘reasonable doubt’ because of something a cataract-riddled witness thought she saw on a day that might have been the day you were asking about.”
“So you’ve got notes on one of Marla’s bags.”
“Placemats, to be specific, but, yeah, I do. They were some of the last notes Deacon put down before his stroke.”
“And what do they say?”
My smile cracked all the way open.
“That my investigation at Lewis & Clark is far from over.”
13
Ashley
Setting out for Sunday dinner, I had hoped my evening would end with Walker in my bed. I just hadn’t pictured being fully clothed with placemats from Marla’s Cafe and several topographical maps between us.
A glance at the clock on my nightstand revealed it was half past ten.
“What?” he asked, catching the flush of my cheeks.
“Just feeling guilty that I’m keeping you late.”
I allowed only part of the truth out. I excluded how my guilt was rooted in the delay in his departing being work-related. I also had a flash of relief that Walker lived alone. As much as I wanted to get between the sheets with him, I didn’t want anyone thinking I had. We had known each other a grand total of seven days!
“One blush, maybe,” he said, reaching out to stroke just under my chin, the caress forcing an involuntary tilt of my face upward as my eyes drifted shut. “But, that second blush…”
A moment of silence passed and then he laughed.
“And now there’s a third blush.”
Snorting, I pulled away and pointed at one of the colored book flags I had used to mark a location on the map. The spot was a one-acre site with a house and outbuildings on it. The parcel carved into the family timberland Walker was working.
“You know who owns this?”
Walker frowned. “Bank repossessed it from the owner last year.”
“So it’s vacant?”
He nodded then slid the map toward the foot of the bed. “You really want to know or were you deflecting my question?”
I huffed, looking away as he inched closer.
“I was thinking it was a good thing you live alone and don’t have to sneak into your mother’s house. There might be the impression of all sorts of malfeasance.”
He curled a hand against the underside of my breast then thumbed a nipple, the sensitive flesh turning into a hard pout at his touch.
“Malfeasance, huh?”
The warm amusement in his tone settled around me like a favorite blanket. Then his lips brushed lightly against my bare shoulder and wildfire raced through my belly.
As the heat gently receded, I wondered if I really wanted Walker in my bed so soon.
“Well,” I exhaled. “Having lived in California the past few years, some people might think I’m…very…liberal in some…”
Turning to him, cheeks burning, I cocked both brows in a silent plea for him to fill in the blanks.
Averting his gaze, Walker captured a lock of my hair and brought it up to his nose.
“No worries, Ash.”
I desperately wanted to know what he meant. But I couldn’t ask, just offered a silent prayer that he was the kind of guy to not go looking for the next willing female.
I really felt like there could be something special between us.
Releasing his hold on my hair, he pulled the map between us once more.
“I can see why you’d be interested in the Webber place. If anything was being staged outside of the park, that would be a perfect location. I could do a walk around, say I’m interested in buying it.”
I shook my head. “Officially, that’s not something I can ask someone to do.”
“Officially?” he echoed.
“Yeah. Any evidence would probably get tossed out of court as an illegal search.”
His slow nod of acceptance didn’t feel like acceptance at all.
“I’m not unofficially asking you either,” I said, curling my palm against his arm.
“Noted.” Bringing my hand to his lips, he kissed it. “Anything I can actually do?”
I looked at the maps and the placemats. We had added to Deacon’s notes with a red pen. The retired agent used a lot of abbreviations. Some were familiar work abbreviations, others were easy to guess the most likely meaning—like HLC for the Helena-Lewis & Clark National Forest, or “Lewis & Clark” as the locals on the Willow Gap side of the park still called it after the merger. Other abbreviations might be the initials of names, some of the initials terribly common. Walker had helped me narrow down those abbreviations to the people Deacon might have had regular contact with.
Turning my gaze back to Walker, I shook my head. “It would have taken me weeks to get this far, with more blanks than anything.”
“So, you going to run this past Moske?”
“No, no and no,” I answered, a bitter twist to my voice. Snatching up the placemats, I tidied them into a straight-edged pile then reached for a map. “Tomorrow, I’ll call a couple of the names, pray that they’ll talk to me and see if I’m on the right track. At least Deacon put dates on everything.”
Grabbing the second map, Walker carefully rolled it up and put a band around it, same as the one I had just rolled.
“So, no idea when you’ll be back my way?” Pausing, he offered a pointed glance at my leg. “Or when I’ll be welcome to come back your way.”
Welcome to come back? I didn’t want him to leave. I also no longer wanted the likely consequences of him staying the night. I had experienced a couple of unintentional one-night stands. My love life might not survive adding Walker Turk to that list.
“If I make it out to Lewis & Clark this week,” I answered. “I’ll have Thomas in tow.”
Walker ran the back of a finger along my arm from shoulder to elbow, the caress producing a tickle in my belly.
“So Saturday?” he asked. “There are probably a few places left in Billings that you haven’t seen.”
Frowning, I lifted my left leg. The flare-up from the old injury had the worst timing, both professionally and personally.
Boots still off, Walker stretched out on my bed. Rolling onto his side, he took my hand and laced his fingers through mine, his heavy head lightly resting against my shoulder.
“So I pack a picnic lunch that we enjoy indoors. I can bring some of Leah’s coloring books and art pencils. You won’t have to leave the bed except to let me in. And you can stay in your pajamas.”
I rolled onto my side, my free hand curling against his neck as I stared into the green eyes. A Saturday in bed with Walker, coloring books or not, sounded perfect.
I wanted to kiss him but knew where that would lead. My body skirmished with my brain, small battles playing out. Lips tingled and ached from the kiss denied. My right thigh twitched with the need to drape itself across his hip. Lungs threatened not to breathe until I pressed my chest tightly against his.
“How’s that sound?” he asked, gaze boring into me through the long silence.
Sliding upward, I risked a short kiss against his forehead before I slid back down and answered.
“Sounds like a date.”
14
Ashley
Working from the list of potential names Walker compiled, I had my intern track down contact numbers while I made the actual calls. Then I set Thomas to work determining from which cities within our enforcement zone the other bags and placemats originated.
“Another hang up,” I sighed, returning the phone to its cradle then pushing my coffee cup toward Thomas with a guilty smile.
“You’re lucky I like quest games,” he groused, grabbing the cup and heading for the break room.
Looking at the three numbers I had left to call, I
strummed my fingers on the desk’s surface. None of the other names had panned out. I didn’t hold much hope for the few remaining ones. The next step would be to search records for all people within Deacon’s—and now my—enforcement zone with those initials, not just the ones Walker figured Deacon would have crossed paths with.
Even cross-indexing the names with police records, I would wind up with a long list of future hang ups and know-nothings, with a large serving of obscenities ladled in.
Sighing, I dialed the next number and got an out-of-service recording.
Thomas popped just his head into the room. “Be a few minutes, had to brew a new pot. Gonna hit the head.”
“Wash your hands before you pour my coffee,” I joked, dialing the next number.
“Good morning, ma’am,” I started.
“If you’re a bill collector,” the woman interrupted. “I ain’t got no money.”
“No, ma’am, I’m—”
“I ain’t got no money! Get lost!”
The call went dead. I glared at the re-dial button a few seconds then made a note next to the number.
Doesn’t let me identify. Get address for in-person visit?
Punching in the next number, I held my breath. A woman answered. I identified myself as Agent Callahan, the replacement for Agent Deacon.
“I expect you’re trying to reach daddy,” she said, her voice clicking over to a tired monotone. “Frank Messeger? He and Deacon would visit whenever Joe came through.”
I did a silent dance in my chair. Despite the sudden change in tone, this was the first mostly friendly voice to acknowledge any contact with Joe Deacon. And it was the only name left on the list.
“Yes,” I answered. “Is he available?”
“Depends on your definition of available,” the woman said. “I do hope you can keep this in confidence, but my father has been on dementia medication for a couple of years. He has suffered a rapid decline in the last few months.”
“Oh…” I fumbled around for the right thing to say. “I’m so sorry…I, uh…”