“Why?”
“ ‘Cause it’s a rule, that’s why.”
“Even the ugly ones?”
“Especially the ugly ones. Remember when I told you that you can’t ever hit a girl, not even if she kicks you in the shins? Well, this is like that. Men have to be polite to ladies even if they don’t like them. It’s one of those unwritten laws I’ve told you about.”
Adam rolled his eyes. “What time is it?”
Dylan glanced at his watch. “It’s almost eight. Put your plate in the sink. Then you can go turn on the TV.” Dylan gathered the other dishes on the table and rinsed them in the sink. He washed the heavy oak table, scooted in the four matching chairs, then set Paris’s cake in the middle.
Living in the same town with Paris was like belonging to the dessert-of-the-week club. He really wished she’d quit bringing him food, but he just didn’t know how to tell her. He knew of her marital intentions, of course. Hell, he was the best prospect in Pearl County, but compared to the other contenders, that wasn’t exactly a compliment. Then there was Dixie Howe. He didn’t know if she was interested in marriage or just sex. Either was out of the question. Just the thought of it shriveled him.
Even if there was a woman he wanted to bring home for the night, he couldn’t. He had a young son, and he didn’t believe in exposing children to that sort of thing. He couldn’t park his car outside a lady’s house for very long without the whole town knowing about it, talking about it behind his back, and speculating on a wedding date. Not only did he want to avoid being the object of rumor for Adam’s sake, he was the sheriff, an elected official, and couldn’t afford that kind of gossip. Especially not after Sheriff Donnelly had been caught with his pants down.
Dylan tossed the dishcloth into the sink and moved to the entry to the living room. He leaned a shoulder against the wall as the theme music for Adam’s favorite television show, Heaven on Earth, filled the room. Fluffy clouds, blue sky, and the beautiful face of Adam’s mother filled the screen. Golden springy curls waved about her face as if she really were the angel she played. America’s sweetheart, Juliette Bancroft, rolled her eyes toward heaven and a light appeared above her head.
The Julie he knew was nothing like the angel she portrayed. When she’d lived with him, she hadn’t been so soft-spoken, and as far as he could remember, she’d never spent one hour in church. Heck, her hair was really brown, the color of their son’s.
“Come sit by me, Dad.”
Dylan pushed away from the doorway and sat next to Adam. Just like he always did, Adam scrambled onto Dylan’s lap and laid his head on Dylan’s shoulder. And as always, Dylan wondered if Adam really understood that what happened on television wasn’t real. That his mother wasn’t really an angel who spread goodness and saved souls. They’d talked about it many times, and Adam had always shrugged and said he knew. Dylan wasn’t so sure. “Remember what we talked about last week?” he asked.
“Yep, Mom’s not a real angel. She just acts like one.”
“Your mom’s an actress.”
“I know,” Adam answered, distracted by the opening scene.
Dylan held Adam close and kissed the top of his head. “I love you, buddy.”
“Love you, too, Dad.”
Hope stared out the window of Number Two Timberline, at the crescent moon hanging at the top of the Sawtooth Mountains like an ornament placed atop a Christmas tree. Its pale light spilled across Gospel Lake. Stars crammed the inky-black night, one almost on top of the other, and Hope was sure she’d never seen so many stars in her life. Like the night before, she was once again struck by the utter silence that surrounded her. No cars, no sirens, no helicopters buzzing overhead. Not even the bark of a neighbor’s dog to drive her nutty.
Her focus changed to her own wavy refection in the glass and the light splashing across the porch and into the dirt yard. Gospel, Idaho, had to be the loneliest place on the planet.
She let the heavy green drape fall back into place. She’d accomplished a lot since that first day. The downstairs of Number Two Timberline was clean, and she’d taken the bearskin from the wall and placed it over the bloodstain on the floor. She’d unpacked some of the boxes that had arrived with her things and cleaned the bedroom across from the bat room. She’d added her own personal touches, and hung her clothes in the closet. There was a lot more to do, but it was past time she got to work.
She moved into the dining room and booted up her laptop as well as her other computer, which also had arrived that afternoon. She placed a throw pillow on the hard chair, then sat at the long table. After the previous night’s chicken bone story, she figured her muse was back. With her fingers resting lightly on the keyboard, she closed her eyes and cleared her mind, freeing the clutter.
Half an hour later, she jumped to her feet. “Shit,” she swore as she grabbed a bottle of Windex and a soft cloth. When another hour passed and cleaning the house hadn’t uncovered her muse, she dragged out her fingernail kit. She chose a polish to fit her mood and painted her nails a deep blood red.
Blood red. She glanced over her shoulder to the fireplace in the other room. She didn’t write true-crime stories. She didn’t write about real people or the secrets and demons that drove them.
Hope rose and blew on her nails as she walked into the living room. With her toe, she pushed aside the bearskin and gazed down at the dark brown stain on the hardwood floor. She wondered what had been so horrible that the old sheriff had felt the only way out was a bullet through his head.
Shelly had mentioned something about kinky sex. People didn’t kill themselves because they liked to be spanked, and Hope wondered just how kinky things had gotten in this house and how much the people in town knew about it.
Chapter Five
WOMAN PARTIES AT HER OWN WAKE
The Buckhorn Bar was the oldest surviving establishment in Gospel. Rebuilt after the fire of ‘32, and erected several years before Our Savior Jesus Christ Church, it also held within its rough-timbered walls a devout following. Wednesday nights were “twofer” nights until ten, and there weren’t many in the Buckhorn congregation who could pass up two beers for two bucks.
Perhaps the Buckhorn was so popular with the locals because, like them, it never pretended to be something it wasn’t. The Buckhorn was simply a place to tip back a few, play some pool in the back room, or two-step to Vince Gill. During the summer months, the regulars put up with the tourists the best they could, but no one was blamed if a flatlander had to be forcefully removed from a favorite stool.
The choice of music pouring from the new juke was country, strictly country, and loud enough to drown out the rattle of the swamp cooler. Last year, some smart-ass had sneaked into the bar after hours and switched George Jones with Barry Manilow. Barry had no more sung half of “I Write the Songs” before Hayden Dean picked up a barstool and put the old juke out of its misery. Now the stools were nailed to the floor.
The owner of the Buckhorn, Burley Morton, had never had a real keen eye for decor, but he did kind of like the way the new juke blinked to the sound of steel guitars and coordinated with the big Coors light behind the bar. Except for the poolroom in the back, walking into the Buckhorn was like walking into a dimly lit cave. The denizens who called it their second home liked it that way.
Hope stood in the entrance, giving her eyes a moment to adjust. Although she could see little beyond shadows and glowing neon bar signs, the place reminded her of the bar in Las Vegas where she’d first met her inspiration for Micky the Magical Leprechaun, Myron Lambardo. It smelled strongly of beer, decades of cigarette smoke, and rough timber. That probably should have warned her to turn and run, but she was a bit desperate these days. She shoved her headphones into her fanny pack and took a few steps to the right so a big cowboy could squeeze past. Her shoulder came into contact with a large bulletin board, and she lifted her gaze to a flyer pinned to the cork. It was a sign-up sheet, inviting people to participate in the:
ANNUAL FOURTH OF JUL
Y
ROCKY MOUNTAIN OYSTER-EATING CONTEST
AND TOILET TOSS
Of course she’d heard of an oyster feed. When she was growing up, her family had often hosted seafood barbecues. A toilet toss? That was a new one, but, considering what she knew of the town, not all that surprising. In the five days she’d been in Gospel, she’d discovered some pretty strange things. Like the number of guns on open display. It seemed there was some rule that if you owned a truck, you had to have at least two rifles in the rear window. If you wore a belt, it had to have a buckle the size of your head, and if you had a pair of antlers, they must be nailed to your house, your barn, or your truck. The prevailing bumper-sticker sentiment could be summed up in one sentence: If you’re not a cowboy, eat shit and die.
Hope glanced at her sports watch and figured she had an hour before it turned dark outside. She hadn’t planned on coming into the Buckhorn at all, but she’d been jogging past and thought she should check it out. She hadn’t been able to write a decent article since the chicken-bone story. Walter had e-mailed her this morning and wanted something big. Preferably something to do with Bigfoot, or aliens, or Elvis. He was losing patience with her, and she hoped she might find a Bigfoot Elvis impersonator hiding inside the Buckhorn.
Once Hope’s eyes had adjusted to the light, she made her way to a vacant booth along the far side of the building. She was very aware of the stares that followed her, as if the people had never seen a pair of black spandex jogging shorts and a midriff sports bra. She’d pulled her hair back into a ponytail, and she wore very little makeup.
She ordered a Corona, settled for a Bud Lite, and listened to the pool game in the rear. Over the whining of steel guitars from the jukebox, she could hear the couple in the booth behind her discuss something about flatlanders. The longer she eavesdropped, the more she gathered there was some sort of betting pool going on. It seemed that with the latest accident, Otis Winkler was now ahead with three cases of poison oak, two torn ankle ligaments, a broken thumb, and a cracked rib.
Hope listened carefully, then begged a pencil from the waitress. As she poured her beer into a red plastic cup, she grabbed a napkin and began to write:
ALIEN SABOTEURS HIDE WITHIN
THE HIGH MOUNTAINS OF IDAHO
In a sleepy town somewhat reminiscent of that television classic, Mayberry, aliens trick unsuspecting tourists…
Dylan hit the door of the Buckhorn Bar with the heel of his hand, sending it crashing against the wall. He was absolutely not in the mood for this shit. Two of his deputies were dealing with a nasty two-car accident south of Banner Summit, another was on vacation, and Lewis was still half an hour away. That left it up to Dylan to strap his duty belt over his Levi’s, pin his star to the pocket of his plaid shirt, and come deal with the idiots at the Buckhorn.
The combined sounds of fists hitting flesh, shouts of bets being placed, and Conway Twitty’s “Hello Darlin‘ ” filled the bar.
Dylan pushed his way through the spectators and barely missed a roundhouse punch intended for Emmett Barnes.
Someone pulled the plug on Conway and flipped on the lights just as the other contender, Hayden Dean, delivered a blow to Emmett’s jaw that connected and sent him staggering into the crowd. Dylan wasn’t surprised to see Emmett involved. On a good day, Emmett was a mean son of a bitch with a little man’s complex, and this didn’t look like a good day. He stood five-seven in his custom-made boots and was built like a pit bull. Add alcohol into the mix, and Emmett was just one big beer muscle waiting to be flexed.
Dylan signaled to the owner of the bar, who grabbed Hayden in a big bear hug. Burley Morton hadn’t come by his nickname because he’d born small.
Dylan stepped in front of Emmett and put a restraining hand on the man’s chest. “Fight’s over,” he said.
“Get out of my way, Sheriff!” Emmett hollered, his eyes glazed with anger. “I’m not through kicking Hayden’s bony ass.”
“Why don’t you just calm down?”
Instead, Emmett smashed his fist just beneath Dylan’s left eye. The impact rocked Dylan’s head back, knocked his hat off, and shot needles of pain through his head. He blocked the next shot with his forearm and punched Emmett in the belly. The air whooshed from the other man’s lungs, doubling him over, and Dylan took full advantage of his position and slammed an uppercut to Emmett’s face that sent him to the ground. Without giving Emmett a chance to recover, he rolled him onto his stomach and cuffed him behind his back. “Now, you just lie there and exercise your right to be silent,” he said as he patted down Emmett’s pockets and found them empty.
He stood, placed his booted foot in the middle of Emmett’s back, and threw a second set of cuffs to Burley, who had no problem slapping them on the much skinnier Hayden.
“Okay,” Dylan addressed the suddenly silent crowd, “what happened here?” He raised his hand to his cheekbone and winced.
Several people talked at once.
“Emmett bought her a round.”
“She said something to him and he started hassling her.”
“That’s when Hayden stepped in.”
Emmett squirmed and Dylan pressed his bootheel into his spine until he quit moving. “Who?” He looked at his fingertips. He wasn’t bleeding, but he’d have a brilliant shiner in the morning.
Everyone in the bar pointed to a booth several feet away. “Her.” And there, standing on top of the table, frozen to the wall like a deer caught in a headlight, was Ms. Hope Spencer. Her eyes were huge, her top small, and there was beer spilled everywhere. She clutched a fistful of napkins to her chest.
“Get up, and I’ll hogtie you,” he told Emmett, stepping over him. He knew from past experience with Emmett that once he was down, the threat of getting his hands and feet shackled together usually subdued him.
Dylan walked toward Hope and held out his hand. “Why don’t you hop on down from there, ma’am?” She took three hesitant steps to the edge of the table and shoved the napkins into a fanny pack she had strapped around her hips. She placed her palms on his shoulders, and his hands reached up and curved around her bare waist. As he looked into her blue eyes glassy with fright, his thumbs just naturally brushed her soft skin and pressed into her flat stomach. He lifted her from the table and slowly set her on her feet before him.
“Are you all right?” he asked. His gaze lowered from her face to his hands resting on her waist. The heat of her bare skin warmed his palms, and he kept them there, right there against that soft, soft skin. She smelled of beer, and of the Buckhorn, and of flowers, too. Lust rolled through his belly and curled his fingers, and he finally dropped his hands to his sides.
“I thought he was going to hit me,” she said, tightening her grasp on his shoulders. “Last year I took self-defense classes, and I thought I could take care of myself. But I froze. I’m not the Terminator.” Her breathing was shallow, and with each little gasp, her breasts rose in that little top.
He looked into her face, absent of cosmetics and color, her normal cool facade gone. “You don’t look like the Terminator.”
She shook her head and it didn’t appear like she was going to get over her panic any time soon. “That was my nickname in class. I was very fierce.”
“Are you going to pass out?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you go ahead and take a deep breath anyway?”
She did as he asked and he watched her suck in several even breaths. She probably wasn’t aware that she held onto him, but he was very aware of the weight of her touch. He felt it all over, warming him as if they were more than strangers. As if the most natural thing in the world would be for him to lower his mouth to hers and kiss her until he made her eyes a bit more glassy, her breathing a lot more choppy. Dylan reached for her hands and removed them.
“You feeling better?” he asked, figuring it had been way too long since he’d been with a woman if a touch on his shoulders got h
im hot.
She nodded.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
“I was just sitting there, minding my own business, and the shorter guy walked up and put another round on my table. I told him no thank you, but he sat down anyway.” A frown settled between her brows, but she didn’t offer further explanation.
“And?” Dylan prompted.
“And I tried to be nice, but he wouldn’t get the hint. So I figured I needed to make it really clear that I wasn’t in the mood for company. You know, so that there was no misunderstanding.”
Not that it mattered, but out of curiosity, Dylan asked, “What did you say to him?”
Her frown spread to the corners of her mouth. “I think I said, ‘Please remove your carcass from my booth.’ ”
“I guess he didn’t take that very well.”
“No. Then he got really mad when I suggested to him that he had a drinking problem and should enter rehab.”
“And?”
“I think that’s when he said I should fuck myself.”
“And?”
“And I said I’d rather fuck myself than a short man with a little penis.”
Dylan’s head suddenly ached like a bitch and his eye began to hurt a lot more. “Uh-huh.”
“That’s when he reached across the table and tried to grab me. I screamed and that skinnier guy grabbed the short guy and pulled him out of the booth. If it weren’t for him, I don’t know what would have happened.”
Dylan knew. Emmett probably would have smacked her around before someone put a stop to it. Dylan was going to hogtie him just for the fun of it.
“So he didn’t touch you?”
“No.”
“Threaten you with anything like a knife or a broken bottle?”
“No.”
Lewis Plummer finally entered the bar and moved through the crowd toward Dylan. “Did someone take a poke at you?”
True Confessions Page 7