Desire & Ice: A MacKenzie Family Novella (The MacKenzie Family)

by Christopher Rice

  But now she was divorced. Now she was back.

  Back and scared out of her mind. Buying a shovel, and not much else, it had seemed, as a monster blizzard bore down on her hometown.

  “You always did ask a lot of questions, didn’t you, Danny?” she’d said.

  They’d been the last words she’d said to him before she excused herself and hurried from the store. But she hadn’t sound irritated. Rather, there’d been a kind of longing in her voice, a longing that suggested a buried desire to tell him more. And maybe, just maybe, a bit of buried desire for him, her former student, all grown up now and carrying a badge and a gun.

  When she’d brushed past him, she’d placed a hand gently on his shoulder. Did she just need him to get out of the way? Or had she just wanted to touch him? Either way, he could still feel a tingle right where her hand had come to rest on his shoulder, a tingle he wasn’t willing to blame on the cold.

  “All right, fine,” Cooper finally said. “But I want a quick turnaround. If she’s not stocked, get her out of there and bring her down here to the station so we can find a place for her ‘till this blows over. What the heck is she doing back after all this time anyway?”

  “I have no idea,” Danny answered.

  “But I’m sure you plan to find out, don’t you, Danny?”

  “That I do, Sheriff. That I do.”

  2

  As soon as I dig this hole, Eliza Brightwell thought, I will be done with my ex-husband forever.

  If someone had been able to overhear her thoughts, they might have assumed she was planning to bury her husband’s body on his family’s old ranch. While the idea certainly appealed to her––had appealed to her several times over the past year, in fact–– she was shoveling mud to save her ex-husband’s life, not end it.

  And possibly to save her own as well.

  Or at least permanently extricate herself from the maelstrom of deception and crime that now surrounded Lance Laughlin wherever he went.

  He’d been in such a state of breathless panic when he called the day before, she was having trouble remembering any details except the vital ones she’d forced him to repeat. The price this time was $100,000 in twenty-four hours or else the guys ––and that’s all he’d been willing to call them, the guys–– he owed money to were going to make big trouble for him.

  Worse, these guys had been able to find him because he’d been storing some valuables, valuables that apparently didn’t belong to him, in the same storage unit Eliza had allowed him to keep using after their divorce. The storage unit with her name on it, the one she paid for each month on her VISA. And as a very important sidenote, the guys weren’t exactly willing to let him out of their sight anytime soon, so Eliza had to hop on a plane, hightail it to his family’s ranch in Surrender, and dig up the money he needed. Literally.

  The stakes were higher than usual. Much higher. But the whole mess was vintage Lance.

  A supposedly well thought out plan gone horribly wrong. A breathless late night phone call where he started explaining the situation a mile a minute, as if she had been in on whatever his latest harebrained scheme was all along and it was her responsibility to catch up. Vague, meaningless terms like guys, valuables and her least favorite, big trouble.

  Then, at the end, the stinger, because there was always a stinger where Lance was concerned, the telling detail that somehow obligated her to help fix it. In this case it was her storage unit. In the past it had been her credit cards, her health insurance plan and, in the coup de grâce that had finally ended their marriage, her forged signature on some bank documents. But this time she hadn’t discovered Lance’s little act of forgery before anyone else had. As a result, she’d been implicated in a criminal conspiracy and her name and some of her personal information were in the hands of some very bad guys.

  Only now did she have time to wonder why her ex-husband had been burying bags of cash on his parents’ old ranch. Before she’d been too busy rushing to make flight arrangements, her heart dropping every time she saw the weather report. Once the ground iced over there wouldn’t be a chance in snowy hell she could actually dig up this––

  Just call it what it is, she thought. A ransom. A ransom that will also help some very bad guys forget they ever learned your name.

  She was right at the spot where Lance had told her the cash was buried, ten paces from some wind whipped pines and a tangle of chokeberry nobody had bothered to tame in years.

  The hole she’d dug was three feet deep now. Not a peek of the burlap sacks he’d told her to look for.

  Downhill, the house was a faint triangle of light. If she hadn’t been rushing to beat the elements, she might have taken a moment to enjoy the sweeping view of the valley, a view that stretched all the way to the spot where Surrender’s tiny main street was a twinkling blanket of light in the falling dark. But just looking in that direction now meant exposing her entire face to stinging wind.

  My fault, my fault, my fault. This accusation rang through her head with each strike of the shovel’s blade. If I’d just taken my name off that storage unit.

  Her girlfriend Cassie’s words came back to her, louder than the wind, louder than the shovel. They’d been haunting her ever since she’d boarded the flight to Kalispell at LAX.

  The divorce had almost been final then. They’d been sitting at some sidewalk café in Venice when Cassie, a yoga instructor who’d read every self-help book known to man, woman, or animal, had said, “Sweetheart, you’re going to be tempted to leave the door open just a crack. Just an inch. Trust me on this one. I did it myself. But with a man like Lance, you need to close that damn door all the way and put War and Peace in front of it.”

  She’d thought Cassie had been referring to how handsome Lance was and she’d resented the implication that she could be so easily seduced by looks alone. In the beginning, Lance had offered more. Affection. Big dreams. An ambition she’d found undeniably attractive. But after four years of marriage she’d come to see all of it for what it truly was. A refusal to be grateful for the blessings that did come his way. A constant desire for bigger, better, flashier. A belief that other people, including her, were always opportunities but never partners.

  Now that she’d actually done what Cassie had warned her not to, left the door open a crack, she saw a different meaning in her friend’s warning.

  Part of her, a part she was ashamed to admit existed, had done it so that one day, they could come back together, not to give marriage another chance but to make their painful past seem like a distant memory. Some kind of fresh start, either as friends or maybe casual, infrequent lovers, that would at least water down the lies and betrayals that defined the four years they’d spent together.

  And this was the result.

  Another scheme. Another cry for help.

  Answering this one might turn her into an ice sculpture in the middle of a Montana field.

  Just keep digging, she told herself. Just keep digging until you can’t dig anymore, and then you’ll be done. With him. With all of it.

  She stopped when she felt icy pricks stinging the side of her face. In different circumstances, the feel of them might have made her smile. It had been ages since she’d seen snow, much less felt it on her skin. But here, in this field, they marked another hour lost to Lance’s latest doomsday countdown.

  “Miss Brightwell?”

  It all happened so fast she had trouble ordering the events once she found herself sitting on the ground, legs splayed, holding one bloody hand to her chest.

  One second, she screamed.

  In another second, she saw Danny Patterson standing just a few feet away, blocking out the house behind him.

  In another, she lost her grip on the shovel mid-strike and the blade flew up toward her face before she threw her hands out to stop it.

  The heat and bite of a serious wound pulsed underneath the glove on her right hand. She went to tear it off. Danny crouched down next to her, stopping her, his own bare fin
gers gently pulling the glove off her hand, while he whispered, “Hey now. Hey now. Easy, Miss Brightwell.”

  “You can stop calling me that, you know,” she said. “I’m not your teacher anymore. I haven’t been anyone’s teacher for a very long time.”

  The deep line in her right palm was filling with blood.

  “Yeah,” he said, but it sounded like he was studying the wound. “And what would you like me to call you?”

  Sucker. Dummy. Divorced. Cliché.

  “Eliza’s fine.”

  “All right, Eliza. Well, we need to get you to a first aid kit. I’ve got one down in my—”

  “No,” she said, shooting to her feet. “I have to ––I just have to get this done before the storm starts.”

  She closed her injured palm. It made the wound hurt twice as much and sent blood dribbling through both sides of her fist.

  “Get what done?” he asked.

  And that’s when it hit her; Danny Patterson was a cop now. Not just a former student. Not just a stunningly handsome and caring former student. He was a cop who had just caught her trying to dig up money on her ex-husband’s property.

  Whatever expression these thoughts left on her face, it made Danny cock his head to one side.

  Snow fell all around them. The house had become a hazy apparition in the near distance. The once expansive view of the valley beyond was now lost to a wintry veil.

  A thought occurred to her, fast as a rattlesnake strike and just as venomous.

  Danny had always had a crush on her, hadn’t he? It had seemed harmless back in the day. At the time she’d been more concerned with the darkness that had threatened to take hold of him after his father walked out on his family.

  Could she use some of those old feelings to her advantage now? Long enough to distract him, at least.

  Lord, it wasn’t like it would be a chore. He’d certainly grown up to be a looker.

  Oh, who was she kidding? He’d find her way too old now, for sure. Four years spent working three jobs to support her husband’s bad investments didn’t leave a lot of time for the gym. Nothing close to the Southern California minimum of three visits a week.

  But maybe the fantasy alone, the prospect of going to bed with one of his old teachers, would be enough to stall the guy for the time being. And it’s not like it would be hard for her to act the part.

  Not with him. Not now.

  Some parts of him looked the same, which was a little creepy. Same bright, inquisitive eyes, the same adorable baby face. But his brown bowl-cut was gone, replaced by a military grade buzz cut that accentuated his powerful neck muscles. And he was taller, much taller, and packing some serious muscle. He stood his ground now with absolute confidence, his leather fur-lined coat flapping in icy winds that didn’t seem to faze him in the slightest.

  No, it wouldn’t be hard. It wouldn’t be hard at all. Maybe plant a little kiss on that cheek. Run her fingers gently along that hard jawline as she made a date for later that night. After she had unearthed and hidden the money underfoot. And then maybe—

  What the hell was she thinking?

  Teasing, deceiving, using her body as a weapon and bait? This wasn’t her!

  This was what Lance Laughlin had turned her into by sending her out here.

  “Eliza,” Danny said quietly.

  “Danny…just. I need you to go so I can work. I’ll be fine, really.”

  “And by work you mean dig, I take it. Not sure you’re going to do much more digging with your hand like that,” he said.

  “I can manage.”

  “You can manage once we get it bandaged up, maybe.”

  “Danny, seriously. I need to finish before the storm hits.”

  “Storm’s already here, Miss Bri—Eliza.”

  “Still, just…”

  “Just what?”

  “You always did ask too many questions, you know that?”

  “Second time you told me that today,” he said with an easy smile. “Here’s another question. You planning to bury yourself in the ground once you’re done? ‘Cause there’s much easier ways to protect yourself during a blizzard. Like making sure your house is stocked and the heater’s working, for starters. So…”

  “The heater’s working,” she said. “I’ve got two fireplaces going too.”

  “Provisions?”

  “Some.”

  “Some. Okay. Well, if some isn’t enough, then I’ve got orders from Sheriff MacKenzie to bring you down to the station so we can—”

  “That’s just not an option, okay? Now, please, just—”

  “Eliza, tell me what’s really going on before you freeze to death out here!”

  Snowflakes laced the freshly dug hole. Fear made the snow hitting her face feel even colder than it was.

  In her mind’s eye, she saw the hole filled with snow, then ice. Saw herself trying to dig another hole, hoping to hit treasure. And then another, her hands bloody, the shovel threatening to break in the frozen ground.

  Fear turned to terror turned to panic and all she could manage to say was, “Danny…” But it came out of her sounding like a plea. When she hit the snowy ground knees first, the first sob ripped from her chest.

  “Hey, now,” Danny whispered.

  He sank down next to her and curved an arm around her back. He hoisted her to her feet. There was something more than warmth radiating from him—something strong and steady and reliable. And then there were his gentle whispers, warmer even than his touch.

  “Let’s go down to the house, Eliza. Let’s get you out of this cold.”

  3

  “I think it’s cars,” Eliza said once she stopped crying.

  Danny had just finished bandaging her hand. Even though he was still a man of many words, he’d known better than to ask her questions while she wept. They were somewhat warmer, but the kitchen had no dishes, an empty fridge, and none of the provisions she’d claimed to have when Danny questioned her.

  The walls of the old house creaked like the hull of a ship tossed on an angry sea. The place was empty enough inside to feel haunted, the only furniture the grimy breakfast table where they were sitting and a plastic covered sofa in the living room. Danny had draped his leather coat across the back of his chair. It was the only soft surface in sight and she longed to curl up inside of it.

  “Cars?” Danny said.

  “It started right as we were getting divorced,” she said. “Before that it was some kind of disposable cell phone business. Before that, herbal supplements that supposedly added ten years to your life. But the cars…that’s when everything changed.”

  “And how’d they change?”

  “He didn’t fight me for much in the divorce. He let me have our condo and our savings. It wasn’t much, but he saved me from having to hire a lawyer. Then he bought a townhome he shouldn’t have been able to afford.”

  “So money started coming in right as you were leaving?”

  “Yeah, and if I’d wanted some of it, I could have stayed, I guess. The divorce was my idea, not his.”

  “What about the inheritance? He sure sold off plenty of the land around this place. That probably gave him a bunch of cash.”

  “Oh, he blew through that in no time and buried the rest of it here on the property apparently. Which I didn’t know until yesterday.”

  “So…cars?”

  “Really expensive cars. I overheard these late night phone calls about Lamborghinis, Porsches, Bentleys. And he mentioned the ports. Both of ‘em, LA and Long Beach. Last time I checked a new car salesman didn’t deal directly with the ports. They work on lots and most of those are in the Valley.”

  “The San Fernando Valley?”

  “That’s the one. Anyway, I asked a few questions. But he was evasive so I didn’t push. I was on my way out anyway. Right around then there was this big LA Times article about this scam the Russian mafia was running through the port. They’d buy temporary visas off people just as they were about to expire. Then they�
�d use them to lease luxury cars. Then they’d turn right around and put the car on a container ship for Asia where they could sell it for three times what it was worth here. By the time the dealership realizes the car’s in the wind, the visa’s expired and the visa holder’s either left the country or been deported.”

  “So you think Lance ran afoul of port security?” Danny said.

  “No. Port security’s not very good, apparently. You can lie on the manifest for a container, just say it’s old furniture, and no one looks inside. Also, I don’t think port security sends guys to your house asking for one hundred thousand in cash.”

  “That’s some good thinking, Eliza.”

  “I’m an idiot,” she said before she could stop herself. “I’m an idiot for letting him use my storage unit. Only things I had in there were some old speakers and a trunk full of videotapes, and he was using it to store stolen cars. I just know it!”

  “Do you still love him?”

  “That’s a complicated question, Danny.”

  “You know me. I ask a lot of questions.”

  “No,” she said. “Sometimes you fall out of love with people over time, I guess. And sometimes it dies in one moment. Sometimes they kill it. When I found out he’d forged my name on some bank documents, he killed it. That’s when I realized the Lance I’d wanted to believe in was a fantasy and I was a fool for believing in it as long as I did.”

  “Want to know the thing I liked about you most as a teacher?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  “These words you’re using on yourself now. Words like fool and idiot. You never used them on us, not once. Not even when you lost your patience.”

  “I think I understand what you’re trying to say, Danny, and that’s sweet. Really. It is.”

  “But?”

  “But I was an id—”

  “Nope. I won’t hear it again, Miss Brightwell. I won’t let you call yourself those names.”

  “Fine. Then call me Eliza.”

  “Eliza,” he said.

  His bright eyes sparkled when he smiled. Maybe it was a trick of the overhead light. Or maybe it was the flirty, electric energy coursing through him now.