by Avery Flynn
She pushed the sticky ends of the bandage onto her sole. The icy burn from the hydrogen peroxide subsided. Bandages always made injuries feel better. True at age eight and still true at twenty-eight.
“At least let me take you home.” Hank slapped his dark brown sheriff’s hat against his thigh.
Claire slid her sore foot into her shoe, stood up and bounced gently to test her pain threshold. It ached, but nothing she couldn’t handle.
“Hank, I appreciate the offer. I really do.” She smoothed her skirt, hopelessly marred with dirt. “But I drove the farm truck in this morning and if you took me home, I’d be stuck out in the country without transportation. Anyway, the Voice of Doom knows I don’t have the phone or the flash drive.” She didn’t think he’d buy that last bit, but she had to try.
She took in his disapproval, evident by the set of his jaw. He glared at her. The vein at his temple pulsed as he gnawed on an already tortured nail. As the eldest brother, he’d always been her first and most effective protector. No surprise that he’d gone into law enforcement.
“That’s crap and you know it.” He spit part of his nail to the ground.
“Look, I’m only going home for a few hours to shower and let the dog out. I’ll be back before the dinner service. And despite what you think, I’m not completely without defenses. I’ve got dad’s quail-hunting guns at the house. You know damn well that I’m a good shot.”
He regarded her without comment. She gave him her best everything-will-be-okay smile. Hank shook his head and walked away. A few minutes later, he and Chris took off in their cars.
She didn’t know where Jake had gone. She surreptitiously looked for him for half an hour with no luck before she got behind the wheel of the decrepit farm truck to head home.
The truck had a hole in the passenger-side floorboard, dents and rust along both sides and an arthritic manual transmission. Her parents had sold a large part of the family farm to finance their post-retirement dream of cruising around the country in an RV. However, her father refused to part with the heap of a truck. He’d left it parked in Claire’s garage—something she was grateful for this morning when she’d needed to get into town.
But now, she couldn’t wait to get home and shower. She planned to break out the double chocolate fudge ice cream for a quick dinner. Healthy? No, but after the day she’d had, she deserved a little bad-food loving. Claire turned the key in the truck’s ignition.
Nothing. Not a groan of the engine. Not a click of the starter. Nada.
She tried again. Still zilch.
After everything that had happened today, she had to deal with a non-responsive engine, too? The addition was more than she could take. Her temper exploded.
She stomped her feet on the pedals. Yanked on the immobile steering wheel. Cursed and railed against the unfairness of it all. She was in the middle of a diatribe about how the truck would be sorry when it went up for auction at the scrap metal dealer’s when a chuckle interrupted her tirade.
Slowly, already knowing who it was and hating that fact, she turned.
Jake stood outside the truck’s passenger door. His right elbow rested on the open window frame with his chin cradled in his palm as if he were enjoying the show.
“Need a ride?” He winked.
Chapter Five
The SUV crunched over the gravel drive to Claire’s house and lurched to a stop. She cracked her eyelids, and through the slits she spied the cornfield surrounding her house on three sides. The field blazed golden in the late Sunday afternoon sun, welcoming her home.
Relief wrapped around her like a warm blanket. Not that chills were her problem. No. Being trapped in a car for twenty minutes with Jake had kept her plenty hot and more than a little bothered. She couldn’t wait to get out of his SUV and send him on his way back to town.
When she had climbed into his gas-guzzler, her brilliant plan had been to ignore him on the ride home. Things were crazy enough right now without adding her lustful thoughts about him to the mix. Too bad her scheme hadn’t worked
She’d given him directions to her house, leaned her head against the window of his black SUV and faked sleep to avoid talking. Rude, yes, but her options were limited and jumping his bones wasn’t an one of them. Unfortunately¸ her lack of sight had only enhanced her other senses.
The musky scent of his cologne had teased her as her body vibrated in time with the SUV’s motor. Hyperaware, her muscles had tensed every time he’d moved in his seat.
He had started singing along to an old Smoky Robinson Motown tune. His golden tenor had softened her resolve to ignore him as he had sung, “I don’t want you, but I need you. Don’t wanna kiss you, but I need to.”
She’d squeezed her thighs together to maintain her balance with every twist and turn in the road. The pressure had built in her clit until she’d surrendered to her naughty imaginings. He would sing as he kissed his way down her stomach, a day’s growth of beard tickling her. He’d stop at that spot right below her ribs. Kiss his way across the flat plateau, grasping her hips tight to keep her from wriggling too much. He’d linger near her bellybutton before veering lower and crossing over to her right hip. She’d arch her back, silently beseeching him to move toward her wet pussy. He’d murmur the song’s lyrics as his mouth traveled toward her shaved lips.
Just as her daydream was about to pay off, his SUV had jerked to a halt.
As he cut the motor, she squeezed her thighs together to ease the throbbing pressure. The squirming didn’t help.
“What in the world is that?” His jaw dropped as he stared at her house.
Ignoring the desire pulling her body taut, she glanced out the front windshield. And like that, the invisible weight on her shoulders evaporated.
The dog spotted her and went nuts. He wiggled from the tip of his snout to his tail. He circled. He yipped and whined.
She shrugged and opened the door. “That’s Onion.” She jumped down to the driveway and snuck a sideways glance at Jake. He sat slack-jawed behind the wheel.
Her dog galloped to her side. No one could beat Onion in an ugly dog contest. He looked like a drunken, mad scientist had fashioned him from the leftover parts of several mangy mutts. He had a Bulldog’s short, muscular body, a Chow’s fluffy, curled tail and a few black spots dotted his tan coat. A Labrador’s endearing personality topped off the package. Yep. Onion was an unsightly mess. But she loved him.
She bent and scratched him behind the ears. “What are you doing out here, you silly dog? How’d you sneak out this time?”
Onion looked ugly, but he had a beautiful brain. The dog got into or out of anywhere he wanted. She’d tried to crate him once. He’d escaped before she’d even pulled out of the drive.
“I think he just walked out the front door,” Jake said, slamming his car door shut and walked over to her side.
Claire scrutinized the wraparound porch. Sure enough, the front door hung wide open. She took a step forward, but Jake grabbed her elbow, tugging her to his side.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
She yanked her arm. “Inside my house.”
He jerked her around so she was behind him as he scanned the area. “How’d that work out for you last time you took off without thinking first?”
She wanted to tell him how wrong his words were. But she couldn’t. He was right. A fact that annoyed her to no end.
“He could be in there.” Jake waved toward the house. “He could be armed.”
“I don’t think Onion would be acting all lovey-dovey if that maniac was here. He’s not a doggie model, but he’s smart. He probably scattered as soon as trouble hit and has been waiting for me to get back.”
Jake looked down at Onion, who busily sniffed his boots. He patted the dog’s head. Grudgingly, she chalked up a point in his favor for being nice to Onion.
“OK, but stay with me and don’t do anything stupid.”
The urge to get inside overrode her need to make a snappy comeback.
She didn’t like it, but she wasn’t going to argue the point.
She and Jake sidled up the steps to the wide front porch. The door’s stained-glass center oval had been shattered.
“I’m beginning to think I’m cursed,” she said.
Jake clutched her hand in his, sending a jolt of awareness up her arm. “I’m beginning to agree.” Together, they tiptoed around the glass and through the open doorway.
Once inside, Claire stifled a scream.
The sicko’s tornado of evil had left a destructive wake through the 1900s-era farmhouse. She wanted to pitch a fit and throw things. Too bad the Voice of Doom had already done the job for her.
He’d thrown open the kitchen drawers and tossed the spoons and forks onto the tile floor. She found books that had been thrust off shelves and thrown across the living room. In the dining room, broken family pictures lay whatever they’d landed, glass shards decorated everything. She couldn’t take more than a few steps into the office because of the wreckage there. Dresses, shirts jeans, tank tops and socks littered her bedroom floor. A pair of hot-pink lacy panties hung from the ceiling fan. If she wasn’t so mad, she would have been embarrassed about Jake seeing that.
“Claire! Get in here.”
She hustled back into the kitchen. Jake stood in the pantry’s open doorway, his back to her. His bulk blocked her from seeing inside and she nudged him with her elbow. Without looking her way, he shuffled sideways.
A gas canister sat in the middle of the pantry floor, its fumes wafting out of the doorway. A bright blue bow was stuck to the handle. The killer had left a message in Easy Cheese next to the gas can.
See you soon.
She hated the fear growing inside her. Being frightened never helped anything. It got in the way. Stopped her from doing what needed to be done. But not this time. Too much was at stake for that. She’d have this guy’s head on a pike.
“The bastard is going to fry.” Her trembling lip betrayed the bravado in her words. “No way is he burning down my house. I’ll be waiting when he comes back. ”
“Want company?”
Claire took stock of Jake’s muscular frame. This fight required more than brawn. “You any good with a gun?”
“You bet.” His cold grin didn’t reach his eyes.
“This asshole already threatened my family.”
“Good thing I’m not family.”
She chewed her sore bottom lip. “One condition. You can’t tell Hank about the gift in the pantry.” She nodded toward the gas can.
“He’s the sheriff. He should know.”
“He will, but not now. Hank has to play by the rules. This psycho doesn’t. I don’t.”
Jake didn’t speak for a minute. “Fine.”
Relief flooded her body. She didn’t want to face off against the Voice of Doom alone.
“OK. Let’s see what else the jerk left behind before you call Hank. But when you do, leave this part out.”
“Shouldn’t you call him?”
She eyeballed him. “If I call, he’ll pester me until I tell him every little detail. I haven’t been able to keep a secret from him for longer than twenty minutes in my whole life. You need to call.”
“Yes ma’am.” He gave her a mock salute. She huffed out a breath that sent a few tendrils of hair flying from her face and left to assess the damage in the rest of the house.
Claire’s fury swelled each time she heard a crunch underfoot or felt the ragged edge of something that used to be whole. The psycho was lucky she didn’t find him crouched behind the shut shower curtain because she would have beat him with the curtain rod.
She couldn’t remember when anger had become her default mode when faced with adversity. Probably soon after she’d found Brett and some tall blonde passed out naked in her bed. In response, she ran. She stayed busy. It worked. Mostly. She picked up the shattered frame that held her college graduation photo and wondered if somewhere inside her that trusting, optimistic girl still lived.
“All clear,” Jake hollered from another part of the house.
Today was not the time to find out. She stalked out to the porch and armed herself with a broom and a sour attitude. Picturing the killer’s face in each glass splinter and particle, she swept the sharp pieces into a mound.
Granny Marie’s grandmother had gotten that door shipped all the way from Kansas City. Four generations of Layton women had basked in the jewel-colored light streaming from it. Claire use to play Barbies in its colorful shadow. A few years later, she’d had her first kiss sandwiched between the door and Bobby Carr’s lean, teenage body. When she came home with her heart shattered by Brett, seeing that door had made everything better somehow.
Firebombing her Jeep was one thing. Destroying Granny Marie’s stained-glass door was something else.
A shadow fell across her path. Jake pried the broom handle from her grasp and held out his cellphone.
“Hank wants to talk to you.”
She backed away as if he’d pointed a lit firecracker right at her. Despite the phone being a foot away, Hank’s cursing came through loud and clear on the phone’s tiny speaker. She swiped it out of Jake’s hand and held it away from her ear.
“Stop cussing at me, Hank, or I’ll hang this phone right up.”
Silence greeted her declaration. It lasted so long she feared he’d hung up on her. “Hello?”
“Fine.” He snorted. “You have to get out of that house now.”
“No.”
“No?”
She yanked the phone away from her ear. People in the next county must have heard Hank’s booming rant that followed. Jake cocked his head to the side. She shrugged her shoulders.
“Hank,” she hollered into the phone. “He’s not here. It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not okay.”
“Look, I won’t let this nutcase turn my life upside down anymore. Come out and take a report if you have to, but I’m staying put.” She fumbled for the end-call button on the unfamiliar phone.
Taking in a deep breath, she closed her eyes and counted to twenty. Then she counted to forty. By the time she’d gotten to sixty, she felt better. She lowered her body down to the top step next to Jake and handed him his phone.
Gazing out at the neighboring field, she watched the corn’s yellow husks dancing in the wind. A year ago, she’d returned home heartbroken with her self-confidence obliterated. Granny Marie, already ailing, fixed up Claire’s old bedroom and nagged her until she finally ate. She’d brought Claire back to the land of the living right before Granny Marie left it. On her deathbed, Granny Marie made her promise to keep the family home.
She’d done a hell of a job.
“You know he’s only trying to keep you safe.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Onion wriggled in under her arm, squeezing his big body onto her small lap. She stroked the stressed-out dog’s head and enjoyed the silky smooth fur against her fingers.
The killer wanted that phone and flash drive. He thought she had them. She wished like hell she did. She’d give him the damn things in a heartbeat, just so he’d go away. Groaning, she laid her head on Onion and inhaled his scent of dirt and dog sweat.
“You know, you really might want to consider a maid if you’re too busy to pick up after yourself.”
Jake’s face gave nothing away. No smile crinkled the corner of his eyes. His lips never twitched upward. He didn’t even look at her.
It took a second for the deadpan humor of the statement to filter through to her. When it did, she laughed. Loudly. The sound roared out of her body with such gusto, it released the pent-up anger and anxiety formerly settled like concrete in her stomach.
“Thanks. I needed a laugh.” Without thinking, she gave his shoulders a quick squeeze. She meant it to be a friendly gesture, but when they touched, something inside her clicked into place.
“Yeah, I picked up on that, being a crack investigator and all.” He patted her leg, and left his hand resting on her thigh.
His calloused thumb sent tingles shooting through her body.
His hand captured her attention. Long, lean fingers. Close-clipped nails, except for the thumb. That nail looked as if it were a regular afternoon snack. His tan palm covered the width of her leg. Warmth surged through her limb to the rest of her body.
“You sure do make it hard not to like you.”
His finger traced tight circles on her thigh. “Well, they say everybody has a talent.”
Onion crawled across her lap and squashed Jake’s hand to her thigh. The dog laid his front paws on Jake. He rubbed his wet snout across Jake’s free hand, demanding a pet. When Jake obliged, Onion whapped Claire in the face with his wagging tail.
“Guess you can’t be all bad. Onion likes you.” She pushed down Onion’s dancing tail. Her gaze caught Jake’s.
The silence sizzled. There might be more to this man than she first thought. Maybe her body knew something her mind had yet to grasp.
She lost her train of thought when Onion’s back paws dug painfully into her stomach. He leaped down and barked at the dust cloud kicked up by two vehicles traveling the dirt road to her house. As they rolled closer, her gut tightened.
Onion barked incessantly as if his mortal enemy, the UPS truck, had pulled into her driveway. But instead of the big brown truck, Hank’s cruiser led the way for a Volvo sedan.
“Just great.” She walked down the steps. “Follow my lead.”
Hands on her hips, Claire scrutinized the trio of Layton men in her driveway. If Hank was the bossy brother and Chris the big-hearted goof, then her middle brother, Sam, claimed the title of most uptight. A history professor at Cather College, he smiled little and laughed less. It did not bode well that all three brothers had joined forces on her front lawn.
She fired the first volley. “I already told you on the phone that I’m staying here. I’ll be damned if I let this guy scare me out of my own house.”
That stopped the men’s approach. Jake remained silent on the porch. Onion, oblivious to the tension, sniffed every last scent out of her brothers’ pants. She stood her ground.