Who Loves Ya, Baby?

by Gemma Bruce

  He turned onto Highland Avenue and drove back down the hill. Not that he would ever have her to lose again. Not after showing up dressed in ratty sweats and a rattier jacket. And then that farce with the pistol.

  And what was she doing with a weapon like that? Wes didn’t own a handgun, only a couple of hunting rifles.

  And he’d been so busy blathering on about his life, his boats, hoping for her approval, that he hadn’t asked her about hers. Though now that he thought about it, he did ask her. She just hadn’t answered. He probably hadn’t given her a chance.

  Well, now he had a reason to stick around a while longer. They could get to know each other again. He wouldn’t let his father ruin this for him again.

  And then he remembered the riddle that Wes had shoved at him, the day he died, and he grew cold. Thieves break in and steal the gold.

  “What gold? Who stole it?” Cas had asked.

  Wes just smiled.

  “Was it the old Savings and Loan? Did my father steal something?”

  Wes’s smile faded and he stopped breathing. And Cas was left without an answer or a friend.

  For a few minutes tonight, Julie had made him forget that riddle. Made him feel like everything would turn out all right. Wes had found a way to keep him here until she returned. Cas had no doubt about that. He just didn’t know if it was to bring them together or to bring his father down.

  Maybe he should just confront Reynolds. Find out once and for all if his father had something to hide. Then he would be free to get back to his life, have the chance to make Julie a part of that life. If she wanted to be a part of it.

  He had some time. And the next time they met, he wouldn’t act like such a slow-witted idiot. He’d go back in the morning. He had forgotten to fill out a police report. He hadn’t questioned her about the burglary. Hadn’t looked for clues. Hadn’t done much of anything but lust after Julie.

  He was still lusting after her. But he knew his duty. And his duty as sheriff was to keep his eye on the inhabitants of Ex Falls, and Julie Excelsior was an inhabitant, if only temporarily. Cas was definitely going to watch her. And with luck, hell, who knew what would happen.

  He wound through town and stopped the car in front of his cottage, ablaze with lights. Wes had insisted on furnishing the place for him. It seemed to bring him so much pleasure, that Cas didn’t have the heart to say no. Now, he was glad Wes had insisted on the king-size bed.

  Chapter 4

  Her nightshirt slid down her shoulders, down her hips, her thighs, skimmed along her calves and pooled at her feet. Cas stood before her, his skin golden in the candlelight. His dark eyes, pools of mystery. “I’ve waited for you,” he said and pulled her to him. His body was hard and lean. She could feel the heat of him as he pushed her down on the big four-poster. Could feel the ripple of his muscles as he came down on top of her, capturing her mouth, her body, stoking her desire for him.

  His tongue traced her lips, invaded her mouth as his hands began to explore her, tracing curves, following valleys as she writhed beneath him. Closer and closer until finally they slid between her legs, across the spot that made her shiver, and two supple fingers slipped deep inside her. She arched against him, but he held her in place with a kiss.

  “I’ve waited for you.” His voice was husky and incredibly arousing. “I’m not waiting any longer.”

  His fingers withdrew, trailed up her stomach, between her breasts, alive to the heat of his touch. Played across her collar bone, then up her neck to where he took her chin and lifted it for his kiss. As his mouth captured hers, he pushed inside her. She stretched around him, taking him in, every hard, huge inch of him. Capturing him, clinging to him, keeping him this time.

  He began to move, slowly at first, grinding his pelvis into hers. She lifted her hips to meet him and he drove into her, again and again, pushing her up the bed. She wrapped her legs around his waist; her arms clung to his powerful shoulders, as they crested the wave of tightening pleasure. Then it uncoiled and Julie broke into a million pieces. She screamed—or he screamed.

  Somebody was screaming.

  Julie bolted upright in bed as a bloodcurdling cry tore through the night. She shook the sleep from her head. “What the hell?”

  Smitty jumped off the bed and leapt toward the window.

  Without thinking, Julie rolled over, grabbed her Glock from the bedside table, and dropped to the floor. She scrambled to the window, then carefully peered over the sill.

  It was dark outside, but behind the mountains, a dim glow told her that it must be near dawn. Her eyes scanned the yard but could barely distinguish the outlines of shrubs and trees. She followed the slope of the hill to where the gazebo stood black against the lightening sky. Had she imagined movement? She blinked several times and looked again. A shadow moved across the ground, headed toward the gazebo.

  Hadn’t she done this once already? Didn’t these people ever sleep? It was the second time in one night someone had attempted to get in her gazebo. Something worth taking must be out there. And as soon as she got rid of this trespasser she was going to have a good look at the place.

  She checked her Glock. “This time we take no prisoners.” No firing into the air. No wasting time calling 911 and getting Cas out of bed again. She glanced toward her own bed. Of course it was empty, but what a great dream. Too bad it had to be interrupted.

  A higher-pitched scream resounded through the darkness. It brought Julie fully awake.

  Smitty gave a short insistent bark and trotted over to the door.

  A third scream, this time longer and louder. Smitty bounded back to the window panting in excitement.

  Julie rocked back on her heels and shook her head. “I don’t believe it.” It was a rooster. What jackass would keep roosters on the Hill? He should be shot. But not tonight.

  Smitty pranced by the door, looking at her expectantly.

  “False alarm, boy.” She locked off her Glock and returned it to the drawer. She’d seen more action in the last few hours than she had in weeks. Thanks to Donald, the bent cop. She yawned. She’d deal with that damn bird in the morning. Which, she noticed, was already appearing in the form of a yellow neon line behind the mountain peaks. Later in the morning.

  She couldn’t wake up to that horror every morning. She’d have to go to bed at sunset to get enough sleep—and she was a night person.

  There had to be an ordinance against keeping roosters within the town limits. She’d file a complaint. That would give her an excuse to see Cas again and find out if he looked as good in the daylight as he did in the dark—or in her dream.

  She climbed into bed. The sheets had lost their warmth and her body had lost all residual arousal caused by her deliciously erotic dream. She nestled under the covers anyway.

  “Now where was I?” She closed her eyes. “Oh yes. Ummmm.” She sighed and fell asleep.

  It took Julie a few seconds to realize that Cas hadn’t suddenly developed halitosis in addition to his hemorrhoids, a condition she had conveniently edited out of her dream. Smitty was standing over her, panting his Get a move on, I’ve got to take a piss, wake-up call.

  She stretched, yawned, while her body made creaking noises, and wondered how far she would have to drive for a double latte. Light was coming through the window, but Julie could tell it was still early. In the city she’d just be getting off her shift. If she had a shift, which she didn’t.

  Smitty whined and looked mournful.

  “All right, all right.” She pushed him away and shoved back the covers. And shivered. She grabbed the comforter and pulled it over her head. She hadn’t thought about heat the night before; there had been plenty of that between her and Cas, but this morning was another story.

  Smitty grabbed the comforter in his teeth and tugged it away. “Just another teeny minute,” she pleaded and grabbed it back. Smitty shook his head and the comforter fell to the floor.

  Julie sat up and gooseflesh erupted on every inch of uncovered skin. She
slid out of bed and rushed to the dresser, pulled on jeans and a sweat shirt, then added another sweatshirt, one that covered her midsection, for extra warmth. She shoved her feet into a new pair of Timberland boots she’d bought from a street vendor, laced them up, and followed an anxious Smitty downstairs.

  She stopped in the hall long enough to turn up the thermostat and was surprised to be met with actual heat and not more clanking pipes. When she reached the kitchen, Smitty was pacing at the back door, and he bolted past her as soon as she cracked it open.

  “Don’t stray,” she called after him as he disappeared around the back of the house. “Do not roll in pond scum. Don’t chase anything with rabies. Stay away from early rising roosters. And all things Reynolds.” She closed the door on the frigid morning. Pretty damn cold for October.

  A few minutes later, having successfully filled the coffee carafe from the exploding tap, Julie leaned her elbows on the counter and listened to the steady drip, drip of liquid caffeine as it played a counterpoint to the bass line buzz of the fluorescent light.

  In the background, she could hear Smitty barking. It was early, she was coffee-less and Smitty was communing with the wonders of nature. She wondered if Cas walked dogs; she already knew he could make coffee.

  A particularly loud-pitched bark interrupted that train of thought. “Damn it, now what?”

  She looked out the window and saw nothing. There was definitely action going down outside, but since she didn’t think Smitty had cornered a drug dealer, she merely opened the door and whistled.

  But Smitty didn’t come bounding around the house. She whistled again, called his name, and finally tramped across the back porch and into the yard to look for him. A gust of wind sent a shiver down her spine, and she crossed her arms to ward off the cold.

  Up on the hill, the gazebo glistened white in the early morning sunlight. Julie stared in disbelief. It was surrounded by a mesh fence, at least six feet high. The open arches had been enclosed with whitewashed plywood, leaving only small crescent-shaped windows near the top. Instead of the wooden steps, a ramp ran down from the original door to the ground.

  What had happened to her gazebo?

  And then she saw Smitty. He was inside the fence, running in circles, cutting in and out of a mass of moving fluff. He stopped with his nose down, rump up, barked, then started up again. Something had triggered an inbred, and for Smitty, never used, herding instinct. Because he was definitely herding. A sudden flurry and frantic squawking rose up as he dove into the quivering mass.

  Julie rubbed her eyes, looked again.

  Chickens. Dozens of them. Red ones. White ones. Brown and black ones. Running mindlessly in all directions as Smitty’s latent sheepherding abilities came to life, while a person, stocky and squat, dressed in a heavy brown jacket, overalls and a wide-brimmed hat, furiously waved both arms at him.

  “Smitty,” yelled Julie as she ran toward him. “Off, Off! Don’t eat anything. Chickens have all sorts of diseases and I don’t know where to find a good vet.”

  Smitty turned to look at her. So did fifty beady chicken eyes. And suddenly as if on some silent command, they began to move away from Smitty and toward her. They squeezed through an opening in the fence and began high-stepping down the hill like a demented poultry regiment.

  Jesus. Julie slid to a stop, then took a step backwards as chickens surrounded her.

  The rooster was hers. Wes had left her chickens.

  “What am I going to do with chickens?” she asked the sky. “What am I going to do with chickens?” she repeated in the direction of hell. “Damn it, Wes, if this is the answer to the riddle, I’ve got to say, ‘Not Funny!!’ ”

  She stood motionless, not knowing what to do, while chickens pecked at her boots, her jeans and anything else they could reach, which thankfully wasn’t much. At least chickens can’t fly, she thought, just as a fat white hen rose several feet into the air. Julie ducked out of the way as a cloud of feathers brushed by her face and settled on the ground a few feet away.

  Smitty pounced toward it; the chicken let out a squawk and beat her wings. Undaunted, Smitty nipped at her tail feathers until she hopped back to join the others.

  The commotion at Julie’s feet suddenly escalated. A black and brown hen pecked at a little speckled one. A red puffed-up monstrosity, whose top thing looked like it had had a bad run-in with a curling iron, joined in and soon there was an out-and-out chicken fight.

  “Smitty. Do something. Make them go back to their ... ” What did you call a chicken gazebo? Her mind retrieved every nature program she had tuned into by mistake while looking for the Daily Show.

  Then it came to her. Coop. Wes had turned the intricately ornate gazebo, the place of summer breezes, homemade lemonade and games of dominos, into a chicken coop.

  The man in the hat barreled down the hill still flapping his arms as if he, too, were going airborne. Which would be a problem since he was not designed for lift-off, though the hat was wide enough to catch a few wind currents. The chickens made a path for him, then crowded in behind him as he came to a stop in front of Julie.

  “Call off your damn dog. This isn’t the National Herding Trials. Which is a good thing, because that mutt doesn’t have a clue.”

  Smitty, who’d stopped to sniff the newcomer, barked and poised for attack.

  “No-o-o,” cried Julie as Smitty leapt through the air, knocking the man against her. Julie fell back and the three of them tumbled to the ground. They were soon surrounded by chickens, which overcome by curiosity or stupidity, began to climb over them.

  “Damn it, Smitty,” said Julie.

  Smitty arfed and thumped his tail in the newcomer’s face. His hat fell to the ground.

  Julie pushed the roly-poly stranger and a few chickens away, then sprang to her feet as sudden realization dawned. Now she knew what the pond scum odor really was. She quickly checked her clothes for signs of chicken droppings.

  The trespasser struggled to his feet and reached for his hat just as Smitty snagged it between his teeth.

  “That’s my best hat,” he said.

  Julie stopped and looked at the hat and then at the man.

  His silver gray hair was cut in a bowl shape. His crinkly, sun-parched face made Julie wonder about the efficiency of the outlandish hat.

  “Drop it,” Julie commanded.

  Smitty released the hat. It fell at her feet. She handed it back to its owner.

  “Thank you.” He brushed off the brim, inspected it, then stuffed it back on his head. He slapped his hand across his overalls and stuck it toward Julie. “Maude Clemmons. You must be Julie. Took you long enough to get here.”

  Julie quickly wiped off her own hand while she readjusted her initial appraisal of the stranger. He was a she named Maude.

  “How do you do,” Julie said as her hand was taken between strong fingers and a callused palm, and she was given a handshake that threatened to rattle her teeth.

  “You seem surprised to see me. Didn’t Wes tell you I’d be over to feed the beauties?”

  “Wes is dead,” Julie blurted out, then bit her lip. “You knew that, didn’t you?”

  “Damn heart. Never did take care of himself, the old coot. I told him if he didn’t cut out that feud with Reynolds he’d have a coronary. But you know Wes. Never did things by halves. Had three in a row. The last one did him in. Should have saved my breath. Damn.” Maude stuffed her hand into a deep pocket, pulled out a red handkerchief, and wiped her eyes with it before stuffing it back into the pocket.

  “Uh,” said Julie.

  “Welcome aboard. Where do you want to start?” Maude walked away without waiting for an answer. The chickens, who had settled into a clump some distance away, crowded behind her.

  “Come on,” she said and started back toward the gazebo.

  Since the chickens were following her, Julie felt no need to do the same, until Maude stopped, turned around and said, “Come on.”

  Julie followed ... reluctantly.
As soon as she was inside the compound, Maude latched the fence. Smitty whined from the other side.

  Julie held her breath. The smell was overpowering.

  “Yeah, it’s getting a little ripe. I’ll send the Pliney boys over to cart it away. Twenty bucks. And watch them or they’ll leave a trail all the way to the truck. It’s a good thing you got here. I’ll be out of town next week. You should be able to get along without me by then.”

  “Me?” Julie squeaked, trying not to breathe.

  Maude picked up a tin pan and began tossing little pebbles at the chickens who fell on the particles like they were caviar. “Wes left you instructions. I’ll show you through the routine.” She handed the now empty pie pan to Julie.

  “Wes liked to let them roam. Even let them in the house. A little too laissez-faire for me. I mean, have you ever tried to clean chicken shit out of an Oriental carpet?”

  Julie shook her head. Her lungs were bursting.

  “Never get rid of the smell. Which reminds me. Be sure to leave your shoes on the porch. You don’t want to track anything into the house.”

  Julie shook her head, then nodded, thinking of the boots she had worn last night. The smell. That’s why they’d been left on the porch. And Cas told her to leave them outside. He must have know about the chickens, too. Why didn’t he warn her?

  Her eyes began to tear from the attempt not to breathe. Her lungs gave up the fight and she gasped for breath. Her stomach rolled over.

  “I don’t think I’m ready for this.” She fumbled with the latch, squeezed through the mesh opening, and sped back to the kitchen and coffee and sanity.

  Twenty minutes later, Julie heard two clunks on the porch, followed by a loud rap on the kitchen door. She put down her coffee mug and went to open it. Maude stood on the threshold, holding a basket of multi-sized eggs and a paper grocery bag. She was hatless and bootless, and red, yellow and orange striped socks stuck out from rolled-up overalls.

  “You’re gonna have to learn to take care of these chickens. I can’t be on permanent call. I have my own flock to take care of. Plus I got a thousand chickens to sex over in Plattsburgh next week.” Maude marched past her and plunked the basket and bag down on the counter.