by Ruby Laska
Cal moved toward the sound. Faint light seeped out into the hallway from one of the back rooms. The door was open a few inches, and Cal was pretty sure the girl was behind the door.
This was crazy, he scolded himself as he hesitated outside the room. If she was a dangerous intruder, or even one bent on damaging or sabotaging the old house, he should be calling it in, not trying to deal with it himself. The whole point of becoming a cop was because he believed in the system—believed in the power of law and order and compassion to right wrongs in the world, to stop the forces that corrupted neighborhoods and ruined lives.
If she was armed—and for all he knew, she could be high as a kite and carrying an arsenal—he was putting himself directly into harm's way, risking his whole reinvention before he even got it off the ground. If she was a runaway looking for a place to crash, then there wasn't anything he could offer her, and the authorities were going to have to get involved anyway.
And if he did end up having to make the call after trying to handle it himself, he was going to have some explaining to do, which wasn't going to help make his case any easier. All that stood between him and a place on the Conway police force were the last of the exams and the background check and references. Chief Byrd had shaken his hand and told him "It looks good for you, son." Which wasn't a legally binding contract. If he had any sense at all, Cal would turn around and walk back to the house and let the people who already had their badges handle this.
But there was something about that bike. The tape wrapped carefully around the worn seat; the decals on the fenders. The way her hair had streamed behind her as she ran from the house yesterday afternoon. She looked...vulnerable.
And Cal remembered how that felt.
With one finger, he gave the door a little push, positioning himself against the wall where, if he'd misjudged the situation, he could get out of the way fast.
Crouched down on her knees, illuminated by the golden light of the flashlight that she had rested on its side to point at the wall, the girl was mostly obscured by her long hair. It was thick and wavy, a deep shade of chestnut that lightened at the ends. She was wearing heavy black motorcycle boots and well-worn jeans, and she was sliding a screwdriver along the floorboards next to the wall, testing the gap between the molding and the worn oak and tapping at the wood.
No guns. No drug paraphernalia. Just a tired old backpack patched with duct tape.
"Hey," he said softly, not wanting to spook her. "What's going on here?"
She dropped the screwdriver and looked up at him. Her eyes were wide and depthless, shining black in the dim light. Her lips were parted; the tune she had been humming cut off abruptly, its echo still in Cal's mind.
He could see her calculating frantically, looking to his left and right, to the door a few feet behind. He knew the second she made her decision, because her shoulders tensed and her fingers splayed against the floorboards as she rocked forward on her heels.
He was ready for her. She was fast and agile, and she almost made it, feinting to the left as she streaked past him, but he caught the hood of her sweatshirt and she stumbled and fell at his feet, her arms flailing and her legs kicking.
He pulled her arms behind her back and lifted her to her knees, facing away from him so she couldn't connect a kick with his body. She never stopped fighting him—and she never said a word.
#
At least she hadn't found it tonight. That would have been the last straw, Roan thought as she rubbed her aching forearms, sitting with her knees pulled up and her back against the wall. It was bad enough that she hadn't found Grandpop's treasure, but it would be a thousand times worse to find it only to have it taken from her by some low-life squatter.
He was sitting next to the door, his forearms resting casually on his knees, watching her in the light of the flashlight he’d taken from her. He kept it pointed down, careful not to direct the beam in her eyes, and she’d been able to steal a few glances at him. He looked like he was in his late twenties, with three or four inches on her own five-seven and a solid, broad-shouldered build. His thick, straight hair was so dark it might have been black, and his eyes were unreadable. He moved fast—she had to give him credit for that—and he was strong. He'd picked her up like she weighed nothing, and he knew more about fighting than she did, because she hadn't been able to get a single jab in. But since Roan's fighting career consisted of a single summer in jujitsu, back when Mimi's step-mothering playbook featured keeping Roan in activities around the clock so she wouldn't have to deal with her, Roan was rusty, to say the least.
"So," the man finally said. His voice, despite being low and raspy, as though he didn't use it much, was surprisingly gentle. “You want to tell me what's going on?"
She shook her head. Say nothing, Roan reminded herself. She needed to get out of here and come up with a plan B, since she had only a week to help Angel.
She sighed and rolled her eyes. "Nothing. Nothing is going on. I used to live here, is all. A trip down memory lane. How about you tell me what you're doing here? Because as far as I can tell, you're trespassing."
One thick dark eyebrow shot up. "Seriously? I'm a tenant. I rent a room in the bunkhouse next door. And unless your name is Mimi Brackens—and from what I understand, she's in her sixties—then you're the trespasser here."
At the mention of her stepmother's name, Roan couldn't help flinching. And she could tell he saw it. He was watching her like he was trying to read a book, and it was making her uncomfortable. Roan didn't like to be looked at—never had. Which was why, when Walt hired her, she had asked to be trained for a job in the workshop rather than out front with the customers. Why Hank called her their "spokes-girl," a teasing reference to her shyness around the customers and her preference for the tune-ups, brake replacements, and chain repairs that filled her workday.
She let her hair fall forward, obscuring her face, a trick she'd learned when she was a little girl and one that still served her well.
"Mimi married my dad after my mom died," she muttered. "I lived in this house from the day I came home from the hospital until I was eighteen."
"Then why didn't you just ask Mimi for a key? It was you who cut the lock off, wasn't it?"
Roan felt her face flush. "We're not exactly on the best of terms. But what I'm looking for is mine. I'm not trying to steal anything."
Technically, that might not exactly have been true, since Mimi had inherited the house and land and outbuildings and everything inside them. Her dad had left Roan a small inheritance that she would come into when she was thirty, six years from now, which would be enough for a nice down payment on a place to live, or money for school—she'd decide when she got there. He'd also left Roan her mother's jewelry, though somehow it had gotten "lost" in the estate, and her grandmother's china, which was carefully wrapped and boxed under her bed.
Everything else had gone to Mimi. But her father had never known about the treasure: Grandpop always said that was a secret between him and his best girl Roan. He would have wanted her to have whatever valuable item he had secreted away inside the house, she was sure of it. Not some trampy bleached-blond gold-digger who married his son when he was still grieving, then ran off to town the minute he died.
Roan peeked through her curtain of hair at the man who was keeping her prisoner in the old pantry. He was looking at her as though he knew everything about her without being told. "Then I guess we're back where we started," he said. "Breaking and entering."
"What do you care?" she snapped, lifting her head and looking at him defiantly. "You work on the rigs, right? Came up from Mississippi or Georgia or somewhere like that, to get rich? What business is it of yours what goes on in this town, since you'll leave as soon as the work dries up?"
"You're local."
"Yeah, genius, I already told you that."
His expression didn't change. He looked...thoughtful. Calculating. Roan couldn't figure out his angle, and it made her nervous. If he wanted to harm her, he
would have done so already. If he was going to turn her in, all it would take was a quick call, but he hadn't reached for his phone. He couldn't possibly know about the treasure, so she didn't figure he wanted a cut of it.
Hell, he probably wouldn't believe it if she told him about it, anyway. He'd probably doubt that an old man would bury something valuable beneath the floor of the family home before he died. But Grandpop had been an eccentric old war veteran with a distrust of banks, and besides, Roan had no choice but to believe the treasure was real. It was Angel's only hope.
"My name is Cal," the man said finally. "Calvin Dixon. I'm not an oilman, but a lot of my friends are. And I'm from Arkansas. We all are." He hooked his thumb behind him, toward the bunkhouse. "We rent from your stepmother. I'm not going to tell her I found you out here, long as we can come to some kind of agreement, so you can stop worrying about that."
Roan snorted, unwilling to let him see the relief that flooded her. She couldn't really afford to antagonize Mimi, not unless she wanted to get sucked into another big drama over her plans for the farm. Last time Mimi sold off acreage, Roan had been furious, but the angry phone calls between them had done nothing but make her feel worse. She couldn't control what Mimi did, so the best she could do was to ignore her as well as the ranch, which she'd been doing until very recently. Until she got desperate.
"Whatever," she muttered.
"You're not going to break in any more. I can't exactly sit over here waiting for you to show up in the middle of the night, and I don't want to have to explain to my roommates that it isn't raccoons over here leaving tracks."
"Okay, I won't come back," she snapped at him. Let him believe it, if it helped him sleep at night; she'd just have to be more careful.
"And I'm taking you to lunch."
"No." She bit off the word almost before he finished speaking. It wasn't just fear that caused her visceral response—after all, he couldn't do anything to her in a public place, especially if he promised not to tell anyone that he'd caught her breaking in—but the stirring of emotions Roan didn't have a name for.
Calvin Dixon, whoever he was, was dangerous. Not because he was strong, and stealthy, and unclear about his motives. But because Roan felt herself responding to him: to his dark, ragged good looks; to his measured words and smoldering eye contact. Because he was a man who made her feel very much like a grown woman.
At twenty-four, Roan had had several relationships with men, one that lasted almost six months. But she'd also had time to build a wall against intimacy that had seemed solid enough to keep out any serious bids for her heart. And she needed that wall to stay firmly in place.
"It's the deal," Cal said, his voice hard. "Take it or leave it."
Their eyes met and held. The only sound was the creaking of beams somewhere in the upper floor of the ruined house. In Roan's old bedroom, perhaps, which had looked out over a flowering dogwood and a view of the town far in the distance. Roan curled her fingers into fists and took a breath. It was just lunch—she could survive an hour in a public place with anyone, even this man who'd interrupted her search for treasure, who'd never understand what was at stake.
"Not unless I have your word I can finish looking for what's mine."
"Can't let you do that." He shook his head, his jaw set. "You'll have to work that out with Mimi."
More stony silence. "Fine," she finally lied. She'd just have to find a way.
"And I'm driving you home."
"I have my bike."
"It's almost three in the morning. And it's about to rain. I'm not asking. What's your name, anyway?"
"Roan," she said, and she saw him try it soundlessly, moving his lips to the shape of her name as he helped her up, folding her hand into his like it was made to fit there.
CHAPTER THREE
The bike was surprising.
It didn't look like much on the outside, but as Cal rolled it toward his truck, it glided as though it had just rolled off the assembly line. Someone had done some custom work on the gears, and the wheels rolled straight and true.
Roan looked like she wanted to bolt. But as he lifted the bike into the truck bed, she got into the cab and put on her seat belt.
"I'm on Myrtle Street," she said, staring straight ahead. "Two blocks past the tire store on Second."
Cal nodded and started the truck, backing carefully into a turn before heading down the lane toward the main road. He glanced at the bunkhouse; the only light on was in his own bedroom. His roommates were all asleep. It would be close to four o'clock when he got back, too late to try to get any more sleep. At five-thirty, Matthew would be up making coffee and starting breakfast. And Cal had plenty of experience waiting out the hours before dawn.
They didn't speak. Cal glanced at her as he drove, keeping an eye on the road ahead of him. Even in the middle of the night the trucks made the route through town out to the rigs, loaded down with equipment and oil and gravel and sand. The rigs never slept: the night shift would end at seven, a fresh crew coming in to take over until their own twelve hours were finished. Then they would return, exhausted, to the man camps and apartments and motels they called home during their hitches, which lasted weeks at a time. Cal was one of the lucky ones, with a real home, and friends to make it bearable.
"I didn't need a ride," she finally said. She sounded angry, but somehow Cal knew it wasn't all directed at him. "I could have biked."
"All right."
He wasn't going to give her an argument, even if that's what she was looking for. She was older than he'd first thought. Yesterday afternoon, he'd glimpsed only her slim, wiry figure and all that hair and thought she was a teenager, maybe a runaway. But the woman sitting next to him in his truck was all grown up, not much younger than his own twenty-eight years. Underneath the battered leather jacket and the old sweatshirt, her body bore a woman's curves, her hips and ass fitting the old jeans perfectly. Her face was all angles and planes, full lips and cheekbones and narrow navy-blue eyes that tilted up slightly at the corners, making her look like she had a thousand secrets. She'd be gorgeous if she pulled her hair back enough for anyone to get a look at her face, but he had the feeling she didn't have the faintest idea.
He found Myrtle Street and turned right. A handful of bungalows lined one side; the other was taken up by a lumberyard, the tall fencing that surrounded it topped by razor wire and lit by spots.
"I can get out here," Roan said, her hand already on the door handle.
"Which one's yours?" Cal gambled that she wouldn't jump out while the truck was still moving, but he slowed just in case. He didn't need to be peeling her off the road tonight, not with dawn just hours away.
She bit her lip, barely looking at him. "Why do you need to know?"
"Look," Cal said, letting out an exasperated sigh. "I can find out easy enough. You already know my name, you know where I live, and I guess by now we can agree I'm not exactly a danger to you. In fact, I might be the kind of friend you could stand to have."
Why had he said that? He'd asked Roan to lunch tomorrow just so he could get a little closure on the events in the burned house: if he established his relationship to Mimi, to his friends, to the ranch, maybe he could help Roan get whatever it was she was looking for without complicating their renting situation. Which was tenuous, to say the least; Mimi wasn't exactly the easiest landlady in the world, according to Matthew. The rest of them hadn't met her yet, since Matthew took care of all the details.
He wanted to help. The notion echoed back in his mind, mocking him. The same voice he fought every day since he'd been an out-of-control teenager, the voice that tried to seduce him into quitting, giving up, agreeing with the rest of the world that he was no good and never would be.
"Let me help, damn it," he repeated. Way louder than necessary. Roan gave him a startled glance and he knew he'd gone too far. He gripped the steering wheel so hard he thought he might pull it off the steering column.
"I have plenty of friends," Roan mumbled. But
Cal knew a lie when he heard one. Her hand was still on the door handle; she was looking down at the floor of the truck.
"It's that one," he said, pointing at a little white house with brick trim and a pair of crabapple trees flanking the walk. A row of shrubs was neatly wrapped in burlap; window boxes had been filled with cut greens. The house itself had seen better days; paint peeled and the porch listed and one of the shutters was hanging by a nail.
"How did you know?" She finally looked him in the eye.
Cal shrugged. As deductive detective work went, it was hardly a challenge. He pointed to the garage at the end of the pebbled driveway; leaning against its side were half a dozen bicycle tires and several bikes in various states of disrepair and dismantling. "They're yours, right?"
She looked from the bicycle parts back to him and nodded.
"You fix bikes."
"I work at Walt's bike shop."
Cal couldn't think of anything else to say. He was uncomfortably aware of trying to stretch the conversation out. "So I'll see you tomorrow. Bluebird okay? Noon?"
"I guess." This time she opened the door and jumped out without looking at him. Cal considered getting out and lifting her bike from the truck bed, but he figured she'd only glare at him. She had it out, her hand under the frame like it weighed nothing, in seconds.
Cal watched Roan wheel the thing down the drive and around the back of the house. She never looked back.
CHAPTER FOUR
"Angel," Roan said softly, sliding her backpack onto the battered table next to the door. "My big girl."
In response she heard the thump of a feathered tail against the wall of the kitchen. As Roan snapped on a light, bathing one of her two small rooms in golden light, she winced, knowing that Angel was getting slowly to her feet, her hips trembling with pain and effort as she braced herself against the wall.
"Animals are incredibly adaptable," Dr. Raj had told Roan kindly last time she'd taken Angel in. She knew Dr. Raj had been trying to make her feel better. His gentle, caring ways went well beyond the animals in his veterinary practice; he was just as solicitous with the humans who came through his doors.