by Diana Palmer
Tracy watched his gaze follow the truck. The smile that had lingered on his passionately mobile mouth disappeared. A tight-lipped expression took its place. He swung his head in her direction suddenly.
Judd had thought he was prepared to meet Tracy again. It had been years since he’d seen her. The pain had long since subsided into the empty place inside him where nothing could hurt.
But he hadn’t counted on this. The impact of seeing her was like getting hit with a slug from a buffalo gun. He tightened one hand into a fist, angered by the reaction that raged through his body. He watched as she left her car and approached the crosswalk.
She wore a golden yellow suit with a blouse printed in random splotches of red, blue and yellow. Her belt, heels and purse were the same shade as the blue in the blouse. Her earrings were blue flowers with golden centers. She looked like Spring personified.
Her hair was light auburn. It gleamed like copper wire in the sun, but he knew its real texture. It was the same shade, the same downy softness, wherever he’d touched it on her body.
A harsh pang of need drove through him like a heat-tempered spear. He knew exactly what she looked like without the city clothes and the makeup that highlighted her green eyes.
The mountain wind made wanton love to her as she paused, her gaze going in one direction, then the other, as she waited for a break in the bustling Monday-morning traffic.
Her skirt, coaxed by the wind, pressed between her thighs, outlining the long slender grace of her legs…legs that had once wrapped sensuously around him, demanding he give himself to her completely, holding nothing back. And he had. God, he had!
She’d taken possession of his heart and soul. She’d wound herself around him until no moment was complete without her. Then she’d rejected him, scorning him as if their marriage had become an abomination, his touch so distasteful she couldn’t bear it.
He’d waited, making no demands, ignoring his own pain, knowing they both needed to heal after the death of their son, but their time had never come again. It had been the final grief.
By the time of the divorce, it had been a relief to move out. By then, he’d felt like a dry husk of a man, empty, drained, with nothing left inside to give, even if she had wanted him again.
She never had. She’d left, not returning once during the seven years since the divorce. He forced the unwanted feelings into abeyance. It was better to be empty. Life was easier.
Tracy crossed the street, her two-inch heels clicking noisily on the pavement. She should have worn flats, but she would have felt short next to Judd’s six-feet-plus frame, even though she was a bit over five-seven herself. She needed to feel in control, not like that foolish teenager who’d thought physical attraction was enough to build a life on.
The station steps had an iron railing running down the middle of them. She started up the right side of it. Judd was on the other side. He started down. They met in the middle.
He moved down one more step, so that they stood eye-to-eye. His hand brushed hers on the railing as he paused. A flash of sensation raced across her skin, almost like a pain.
“Hello, Tracy,” he said, moving his hand farther up the railing. The other settled below where she gripped the smooth iron like a lifeline. “How are you?”
She stared at their hands, his tanned skin dark next to her paleness. There were tiny black hairs on the backs of his hands. His fingers were well-shaped, long and slender…sensuous.
A strange shiver ran over her, as if she could feel them caressing her, running down her breasts, her ribs, her stomach, her thighs….
With a gasp, she tore her gaze from those hands whose touch she’d once loved more than anything. “Fine,” she finally answered. “And you?”
He shrugged. His shoulders were broad. He wore the uniform of the county sheriff well, at ease with the authority it imparted.
The dark brown shirt with the gold-silver-and-black badge that stated his official status hugged his muscular torso with great accuracy. The dark brown stripe up the side of the light brown pants made his legs seem even longer and more powerful.
A sudden memory came to her, sensual and compelling. During the cold Montana winters, he’d always slept close to her, his leg thrown across her thighs, his arm over her waist. Once he’d murmured it was too bad they didn’t live at the North Pole so he could hold her close every night of the year.
She felt the warming of her body, the softness creeping inside her, the moist heat forming as she prepared to receive him. She tightened her grip on the railing.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She looked at him, helpless, haunted by a love she hadn’t asked for, hadn’t known how to handle, by a passion that wouldn’t leave her completely.
A shock of dark hair, a whispered voice behind her at the theater, a graceful movement of a man glimpsed at a distance and it was like a door opening inside her, welcoming the man whose image the hair, the voice or the movement had invoked.
“Yes,” she said, gathering herself together. “Of course. I thought I’d check in with you to let you know I was in town.”
“What are your plans?”
“Well, I have to pick up the key to the house I rented—”
“I have it. The agent left on a fishing trip. He said he might not make it back if the fish were biting, so he gave me the key last Friday.”
“Oh. Well, good.” What else was there to say? Her residence while she was here could hardly be kept a secret. “I want to go out to the site where the bones were found as soon as possible.”
“Right.” He sounded crisp and official. “You have a meeting with the tribal chairman and attorney in the morning. They want to discuss the situation.”
“Okay.” She could tell Judd didn’t like the idea of consulting with the others. If a crime had been committed in the county, he wanted to jump right on the case.
He was a man who took his responsibilities seriously. When they’d suspected she was pregnant that summer many years ago, he’d insisted they marry immediately. “Growing up is hard enough in this day and age without being a bastard in the bargain,” he’d said, then grinned. “I don’t intend to let you go.”
She knew his own youth had been unhappy. His parents, though married and wealthy, had quarreled all the time. When Judd had come out to Montana on a vacation after practicing law with his father for three years, he’d liked the wide, open spaces, the peace he’d found there. That was the summer they’d met.
He’d stayed—against his parents’ wishes—and started work as a rookie in the sheriff’s department when they married. They’d been deliriously happy that year. At least, she had.
“We’ll go to the site after the meeting. You’ll need to wear jeans and hiking shoes. It’s rough country.” He looked at his watch. “Have you had lunch?”
“No, I’d forgotten about it.”
He nodded and looked away. “Yeah.”
Tracy knew he was recalling the past. He used to tease her about losing herself in whatever she was doing, whether researching forensic techniques or planting a garden. He’d often arrived home to find her buried in a project, no supper on the table, the bed unmade, in spite of her good intentions.
He would always chuckle at her consternation, and they would end up making love. Later, they would prepare the meal together.
Judd had been a patient, forbearing husband. Eight years her senior, he’d been indulgent toward her enthusiastic rush through life. He’d made no demands, except that she welcome his caress….
She turned her back on him and the memories he invoked and headed for her car.
“We’ll go by your…house first. Then we’ll pick up something to eat and go to my office. I have the reports you requested and the topography maps,” he said, easily keeping up with her, his stride long and surefooted.
She wondered at the hesitation before he mentioned her rental house. Was it because he, too, remembered the house they’d built together? It had been s
mall but perfect, set on its own ten acres with woods all around it, next to Route 17.
After the divorce, the house had been sold and the profit split between them. She’d invested her share, unable to bring herself to spend it. It had felt like blood money, spoils from the death of their marriage…and the death of their son.
Judd pulled out of the parking lot in his unmarked county vehicle, which was a black sports utility truck. The only difference between it and others of its kind was the wire-mesh glass that could be rolled up between the driver and the rear seat, and the fact that the rear doors couldn’t be opened from inside the vehicle.
Behind him, Tracy eased into the traffic flow and followed him to Pale Bluff Lane. The rental house was a white, two-bedroom cottage set behind a picket fence. Multiflora roses covered the fence along the side of the driveway.
He stopped in front of the house while Tracy turned into the drive and parked under the carport. He met her at the front door, fished the key out of his pocket and let her precede him into the house. “I, uh, had someone come over and give it a good cleaning on Saturday. It was rather grimy.”
“Thank you.” She was clearly startled by this news. She looked around the tiny living room. “Oh, this is really nice.” Her smile was hesitant, but pleased.
He noticed the way the light from the window reflected in her eyes, turning them from mossy to golden green. He’d liked to make love to her outside, on the grass with the sun streaming over them, her eyes the color of new leaves as she smiled up at him.
When they’d made love like that, he’d carefully shielded her tender skin from the sun with his own body, which tanned easily.
He cursed silently at himself. “I’ll bring your stuff in.”
“I’ll help,” she said. “It isn’t much.”
It wasn’t—only a soft-sided suitcase with wheels and a nylon carpetbag with a matching makeup bag. He recognized the latter. She’d asked for them as a Christmas present years ago. He and Thadd had picked them out. He was surprised she still had them, or that she would use them.
But then, two years ago he had repurchased the house they’d shared as man and wife. He wasn’t sure why, except it was the only place he’d ever been truly happy. He wondered if she knew….
He doubted she’d ever wanted to know about him after she left town. She’d left the state and the country after the divorce.
For a second, the emptiness threatened to fill with the black grief of those days. He trampled it down roughly. Emotion had no place in his life, not anymore.
He suddenly remembered a time from the past. Tracy had turned on him in anger. “Tell me how to stop feeling!” she’d cried. “Our son is dead. Tell me how to stop hurting!”
He’d had no answers for her, no words of comfort. He hadn’t wanted to talk about it. The pain was too much. He’d walked out.
Later, knowing he’d failed her, he’d tried to hold her, to make love and erase the bitter hurt, but she’d pushed him away, coldly rejecting him. In that instant it had become clear that she blamed him for their son’s death.
He blamed himself. He was the one who’d laughed at her fears. He was the one who’d encouraged Thadd to roam the woods, to watch for animals, to learn the ways of nature.
Their son had been shot through the lungs from a quarter-mile distance with a high-powered rifle. The police had never found whoever had fired the shot. It was doubtful the hunter had even known he’d hit anything, much less an eight-year-old boy tracking a deer.
“That’s all,” she said. “Judd?”
He blinked, then nodded, pulling himself from the past as if walking across land mines. He willed the emptiness into place.
Carrying the suitcase and carpetbag, he followed her back to the house and into one of the two bedrooms. It looked a hell of a lot better than it had on Friday when, out of curiosity, he’d come over to check the place before Tracy arrived.
At that time the floors, windows, curtains and furniture had been dusty and stained from the last people who’d rented it. Judd had called his cleaning woman for help. Mrs. Johnstone and her son had dashed to the rescue.
It had taken the three of them all day Saturday, but the cottage showed the results in sparkling windows, sweet-smelling curtains, shampooed rugs and furniture and scrubbed floors.
Outside, the son had mowed the yard while Judd had weeded and clipped back the roses. Together they had washed the windows, then the doors and window facings smudged with fingerprints.
A sense of satisfaction hit him. At least the cottage wasn’t a disappointment to her.
“Just set them down anywhere,” she told him. “I’ll freshen up and be with you in a minute.”
“Take your time. Change to something more comfortable if you like. We’re still casual here in the country.” He didn’t know why he’d added that little barb. It was just that she looked so damned sophisticated…so damned untouchable…in that silk suit.
He placed the luggage on the bed and hurriedly departed. The bed, covered in a white frilly spread with gold-and-pink poppies embroidered all over it, was giving him ideas.
He paced to the back door and gripped the framing as he looked at the clear vista beyond the yard.
Pale Bluff Lane ran across the lip of a limestone outcropping that formed a bluff rising twenty to fifty feet above the lower part of the valley floor, where Highway 191 curved north and ran the length of the county.
His county. His domain and responsibility.
He leaned against the jamb and crossed his arms over his chest, worry forming inside him. Tracy would be officially in charge, but it was going to be his case.
A murder investigation was no place for a woman as delicate as Tracy. Hell, she’d been squeamish over the wild game he and Thadd had brought in for dinner during various hunting seasons.
Actually, it might not be a murder case. That was what she was supposed to tell them. The department needed the who, what, why, where and when of the bones found on the reservation before they would know if they had a case.
“Okay, I’m ready,” she said from behind him.
He turned and stopped stone-still. She had changed into slacks that matched the golden yellow suit, but had retained the printed blouse and suit jacket. Her hair was drawn back from her face with a barrette, and she wore tasseled loafers.
She looked like the girl of nineteen he’d first seen on a rarely used hiking trail, watching him drink before he plunged into the cold pool to bathe.
At that time she’d been dressed in jeans, a yellow T-shirt and a long-sleeved, yellow-checked shirt open down the front. She’d driven him to instant arousal then. She did the same now.
“God help me,” he muttered, and forced himself to walk out the door before he did the same thing he’d done two weeks after that first meeting—kiss her until she was pliant in his arms.
Tracy nibbled on the chicken sandwich without much enthusiasm. Judd had gone to a fast-food place out on the highway. Now they sat on opposite sides of the desk in his office while he filled her in on the case.
“Last March, George Sweetwater found the bones—”
“George,” Tracy interrupted. “I remember him. What was he doing in the woods, especially in that area? It’s sacred ground.”
“He says he was running his dogs to keep them in trim for the hunting season in the fall.”
Tracy had to smile. “He was rabbit hunting,” she concluded.
Judd’s eyes met hers. He smiled, too. “Out of season,” he added. “And without a license.”
“He doesn’t need a license on tribal ground.”
Tracy knew tribal law better than most of the Cheyenne. She had spent every summer since her earliest years on the reservation, helping her father gather oral histories and myths about the tribe.
As a history professor at the university, he’d made Montana Native Americans and pioneers his particular field. He’d been delighted when his daughter had followed in his footsteps—sort of—with her d
egree in anthropology. That was before she’d gone into forensic science.
“So you’re still up on local codes,” Judd remarked dryly.
“I reviewed the case with my father.”
“How is he?”
“His knee is bothering him some, but he stills walks up the hill every day.” She laughed, thinking of the steep hill overlooking the campus in Missoula. “Faster than some of his students. In fact, he loves to challenge the freshman history class to meet him at the top for their first lesson.”
Judd’s deep chuckle rippled over her, setting up vibrations in some molten inner core that she rarely acknowledged. She wanted no soft, vulnerable places inside her. She didn’t want to respond to him in any way.
“I’m sorry about your mother,” he said, the smile fading.
Tracy’s mother had died in an accident two years ago. Her father had been lonely after that. “Thank you. And your folks?”
“They’re fine. My niece graduated from high school.”
“Oh, yes. She’s eighteen. I’d forgotten.”
The cooling breeze from the air conditioner swirled a strand of hair across her mouth. She pushed it back, then refastened the clip that held the thick waves away from her face.
When she finished, she glanced across the desk and caught Judd watching her. The harsh expression on his face stunned her.
Then it was gone, and she wasn’t certain what she’d seen. But there for a second, as he’d watched her fix her hair, his expression had been so grim, she thought he must hate her.
“Anyway, George found the bones near a bluff. Apparently someone from the reservation called the FBI before my department was notified,” he said, a note of irritation visible when he balled the hamburger wrapper in his fist. He gathered his debris and stuffed it in the white paper bag.
She quickly ate the last of her sandwich and spicy french fries. “Did you examine the bones?”
He snorted. “Are you kidding? I got a glimpse of them, but the tribal police won’t let anyone near them. Sara Lewis—you remember her?”