Bounty (Walk the Right Road)

by Eckhart, Lorhainne

Diane snatched up her holstered gun and clipped it to the waistband of her jeans. She slid open the door and stepped out onto her open deck, spotting a downed tree at the edge of her property line. She rummaged through the blue recycling box and pulled out three cans, striding across the damp grass and setting each one on the rotted old log. The light from the sun flickered through the trees, and she glanced up at a sky now dotted with clouds, thick and wooly with red and orange at the edges. If this had been any other evening, she’d have just sat and watched the colors, imagining the story in the sky. But not tonight. There were times she needed to take action, to do something until her head stopped spinning and she physically couldn’t do one more thing. Her house was about as clean as it could get.

  She flicked the strap on her holster and stood at the edge of the deck before removing her Glock and eyeing up the first tin can. Her finger rested on the trigger, her other hand cupped underneath as she took her stance. She sucked in a deep breath and pulled the trigger. The bullet took out the tin can with a thunk, scattering it in the bushes. She lined up for the next two and fired another shot; the next tin can flew, and she got a bead on the next and fired again. From deep in the forest, someone yelled.

  “What the hell?” she muttered. She froze with a sick feeling, as if ice water were racing through her veins, and stared at the can still perched on the log. She had missed. She didn’t think as she started running, jumping over the log. “Hey, who’s out there?” she yelled, pushing through the branches and foliage. She heard a groan. “Where are you?” she called out again, the flames of panic flickering at her back. How stupid was this? No one ever came back here. Shit, shit. She hurried onto the narrow trail and spotted a large guy in a black shirt and track shorts lying on the ground, holding his side. “Oh my God.” She skidded to the man’s side, landing on her knee. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  She couldn’t believe it was Zac, all six feet of hunky muscle lying on a dirt path, covered in sweat, with blood oozing from his side. His hand was pressed over the wound, and blood dribbled between his large fingers. For the first time in her life, Diane thought she was going to pass out.

  “What kind of reckless broad are you?” he spit out through gritted teeth.

  “I’m so sorry. How bad is it?” She realized she was still holding her gun and shoved it back in her holster. She tried to move his hand.

  “No, stop. Just help me up.” He was really sweating, but he’d also been running too. His shirt was drenched, his forehead covered with beads of sweat.

  “Lie still. I better call an ambulance. Dammit, I left my cell phone inside. I’ll be right back.” She started to get up, but he grabbed her elbow.

  “No, I’ll go with you. I need a towel or something to stop the bleeding.” He groaned as he rolled over on his side and up on his knees. Then he was on his feet, and he staggered a step before Diane took his elbow.

  “Here, lean on me. My place is just through these trees.”

  He grunted and leaned into her. She slid her hand around his back, feeling every pull of his hard muscles. Lord, she didn’t think the man had an ounce of fat on him, and he was so tall that the top of her head just touched his shoulder.

  “What were you shooting at?” he growled in a low voice filled with irritation. Of course he was pissed off. She realized she could be in big trouble for this. She had never worried much, living way out here.

  “I was shooting at some cans. You know, target shooting. What the hell were you doing back there, anyway?” She helped him up her back step and into her kitchen.

  “Jogging. There’re tons of trails through here, and it’s a great spot, nice and quiet, not crowded.” He leaned against the kitchen counter.

  Diane yanked open a drawer and pulled out a handful of dishtowels. Zac pressed one to the wound before she could get around to his side to take a look. She picked up the phone and started dialing 911.

  “Hang it up,” he said.

  With a second of hesitation, she ended the call. When she looked up into his face, his expression was hard and irritated. Those eyes rattled her brain, tossing out all her common sense, and he was slipping inside her heart and touching the hurt that had always lived inside her.

  “You and I both know that with gunshot wounds, questions are asked, reports are filled out, psych’s called in, and sometimes even worse.”

  She knew what he was saying: This could mean marks on her record, a careless, irresponsible, stupid mistake that would have her landing on one side of the chief’s desk, having a strip torn off her and possibly being suspended. It would have all those ass-kissing cops smirking to one another, saying, I told you so. This shooting would be a black mark that would always follow her.

  “Look, Zac, you’re shot. I shot you. I need to get you to the hospital. There’s no way around it. I’m so sorry, Zac. How bad is it?” She was trembling, and he was watching her now as if she were the injured one. She touched his hand where the bloody towel was pressed to his skin, and his shirt rode up.

  “It’s just a flesh wound, Diane. If you have some gauze, bandages, I’ll patch it up. I can clean it better at home.”

  Diane pulled the edge of the towel away. “You need to get this stitched up, and then there’s the matter of possible infection. You can’t do this yourself,” she said. Then it dawned on her that maybe he was so arrogant he thought he could, as he dropped the bloodied towel and grabbed a clean one, pressing it over the still bleeding wound.

  “Diane, do you have a first aid kit?” He was serious, and the way he said it made it sound as if he had a simple cut to patch up.

  “Yeah, somewhere here.” She pressed her fingers to her forehead, trying to remember where it was. In the bathroom? No, she had moved it above the fridge. She opened the cupboard but couldn’t see it, so she jumped and spied it behind a vase she never used. Standing on her tiptoes, she reached for it, shoving the vase aside with her fingertips and just grasping the strap of the kit. Then Zac came up behind her and lifted it out.

  “Hey, I almost had it,” she said.

  “You weren’t even close. The longer I stand here waiting, the longer I’m bleeding all over your kitchen.” He opened the kit and rustled through Band-Aids, gauze pads, antiseptic wipes, and tape. He grabbed one of the wipes and ripped it open, cleaning around the wound still oozing blood.

  His face paled, and he grunted. Tough guy. Diane was feeling lightheaded just watching. The wound looked nasty, and she couldn’t quite understand how he could dab and poke at it, then press a square gauze bandage over it, without flinching and yelling. It had to hurt like hell. She was feeling lightheaded and needed to sit down, and she wasn’t even the injured one.

  He must have noticed. “Take a breath, get a glass of water.”

  Of course, he needed water. She hurried to the cupboard and took out a glass, filling it with water from the fridge dispenser. Her hand was still trembling as she handed it to him. “Here you go.”

  He gestured to the glass. “No, the water’s for you. Drink—it will help calm you down. I’ll clean up here.”

  She couldn’t believe what he had said, and she swallowed a mouthful of water, following his orders before her common sense kicked in. She set the glass on the counter. “No, you sit down. I should be doing this.”

  He gathered up all the wrappers. “Where’s your garbage?”

  “Under the sink.” She closed the lid of the first aid kit and went to gather up the bloodied towels.

  “No, I got that. You shouldn’t touch someone’s blood without being gloved up. You don’t know me or anything about me.”

  She knew that, of course. It was the first thing she had learned upon becoming a cop. She pulled her hand back. What was the matter with her? “I know. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. I have gloves, too. I’m just…”

  “Let me guess, rattled? Thought you’d come home, blow off some steam by shooting up some things, firing at some targets, maybe picturing whoever put that fear in you
today?”

  She felt the floor soften beneath her and the blood rush to her head, buzzing loudly in her ears.

  “So, which sect did you grow up in?” he asked.

  How the hell did he know? Was she that transparent? She pressed her hands to her heated cheeks. “A place called Bounty,” she replied.

  Chapter 7

  Diane slid behind the wheel of her SUV, and Zac climbed in the passenger side. She still couldn’t believe she’d shot him. He seemed calm and so cool, as if he had nothing but a minor scratch. What the hell, did he have balls of steel? She was tough, and she prided herself on being rock solid, but she’d seen the guy cops blubbering like babies over any kind of gunshot wound.

  “Head out to the end of the road and turn right. I’m the house on the end.” Zac pointed.

  “There’s only one house down that way. Some guy ran out of money building it. I thought it was empty?”

  “I picked it up for a good price. I’ve been fixing it up. Gives me something to do at night.”

  He didn’t bother buckling his seatbelt, and Diane was surprised as she pulled in front of the two-story log home, which had piles of lumber out front. A rusty little bobcat and piles of dirt sat in the large yard, as well.

  “Here’s good,” he said.

  “Wow, looks like you’ve done a lot. I walked past here about a year ago and it still had a tarp over the roof, boards up for the windows. Were the wiring and plumbing done?” she asked as she stared out at the mountains of backbreaking work this man had ahead him if he was doing this alone. She turned off her vehicle and stepped out. “I guess this makes us neighbors.”

  He never cracked a smile. “Come in. I’ll get this bullet hole cleaned up. You want a beer?”

  She wanted something, all right. She didn’t know what she needed, exactly, but she didn’t want to leave Zac right now. He looked a little pale even though he acted as if nothing was wrong. He was a different kind of strong from what she was used to. Diane didn’t have to say much of anything, and he seemed to understand her as if reading her needs. Something so intimate unnerved her, but she also sensed in a strange way that he wouldn’t breathe a word of her secrets to anyone.

  “I would like a beer.” She followed him inside.

  “Leave your shoes on. Still haven’t put the floor down yet.”

  There was nothing but plywood, with power tools and sawhorses scattered everywhere. He led her into an open kitchen with dark wood cabinets, new appliances. It opened into a large family room, where the walls were made of sheet rock. The fireplace was an insert against the wall. The rockwork and mantle were nonexistent, just two-by-fours in place surrounding the wood stove.

  “You’ve got no furniture,” she said. “Lots of work yet. So you were in the military, and you’re a doctor, coroner, and part-time carpenter? That’s quite a list for your resume.” Diane crossed her arms to stop her babbling and watched him as he pulled out a kit from one of the cupboards. He injected something just below his hip and then proceeded to stitch his side up. She blinked because he did it without flinching or saying one word.

  “I hope you gave yourself a shot for the pain.” She couldn’t get over his confidence as he quickly doctored himself, bandaged the wound, and disposed of the soiled dressing and syringe in the trash.

  “Antibiotic. Done.” He tucked the kit back in the cupboard, washed his hands in the sink, and then pulled out two beers from the fridge. He handed one to Diane. His fingers brushed hers as she accepted the can.

  “So how long were you in the army?” she asked, taking a swig of the dark beer that now lingered with something bitter on her tongue. She must have pulled a face.

  “Don’t like beer?” he asked, watching her every move. His eyes were on her, not wavering for an instant. It was unnerving.

  “No, I had a couple this morning,” she said, realizing he kept diverting any talk about him and the military.

  He nodded and didn’t seem surprised that she’d drunk this morning, as he gestured to a sliding glass door. “Let’s go out on the deck. I have a couple of chairs out there.”

  She stepped outside and took the first one, a straight-backed wooden chair, an obvious castoff from someone’s yard sale. “I don’t normally drink, the occasional beer only. It was just this morning…”

  “You were rattled, being called in to a murder that hit way too close to home. And no one knows about where you come from. I take it your friend…”

  She let out a sigh of relief. “Sam, my former partner.” Diane swallowed the sick, dry feeling in her stomach.

  “Sam knows about your past, and you weren’t expecting Casey to call you in. Am I close?” He scraped back the other rickety wood chair, and she watched as he lowered his large frame as if he hadn’t even been shot.

  “You’re good at reading people. Is this like some special training you had or something?”

  What would he say now, and how would he respond to all her prying? Instead of reacting, all he did was smile, and she stared at the scars on the side of his face and wondered if they hurt. The way the skin puckered close to his ear told its own story of the burns there.

  “Or something,” he replied. He took another swig of beer and then leaned forward, watching her with an expression of compassion.

  “You don’t talk much about yourself, do you?” she asked. She needed him to talk about something, anything, because it was starting to sink in how stupid a move it had been, shooting off rounds in her yard, even though she had five acres and had done it before. So did others in the area. Technically, it should have been okay. She was starting to pace her property line in her head, seeing it from where the downed tree was and the trails started. “So stupid,” she muttered.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “I was just going through how close I was to the back of my property, you know, the line to the park. I didn’t think. I have five acres, but it starts closer to the front. I should set up my targets out front, but my land is more deep than it is wide. I just haven’t thought about people wandering around back there, because they never have. I’m sorry, Zac. Are you sure I shouldn’t take you to the hospital, get it checked out? I know you’re a doctor and all that.”

  He reached out and gripped her wrist. “When was the last time you ate?”

  Diane blinked. Her skin was on fire from his touch. She’d never had a man touch her with such concern. It was crumbling all her self-confidence and the ballsy front she always put up: Diane, who had to be the strong one. Everyone leaned on her, always had. She didn’t know how to handle his concern. “A burger before I came to the morgue. Sam stopped, made me eat it to absorb all the beer I’d downed so I wasn’t stumbling and falling over in front of you and Casey.”

  “Do you like stir fry?”

  Was he asking her to stay for dinner, or was he going to take her out? Or was this just a general question? “Sure, I like stir fry. Why?” She swallowed the lump jamming her throat, because the way he watched her was like the way a cat studied its prey, deciding what to do next. It was unsettling.

  “I’m going to cook you dinner,” he said.

  Chapter 8

  Diane was perched on a stool Zac had dragged over to the kitchen island. He had patted the seat, and she’d hopped up and sat to watch while he chopped fresh vegetables on a wood cutting board. Rice simmered on the stovetop built into the kitchen island beside him. The sweet aroma filled the room, and Diane’s mouth watered, but she wasn’t sure if it was from the food, from the fact that a man she’d just met earlier today was cooking for her, or from the man himself. He was wearing a pair of gray sweats and white t-shirt, having taken a couple minutes to change when he’d settled her in.

  In those minutes, she’d considered bolting. She couldn’t figure him out. He wasn’t handsome or gorgeous in a pretty-boy way. He worked out, and it showed under his shirt and sweats with the cut of every muscle in his well-toned body. His face was scarred, not grotesquely but in a way that held a story. E
ach line, each expression, and the way he held himself, everything about him was so closed that she couldn’t read it.

  He had a presence that came from deep inside him, that filled the space around him and reached out to her. She realized as she sat in silence, watching him, that he had the ability to either bring her into his space or keep her locked out forever. She clutched the glass of water he’d handed her when he lifted the full can of beer from her hands. She couldn’t drink any more beer, and he must have known. Here he was, the injured one, and he was taking care of her.

  “What’s your story, Zac?”

  He stopped his chopping and slowly raised his gaze. His expression was guarded.

  “You won’t talk about yourself, and you’ve evaded or not answered everything I’ve asked you tonight. Now you’re cooking me dinner after I nearly killed you.”

  He set the large knife down and wiped his hands on the dishtowel on the counter. He stepped around the kitchen island toward her. “Fair enough,” he said. “What do you want to know?”

  Now he had her on the spot. “What happened that made you leave the military?”

  “I was done.” He crossed his arms.

  “That’s not an answer. You were injured, is that why?” She gestured to his scars, and he turned his face away so she couldn’t see the damaged skin.

  “Shrapnel, we took fire transporting the wounded. I survived, end of story. Does my face bother you? Because it does bother some people.”

  She was shocked that he would suggest she could be turned off by something so silly as a scar. “No, God, no. You’re stunning.” Her face heated instantly when she realized what she had said.

  He frowned instead of smiling. “Tell me your story, Diane.” He slid his finger under her chin and lifted her blushing face so she was forced to look at him. She swallowed hard because she never blushed, at least not before she’d shared her shameful past with Sam this morning, even though what she shared had barely touched on the full story. She knew that the tasty bit she’d spilled had him looking at her differently, as if she wasn’t the tough chick who could take down a drug king, who could be a partner who had his back without question. He saw her as damaged, breakable. She knew it deep down in her bones, even if he wouldn’t admit it.