by Kylie Brant
“That still leaves one unsolved murder.”
Though his thoughts had darkened, his tone remained even. “Give me time, Boyd. Give me time.”
“Well, son, I hope you have time. I surely do.” Runnels kept his spine too straight to actually do a good job of leaning, so when he propped one shoulder against the wall he looked like a department-store mannequin, tipped off-kilter. “I’d hate to see you get in over your head on this thing.”
Cage contemplated the cigar and gave some hard thought to lighting it. “This isn’t the first homicide investigation I’ve run, Boyd.” He let the words hang in the air between them, noting the way the other man stiffened at the reference to his experience.
“You’ve got a suspect, then?”
His voice noncommittal, Cage replied, “We’re following up on some leads.”
“My office is at your disposal. Anything you need help with, just let me know.”
The offer was perfunctory, and both men realized it. “I appreciate it. Maybe I’ll take you up on that.”
Civilities over, Runnels added, “Of course, with only two officers, I don’t have the manpower to offer you much assistance in the actual investigation.”
“I think my men can handle the job. Thanks for the offer.” Cage stood, in an effort to hasten the man on his way. Runnels peered over his shoulder at the open file on his desk.
“Pretty grisly stuff.” His gaze met Cage’s. “I expect the man who found the killer would be something of a hero in these parts.”
With great care, Cage replaced the cigar in his pocket and wished unwelcome memories could be tucked away as easily. Hero. It was a term society used too freely, applied too generously. It seemed ironic to herald as a hero a man who did nothing more than react to a crime. And when that reaction came a split second too late, the word could ring with its own resounding mockery.
“It’s been my experience, Boyd, that when these things are over, the only heroes are the survivors.”
Two hours later Cage’s car was crawling down the road to his house. Despite the long days and sleepless nights he’d had recently, the peace of his home failed to beckon. Usually he looked forward to his evening routine of warming up the meal Ila—the housekeeper for as long as he could remember—had prepared and relaxing after dinner for a much-deserved nap in the hammock. He’d always done his best thinking sprawled out in that hammock strung between two giant cypress trees. A little relaxation with an icy beer in his hand and a hat tipped over his eyes did wonders for a man’s ability to reflect. That the image failed to tempt him now was serious indeed.
He laid the blame for that firmly on Zoey’s creamy white shoulders. Never before had he allowed the pesky thought of a woman to worm its way into his mind and make it churn in a way that was downright exhausting. Sexual attraction was pleasant and uncomplicated. It didn’t cause the brain to fog and the senses to slow. At least, he thought with a hint of a scowl, it never had before.
On impulse, he eased the car off the road and up a badly rutted lane lined with overgrown grass and brush. The house that sat in the clearing had probably known paint once. There was still evidence of the original white coat clinging to cracks and hollows in its siding. But Cage didn’t remember a time when the McIntire house had looked other than it did right now—like a structure doing a gradual slide into complete deterioration.
The porch still listed badly to one side. But the corner post that had been missing for decades had been replaced recently, and judging by the neat pile of lumber on the ground, it looked as though the steps were the next to be repaired. Cage took the improvements as a positive sign. Billy must be going through a good spell.
As he was getting out of the car, the front door opened. Billy McIntire stared silently at him for several moments. Cage crossed his arms on top of the open car door and greeted him.
“Hey, Billy.” He nodded at the porch. “Looks like you’ve been keeping busy lately. Hot work in this weather.”
“Sheriff.” The big man lumbered down the sagging steps and stopped just shy of the car. Billy had to be close to Boyd Runnels’s age. They’d gone off to fight in the same southeast Asian jungles within five years of each other, but it was the way they’d come home that had differed. There had been no medals pinned to Billy’s chest, no tales of glory surrounding his return; just a quiet discharge for a young man deemed unfit for duty, a man whose mind had been unable to adjust to the killing and carnage he’d been immersed in.
Cage couldn’t be sure what kind of changes Billy’s experience had wrought in the man. But he knew for certain that no one could look upon what one human being did to another and remain unaltered. When the flashbacks that still lingered became too intolerable, Billy took to the woods, retreating farther from civilization until the ghosts that haunted were under control. Cage didn’t fault him for his methods. He knew for a fact that if a man didn’t find a way to conquer his personal demons, they would swallow him whole.
“Place is going to look some different when you’re done,” Cage remarked. He let his gaze shift to the house once again. “You’re a good hand with a hammer and nail. Always have been.”
Billy reached up a crooked finger to push back the straw hat he wore over his fading red hair. “It ain’t so much.” He hitched up the strap of his denim overalls with a shrug and scratched at a heavily muscled bare shoulder. He wasn’t comfortable with company and small talk, but he could tolerate Cage Gauthier more than he could most folks. Cage was at ease with words and manners in a way that Billy could barely remember ever being; but he didn’t use them to judge and condemn a man whose ways weren’t his own. There was a look in his eyes sometimes that made Billy wonder if Cage didn’t have his own ghosts that brought him screaming out of sleep.
“Well, I can see you have your hands full out here.” Cage leaned against the car door and admired the job that had been done on the porch. “I was just on my way home and started thinking about the work you did for me last summer. The yard sure did look fine when you got done with it. Don’t think it’s looked better since my daddy died. I can’t seem to find the energy or will to mow these days. Ila’s been chewing my ear off about it. I suppose you’re too busy to consider taking the yard work over for me again this summer.”
Billy swatted at an insect that had settled on his forearm and mulled over the offer. “That riding mower of yours still working?” His voice was rusty, as if from disuse.
“Should be. Had it up to Carson’s garage for a tune-up and I don’t know what all else. Got those pruning shears sharpened, too. I’d sure appreciate you taking the yard off my hands for me again this year, if you’re feeling up to it.”
It was a roundabout way of asking Billy if he had a good grip on the ghosts that still rose to haunt at times—the ones wearing dying Asian faces. But Cage would never say so in words, and Billy appreciated the courtesy.
“I reckon I can take that yard work off your hands.”
“I’d be obliged. Be willing to pay you a dollar more an hour than last year, if that sounds fair to you.”
“Sounds okay to me.” Billy’s hunting dog came around the corner of the house then, ambling toward the men with a long-suffering maternal air. Around the dog’s feet three puppies gamboled, tripping and tumbling over each other in youthful frolic.
Cage’s face creased in a delighted grin. “Well, looks like you’ve got pups on your hands again, Billy. Nice-looking litter, too.”
“I’m thinking to keep a couple this time. Ol’ Lucy is getting up in years. She’s been slowing down some.”
One of the pups made a beeline for Cage, its tail wagging so hard it set its whole hind end swaying. He bent to scratch behind one long floppy ear, and soulful puppy-dog eyes turned up to meet his. A part of his heart that remembered the twelve-year-old boy he’d been turned to mush.
“Well, shoot. He’s a cute little thing, isn’t he? Reminds me of the dog I had when I was a kid.”
“He’s yours, if you wan
t him.” Billy removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “The pups are weaned already. You can take him with you.”
Cage eyed the dog, which was busily chewing at his bootlace. It was stupid to even consider it. He was gone most of the day, and having a rambunctious pup around the house would just be another headache for Ila. The animal picked that moment to flip on its back, growling in imaginary combat as it wrestled with the lace, and succeeding in tangling two of its paws in it. The puppy gave a startled yelp, and emotion abruptly triumphed over logic.
Cage bent to scoop up the animal. “I’m much obliged, Billy. I guess I’ll take this little guy home with me after all.”
Driving with the mutt in the car proved to be a distraction. The dog paced the width of the front seat and decided that Cage’s lap was the best place to ride. No amount of coaxing or demanding could convince him otherwise.
“Don’t get used to it, pooch. You won’t be calling the shots when I get you home.” The pup yawned, clearly unimpressed by the warning. After another few miles it was fast asleep.
“Yeah, you’re going to be in for a real eye-opener,” Cage continued, stroking the dog with a gentle hand while he drove. “You’re not going to find me one of those permissive masters. As for Ila… If you’re brighter than you look, you’ll steer clear of her. She’s not the type to be taken in by big brown eyes and long droopy ears.”
When he got close to Zoey’s house, the car slowed without his conscious permission. He told himself that it was just difficult to keep a steady pressure on the accelerator with the mutt using him as a cushion. Lord knew, the smartest thing to do would be to keep his distance from her until he got these unfamiliar emotions leashed again. The car pulled off the road and into her driveway.
He’d always had the damnedest time doing the smartest thing.
The car idled in the drive as he tried to talk himself into reversing and heading home where he was less likely to get himself into trouble.
The decision was made for him when Zoey strolled around the corner of the house, her fingertips tucked in the front pockets of her white shorts and wearing a skimpy blue top the color of Caribbean waters. Before she looked up and saw his car he had a moment to observe her, to note the solitary air she always seemed surrounded by. She looked like a woman used to being alone. If he made the mistake of asking, he was sure she’d say she liked it that way. But he wasn’t sure he’d believe her.
Turning off the ignition, he hoisted up the pup in one arm and opened the car door, calling out, “Why, if it isn’t Z. L. Prescott. All through plotting murder and mayhem for the day, ma’am?”
“I was. Until now.” Instincts more basic than logical urged her to retreat. She held her ground. Ever since he’d left after cooking her breakfast yesterday morning, his parting words had been ringing in her head. She refused to reveal the confusion they’d caused. No doubt he was a man well practiced in the art of polished phrases contrived to keep a woman off-balance. Pride demanded that he never know how well he’d succeeded.
She sent him a cool look, which lost most of its starch when he got out of the car and she caught sight of the puppy.
“Oh, how sweet.”
He looked modest. “Well, gee, thanks, Zoey. But I thought we’d already agreed that I was dazzling.”
She crossed the yard toward him with that long stride of hers. “Not you, idiot. The puppy.”
The dog wriggled in Cage’s arms, so he set him down and watched him bound over to charm Zoey. She bent down to pet the pup’s thick brown fur and then let out a soft laugh when he propped his front paws on her knees and attempted to lick her face.
The sound of that husky laugh sent a burning arrow of lust straight to Cage’s loins. The sensation was almost a relief. Desire was familiar—a natural, pleasurable part of being a man. For the first time since he’d kissed her, he felt a return to steadier ground. He was comfortable with wanting, without the tangle of stickier emotions.
She beamed a smile, one that lit her face and danced in her eyes. “He’s adorable. Is he yours?”
His earlier sense of satisfaction splintered abruptly. The effect of her genuine smile kicked him in the chest and left his lungs straining for oxygen. It was a moment before he could gather his thoughts, another before he managed an answer. “As of about ten minutes ago.”
“What’s his name?”
Cage hauled in a huge gulp of air and jammed his hands into his pockets. “I haven’t thought of one yet.” The dog spotted a butterfly near the porch and dashed off. The adults followed at a more sedate pace.
“Where’d you get him?”
It occurred to Cage that Zoey had spoken more freely in the last few minutes than she ever had in the time he’d known her. There was nothing like baby animals to lower defenses. He wasn’t above using that knowledge to his advantage.
“I stopped in to talk to a fellow I know down the road.” He climbed the steps, dropped to the top one and cast a lazy eye on the frolicking pup. “He wanted to get rid of one, and this mutt seemed to take a liking to me.” He shrugged uncomfortably under her amused look. “I’ve been thinking of getting a watchdog, anyway.”
“A ‘watchdog’?” She watched the puppy shake himself violently, one long ear landing inside out across his eyes. “The term seems something of an oxymoron in his case.”
“Well, there you go. That name would fit as well as any.” At her blank look he explained, “‘Oxymoron.’ Look at the size of his feet. When he’s full-size, ‘Ox’ will be a fitting name for him.” The dog picked that instant to start chasing his tail. “And at times like now, ‘Moron’ seems rather apt.”
Zoey scooped up the puppy and cuddled him close, sending Cage a chastising look. “You can’t call him by a disparaging name. You’ll damage his self-esteem.”
Damned if the mutt wasn’t looking at him with reproach in his big, doggy eyes. “Well, I’m open to suggestions.”
She cocked her head thoughtfully for a moment, before saying, “I’ll have to think about it. Right now he looks thirsty. I’m going to get him some water.” Setting the puppy down beside Cage, she turned toward the house.
“I’m thirsty, too,” he called after her. “A beer sure would taste mighty fine after a long day of keeping the parish safe from dangerous criminals.” The screen door banged behind her. There was no indication she’d heard his words. He reached down and ruffled the dog’s fur. “I suppose you think you’re some kind of babe magnet. Don’t let it go to your head. One accident on the rug and you’d be pooch history.”
The pup cocked his head, then decided that Cage was really asking for a thorough licking. When Zoey came out again, he was pushing the mutt away before it could drown him. She put a bowl of water on the porch and coaxed the dog over to it.
“Here, Oxy. There’s a good boy.”
Cage raised an eyebrow. “I thought you wanted to think of a different name.” With only mild surprise he took the beer she handed him.
She lifted a shoulder and sat down next to the dog. “I don’t have a lot of experience thinking up names for animals.”
They both watched as the pooch quenched his thirst, then circled three times before deciding that Zoey’s lap was as good a place for a nap as any. Cage couldn’t fault the dog’s instincts. And he was beginning to credit his own. Something more fundamental than reason must have led him here. Certainly it was demanding that he stay.
Zoey was normally so closemouthed that he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to learn more about her. “What do you mean, you didn’t have any experience? Didn’t you have pets as a child?”
She shook her head. “We always lived in apartments.”
“Not even goldfish?”
Her fingers speared through her hair, pushing it carelessly back from that fine forehead. His gaze followed the gesture, and lingered. “No dogs, no fish. By the shock in your voice, I imagine you had a menagerie.”
Turning to face her more fully, he settled as comfortably a
gainst the railing as his healing back would allow. “I had an assortment of animals over the years. The house was off-limits, though. My mother wasn’t the type to overlook pet hair and puddles on the floor.” He tipped his beer up, drank with enjoyment. Despite his initial reservations, he couldn’t imagine a better way to end the day than sitting on Zoey’s porch and gorging himself on the sight of her.
“Only had one dog,” he continued. “His name was Tooner. We were inseparable.” The memory made him smile. “Nice thing about a dog is it’s always willing to accompany a boy on adventures, and it doesn’t tell tales afterward.”
Zoey tried, and failed, to suppress a smile. “I’m guessing you had lots of adventures that you didn’t want tales told about.”
“I can’t deny it.”
Unbidden, a visual image unfolded in her head, of endless summer days and a young Cage Gauthier, with a large loping dog at his side, wheeling along Charity’s country roads. He’d have been blonder then, the merciless sun having bleached his hair to nearly white. The boy’s face would have been a younger version of the man’s, but she guessed the charm and glints of wicked fire would have been present even then. Try as she might, she couldn’t shake the mental picture from her mind. It suited her to blame that on her writer’s imagination.
“Whatever happened to your dog? Did he die of old age or did you run him ragged keeping up with your mischief?”
“Tooner? He went off one day and never came back.” Cage’s voice was silent for a moment, as if the memory still pained him. “I always figured that he chased something into the woods and tangled with a creature far fiercer than he was.” He reached to stroke a hand over the pup’s warm fur. “My daddy offered to get me another dog. Even brought one home once. But I never felt right getting one to replace Tooner. We’d had him ever since we moved to Louisiana, when I was four. He seemed to go with the house, somehow.”