Conflict of Interest (The Walker Five Book 1)

by Marie Johnston

  Not when her mother’s absence showed her exactly how that would end.

  Chapter Nine

  Dillon groaned and rolled over. He was stiff, but his headache wasn’t terrible. He pried his eyelids open and didn’t recognize the room he was in. The events of the previous night—and really early morning—rolled through his mind.

  Cash leaving. After a couple more beers, he’d checked into his pickup to sleep it off, keeping to the passenger seat. Any cops stopping by wouldn’t nail him with a DUI thinking he’d passed out in the driver’s seat before he could leave.

  He’d learned a few tricks in the Army.

  Glancing at the clock, he squeezed his eyes shut and wished the world would stop time.

  Nine o’clock. Two hours after he’d normally be out and working. His phone vibrated with a text.

  All he’d brought with him were the clothes on his back and the phone in his pocket. Digging it out, he swore and dropped it back on the bed.

  Where r u?

  He was supposed to meet Brock to check out a new tractor, and not just because of the vandalism on the old one. They’d limped it along long enough, poured more and more money into it. It was time to upgrade with the new style using tracks instead of tires, and newer technology. Hell, any technology.

  A tractor with tracks. Track vehicles rolling around the farm like he was back in the Army.

  He blew out a breath. Dillon needed to face the day and Brock needed a call back.

  “Dude,” his cousin answered.

  “I know, sorry. Are you headed to town yet?”

  “Five minutes before I’m at the implement dealership.”

  “Can you swing by and pick me up?” Dillon hung his head down, waiting for the barrage of questions. He should’ve known with Brock it’d be minimal.

  “Where?”

  Good question. Dillon had only paid attention to the beautiful driver and not where she’d taken him.

  “Hold on.”

  “You don’t where you’re at?” Brock sounded one part amused and two parts shocked.

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “Riiight.”

  Dillon kept the phone to his ear as he walked through the empty house and into the kitchen. Maybe there’d be some mail or something on the counter so he wouldn’t have to go outside to track down the house number and street name.

  “Elle Brady found me sleeping in my pickup and brought me to her place.”

  “Who’s she?”

  A frustrating woman. “I started seeing her when I tried some counseling. Then she fired me because I’m a man and she’s a gorgeous woman and I liked her.”

  Silence.

  “She let me have her dad’s old room.” Like he had to justify it, or her and the appropriateness of it all.

  He found a pile of mail on the counter. The top envelope looked like a medical bill and was addressed to Elle’s dad, Gary Brady.

  Dillon rattled off the address to Brock and disconnected. He studied his surroundings and his gaze landed back on the pile. Were all of those bills? He had a lot, but they ran a big operation and all the bills came to him and he passed them onto Aaron for accounting. Shuffling the stack, he replaced them as he found them. With the place to himself after Elle’s generosity, snooping didn’t feel right.

  Brock would arrive soon. Dillon double checked his clothing. They were good enough to go tractor shopping, but he should clean up. He went searching for the bathroom.

  The image that greeted him in the mirror didn’t look half bad. His hair needed a good finger-combing and his eyes were only slightly bloodshot. He used some of Elle’s mouthwash and went back to the kitchen.

  A pen and notepad sat by the stack of mail, so he scrawled a quick note to Elle. Would she call him like he asked? He’d guess no. He’d been acting responsible last night, but he suspected she thought otherwise.

  Dillon headed to the front door to go out and wait for Brock. The only artwork on the walls were professional paintings that matched the décor. No pictures of family, no pictures of people. Nothing from the earth-toned walls or the decorative window treatments suggested her dad cared for the place. Elle’s touch should be all over the place, but instead her dwelling was… bland.

  He recalled her office. Same vibe—very few personal touches and no pictures.

  In comparison, his own place appeared wild and crazy. His family was huge and since he’d bought his house from his parents, they’d left a lot of the pictures behind. Pictures of him from 4H wins to graduation dominated the walls. The hallways on both levels were lined with family photos of aunts, uncles, and cousins.

  He really didn’t know much about her, but he had a sneaking suspicion that her life hadn’t been as rich and boisterous as his. Her barren walls and sparse living area were a direct reflection of how she lived life.

  He could show her a good time.

  A honk jolted him out of his pondering. He went out to meet Brock, locking the door behind him.

  The giant F350 rumbled on the quiet street. For Elle’s sake, Dillon hoped none of her neighbors were home. He didn’t want to damage her reputation. If people wanted to gossip about her and Dillon, he wanted to make damn sure they had a reason to.

  After being rescued by her, and seeing the stark interior of her house, getting through Elle Brady’s shell was going to be harder than he thought.

  Dillon settled into the passenger seat before Brock spoke. “We need to go to your place to see if everything’s okay when we’re done in town.” Brock glanced over at him, frowning. “I found tracks around the door to my shop. They aren’t mine and nobody else has been out there.”

  ***

  Had he left yet?

  Forcing herself to focus on her two o’clock client, she succeeded in taking her mind off the sleeping man she’d left in her home.

  When she woke for work, she’d tiptoed around the house. The thought of having him alert and moving around her home while she was in it was too much for her to bear. But…since he hadn’t closed the bedroom door all the way, she’d checked on him. Made sure he was all right—the excuse that always worked.

  “Elle?”

  Her client had asked a question and she’d totally missed it. Because she was thinking about Dillon.

  “I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”

  With superhuman effort she made it through her appointments and even managed to help her clients. She yawned and stared at her paperwork. Dillon aside, it’d been a late night.

  Finally, the workday ended. Betsy popped her head in, looking ready to slip right back out the door. “It’s the second Wednesday of the month. Remember—Mental Health Wednesday? Gonna meet us for a drink?”

  Elle paused putting her jacket on. Normally, she declined because she had her dad waiting for her at home. Her empty house would only remind her of the handsome farm boy and who’d been in there just this morning.

  “Sure. Where we going?”

  Betsy’s face lit with a surprised grin. Elle turned down every Mental Health Wednesday invite in her time here, but dear Betsy continued to invite Elle to each social event the clinic put on. And they put on a lot, not just their excuse-to-go-out-every-month Wednesday.

  “We go to The Funky Corral. I’ll save you a spot at the table. We don’t usually stay long, but they’re forecasting snow, so we’ll leave a bit earlier than usual.”

  Her friend rushed off. Elle smiled to herself and finished gathering her purse and lunch bag.

  She had friends! Sort of. She was closest to Betsy, but maybe now she could move beyond superficial friendliness with the others. If she was going to make Moore her home, it’d be nice to actually socialize once in a while.

  She quickly phoned her dad to check on him. Some habits died hard, and her persistent guilt didn’t help. An emotion that had no place when her dad seemed to be thriving. He was growing more excited about transitioning to assisted living, talking animatedly about game nights, movie showings, the library, and the v
arious activity groups—all thanks to Agnes Walker.

  She sighed. Both Elle and her dad had needed a change in routine.

  Humming happily to herself, Elle locked up her office and tried not to dance to her car.

  The hum stopped when she saw a guy hanging out by her vehicle in the nearly empty lot. Empty, but for the giant type of pickup all too common in Moore. She grabbed her key card for the building back out of her purse, intending to turn and flee inside and…what?

  Call the cops and say there’s a dude standing in a public place? Wait until he left? Good enough.

  The panicked look must’ve registered on her face, because the guy spoke. “Elle Brady?”

  “Yeah,” she said slowly, suspicion heavy in the one word.

  She didn’t recognize him, would’ve remembered if she met him before. It was like hot farm boys grew on trees around here. He was tall with a solid build and wore a black hat that’d seen cleaner days with coal black hair sticking out from underneath. The way he stood, between his monster of a vehicle and her dwarfed car, reminded her of Dillon.

  “I’m Brock Walker, Dillon’s cousin.”

  That explained it. So far Betsy was right about the Walker Five. How devastating were the other three cousins?

  He shoved his hands in his jean pockets, as if he was chewing on what to say next.

  “Hi.” It sounded more like a question when the word left her mouth. Then it occurred to her there must be a reason why he was here. “Is Dillon all right?” She inched closer as adrenaline spilled into her veins at the thought of Dillon being hurt.

  “Yes.” He rushed on when he saw her face. “No, not like that. I picked him up from your place. When we went back to his truck, it was missing.”

  “Stolen?”

  Brock nodded. “The fucker—sorry—whoever took it crashed it into the campground. The place is still closed for the season, but several of their lots were torn up, ruined. The main office was where they found the truck parked—inside it.”

  Elle’s eyes widened. Someone intentionally rammed it into a building? “Was anyone hurt?”

  “No, the whole place is shut down until May; no one was there.” Brock took a deep breath and leveled her with a serious look. “Dillon can’t prove he wasn’t driving. He won’t tell them where he was last night, and all the cops received was a report that he had been seen drinking too much and squealing away from the bar.”

  From Brock’s bleak look, she concluded why he was there. “He won’t tell them because he’s worried about getting me into trouble at work. And you want me to head to the station and let them know he was with me all night.”

  “I don’t want you to get in trouble, Elle, but something like this could tank our operation. The campground owner is pissed and threatening all kinds of legal action.”

  The fire of adrenaline faded away, her shoulders sagged. Dillon trying to protect her could cost five families their legacy. “I need to make a call first and then I’ll go to the police department.”

  Brock didn’t crack a smile. “I appreciate it. I’m sorry you got dragged into this mess. First our tractors and equipment are getting tampered with, and now the damage is escalating.”

  “You guys have been having issues like this for a while?”

  He nodded. “No clue why, but it’s getting expensive, and dangerous.”

  The gravity of the situation grew apparent. Brock didn’t storm into her office and demand she help, didn’t bluster on about their troubles, yet his tight shoulders and somber expression were enough to communicate how worried he was.

  “Most likely the same person stole Dillon’s truck, but there’s no way of knowing until we catch him. Or her, I guess. You never know.” He shook his head and gazed skyward inspecting the clouds. “No idea who’d want to do that to us, but there’s some serious hate involved.” He headed to his pickup. “I need to run out and help Cash bring the cattle in by the barn before the snow starts; they’re forecasting several inches. Can you tell Dillon to call when he’s released and I’ll come back to give him a ride?”

  “I can take him home.” She bit her tongue before she could make any other foolish offers. But Dillon hadn’t mentioned anything about the vandalism. Of course not. He was no longer her client.

  “Thank you again, Elle.” With a final nod, he climbed into the cab and left.

  She glanced up at the clouds. She should’ve paid more attention to the weather on the news the previous night, or at least not slept through it. Brock had mentioned several inches. Better help Dillon out before the roads got too messy.

  After she got into her car, she called Betsy and left her friend severely disappointed. Elle did some fancy talking to get out of telling Betsy why she couldn’t make it. Said her dad called and he’d had a bad day with his pain and was homesick.

  She drove to the law enforcement center, parked, and sat for a minute wondering what to say. Dillon wasn’t a guy most women would be ashamed about telling the world they brought home. In another life, she wouldn’t have been either. But her job…

  Technically, he was a former client. Squaring her shoulders, she walked in.

  Chapter Ten

  Dillon leaned his head against the concrete wall. The morning started out rolling downhill and gained momentum as the day progressed.

  He and Brock had called Aaron to check their places out to see if anything was tampered with.

  The footprints at Brock’s place were smaller than the previous set at Dillon’s. Random incident or connected, they hadn’t had time to dwell on it. Both he and Brock had gotten wrapped up in tractor shopping, taking pictures, writing down details, and getting demonstrations of their GPS systems and how they could maximize productivity. Afterward, they’d grabbed a late lunch and went to the bar to grab his truck.

  Only to find it gone.

  They’d reported it missing and Dillon was asked to come into the station.

  He was in deep-sucking shit if he didn’t spill who he was with last night. So much risk to everything he worked for, his cousins worked for; the legal fallout could be brutal. The campground owner was angry—rightly so—and he wanted Dillon’s head impaled on the splintered wood left behind from his truck’s damage.

  Dillon commiserated. He dreamed of doing the same to the person who’d stolen his truck.

  Elle couldn’t get drawn into this business. He and his cousins would work it out; he was innocent, after all.

  The officer who’d been working his case approached the holding area. “There’s a woman who’s way out of your league telling us that you were with her during the time your truck plowed the campground. Want to tell me about it?”

  “Elle?”

  Dammit, Brock. He hoped his cousin had at least been discreet and called instead of barging into her office. Brock wasn’t one to storm in anywhere, but he was known to be blunt.

  Officer Johnson nodded. “That’s her name.”

  Dillon’s head fell back against the wall. “She was just helping me out. I had too many to go home and she let me use her spare bedroom.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us that in the first place?”

  “It was bad enough being rescued by her once. Twice in one day and I’d need to seriously find my balls.” And I’m innocent.

  Officer Johnson snorted.

  “Well, the lawyer and I are leaning toward believing her over the girl who swore you left the bar drunk but keeps giving us different times.”

  “She was a little bitter that’d I rather sleep in my cold truck than go home with her.”

  The officer chuckled. “You Walker boys keep it interesting around here. We’ve got some paperwork for you before Ms. Brady gives you a lift home.”

  Another ride. Where was Brock? His ranking in Elle’s eyes had to be plummeting.

  He followed Officer Johnson out and filled out all the forms they set in front of him and then went out to find Elle sitting pensively in a chair, her leg crossed and bobbing furiously.

&nb
sp; “Hey,” he said.

  Movement stopped and she looked up. He shifted and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. He cared about her, about what she thought. After putting him up for the night, this seemed way worse.

  “Hey,” she replied, standing up. “Brock had to help Cash with some cows, so I thought I’d save him a trip back to town and take you home.”

  “Elle—”

  “I’m parked right out front.” She scurried out before he could apologize, or hell, say anything.

  Outside, big fluffy snowflakes brushed his face. He settled his ball cap on his head. Good thing Brock helped Cash prep the ranch in case the snow caused problems. They’d learned to never trust an April snowfall. It could be heavy and wet and muck everything up, or it could be all that and pile up high. Or even turn into a nasty blizzard that caught people off guard and got them, and cattle, killed.

  When he slid into the car, he faced her. She avoided looking at him and put the car in reverse to back out. He put his hand on the wheel. “Elle.” She stopped and finally met his eyes. “I’m sorry. For everything.” He expected to get an it’s okay, or happy to help. Her gaze was carefully neutral. “What can I do?”

  “Just let me take you home so I can get back to my house before the snow gets too bad.”

  Ouch. “All right.”

  She didn’t speak to him unless it was to ask for directions. Once they were out on the highway, she leaned forward, like she could see through the snowflakes better that way.

  “Geez, it’s really coming down,” she muttered.

  And getting visibly heavier. “I think we’ll get more than they forecasted.”

  Their speed got slower and slower until finally he cued her on the turn to the main road that ran past his house. She executed the turn carefully and then they both leaned forward to find the road.

  Her knuckles were white on the wheel.

  “It’s all right,” he spoke calmly. “It’s a straight shot to my place. See the hunks of dirt built up on the side from the road grader?” She nodded tightly. “Stay to the left of those and you’ll stay on the road.”