by Unknown
Damned if he didn’t resent the hell out of it.
Bracing his forearms on the table’s polished surface, he leaned forward, clasping his hands together. The nagging, analytical part of his brain wondered if he hadn’t done that—clasping his hands like that—to keep from reaching for her, keep from dragging her across the table and onto his lap.
Cam stared at her for several long minutes, then he leaned back in his chair, sucking in a deep breath. The citrusy scent of lemon coated the sharp bite of bleach, and he remembered the flavor too well. It had filled his nostrils, along with that elusive, feminine fragrance she wore, as he’d held her pinned beneath him.
Pinned. Beneath. Him.
He’d been cradled between her warm, lithe thighs…
Shifting in his seat, he stifled a groan as the 73
Brenda Huber
tightness in his jeans threatened to cut off circulation to parts he’d rather die than lose.
What the hell was wrong with him? He’d never lost control of his brain like this, not to mention certain other parts of his anatomy. In fact, now that he thought about it, even this morning at the diner—with nothing more than a cursory glance passing between them—that specific part in question had taken on a mind of its own.
Right now, that particular aforementioned body part was deep in the throes of rebelling in outright glee. Focus. She’d been tramping through the woods.
In the dark. Near the scene of a crime. Near the scene of a murder. Was she involved somehow? Or had she been telling the truth? Had it been nothing more than dangerous curiosity that sent her into the woods…and into his arms?
Was her skin as soft as it looked? Her lips as kissable?
Don’t go there. Focus.
“Miss Frost,” he addressed her at last, careful to keep his tone and his words cold and impersonal.
“We have a serious situation here.” He paused, waiting for her to insert some sarcastic comment the way she had earlier. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, perfectly still now, and starred at him, deadpanned, no glimpse of emotion showing but for the hint of warm color lingering in her cheeks.
“Start at the beginning, and tell me why you were in the woods tonight.” Tell me why I can’t get your delectable scent out of my head.
Focus.
For a moment, he thought she might refuse to respond, but then she spoke. Her voice was smooth, controlled. It skated down his spine, a thousand silky fingers unraveling his control. “I fell asleep on 74
Shadows
the sofa. When I woke up, I went into the kitchen for a drink. As I was standing at the sink, I noticed a strange light in the distance. Then, a smaller light broke away and started moving over the ground. It looked like it might be headed this way.” She paused, slicked the tip of her tongue over her lower lip. Every nerve in his body locked on the motion, and the tightness in his jeans grew unbearable. Then she caught that luscious lip between perfect, pearly teeth, and he nearly groaned aloud, remembering how those teeth had sunk eagerly into his flesh.
Would she be uninhibited—wild even—when he… Focus, Cam!
She pressed back against her seat a bit, as if sensing his inner struggle to keep a leash on thoughts he had no business thinking, and muttered, “I figured it was nothing more than some kids out looking for a place to party. So I thought I’d go out…” She lifted a slim shoulder. “Scare them off.
Instead,” her accusatory eyes narrowed on him, “I got jumped.”
As prone to flights of fantasy as his mind seemed tonight, her last words were not conducive to rational thought on his part, and so he shifted the topic to safer waters. “What time did you arrive in town this morning, Miss Frost?” Her brow wrinkled, and she tilted her head.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Please answer the question.”
Crossing her arms over her chest, she tapped out a belligerent rhythm beneath the table with the toe of her boot. “I guess around six maybe. I stopped for gas at Joe’s and then went straight to the diner.”
“Have you ever been to Sutter Hollow before today?”
Her eyes narrowed. She tipped her head, and 75
Brenda Huber
drew the suspicious syllable out, “No.”
“Why did you buy this particular house? You told Brandi you were just passing through. Isn’t this an awfully impulsive decision? Purchasing a house on your first day in a town you’ve never before visited? A house you’ve never even stepped foot inside? Are you prone to impulse, Miss Frost?” Any hint of tolerant civility in her beautiful eyes blinked out in a flash. “My reasons are none of your business. What are you getting at, Sheriff?” He stared at her again, long and hard, unblinking. If he told her about the body in the woods behind her new home, would she pack up her Jeep and run for the hills? Would she leave town as quickly, as unexpectedly as she’d arrived?
It might be far safer for his peace of mind if she did exactly that.
His stomach plummeted, fast as the first drop from a rollercoaster, at the mere thought.
Normally he wouldn’t dream of discussing an ongoing investigation with a civilian, part and parcel with standard police procedure. Maybe he was just that off his game tonight, but procedure didn’t hold much weight right about now. His mind was a muddled mess, firmly under the influence of an unexpected, unwanted, physical obsession.
He could hardly be held accountable if he were less than professional at this point.
“A few hours back, a local hunter found a dead woman in your precious woods, Miss Frost.” He leaned forward again, doing his best to ignore her slight gasp and the icy shock rolling through her eyes. In the periphery of his vision, Red straightened away from the counter across the room, but he remained silent, and Cam ignored him too.
“A dead woman,” she breathed. The color drained from her face making the dark smudges beneath her eyes stand out in sharp relief.
76
Shadows
“That’s right, a dead woman,” he confirmed, biting down on the surge of remorseful protectiveness. He couldn’t offer her comfort, not any more than he could rightfully offer her his lust.
“Where were you last night, Miss Frost?” Shock faded slowly, leaving behind a horrified, glazed stare. Then, in the snap of a finger, she came to the edge of her seat. Her glaring eyes threw sparks and her tone breathed fire as she gripped the edge of the table. “Are you accusing me of something, Sheriff? Do you think I had something to do with that poor woman’s death?”
“Did you, Miss Frost?” Cam emphasized the title, deliberately—desperately—keeping the interaction between them formal, trying in vain to fend off the unreasonable urge to sooth her ruffled feathers.
He had to keep her at arms length, had to keep himself impersonal and objective. If he couldn’t do it on his own—and damned his sorry hide if that didn’t seem the case—then he’d extend every effort to flat out piss her off, let her brick up as much of a wall between them as she could. Hopefully, that would be enough. Too bad the fury in her eyes only served to pour fuel on the flames of lust already roasting him alive.
Her chest heaved in and out with her obvious outrage. Her hands, locked on the edge of the table, tightened. “I was on the road, Sheriff Walker. I drove all night. I don’t have an alibi, though you’re welcome to check my credit card receipts to verify my whereabouts for whatever time that poor woman was killed.
“I don’t appreciate your accusations, and I don’t appreciate your attitude…just as I didn’t appreciate getting tackled in the mud, though now I at least understand your warped logic at the time. At the risk of repeating myself, if this is your version of the 77
Brenda Huber
welcome wagon, I’ll pass.” The frigid disdain in her voice would have given a lesser man a lethal case of hypothermia. As it was, a delicious shiver rippled just beneath his skin…a ripple of pure lust. She was sexy as hell when she was pissed off. “Now, I’d like for you to get the hell
out of my house.” Cam stayed in his chair for a moment longer, wishing he could find the willpower not to react to the icy flames in her eyes. If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride…
Without another word, he pushed to his feet.
Guilt had begun to ball in his gut, slick and greasy.
He’d always made it a personal rule never to accuse anyone of anything before he had sufficient proof.
Not only could you endanger an investigation, but you also burned a hell of a lot of bridges that way.
He’d seen that indisputable fact proven firsthand, time and again, with his predecessor.
Old Sheriff Wilkes had ruled his county with intimidation and ignorance. Abuse of power had been the rule of thumb, not the exception. No, this high-handed interrogation didn’t sit too well in Cam’s gut at all. An apology formed on his lips, but, for reasons beyond his understanding, he remained silent, the words firmly locked away. Cam nodded, tipped his chin at Red, and strode toward the door.
He swore to himself he wouldn’t give in to the urge to steal one last glance at her.
Three steps from the door, he shot a glance over his right shoulder. That ball of guilt swimming in his guts expanded until he was in serious danger of choking on it. Drying mud matted her hair to the back of her head and the long graceful line of her neck. The same dark muck coated her entire backside, from nape to boot heel. She hadn’t moved an inch since he’d walked past her, and, even now, her spine was so rigid he could have used it as a straightedge on his next remodeling project. Gritting 78
Shadows
his teeth, Cam stalked from the house, stomped down the back steps.
He didn’t speak again, and, praise the Lord, neither did Red as they tramped through the woods back to the scene of Lori Watson’s demise. Silence hung between them like dead weight until they finished loading the crime scene gear into the back of Red’s cruiser.
Cam slammed the trunk and addressed Red at last. “Head on back to the station now, work on your report. I’ll stop off at Steve’s, then I’ll be along shortly. Hopefully Jarvis will have something for us by then.”
Red nodded, but as he opened the cruiser’s door and placed one foot on the floor mat, he paused, shooting Cam a cautious look over his shoulder. “You gonna tell him? About Lori…I mean, about Lori and you…and Lori and me?”
Grinding his teeth together, struggling to meet Red’s remorse riddled stare, Cam dug his hands deep in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. He rattled the change in his pocket and drew a long breath.
One long moment of mutual guilt passed between them before he heaved a disgusted sigh. “I already had my balls shoved up my throat once tonight, what the hell do you think?” Turning away, Cam climbed into his truck. He slouched against the seat with the engine idling for a long time after Red left, staring at the spot where the woman he’d shared one night of lonely, drunken foolishness with had died a cold and brutal death.
He thought then of his next stop and shuddered.
Swearing, he shifted the truck into gear.
His night had gone straight to hell in a handbasket…and it was about to get a whole lot worse.
79
Brenda Huber
Chapter 7
The Apostle—that was how he thought of himself now, he was God’s chosen messenger after all—smiled at Ginny, thanked her once again, and picked the white plastic sack up from the counter.
The tinny clank of the hacksaw blade reverberated against the counter, shushed beneath the crinkle of plastic. Once outside, he pivoted to face the sunlight, savoring the gentle, golden rays as they bathed his face. God was surely smiling down on him this fine day. He was euphoric. His first mission had gone off without a hitch. Lori had been all too willing to slip away with him. Of course, once she’d realized judgment was upon her, she’d begged. She’d pleaded for her life…but not for her soul. She hadn’t beseeched God for forgiveness. She hadn’t been truly penitent…not until he’d explained the error of her ways.
By then, of course, it was too late.
He’d brought along a rosary—just in case—a wise insight that, since she claimed she didn’t own one. Shameful. He’d even supplied the words for her prayers, as she couldn’t remember them by herself.
God loved all his children, and he wanted them to have one last chance for redemption. The Apostle was proof of that. He was a sinner redeemed. After all, God had led him through his times of trial and sent him forth as His messenger, to spare the righteous, and to punish the wicked.
Vengeance shall be mine, so sayeth the Lord…
He could still see Lori, kneeling among the 80
Shadows
rubble of her sins. He hadn’t meant to lose his temper, to beat her like that. It had been her own fault, provoking him, begging, offering to do all those vile things if only he’d spare her life. It had been a slip, a miscalculation on his part. He’d be better prepared next time, wouldn’t be surprised or provoked by the Devil’s tricks.
The poor thing hadn’t even known what to do with the rosary he’d given her. Perhaps God would forgive her ignorance. He gave a small shrug.
Her soul was in His hands now.
Smiling, he waved at Emma through the large window on the front of the sheriff’s office as he shuffled by, swinging the bag at his side. Now there was a good girl. She dressed a little strangely, but she was in church every Sunday, come rain or shine…unless she had to work, of course. Then she’d always made a point of attending Mass the night before. She didn’t run around, getting herself into trouble, the way some people did these days.
He rounded the corner of the building, and his footsteps faltered. The contented haze he’d been wearing since he’d fulfilled God’s wishes for Lori began to slip through his fingers. He surveyed the large man stumbling from the liquor store, a case of beer tucked like precious cargo beneath his arm.
Another sinner if ever there was one.
Another soul in need of guidance.
The unkempt sinner stopped to dig in his pocket, swaying on his feet. His beard was shaggy, his hair dirty and wild. His clothing was mismatched, soiled and torn. He swore with exaggerated precision as he switched the beer to the other arm. The man lurched two uneven steps forward, then stopped to dig in his back pocket, listing to the side.
Filled with renewed purpose, the Apostle stepped forward, directly into the drunkard’s path.
81
Brenda Huber
Smiling benevolently, he reached out to steady the sinner he’d been called to save. “Hey there. It’s a might early in the day for that,” he said, nodding toward the case of beer, “don’t you think?” Bloodshot, glazed green eyes swung to his face, blinked. Sour sweat and stale beer pummeled waves of nausea against the back of the Apostle’s throat.
The drunk gave a vicious snarl and batted the hand on his shoulder away. His momentum spun him halfway around, and the beer slid from his arm. He fumbled the case, his coordination too sluggish to accomplish much more than to give it a slight spin on its way down. The carton landed flat on the ground with a sharp crack and a vicious, slurred curse.
Snatching the beer up, cradling it against his chest, the drunk snarled, “Mind your own f-fuckin’
business.”
Muttering to himself, the sinner staggered away, clutching the Devil’s brew in a death-grip, as if he feared someone would try to wrest it from him if he let his guard down for even a moment. The Apostle stepped back, his eyes narrowed, and he exhaled a pent-up breath laced with resolve.
And so Solomon answered, ‘Should he bear himself honorably, not one hair of his shall fall to the ground…but if he proves difficult, he shall die.’
****
JJ knelt in one of the flowerbeds lining her driveway, tugging at a particularly determined weed. A wailing horn blared from nearby, barely discernable over the enthusiastic roar of an archaic motor. Shielding her eyes against the bright midday sun with one hand, she glanced up, her curious ga
ze following the trail of dust swirling ever closer.
JJ swiped the back of her grimy wrist along the side of her forehead. A stray wisp of hair stuck to her temple. The damp curl twisted up and around to 82
Shadows
tease her lashes. She sighed and swiped again, rocking back on her heels when the truck veered off the main road, angling down her drive. A battered, red Chevy—coated with more rust than paint—
barreled down the washboard gravel straight toward her. A long, slim arm thrust out the truck’s open window and set to waving with impressive enthusiasm. The truck jerked to a stop alongside the flowerbed, and the roar of the engine cut out on a sputtering cough. A bare elbow poked in JJ’s direction as Ginny Connor leaned out the driver’s side window, grinning with warm ease. “Are you winnin’…or are the weeds?”
JJ surveyed the tangled mess around her.
“Right now, I’d say it’s a draw…though the weeds might have a slight advantage.”
“I got a truck load of deliveries for ya, brought along a jug a tea too. Figured you could use a break…know I sure could.”
The need for fresh air and sunshine had driven JJ from the house as the first rays of dawn broke over the horizon. It’d been considerably cooler then.
Sunshine and fresh air or not, as the saying went, there was no rest for the weary. The sight of the overgrown flowerbeds, more weeds than flowers, were more than she could stand, and it didn’t take long before JJ found herself elbow deep in weeds and dirt. For all that it was early spring, the day was a warm one—much warmer than JJ had anticipated—
and by the fourth small bed of weeds, she’d begun daydreaming about a tall glass of something cool to slake the thirst.
“You read my mind,” JJ announced, pushing to her feet.
She tugged the gardening gloves from her hands, dusted the knees of her ragged jeans, and brushed a stray, withered bit of green from the 83