by Jodi Thomas
She slammed the door and ran toward the house.
Chapter 16
HANK ROLLED OUT OF BED AND PULLED ON A WORN PAIR of Levi’s as he walked across the room to answer his cell.
“Chief.” Willie’s voice was high with excitement. “We’re pulling out now. You said to call you no matter how small the fire if we took the truck out.”
Hank could hear the siren in the background. “What is it, Willie?”
“Highway patrol called in a trash fire out at the north rest stop.”
Willie had been sleeping at the fire station since he turned eighteen and his stepfather kicked him out. Brad Rister would be there tonight also. He slept there every time his wife kicked him out. Andy Daily, one of the night dispatchers across the street, would have caught a ride as well. Andy wasn’t much of a fireman, but he was an adrenaline junkie and about to starve to death in a town the size of Harmony.
“I’ll meet you there,” Hank said, and closed up his phone.
Andy and Brad were levelheaded, and Willie could follow orders. They didn’t need him to put out a trash fire. But Hank had been restless all night. He might as well go check everything out himself rather than lie in bed worrying about it. With a trash fire, there was always the chance it could spark a grass fire.
Glancing at his watch, he realized in an hour he would have been up anyway. He liked to get up and be at work before dawn when he was at the ranch. He’d work a few hours before coming in for breakfast with his mother and Saralynn. His sisters usually slept late, and his old aunts had their morning tea and bakery scones in their quarters.
As he took the side stairs outside his room, he hoped he made it back for breakfast. Tuesdays, his mother left early to visit the gallery in Wichita Falls that handled her pots, but every other morning, the three of them laughed and talked over pancakes and eggs before they started their day. Sometimes he thought his family circled around him in endless rings, but at the core were Saralynn and his mother.
When Hank pulled up to the north roadside park, he could see smoke rising gray against the night sky. The huge Dumpster was still popping with the heat, but the fire inside had been put out.
His men had sprayed the dried grass around the site to ensure that no spark would start something far worse than a Dumpster fire.
“What do you think happened?” Willie asked.
“Some traveler tossing his trash along with an ashtray, maybe,” Hank guessed. Dumpster fires weren’t all that unusual. An odd smell drifted with the smoke, making Hank wonder if some animal had been trapped in the Dumpster. Or maybe roadkill had been tossed in.
He noticed one of the sheriff’s cars pull up beside the highway patrolman’s vehicle, but Hank didn’t move out of the dark. If Alex was here, she was on duty and probably didn’t want to talk to him. For the second Saturday in a row he hadn’t gotten a call from the bar. She’d stayed out of trouble. Part of him was proud of her, and part wondered if she was staying away from him.
Flashlight beams floated around an old station wagon parked near one of the picnic tables. The crack of a police radio crackled across the cold air.
Brad Rister approached Hank. “Should we try to determine the cause, or just wait and come back in a few hours when it’s light? Both lids were down when we got here, so the fire had pretty much choked itself out. All we got was smoke; no flame when we popped the latch.”
“Go on back and try to get a few more hours of sleep.” Hank turned his collar up. “I’ll stick around for a while.”
Brad motioned for Willie and Andy to pack up.
Hank noticed the beam of a light moving toward him. He didn’t move as Alex’s tall, lean shadow materialized from behind the light.
“Fire out?” she asked.
“It’s out.”
“Mind if we have a look inside?”
“The Dumpster’s probably still hot and smoking, but knock yourself out.” He followed her and two highway patrolmen. “Any reason this can’t wait until dawn?”
Alex didn’t answer, but the patrolman said, “We found drugs in the station wagon. There is a possibility that the driver climbed out of his car for some reason and decided to light up in the Dumpster.”
Hank frowned. “You think he caught himself on fire?”
“I’ve seen it before. In the car, out where we could see him if we passed by, wouldn’t seem near as safe as inside the Dumpster. Only problem was he might have closed the lid.”
Hank could fill in the blanks from there. A few years ago, the parks department had put on latches to keep animals out of the trash. A five-year-old could open the lid from the outside, but there was no way to open it from the inside. A few park workers had complained about almost having a heart attack when they opened the lid and an angry raccoon shot out.
Hank stood behind Alex as she leaned over and shone her flashlight in. One of the patrolmen did the same.
Hank didn’t have to look. He had a feeling they’d find something dead inside.
Alex stepped back and, in the dark, no one else noticed Hank steady her.
“We’ll need a crime unit,” she said, fighting to keep her voice calm. “He’s burned, but the cause of death may be asphyxiation.”
“Or drugs,” Hank added. “Does it really matter? He’s dead.”
No one heard him. They began talking about what had to be done. Hank walked back to his truck just as the sky started to lighten. With the door open, he sat in his Dodge and watched the show. Usually, he loved sunrise on the prairie, but the smoky haze in the air and the stench took the joy out of it.
He barely noticed most of the cars leaving. The sky was rose-colored when he heard someone come around the side to the open door of his truck.
“You can go,” Alex said, then added, “Thank your team for coming out. Thank you for coming.”
He didn’t move or look at her. “I wasn’t asleep.” He almost added that he’d been thinking of her, or, more accurately, thinking of her in bed beside him.
She came closer. “I’m staying until the crime boys get here. There’s no reason for you to have to stay.”
He turned his head and found her only a foot away. The dawn reflected in her eyes. She stared; an ocean of words that needed to be said flowed between them, but neither had any idea how to begin. The memory of the way she’d felt in the restaurant with her leg pressed against his filled his tired mind, blocking out all else.
“You need something, Hank?” She raised one eyebrow slightly.
“Yeah, come closer.” He was just tired enough not to be able to act like he didn’t want her anymore.
She took a step closer, almost touching him, her eyes daring him.
Hank slowly lifted his hand and slid his finger around the back of her neck. He didn’t tug her forward, but leaned out of the truck and kissed her lightly on the mouth.
When she stiffened, he moved away. “You can shoot me out here if you want to, Alexandra, but I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.” He had no idea what she’d do or say. He didn’t care.
She braced her hands on either side of the open door frame and leaned in, kissing him full on the mouth hard.
His arm circled around her and tugged her in beside him as her mouth opened and the kiss deepened.
She broke the kiss, but she couldn’t pull away. Her back was pressed against the steering wheel, and her front was pressed against him. “This doesn’t mean anything,” she whispered, as if to herself, not him. “Don’t think we’re even friends.”
“Fine with me,” he answered as his arm tightened, pulling her hard against him and covering her mouth once more.
He wanted to feel her heart pounding as she kissed him back, but all he felt was her bulletproof vest. The knowledge of where they were and who they were must have registered with her a second after it did with Hank.
He broke the kiss as she slid away. Neither of them looked at the other.
Hank started his pickup. She closed his door with a slam. He
didn’t trust himself to look at her until he’d backed out and thrown the truck into gear.
He wasn’t surprised to see her standing, legs wide apart, fists on her gun belt and glaring at him like she hated his guts. She deserved better than to be kissed in a roadside park crime scene. “Smooth,” he mumbled, “really smooth.” He could have at least said something. Women need words; men only need women.
After he’d used every swear word he could think of, it dawned on him that she’d kissed him with the same hunger he’d kissed her.
By the time he pulled up to the ranch house, Hank was smiling. Apparently neither one of them had a romantic bone in their bodies. A roadside park with a body forty feet away wasn’t exactly a romantic spot. There had been no words of love, or even caring. They reminded him of wild mustangs mating. If they ever did make it to bed, their pillow talk would probably be cuss words whispered to each other.
He shook his head. He didn’t care. She’d kissed him back; that was all that mattered. They might never sit down to a candlelight dinner, or go to a movie, or waltz in the moonlight, but the next time they touched, she wouldn’t be wearing that damn vest and they wouldn’t be in a public place.
When he walked in the kitchen, Saralynn and his mother were sitting down to breakfast in the kitchen.
“Everything all right, son?” his mother asked.
“Everything is fine,” he answered as he crossed to the sink and washed his hands.
“Perfect,” he grumbled beneath his breath, “but way too public.” He could still taste Alexandra’s lips on his mouth.
Chapter 17
THERE WAS A CHAIN OF COMMAND IN MATTERS OF DEATH, and Tyler Wright knew he was at the bottom. When people killed themselves or died under unusual circumstances, he was always the last one to get the body. Tyler had a staff of five. Two men who did the embalming and helped with funerals. One bookkeeper, one secretary, and one night host who worked after hours when needed. The Wright Funeral Home had a standing rule that whenever a body was resting in state, the night host, or Tyler himself, was there if the family wanted to come in, no matter the hour.
In all his years he’d never had to open the doors after ten P.M. more than a dozen times. Once a son drove in at two A.M. insisting on seeing his father before he was buried at dawn, and a few times widows wanted to sit up all night with their mate. But for the most part, the host worked a few days a week from five to nine P.M.
Since the beginning, the host had always been a man, usually a retired member of the staff. But for the past eight years the host had been Stella McNabb, a retired home economics teacher who knew everyone in town and, more important, remembered each of their names. Those she hadn’t taught, she’d made home visits to when their children were in school. The U.S. census takers could have saved themselves days by just visiting Stella. She was sixty-three and pleasantly fluffy, and she cried with the mourners at every viewing. The perfect host for a funeral home.
Tyler liked Stella. He’d hired her on the spot when she’d answered his ad. The fact that she’d been the only one who answered might have been a factor, but Tyler liked to believe he’d hired her because she was the opposite of him. He’d start a sentence with something like, “You know that family that lives out by . . .” and Stella would give him the names, ages, and sometimes ailments of everyone who lived under the roof before he finished his sentence.
Tyler swiveled in his chair and looked out his office window. He’d called Stella an hour ago to come in and sit with a family tonight. The old teacher was never late.
Sure enough, Bob McNabb pulled up as Tyler watched. The weekend farmer let his wife out and drove away. He’d drive over to the fire station and spend his time, then be back for her at nine. Tyler often wondered why he didn’t just drive the five miles home and come back, but then farm folks thought of coming to town as an event and made the most of every trip.
Stella was carrying a big plastic container. Cookies, probably. The woman could turn sugar, white flour, and shortening into heaven.
Tyler sucked in his stomach. He’d lost ten pounds the past three weeks, but avoiding Stella’s cooking wouldn’t be easy.
He stood and walked out to the lobby.
Stella had set the cookie tin down and was working on the knot of her head scarf. “Evening, Tyler,” she said in her sweet way.
“Evening, Mrs. McNabb.” He might be more than twenty years out of high school, but he would never be comfortable calling her anything else. “Glad you could come in. The Trudeaus are having a family visitation at six. You think you can handle them all? There could be forty or fifty coming.”
She smiled. “I can handle them. There’s not a one of them I’d hesitate to thump on the ear if he got out of line.”
Tyler grinned. He wouldn’t have put it past her. “I’ve got work to do in the office tonight. I’ll check in a few times.” He’d already been out to the house to deliver a funeral wreath for the Trudeaus’ door. The place looked like a bus terminal that had never been cleaned. Chairs and trash everywhere. It made sense to use the funeral parlor to welcome folks who wanted to pay their respects.
Stella finally got her scarf off, but her hair looked worse than if the wind had blown it. “I always felt so sorry for Mary Trudeau. By the time she stopped nursing kids, she was taking care of Martin. I’ll say one thing for him, though. He fought that cancer.” She patted her hair, trying to make it look like it did when she’d had it backcombed and sprayed several days ago.
She moved down the hall to where it widened into an area with coffee and bottled water. She set the cookies out on a plate and stored her container with a dozen others beneath the counter. “I’d better make the coffee early tonight. I may need some myself to stay awake. I’ve been having this dream over and over last night, and I swear I found no rest even if I was asleep. It’s a vision, really, about a terrible storm coming. Last night, I saw a coffin coming out of the storm and we all know what that means.”
“What?” Tyler asked as he finally broke down and picked up one cookie. Peanut butter, his least favorite. He’d eat only two.
Stella frowned. “When you see a coffin, it means someone’s going to die.”
He almost choked on the cookie fighting down a laugh. Finally he managed to say, “I’ve found that very true.”
She didn’t notice his distress. “My Bob don’t believe in my visions, but I’ve traced my family tree and I’ve got Gypsy blood. It may not make sense even to me, but there’s something to be said for dreams.”
Tyler nodded without having any idea what she meant. He was always dreaming some version of a dream in which he woke up late and ran to the cemetery to do a graveside service and somehow he couldn’t find the grave or, when he did, all the people were waiting and he noticed, too late, that he’d run into the crowd naked.
Wonder how Stella would interpret that dream? She’d probably think he was on drugs, or worse, that he was some kind of sleepwalking exhibitionist.
He said good-bye and rushed back to his office. He wanted to jot down notes and search the Internet before he e-mailed Kate tonight. They could talk about the meaning of dreams. That would be something new and fun.
Willamina, his housekeeper, had brought his supper on a tray and left it in the office. Pork chops with gravy, cheesy potatoes with gravy, and sweet corn with butter melting on top. He covered the meal and left it by the door while he ate two diet meal bars. He knew one was a meal, but he always had another for dessert.
It was seven thirty when Kate’s first e-mail came through. Evening, Ty, how was your day?
He smiled. No one had ever called him Ty. Evening, Katherine. He was guessing Kate would be short for Katherine. If she could shorten his, he could lengthen hers. My day’s perfect now I can talk to you. He’d been thinking about saying that for two weeks. I had a dream last night that you were walking out of a storm toward me.
Do you believe in dreams? she came back before he had time to pat himself on the back for
being such an interesting person.
Do you? He didn’t want to commit before she did.
As always, she didn’t hesitate to tell him what she thought. Sometimes I wonder if you’re not more dream than real.
I wonder the same thing. He thought for a moment and added, Sometimes I wonder if you’re not the only real thing in my life, my hazel-eyed dinner partner.
She wrote that she was laughing, and he swore he could almost hear her.
They talked of crazy dreams they’d had over the years. Tyler hated to end the evening, but he had to check on the Trudeau family.
Until tomorrow night, he typed.
Dream of me tonight, she answered back.
I’ll do that. He signed off, leaned back in his chair, and smiled. When he talked to Kate, he wasn’t the overweight undertaker, he was someone special. He closed his eyes and tried to remember what she looked like, then realized it didn’t matter. She was beautiful to him.
Chapter 18
SATURDAY AFTERNOON
SHERIFF ALEXANDRA MCALLEN WALKED THROUGH THE OLD mission-style home on her family ranch. The place was covered in dust and smelled faintly of decay. Even though her brothers had fought leaving and her father had hated to move from the ranch, their mother had relocated the family to town years ago.
Both of the boys came back as soon as they could drive. First Warren, and now Noah. It was as if they belonged to the land, more than the land belonged to them. Their father helped Warren get started, but after his oldest son was shot, Adam McAllen lost all interest in a ranch that had been in his family for generations.
Alex walked through the empty rooms, remembering how her mother had never liked living out here alone where she couldn’t see a sign of civilization in any direction. Living on the ranch had been just one more thing her parents had argued about. Her mother had always claimed the land was worthless. Adam McAllen used this home only as his base camp between rodeos. He wasn’t there enough to keep the place as a working ranch. Finally he’d given in, and the family moved to town. The fighting eased, but the scars were still there. They’d married young, then spent years having kids and fighting. Now, Alex thought, Dad lived in Amarillo and rarely returned and Mom lived bitter.