Colorado's Finest

by Lynn, Sheryl

“Morning, Elaine,” he said with a nod. “Is Ric around?”

  She pushed open the screened door. “He’s in the shower. Come on in.”

  He followed her into the cheerful kitchen, which was redolent with the aromas of baking biscuits and frying sausage. She handed him a large mug of fresh coffee and bade him sit at the table. “How’s Diana?” she asked.

  He noticed a montage of framed photographs on a shelf. Many of them were of Elaine’s first husband. Bobby on horseback, Bobby posing with Jodi or Elaine or all of them together. Tate wondered if the reminders bugged Ric, then immediately discounted the idea. Bobby and Ric had been good friends. What really made him curious was how Elaine could stand the constant reminders of what she’d lost.

  “Diana’s fine.”

  She wanted to ask more, know more—curiosity shone on her face. She probably knew Marlee had helped Diana; it probably drove her crazy that her sister knew something she didn’t. She wasn’t the type to pry, however, and Tate was grateful. At the same time, he wished they had a closer relationship so he could ask how she’d recovered from grief. Elaine had loved her late husband. How had she managed to get on with her life, to love again, risk again?

  Ric entered the kitchen. He didn’t look all that surprised to see Tate. He kissed his wife and poured himself some coffee. “What’s up, jarhead?”

  “Need to trade vehicles again.” He placed the Jeep key on the table. “Had a bit of an…incident last night. You might be getting a visit from the FBI.”

  Husband and wife exchanged a look.

  “Just tell the truth. No sense you taking any heat on my account.”

  “Are you in trouble?” Ric asked.

  “Working on it.” He felt bad about involving his friends. It was a small consolation that Ric honestly did not know anything. He gulped coffee, enjoying the pleasant burn of it going down his throat. He stood. “I’d tell you more if I could, but it’s best if I don’t.”

  “Is there anything we can do for you and Diana?” Elaine asked. “Or can Mama do something? She’s got heavy-duty connections, you know.”

  Tate grinned. Not even the FBI would dare mess with Lillian McClintock Crowder. “Just keep your eyes and ears open. The sooner we take Bernadette O’Malley into custody, the better. I need to go.”

  “Stay safe,” Elaine said. “Tell Diana if she needs anything, give a holler.”

  He gave her a jaunty salute and left the house.

  The fog had lifted a little by the time he reached McClintock; Main Street had a misty, watercolor look. Dark storefronts and empty sidewalks made it seem like a ghost town. He kept a close watch out for any suspicious activity. As he cruised past the Shack he did a double take and stomped on the brake.

  He gaped openmouthed at the big front window. Even though the bar wasn’t open, all the lights were on and he could actually see into the dining room! A man on a ladder was painting the glass. Tate whipped around behind the business and found Consuela’s old Plymouth parked in his spot.

  Managing the place was one thing. Taking over was quite another. He stomped inside. The heady aroma of roasting chilies greeted him. Spanish conversation and laughter filled the kitchen, which happened to be full of Consuela’s relatives.

  “What the hell is going on?” Tate demanded.

  Consuela eyed him as if he were a pesky salesman. Tate stomped to the batwing doors and stared at the dining room. A pretty little girl of about ten or eleven was smoothing a tablecloth. Bright white, yellow and green cloths covered all the tables. Neon beer advertisements and tacky memorabilia had been removed from the walls. Young people scrubbed the floor, washed the walls and polished the mahogany bar. A young man stood on a ladder and painted the glass. The clear glass.

  “What happened to the window tinting?” he asked.

  “Pfft!” Consuela said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Ugly and peeling and old-fashioned. Couldn’t get it clean. We scraped it off.”

  His mouth fell open.

  “Miguel is an artist,” she said proudly. “He is making the window beautiful. Customers will come in just because his paintings are so wonderful!”

  He sought an argument against the improvements but couldn’t think of a single one. Shaking his head, he wandered back to his apartment. Consuela had left a shoe box on the table outside his door. It was filled with receipts, invoices and cash. She’d completed the payroll and placed orders for supplies.

  Inside his apartment, he sorted through the shoe box. Business was booming. He’d have to deal with it later. He crouched before the small safe tucked beneath the sink in the kitchenette. He spun the dial, pulled it open and started to slide the box inside. A small framed photograph lay inside the safe. It was a snapshot of Lisa he’d taken on a visit to Coney Island. A breeze was flipping her sundress, and she was pushing down her skirt a` la Marilyn Monroe.

  She was laughing, her cheeks pink with sunburn. It was the way he wanted to remember her. He couldn’t bear memories of the shrunken, pained, drugged creature she’d been at the end.

  He stared at the picture, waiting for the pain to overwhelm him. It didn’t come. Instead there was a bittersweet sadness and the certainty that Lisa had been a gift. He hadn’t had her long enough—he’d wanted a lifetime—but he treasured what they shared. She’d been a generous woman, never harboring grudges, always willing to kiss and make up after an argument. Always quick to forgive.

  She’d have forgiven him for not being there when she died.

  He carried the photograph in both hands to the crate that served as a bedside table. He cleared away books and wiped off dust with his forearm. He placed the framed picture on the table, adjusting it until it looked right.

  He locked the cash and receipts in the safe.

  Lisa’s picture drew him again. Not only would she have forgiven him, she’d have found a way to encourage him to forgive himself. That was the way she’d been—the way Diana was now.

  His dad used to advise, “Don’t argue with your mother, son. Women are always right. Get used to it.”

  Wise man, his father.

  Tate called Gil and reached the sheriff at home. He told him about the orderly at the hospital in Durango.

  “No one reported any tips from the hospital or anywhere else. What were you doing at the hospital?”

  Tate hunched into his shoulders. No way did he want his boss to know he’d suffered an anxiety attack. “Don’t worry about it. Are you sure nothing came in? I’m positive that guy recognized Diana.”

  “Damn it, Tate, if you’re injured, I have a right to know.”

  “Forget about it. The important thing is, I was driving Ric’s Jeep. I don’t want the feebs hassling him.”

  “I’ll keep them away. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Tate rolled his eyes. His own parents had never fussed over him the way Gil Vance did. “I’m perfectly fine.”

  Gil grumbled, then said, “Judge Woodman threw out the warrant for Diana’s arrest. None of the charges fall under federal jurisdiction.” He chuckled, an evil sound. “Woodman reamed Albright a new one. If I were you, I’d stay the hell out of McClintock. All Albright needs is an excuse and he’ll hang your head on his wall.”

  “I’ll take that under advisement.”

  Tate packed extra clothing and threw in batteries for his cell phone, shells for the shotgun and a .38 snub-nosed revolver. He made a quick stop in the kitchen. “If anyone asks, you haven’t seen me,” he told Consuela.

  “See who?” she said with a sniff then snapped her fingers at a teenager. The girl handed Tate a heavy grocery sack. It was filled with carry-out containers.

  Touched, he said, “Thanks.”

  “You paid for it. Now get lost.”

  He loaded his bag and the food in the Bronco, and drove out of town. He got stuck behind a line of behemoth recreational vehicles chugging up a steep grade. The orderly at the hospital gnawed at him. He’d definitely recognized Diana.

  Lines at the station mu
st have gotten crossed. Or else the orderly had contacted the Durango police and they’d failed for some reason to act immediately.

  An open stretch came up and he gunned the accelerator, passing two RVs before he had to veer back into the right lane to avoid a cattle truck barreling down the hill. He passed the third RV and picked up speed. The engine blew an angry-sounding bang and the truck shuddered and shimmied. Tate let up on the gas. The shimmying stopped, but the engine ran rougher and louder than usual.

  “Don’t die on me now, you old pig,” he muttered and turned up the radio’s volume to drown out the distressing noise.

  The phone rang. Tate turned down the radio and answered. It was Gil.

  “Did the tip come in?” Tate asked. “Can you keep it—”

  “I’ve got nothing from Durango,” the sheriff said. “This is better. We got a break.”

  Tate snapped to attention. “Bernadette?”

  “Couple of campers up at Fox Den Draw caught her pilfering their food box. This morning they reported it to a forest ranger.”

  Tate nearly whooped. He’d half-believed that Bernadette had been eaten by wolves or abducted by aliens. “Is she in custody?”

  “Not yet. But the ID is positive, and the campers claim she’s on foot. Which means she’s hiding not far away. I’m coordinating a search party as we speak.”

  “I’ll be there—”

  “Like hell you will. You’re on vacation. Besides, Albright is right outside my door. He’s sweating under a protective vest and rarin’ to go. He might accidentally shoot you.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. Let me handle this. The real beauty of it is, Fox Den is on state land. So when we pick her up, the state police will have initial custody. Albright will have to haggle with them. That’ll make him appreciate what nice guys we are.”

  “What about Coles? Will you tip him off?”

  “I don’t know. He’s a squirrel.”

  Tate knew what Gil meant. Something about the reporter rubbed Tate the wrong way. That he couldn’t pinpoint why the man made him so itchy, bugged him. It was probably that Coles was so darned eager.

  The turn-off onto the ranch was just up ahead. “Keep me posted.”

  “You got it.” Gil rang off.

  The Bronco’s engine died each time Tate had to stop to open a gate. It restarted easily enough, but black smoke billowed from the tail pipe. When Tate finally limped up to the lodge, he breathed a little prayer of thanks.

  The fog had lifted completely, but the sky was low and gray. Despite it being June, they could be in for snow. Or the clouds might burn off by noon and the temperature could soar. He’d given up even trying to predict Rocky Mountain weather. His shoes squashed on the soggy ground when he locked the chain across the driveway. Wood smoke hung heavily in the sodden air.

  He carried his belongings onto the porch and used his foot to knock on the door. Diana opened it.

  “My goodness,” she said, eyeing the Bronco. “What did you do to that poor thing? It sounds terrible.”

  He’d told himself he’d keep things cool. One look into her shining eyes and he was lost. His insides jumbled with longing and memories and sexual heat.

  “Are you coming in?” she asked, a note of caution.

  Having his arms full saved him from making a fool of himself. Otherwise he’d have her on the floor right now. Merely looking at her made him hard.

  “Tate?”

  He forced his feet to move. He struck something solid and Tippy yipped. That snapped Tate out of his stupor. Diana grabbed the grocery sack before he dropped it. He crouched to apologize to the puppy, who proved ridiculously eager to forgive.

  “Talk to me! Did something bad happen?” Diana carried the sack to the kitchen nook. “What’s wrong? Oh no, it’s because I used a credit card at the hospital, isn’t it?”

  “No! Sorry.” He closed his eyes a moment, gathering his wits. He wasn’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but he wasn’t stupid either. Except, apparently, around Diana. “Actually there’s good news.”

  “They found Bernie? She’s alive?”

  “She’s alive and Gil thinks they can find her.”

  She dropped gracelessly onto a chair. She twisted her fingers on her lap.

  He related what Gil had told him. She patted the base of her throat and her eyes glazed with tears.

  “It’s okay, honey, I swear. Nobody is going in with guns blazing. They’re pros.” He patted her shoulder. Which turned into a caress and then she was in his arms, her shoulders hitching and her hot breath seeping through his shirt. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

  She snuffled loudly. She wasn’t crying, but she was close. “I was so afraid she was dead.”

  He rubbed her back and stroked her hair and called himself the worst sort of cad for being so aroused. Her hip shifted, her belly rubbed against his and her hands slipped over his shoulders and around his neck. When she lifted her face to his, a gun to his head couldn’t have prevented him from kissing her.

  And kissing her. He kissed her generous mouth, trailed his questing mouth over satiny skin, the taut jut of her cheekbones, her petal-soft eyelids. A whimper rose in her throat, a tiny sensuous sound that he homed in on like a predatory bird. He backed her against the desk. She tore his shirt out of his jeans. Anxious little noises she made drove him over the edge. He hoisted her onto the desk. Her fingers tortured his belly while she fumbled with his belt.

  He swayed drunkenly away from kissing her. “Crazy,” he breathed.

  Her eyes were glazed, her cheeks flushed. “Yeah.” She jerked at her shoelaces and practically threw her shoes across the room. In a flash, she had her jeans and panties around her ankles, and she was grabbing for him again.

  The sex wasn’t sweet, it wasn’t tender—she blew his mind. If she had inhibitions, she’d left them at the door.

  In the aftermath, he panted against her shoulder. His feet were on the floor, one of her glorious legs was draped over his shoulder and he held on to her generous butt to keep her from sliding off the desk.

  “Da-ahm,” he breathed.

  “That was…pretty…good…” She chuckled.

  “This can’t be comfortable for you.”

  “It’s not, but my bones have dissolved.”

  His knees were cramping. He shrugged until her leg was off his shoulder and she could wriggle higher onto the desk. He couldn’t resist her gorgeous belly. White as milk, and with a honeyed smell he wanted to bottle. He licked her navel. She giggled.

  “We shouldn’t be doing this, Red.” Lord, but she was a true redhead. He was getting hard again.

  She hooked her hands behind her head and grinned at him. “You’d rather do what? Play cards?”

  He pushed up on his arms, looming over her. Two buttons on her shirt remained fastened, covering her chest, her scars. It hadn’t been deliberate to miss those buttons. Or maybe it had. Shame damped his desire. “I’m hungry.”

  “Ah, fuel for the machine.” She urged him to move away. Stretching like a cat, she languorously slid off the desk and onto her feet. Working her fingers against her scalp, ruffling that magnificent mane of hair, she strolled into the kitchen nook.

  No jeans.

  No panties.

  Just shirt tails swaying over her derriere and long, shapely legs. No shame in this woman, no self-consciousness. The slow roll of her hips said she welcomed his hungry gaze.

  She was gonna give him a heart attack for real. He tore his attention away and went in search of his clothing.

  “How long will it take Gil to apprehend Bernie?” she asked. She pulled carry-out containers from the grocery sack.

  “She’s probably exhausted, hungry and maybe sick. I don’t think she’ll resist capture.”

  She loaded plates with still-warm huevos rancheros and corn muffins. “What will the FBI do to her?”

  He formulated a reassuring reply, but then caught the twist of worry in her brow. What she wanted to ask was, did th
e FBI mean to use her sister as bait to catch a terrorist? “I don’t know. Once she’s in their custody, it’s all over for us.”

  She brought plates to the table. Mumbling about making fresh coffee, she turned her back on him.

  “That reporter could have been blowing smoke about Montgomery. Making himself look important. I don’t care how good his sources are, I bet he doesn’t know the whole story.”

  “If she did kidnap and murder that woman, she could get the death penalty.”

  He couldn’t sugarcoat this. He didn’t try. “It’s possible. Best casing is, we’re talking a life sentence in a federal penitentiary. There’s nothing you can do for her.”

  “I know.” She filled an enameled coffeepot with water and fitted a basket inside. After fiddling with the flame on a small propane camp stove, she joined him at the table. “When Bernie and I were little girls, we played a game. I’d say, I was going to be a stage actress. She’d top it, saying she was going to be a star. I’d have a million dollars, she’d have a billion. The last time we played, she lost her temper. She screamed at me. She said no matter what I did, she was going to make sure she was more famous.” She sighed heavily. “In hindsight, it seems horribly prophetic.”

  He felt bad for her. “My youngest brother went to jail once.” As soon as those stupid words were out of his mouth, he felt like an ass. Doubly so when she cocked her head and wrinkled her nose. He groaned. “I’m sorry, I…”

  “Trying to make me feel better?” She patted his hand. “I’m very sad about my sister. You’d think I’d be used to the heartache by now.” She ate a few bites, but didn’t seem interested in the food. “Why did he go to jail?”

  “Busted the cap off a fire hydrant. He and his buddies were hot.”

  At least she laughed. Small consolation.

  He wished there were something he could do to ease her worry. All they could do was wait.

  TATE HUNKERED INTO A crouch and poked at the logs in the fireplace. Ashes fell off embers and pitch crackled.

  Diana sat on a rocking chair with a blanket tucked around her legs and feet. A novel lay open on her lap. “You’re prowling around like a caged animal. Why don’t you read a book or something?”