Clinton seemed to perk up, sliding around in his seat. “Three years, coming up. Jenny and I went to high school together.”
“High-school sweethearts, huh?” Logan said, counting back. Clinton must have been just a kid when he got married.
“Well, actually, no. She didn’t know I existed until the quarterback she was dating broke her heart. I just happened to be there. I was eighteen then, just graduated. I sucked up the nerve to ask her out for coffee. She was so damn pretty, so sweet. I couldn’t believe it when she said yes.”
Logan looked over to see that Clinton wore a goofy grin, all white teeth flashing. He looked just like the boys in his unit who had been shipped overseas; those who had supposedly been trained as marines but could barely wipe their own noses.
“We just had a baby girl, four months old. Lord, the day we were married was the happiest day of my life, but when my daughter was born…” He pulled his cell phone out and flicked the screen, angling it and showing off a picture of a chubby baby in the arms of a dark-haired woman who looked as if she, too, was still a kid.
“Cute,” Logan said. “So where’s a good place in town to grab a bite to eat?” He pulled down Main Street in the area Clinton gestured toward.
“Over at Tree’s, right on the corner. Julia Cooper—pretty gal—she makes the best sandwiches and soup, baked goods, coffee… Better than my wife’s, but don’t tell Jenny that.” He chuckled, and Logan glanced over at him, shaking his head. One day, this kid would say something that would get him in a world of trouble.
Logan saw the sign over the door, a big oval carved with a tree and roots. A plastic sign on the door said “Open.” Logan pulled in front, angling into a parking spot.
When he stepped out, Clinton shut the passenger door and pointed to his phone. “I generally go home for lunch,” he said. “Let me give my wife a call. I’ll be right in, Sheriff.”
Logan took in his deputy. The gun strapped to his side should have given him confidence, but the way he spoke about his wife made his courage seem fleeting.
“I’ll be inside,” Logan said.
He took in the coffeehouse, with about half a dozen tables and a glassed-in counter holding baked goods, sandwiches, and deli meats. He scanned the chalk menu board and strode up to the counter, where a woman with cropped dark hair had her back to him. She wore a white apron over a black long-sleeved shirt and blue jeans, and she turned around and glanced up at Logan with a bright smile and a round face—and the most stunning green eyes he’d ever seen.
She hesitated, holding a plated sandwich. “Hey, there. I’ll be right with you,” she said. She had a killer smile as she strode around the counter and over to a table, setting a sandwich in front of an older man wearing a cowboy hat. She said something and then hurried back behind the counter. She had a neat and trim figure, with a small, rounded ass.
Logan couldn’t take his eyes off her. He sat on one of the stools and took in her figure. Something about her had captivated him. She glanced his way, her wide eyes rimmed with long, dark lashes, all natural and so exotic. She wore not a stitch of makeup. Natural beauty, he loved it. He couldn’t help himself from taking in her round face, those soft, pink lips. She cleared her throat, setting both her hands on the counter, and his eyes went right there. No ring.
“You must be the new sheriff,” she said. As she watched him, all the light in her eyes vanished, replaced with something hard; as if she had figured him out in two seconds flat.
“I’m Logan Wilde,” he said. There was something about the way she was standing, so ramrod straight, that kept him from sticking his hand out to shake hers. No, what he wanted to do was put his hands on her, but that would definitely get him slapped. “And you are?” he finally asked, raising an eyebrow until she finally relaxed—almost, anyway. He realized this lady was not one to be toyed with. She was a difficult woman, strong, who reeled in his interest.
“Julia Cooper,” she replied. She clutched a dish rag and then tossed it down, extending her hand. “I own this place.”
Logan couldn’t help the smile that touched his lips as he took her tiny hand in his. Her soft, firm handshake stirred his interest further and scrambled all his good sense, too. “Nice to meet you, Julia.”
“So what can I get you, Sheriff?” she asked. He could tell she was still holding on to something. She had put up a wall and seemed ready to scurry behind it at any time. Logan couldn’t help wondering what that was all about. Did she have some trouble; or had something made her naturally cautious? That wasn’t necessarily such a bad thing, though it bothered him to think something had scarred her. He realized it wasn’t safe for her to take anyone at face value, anyway.
“Heard you make a mean sandwich. What do you recommend?” he asked, taking in the wide selection she gestured to on the chalkboard.
“Well, I have to say today’s special is pretty good: chicken and goat’s cheese on focaccia with a side of soup—your choice of minestrone or spinach and bean.”
He tapped his fingers on the counter. “Either sounds good. Why don’t you choose for me?”
She gave him a quick nod. “You got it, Sheriff,” she said, turning and opening the cooler, lifting out chicken, vegetables, and other fixings.
He couldn’t take his gaze off her back, with her slim curves—and that butt. Logan had never considered himself one of those guys who was a breast or an ass man; but there was something about this woman. He wanted to figure out a way to get to know her a whole lot better. She was far from a super model, but she filled out a pair of plain old jeans. She wasn’t tall, either—she was pretty sure he probably had a foot on her, but she’d sure fit nicely in his arms.
He wondered, for a moment, how responsive she’d be to his touch, or to him whispering to her in the dark. A tightening in his groin overcame him, and he swore under his breath. There had to be something wrong with him. Hell, he’d gone stretches before without a woman, but this last time…well, it had been over a year. Maybe that was his problem. He cleared his throat, trying to clear his head as well, forcing his thoughts to the meeting with Stan and Johnny Rhodes; but he just couldn’t shake the thought of Julia, who was such a distraction. The door chimed, and Logan glanced over his shoulder as Clinton strode in.
“Hey there, Julia,” Clinton said, also nodding to the older man eating a sandwich in the corner. “Slow today?” he asked as he took a seat beside Logan at the counter.
“Hi there, Clinton. Yeah, it’s been a little slow, but it should be picking up, with tourist season coming. I hope so, anyway. How’re your wife and that new baby of yours?” she asked. She had a sweet, soft voice. Logan thought he could listen to her talk all day.
“Oh, they’re great. Annie is sleeping through the night now. She’s so sweet, and she has such a pretty smile,” Clinton said. He was already pulling out his cell phone, showing off baby pictures. Julia leaned across the counter, taking in the photos with a natural excitement, as if she really was happy to see pictures of someone else’s baby. Maybe that was a female thing. To Logan, seeing baby photos was about as interesting as seeing some realtor’s face plastered across a billboard. He couldn’t even pretend interest.
Julia actually took the phone and touched her chest. “Oh, look at her! You have to bring her in. Tell Jenny to bring that baby over next time she’s in town.”
“Will do,” Clinton said, taking his phone back, a big smile on his face.
Logan could tell that his deputy was constantly distracted. With all the marines he had trained, he had hammered into them that they had to get their heads in the game. Clinton had two pretty faces waiting at home, but there was a time and a place for those thoughts. Logan couldn’t help wondering, if and when trouble hit, how Clinton would respond. He was soft—the last thing Logan needed to worry about was having to knock on Jenny’s door and tell her she was a widow—and that her baby no longer had a father.
“What can I get for you, Clinton?” Julia asked, wiping her hands on a red and
white dishtowel.
Clinton glanced over at the chalkboard and gestured to the special. “Special looks good, with minestrone. Would love one of them cappuccinos, with cinnamon on top, too, if you don’t mind.”
Julia nodded with a big smile. “You got it, Clinton,” she said, but when she faced the sheriff, her whole demeanor changed. She was back on guard, her smile now gone. “Sheriff, do you want something to drink?”
“Just a regular coffee would be great,” he replied, and she turned away, poured the coffee, and set it in front of him.
“Cream, sugar?”
“Just a little milk,” he said. She set a creamer in front of him, and he watched her as she turned away again and started fixing his lunch.
“I’m just going to wash up, Sheriff. I’ll be right back,” Clinton said, disappearing through a door in the back.
Logan slid around on the stool, taking in the big front window. Cars and a couple pickups drove by, a few people walking past here and there—unhurried, nothing like the way people were in the city. Everyone wore cowboy hats and blue jeans, and the way they all walked and talked said “Midwest ranching community.”
He sniffed the air at the hiss of the espresso machine, frowning out the window at an older white Cadillac that drove past. His heart was racing, his hand shaking on the counter as if he knew what was about to happen. There was a high-pitched whistle, then a bang, as the car backfired in the street His chest squeezed as he waited for the explosion. Everything was moving in slow motion, everything louder. Where had the explosion come from? He heard the sound of gunfire.
For a moment, it felt as if he wasn’t even there. Julia was screaming, shouting at him, and he stared and stared, blinking…hearing only his breath, long and loud. Her face was terrified, and his hand trembled around his pistol—aimed toward her. It took him a minute to take it in: the shattered glass, the handle she was holding, all that was left of the carafe. There was now a hole in the espresso machine.
“Sheriff, what the hell?” Clinton shouted. A chair scraped back behind him, footsteps shuffling. Logan did everything he could to pull himself together.
“I’m so sorry. I thought…” He stopped talking. What could he say? There was no way he could explain how the sound of the car backfiring had triggered his flashbacks.
“Julia, are you okay?” Clinton asked. He was beside her, checking her hand amid the shattered glass, steam still escaping the espresso machine.
She was staring long and hard at Logan, her chest heaving as she struggled for breath. “Put that gun away—right now!” she yelled. “Or are you planning on shooting up this place?”
Her voice broke through the confusion that had taken hold of him. He felt like such an ass. This was the first time since his accident that anything like this had happened in broad daylight. The way Clinton was looking at him—as if he was a dangerous wild animal that could lash out at any time—had him feeling embarrassed.
With a shaky hand, he holstered his gun. He smoothed back his cropped hair and looked around at the now empty tables. The old-timer had left, his food only partially eaten. People were gathered on the sidewalk, staring with wide eyes, some with cell phones stuck to their ears, obviously filling everyone in on the antics of the new sheriff.
“I’m so sorry” was all Logan could say. “I’ll pay for the damage. Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” He started around the counter only to be met by Clinton. Though the deputy looked scared shitless, he didn’t step aside. In fact, he stood in front of Julia as if he’d go down protecting her. Logan really had to give the kid credit. Maybe he wasn’t so weak, after all.
Julia reached up and turned a knob on the espresso machine before reaching behind the counter to unplug it from the socket. There was shattered glass everywhere, liquid dripping to the floor.
“Let me clean this up,” Logan said.
“It’s all right. I’ll clean it,” she snapped, though she let out a shaky sigh. She was doing her best to handle it. She turned to Clinton. “I’ll get your lunches ready after I clean this up.”
A bell jingled on the front door.
“Everything all right in there, Julia?” the woman asked. She was short, compact—older, with gray hair and eyes. Logan didn’t miss how she was the only one to step in and check on Julia while the men waited safely outside.
“Fine, Marion,” Julia said. She glanced over at Logan and added, “My espresso machine just had an accident. A piece exploded. Sorry for the commotion.”
Logan watched her. She had just lied through her teeth for him. What was that about? He had fucked up big time, and she could have been hurt—or worse. Even Clinton stared at her, though he didn’t say a word.
Julia squatted down and started picking up chunks of glass. “Ouch,” she hissed, and Logan was right beside her. She clutched her hand, blood oozing from her closed fist.
“Let me see,” he said, crouching down and reaching for her hand. She should have hesitated, been terrified, but there was something in the way she watched him that seemed almost like…understanding? No, he had to be wrong.
“It’s fine, just a cut,” she protested, though she opened her palm to him.
He took in her tiny hand, which was far from frail. Blood oozed from a slice across her index finger. He helped her up and ran cold water over her hand in the sink. “Clinton, why don’t you see if you can find a broom?” he asked.
“There’s one at the backdoor, closet on the right,” Julia said.
Clinton hesitated for a minute before saying, “Right,” leveling his heavy gaze on Logan; as if he wasn’t sure he should leave him alone with Julia. In the end, he stepped away, into the back room.
“Doesn’t look too deep,” Logan said. “Do you have any Band-Aids?” He turned off the water and grabbed a couple paper towels off the roll, wrapping them around her finger and adding pressure to stop the bleeding.
Julia flicked her gaze up to him. Her green eyes were big and round, filled with something so deep that Logan was struck with a need to protect her. After today, though, he wouldn’t be surprised if she told him to get lost.
“I can bandage my finger. I’m fine, really.” She touched his hand. “So where were you stationed?” she asked, as if she understood.
“Kandahar, in the marines,” he replied. “How’d you know?”
“My father was all army. He was in the first Gulf War,” she said. “Was it the car that set you off?” she added.
He never knew when it would happen: a smell, a noise, even just a feeling, mostly when he was sleeping. Right now, all he wanted was to kick himself for not getting a grip. He kept telling himself to stop, that he was no longer fighting a war. He had the power to heal his mind; and these flashbacks and triggers that came out of nowhere…well, he just had to figure out a way to stop reacting to them.
“I’m sorry, Julia. Again, I’ll pay for the damage,” he said, and she stepped back, suddenly shy, holding her hand just as Clinton reappeared with the broom.
“Everything okay here?” Clinton asked in a tone that was all worry.
“Fine,” they both answered. They looked at each other again, neither saying another word about it, as Logan took the broom and cleaned up the mess.
Chapter 4
Julia flipped the “Open” sign at the front door. She was still rattled over the new sheriff firing his gun, shooting the glass carafe from her hand as she was steaming the milk. He could have shot her! She repeated that to herself over and over again, but her heart didn’t seem to get the message—maybe because she had felt an attraction to Logan as soon as he walked through the doors of her shop. Listening to his deep voice, seeing the mystery in his eyes, made her want to get to know him better.
Logan was the most attractive man she had ever seen, in a dangerous sort of way—not pretty-boy looks, but something deeper, something that came from inside. He had an air of mystery that added to his strong features: short, dark hair threaded with gray on the sides, a strong jaw, a
nd eyes a soft blue that glowed with a knowledge of all the heartache life could throw at a person. That was something she could understand, something she could connect with; though doing so was, perhaps, not in her best interest. He was the whole package, tall—not stringy like Clinton—with a set of shoulders any woman would love to lean on. His arms were strong and capable, and the way he walked weakened her knees.
When that car backfired outside—it had all happened in a split second. She had turned the knob on the espresso machine, and as the steam hissed out—she saw his instant, wide-eyed panic, the beads of sweat on his forehead. She had seen full-blown PTSD before. She had lived with it, as her father had never been right since returning from the war. Everything had come back to her in that instant: Her father had been asleep on the couch, and she had snuck up and tapped him on the shoulder to tell him dinner was ready. The next thing she knew, she had been face down on the floor, arm pinned behind her back. He had dislocated her shoulder. She was twelve, and he was sorry. He had been horrified. He had actually cried.
She had learned about triggers quickly after that; deciding never to sneak up on him again. Her mother had learned, too. It wasn’t that her father was a bad man, because he wasn’t. He loved them so much, and she loved him. Robert Wells was kind and loving, but he suffered from PTSD—a gift from his country for services rendered—as her mother had said. One night, she and her mother had walked through the front door, grocery bags in hand, and there he was, sitting in a chair in the middle of the living room in his underwear; black garbage bags covering the beige carpet, a gun to his head. He pulled the trigger.
It was horrible, worse than a nightmare. It was only after, when they found the letter he’d written, that Julia started to understand the demons her father carried. The ones he had hidden from them but could no longer bear. He was terrified that he would go too far one day, possessed by the nightmares that plagued him. He was afraid he might hurt or kill Julia or her mother, and he couldn’t live with that, because he loved them more than his next breath. In his mind, the only way to handle the nightmares and the threat against Julia and her mother was to end his life. The plastic he had used to cover the carpet, protecting it from a stain that would add to their suffering, was thoughtful—in a morbid kind of way.
Friendly Fire Page 2