“Put the weapon down. Now.” Tucker’s voice was hollow, as if he was having trouble breathing, but Michael wasn’t about to argue; he knew the drill, and respected it. The rules of engagement that he’d played to for the past thirteen years had been greyer and more savage than those ever confronted by civilian policing, but they shared rules in common. Number one was that anyone with a gun, loaded or not, was a threat.
Slowly, he went down on his haunches and laid the Ruger on the ground. Damned if he’d drop it and damage any part of it. The weapon was a Rolls Royce model, and worth upwards of five thousand dollars on the collectors’ circuit. The fact that the gun had seen active service in the SAS would make it worth even more, and right now every cent he could squeeze out of these weapons would count. He needed all the money he could put together to get his farm operational.
Parker eased forward, crabbing sideways as if Michael were a wild animal, before darting in to snatch up the gun.
Tucker swore. “That’s evidence, Parker.”
Parker dropped the gun, and Michael winced. Seconds later Parker pulled on thin latex gloves, picked up the gun, and retreated in the direction of the cruisers.
Parker’s fumbling aside, the two officers keeping him pinned with their guns were colder, more controlled. Michael didn’t recognize either of them, which meant they were probably backup from Winslow, the closest city to Tayler’s Creek.
The two city cops were rock steady, and there was nothing sloppy about the way they maintained their weapons in the ready-to-fire position, so that if they needed to pull the trigger, a fractional movement of the finger was all that was required. To keep up that level of battle readiness required intense concentration and hours of weapons training, because after only a few seconds it was easy to let your focus slip, and the gun waver.
Michael eyed Tucker coldly, already knowing what Tucker must be hauling him in for, but asking anyway. “What am I wanted for?”
Tucker’s face was red and sheened with sweat. A pulse pumped at the side of his jaw. “Murder. And rape.”
Chapter 2
JANE LET OUT a breath, bent down, and eyeballed Jess. “You’re supposed to be a guard dog.”
Jess panted happily and dropped on her back, signaling it was time for a rub.
“Oh, great. And before that, you were supposed to be a sheepdog.”
Obligingly, Jane rubbed Jess’s belly, then threw the stick until Jess lost interest and flopped down beneath a shady tree.
On the way back to the barn, Jane checked the level of the water troughs. It had been so dry lately that she’d had to pump water from the bore just behind the barn every day just to keep the sheep in water. She hesitated as her hand settled on the latch of the pump shed door, apprehension pooling in the pit of her stomach at the prospect of walking into the small, dark building. Irritably, she shook off the jumpy, spooked feeling, gripped the door handle, and wrenched. The door held stubbornly, jarring the muscles of her upper arm, then came open with a rending creak, sending her staggering back a half step.
Hot air blasted out at her. The tiny shed was like an oven, dark and stifling, the corrugated iron crackling and pinging in the noonday heat. Too hot for birds and mice. Definitely too hot for an intruder.
“There, nothing,” she muttered as her eyes adjusted to the dimness. “There’s no one on this farm but me—and enough animals to start a zoo.”
Crouching down, Jane rotated the valve that controlled the flow to the troughs, and primed the pump. By the time she’d started the motor and waited for it to settle into a steady rhythm, she was wet with perspiration and all she wanted was a cold drink and a shower. As she strolled around the side of the barn and headed for the house, she decided that she was too hot, too thirsty, and too tired to care if anyone tried to sneak up on her.
And if anyone got between her and a cold glass of lemonade, she would be the one behind bars for murder.
She paused before entering the kitchen to toe off her sneakers and ease out of the old bib overalls she was wearing over her tank top and cutoffs. Breathing a sigh of relief to be free of the heavy drill cotton, she bundled up the paint-stained garment and carried it through to the laundry, before pouring herself a glass of lemonade from the fridge.
As she slowly sipped the lemonade, enjoying the feel of the sweet, icy liquid sliding down her throat, her gaze was caught by the blinking light of her answering machine.
Her stomach contracted. Someone had left her a message.
In contrast to the wary apprehension she’d felt in the barn, this time her alarm was close to panic, which was crazy considering that half an hour ago she was coping with the fact that she could possibly have a killer stalking her. Setting the half-empty glass down on the bench, she approached the answering machine and pressed the playback on the single message that was recorded.
Abruptly, the room filled with low, dark, masculine tones.
“It’s Michael. I know you’re there, Jane. You’ve got my number. Call me.”
The terse statement was laced with impatience that she hadn’t bothered to return his previous calls, and followed by a pause, as if he was debating saying something more, then the faint hum of static terminated with a click.
Jane drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. She felt hot and cold, wary and electrified. For a pulse-pounding moment, Rider’s presence had been so palpable she’d had the unnerving sense that he was in the room with her. After weeks of numbness, the intensity of her reaction, simply to the sound of his voice, was as intrusive and unsettling as the man was himself lately, as hard as she’d tried, she couldn’t stop thinking about him, couldn’t stop prodding at the past.
She’d been running away like a frightened rabbit ever since she’d realized he was back. Too afraid to face him, too afraid to touch on what she felt, because her feelings for Michael Rider were, and had always been, raw and confused.
He turned her on—it was that plain, that simple. She didn’t have a clue how it had happened, or why. She had been happy with Patrick—she should have been immune—but when they’d bought the farm and moved to Tayler’s Creek shortly after Patrick was diagnosed, she’d looked into Rider’s dark gaze for the first time and felt like the ground had been cut away from beneath her. The tension had been instant and acute, and they’d been warily circling each other ever since.
Michael’s wife, Clare, had left him within months of that first meeting, and Jane had been sharply aware of Michael living alone in the house. She’d made a practice of never walking in the direction of his place, never bumping into him if she could avoid it. She was married, and her husband was dying, and she was appalled that she’d been weak enough to fall in instant lust with her neighbour.
What had happened was out of character, and way out of line. For Jane her wedding vows were sacrosanct. She had married for love, and she had married for life. All the statistics might be against lifelong marriages, but she had wanted that with Patrick, and she’d been careful to never allow him to suspect that she was even remotely affected by their neighbour.
Rider’s dark face drifted into her mind again, and she stiffened. Ever since he’d come back, she’d been on edge, waiting to run into him, and dreading it. It was cowardly, but she’d spent more time away from the farm in the past three days than she had in the past three months.
When Patrick had been alive, the protection of her married state had been absolute and she hadn’t had to address the problem of how she felt, but now the buffer of her marriage was gone. Like it or not, she was alone and single, and, her confused emotions aside, the stubborn fact remained that even with Patrick gone, Michael Rider still felt forbidden.
She pressed the rewind button on the answering machine, then on impulse let the message play again, steeling herself against the effect of that dark voice.
A shiver skimmed her spine at the low demand to call him. It was ridiculous to feel…hunted. The odds that Rider was still interested in her as a woman were so remote as to
be practically nonexistent. Years had passed since the initial shock of attraction. In that time he had been away more than he’d been home, and he’d probably had a string of gorgeous girlfriends.
If she’d had any sense she should have replied to the first message instead of panicking. Rider had probably just wanted to give her his condolences and offer his help if she needed it. He’d helped Patrick out a number of times with the heavier jobs on the farm. Apart from one occasion when he’d caught Jane alone, he’d never betrayed by a word, or a look, that he felt anything beyond friendship and compassion.
She rewound the tape, and this time, erased it with a stab of her finger—consigning the message to the ether along with all the others. The finality of the action sent a pang of cold through her that felt suspiciously close to loss. Irritated that she should feel anything that profound, or that wimpy, in conjunction with Rider, she spun away from the machine, finished her drink, and headed for the shower.
If she was honest, the problem wasn’t that Rider might still want her, but that she still wanted him.
She had to get a grip, get a life.
She had to go into town to get groceries, and she also intended to drive to Winslow and get a security alarm. When Patrick had been alive, she’d felt safe and secure in her home, which only went to prove how people could fool themselves, because, as ill as he was, for the last few years Patrick had been physically incapable of defending himself, let alone her.
Whether she wanted to believe it or not, Tayler’s Creek was no longer a safe haven. Somebody had broken into the Dillons’ home and committed both murder and rape. Her imagination may have got out of hand this morning, but imagination or not, those moments in the barn had convinced Jane that getting an alarm was more than a good idea, it was a necessity.
TUCKER PULLED A warrant from his shirt pocket and handed it to Michael. “We’ll also be searching your house and property.”
“On what grounds?”
“Your truck was parked on Linford Road just four doors down from the Dillons’ place two nights ago. One of the neighbours took your license plate.
Michael briefly closed his eyes. Linford Road was long and windy, a country lane lined with the latest craze in subdividing—small “lifestyle retreats” ranging from five to ten acres for the well-heeled who wanted to live in a farmlike setting and commute to work in Winslow. A lot of city people from Winslow had bought into the deal. Initially, there had been a lot of excitement about the subdivision, because it brought an injection of funds into an area that wasn’t so much depressed as slow and sleepy. But it looked like the Linford Road subdivision had attracted something else that wasn’t so positive for the small town. “That would put me at least half a kilometre from the scene of the crime. I went to see Jake Robertson about doing some fencing for me.”
“At eight o’clock at night?”
Michael’s gaze was steady. “He’s at work during the day.”
Tucker flushed. “We’re trying to get hold of Jake,” he admitted. “He’s working over toward Winslow at the moment.”
“That’s right. On a government block. His cell phone cuts out over there. Just out of interest, have you got any other suspects, or am I it?”
“I’m not at liberty to reveal—”
“I am all you’ve got.” Michael eyed Tucker in disbelief. He could feel the fury building. It generally took a while to get him well and truly riled, but Tucker and the Keystone brigade were getting him there.
Parker approached with a set of cuffs.
Michael’s expression grew colder. “You won’t need those.”
“Winslow Central advises differently.”
“Because I’m SAS?” Michael swore beneath his breath and allowed himself to be cuffed. “Didn’t anyone tell them we’re supposed to be the good guys?”
Tucker retrieved his warrant and took a half step back, as if, even cuffed, he was afraid Michael might harm him. Michael decided that was the first sensible thing Tucker had done in the last half hour.
“I know you’re SAS, Rider. And I don’t like this any more than you do, but there’s a man dead, and a woman hurt in hospital. I have to play it as it comes.”
“And in this case I guess I’m the easy option because I’m military and not local. Hell, I’ve only lived here for fifteen years.”
Tucker snapped his notebook closed. “It’s not that.”
“What then? Motive? I’ve been back three days. I haven’t had time to buy groceries yet, let alone go out and murder anyone.”
“Opportunity.”
“Every male in Tayler’s Creek and Winslow had opportunity.”
Tucker’s gaze shifted to the weaponry that was laid out on the tarpaulin. “Not many of them are armed like you are.”
“You won’t find a weapon there that isn’t registered. Those guns were part of my kit.”
Tucker’s gaze sharpened. “You’ve left the SAS?”
“I resigned two weeks ago.”
Tucker pulled out his notebook again, flipped the cover, and scribbled a note. “That’s something we can check on.”
“If you’re looking for a dishonourable discharge, don’t hold your breath. And when you test the guns and ammunition you’ll find the ballistics won’t fit. The perp used a twenty-two, and I don’t own one. But a twenty-two is a pretty standard kind of gun around here. Most farmers use them for rabbit and opossum control.”
Tucker’s eyes sharpened. “How do you know a twenty-two was used?”
Michael wondered idly if Tucker was aware that in Special Forces one of their offensive training units concentrated specifically on how to use cuffs to disable and kill. “The same way everyone else in this town knows it. I read it in the local paper.”
Michael watched as the guns were bagged and loaded, then climbed into the rear of one of the police cruisers and allowed Parker to belt him in. “Guess you’ll be busy checking all the guns that belong to the locals. I’m betting there must be at least a hundred of them.”
He heard Tucker swear beneath his breath, then the door thunked closed, cutting off the sound and enclosing him in the stifling interior. One of the cold-eyed Winslow cops climbed in beside him, and the other took the wheel.
As the police cruiser maneuvered down his long shady drive in Tucker’s dusty wake, Michael clenched his jaw and settled in to wait out the process.
Minutes later, he was hauled out of the backseat and a flash exploded in his eyes. The local press. A couple of shopkeepers walked out of their businesses to see what all the commotion was, along with a small stream of customers. A woman pushing a supermarket trolley paused at the boot of her car, long, shiny dark hair swinging forward as she rummaged for keys. Michael’s belly clenched, his heart slammed hard in his chest.
Jane.
Hunger ate at him, sharp and deep. He’d been back in Tayler’s Creek just three days, and in that time he’d spent a lot of time sleeping, and the rest of the time trying to contact Jane O’Reilly. Every time he’d knocked on her door, mysteriously, she hadn’t been at home, despite the fact that the whole place was wide open. Every time he’d rung, he’d gotten her answering machine, and she hadn’t bothered to return his calls.
She was his next-door neighbour, but damned if he’d been able to catch her at it.
A hand landed in the centre of his back. Grimly, he resisted the shove. His gaze locked on Jane as he willed her to look at him, cold fury welling at the steel manacling his wrists.
If it hadn’t been for Jane’s dog hanging around his place, he’d have begun to wonder if she hadn’t packed up and left town. Or worse, buried herself with her husband.
Chapter 3
THE AFTERNOON SUN poured down, radiating off asphalt with all the heat of a blast furnace as Jane slid her key into the boot lock. Automatically, she moved back a half step as the lock disengaged. Her disinterested gaze lifted with the motion of the boot and snagged on a pair of cold, dark eyes. For a frozen second her heart stopped in her che
st.
Michael.
She blinked, barely registering the fact that for once she’d used his first name rather than the more impersonal address of “Rider.” He was dressed in a pair of tight, faded jeans, his torso bare, and for a dizzying moment she wondered if she’d imagined him. His hair hung loose to his shoulders, and his skin was deeply tanned, as if he’d recently spent a lot of time in a tropical climate. His face was altogether leaner, sterner, than she remembered, his exotic looks hammered into a tough maturity that made her stomach clench.
His gaze flashed over her and she almost flinched at the cursory appraisal, then the uniformed police constable pushed him toward the station doors, and he was forced to look away.
Numbly, she watched the broad shape of his back as he disappeared into the station, and registered that the shiny glint she’d noticed around his wrists was a pair of handcuffs.
For a moment she went blank, then the reality of what was happening sank in. Rider was under arrest. If he were just being brought in for questioning, the police wouldn’t have cuffed him, which must mean they had enough evidence to carry out the arrest.
There was no question in her mind about why he was being taken in. After spending just fifteen minutes in town she’d soon discovered there was no other topic of conversation than the home invasion, but everything in her rejected the thought that Rider could have had anything to do with the Dillon murder. In all the time she’d known him, they had barely spoken, let alone touched on subjects like values and ethics, but at an instinctive level she knew Michael Rider to his bones. The sexual attraction aside, she would trust him before she trusted Sergeant Tucker.
The doors of the police station swung closed, and Jane lifted a bag of groceries out of her trolley and dumped it in the chilly bin in the rear of her station wagon, automatically placing ice packs in with the groceries so nothing would spoil in the heat. She noticed her hands were shaking, and remembered she hadn’t stopped to eat lunch, she’d simply finished her lemonade, showered and changed, and left for town. But that wasn’t the only reason she was shaking. She was furious—quietly, deeply furious. She wanted to march into the police station and demand to know what Tucker thought he was doing—
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