Honest Intentions (The Safeguard Series, Book Five)

by Kennedy Layne

  “For a teacher, one would think you’d listen better to directions.”

  Brett smiled through her scarf and shrugged, but she wasn’t sure Coen was aware of her sentiment since half her face was covered. She’d lost feeling in her cheeks and what probably looked like a cherry nose a while ago.

  “That’s the benefit of being the teacher,” Brett pointed out as she managed to seal up the bag of salt again. Her gloves made the task a bit harder, but she was still successful. “I don’t need to do what I’m told since I’m usually the one in charge.”

  Coen’s brown eyes darkened with what appeared to be the need to respond to her declaration, but instead he gestured toward the garage.

  “I’ll go ahead and open the garage door manually in order to store the snow blower inside.” Coen adjusted his ski mask before taking the bag of salt she had cradled in her arm. “We have at least another half foot of snow due overnight, so we’ll be out here bright and early tomorrow.”

  Brett thought for sure he’d be gone by this evening, either returning to the rental house or somehow managing to find a way through this mess to the airport in order to be the first one on a flight to Florida once service returned. A quick glance at the road told her that the snowplow might have come through randomly a time or two in the last twenty-four hours. Regardless, the driving conditions were horrendous and there was still a warning being enforced that only emergency vehicles should risk being out in these harsh elements.

  It took her at least five minutes to remove her boots, gloves, scarf, and jacket. She’d thought ahead and had placed two towels down on the tiled entryway. Both were now wet, so she scooped them up and headed through the living room. She turned right down the small hallway that led to a small bathroom and a laundry room at the back of the hall. It was rather dark back here due to the lack of windows, so she quickly laid out the wet towels on a rack so they wouldn’t mildew.

  “Ouch!”

  Brett had bumped her frozen toes into something on the floor. She instantly reached out to the wall for something to hold onto while involuntarily lifting her foot. No amount of rubbing made the ache fade, so she gritted her teeth through the pain until the throbbing eventually receded.

  Her eyes had somewhat adjusted to the darkness. It looked as if her stool had been moved. Either that, or she never put it back after she’d used it to reach for her extra laundry detergent bottle she kept in a cabinet above the washer. She angrily shoved the stool into the corner where it belonged before using the wall to guide her toward the door.

  It was amazing to her that what light had been coming in through the windows had faded in the five minutes she’d been inside the laundry room. She made it back to the counter where she had set some candles out last night, but she couldn’t locate the matchbox. They had been right next to the three candles on the island. She was sure of it.

  A lone flashlight beam bounced off the ceiling and then the wall as Coen walked into the kitchen from the living room.

  “I don’t need any more reminders that my ass belongs in Florida,” Coen muttered, trying to rub some warmth into his hands as he held the flashlight trapped against his body with his arm. He didn’t stop until he’d reached the counter behind her. “I appreciate that you’re willing to put up with me for another night.”

  Brett refrained from saying that it wasn’t much of a hardship, but he was already making a call on his cell phone. She was grateful that he wasn’t going anywhere quite yet. A part of her still didn’t feel safe, regardless that Martin had been taken into custody. None of the events that had taken place since Heidi’s death made any sense, and no one seemed willing to listen to either her, Louise, Chad, or any of the other friends or family members who had been up at the campground.

  “Do you need this flashlight?” Coen asked, pulling the phone away from his ear and looking at the display. He must have been listening to some voicemail messages. “I need to return a call.”

  “I can’t find the matchbox I put out last night,” Brett said warily, moving things around in one of the drawers she used for miscellaneous items. There was a small matchbook she’d gotten from the restaurant down the street, but the box of kitchen matches she’d purchased for just this reason was nowhere to be found. “Did you see them? You know, the blue tip wooden stick matches?”

  “They might be upstairs in the bathroom.” Coen studied her as he set the flashlight on its handle so that the beam was directed at the ceiling. The light filtered out, giving her more brightness by which to see his expression. “I blew out the candles after I used the shower, so you must have needed the matches to light them.”

  Had she taken the matchbox upstairs?

  “I’ll check upstairs for them in a bit,” Brett said, motioning for him to reach out to whoever it was he needed to call. She tore one of the matchsticks out of the small book before striking its end over the coarse strip. “I’ll light these candles, so go ahead and take the flashlight with you while you make your call. I’m going to heat up some homemade chicken noodle soup that I have in the freezer.”

  “Homemade?” Coen asked somewhat hopefully, garnering the exact reaction he’d probably hoped for. Some of the tension eased from her shoulders. His response meant that he was definitely staying with her until the storm passed. She didn’t like that he thought of her as some scared woman who lived alone and passed the endless hours by baking for the neighbors. She wasn’t some spinster, and she honestly had no intention of turning into one. She didn’t have a horde of cats, though she regularly fed the neighborhood tom who seemed to make the rounds. Each spring, someone’s female had a batch of kittens and she had to repeat her tale of how she was allergic and couldn’t take one into her house. “I won’t turn down a hot meal after having spent hours outside in that cold.”

  Brett returned his smile, her previous apprehension fading as Coen placed his call. She purposefully set the small matchbook next to the candle so that she didn’t doubt its position should the need arise. He was probably right in assuming she’d left the other matches upstairs. She used to keep a match dispenser on the wall when she still had the old gas stove, but that had finally succumbed to her desire for a modern gas range with all the amenities. No more lighting the pilot in order to cook.

  The refrigerator was still humming, letting her know that the generator was still in working condition and had plenty of gas. The man had been by last week to top off her LP tank. That held a thousand gallons, which got her through the summer months without the generator. She figured the generator wasn’t drawing a full load anymore and the gas would outlast the storm and then some.

  Brett opened the bottom, basket-styled drawer where she had stored the leftover soup in the freezer, only to realize she’d already used one of the containers last week when her mother had caught a cold. One Tupperware bowlful was not going to be enough to share with the Dockery family next door.

  “…was a violation of your parole. You knew that from the start. When are you going to take responsibility for your own actions?” Coen paused, obviously listening to some rebuttal that wasn’t going to change his mind on whatever had happened. “No, I’m not going to intervene on your behalf.”

  Brett pulled the plastic bowl from the freezer, doing her best not to appear as if she were listening in on Coen’s phone conversation. She was surprised that he hadn’t left the kitchen, but he had walked over to the table for more privacy. Had he stayed because he’d sensed she was uncomfortable being alone?

  She could literally hear the frustration in his voice. Hurt and disappointment also laced his tone. It reminded her of when he was talking to his brother yesterday, but he couldn’t possibly be talking to Danny about violating parole. Could he?

  “You need to tell Mom and Dad before you turn yourself into your P.O. They don’t deserve to find out…”

  Coen had quietly walked out of the kitchen when his discussion had turned to his parents, and her heart broke for him. She hadn’t realized that his brothe
r had gotten into so much trouble or that it was severe enough that Coen couldn’t fix whatever happened by calling someone on the force to drop the charges.

  She went about defrosting the frozen soup, grateful that the stove’s electrical—including its automatic pilot—was hooked up to the generator. The natural light had finally faded, so she worked comfortably by candlelight. Her cell phone on the other side of the counter caught her eye, so she made her way over to check for any messages or missed calls while she’d been outside.

  “Darn it,” Brett muttered after realizing that the outlet she chose was on the opposite counter and hadn’t been connected to the generator.

  The battery on her phone was dead.

  “Everything okay?”

  She was startled at Coen’s unexpected presence, spinning around to find him reaching for the lid on the pastry container she’d sealed the cupcakes in last night. He concentrated on taking the baking cup wrapper off the cake portion. The call with his brother had affected him more than he would have liked it to, and she instinctively wanted to make him feel better.

  “My battery didn’t charge over on this side.” Brett set her phone on the counter and made a mental note to plug it into the outlet Coen had used earlier. “I have to say I’m surprised the fire is keeping the first floor as warm as it is considering the temperature outside.”

  Coen gave her a wry smile, almost as if to say he was aware of what she was doing. He played along though and held up the frosted treat as evidence to back up his next statement.

  “The pounds I’m gaining by eating these cupcakes is what will keep me warm for the next twenty-four hours. Are you using something else besides sugar, because these are addictive.”

  “You’re going to ruin your dinner,” Brett warned playfully, pointing her wooden spoon his way.

  She let him finish eating as she continued to stir the melting clump of frozen soup, releasing the delicious aromas into the air. It wasn’t long before he had his phone back in hand, texting quite a bit. She assumed that he was reaching out to either his brother or his parents over whatever had apparently transpired today. She maintained a neutral conversation, telling him about the ingredients from her garden that she’d used for the soup and how the recipe had been in her family for generations. A comfortable compatibility filled the kitchen as they kept each other company while dinner heated on the stove.

  “I appreciate what you’re doing.”

  “Making dinner? We both need to eat, right?” Brett tapped the wooden spoon against the side of the pot. She purposefully ignored his true meaning, not wanting him to talk about something that would ruin their last night together. It wasn’t like they were anything other than acquaintances, but she’d like to think they’d forged a fledgling friendship. “Think of this meal as a thank you for keeping me company because I’m being silly in feeling that something still isn’t quite right with Martin’s arrest.”

  Brett hadn’t realized that Coen had moved from his place next to the island until she reached out for one of the bowls. Her hand landed on his chest instead, and she found herself looking at his smile that could only be considered tender. This wasn’t the Coen she’d come to know thus far, and she wasn’t sure how to react.

  Her body did that for her, though. She involuntarily stopped breathing when he leaned down and gently kissed her forehead.

  “Thank you, Brettany.”

  *

  Patience…

  Coen Flynn wouldn’t be helping her out like a friend in need had she told him anything about that night.

  He would wait until the time was right before eliminating his problem.

  Patience was a virtue…

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‡

  “Some of these articles are pretty twisted. It’s almost as if they were written for the shock value,” Brettany pointed out warily as she stared down at his phone. Hers was still charging in the kitchen, and Coen was currently tending the fire that they’d allowed to diminish too much for his liking. “I’m used to seeing paper cuts and an occasional skinned knee, but I’m not so sure I can read anything more about…well, what this man did to these women. And my brain can’t even process what he managed to do to Shailyn.”

  “Shepherd Moss isn’t really a man.” Coen had already made that assertion months ago. He grimaced when his knees protested his desire to stand, but he pushed through the pain anyway. The cold weather wasn’t helping the early onset of joint problems he would face in years to come. “He’s the Antichrist incarnate.”

  Coen noticed she tried to casually look over her shoulder toward the darkened window, but she wasn’t successful in concealing her apprehension. As a matter of fact, he’d caught her doing the same thing several times today. He chalked it up to the horrible circumstances of finding her friend dead on the floor of a cabin staring up at her. It probably wasn’t the best of ideas to take her up on her offer to scan the articles Sawyer had emailed over earlier today. She’d probably have nightmares for months.

  “Tell me about this supposed boyfriend of yours who took you skydiving.” Coen should have left well enough alone, but it was a topic that would take her mind off the knowledge that she would still need to have someone watching over her after he returned to Florida. He couldn’t blame her for being concerned. “How did he talk you into that crazy trip?”

  “Joey didn’t talk me into anything. I’m the one who wanted to go,” Brettany replied with a laugh. His intentions proved successful as she snuggled farther down into the couch cushions. “Do you find it so hard to believe that I like roller coasters, rock climbing, whitewater rafting, and skydiving? Don’t even get me started on the skiing here, because I could be suited and ready to go down any of those black diamond slopes tomorrow morning after the storm finally stops.”

  Coen did find her need for an adrenaline rush in total contradiction to the life she lived every day here in Colorado. He didn’t know any other woman who baked cupcakes and made homemade soup only to then suit up for a thrilling adventure that could potentially be very dangerous.

  “Why did you kiss me in the kitchen? Did you feel some attraction?”

  Brettany’s questions came out of the blue. He didn’t respond right away, knowing full well he needed to gain the upper hand on this. Her inherent need to make everything okay for someone was very admirable. It had been instinctive to thank her, as well as a natural reflex to touch her.

  “That was a heartfelt thank you.” Coen very cautiously corrected her assumption. He picked up the poker, more to give himself something to do than the fire needing attention. “Dealing with my brother isn’t the most enjoyable of experiences. You made it easier.”

  The crackle of the kindling was the only sound other than the low hum of the generator. Coen hadn’t meant to shift the top log as much as he had in his bid to keep his hands busy.

  “Is he going to jail?”

  Coen asked himself that question over and over when he’d come to learn that once again his baby brother had gotten involved with the wrong people. It wasn’t just the individuals who were cause for concern. Their pastime of using drugs, dealing drugs, and other bad choices were a direct path back to prison if he continued to associate with them. And damn if Danny hadn’t purchased a one-way ticket.

  “Yes, he’s going to be sentenced for violating his parole.” Coen shifted his jaw as he managed to get the words out that he would have given his left arm not to say aloud. His answer had been clipped and even he could hear the underlying anger and disappointment emanating as the words fell from his lips.

  The end of the poker became slightly orange from being left too long in the hot flames. He withdrew the instrument and set it back in the stand. Brettany had fallen silent, but he could sense the curiosity in her gaze that was most likely directed at his back.

  “You’re not going to ask?”

  “I shouldn’t have brought it up in the first place,” Brettany responded softly. Her regret was easily distinguished. “I
’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” It hadn’t been Coen’s intention to ruin their last night together. Hell, that sounded a little more intimate than he’d meant it to, but these past two days had been a nice escape from his daily routine of trying to apprehend a psychopath who had basically taken over every second of his time for the last few months. “It’s my brother who should be sorry for what he’s put my parents through.”

  “And what he put you through, of course.”

  Coen always tried to extricate himself when it came to admitting how Danny’s choices had affected his life. The consequences of his brother’s choices had trickled down and left all those he’d hurt in a rather tenuous situation, staining the family name.

  “I have a very good job, make a damned good living, and can raise my face to feel the heat of the sun on a beautiful day. No, I don’t feel sorry for myself.”

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Brettany replied with too much insight into his personal situation. He could easily end this conversation, but her attention wasn’t focused on the window and she wasn’t looking around the house as if she suspected someone had gained entrance without her knowledge. “But I guess now I know why you like Florida so much. The sunshine gives you a sense of freedom.”

  Coen honestly hadn’t thought of why he preferred to live somewhere warm, but maybe she had a point. It wasn’t like he sat around and psychoanalyzed himself on a daily basis.

  “You could be right,” Coen conceded as he walked back to where she was on the couch. He lowered himself to the floor, though he was very careful not to touch her legs. He’d already made the mistake of kissing her forehead and was currently paying the price. “It’s not easy to accept that Danny was incarcerated for years, spending twenty-three hours a day in a four by eight prison cell. No matter what he’s done, he’s still my brother.”