A Message for Abby

“So Meg says.”

“But he’s dead,” she argued, making the point to herself more than him.

“Yup.”

Abby let out a huff of air. “This is pointless.”

“You’re right,” he said agreeably. “All we can do is our jobs, and then wait and see.”

“Right.”

Detective Shea cleared his throat. “Abby? I’m freezing.”

“Really?” She turned to look at him in surprise. As far as she was concerned, the temperature had just gotten pleasant.

He’d tucked his hands in his armpits. “You had your metabolism checked lately?”

“Maybe your blood’s too thin,” she suggested. “You ever thought of moving to Arizona?”

“I don’t mind seasons.” He reached for the door handle. “My body just doesn’t much like changes that are too abrupt. An icy oasis of winter in the middle of a July day is a shock to the system.”

“No, it’s a blessed relief.”

“Uh-huh.” He seemed to like saying that, in a tone that indicated anything but agreement. Relief infused his voice when he added, “Ah. Here comes the cavalry.”

Abby suddenly had an itch to leave. Just drive away. She’d done her part. If murder had been committed, the arson had been no more than a failed effort to cover it up. She liked solving puzzles, but this one wasn’t her kind. As Ben Shea had said, it was personal. It seemed to be tapping at the door to her subconscious, saying, Want to think about long ago? Remember nights of terror and tears?

Well, no thanks, she didn’t. The past wasn’t something she thought about much. She left worrying to her sisters. She didn’t like to get too emotional about anything.

And no creep with a grudge was going to shake her foundations.

“Do you need me to stick around?” Abby asked, giving in to her restlessness.

Looking briefly surprised, then thoughtful, Shea stopped with the passenger side door open. Hot air shoved in. “Nah. I can stay. You have another job?”

“Fifteen.” She lifted her contractor-style clipboard. “That’s assuming nobody torches any other cars or buildings today.”

“Thunderstorm’s building up over the mountains.” He nodded toward Juanita Butte and the Sisters. “Nature’s going to do some torching of her own this evening.”

She glanced uneasily over her shoulder toward town and the mountains beyond. Dark clouds climbed above them. She was just as glad she wouldn’t be called out tonight when a spear of lightning set the dry woods aflame.

“I’ll be in touch.” She handed him her card.

He nodded, taking it and producing one of his own. Then he climbed out and hesitated with his hand on the car door. She felt his gaze, turned to meet it. For just a second something as intense as those white bolts of lightning crackled between them.

The next instant he’d shuttered the sheer force of that look and Abby wondered if she’d imagined it.

“You do that,” he agreed, and slammed the door.

Shaken, she watched him saunter away, strides long and easy, his broad shoulders formidable, his butt—Abby exclaimed aloud. For Pete’s sake, they were working together, not getting involved!

You can admire, a little voice in her head whispered.

“No,” Abby told herself, “I can’t.”

Dating was fun. Right up there with a perfect ski run, and no more serious.

Ben Shea didn’t smile, he didn’t flirt, and he took her seriously. All of which made him a dangerous man.

Abby didn’t “do” dangerous men. After years as a firefighters, she knew what it meant to get burned. Besides, she’d made that particular mistake once, and she was a quick learner.

Anyway, thanks to the shining example of manhood set by Daddy dear, revered police chief, Abby had no desire to bring home a man for good. Sometimes her two brothers-in-law gave her pause, but not for long. You never did know what went on behind closed doors, did you?

Still, she could let herself be comforted by Detective Shea’s competence and by the fact that he had listened to her. She knew cops, and plenty of them would have sneered at her fear.

But it was real, sitting in the pit of her stomach like potato salad gone bad. Because, damn, that did look like Daddy’s pickup truck, and she hadn’t seen one that color since they’d sold his. Somebody had spilled a hell of a lot of blood in it and then set it on fire.

Sort of like sending her an obscene note.

She just wished she could read this one.

Abby put her car in gear and pulled out onto the road, hoping the big dark cop would recede in her thoughts as surely as he did in the rearview mirror.

CHAPTER TWO

BEN SLOUCHED IN HIS CHAIR and propped his feet on his desk, crossing them at the ankles. A swallow of coffee woke him up, the acid burning another millimeter of tissue on the ulcer he felt forming. His imagination, the doctor said. The doctor golfed on Sundays. He didn’t look at dead bodies.

Holding up Abby Patton’s business card, Ben dialed. Though her voice mail wasn’t what he had in mind, he left a message. Her card included a cell phone number, so he tried that.

She answered brusquely on the second ring. “Patton here.”

“Detective Ben Shea.”

“Shea.” She sounded...something. He couldn’t put his finger on what. Not neutral. Not surprised. But a quiver of some emotion had briefly changed the timbre of her voice.

He was hoping it meant that she was pleased to hear from him. Unfortunately, there was another possibility, which was that she’d disliked him from the get-go.

Ben chose to be an optimist.

“News?” she asked.

A direct man, he got right to it. Business first. “That blood came from a deer.”

“What?” she exclaimed.

“The kind with horns and a hide,” Ben elaborated helpfully.

After a long silence Abby Patton said, “I wish I could look on that as good news.”