Troublemaker by Linda Howard
“What about your dad? You close to him?”
“No. He pretty much forgot about me when he left. He remarried, adopted his new wife’s kids, had a couple more of their own, and that’s his family now. I think they’re living in Sacramento, but that was years ago so they may well be somewhere else by now.”
He got the picture. It wasn’t awful, but neither was it pretty: ignored, abandoned, jerked around from place to place. No wonder she had walls.
“What about you?” she asked, slanting him a sideways glance from those dark eyes, turning the tables on him. “Have you been married? What about your family?”
“My dad is dead, from a fall in the kitchen. He hit his head on the corner of the cabinets. That was almost fifteen years ago. My mom remarried year before last, to an okay guy. He loves her and takes care of her, and that’s good enough for me.”
She waited a minute, probably to see if he’d answer her first question. “What about marriage?”
“Never been married, no kids. I came close to getting hitched once, but it didn’t work out. It’s hard on a wife when the husband is in my line of work. I’m out of the country more often than I’m in it.” His heart hadn’t been broken either, because the truth was he could remember his fiancée’s name, but not really how she looked.
“I can see where that would be a problem,” she admitted.
“How about you? Ever been married?”
“Once. I tried it when I was twenty-one, fresh out of college. It lasted less than six months before he cheated.”
“Ouch.” He’d been keeping an eye on the clock and he had a good idea how long frozen pizzas were supposed to heat, having eaten more than a few of them in his life. He slid off the stool. “Sorry I haven’t been paying more attention, but I don’t know where you keep stuff. Point me in the direction of the plates and things and I’ll set the table.”
She looked surprised, dark brows arching. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”
“Carrying two plates?” he asked testily. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Don’t get cranky about it. The plates are there—” She pointed toward one of the cabinet doors. “The glasses are there, and the silverware is there.”
“Why do we need silverware?”
She chuckled. “I don’t guess we do.”
As he collected the plates and glasses he said, “I like the barn. You did a good job.” The kitchen cabinets were kind of beat up, but it was like they were supposed to look that way. Big industrial-looking lights hung from the high ceiling, as well as steel ceiling fans. Considering how high the ceiling was, the fans were a necessity. The layout was open from one end to the other, the only real privacy either in the bathroom or the rooms upstairs. It would be a great bachelor pad, out here in the middle of the country, nothing restricted or fussy about the building.
“Thanks. It wasn’t renovated in my taste, but I suppose over the years it’s become mine. It’s my furniture, and that helps. Plus no one else has ever lived here, and in a way that makes it more mine.”
“Except for the cows.”
That got a smile from her. “Cows don’t count.”
He set the plates on the table, added napkins. As he headed back to get the glasses he said, “What do you want to drink?”
“Grab a couple of beers from the fridge.”
His head came up, his attention laser-focused on her. “Beer? You have beer?” She’d been giving him milk when there was beer?
“If you’re steady enough on your feet to carry crockery, you’re steady enough to have a beer. Plus you aren’t on any pain meds; I wouldn’t let you mix them.”
“Beer,” he muttered, opening the refrigerator door and yes, thank you, Jesus, there were five dark brown bottles there. He hooked his fingers around the necks of two of them and pulled them out. They weren’t Bud or Miller; there was a pig on the label. He tilted the bottles up to look at them. “Naked Pig? Never heard of it.”
“Back Forty is a little brewery in Alabama. One of the guys in town is a truck driver and every time he goes through there he stops and picks up an order for the devotees here. I like Naked Pig.”
She was into microbreweries. He didn’t care. She was a beer-drinking woman, and life was looking better by the minute.
She pointed toward a bottle cap opener that was stuck on the stainless steel refrigerator by a magnet. He popped the tops off, tossed them in the trash. “You want yours in a glass?”
“Yes, please.”
“Girly.”
She grinned. “That’s my beer, so watch your mouth or you won’t get any.”
He chuckled and poured the beers into glasses—his, too, though he’d have been just as happy to drink it out of the bottle. Her beer, her rules. He’d buy the next delivery.
He almost moaned aloud as the first cold sip slid down his throat. The bubbles snapped on his tongue, and the crispness of the taste made him want to down the whole glass at one go. “Damn, that’s good,” he sighed.
She checked the pizza. “Just another minute or so.” Tricks had trotted over when she opened the oven door and stood looking up, hope in every line of her furry pale gold body. “No, nothing for you,” Bo said. “You’ve already had your dinner. I’m not baking cookies.”
He said, “You bake cookies?”
“She gets cookies for her birthday.”
“That’s tomorrow, right?”
“No, it’s quite a while until her birthday.”
“Mine’s tomorrow,” he lied.
“It is not. I saw your driver’s license, remember?”
“It’s a fake.”
“I’m not baking cookies.”
Morgan consoled himself with the beer, silently pleased at how well the last half hour of conversation had gone. They’d teased each other—a little—and she’d given him an insight into what had made her so reserved and self-protective. He hadn’t made a big deal of it, she hadn’t made a big deal of it, but he knew damn well it was a big deal because it had to be. Kids needed stability, and she hadn’t had that.
She took the pizza out of the oven and briskly zipped the pizza cutter through it, then brought the pan to the table and set it on a pot holder. As she sat down, she turned her head to check on Tricks, and the late afternoon light fell on her right cheekbone. It looked as if she had a faint smear of dirt on her face. He started to say something, then realized she’d done a damn good job of covering the lingering bruise. Some of the makeup had worn off, or he might not have noticed either. Then he realized she’d been covering up the bruise all along because he hadn’t noticed it since Friday night.
She didn’t want people fussing over her, or thinking she was anything except one hundred percent okay.
She could have been milking it for all she was worth, and he knew a lot of people who would have. Instead she preferred to be left alone.
They concentrated on the pizza and beer, and for the first time since he’d been shot, Morgan felt as if he was himself again, rather than a patched-up wreck. Did things get more normal than beer and pizza? He was still a patched-up wreck, but he was a wreck who was starting to get back to being human.
After dinner, she cleaned up and headed out with Tricks for their last walk of the day. He stood in the large windows and watched until they were out of sight, partly to make certain he knew in what direction they’d gone and partly because he liked looking at her curvy little ass.
While he had some privacy, he decided to test the limits of his strength. He wasn’t expecting miracles, but he wanted some kind of parameter he could judge his progress by. Going over to the stairs, he held firmly to the steel banister and began climbing.
The first step was okay; the second one was okay. The third one was mostly okay, but by the sixth one his knees were weak and he was breaking out in a sweat, which he took as a signal not to push his luck. He eased back down while he could still do it without having to scoot on his ass like a toddler. Tomorrow he would try it again, and maybe he co
When he was back on the ground floor, he turned around and counted the steps. It was a long flight, more than a standard floor. There were twenty steps. If he could improve one step a day, in two weeks he’d be sleeping in a bed.
It was ridiculous how much he looked forward to going to Hamrickville. It was a small town—a very small one. But he’d spent five nights here, and he needed a change of scenery to relieve his growing boredom. Bo had lent him her laptop, yeah, but he couldn’t electronically check on the things he wanted to check on without tripping an alert, so he was reduced to checking regular news sources and playing dumb-ass games that he wasn’t any good at.
When it came time to leave, Tricks bounded out and raced madly around the yard as if she was overjoyed he was going with them. Bo unlocked the Jeep and called Tricks to her; while she was clipping on the harness, Morgan slid into the passenger seat. She led Tricks around to the driver’s side and said, “Tricks, up.”
The dog didn’t move.
“Tricks, up.”
No response.
Morgan glanced over at the dog standing motionless in the open driver’s side door, staring at him with what he could only describe as an appalled expression, if a dog could be appalled.
“Tricks, come on,” Bo said, then she too froze and stared at him.
“What?” he asked, impatience leaking into his tone. He didn’t know what was going on, but he knew he wanted to be on the road.
“Oh, my God.”
“What?” He looked around for a threat, any threat, reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there in the holster he wasn’t wearing.
“You’re in her seat.”
He went still. Had he heard that right? He looked at the woman. He looked at the dog. She had to be shitting him—the woman, not the dog. But Bo’s expression was earnest and kind of deer-in-the-headlights as if no way had she anticipated this, and Tricks was still looking appalled as she stared unblinkingly at him. The two pairs of dark eyes were unnerving.
What was he supposed to do? Obviously, even on short acquaintance he knew Bo placed the dog way above most, if not all, humans, but still—he looked at the backseat. The Jeep wasn’t the four-door model. The backseat was small, and just the idea of contorting himself to get back there made his chest hurt.
“I know,” she said helplessly. “I wouldn’t ask you to try.”
That was something, at least. Or he could drive and she could get in the backseat, since Tricks obviously wasn’t going to, but he was supposed to look pitiful—just thinking the word grated on his nerves—and pitiful people didn’t drive. But the Tahoe was sitting right there, and it was a four-door. “We can go in mine. Will it matter to her which seat she’s in then?”
“It shouldn’t,” Bo replied, though there was a tiny hint of doubt in her voice.
He got out of the Jeep and she went back inside the house to get his keys. She used the remote to unlock the doors and he got into the passenger seat before Tricks could beat him to it, just in case. Bo retrieved her weapon from the Jeep and circled around to the driver’s side, where she opened the back door and said, “Tricks, up.”
Thank God, Tricks bounded up into the backseat and sat down as if she were Queen Elizabeth in the royal carriage. He looked back at her, and she turned her head away. Outrage was in every line of her furry golden body.
Bo stifled a laugh as she fastened the harness to the seat belt. “You are so on her list.”
Tricks was an intelligent dog, no doubt about it, but dogs didn’t plot vengeance so he wasn’t worried about it. Besides, he’d sneak a treat to her and all would be forgiven. He wouldn’t tell Bo about the treat, though; he knew better.
He’d bypassed Hamrickville on his way to her house, so he paid attention to the route she took, noting the highway numbers and landmarks. The Tahoe had GPS and a navigation system, but he’d rather rely on his own knowledge than that of a bunch of people he didn’t know, who might or might not have been paying attention to detail when this section of the country was mapped. As it turned out, the drive was a grand total of twelve minutes, not bad at all. If he were driving in D.C., twelve minutes might take him a couple of blocks, depending on the direction and time of day.
There was no hint of civilization to come; she rounded a curve and there it was, compact, most of the buildings looking as if they’d been built in the 1940s or ’50s, sidewalks, no parking meters. Most of the intersections just had stop signs. He saw a bank, a hardware store, a barbershop, other small shops, and the bakery that must have been where the fight took place last week because he couldn’t imagine the town could support two bakeries. Some of the shops had flowerpots in front of them, or little bushes, but for the most part it wasn’t a fussy town.
“The school is about a mile in that direction,” she said at one intersection, pointing south.
He was a little surprised the town was big enough to have a school. He kept that thought to himself. They passed city hall, a compact, one-story redbrick building with white columns by the double doors. Then he saw the sign that said HAMRICKVILLE POLICE STATION on another redbrick building without any columns to fancy it up. She parked in back beside a white Dodge pickup with rust spots on it. “That’s Loretta’s truck,” she said as they got out.
He couldn’t wait to meet Loretta. He was also aware he had a part to play; he’d been playing it since he arrived at Bo’s house, and that was to dial back the acuity of his senses, intellect, personality—everything that made him a lethal weapon. He’d slipped up when Bo had startled him awake, but since then he’d kept himself at a simmer instead of the rolling boil at which he normally functioned. He had to convince the good townsfolk of Hamrickville that he was Bo’s weak and sick old friend, and that he was essentially harmless. The weak and sick didn’t need much exaggeration, though it was mostly just weak; the harmless required concentration, and his audition was with the infamous Loretta Hobson.
She lived up to her billing. She was damn near as tall as he was, and outweighed him; she was built like a tank. But she had a sweet smile, and it was evident she liked Bo. Tricks, who was still ignoring him, bounced into Loretta’s cubicle for some petting and sweet talk from the dispatcher. Bo had to tell about him getting into Tricks’s seat, and Loretta sorrowfully shook her head. “She’ll make you pay.” She eyed him, as shrewd a look as he’d ever received before. “I heard you’ve had some health issues.”
“Some,” he said, admitting to it but not going into details because hell, he was tired of thinking about it.
“You’ve come to a good place to get some rest. The folks around here will take care of you. I reckon you’re here this morning because you’ve got cabin fever?”
“You’d be right about that,” he admitted.
“It’s usually pretty quiet around here, last Friday and yesterday being the exceptions rather than the rule. Still, it’s a change of scenery.”
He agreed and took a seat in the visitor’s chair by Bo’s desk. She asked if he wanted coffee and took some to Loretta before bringing a cup to him. Then she got a bottle of water for herself and settled in front of an ancient computer, one so old the monitor was a separate unit and was half the size of a footlocker. It had been a while since he’d seen one of those, but she booted it up and after what seemed like half an hour of clicking and whirring, it was good to go.
He stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles. “What happens if this thing crashes?” he asked, indicating the computer. “Are parts still made for it?”
“No, but so far we’ve been able to scrounge spare parts from other old units. Our luck is still holding.”
She dove into a stack of paperwork, and he shut up so she could concentrate. The quiet Loretta had touted didn’t last long. Officer Jesse came in the back door and said, “Hey, Chief. Hey, Morg. How’re you feeling?” Which played well to the impression that Morgan was an okay guy in Officer Jesse’s book. The guy was sharp. Mentally Morgan elevated him to
“Better,” Morgan replied. Then followed the usual male stuff about baseball; he normally didn’t follow sports much because he was so often out of the country, but he’d been watching some baseball in the few days he’d been at Bo’s house so he could hold up his end of the conversation. So far, so good.
Then, by some kind of osmosis, word spread through town that he was in Bo’s office. He didn’t know how because he could hear every word Loretta said and it wasn’t her. Bo hadn’t called anyone. Jesse hadn’t called anyone. The only explanation was that someone had seen them arrive even though she’d parked at the back of the station.
The door opened and a short, plump, white-haired woman with bright eyes and a beaming smile came in, bearing a covered platter and accompanied by the smell of heaven.
“Miss Doris,” Jesse said, springing to his feet to take the platter from her.
“I heard your visitor came to town with you,” Miss Doris the baker said to Bo, her cheeks flushing pink as she looked pointedly at Morgan. Maybe she was excited because there weren’t many strangers who visited Hamrickville.
“He did. Miss Doris, this is Morgan Rees. Morgan, this is Doris Brown, the owner of the bakery and the best cook in the county.” By now, Morgan knew Bo well enough to hear the amusement in her tone, though no one else appeared to notice. Maybe they were too interested in the platter. God knows, his own interest was high.
Miss Doris’s cheeks flushed even pinker. “Oh, I don’t know about that. But I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Rees. I brought you a welcome basket—actually it’s a platter, but I didn’t have any baskets. Maybe there’s something there that’ll tempt your appetite.”
Morgan could feel the saliva gathering in his mouth. Damn, he was all but drooling at just the smell coming from that platter. “Ma’am,” he said, “I got tempted the minute you walked through that door.” He didn’t clarify, letting the comment stand as it was. Miss Doris got so flustered she couldn’t talk, and her flush deepened all the way into a full-out blush.