Borrowing Trouble (4 page)

It was Sloane's first day on the job solo, and years since she'd worked patrol. At least she'd pulled a day shift. The chief was fair about spreading around the crappy hours. He even worked them himself, which at first surprised Sloane. According to Connie, no one was exempt from pulling holiday and night duty.

She turned left on Main Street, thinking about lunch. Possibly a burger at the Bun Boy, or maybe she'd dash home and pop a frozen burrito in the microwave. Just about to head back to the square, Connie's voice came over the radio.

“We have a 10-91V at the Nugget Gas and Go. Animal control is ten minutes out.”

Sloane hung a U-turn and put on her flashing lights. At the gas station she hopped out of her police SUV and went inside the store. A guy in coveralls greeted her and she couldn't help but notice that he was rather nice-looking. Not as knock-your-socks-off as Brady, but right up there. What was it with this town? She'd yet to meet an unattractive man here, making her wonder what they put in the water.

“Around back,” he said.

He led her outside, past the garage bays—where a mechanic had his head under the hood of a pickup—and behind the shop. On a flat concrete pad that butted up to a grassy embankment sat a large Dumpster and . . . oh shit, a bear! He'd pulled out heaps of garbage and was sitting down to a picnic lunch.

Sloane had absolutely no experience with this sort of thing. “Isn't he supposed to be hibernating?”

“Not all of them do. I read somewhere that fifteen percent of the black bears up here don't sleep in the winter. I'm Griffin Parks, by the way. You must be Officer McBride. Nice to meet you. Welcome to Nugget.”

“Nice to meet you too.” She glanced over at the bear, wary, her hand on her holster. The creature didn't pay them any mind, just continued to chow on trash. “When I got the call I thought it would be a dog . . . like a pit bull.”

“It's my fault for keeping the Dumpster unlocked. It's a hassle otherwise. He'll likely take off when he's done, but I can't risk it, especially with tourists. You'd be surprised how many of them think it's a good idea to pose their kids with a bear for a close-up. Or try to feed them.”

“Animal control is on its way.” Hopefully she sounded like she knew what she was doing because she didn't have the foggiest notion what the protocol for dealing with wildlife was.

Griffin nodded. “How you liking the town so far?”

It's different, that's for sure
. “I'm liking it. You grow up here?”

“Nope. Visited when I was a kid and the place stuck with me. So I bought the gas station two summers ago. Best move I ever made. I hear you're living in Rhys's duplex on Donner Road next to Brady.”

“Uh-huh.” She didn't know how she felt about people knowing where she lived, but apparently there was no getting around it in this town.

“If you're looking to buy a house, drop by Sierra Heights.”

“That big gated community? On my salary?” She laughed.

“I'll cut you a good deal.”

Was this guy joking? “How's that?”

“I own it.”

Surprise must've been written all over her face because he smiled. “I thought it would be a good investment, but the truth is, I'm having trouble selling them. Mostly people just want to rent them on a weekly basis for vacation houses.”

A million questions flitted through her head, like how in the world could he afford an entire upscale development? Perhaps it was the grease-splattered coveralls, but she just wasn't buying it. They both perked up at the sound of an engine.

“I'll check to see if that's our friends from California Department of Fish and Wildlife,” Griffin said, and left her standing there with the bear. Fish and wildlife, huh? And here she thought it would be a dog catcher.

With one hand on her weapon, she got as close as she safely could, pulled out her phone, and snapped a couple of pictures. Her brothers were gonna die. She quickly shoved the phone in her pocket as Griffin returned. The fish and wildlife guy trailed behind him.

“This is Ty,” Griffin told Sloane. “He's our go-to guy for bears.”

“You the new girl?” Ty winked. Since he was a white-haired, grandfatherly looking fellow, she didn't take offense.

“I'm the new girl and a little out of my depth here,” she said. “What do we do with him?” Sloane nudged her head at the bear.

“Unless we think the animal is a danger, I monitor the site and make sure he eventually returns to the wilderness. Spread pretty thin these days, we'll often bring in local law enforcement to keep an eye on the situation until we get there.”

“You won't kill him, right?”

“Nah. But Griffin here needs to keep that Dumpster locked.”

“I know, Ty. I got lazy.”

“So do I stay with you?” Sloane asked.

His lips curved up into a playful smile. “You can if you want. But it's not necessary.”

Well, in that case she needed to get going and patrol a few of the neighborhoods left on her beat list. Sloane said goodbye to Griffin and Ty, and radioed Connie to let her know she was leaving the Gas and Go.

“Rhys wants you to come back to the station,” Connie told her.

She had no idea what that was about, but she pointed her vehicle onto Main Street and headed for the square. A few minutes later, she ducked inside the office, hoping that Jake would be there to give her a heads-up. No such luck.

Rhys came into the main area, an open room with cubicles and a few desks, and beckoned Sloane into his office. “I heard you tangled with a bear. Bet you didn't get too many of those in LA.”

“No, sir.”

“Just call me Rhys.”

“Okay, sir . . . Rhys.”

The chief shut the door behind them. “Take a seat.”

Sloane wasn't getting a good vibe and wondered if someone had complained about her. Although she couldn't imagine who. All her contacts so far had been nonconfrontational, downright pleasant in most instances.

“I got a call from LAPD today,” Rhys said.

Here it starts all over again
. “Yeah, I bet you did.” She wouldn't even pretend to be surprised. “It didn't take 'em long, did it? Who was it? Jacobs?”

He didn't say anything. Just watched her. It was an investigative trick to get the other person to talk. Did he think she didn't know that?

“What did Jacobs say?”

“It's not important since I'll judge your work for myself.”

“He told you I was crazy—a hysterical female with a persecution complex—didn't he?”

“Are you?”

That certainly didn't take long.
“No,” she said, but what was the point. He'd just believe whatever the lieutenant told him. The brotherhood.

“Look, the only reason I'm telling you this is because I don't want you thinking I'm taking calls behind your back. I have the utmost faith in you, Sloane, or else you wouldn't be working here. I also want you to watch out for yourself. I didn't like this guy's tone.”

“Did he threaten me?” She should probably tell Rhys about the voice mails, but running to her new boss would make her seem hysterical. The calls couldn't even be traced. They just sounded like idle threats. Pranks, really.

“No. He wouldn't be stupid enough to do that publicly. Although I did get the impression he thought I was a Barney Fife type and that I'd be real beholden to him for passing on the information.”

Sloane knew that before becoming chief in his home town, Rhys had been a narcotics detective in Houston. He'd left a big promotion—homicide lieutenant—to come here. That folksy Texas drawl might fool some people, but Rhys Shepard knew the workings of a big metropolitan police force.

“Just keep on your toes,” he continued. “And if you've got a problem, come to me. Or if you're more comfortable, go to Jake.”

“All right. I'm sorry Jacobs bothered you, Chief.”

“Don't apologize for other people. Go grab some lunch.”

She couldn't get out of the office fast enough. Halfway home she started to cry. Sloane wasn't typically a weeper, but the barrage of harassment seemed to be starting all over again. For months she hadn't felt safe in LA and thought Nugget would at least offer security—it was eight hours away from LA. But even here trouble shadowed her.

She took the turn on Donner Road and bumped along the rutted road until she came to the duplex's driveway. After parking in her usual spot, Sloane blew her nose and started for her apartment only to run into Brady on the porch.

He tilted his head. “Hey, you okay?”

“Allergies,” she said, and quickly turned the key in her lock. “I only have a half hour for lunch so I've got to . . .” She pointed at her door.

He stood there anyway. “Something happen at work?”

“I saw a bear,” she said, and in a move that was so out of character for her, burst into yet another round of tears.

“Must've been some bear.” He somehow maneuvered her onto his porch swing and scooted next to her. “Tell me what's wrong.”

She wanted to hide, she was so embarrassed. What kind of cop cries on the job? This is why women got reputations for being too emotional in the workplace. “It's nothing . . . just stuff I left behind. I really don't want to talk about it, Brady.”

“Okay. But just sit here for a second and take a couple of deep breaths.”

She wished she had more tissues. Brady reached into his back pocket and pulled out a handkerchief.

“Use this. It's clean.”

She wiped her nose. “Are you on a break from work too?” He had on the baggy chef pants.

“Yeah. Usually I just hang out at the inn and work on menus, but I was out late last night and thought I'd catch an hour's sleep.”

She wondered where he'd been. Not a lot going on in this town past nine, unless he'd gone to Reno.

“So you saw a bear, huh?”

“It was eating garbage at the Gas and Go. Ty from fish and wildlife came.”

“I still haven't seen one. Everyone says they're all over the place.”

She pulled out her phone and showed him the pictures. “I took them to send to my brothers.”

“He's a big fellow.” He bent over to get a better look and his leg skimmed hers. It felt nice. Warm and solid.

“Do you know Griffin, the guy who owns the Gas and Go? Does he really own Sierra Heights too?”

Brady nodded. “The guy's loaded. He's half Wigluk and gets proceeds from the casino.”

“Wow.” She never would've guessed he was rich from looking at him. Just a working stiff like the rest of them.

“You feel better now?” he asked.

She had started to shiver and he put his arm around her shoulders. Whether it was the comfort he offered or the crying jag, she did indeed feel better.

“I do. Thank you, Brady.”

“No problem. Next time you want lunch, come over to the inn and I'll feed you.”

He probably felt sorry for her and wanted to save her. A lot of men she'd known were like that. Sloane was perfectly capable of saving herself. But she could always use a good meal.

B
rady came into the Lumber Baron Tuesday morning to find Lina behind the desk.

“Hey, good to see you again. You remember me?” he asked.

“Of course I do. Brady Benson, best chef in Nugget.”

Not that that was saying much, but Brady appreciated the compliment just the same. “Don't you have school?”

“The spring semester doesn't start until the twentieth.”

“You settled in?”

“I got an apartment off campus. Rhys and Maddy are helping me move in this weekend. Just trying to earn a few bucks in the meantime.”

“I have a catering gig . . . Jake Stryker and Cecilia Rodriguez's wedding next month . . . if you're interested. Although it'll crimp whatever Valentine's Day plans you might have. The wedding is on the fourteenth.”

The girl was a knockout and Brady imagined she had no shortage of guys chasing after her. He'd heard that she and Griffin Parks used to be an item. Although Brady thought Griff seemed a little old for her. Lina was just a kid.

“I'll take it.” She said it with such enthusiasm that Brady laughed.

“Okay. I'll give you the details later.”

Right now he had breakfast to make. This morning they had only three couples and a businessman staying at the inn, so preparations would be easy. When he got to the kitchen he found Jake sitting on a stool, sipping a cup of coffee.

“Nice kitchen,” Jake said. “I don't think I've ever been in here before.”

“Welcome,” Brady said, and immediately started on a frittata. “You come to drop off Cecilia's list?”

“Yep. She keeps changing her mind.”

“Brides tend to do that. But we've got a little time and I'm pretty flexible. I've got to say that I like the idea of doing a tapas bar. A little something for everyone.”

“She's sticking with that,” Jake said. “She just keeps changing the types of appetizers. One day she's gung ho about shrimp, the next she wants tuna.”

“Why don't we just do both?”

“Something about it clashing with the wine. I don't know. I'm leaving it to the two of you.”

“I'll sit down with her and we'll hash it out.” Cecilia liked to cook. In Brady's experience good cooks were the most finicky about the food at their receptions. He couldn't blame them. The food made the event.

“How's it working out with Sloane living next door?” Jake asked, and Brady got the impression that the detective looked out for her. He'd been the one to bring her to Nugget, according to Maddy.

“Good. We don't see a lot of each other . . . different schedules.” No way was he telling Jake about her minor breakdown the other day. She'd want that private.

Brady suspected that the tears had been over a boyfriend thing. Sloane was probably in the midst of a bad breakup, hence her relocation to the ends of the earth and a need for a “change of scenery.” Perhaps the guy had been another cop and LAPD wasn't big enough for the both of them. That's why it was best to steer clear of romances too close to home.

Unfortunately, Brady had learned that the hard way.

After breakfast, he threw together a couple of hors d'oeuvres for the afternoon service. They expected a few more guests, but like most winter weeknights, bookings remained light. Lina popped in and made lunch out of leftover frittata and fruit salad. He heated some of yesterday's biscuits for her while he prepared menus for the rest of the week.

“So you want to build bridges, huh?”

“Yep. Specifically suspension bridges like the Golden Gate and the Bay Bridge.”

“Sounds complicated,” Brady said as he cleaned the range. When it came to the kitchen, he was a neat freak.

“It is sort of, but I find it fascinating.” Her dimple showed when she smiled and once again Brady noted how pretty Rhys's baby sister was. Dark hair, dark eyes, and olive skin. She reminded him a little of Eva Longoria.

With both her parents gone, the police chief probably had his hands full keeping the boys away. Lina took her dishes to the sink, washed them, and headed back to the reservation desk. It was nice having someone competent for a change. Truthfully, he didn't know why Maddy, Nate, and Sam kept Andy around. Brady had never hesitated to fire one of his slacker line cooks.

He pulled out his laptop and was about to check his email when Lina escorted Sloane into the kitchen.

“You still willing to feed me?” she asked and looked a little sheepish.

“Absolutely. Grab a seat at the island.”

He pulled out what was left of the frittata and fruit salad from the refrigerator, made up a plate of the appetizers, and started heating everything.

“I don't think I can stand another Bun Boy burger, and I've been living off dinners at the Ponderosa,” she said.

“We've got limited options.” It was on the tip of his tongue to invite her to this great Indian restaurant he'd discovered in Glory Junction, but stopped himself. “If you're willing to drive a half hour there are a couple of good places in Glory Junction.”

“That's what Jake was saying. For a small town the Ponderosa is phenomenal and the fries at the Bun Boy can't be beat, but I like a little variety. In fact I'd kill for sushi or a
bánh mì
.”

He liked a woman who was passionate about food. Hell, if he didn't watch it, he could really like her. Beautiful, nice to talk to, and not afraid to eat. Half the women in LA were anorexic, and the other half lived on protein drinks because they considered sitting down to a meal a time suck. He pulled her plate out of the oven, added a scoop of the fruit, wiped the edges, and placed it in front of her with a mock flourish.

“So what were your favorite restaurants in HelLA?” he asked, and cocked his hip against the counter to watch her eat. Today she had her hair tied back in a ponytail, which kind of did it for him. Sporty and a whole lot sexy.

“There were so many. Pizzeria Mozza of course; Mexicali Taco and Co.; Picca.”

He nodded his head in agreement, although he thought Kiriko was better than Picca.

“Let's see,” she continued. “Gjelina, Lucques, Langer's . . . ah, the pastrami . . . Hunan Mao and my favorite, Pig and Tangelo.”

Before he could stop himself, Brady blurted, “That was my place.”

“Pig and Tangelo? The best, right?”

Apparently she thought he meant his place to eat. He kept quiet. A quick search on the Internet and she'd know in an instant, but why advertise? The greatest thing about Nugget was that he could hide in plain view—as long as word didn't get back to LA, where six degrees of separation really did exist.

“This is good,” she said with her mouth full. “Really good.”

“Glad you like it.” He searched the refrigerator to see if any of the chocolate
pots de crème
were left and found one hiding in the back behind the milk. In a mixer, he whipped cream, spooned a dollop onto the chocolate, and slid the ramekin and a spoon to her. “Try this.”

She dipped the spoon in, held it up to her mouth and licked. It about drove him crazy.

“My God, this is good. If you leave it here, I'll eat the whole thing and then I'll need a nap.”

He shrugged. “So, take a nap.”

“I have to go back to work.” Sloane pushed the dish toward him right before Connie came over the radio, saying something about an 11-84 near the high school.

“What's that?” Brady asked.

“They need me to direct traffic.” She hopped off the stool. “Must've been a fender bender. I hate to dine and dash without doing my dishes . . .”

“Don't worry about it.” He waved her off, happy that it wasn't anything more serious.

 

By the time he got home the sun had started to set. Brady sat in the van for a few seconds watching color paint the sky. They'd had an unprecedented number of clear nights. But it was cold when he got out. Sloane's police SUV was parked in its usual spot. She'd beaten him home. Now didn't that sound funny?

He was halfway to the porch when she came jogging down the driveway. “You ran the fire trail?”

She nodded, then bent over with exhaustion. He waited a few seconds for her to catch her breath and noticed that she had her sidearm again. He didn't know much about police protocol, but it seemed odd that she would run with a gun, especially in a place like this. Unless she was afraid of mountain lions.

“I managed to run it the whole way this time,” she said, huffing. “I would've waited for you, but it was getting dark.”

He didn't want their running together to become a habit, yet he felt an acute sense of disappointment that he'd gotten home too late. Her top was tied around her waist above the elastic holster, and the cold did nice things to her sports bra.

“I better get inside,” she said, sounding self-conscious. Maybe she'd caught him looking.

“Good night.” He waited for her to get inside, then unlocked his door.

But not before checking that the piece of paper he'd stuck between the top rail and the casing was still there.

 

A couple of days passed without incident and Sloane started to think that the troublemakers in RHD had moved on. Out of sight, out of mind. Isn't that what they said? They were probably so inundated with robberies and homicides that they'd finally forgotten about her. They'd gotten what they wanted, anyway. They'd pushed her out.

She looked outside to see if Brady's van was gone. She knew he typically took off Wednesdays, when the inn was the least crowded. Today was her day off as well, and she wondered if he wanted to hit one of the slopes near Glory Junction if there was even enough powder. Just two people sharing a mutual interest in skiing. She'd seen his gear in the shed and noticed that he had a rack on his van.

Other than Jake, she didn't have any friends here. Connie had reached out, but Sloane was leery of getting too close to anyone in the department. That left Brady. She still couldn't figure out whether he was seeing anyone. There'd been no signs of female life on his side of the duplex, though a couple of nights he'd gone out until late. Not that she was keeping track.

She dragged herself into the kitchen, turned on the coffeemaker, and went to take a quick shower. After dressing, she assessed the stack of boxes that still lined her living room wall and decided to stay home and finish unpacking. Later, she'd go to Reno and buy paint. And groceries. At least sandwich meats for lunches, and dinner meals she could pop in the microwave.

She'd just poured herself a cup of coffee when someone knocked. She grabbed her weapon off the kitchen counter and made her way to the front door. Through the peephole stood a dark-haired woman about Sloane's age and a dog. Some kind of an Australian shepherd mix.

Sloane tucked the gun in the back waistband of her jeans, covered it with her baggy sweatshirt, and opened the door. “Hi. Can I help you?”

“I'm Harlee Roberts. I live just over the hill in the big log cabin house.”

Sloane had probably driven past the house during patrol. “Would you like to come in?”

Harlee told the dog—Max—to stay on the porch and followed Sloane into the living room.

“Sorry about the mess. I haven't had time to completely unpack or organize.” Sloane cleared off the couch so Harlee could sit. “You want something to drink?” In LA, neighbors never came over to introduce themselves. Sloane had begun to think it was only a Midwestern thing.

“Some coffee if you have it made.” Harlee probably could smell the fresh-brewed pot. It was a small place, scent traveled.

“Sure. You want cream and sugar?”

“Just a little cream.”

Sloane went to the kitchen to fill a mug for Harlee and grab her own.

“You have really nice stuff,” Harlee said on Sloane's return, and took the cup from her. “My mom owns a store in the Bay Area that sells a lot of things like yours. You'd like it. She also carries some of my husband's pieces.”

“Your husband wouldn't by any chance be the guy who made Brady's rocking chair and swing?” She couldn't remember his name off the top of her head. Something Irish.

“Yep. He also made the rockers at the Lumber Baron, the planters in the square, and the tables and benches at Lucky's cowboy camp.”

“Brady said his studio was nearby. I'd love to come over sometime and get one.” She wondered if they were very expensive.

“Anytime,” Harlee said. “His studio is right behind our house. He built that too.”

“Have you guys lived here long?”

“Colin, about four years. I met him here when I moved into my family's vacation cabin last fall. But I've been coming up since I was a kid. So you're from LA, huh?”

“Chicago, originally.”

“Welcome. It's a really nice town. Do you like to bowl? The reason I ask is that Darla . . . she runs the barbershop with her dad, Owen . . . and I are always looking for young, single people to come to our bowling parties. When we started, both Darla and I were single. Now she's engaged to Wyatt Lambert.”

“Wyatt from Nugget PD?” Uh, duh. How many Wyatt Lamberts could there be in this town? Sloane had liked him instantly.

“Uh-huh. And Connie too. We've been trying to get Brady to come, but he says he hates bowling.”

Sloane wondered if that meant Brady was single. “I'll come,” she said, thinking that it would be a good way to meet people.

“Great.” Harlee smiled. “Griffin, of the Gas and Go, and his mechanic, Rico, come. And Tawny Wade and Lucky Rodriguez recently joined the group.”