The Homecoming (3 page)

“That was good thinking, Miz Lawton.” He struggled to shove his large hands into the bright yellow rubber gloves. “Lonnie will be bringing you out a new box in the morning. Once he gets done taking that plaster casting of the tire tracks, he’ll put it up for you.”

“I do appreciate that, John,” she said. Taking no heed of the formality of the badge he wore on his khaki shirt, she reached up and patted his cheek. “You always were a good boy. Even if you did skip school the first day of deer hunting season every year.”

“I always had a note,” he claimed, sounding genuinely surprised.

“Which you forged your mother’s handwriting to,” she countered.

The chuckle rumbled from deep in his chest as he didn’t even attempt to deny the accusation.

As he bagged the empty brown beer bottle, Kara’s cell phone trilled. The caller ID display read her office.

“Conway,” she answered.

“Sheriff.” The young night dispatcher’s voice sounded excited. “Someone just called in a possible crime.”

“Well, we
are
the law.”

“But this is a
real
crime.” Yes, that was definitely excitement causing the tremor in Ashley Melson’s voice. “You know about Sax Douchett coming back home, right?”

“I believe I heard something about that.”

It would’ve been difficult not to, since the entire town was abuzz with celebration plans for their local military hero. Knowing and liking his parents, and having a personal reason to be grateful to his brother, Kara hoped the town’s most infamous bad boy hadn’t fallen back into old habits.

“Well, he’s gone and gotten himself a dog. Some oversize mutt he supposedly bought from bikers up in Portland.”

Hanging out with bikers wasn’t exactly hero behavior. Then again, maybe they weren’t the Hell’s Angels type, but some regular guys who just happened to ride bikes. Or maybe even the Rolling Thunder group, who showed up at vets’ funerals all around the country.

“The dog dug up a bone down on the beach below Douchett’s house.” There was a long, dramatic pause. Then her voice dropped to a near whisper. “A
human
bone.”

Despite having assured herself that she’d happily left the fast lane of police work behind in the rearview mirror of her patrol car, Kara experienced a little zing of excitement at Ashley’s breathless announcement.

“I’m leaving now,” she said. “Meanwhile, tell Douchett, along with whoever else might be out there with him, to stay put and not move around the area. And tell him to lock the dog in the house.”

If, by any chance, it
was
an actual crime scene, Kara didn’t need civilians screwing it up.

After saying good night to Edna, who’d been openly eavesdropping on the one- sided call, Kara left John to wrap things up.

Then, after calling her mother, with whom she and Trey lived, and letting her know she’d been delayed, Kara headed her black-and-white Crown Vic cruiser out of Shelter Bay toward the coast. And the cliff house that held so many bittersweet memories.

Sax was sitting out in a rocking chair on the porch, staying put, as he’d been instructed by the dispatcher—who’d sounded as if she should’ve been home playing with Barbie dolls rather than answering the phone—when he saw the headlights cutting through the dark.

“Looks like we’ve got ourselves some company,” he told the dog whose collar he was holding on to. Not that she needed that much restraining, since she was pressed against his leg.

Velcro barked in happy agreement.

“Let’s see how enthusiastic you are when you’re locked inside and have to miss all the fun.” He took a pull on the bottle of beer, then pushed to his feet. “Let’s go.”

The mutt, always eager to please her benefactor, raced inside.

Feeling like a traitor, Sax shut the door behind her, then ambled down the steps toward the gravel driveway.

Having expected John O’Roarke, he was momentarily surprised to see the long female leg come out of the driver’s side of the car. The leg, currently covered in a really ugly pair of khaki trousers, was followed by a girl he remembered well.

No. No longer a girl, he considered as Kara Conway strode toward the house. During the decade since he’d last seen her, along with ditching those glasses that had given her the look of a studious owl, she’d shed her gangly teenage frame for a woman’s slender curves.

Her hair, which she’d once worn to the middle of her back, was pulled shorter, accentuating her long neck.

Sweet
.

Her face, like her body, was fuller than it had been back when she was in high school, but her cheekbones could still cut crystal, and as she entered the circle of light created by the porch lamp, the yellow glow caught sparks in almond-shaped eyes nearly the same deep, burnished reddish gold of her hair.

Damn. Until Jared’s death, Sax had almost managed to put Kara Blanchard Conway out of his memory. Even on the rare occasions he’d think of her, he’d assured himself that she was no longer that seventeen-year-old girl who’d kissed him silly the night of the prom. She’d been married a long time. Had a kid. Spent the intervening years as a cop, and although he knew those doughnut stories were a cliché, lots of cops seemed to get butt spread riding around in a patrol car all day.

Not this one.

“If I’d known an old bone would get me a visit from a beautiful woman, I’d have started digging up the beach a long time ago,” he said in his best bad-boy drawl. Which would probably piss her off. Which would undoubtedly be a good thing. Because getting mixed up with any woman right now wasn’t in the cards. Getting mixed up with
this
woman would be a mistake of major proportions.

She paused for just a heartbeat, obviously surprised by such a personal opening gambit. Hell, he’d surprised himself. Then again, as he’d discovered that long-ago night, not only had Kara always had him acting in ways he’d sure as hell never planned, but she was also an enticing surprise wrapped in an enigma.

He’d never been able to figure her out. Which, he admitted as she squared shoulders clad in a shirt every bit as unattractive as her pants, had been part of her appeal.

“I sincerely doubt you have any problem getting women to visit.” Her tone was as dry as the Iraqi sandbox where he’d spent way too much time.

The same sandbox where her high school sweetheart husband had survived two tours, only to join the police department and get himself shot to death by a hot-headed wife beater back home.

“Maybe I’m choosy.”

Because he was male, and to please himself, he took a slow, masculine appraisal: from the top of her head down to those unbelievably ugly black cop shoes. Then back up again.

And really found himself really wishing she’d gotten doughnut-dumpy.

“I’m five-six,” she told him briskly. “One hundred and twenty-five pounds. Hair red. Eyes brown. No distinguishing scars or tattoos. Just in case you were wondering.”

“Your eyes—which, by the way, are fabulous now that they’re not covered up with those Coke-bottle glasses you wore back in the day, are more amber than brown,” he corrected. “Though they
do
have an intriguing little rim of mahogany around the iris. And being sidetracked by those way-sexy gold flecks in them, I hadn’t gotten to thinking about tattoos yet.

“Though it’s an intriguing possibility,” he allowed. “You’re looking well, Kara.” Even if it was downright strange seeing that nine-millimeter strapped on the hip of his graduating class’s valedictorian. Then again, there was definitely something to be said for a woman who carried her own handcuffs on her belt.

“Thanks. But brown’s brown and flowery descriptions don’t fit in those narrow little driver’s license boxes.” His compliment didn’t exactly appear to have her heart going all pitter-pat as she subjected him to the same judicial study he’d given her. “You’re not looking so bad yourself, Douchett. And now that we’ve both passed muster, how about you show me your bone?”

The unintended double entendre hung in the air between them. Deciding it was too easy—and too dangerous—Sax didn’t pick up on it.

“It’s not mine,” he said. “But you’re welcome to it.” He pointed toward the tree. “It’s over there.”

As they walked over to it, Sax got a whiff of that glossy hair. Her scent reminded him of something fresh and pure. Like an ocean breeze. Or his grandmother’s sheets hanging out on the line in the sun.

Reminding himself how much their lives had changed since the last time they’d spent the night out here at the beach, he said, “I was damn sorry to hear about Jared. I would’ve come to the funeral, but—”

“Cole explained you were on some top-secret black-ops SEAL mission. But thanks for the condolences.”

Her smile, while not as dazzling as he knew it could be, appeared genuine.

“I appreciated your brother coming down to Oceanside to help bring Jared’s body back home.”

“Cole’s a Marine. Even if he and Jared hadn’t had that Semper Fi thing going, no way would he have left that up to you to handle by yourself.”

“He’s a good guy.”

“The best,” Sax agreed.

And hadn’t everyone in Shelter Bay always said the same thing? Eagle Scout Coleridge Douchett, named after the great Jamaican jazz bassist Coleridge George Emerson Goode, had been a damn tough act to live up to. Which was why Sax had quit trying during middle school and taken out on his own, often rocky path.

By the time the third Douchett son, J.T., named for blues trumpeter Jack Teagarden, had come along, the roles of overachiever and bad boy had already been taken. Which was why, Sax had always believed, J.T. was the most easygoing of the three brothers.

“I was surprised to hear Cole’s getting married.”

“So they say.”

She arched a tawny brow in a way that reminded him of her mother. “Is there a question about that?”

“Nah. As much as he loves Kelli, I just suspect he’d rather face a horde of terrorists armed with AK-47s than put on his dress uniform and jump through all the hoops a wedding seems to require.”

“I wouldn’t know about hoops. Jared and I eloped to Tijuana, so I guess he got off easy.”

Not so easy in the long run, Sax thought. Given that the former Marine turned cop had gotten himself killed responding to a damn domestic dispute.

“How are you doing, Kara?” he asked. “Really?”

They were close enough to the porch light he could see her eyes widen momentarily and guessed she was surprised by such a personal question. Hell, being a guy who’d always been more interested in getting a girl into the backseat of his Camaro than sharing confidences, Sax was surprised himself.

But then again, Kara Conway hadn’t been just
any
girl. She’d been the high school sweetheart of his big brother’s best friend.

But she’d also been the girl who’d spent an entire night after the spring prom sitting by a fire down on the beach with him. Just talking.

Well, mostly talking. There’d been tears involved, as well. And . . .

Sax wondered if she remembered that hot, impetuous kiss they’d shared. Wondered even more why he should give a damn one way or the other.

She shrugged. “It’s been over two years since Jared died.”

“I know that. But I was asking about you. Not him.”

“I’ve been through all the appropriate stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. So I guess I’m where I’m supposed to be.”

Perhaps realizing that she sounded just a little lost at that declaration, she squared those slender shoulders again. Lifted her chin. Met his gaze with a no-nonsense, just-the-facts-ma’am stare he suspected probably worked dandy when she was interrogating criminals.

“I was told that you called me out here because you had evidence of a possible crime. Not to chat about my personal life, which, no offense, Sax, is none of your business.”

She sure wasn’t the shy bookworm she used to be, who’d pretty much clung to Jared the way Velcro did to him.

Sax figured being a military wife left to fend for herself for months at a time, following her father into law enforcement, losing a husband to violence, and becoming a single mom struggling to make ends meet would make any woman a lot stronger. And as sorry as he was about Jared Conway’s death, the intriguing thing was, that edge she’d acquired looked good on her. As good as those curves.

“Jared was my friend, too,” he reminded. “Maybe he and I hadn’t done the Tom Sawyer- Huck Finn finger-pricking, blood-brother thing, like he and Cole did that summer when they were eleven. But your husband was the guy who taught me how to pitch a curveball. And go in for a layup.”

Because the memory of that balmy summer day when Jared and Cole had trounced him on the basketball court tugged yet more emotions he’d rather keep locked in that boiling cauldron inside him, Sax turned his thoughts to another memory.

“He also treated me to my first look at a naked woman—outside the ones in
National Geographic
—from the
Penthouse
magazine he bought from Jake Woods.”

Woods, who’d run the bait shop Sax’s parents had bought from Jake’s kids after the old man had passed on, had rented out girlie magazines and soft-porn videos to half the high school guys in Shelter Bay. It was probably a good thing he’d keeled over from a heart attack a few years ago, because these days he’d undoubtedly be arrested. Maybe even by the woman standing in front of Sax.

“Jake Woods was a pervert.”

Yep. She would’ve had the porn entrepreneur in handcuffs within days of taking over her dad’s job.

“Some might call him that. But others might merely consider him a connoisseur of the female form. If he’d been taking all the boys from Shelter Bay on a field trip to Portland to check out the nude paintings at PAM, he could’ve well been considered a good citizen.”

“There happens to be a big difference between a nude by Cézanne at the Portland Art Museum and pornography.”