Too Sexy for his Stetson (24 page)

Maybe it was time she faced the fact that Brandy Wilcox had influenced the outcome of her mother’s trial more than Skip had. Tears burned at the back of her throat. All these years, instead of admitting her mistake, she’d focused on hating Skip, on blaming him for setting her mother up.

Maybe she
did
owe Coogan an apology.

She stumbled downstairs and found breakfast on the table, waiting for her, but Blade was outside tending to Rambo. By the time she ate and dressed, moving slowly, her FTO was in uniform waiting at the door and ready to leave for work.

He kissed her on the cheek before they stepped outside and climbed into their respective vehicles, a gesture that left her feeling flat. No mention of the firestorm of lovemaking that had exploded between them last night. No mention of the cut wires or last night’s intruder. He was shutting her out.

Brandy drove her truck to her apartment to change into her uniform. Blade followed in the Jeep. She planned to drive to work and take the truck to a body shop on lunch break for an estimate on repairing the bullet holes.

Blade parked next to her in the lot behind Tour d’Alene. Before she jumped out, he exited his vehicle and headed toward the stairs. Silently, they ascended. Brandy unlocked the door, and together they checked out her apartment.

“This place is clean,” she said curtly. “You can head out.”

Blade nodded, looking everywhere except at her. It was almost as if they hadn’t made love.

What had she expected? From the get–go he’d said he wasn’t into relationships. And she’d blown him off, or more likely let him off the hook, with her this–can–never–happen–again remark. So hadn’t she gotten what she wanted?

A sensation she didn’t want to acknowledge crested in her stomach. Studying his handsome face, her heart twisted. There was so much more to Blade Beringer than window dressing, and making love with him had been so much more than a physical explosion.

Just so you know, I’m not interested in a relationship.
His mantra.

So how could she complain about a one–nighter or expect anything more? It shouldn’t bother her, Miss No–Bonding, any more than it bothered him. And why did she feel like she was about to crash and burn?

She could see why the department established rules against partners dating. One night with Lieutenant Beringer, and she would never be the same.

“Listen, Brandy, you can’t jeopardize your career by losing focus. For now, let’s concentrate on our jobs, on the NNFF threat, and on the Secada murder case, okay?”

“Of course.”

Secada,
who could have come to Idaho for a vacation, not because he was in cahoots with Coogan. In addition to agonizing over Blade and over her job, Brandy had to contend with a lifetime of misjudging Skip Coogan. Tension skated through her. Shoot, this was turning out to be a bad–hair–life in a world with no conditioner. Was there anything else she could fret about?

“I’ll meet you at the office,” she hinted, hoping he would leave as she busied herself scooping up a stack of junk mail and tossing it into the garbage bin under the sink. He leaned against the counter. She tapped the play button on the answering machine and listened to the one and only message.

Tonya. “Just checking on you. Give me a buzz when you get a chance.”

“Brandy…” Blade shifted, still parked in the middle of her kitchen, her life, her impending meltdown, which she would not allow herself to have in front of him.

“I should call her back.”

“We’ll figure this out.”

“Yeah, I’m sure we will.” She swallowed, mostly her pride, and added. “Blade, I intend to make an apology to Coogan. It’ll take a bit to find the right words.”

Blade edged closer. His arms wrapped around her, and he leaned down to brush a warm, tender kiss across her lips. Heat rushed up her neck and flushed her cheeks. Automatically, her arms locked around his neck, and she sniffled. But she would not cry.

He pulled away. He didn’t have to say anything. His cool–water eyes said it all.
We can’t.

And then he turned and walked to the door. “I’ll see you at the station.”

We can’t, we can’t, we can’t… I get it already!

She stiffened and swallowed, feeling stupid because her nose and eyes started to burn. And wasn’t that all grown–up and deputy–like?

Last night was a mistake
. It was more than a mistake. It was a freaking disaster. They’d crossed the line and made love, and nothing would ever be the same.

With the taste of Blade on her lips, she edged toward the door and watched him jog down the steps and climb into the Jeep.

“See you in fifteen minutes,” she said so softly he couldn’t possibly have heard. But when he glanced up, she forced the corners of her mouth to lift in a smile even as her nose and throat clogged. She prided herself on never crying, no matter how badly she was hurting. So what was the warm sensation dampening her cheeks?

Suck it up, Wilcox.

Just as she was about to leave, her cell phone rang. She answered around the lump in her throat, “Deputy Wilcox.”

“Brianna, this is Skip Coogan.”

Her heart thumped. Where did she begin? “I was going to call you.”

“Really? What a coincidence.”

“Um…” Words bobbled around in her head.

“Listen, I’ve uncovered some new information about your mother’s case.”

“What kind of information?”

“Ah… Christ… Brianna… I’m so sorry for everything you’ve gone through.” His voice rasped, hitching with emotion. “The new evidence I’ve got could clear your mother’s name. I’d like to share it with you. Maybe we can clear everything up once and for all.”

For the life of her she couldn’t utter a response.

“Briann—Brandy? I’d like you to meet me as soon as possible. Can you be at my office in a half hour? I’ve already taken the liberty of calling the sheriff’s department. You’re clear to stop by the Fort Shoshone Police Department before you punch in today.”

New evidence. Finally, there was a chance of proving her mother’s innocence.

She pushed aside her personal frustration and hurt and focused on hope. Hope that came from a man she’d never before thought she could count on. “I’m on my way.”

CHAPTER TWENTY–ONE

T
he vulnerable spot beneath Blade’s ribs smarted like he’d been pierced with an arrow as he anguished over Brandy and the way he’d brushed her off this morning. From his desk, he glanced at his watch and then peered out the window. She should have arrived by now. Though, technically, she hadn’t been scheduled for this shift. This would be her first day back since the accident.

His thoughts continued to churn. If he wanted to keep his job and make sure she kept hers—and God only knew Brandy’s life goal was focused on her deputy position as much as his was—he damn well better extinguish the fire raging between them before it blazed out of control. As if it hadn’t already turned to wildfire.

He tried to rationalize what he’d done last night. It had been a spur of the moment thing. Mistakes happen. As the senior officer, it was up to him to make sure it didn’t happen again. Ever again.

But hell. The scent of her still filled his head, her honey–sweet taste lingered on his palate, and he could feel her silken curls splayed across his skin. In his mind, he saw her face, and it lit up his world, her sparkling violet eyes fixed on him as she tumbled over the edge in his arms. God, he needed her like oxygen.

Last night, he had experienced something extraordinary, something he’d never felt before. And now that he’d made love to her and had glimpsed inside her heart, he realized how much she longed for closeness. The same longing that ate at his soul. She’d wrapped herself around him, and he didn’t want to ever let her go. He wanted what he’d always thought was impossible. To share his life with someone. With Brandy.

And, damn it, how had he responded? Instead of revealing his feelings, he’d hurt her when he’d blown her off this morning. The disappointment that had clouded her face still scraped his insides raw and twisted him in knots.

One thing was certain. He never wanted to hurt her again. But he hadn’t a clue how he was going to accomplish that, considering their circumstances.

And where the hell was she? It had been a half hour since he’d left her place.

“Got a second?” Christiansen stood in the doorway.

No.

“Umm… about Brandy, I was wondering if you know if she’ll be back into work today?”

Blade tossed him a don’t–mess–with–me glance and barked, “Yes, she’s on her way in.”

“I thought maybe you could assign her to patrol duty with me. That is, if you don’t already have plans for her,” he said so matter–of–factly Blade managed to keep his agitation over the insinuation under wraps.

“I don’t have anything specific scheduled for her yet.” He damned well better not have plans for her, not scenarios like the ones that had been playing across his mind all morning.

“The reason I ask, Lieutenant, is there’s that quote–unquote religious meeting of McKee’s church group scheduled in the town square. And since Greenwald called in sick, we could use an extra warm body on patrol.”

Warm body.
The deputy had a way with words. Damn his bloodhound talent of picking up on things that were personal and none of his business. He was covertly pushing Blade’s buttons, and Blade didn’t need a pseudo–psychic calling attention to the sizzle between Brandy and him. “I’ll get back to you on that, Christiansen.”

“Oh, by the way, your friend Coogan from the Fort Shoshone PD? He stopped by earlier, looking for Brandy.”

“Brandy?”

“Yeah, you know, the little blond deputy we were just discussing—curly hair, big blue eyes?”

Violet. Violet eyes. The woman who was now more than a half hour late for work. Blade scowled. “What’d Coogan want with her?”

“Just checking on her. He wondered if she’d recuperated from the accident. If she was back to work.” He shrugged. “So anyway, let me know what you decide about loaning Brandy to me—”

“Ass Jack.” Blade threw a ballpoint pen across the room. It bounced off the doorjamb while his attention flipped back to the clock. He grabbed his cell phone and dialed Brandy’s number.

“The party you have dialed is presently unavailable.”

Skip had been looking for her? Had she contacted him to make an apology? Blade’s chest swelled with pride. He admired her for admitting she’d made a mistake. That took courage. Hell, he admired too damn much about his beautiful, spunky rookie.

Along with the tightness in his chest, agitation knotted the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t put his finger on what bothered him, other than the obvious. Brandy. He hit redial. Same old message.

Restless, he left his office. His uneasiness propelled him to the evidence room. He silently pulled out the box that contained the mutilated handgun they’d found in the river. He placed it atop the desk. The remains of a Colt. The cold steel taunted him. He stared at it, willing it to sprout vocal chords and speak to him.

Balancing the plastic–wrapped .45 on his palm, he studied the flattened length of metal from which ballistics could never glean data. The report from the crime lab should be on his desk later today. Maybe it would reveal something.

Turning it around, he studied the smooth–honed surface, and reviewed the preliminary findings. Barrel demolished. Serial number gone, and the grips had been removed.

Grips. His mind jumped to yesterday’s target practice session with Skip and lingered on Skip’s pistol with its well–worn custom mesquite grips inlaid with his initials. Grips Blade remembered from Skip’s pistol years ago when Blade had first met him.
Whenever I upgrade my weapon, I transfer these grips. They’re my lucky charm.

He studied the Colt so hard his eyes burned as his inquisitive mind held him in a hammerlock. Missing grips. Skip had been looking for Brandy this morning. Why?

What the hell? Now that Brandy had come to terms with her doubts about Skip, Blade was starting to have doubts of his own? Uneasiness settled over him and clung like a stalled storm front. He tried to free his mind from the uncomfortable thoughts. He reached into the top desk drawer for a magnifying glass. Analyzed the Colt.

He glanced at his watch. Forty minutes since he’d left Brandy at her apartment. He gave redial another shot. Still unavailable.

My attorney got a call—
What had she started to say the other night? Whatever it was, she hadn’t finished, because they’d been on surveillance and Skip’s car had driven into the compound. Blade’s heartbeat revved up.

Wait a minute, wait a minute, Beringer. That witness never materialized. And Skip had no reason to kill the Abbott woman.

Still…

A small flicker of doubt licked the shadows of his mind. Was there a possibility Coogan’s shield of valor had a flaw in it? His thumb went automatically to the redial button, and Brandy still didn’t answer. With a burst of nervous energy, Blade shoved the Colt back into the box, filed it, and surged out to the main office, hoping to find Brandy sitting at her desk.

She wasn’t there.

The thud of his heart continued to tattoo an anxious beat. For the umpteenth time, he dialed her cell phone, and for the umpteenth time he was greeted with the same sing–songy tune.

At Brandy’s desk, he dug around until he found an empty envelope stamped certified mail with a return label from Attorney David Rosenberg. He grabbed the phone and called directory assistance. The gait of his pulse increased to a gallop as he dialed Rosenberg’s office, as he listened to buzzes and beeps until the not–available–leave–your–number spiel kicked in. Great, he was batting zero with the phone company.

He hit the dispatcher’s number. “Put an APB out for Brandy’s truck. Red l999 Chevy with duct tape on the driver’s door. Check her file for the license plate number.”

His gut told him to go back to her apartment.

Spinning away from Brandy’s desk, he barely missed colliding with a man who’d appeared from nowhere, but who must have cleared the receptionist’s desk. Stealthy, solid, and with the high cheekbones indicative of partial Native American heritage, he wore khakis, a polo shirt, and a military short haircut. A formidable presence in his quiet stature.