Lori Armstrong - Merciless

Officer Ferguson frowned as she approached me. “I figured you’d be back from lunch before now.”

I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and waggled it. “Got waylaid by a phone call. What’s up?”

“Nothing. I thought I saw you talking to someone, but you must’ve been talking to yourself.”

“Hazard of the job.” I shoved my cell in my pocket. “I came out here to get a sweater. Can’t you guys crank the heat up in that conference room? I think I have frostbite.”

She laughed. “I’ll see what I can do for you, Gunny.”

• • •

A few hours later I drove to the Diamond T.

The trailer court looked as crappy and run-down as it always had. Busted windows in the trailers, broken-down cars parked everywhere, trash blowing back and forth between falling-down fences. Talk about a rural slum.

It was early enough in the day that kids weren’t home from school yet. Their suspicious stares on my last visit reminded me of the ragged children in war-torn Iraq; their smiles had never quite masked the hatred in their eyes.

I parked behind a blue Dodge Caravan with a broken rear window that had been repaired with plastic dry-cleaning bags and lime-green duct tape. The back end of Rollie’s truck jutted out from the gravel driveway between the doublewide and the garage.

A dog barked, starting a chain reaction of howls, from one littered yard to the next, as I got out of my pickup.

I climbed the rickety steps and knocked on the screen, expecting to wait. But the inner door swung open immediately. Verline stood inside the jamb, a diaper-clad toddler cocked on her hip. “Rollie ain’t here.”

“Thanks for the update, but I’m looking for Junior.”

She shifted the fussy boy. “Why?”

“I need to ask him a few questions.”

“It’d be a waste of time. Unlike his father, he ain’t gonna talk to you.”

“So does Junior still live here?”

“Not since Rollie kicked him out.”

I resisted asking if that’d happened after Rollie found out about Junior’s alleged involvement with Arlette Shooting Star. “Have you seen him recently?”

An anxious look flitted across her weary face. “He shows up when he knows his old man ain’t around.”

“Do you know why Rollie sent him packing?”

Verline shook her head.

“Did Junior mention where he was staying the last time you saw him?”

She averted her eyes, and then tugged on the boy’s diaper before she looked at me again. “I didn’t ask.”

I let it slide, even though I was sure she was lying.

An excruciatingly loud wail came from inside the house. Holy crap. Did that new little baby have a monster set of lungs. Then the toddler started shrieking and hitting Verline on the shoulder with his tiny fists.

“I gotta go.” And she slammed the door in my face.

And once again, Dawson wasn’t home.

The dogs were happy to see me. I rewarded their enthusiasm by playing fetch, whipping the tennis ball across the yard.

Over the past few months Shoonga and Butch had become best buds. Shoonga was clearly the alpha dog, since the ranch was his turf. Butch followed Shoonga around, content to follow his lead-except when it came to fetch. Butch turned fiercely competitive whenever a bouncing ball appeared. He’d knock Shoonga’s doggie mug into the dirt every chance he could. It amused the heck outta me seeing the two dogs yipping and nipping at each other, hackles raised, teeth bared and fur flying whenever that yellow fuzz-covered ball bounced.

Kind of reminded me… of Shay and me.

I petted and praised the pups, poured extra food for them on the porch, and entered my empty house.

The kitchen sparkled thanks to Sophie’s efforts. She’d left a note on the table about laundry.

Although Sophie had been doing domestic chores for our family since my mother had died, she was more than a housekeeper. She’d helped raise Hope and me. She’d taken care of the household and my father. This house seemed as much her home as mine.

Dawson understood my reason for keeping Sophie on the payroll, but he refused to let her do his laundry. I understood where he was coming from. It’d taken me a couple of months after I’d returned from Iraq to hand over my dirty clothes to her.

I figured he’d cave in. He hadn’t. So it made no sense to me why Dawson was perfectly content to let Sophie cook for us. Probably because she kept him well supplied with his favorite cookies.

But according to the note, she had to leave early to take her daughter Penny to the doctor, so no tasty supper awaited me. If Dawson didn’t show up, I’d probably just eat yogurt.

I changed, rolled out my mat, and practiced yoga until sweat stuck my clothes to my skin.

As I stood under the tepid shower spray, I wondered how my life had become so mundane. I went to work. Came home and played with the dogs. Worked out. Showered. Ate supper. Watched TV, looking at the clock every ten minutes and wondering when Dawson would show up. Then I’d hit the hay.

I’d always been fairly solitary, but tonight it almost seemed… forced. By the time I’d dried off, combed out my wet hair, and slipped on a robe, I’d decided to partake of a little nightlife at Clementine’s. I wandered into the kitchen for a pregame beer when the dogs started barking. Dawson’s deep voice soothed them, and I could practically hear their tails thumping against the boards on the porch.

God, I knew the feeling. I was tempted to give a little yip of excitement myself.

The door opened. Dawson didn’t notice me at first, as he was too busy taking off his butt-ugly hat, hanging up his coat, and toeing off his boots. When he lifted his head and looked at me, my belly jumped like I was a teenage girl with a crush.

Dawson smiled. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself.” I took a sip of beer. “You done for the night? Or just stopping to get something to eat before you head back out?”

“I’m done.” His gaze started at my forehead and leisurely traveled the length of my body, down to my bare toes, and then back up.

By the time his eyes met mine, they held that look. The look I’d been missing for the last week.

Then he stalked me until my spine hit the counter. “Whatcha got on under that robe, Sergeant Major?”

“Just my skin, Sheriff.”

Dawson made a noise that resembled a growl before his mouth covered mine. I fell into him, fell into the kiss, blanking my mind to everything except the happy fact that he was here.

His hands cradled my face then slid down my neck to the gap in my robe. Then his hands were on my bare skin, cruising down my chest over my rib cage to circle my waist. The way the ragged pads of his fingertips stroked my breasts made me arch into him harder. Kiss him harder.

Then he dropped to his knees.

He chuckled against my lower belly at my moan of delight. Then his hard-skinned hands were on the inside of my thighs, pushing them apart so he could settle his mouth on the damp flesh within.

I held on to his head with one hand, the edge of the counter with the other, and gave myself over to his intimate kiss. He had me panting, begging, and quivering in record time-a feat that might’ve been embarrassing for me if I hadn’t already known this man took tremendous pride in turning me inside out as fast as possible.

As I regained my sanity, Mason treated me to sweet, lingering kisses everywhere on my body, letting his mouth roam. Once he was back on his feet, he murmured, “Jump up,” in my ear, as his hands clamped onto my butt.

Then I was on the counter, my robe was on the floor, and Dawson was unbuckling his belt. The moment his body powered into mine, my world became him: his taste, his scent, his heat.