Carla Neggers - Night’s Landing

“Probably. There’s a hotel bar I like between here and the hospital. I can get a drink and take a breather, and you can get something to eat before you really do pass out. When’s the last time you ate?”

She thought a moment. “I had a candy bar at lunch.”

“No wonder you’re wobbly. Your blood sugar must be in the cellar.” He nodded toward the steps back up to Fifth Avenue. “Let’s go.”

“Deputy Winter-”

“You can call me Nate.”

“Okay.” She made herself smile. “It’s still hard for me to think of my brother as Deputy Dunnemore. When I think of marshals, I tend to think of Bat Masterson and Wyatt Earp.”

One corner of his mouth twitched, but he said nothing as he led her up to Fifth Avenue, then back along Central Park South to the Avenue of the Americas and a hotel with a sprawling ground-floor bar that looked out on the street. They sat at a small round table near a window. He ordered a beer, and she ordered a beer and a quesadilla, wondering if she’d have pegged him as a federal agent if she were just meeting him.

More likely as someone here to rob the place, she thought.

Maybe if he were in a suit.

“You okay?” he asked.

She checked her thoughts. “Yes, fine. Thank you.”

He settled back in his cushioned chair, his so-blue eyes narrowed. Although he gave off an air of nonchalance, nothing about him was relaxed. “I can see why your brother wants to get rid of you. You don’t belong here.”

“I was hoping you hadn’t overheard that.”

She scooped up a handful of peanuts and tiny pretzels from a small bowl their waitress had dropped off and noticed the strain in his face, the shadows under his eyes. He’d been out there yesterday. Getting shot, trying to save a colleague. He wouldn’t have known if the sniper meant to mow down everyone within his sights.

“Rob’s just scared and frustrated,” she went on. “It can’t be easy for him to lie in that hospital bed, hurting, unable to chase after whoever shot him.”

“He wouldn’t be able to chase after the shooter, regardless. It’s not his job.”

“Or yours?”

His gaze settled on her. “That’s right.”

The man had zero sense of humor, at least right now-or humor wasn’t something he used to defuse his own anxiety. Or anyone else’s. Like hers. “Rob and I are twins.”

“So I hear. Fraternal twins, obviously. He doesn’t wear sweater sets.”

There. A touch of humor. It threw Sarah, especially when he looked at her in her twinset the way he did. “We’re very close. I’m sure he’s just projecting his own feelings onto me. I think that’s what I just did in the park. I could imagine him out there yesterday-it was so real. On some subconscious level, Rob wants to be safe in Night’s Landing himself, so he wants me to be there.”

“He’s worried about you.”

“Projection. He’s dealing with his own fears by worrying that I could be the shooter’s next victim.”

“I’ve learned to pay attention to my instincts.”

“I’m not talking about instincts.” She decided she should just stop talking, trying to explain. Nate was a concrete thinker. Give him the facts, skip the bullshit, the loosey-goosey bond between fraternal twins, brother and sister. “I’m sure instincts are fine when they’re not clouded by medications, surgery and blood loss.”

Their beers arrived, and Nate took a sip of his, eyeing her. “There’s nothing else?”

She didn’t touch her beer. “What do you mean?”

“There’s no reason for Rob to be worried about you?”

“No, of course not. Is this a friendly drink or an interrogation?”

His smile caught her completely, totally off guard. “Neither.”

She felt the heat rush to her cheeks.

“I promised your brother we’d look after you,” he added.

“Oh.”

Their waiter brought her quesadilla. Nate nodded to her. “You should eat some of that before you belt down your drink.”

“What about you? Aren’t you on pain medication? I didn’t think it mixed with alcohol-”

“I’m on Tylenol.”

Sarah lifted a triangle of the hot quesadilla, realizing something about him made her feel so self-conscious. He’d seen her in weak moments twice in one day. It was a thing with her, she knew-she didn’t like men seeing her when she was vulnerable, thinking they had to take over her life because she was small and blond and book-smart. And impulsive, she thought. It was impulsiveness that had taken her to Central Park and put her in the position where she was having a beer and a quesadilla with this man.

She noticed that the sleeves of his flannel shirt were rolled up to his elbows. He had taut muscles in his forearms. She assumed he was armed but couldn’t see his weapon under his shirt. She’d never gotten used to the idea of her brother walking around armed. What was it he carried? A Glock, she thought.

She pulled herself from her thoughts. “Rob’s just freaked out by what happened,” she said. “Don’t try to read anything into his concerns.”

“Right, Deputy Dunnemore. I’ll remember that.”

There was a slight edge to his words. She swallowed her bite of quesadilla. “I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job.”

“Forget it. I’ve been in a bad mood all day.” He paused, the incisive gaze settling on her again. “Sorry if I’m making you feel uncomfortable.”

She licked her lips. “I have a feeling you make most people feel uncomfortable.”

He winked at her. “You look as if you can handle it.”

She took another triangle of quesadilla, the hot cheese oozing out onto the plate. She realized how hungry she was. “Aren’t you hungry? You’re welcome to a piece-”

“Beer’s fine. You’re an archaeologist?”

“Historical archaeologist.” She was aware of him watching her and wondered if he could see the strain of the past two days on her. Did she look drawn and tense? But she hadn’t been shot, she reminded herself. She’d had bad news. There was a difference. But, once more, she forced herself not to let her thoughts drift too far astray, not to let Nate Winter have that kind of an effect on her. “It means I deal in the historical period-people and societies that left behind some sort of historical evidence. Letters, diaries, books and so on. Historical archaeology is an interdisciplinary field. It incorporates archaeology, anthropology, history, folklore-the idea is to try to piece together what everyday life was like in the past.”

He took a drink of his beer, in a tall, slender glass. “You don’t dig up bones?”

“I can. I’m more likely to dig up a family dump-what we’d call the material remains of a site. We put them together with any written record and oral history.” She smiled, aware of her southern accent amid her fast-paced urban surroundings. “It’s rather like quilting. There are all these pieces that make up a fascinating whole.”

“You could go on forever, couldn’t you?”

“I almost have, haven’t I?”

“No. I’m not bored.” He held up his glass. “Helps to have a beer. I understand you’ve spent most of your career working on President Poe’s childhood home.”

That brought her up short. “Rob told you?”

He shook his head. “Juliet. She checked you out.”

Taken aback, Sarah abandoned her quesadilla. What she’d thought was a casual, friendly conversation about what she did for a living was obviously something else entirely. She wondered if Nate Winter allowed himself casual, friendly conversations or if he was all work, all the time.

Then again, they were just a few blocks from where he’d been shot a little more than twenty-four hours ago. Under the circumstances, she could cut him some slack.