Нора Робертс - Hideaway

He walked over, got another pitchfork. “I’ve got this. Go hover. I’ll be along to take my shift there by lunchtime.”

“Gram’s got him for now. She’s more pissed than he is, if that’s possible. You and I know there’s no fighting Gram when she’s on a tear.”

“He hasn’t got a chance.”

“Not in heaven or hell. So we’ll get this done, then do a team hover.”

Cate slept late—hello, Saturday—decided she’d go up to the main house. She’d talk her grandfather into a walk. Around the gardens, maybe down to the beach. She’d give him a break from the gym, but still have him moving.

They’d have some lunch before she came back, got some dough rising, looked over her next script. That would leave her plenty of time to fuss with herself, make the pasta—and maybe do the whole scene. Light candles, pick out some music, set a pretty table.

Maybe she’d been half-asleep when she’d asked him to dinner, but that was fine. They needed to talk, of course. And after the talk, after the meal, she wanted him back in her bed.

How nice to remember she liked sex, had some talent for it. And how being intimate with a man she cared about gave her all this positivity and energy.

She pulled on black leggings, a white tee that skimmed her hips, and old sneakers she wouldn’t mind getting wet and sandy during that walk on the beach.

She grabbed her phone because Darlie had sent a little video of her baby—and Cate’s unofficial godchild—Luke giggling when he knocked over a tower of blocks. Maybe she and Grandpa would make Luke a little vid. He was a year old now, and Cate wanted him to know her.

She thought of her friend as she walked up the path. And of the friends Dillon had held close most of his life. It took effort, she admitted, to hold friends close. Maybe she could convince Darlie to bring the baby for a weekend. Dawson, too, of course. Husbands couldn’t be excluded.

But more, she wanted to see Darlie and the baby, show them the family home, show them the ranch. Introduce them to Dillon.

The more she thought of it, the more she wanted it. She started to text Darlie, just to put it out there. Then saw Michaela Wilson getting out of the sheriff’s cruiser.

“Sheriff Wilson.” Waving, Cate quickened her pace. “I don’t know if you remember me.”

“Sure I do. It’s good to see you again, Ms. Sullivan.”

“Come on. I’m Cate.” Cate accepted the outstretched hand. “Absolutely Cate.”

“And it’s Michaela.”

“Did you come to see Grandpa? I’ll walk you in.”

“Actually, I hoped to talk to both of you.”

“Great.”

She led the way in and over to the main parlor. “Have a seat. I’ll go find out where he is. Would you like coffee?”

“If it isn’t too much trouble.”

“You’ll give him an excuse to have some. I’ll be right back.”

Michaela didn’t sit, but took the time to wander the space. She’d visited the house more than a few times over the years, at Hugh’s or Lily’s invitation. And often brought the boys swimming, again at invitation.

But she never failed to marvel at the place. The way it perched on the hill in its tiers and layers, the way it managed to exude a feeling of home and warmth even with what she considered the elegance.

When Cate hurried back in, Michaela thought much the same of her. A lot of warmth, and despite the casual clothes, innate elegance.

“Coffee’s coming, and so’s Grandpa.” She nodded toward the window. “Never fails, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t. It must feel good to be back, to be home, to see the ocean every day.”

“Yes, to all of that. I honestly didn’t know how much I missed it until I got back. Does it feel good to be sheriff?”

“Big shoes to fill. I’m doing my best.”

“From what Red says, you fill them just fine.” Cate gestured to a chair, but didn’t miss the slight, the subtle change in Michaela’s face. “Is something—”

She broke off when Hugh came in. Good stride, no favoring of the leg. And welcome all over his face.

“What a nice surprise! How are those boys of yours?”

“They’re great, thanks. Their dad’s in charge today. Little League game. I’m sorry to intrude on your weekend.”

“Don’t be silly.” Waving that off, Hugh sat. “You’re always welcome, and you know I expect to see those boys in the pool once it warms up a bit more.”

“They’ll love it. But this isn’t really a social call.”

She let that hang when Consuela brought in the coffee, along with a plate of bite-size pieces of coffee cake. “Good morning, Sheriff. Mr. Hugh, only one cake for you.”

“They’re small.”

“Only one.”

“I’ve got this, Consuela.” Cate rose to pour the coffee. “And him.”

“They unite against me.” He waited until Consuela left the room. “Is this official business?”

“Yes. There was an incident last night. Red was injured. He’s fine. He’s at Horizon Ranch.” She took the coffee from Cate. “Two men in a car stolen outside of San Francisco pursued him on Highway 1, northbound, after he left the ranch to go to his place. They opened fire on him.”

“They—” The cup and saucer rattled together as Cate offered them to Hugh. “Shot at him?”

“With an AR-15. His truck’s riddled. He sustained a minor wound to his left arm.”

“He’s been shot!” Hugh gripped the arms of his chair, started to push up.

“It’s a minor injury. Hugh.” Michaela’s tone switched from objective cop to friend. “I can reassure you on that because I was there when he was examined, when the wound was treated.”

“He could’ve been—”

“Could’ve been,” Michaela agreed. “But he wasn’t. We’re still reconstructing, but from what we have, Red was able to outmaneuver them, and as they were unable to control the stolen car at such a high rate of speed, they jumped the guardrail, went over the cliff.”

“We saw—last night Dillon and I were driving back from the Roadhouse. We saw the barricades. We thought there’d been an accident. He’s all right, you said. He’s really all right?”

“Minor injury, lower right shoulder, upper right biceps, treated on-site. The other two weren’t so lucky. The first was DOS—dead on scene. The second died this morning in the hospital without regaining consciousness.”

“There’s a reason you’re telling us,” Hugh commented.

“We were able to identify the second man—the shooter—who died this morning. Jarquin Abdul. Is that name familiar to either of you?”

“No,” Hugh said as Cate shook her head.

Michaela took out her phone, brought a mug shot on-screen. “This is Abdul. The photo’s about three years old. Do you recognize him?”

Cate took the phone, studied the photo of an angry-eyed man of color with a shaved head and a thick goatee. With another shake of her head, she passed the phone to Hugh.

“I’ve never seen him before, or not that I remember. Should we?”

“He’s out of L.A., has done some time. Gang related. He’s been out about a year now.” She took the phone back, put it away. “It’ll take some time to identify the other man through dental records and DNA.”

“That’s not the answer,” Cate murmured.

“I’m looking at some angles. There have been two murders and this attempted since November. Frank Denby was killed in prison. Charles Scarpetti was killed in his home in L.A. Now Red.”

“They’re all connected to me. To the kidnapping,” Cate corrected. She had to set her coffee down, grip her hands together to keep them still and calm.

“Almost two decades ago,” Hugh pointed out. “Are you saying they were killed by these two men who tried to kill Red?”