Carol Ericson - Army Ranger Redemption

She jerked back and pushed to her feet. She must’ve sensed the vibe coming off him.

“Why’d you turn off the porch light?” He rolled to his back and peered up at her wide eyes. “I’d forgotten those damned potted plants were there.”

“Yeah, sorry. It’s a habit for me to turn off that light when I come inside for the night.” She took another step up, reaching for the door behind her. “You okay?”

“I’m all right.” He hoisted up to his feet and brushed the dirt from his jeans.

“Maybe one of the deputies can give you a ride home.”

She wasn’t offering? He didn’t blame her, the way he’d snapped at her. Wasn’t her fault he had a gimp leg.

“I think I can make it.” He stomped his boots on the ground. “No permanent damage, or at least no more permanent damage.”

“Okay, then. Good night.” She slipped into her cabin and slammed the door.

That spark he’d felt between them had just been extinguished. The fall made her realize he was damaged goods. A woman like that needed a strong man to match her, not some physically weakened, brain-addled vet.

He trudged through the trees toward the deputies canvassing the crime scene, giving them a wide berth to avoid being questioned tonight. He couldn’t handle it right now.

Seeing Rusty Kelly’s dead body had been a shock. What was Rusty doing back here? That type always rode in packs. Did that mean the rest of them were close on his heels? Was it a coincidence that Rusty had turned up dead a week after Jim had arrived in Timberline?

He edged around the squad cars and took the long way back to his cabin by following the road. When he got back to his place, he withdrew his Glock and checked out the perimeter of the cabin.

Unlike Scarlett’s place, this cabin had a wide clearing around it that extended all the way to the road. He believed in having an unobstructed view of whatever was coming at him.

But he hadn’t seen Scarlett Easton coming at him. He’d noticed the smoke from her chimney since he’d been back, but he’d figured it was Gracie Butler living in her folks’ place. He hadn’t been prepared for a dark-haired beauty to hit him like a thunderbolt.

Scarlett had been something of a mystery in high school—a rebel but not a bad girl, lost both of her folks in a car accident. She’d never partied much unless it was on the rez, and she’d traveled with a pack of very protective guys from her tribe. That bunch wouldn’t have let him within two feet of Scarlett, but then they’d judged him based on his old man. He didn’t blame them.

Satisfied there were no strangers or, worse, people he knew lurking around the cabin, he went inside. He locked the door behind him and faced the room, his breath coming in short spurts.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he massaged his bad leg. It didn’t hurt him anymore, but sometimes it ached in remembrance.

He dragged in a deep breath, but it didn’t do any good. Even with his eyes closed, he could feel the room spinning, the darkness closing in on him.

He managed to make it to the couch, dragging his left leg behind him. Collapsing to the cushions, he ripped off his jacket and dropped it to the floor. He sank, his head in his hands, his fingers digging into his scalp.

The heat. He couldn’t take the heat. He yanked off his shirt and the T-shirt beneath it. He bunched them both into a ball and pressed it against his face to mop the sweat pouring from his brow.

Falling to his side on the couch, he let out a low moan. Then the images began flashing behind his closed lids. He drove his fists against his eyeballs to make the pictures in his head go away...but they kept coming.

He needed his medication. How had he thought he could do without it, especially in this place?

He needed a drink. He needed to sleep. He needed a warm body.

He needed Scarlett Easton.

* * *

“HE WAS KILLED somewhere else?” Scarlett cupped her hands around her mug of tea and inhaled the fragrant steam as it rose to meet the cool morning air. “I suppose that’s...a relief.”

Deputy Collins, from the county’s homicide division, nodded. “We’re thinking maybe someone stabbed him in a car or even before, and then loaded him up and dumped him out on the side of the road. There were some blood spots on the asphalt. Then he dragged himself through the woods. Maybe he was heading toward your cabin to get help.”

She shivered. “He didn’t have a cell phone on him?”

“No, and he didn’t have a wallet.”

“You haven’t identified him yet?” She laced her fingers around her cup.

“Not yet. The coroner’s doing an autopsy this morning, and we’ll get his prints and DNA. Nobody’s reporting anything yet—no missing persons, no accidents, no barroom fights.”

She didn’t know why she wasn’t telling this nice deputy all about the tattoo the dead man shared with Jim Kennedy. Why hadn’t Jim said something? Maybe he hadn’t seen the man’s tattoo emblazoned on his neck. But why did he have the same one?

How could that possibly be a coincidence? It had an L and a C. It’s not like it was the tattoo of a hula girl. It meant something.

She kicked the toe of her boot against the planter on the corner of her porch, the same one Jim had tripped over in the dark.

What had happened to his leg?

The man was as full of secrets as the boy had been—and just as dangerous. She’d been as drawn to him last night as she’d been in high school, but this time she’d sensed an answering spark of interest.

She hadn’t been alone in her feverish daydreams about Jim Kennedy during high school. Lots of the girls at school—even the popular ones—had whispered and giggled about Jim, but none of them, including her, would’ve been allowed to go out with him. He was every parent’s nightmare—long hair, motorcycles and a bad, bad family.

It had just been Jim, his older brother and their father. They all rode motorcycles, and the older brother and Slick had been hard drinkers and hard partyers. She had no idea what had happened to his mother.

Deputy Collins glanced at his notepad. “A Mr. Kennedy was with you when you discovered the body?”

“That’s right. He lives in the next cabin up the road.”

“Thanks for your help, Ms. Easton. We’ll contact you if there’s anything else or if we think you might be in some kind of danger.”

“Danger?” Her pulse jumped. “You mean if the man’s death was some random murder and there’s a killer on the loose?”

“I don’t think that’s the case. He looked like a rough customer, probably ran with a rough crowd. Once we ID him, we might be able to put your mind at ease. You probably don’t have anything to worry about.”

Yeah, except for her attraction to Jim Kennedy, who had the same tattoo as the dead man. That worried her.

“Well, I’ll be here if you have any more information for me.”

He tipped his hat, and the copse of trees ringing her property swallowed him up as he made his way to his car.

Through narrowed eyes, she watched him get into his car, the last of the emergency vehicles that had been out here all night.

If this rough customer had died in the woods beyond her cabin as a result of a fight, she had nothing to fear. She hadn’t seen anything. She couldn’t point the finger at his killer, and she didn’t know the dead man.

But if someone was running around Timberline stabbing people and dumping them on her property, then she had plenty to fear.

She snorted and took a gulp of lukewarm tea. Why would someone want to do that? She knew nothing about anything—no more dream quests for her, no more psychic mumbo jumbo, as her cousin Jason called it.

Except that she did know something. She knew Jim Kennedy and the dead man shared the same tattoo, and Jim hadn’t said a word about it to anybody.