Carol Ericson - Army Ranger Redemption

Okay, so he’d just be vague about it.

“Ouch. Sounds painful. I suppose it happened when you were...over there.”

“Uh-huh.” He gestured to the bartender. “Can you bring me some ketchup when you get a chance, please?”

She didn’t need a brick wall to fall on her to get the hint. Personal stuff—off-limits. “I sure hope the sheriff’s department can find out who this guy is and what happened to him—and if he had some kind of beef with his killer.”

“I’m sure they’ll be able to ID him soon, and most likely it wasn’t a random hit. You still need to upgrade the security on your place. Even if you believe you’re safe in Timberline, you might want to do a better job protecting your...art.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Did I detect a little sarcasm in your tone?”

“What? Not at all.” He rolled his water glass between his hands. “I like it.”

“The landscape art.”

“That, too, but the other stuff...” He shook his head. “Crazy intense.”

A warm glow settled in her belly. Usually she didn’t care what people thought about her art. She created her work from a personal, imaginative space inside her brain, and if she didn’t give expression to those thoughts, her head would explode. It had just been a side bonus that other people, including the art critics, had appreciated her abstract art and paid top dollar for it.

The fact that a man like Jim liked it, got it, made her feel like he got her, that he saw her.

She wanted to get him, too. She felt like she could if he’d let her.

“Veggie chili and Sutter’s burger.” The bartender dipped beneath the bar and gave them each a silverware setting wrapped in a cloth napkin.

Jim proceeded to drench everything in ketchup.

She pointed a spoon at his fries. “Have some fries with your ketchup.”

One corner of his mouth lifted, which was about the closest thing she’d seen to a smile from him.

“One of my many quirks.” He bit off the end of a French fry and asked, “Where do you live when you’re not spilling your guts on a canvas in Timberline?”

“San Francisco. I have a small place in the city that I share with another artist. When he’s gone, I’m usually there and when I’m here, he’s in the city.”

“Boyfriend?” He took a big bite of his burger.

“What? The artist?” She slipped a spoonful of chili in her mouth to hide her smile, happy that he’d been concerned enough to ask. “Marco is not my boyfriend.”

“I was gonna say, tough to have a relationship with someone you hardly see.”

“Tough to have a relationship with another artist. Marco and I had a thing once, but it was exhausting—and not in a good way.” She winked at him.

He raised one eyebrow and took another bite of his burger.

She zigzagged her spoon through the hot surface of her chili and watched the steam curl up. How had he gotten her to open up while he remained aloof and closemouthed?

“And you? Are you going to settle in Timberline or do you have a home somewhere else?”

“I don’t have a home, and I sure as hell don’t plan to stay in Timberline.”

“Are you here to sell your father’s place? I’m sure you know, ever since Evergreen Software moved in, housing prices have shot up.”

“I’ll probably sell it. Nothing but bad memories attached to the place.”

He offered nothing more. Where had he been since being discharged from the army? What was he doing in Timberline? And why did he have the same tattoo as a murder victim?

Jim dragged a napkin across his mouth and tapped her arm. “Incoming.”

She jerked her head to the side. “It’s Sheriff Musgrove. I guess he’s feeling better.”

“Is he new?”

“He’s new and lazy. More interested in fund-raising, but he’s been keeping a low profile lately, since he was good friends with Jordan Young.”

“Well, he’s making a beeline for us, so maybe he has some news from homicide.”

As the sheriff made a few stops on his way, Scarlett leaned close to Jim and whispered, “Does it look like everyone is reassured at what he’s telling them? Because I’m pretty sure they’re asking him about the murder.”

“Nobody’s screaming and fainting.”

Musgrove finally made it to them and positioned himself between their two bar stools. “Trouble just seems to follow you around, doesn’t it, Ms. Easton?”

“Me and you both.” Scarlett pushed away her bowl. “This is Jim Kennedy. He was with me last night when I stumbled across the body.”

The two men shook hands and Jim asked, “News about the murder?”

“Yeah, which is why I came over here when one of the deputies said he saw Ms. Easton at the bar. The fact that you’re here, too, is convenient, since I don’t have to go out to your place.”

“What’s the news?”

Musgrove smiled and waved at the bartender. “We identified the victim.”

Scarlett slid a glance at Jim. “Who is he?”

“Name’s Jeff Kelly, goes by the name of Rusty. He’s fifty-one years old and a member of the Lords of Chaos motorcycle gang.”

“Club.”

“Excuse me?” Musgrove cocked his head, his eyebrows colliding over his nose.

“They prefer to be called a club—the Lords of Chaos Motorcycle Club.”

“And how exactly do you know that, Kennedy?”

“Because I was a member—and I knew Rusty.”

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