Martha Shields - The Lawman

He was standing on the side of a deserted highway in the middle of the night with a woman he wanted but couldn’t trust, even if he could get past her thick defenses.

“Suit yourself.” Leaving her to deal with her car, he went back to his truck and radioed in for a tow. Then he sat there, wrist propped over his steering wheel, as he watched her through the windshield.

The soft-sided briefcase she hefted over one shoulder looked heavy enough to knock her over, and he muttered an oath and shoved open the door and strode over to her.

“Don’t argue. There are some things you’re just going to have to put up with when it comes to me,” he said flatly as he slid the strap from her shoulder and took it. “What’s in here? Bricks?”

She pulled the second bag out of the car and slammed the door shut. “Books. For the reading group, remember? I told you I could manage it.”

The reading group story again. Right. Angel Ramirez hadn’t said squat about a reading group. “So you did. Am I complaining about it?”

“I—” She looked up at him, her expression guarded. “I’m sorry. I thought you were.”

“I wasn’t.” He headed toward his truck. When she stayed right where she was, he looked back at her. Standing beside her twenty-year-old car, clutching her enormous carpetbag of a purse to her with both hands, the faint night breeze barely enough to stir the hem of her floaty pink dress about her shapely knees.

She’d spent her entire Monday evening with a group of women living at a shelter. She still had a small plastic strip on her shin that he figured he recognized.

He let out a long breath. “Come on, Molly,” he said quietly. “Stop expecting the worst. Everything is going to be fine.”

Her fine eyebrows drew together. “With my car, you mean.”

“Yeah. Right.”

She hesitated a moment longer, then walked to his truck. She stowed her purse on the floor by her feet and carefully nudged aside the jacket of his suit as if she might catch something from it.

She didn’t speak until the lights of Rumor were visible through the windshield. “Thank you for stopping.”

“All part of being a public servant.”

She made a noncommittal sound that grated on his nerves. He took the exit down to Main Street. “Your car will be towed sometime tonight.”

“Oh, but—”

“I called it in already.”

Her lips started to tighten up.

“I know you’re perfectly capable of doing it yourself.”

She absorbed that, and slowly lost the tight-lipped expression. “As long as I didn’t spend the night sitting on the side of the highway, trying to decide the best course of action,” she finally admitted. “What were you doing out there, anyway? Surely you weren’t still on duty. Not after having been in Whitehorn all afternoon like you said. You haven’t even changed out of your suit. Your jacket is probably unforgivably wrinkled from lying on the seat in a heap the way it is.”

He was saved from coming up with an answer when he pulled up in front of her house. “Here you go. Will you need a ride to work in the morning? I could send around a car—”

“No!” She hurriedly gathered up her purse. “Of course I don’t need a ride. It’s just a few blocks around the park. A nice walk, in fact. I do wish the heat would let up, though. I keep telling myself that in a month, when the weather has really turned, I’ll be wishing for a little heat.”

She was speaking fast. Too fast. Making him wonder what had set her into this latest panic. He got out to carry in that enormous bag of books of hers. “Sure it’s a nice walk as long as you don’t have to cart this thing back to the library.”

Her expression lightened a little. If he wasn’t mistaken, she almost smiled. Which, of course, there in the middle of the godforsaken ninety-degree night made him determined to see just what that might look like. A real smile on Molly Brewster’s face when she looked at him.

Knowing he was probably one of the last people on earth to be able to succeed at that annoyed him no end.

She was fumbling a little with her keys. “Fortunately, the books are mine,” she assured as she finally pushed open the front door. “They get to stay here. Um, thank you, again, Deputy. For the ride, and all.”

Once again she stood squarely in the doorway. Not budging an inch, telling him absolutely that she was not going to invite him in. Not for coffee. Not for discussion about Harriet. Not for…anything.

“We never did get around to talking much about Harriet.”

“Well, it’s a little late tonight, and you warned me earlier today that you’d be by the library in the morning. Call me selfish, Deputy, but I’m thinking rather longingly of my bed.”

She wasn’t the only one. The thought darkened his mood even more.

He deliberately reached past her to dump the heavy briefcase just inside the front door. “D’ya ever let anyone in your house, Molly? Let down that guard of yours enough to let someone in?”

She went still. “Is that pertinent to your investigation?”

He pushed his hands into his pockets where they couldn’t do any damage to either of their peace of mind. “No.”

“Then it’s really none of your business.”

He’d expected no other answer. Didn’t have to mean he liked it, though. Or had to acknowledge the least bit of sting. “Be available to help me tomorrow. I want to go through Harriet’s office again. Her desk, her files. Everything.” He turned to go.

“Deputy, wait.” She caught his arm, her touch too light to have the impact it did. “You’ve, um, you have a tear in your shirt. It must have happened when the hood of my car hit you.” She slipped under his arm, and he felt her fingers probing his shoulder. “There’s blood, too. Why didn’t you say something?”

“I wasn’t thinking about my shoulder.”

“I think the tear is right there at the seam. It should be easy to fix. But you should soak it right away to get the stain out.”

He was too old to get turned on by a woman just from a fleeting, simple touch. Had his partner still been alive to witness the way Holt nearly scrambled off the porch away from the blonde, he’d have laughed himself into a coma.

As it was, Molly was staring at him with dismay. “I’m sorry. Is it painful?”

He felt like choking. “Excuse me?”

“Your shoulder. You jumped when I touched the spot where you were bleeding. I thought—”

“It’s fine.” He cleared his throat. “Fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Her lashes drifted down, then up again. “Well, it was my car that did it. The least I can do is fix your shirt.”

“Don’t sweat it, Molly. It’s just a shirt. I’ve got a closetful of them.”

“Of silk shirts?” Her eyebrows rose. “They must be paying cops better than I remember. Come on, Deputy. I’d rather fix your shirt than have to buy you a new one. I’m on a budget, remember?”

Her lips weren’t drawn up all tight and prudish now. She wasn’t avoiding looking at him. She looked a little ornery and a lot determined.

“How would you know anything about what a cop earns?”

“I…don’t. I just assumed.”

“You shouldn’t lie, Molly,” he told her flatly. “Your face gives you away every single time.”

Now, he could add stony to the list of expressions on her face. “I’m really quite weary already with your accusations, Deputy. Liar. Killer.”

“I know you didn’t kill Harriet.” He knew he sounded impatient, and he really didn’t want to scare this woman, when it was so obvious that she shrank into herself whenever he raised his voice the least little bit. But some things a man couldn’t help. His voice got a little louder when he was pissed, annoyed and aroused.