Ingrid Weaver - The Angel And The Outlaw

“That depends.”

His touch was oddly gentle for a man who looked so…hard. She decided not to struggle. Considering his size, it would be pointless. As it turned out, it was unnecessary—the moment she firmed her grip on the mug, he released her hand. “What does it depend on?” she asked.

“On whether you plan to try shooting Oliver Sproule again.”

“I realize how it must have appeared but—”

“Don’t lie to me, Hayley. I was there.”

He was right. There was no point denying the truth. This man had seen her when her soul was naked.

And he’d said her name, she realized. She wasn’t carrying any ID. She hadn’t carried anything but the loaded rifle when she’d walked to the Sproule estate. She hadn’t thought past pulling the trigger. “How do you know who I am?”

“It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who might want to shoot Sproule. Adam Tavistock had a little sister named Hayley. I read in the paper that she made statements all through the trial about how her brother was murdered and Oliver Sproule should burn in hell. That would be you, right?”

There was no point denying this, either. “Yes, that would be me.”

“Better forget the Winchester and stick to talking the man to death.”

She inhaled the aroma from the coffee. It was strong enough to make her eyes water. Or at least, that was one way to excuse the spurt of tears. “Oliver Sproule is a criminal. He’s guilty of murder. He deserves to be punished.”

“He was charged with manslaughter and acquitted.”

“The verdict was wrong. He should have been charged with murder. The whole trial was a farce.”

“What else did you expect? Sproule owns this town. The only reason he got charged with anything in the first place was because your brother was a cop. That couldn’t be covered up, so they went through the motions of a trial.”

Hayley blinked. For months it had been only herself and her father. No one else had supported her. Not the police who had been Adam’s colleagues and his friends, not the D.A., not even the private detective she’d hired. Oliver Sproule, backed by his wealth and his criminal associates, was just too powerful. To hear this stranger express so easily what she’d fought to prove made her throat close with a lump of emotion.

She’d felt alone for so long. Could she have found an ally?

“Hey, steady there.” He took the mug from her hands and set it on the edge of the desk. “You’re not going to start crying again, are you?”

She wiped her eyes with her knuckles. Flakes of dried mud fell to her lap. “It wasn’t an accident.”

“What?”

“Adam’s death. It was a clear night and a well-lit street. Oliver Sproule waited outside that nightclub downtown for Adam to walk to his car and then ran him down in cold blood.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s a given. But if you keep gunning for Sproule, you’re liable to meet an accident of your own.”

Where was her caution? She was alone with a strange man. Shouldn’t she be afraid? Hayley glanced at the door. “Was that supposed to be a threat?”

With a nudge of his heel, the man rolled his chair to the left, placing himself between her and the room’s only exit. She would have to climb over him if she wanted to get out. “Relax, Hayley.” There was a hint of impatience in his voice. “You were passed out for three hours after I put you on that couch. If I’d wanted to hurt you, I would have already done it.”

That was true. He’d had plenty of opportunity to do her harm. For starters, he could have left her in the garden to be mauled by the dogs or caught by the guards. Or he could have taken her to the police. That would have been the ultimate injustice, to be thrown in jail while Oliver Sproule walked free. Instead, he’d brought her out of the rain and covered her with a blanket. He’d let her sleep. For three precious hours. Why?

She returned her gaze to his face. His change of position had put him directly in the cone of light from the lamp on the desk. For the first time she had a clear view of his eyes. They were ice-blue and framed by spiky lashes as black as his hair and the stubble on his chin. His gaze was compelling in the way of something deadly, like the bird of prey that rode his arm.

Awareness tingled down her spine. The way he moved, his voice, his gaze, everything about him was stirring a response in her. Was it recognition? Had she seen eyes like that before? “You know who I am and why I was at the Sproule place,” she said. “But you haven’t said why you were there.”

His gaze didn’t waver. And it gave nothing away. “That’s my business.”

“Do you work for them?”

“If I did, you wouldn’t be sitting here. You would already have had one of those handy accidents like the one that killed your brother.”

His tone was still mild. Hayley realized that he spoke about evil and the threat of death with the same casualness he displayed when he poured coffee. She wondered once more why she wasn’t afraid. “Who are you, anyway?”

“I told you, I’m a bartender.”

She made a sharp gesture. “What’s your name?”

“Cooper Webb.” He continued to watch her. “Mean anything to you?”

Was it a trick of exhaustion, or did that name spark something in her memory, something connected with those startling blue eyes of his? “Should it?”

He lifted one shoulder. He didn’t reply.

“Why did you bring me here, Mr. Webb? You didn’t really answer my question before.”

“Sure I did. I said we have to get some things straight.”

“All right. What?”

“I can’t let you run around Latchford like some avenging angel. Forget Sproule. He’s out of your league. You’ll never get him.”

“I won’t give up. Not about this. I’m going to bring him to justice.”

“How? With a bullet?”

Pride made her want to argue. Shame kept her silent. Lord knew, she’d been raised to tell right from wrong.

“The verdict pushed you to your limit, Hayley, and you snapped. I could see that. But you still couldn’t pull that trigger. You admitted it yourself when you threw down your gun. You don’t have it in you to kill anyone.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Maybe not, but I do know the kind of people who would pull that trigger, and you’re not one of them. You won’t get justice by getting yourself killed.”

“While I appreciate your concern and the way you rescued me earlier, I won’t—”

“My concern? Rescue?” His mouth quirked in another one of his half smiles. “You’ve got the wrong idea. I’m no do-gooder. I only made sure you got out of there in one piece because I didn’t want you screwing up my plans.”

“What plans?”

His smile faded. “Here’s the deal. I’m going to keep your gun, but I won’t turn you in to the cops or to Sproule as long as you give me your word you’ll stay away from him. Let it go. Will you agree to that?”

Hayley hesitated. It would be easy to lie. How would he know?

He regarded her carefully. “You should never play poker, Hayley, because what you’re thinking is all over your face. If you lie, I would find out. Trust me, I’m not someone you want to cross.”

There was definitely a threat in his words that time. She lifted her chin. “Fine. I won’t lie. You’re right. I can’t kill Oliver. I realize that now. So I can promise I won’t try to shoot him again.”

“Okay.”

“But I can’t promise I’ll keep away.”

“Hayley—”

“One way or another, I’m going to find enough evidence to reopen the case. I’ll do whatever it takes to see him in prison for my brother’s murder.”

“Then back off and let me do the job.”

“What?”