Rachelle McCalla - Out on a Limb

“Crazy,” Elise murmured. “You’d think they’d at least cover the label.”

“Nah,” Cutch disagreed. “There’s nothing illegal about having or using anhydrous ammonia. But the law requires the tanks to be correctly labeled as an inhalation hazard. If they were to transport that tank without it being labeled, it would only raise suspicions.”

“And having anhydrous in a pecan grove wouldn’t raise suspicions?”

“Not unless it’s seen. I’m the only person who’s ever out there, and that’s rare enough.”

“How did they even get it out there? It’s thick trees all through there.”

“There’s an old road that runs through the middle of the section, but they’re still a good stretch off that. The pecan trees are evenly spaced with plenty of room between them for a vehicle to pass. There’s quite a bit of undergrowth in most places, but that doesn’t mean they wouldn’t be able to get in between it.”

“Not without leaving a trail,” Elise noted.

“Hopefully not,” Cutch agreed. “I haven’t been through that stretch since spring, so whatever marks we find are evidence as far as I’m concerned. We’ll have to keep that in mind when we get out there.”

“We?” Elise turned the swiveling office chair to face him. “You’re planning to go out there with me?”

He glared down at her, already at a height advantage with his tall, lanky frame, the difference between them that much greater since he stood while she sat. “Yes, Elise. I’m going out there with you. I know the land. You don’t. And you’re going to need my help if you expect to get your glider out of the trees without damaging it any more than it already is.”

Elise turned her chair back around—not because she needed to look at the computer screen again but because she needed to look away from Cutch. His good looks were distracting. “I’ll call Sheriff Bromley. If he can’t come out himself, I’m sure he’ll send somebody. After all, we found the crime scene. The last thing we should do is tamper with it.”

“Elise.” The pleading way Cutch said her name twisted her heart.

She spun back around, angry that he could have so much power over her just by saying her name. “What?” she asked, scooting the chair back and standing. It wasn’t fair that he should have such a height advantage, either. She leveled a glare at him. “Why don’t you want the sheriff to investigate?”

“Because it’s my land.” His blue eyes looked stormy as he pinched his lips shut.

“So? I thought you were mad these guys were trespassing. I thought you wanted them caught. How is that going to happen if we don’t get the authorities out there?”

Cutch ran his hands over his tired-looking face and back up through his hair, leaving the thick black waves shooting upward at odd angles. For a moment, Elise felt distracted by the attraction she felt toward him. Was it possible he was even better looking today than he’d been eight years before?

Stepping a little past her, Cutch leaned one leg against the computer desk and half sat on its sturdy steel surface. Now she had the height advantage.

“I’d like to believe,” he began slowly, “the authorities will be able to catch whoever is behind this. But unless they can find evidence pointing to someone else, I’m going to be their main suspect.”

“But you have no criminal record,” she began, about to list off the many reasons why they’d never be able to pin the blame on him.

The look on his face gave her pause. He looked hurt. He looked guilty.

Elise gasped as she recalled a vicious rumor that had circulated in the years after their romance had ended. She’d refused to listen to the gossip, and most of her friends knew better than to talk about Cutch anywhere around her, but she knew enough to remember the main theme. Cutch and drugs. Meth?

“Do you?” she asked softly.

He lifted his eyes to meet hers. Something in their blue depths begged for understanding. “I was a person of interest under investigation, but I was never arrested because they never found anything. There was nothing to find. I didn’t do anything.”

Elise took a step back and let out a slow breath. She knew better than to trust a McCutcheon. How many hundreds of times had she heard her father say, “There’s nothin’, no nothin’ worse than a McCutcheon”? The rhythmic slant rhyme mimicked the old “a stitch in time saves nine” and “early to bed, early to rise makes a man healthy wealthy and wise,” giving the phrase the same ageless voice of authority as those well-accepted aphorisms. She knew better than to trust Cutch. She’d learned that lesson the hard way herself when he’d betrayed and humiliated her eight years before. But as she looked down at him perched there on the edge of the desk, took in the defeated slump of his broad shoulders under his worn T-shirt and watched his calloused hands sweep back through his hair again—sending it spiking up in an adorable mess—she felt her heart give a little groan. She wanted to believe him. She really did.

Cutch shook his head regretfully. “What am I doing? I’m not going to try to stop you from calling the sheriff. This is your safety we’re talking about. I trust Sheriff Bromley to find the real offenders. Really, I do. Go ahead and call him.”

Unsure what to do, Elise obediently pulled out her phone, wishing she had more time to decide, to pray about what was the right thing to do. She flipped her phone open.

As her fingers poised above the number pad, Cutch’s stomach gave a loud grumble. Elise looked at him with a wry smile. “Are you hungry?”

“Sorry about that,” he quickly apologized, patting his toned midsection. “I had breakfast at five this morning, and now it’s—”

“Well past noon,” Elise said before him, already on her way to the fridge in the kitchenette corner of the office, wondering if she’d be crazy to offer him lunch. But she was hungry and needed to think, and she couldn’t think on an empty stomach. Nor would she be so rude as to eat in front of a hungry man, even if he was a McCutcheon. She pulled out a foil-covered pan, glad to have an excuse not to have to make the call just yet. “Do you like lasagna?”

He grinned. “Of course I do. But you’re not thinking of sharing your lunch with me, are you?”

Standing at the counter with her back to him, Elise pulled back the foil to reveal a huge pan of cold lasagna with only a couple of pieces missing. “Why not? The recipe always makes too much, and I get bored of the leftovers after about the fourth or fifth meal. This will help me use it up faster. Besides, we can’t catch the bad guys on empty stomachs.”

“I can’t argue with that,” he said amiably. Sincerity filled his voice. “Thank you, Elise. You really don’t have to—”

She turned around, headed for the cupboard where they kept plates, not realizing he’d walked up behind her and was looking almost over her shoulder at the food. She was startled to see him so close to her. His hands steadied her arms.

“Oh!” she gasped, instantly aware of his closeness and the tension she’d felt between them all morning. She felt her heart rate revving up like an engine ready for takeoff. “I, uh—”

“Sorry about that,” he apologized, but didn’t let go of her.

“Plates,” she said, not taking her eyes off his face. The once-so-familiar jawline angled toward her, his lips curved in an almost-amused expression, while his brow knit with a hint of concern.

“Plates,” he repeated.

“In the cupboard,” she whispered, her voice regrettably breathless as she gestured with a nod of her head toward where the plates were stashed.

Cutch dropped her arms. “What can I do to help?”