Janice Johnson - A Message for Abby

Abby Patton had struck him as a supremely poised woman. She’d been a firefighter; now she’d added the training to make her a cop. He wondered when was the last time she’d felt any emotion approaching fear.

He kept his gruff voice low and soothing. “I’ll be talking to the teenagers who discovered the fire. I’ll go door-to-door at the houses on the outskirts. See if anybody noticed the pickup passing. I’d like to know how the perp got back to town.”

“Motorcycle?” she suggested. “He could have carried it in the bed of the truck.”

Okay, so she was sharp. Ben didn’t know why that surprised him, even faintly. Yeah, she was a leggy blond beauty with sky-blue eyes, Hollywood’s stereotype of a bimbo, but so was her sister. And he’d long ago learned that Meg Patton was smart and tough, a cop first and a woman second. Hell, their sister Renee, just as pretty and blond, was about to be sworn in as the new Elk Springs police chief.

“Motorcycle’s my guess, too,” Ben said. “Usually loners are the ones who do something so...” Not wanting to alarm her, he hesitated.

“Warped?”

He cleared his throat. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I would,” she said, blunt enough to satisfy him, before she added dismissively, “Thanks, Shea. Let me know if you learn anything further.”

“Wait.” Okay, where had that little spurt of panic come from? So what if she hung up—he could call her back. He knew where to find her.

“You have something else?” she asked, her surprise edged with curiosity.

This should be easy. He’d thought about it all day. She was a foxy woman; he knew from Meg that Abby wasn’t dating anybody seriously.

So why did he put his feet on the floor and sit up straight as if for inspection before he could spit out his question?

“Any chance you’d like to have dinner?”

“Dinner?”

She didn’t have to sound as if he’d suggested bungee jumping naked, thought Ben, stung.

Nonetheless he said doggedly, “Yeah. We could maybe talk this over. Uh... Get to know each other.”smooth. Real smooth.

“As in a date.”

Goddamn it. There she went again, making him feel small.

“That such an outlandish idea?” he asked, his voice edgy.

He could feel her thinking in the moment of silence that followed.

“No,” she said finally. “I don’t usually date cops, is all.”

“There some reason?”

“We’re just...too much alike. We have too much on our minds. I like to have fun. Lighten up. You know?”

“I can have fun,” he said defensively, knowing it was a lie. Yeah, okay; sure he enjoyed himself sometimes. But fun? The way she meant? Probably not. He didn’t drink, hated loud music and detested parties. “We don’t have to talk about work,” he added.

“Dinner.” She sounded cautious. Wheels were turning in her head; he could damn near hear the clatter.

“How about tonight?” Ben asked.

“I’m going to Renee’s tonight. We’re having a war council. So to speak.” She paused. “If you want to come...”

What did this mean? She went from telling him he might not be fun enough to taking him home to meet her family?

“I don’t want to intrude...”

“No, you might have something useful to offer. Daniel’s the one who wants to talk this out.” She sounded mildly impatient. “He’d be glad to have you.”

“What about you?” Ben asked. “Would you be glad to have me?”

“To dinner?” She paused just long enough to be sure he got the point—no innuendos allowed. “Why not?”

He knew where the Triple B was. She suggested they meet there, which he accepted without argument. Most women liked to drive themselves on first dates. She wouldn’t be stuck with fending him off on the doorstep if she came to the conclusion that this had been a mistake.

Hanging up the phone, Ben wasn’t sure how to feel about this evening. Hell, he didn’t know whether it was a working dinner or a date.

He did know he wasn’t used to being rejected. I don’t usually date cops, she’d said, as if he’d crawled out from under a rock.

He wouldn’t take it personally, Ben decided. Maybe she got hit on all the time down at the station. Given her looks, she probably did.

Funny, when he thought about it, because it wasn’t her glorious legs or lush mouth or tangle of honey-blond hair that had gotten to him—although he’d noticed them, he couldn’t deny it. But he didn’t ask out every beautiful woman he met, either. And normally her princess act would have turned him off. A man couldn’t warm his hands on a chilly woman.

But he’d seen something in Abby Patton’s eyes. Something defensive, even scared. Her defiance was a cover-up, he thought, for a woman who didn’t want to admit she was lonely.

And if he was wrong—well, maybe he, too, would be glad they were going their separate ways tonight.

TIRES CRUNCHING on the red cinder lane, Ben drove past the turnoff to the handsome new home that crowned the ridge above the Triple B barns and the pastures, improbably green from irrigation in the midst of brown, high mountain desert country at midsummer. Fences enclosing pastures, paddocks and two outdoor arenas sparkled with fresh white paint. The place was prosperous, the horses and cattle he could see at a distance glossy.

Someone was working a cutting horse in the nearer arena. More like going along for the ride. The horse seemed to be doing the thinking. He was separating one steer from a clump of six or eight, anticipating the poor dumb cow’s every dodge, moving so surely, so quickly and fluidly, it was pure poetry.

Ben had never been out here, but he’d heard stories about the ranch: the senile old man—Daniel’s grandfather—wandering out into the wintry night, his body never found; Daniel’s father dying when he got thrown into a fence post; and finally the human skull brought home by a dog.

Now this.

On the way to the Patton family war council, Ben had decided on a minor detour. He wanted to see for himself how hard it would have been for a thief to slip into Shirley Barnard’s garage to steal the license plates from her car.

The guy sure as hell couldn’t have driven right by in broad daylight. Before Ben reached the first barn, two men stepped out, looking toward him.

He pulled to a stop, set the brake and turned off the engine. Between barns, he saw a young cowboy walking a horse with sweat-soaked flanks. In the aisle of the barn, another horse—this one a fiery red—was cross-tied and being shod, from the sound of metal ringing out.

Ben got out of his car and nodded at the two men waiting. “Good day.”

“Can we help you?” one asked.

“I’m with the sheriff’s department. Detective Ben Shea.” Ben showed his badge. “And you are?”

“Lee LaRoche.” The taller and older of the two tipped back his Stetson. “I’m a trainer.”

“Jim Cronin.” The younger guy couldn’t be much over twenty-five. Stocky and strong, he wore the ranch uniform: dusty denim, worn cowboy boots, white T-shirt and buff-brown Stetson. “I just work here.”

Ben nodded. “You two fellows know about the break-in at Mrs. Barnard’s?”

“You mean, her garage?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hell of a thing.” The trainer shook his head. “Shirley wouldn’t hurt a fly. Why would someone go picking on her like that?”

“Maybe just to show he could.” Ben watched the two carefully; saw nothing but perplexity and mild curiosity about why a Butte County detective was out here questioning them about such a minor crime. “I just thought I’d find out whether someone could go right on down there without being noticed.”

“Not in a car.” LaRoche sounded sure. “We don’t get much traffic out here. Someone’s coming right now.” He nodded past Ben toward the main road leading from Butte Road and the Triple B gates onto the ranch.