Friendly Fire (2 page)

He started toward a glassed-in office with two windows and tired, off-white walls covered in photos—some of retired sheriffs and one of the town sixty years earlier, in black and white. The desk was old oak, solid and clunky. The chair squeaked when he sat, but everything was neat and tidy, with nothing on the desk but an old, rotary dial, phone. Logan opened the drawers to see pens, paper, and crime reports all neatly organized.

He glanced up, and Rose was standing in front of the desk, frowning, while waiting for him to finish his perusal. “Rose, tell me about the guy who called in to report the trouble,” he said.

One thing he had learned the hard way was to have all the facts before he walked into anything. Not knowing the first thing about anyone here—the ranchers, the townsfolk, the hooligans—was the same as walking blind into a firefight, which he had no intention of doing.

“Well, Sheriff, that trouble is about as rowdy as it gets here, most days. Will is an old-timer, in his late seventies, owns a ranch just south of town, two hundred acres. There’s nothing around the old barn at the east end of the property, where he stores hay, so it’s the perfect spot for kids to sneak in to. They do now and then; and this time they left a mess: beer bottles, cigarette butts, some junk food wrappers. Kids, you know. The door was chained—Will started doing that—but this time they shimmied in through the loft. Oh, and, Sheriff—there’s a curfew here, just so you know.”

That had Logan’s attention. He leaned back in the stiff wooden chair, and the hinge squeaked as he stretched out his aching leg. Rose wasn’t scared of him one bit. She was a woman he liked, a woman he could respect. “Curfew? Please explain that,” he said.

“Well, kids, under eighteen, who wander around all night—must be looking for trouble. On school nights, they have to be in at eleven, and midnight on weekends—no exceptions. We’re a small town, and the kids need direction, a strong hand. The curfew was implemented years ago by the town council, and it works.”

“If it works so well, what was this little party all about?” Logan asked.

Rose wasn’t deterred at all by his comment. “They’re kids, Sheriff. They always find a way to blow off some steam.”

He grunted as he stood up. “So who all works here?” he asked, taking in the report, the address and details noted in Rose’s neat hand.

“Clinton works days, and then you have Jordy, who’s been covering most nights and weekends. He’s not expected in until later,” she said. Her tone had Logan wondering what kind of politics went on in the office. She didn’t have to say any more for him to notice that she appeared instantly irritated. “Anything else I can do for you, Sheriff?”

“No. I guess I’ll be taking Clinton out with me. We’ll take my Jeep,” he added as he strode into the bullpen, the creak of the floor echoing with each step. “Come on, Clinton. Let’s go pay a visit to Will.”

“Sheriff, there’s a car for you, and it has a radio in it,” Rose said.

Logan paused. “No, my Jeep’s good. I like to know what I’m driving.”

“There’s no radio in your Jeep,” she insisted. “How am I supposed to call you and get a hold of you?”

He paused with his hand on the door. “Call my cell phone,” he said before rattling off the number. He took in the old western feel of the office as he shouted over his shoulder, “Move it, Clinton!”

“Yes, sir,” Clinton said. Rose scribbled down the number as he lifted his jacket off the hook and hurried to catch up. Logan couldn’t shake the sense that his deputy was wet behind the ears; a rookie with more ego than common sense—not a good combination at all.

Chapter 3

I
t had been interesting, to say the least, being on this side of the law and listening to the petty squabbles of some old-timer. There were half a dozen empty beer cans in the barn, along with empty bags of chips and scattered cigarette butts. It was a dangerous stunt for the kids to have pulled; considering the barn was filled with hay. If it had gone up, there wouldn’t have been anything to stop it. The only thing the volunteer fire department could have done was stand back and let it burn. Of course, the entire thirty minutes Logan had been at the scene, Will had addressed Clinton. Adding, half a dozen times—that Sheriff Wilcox, now retired, would have known exactly who had been in the barn and would have taken care of it. In fact, he would have had those kids back there, cleaning up the mess.

Logan had said nothing other than warning Will to get a better lock. On the way back to town, Clinton had filled him in on the teens in the area; telling him which ones were problem kids and running through a list of some of the local families.

“Johnny Rhodes is the town bad boy,” Clinton said. “His dad is Stan Rhodes, who has a cattle ranch next to Will’s spread. Several kids follow him: Kim Hendricks, Connie Brattman, and a few others.”

“So you’re saying Johnny is responsible?” Logan said. He was beginning to seriously wonder what the point was in pursuing this. The kids were just blowing off steam. It seemed like a waste of time to track them down and figure out who had been there, let alone to get one of them to talk to him. He tapped his steering wheel, wondering if this was the extent of crime around here aside from speeding tickets and noise complaints. This was possibly the sleepiest town in the west.

“Not much goes on around here without Sheriff Wilcox knowing,” Clinton added, wearing his shades in the passenger seat, stirring Logan from his thoughts.

It was obvious that everyone would’ve preferred to have the old sheriff back, along with all his old ways. Logan couldn’t help being irritated. There was one thing he wasn’t about to do, and that was kiss anyone’s ass. “Let’s stop in town, grab some lunch, then call Stan Rhodes and his son, get them to come in and pay us a visit,” Logan said, wondering if this was what a typical day would be like here. “So tell me about your family, Clinton. How long you been married?”

Clinton seemed to perk up, sliding around in his seat. “Three years, coming up. Jenny and I went to high school together.”

“High-school sweethearts, huh?” Logan said, counting back. Clinton must have been just a kid when he got married.

“Well, actually, no. She didn’t know I existed until the quarterback she was dating broke her heart. I just happened to be there. I was eighteen then, just graduated. I sucked up the nerve to ask her out for coffee. She was so damn pretty, so sweet. I couldn’t believe it when she said yes.”

Logan looked over to see that Clinton wore a goofy grin, all white teeth flashing. He looked just like the boys in his unit who had been shipped overseas; those who had supposedly been trained as marines but could barely wipe their own noses.

“We just had a baby girl, four months old. Lord, the day we were married was the happiest day of my life, but when my daughter was born…” He pulled his cell phone out and flicked the screen, angling it and showing off a picture of a chubby baby in the arms of a dark-haired woman who looked as if she, too, was still a kid.

“Cute,” Logan said. “So where’s a good place in town to grab a bite to eat?” He pulled down Main Street in the area Clinton gestured toward.

“Over at Tree’s, right on the corner. Julia Cooper—pretty gal—she makes the best sandwiches and soup, baked goods, coffee… Better than my wife’s, but don’t tell Jenny that.” He chuckled, and Logan glanced over at him, shaking his head. One day, this kid would say something that would get him in a world of trouble.

Logan saw the sign over the door, a big oval carved with a tree and roots. A plastic sign on the door said “Open.” Logan pulled in front, angling into a parking spot.

When he stepped out, Clinton shut the passenger door and pointed to his phone. “I generally go home for lunch,” he said. “Let me give my wife a call. I’ll be right in, Sheriff.”

Logan took in his deputy. The gun strapped to his side should have given him confidence, but the way he spoke about his wife made his courage seem fleeting.

“I’ll be inside,” Logan said.

He took in the coffeehouse, with about half a dozen tables and a glassed-in counter holding baked goods, sandwiches, and deli meats. He scanned the chalk menu board and strode up to the counter, where a woman with cropped dark hair had her back to him. She wore a white apron over a black long-sleeved shirt and blue jeans, and she turned around and glanced up at Logan with a bright smile and a round face—and the most stunning green eyes he’d ever seen.

She hesitated, holding a plated sandwich. “Hey, there. I’ll be right with you,” she said. She had a killer smile as she strode around the counter and over to a table, setting a sandwich in front of an older man wearing a cowboy hat. She said something and then hurried back behind the counter. She had a neat and trim figure, with a small, rounded ass.

Logan couldn’t take his eyes off her. He sat on one of the stools and took in her figure. Something about her had captivated him. She glanced his way, her wide eyes rimmed with long, dark lashes, all natural and so exotic. She wore not a stitch of makeup. Natural beauty, he loved it. He couldn’t help himself from taking in her round face, those soft, pink lips. She cleared her throat, setting both her hands on the counter, and his eyes went right there. No ring.

“You must be the new sheriff,” she said. As she watched him, all the light in her eyes vanished, replaced with something hard; as if she had figured him out in two seconds flat.

“I’m Logan Wilde,” he said. There was something about the way she was standing, so ramrod straight, that kept him from sticking his hand out to shake hers. No, what he wanted to do was put his hands on her, but that would definitely get him slapped. “And you are?” he finally asked, raising an eyebrow until she finally relaxed—almost, anyway. He realized this lady was not one to be toyed with. She was a difficult woman, strong, who reeled in his interest.

“Julia Cooper,” she replied. She clutched a dish rag and then tossed it down, extending her hand. “I own this place.”

Logan couldn’t help the smile that touched his lips as he took her tiny hand in his. Her soft, firm handshake stirred his interest further and scrambled all his good sense, too. “Nice to meet you, Julia.”

“So what can I get you, Sheriff?” she asked. He could tell she was still holding on to something. She had put up a wall and seemed ready to scurry behind it at any time. Logan couldn’t help wondering what that was all about. Did she have some trouble; or had something made her naturally cautious? That wasn’t necessarily such a bad thing, though it bothered him to think something had scarred her. He realized it wasn’t safe for her to take anyone at face value, anyway.

“Heard you make a mean sandwich. What do you recommend?” he asked, taking in the wide selection she gestured to on the chalkboard.

“Well, I have to say today’s special is pretty good: chicken and goat’s cheese on focaccia with a side of soup—your choice of minestrone or spinach and bean.”

He tapped his fingers on the counter. “Either sounds good. Why don’t you choose for me?”

She gave him a quick nod. “You got it, Sheriff,” she said, turning and opening the cooler, lifting out chicken, vegetables, and other fixings.

He couldn’t take his gaze off her back, with her slim curves—and that butt. Logan had never considered himself one of those guys who was a breast or an ass man; but there was something about this woman. He wanted to figure out a way to get to know her a whole lot better. She was far from a super model, but she filled out a pair of plain old jeans. She wasn’t tall, either—she was pretty sure he probably had a foot on her, but she’d sure fit nicely in his arms.

He wondered, for a moment, how responsive she’d be to his touch, or to him whispering to her in the dark. A tightening in his groin overcame him, and he swore under his breath. There had to be something wrong with him. Hell, he’d gone stretches before without a woman, but this last time…well, it had been over a year. Maybe that was his problem. He cleared his throat, trying to clear his head as well, forcing his thoughts to the meeting with Stan and Johnny Rhodes; but he just couldn’t shake the thought of Julia, who was such a distraction. The door chimed, and Logan glanced over his shoulder as Clinton strode in.

“Hey there, Julia,” Clinton said, also nodding to the older man eating a sandwich in the corner. “Slow today?” he asked as he took a seat beside Logan at the counter.

“Hi there, Clinton. Yeah, it’s been a little slow, but it should be picking up, with tourist season coming. I hope so, anyway. How’re your wife and that new baby of yours?” she asked. She had a sweet, soft voice. Logan thought he could listen to her talk all day.

“Oh, they’re great. Annie is sleeping through the night now. She’s so sweet, and she has such a pretty smile,” Clinton said. He was already pulling out his cell phone, showing off baby pictures. Julia leaned across the counter, taking in the photos with a natural excitement, as if she really was happy to see pictures of someone else’s baby. Maybe that was a female thing. To Logan, seeing baby photos was about as interesting as seeing some realtor’s face plastered across a billboard. He couldn’t even pretend interest.

Julia actually took the phone and touched her chest. “Oh, look at her! You have to bring her in. Tell Jenny to bring that baby over next time she’s in town.”

“Will do,” Clinton said, taking his phone back, a big smile on his face.

Logan could tell that his deputy was constantly distracted. With all the marines he had trained, he had hammered into them that they had to get their heads in the game. Clinton had two pretty faces waiting at home, but there was a time and a place for those thoughts. Logan couldn’t help wondering, if and when trouble hit, how Clinton would respond. He was soft—the last thing Logan needed to worry about was having to knock on Jenny’s door and tell her she was a widow—and that her baby no longer had a father.

“What can I get for you, Clinton?” Julia asked, wiping her hands on a red and white dishtowel.

Clinton glanced over at the chalkboard and gestured to the special. “Special looks good, with minestrone. Would love one of them cappuccinos, with cinnamon on top, too, if you don’t mind.”