Friendly Fire (3 page)

Julia nodded with a big smile. “You got it, Clinton,” she said, but when she faced the sheriff, her whole demeanor changed. She was back on guard, her smile now gone. “Sheriff, do you want something to drink?”

“Just a regular coffee would be great,” he replied, and she turned away, poured the coffee, and set it in front of him.

“Cream, sugar?”

“Just a little milk,” he said. She set a creamer in front of him, and he watched her as she turned away again and started fixing his lunch.

“I’m just going to wash up, Sheriff. I’ll be right back,” Clinton said, disappearing through a door in the back.

Logan slid around on the stool, taking in the big front window. Cars and a couple pickups drove by, a few people walking past here and there—unhurried, nothing like the way people were in the city. Everyone wore cowboy hats and blue jeans, and the way they all walked and talked said “Midwest ranching community.”

He sniffed the air at the hiss of the espresso machine, frowning out the window at an older white Cadillac that drove past. His heart was racing, his hand shaking on the counter as if he knew what was about to happen. There was a high-pitched whistle, then a bang, as the car backfired in the street His chest squeezed as he waited for the explosion. Everything was moving in slow motion, everything louder. Where had the explosion come from? He heard the sound of gunfire.

For a moment, it felt as if he wasn’t even there. Julia was screaming, shouting at him, and he stared and stared, blinking...hearing only his breath, long and loud. Her face was terrified, and his hand trembled around his pistol—aimed toward her. It took him a minute to take it in: the shattered glass, the handle she was holding, all that was left of the carafe. There was now a hole in the espresso machine.

“Sheriff, what the hell?” Clinton shouted. A chair scraped back behind him, footsteps shuffling. Logan did everything he could to pull himself together.

“I’m so sorry. I thought…” He stopped talking. What could he say? There was no way he could explain how the sound of the car backfiring had triggered his flashbacks.

“Julia, are you okay?” Clinton asked. He was beside her, checking her hand amid the shattered glass, steam still escaping the espresso machine.

She was staring long and hard at Logan, her chest heaving as she struggled for breath. “Put that gun away—right now!” she yelled. “Or are you planning on shooting up this place?”

Her voice broke through the confusion that had taken hold of him. He felt like such an ass. This was the first time since his accident that anything like this had happened in broad daylight. The way Clinton was looking at him—as if he was a dangerous wild animal that could lash out at any time—had him feeling embarrassed.

With a shaky hand, he holstered his gun. He smoothed back his cropped hair and looked around at the now empty tables. The old-timer had left, his food only partially eaten. People were gathered on the sidewalk, staring with wide eyes, some with cell phones stuck to their ears, obviously filling everyone in on the antics of the new sheriff.

“I’m so sorry” was all Logan could say. “I’ll pay for the damage. Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” He started around the counter only to be met by Clinton. Though the deputy looked scared shitless, he didn’t step aside. In fact, he stood in front of Julia as if he’d go down protecting her. Logan really had to give the kid credit. Maybe he wasn’t so weak, after all.

Julia reached up and turned a knob on the espresso machine before reaching behind the counter to unplug it from the socket. There was shattered glass everywhere, liquid dripping to the floor.

“Let me clean this up,” Logan said.

“It’s all right. I’ll clean it,” she snapped, though she let out a shaky sigh. She was doing her best to handle it. She turned to Clinton. “I’ll get your lunches ready after I clean this up.”

A bell jingled on the front door.

“Everything all right in there, Julia?” the woman asked. She was short, compact—older, with gray hair and eyes. Logan didn’t miss how she was the only one to step in and check on Julia while the men waited safely outside.

“Fine, Marion,” Julia said. She glanced over at Logan and added, “My espresso machine just had an accident. A piece exploded. Sorry for the commotion.”

Logan watched her. She had just lied through her teeth for him. What was that about? He had fucked up big time, and she could have been hurt—or worse. Even Clinton stared at her, though he didn’t say a word.

Julia squatted down and started picking up chunks of glass. “Ouch,” she hissed, and Logan was right beside her. She clutched her hand, blood oozing from her closed fist.

“Let me see,” he said, crouching down and reaching for her hand. She should have hesitated, been terrified, but there was something in the way she watched him that seemed almost like…understanding? No, he had to be wrong.

“It’s fine, just a cut,” she protested, though she opened her palm to him.

He took in her tiny hand, which was far from frail. Blood oozed from a slice across her index finger. He helped her up and ran cold water over her hand in the sink. “Clinton, why don’t you see if you can find a broom?” he asked.

“There’s one at the backdoor, closet on the right,” Julia said.

Clinton hesitated for a minute before saying, “Right,” leveling his heavy gaze on Logan; as if he wasn’t sure he should leave him alone with Julia. In the end, he stepped away, into the back room.

“Doesn’t look too deep,” Logan said. “Do you have any Band-Aids?” He turned off the water and grabbed a couple paper towels off the roll, wrapping them around her finger and adding pressure to stop the bleeding.

Julia flicked her gaze up to him. Her green eyes were big and round, filled with something so deep that Logan was struck with a need to protect her. After today, though, he wouldn’t be surprised if she told him to get lost.

“I can bandage my finger. I’m fine, really.” She touched his hand. “So where were you stationed?” she asked, as if she understood.

“Kandahar, in the marines,” he replied. “How’d you know?”

“My father was all army. He was in the first Gulf War,” she said. “Was it the car that set you off?” she added.

He never knew when it would happen: a smell, a noise, even just a feeling, mostly when he was sleeping. Right now, all he wanted was to kick himself for not getting a grip. He kept telling himself to stop, that he was no longer fighting a war. He had the power to heal his mind; and these flashbacks and triggers that came out of nowhere…well, he just had to figure out a way to stop reacting to them.

“I’m sorry, Julia. Again, I’ll pay for the damage,” he said, and she stepped back, suddenly shy, holding her hand just as Clinton reappeared with the broom.

“Everything okay here?” Clinton asked in a tone that was all worry.

“Fine,” they both answered. They looked at each other again, neither saying another word about it, as Logan took the broom and cleaned up the mess.

Chapter 4

J
ulia flipped the “Open” sign at the front door. She was still rattled over the new sheriff firing his gun, shooting the glass carafe from her hand as she was steaming the milk. He could have shot her! She repeated that to herself over and over again, but her heart didn’t seem to get the message—maybe because she had felt an attraction to Logan as soon as he walked through the doors of her shop. Listening to his deep voice, seeing the mystery in his eyes, made her want to get to know him better.

Logan was the most attractive man she had ever seen, in a dangerous sort of way—not pretty-boy looks, but something deeper, something that came from inside. He had an air of mystery that added to his strong features: short, dark hair threaded with gray on the sides, a strong jaw, and eyes a soft blue that glowed with a knowledge of all the heartache life could throw at a person. That was something she could understand, something she could connect with; though doing so was, perhaps, not in her best interest. He was the whole package, tall—not stringy like Clinton—with a set of shoulders any woman would love to lean on. His arms were strong and capable, and the way he walked weakened her knees.

When that car backfired outside—it had all happened in a split second. She had turned the knob on the espresso machine, and as the steam hissed out—she saw his instant, wide-eyed panic, the beads of sweat on his forehead. She had seen full-blown PTSD before. She had
lived
with it, as her father had never been right since returning from the war. Everything had come back to her in that instant: Her father had been asleep on the couch, and she had snuck up and tapped him on the shoulder to tell him dinner was ready. The next thing she knew, she had been face down on the floor, arm pinned behind her back. He had dislocated her shoulder. She was twelve, and he was sorry. He had been horrified. He had actually cried.

She had learned about triggers quickly after that; deciding never to sneak up on him again. Her mother had learned, too. It wasn’t that her father was a bad man, because he wasn’t. He loved them so much, and she loved him. Robert Wells was kind and loving, but he suffered from PTSD—a gift from his country for services rendered—as her mother had said. One night, she and her mother had walked through the front door, grocery bags in hand, and there he was, sitting in a chair in the middle of the living room in his underwear; black garbage bags covering the beige carpet, a gun to his head. He pulled the trigger.

It was horrible, worse than a nightmare. It was only after, when they found the letter he’d written, that Julia started to understand the demons her father carried. The ones he had hidden from them but could no longer bear. He was terrified that he would go too far one day, possessed by the nightmares that plagued him. He was afraid he might hurt or kill Julia or her mother, and he couldn’t live with that, because he loved them more than his next breath. In his mind, the only way to handle the nightmares and the threat against Julia and her mother was to end his life. The plastic he had used to cover the carpet, protecting it from a stain that would add to their suffering, was thoughtful—in a morbid kind of way.

Now the new sheriff had brought all those memories to her place of business; the past she’d been running from, the pain so deep she’d buried it. She took in the espresso machine, which now bore a bullet hole through the water reserve. The machine had cost a small fortune when she opened the coffeehouse; putting a serious dent in her meager savings. It was an investment she’d expected to make back over the summer. Serving the flood of tourists passing through the area—the machine was her biggest moneymaker, with all those fancy coffees, cappuccinos, and lattes. Now, all she could think of was the loss and the cut into her profits. She couldn’t afford to buy another, not right now.

The locked door rattled, followed by a knock on the glass. She spotted her ten-year-old twin daughters, Trinity and Dawn. Both had her striking dark hair and green eyes, but the rest was all their father, his oval face, long legs—even their smiles, which lit up their innocent faces. They looked like her ex-husband, Kevin Cooper, a handsome, charming, two-timing dentist who now lived with his new wife down in California. She was a striking young redhead, and she had been his dental assistant ever since Julia had known him.

She hurried to the door, unlocked it, and pushed it open, taking in some of the locals, who gawked at the mess as they walked by.

“Why are you closed, Mom?” Dawn asked.

“Yeah, Mom, did something happen?” Trinity echoed.

The girls talked nonstop, identical in everything, except that where Dawn was kind and thoughtful, Trinity was sneaky—coming up with all the creative ideas to turn Mom’s world upside down. Well, that was how it seemed at times as she stared down into the two innocent faces.

“Mom, what happened to your hand?” Trinity asked with a gasp.

Dawn reached for Julia’s bandaged finger. She had run out of little bandages and had been forced to use the big one, which Logan had wrapped around her entire finger after wiping antibiotic cream over the cut. He knew what he was doing, fast and efficient, and her skin still burned from his touch. It was that chemistry she fought against. He was no good, not someone she wanted in her life or around her daughters. No military guys, not ever. They just weren’t safe, and no matter what she felt for him—it just wasn’t going to happen.

“I just cut myself, no big deal. The bandage makes it look worse than it is, honey, that’s all,” Julia added as her girls strode in and dumped their backpacks behind the counter.

“Mom, what happened to the coffee machine?” Trinity asked, eyeing the bullet hole. Her kids didn’t miss much.

“Just a little accident,” she said. “Nothing to worry about.”

They both stared at her with wide eyes. “Is that why you’re closed up?”

She let out a sigh. Her head was starting to ache from everything. “It’s—yes, sort of. I just decided to close early, that’s all. Now, tell me how school was today.”

She started around the counter and plugged in the kettle to heat water for hot chocolate. Her girls decided to perch at the counter exactly where Logan and Clinton had been; both talking as fast as ever about the teacher they didn’t like, and about who had put glue in whose hair, and about the little boy who’d snuck a garter snake into class inside his lunch kit. When the snake slithered out, everyone had shrieked and carried on, including their hated teacher, until Mister Maloney, the math teacher, had stepped in from the hall, taking in the chaos and rescuing the terrified snake from the corner it had been curled up in. Mister Maloney had taken it outside and set it free, the girls said.

Trinity and Dawn snacked on a muffin and sipped their hot chocolate as Julia gazed outside, glancing to the street just as the sheriff’s black Jeep drove past. She sighed, wondering what had happened to him. What had left those scars on his soul?

Chapter 5

L
ogan had been kicking himself since yesterday over the incident at the coffeehouse. He had spent the rest of the afternoon laying down the law in a meeting with Stan Rhodes and his son, Johnny, whom Logan was pretty sure had headed up the little party out at Will’s place. He had made it clear he wouldn’t tolerate any shenanigans by the town youths. Stan hadn’t even bothered to glance his son’s way before clearly stating that Johnny had been home all night, so it couldn’t have been him. He had even loudly suggested that Logan start looking at the other kids in town. Johnny, not quite the practiced liar his father was, had stared at the cracked tile on the floor, wringing his hands, his shoulders raised up so high that he was doing a piss-poor job at covering his nervousness.