Iditarod Nights (15 page)

Whether or not the woman knowingly lied, they
never determined. She didn't stick around to be questioned.

"A big man, about two hundred and fifty
pounds, had his hands around the neck of a smaller man, pinning him
to the wall, choking him."
Put the man down and step away from
the wall!
"The big man didn't acknowledge our presence."

What happened next came as a series of
disjointed flashes. Lewis flying across the room. The big man
attempting to shove his way out the door and Dillon knocking him
down. The small man gasping for air, then reaching behind his back.
"The small man pulled a handgun from his waistband and fired. Lewis
returned fire." A movement in his peripheral vision. Turning. "A
third suspect on my left, wearing a hooded sweatshirt, reached
inside his pocket." He didn't remember pulling his service weapon,
just that it was in his hand. "I fired. My bullet hit the man in
the chest." Too young to call a man. He looked up at Dillon,
confusion in his eyes. Then nothing. "He died almost
instantly."

"Was he armed?" Claire asked.

"Yes. When he fell, a 9 mm semi-auto dropped
from his hand."

Time slowed. Time spent staring at the
handgun by his foot.
Did I see it before I fired?
Time spent
watching Lewis handcuff the big man. The smaller man stretched out
face down, blood trickling from a hole in his pant leg, hands
cuffed behind his back. Dillon had no memory of the smaller man
being shot, just the sound of Lewis's pistol going off next to his
ear.
Which one of us handcuffed him?
He remembered staring
at the dead body at his feet. "I killed a nineteen-year-old kid,"
he said, forcing the words past dry lips.

If his admission shocked her, she didn't let
it show. No sympathy or disgust. Society frowned on police
shootings, but like an experienced criminal defense attorney, her
expression remained impassive.

"Were there any charges against you or your
partner?"

"No. Lewis took a three-day leave to recover
from being knocked around by the gorilla. I was back on the job the
next day. I didn't want to sit at home thinking about it, figured
it was better to put the incident behind me and get on with my
routine." He drew in a heavy breath. "Then the nightmares
began."

"Did you talk to anyone?"

"If you mean a psychologist, no. I wanted to
keep my job." Seeing the department shrink sent a signal of
instability, opened the door for a fitness evaluation and possible
termination. He'd seen it happen before. "I started going out for a
few beers after my shift."
Choir practice.
Letting off
steam. Sharing war stories. His fellow officers meant well.
Hey,
good shooting. The bastard got what he deserved.
But the
support wore thin. It didn't change the fact that he'd killed a
kid. "Eventually I moved to the hard stuff." He had a particular
taste for bourbon. "If I stayed numb enough,
drunk
enough, I
could face the next day, and the day after that. It wasn't long
before my marriage fell apart. My parents disowned me. I lost my
job. I figured I had two choices – put my service pistol to my head
and end it, or get as far away as possible and start over where
nobody knew me or asked questions."

"Then I showed up, a criminal defense
attorney asking question. Two strikes."

"Yes." He wouldn't lie to her again. "Strike
three was shooting at the moose. I've been carrying that damn
revolver around, pretending I'm okay with it, but the trail into
McGrath was the first time I've actually fired it. I forgot how it
felt, the recoil, the smell, the repercussion on my ears." The look
in the kid's eyes as he died.

"And now the nightmares are back."

"Different versions of the same thing. I
shoot but the suspect doesn't stay dead, chases me, grabs at me."
Fear
. "I can't get away. I'm slipping on blood and empty
pizza boxes."

"Pizza boxes?"

"The apartment was full of them. I haven't
been able to look at a pizza since without it turning my stomach.
Damn shame, too. I used to love pizza."

"Let me guess...pepperoni."

He smiled a little around the edges. "Not
much of a challenge there, counselor."

"Hey, I'll take an easy case any day. And
don't call me counselor," she said, though her tone lacked bite.
"What became of the woman?"

"She took off. Probably because she knew the
back room was full of stolen drugs – Vicodin, Oxycodone,
antidepressants, anti-psychotics – a mini pharmacy."

Claire's expression tightened. "Shit."

He remembered the client she told him about,
the one who beat a family to death for their prescription meds. It
occurred to him that of all the people who might understand what
he'd gone through, it would be someone close to the ugly side of
the law.

"I'm glad you killed him," she said.

The vehemence in her voice yanked at his
heart. "No you're not."

She fixed him with a narrowed look, as if
prepared to argue. Dillon counted five weighted beats, dull thuds
at the back of his eardrums, before he saw her shoulders sag.

"I hate that I've let him do this to me," she
said.

"He's the reason you took a leave of
absence."

"Yes."

"Not the Hammertown guy?"

She snorted. "Not even close."

Her answer should have made him feel better,
but it didn't. Nothing about the situation felt good. She had a
promise to keep, a career to return to. And after dealing with her
own emotional baggage, why would she choose to get tangled up in
his?

"You made the right decision," she said,
"getting the hell out."

"Now it's caught up with me."

She slid to her feet and came to him,
caressed his check, planted a light, salty kiss on his mouth.
"You're not alone," she told him.

He turned and pulled her between his thighs,
his hands loose on her hips. "I want you, Claire, more than I've
wanted or needed anybody in a long time. But Alaska's my home now.
What happens the day after tomorrow, when you have a plane to
catch?"

"We've got two days to figure something out.
Let's not waste them."

The memory of her kisses kept him warm on
cold Iditarod nights. This time her mouth promised heat, seduction,
intimacy. Things he didn't have a right to, sensations he'd shut
himself off from. He felt exposed even as he craved. "Are you
sure?" he asked.

"I'm staying."

***

She would need time to process the things
Dillon told her, to grasp the full impact of his trauma. But at the
moment, other needs drove her and demanded her attention. The way
he touched her. The way he looked at her, needed. It had been a
long time for her too.

Clothes discarded with fevered urgency left a
trail from the kitchen island to the bed. The jukebox in the bar
below pulsed a deep, sorrow-filled tune. His callused hands covered
her, explored her body the way she did his. Arms and legs tangled,
damp skin over damp skin.

Her heart cried a little as he slid inside
her, the tenderness and passion in his touch unbearably sweet.

"Look at me," he whispered.

She did. His eyes – close, intense, unguarded
– sent a flutter of panic snagging through her. She didn't want to
fall in love with this man, but in that instant she knew she
already had. He thrust deeper and she gasped.

"I want you to see what you do to me."

Heat rushed to her cheeks.

"I want you to remember," he said.

Always. I will always remember.

She came hard and fast. Seconds later he
followed on the crest of her orgasm. He held her to him until his
body stopped trembling, then cradled her as he lay back on the
mattress. "Wow."

"Yeah. Wow."

She listened to the hammer of his heart
against her ear, felt his chest rise and fall in an effort to bring
his breathing back to normal, and smiled. She hadn't felt this
boneless and satisfied in...well, an eternity.

The room took on a pink hue. She lifted her
gaze to the windows and saw her stunning sunset.

***

In the early hours before the Bering West
opened for business, Dillon led her downstairs to raid the kitchen.
"Are you sure Vic won't object?" she asked, as she pulled a huge
tub of potato salad from the cooler and just about dropped it.
"Jeez, what's in here? Concrete?"

"Vic's not big on giving out recipes. As long
as the customers are happy, I don't ask."

Claire popped the lid off the container and
spooned some onto the two plates he laid out. "Smells delicious.
Got any more chips?"

"How about a couple reindeer dogs
instead?"

Caribou meat, like venison but not as gamey.
"Perfect."

"Onions?"

"Of course."

She took a seat at the table and watched him
work. He wore a long white apron over his jeans and flannel shirt –
tails loose, sleeves rolled – and moved with economic grace,
engaged in a routine intimately familiar to him. She liked having a
man cook for her. Her skin warmed remembering another intimate side
he'd shown, one he'd been less confident of. Her heart told her two
days wouldn't be nearly long enough with this man.

The snap and sizzle of onions hitting a hot
grill yanked at her senses. Their aroma stirred a boisterous rumble
in her stomach. To avoid drooling, she forked a bite of potato
salad. Pickles. Celery. Garlic. And...fresh basil? Did Vic have an
herb garden? Small, decorative clay pots lining a window at home,
perhaps? The gruff-looking cook, who'd ordered her to sit with him
for a cup of coffee and consoled her with a story about the time
Dillon set the kitchen on fire, babying pots of herbs. The image
brought a smile.

"Vic told you, didn't he."

She dragged her eyes from the plate of food
in Dillon's hand. "He said when the grill burst into flames, you
screamed like a girl."

He grunted a laugh. "I did." Sitting next to
her, he put a reindeer dog smothered in caramelized onions, nestled
in a hoagie roll, on her plate. "I saw my investment going up in
smoke."

"It didn't help that you tried to swat out
the flames with a dishtowel."

"Almost set myself on fire. I suppose he told
you how he barreled in and saved the day."

"Of course." She took a huge bite of her dog.
"Oh. My. God. This is fabulous."

"I've learned a few things about using a
grill since then."

She could have reminded him of the burnt
sausage links from the day before, but chose instead to take
another bite and make appreciative sounds of pleasure. She finished
half her dog before asking, "Tell me about Helen."

He paused mid bite. "Did she make a move on
your dad?"

"Big time. He looked like he was enjoying it,
too."

"She's a hard worker. Got a heart the size of
Alaska. Tends to get what she sets her mind to." He took a bite,
chewed. "Would it be so bad if she got her way this time?"

"No. God no. It's just...unexpected. After
all these years, to see Dad fall for somebody so unlike Mom."

"He told me about her. Caroline."

Claire's breath hitched, the prick of sadness
at hearing her mother's name reassuring. She never wanted to
forget. "Why would he do that?"

Dillon put the his food down, met her look.
"He wanted me to understand what keeping a promise means to
you."

"Oh." Dad only knows the half of it, she
thought.

"I'm sorry, Claire."

"Me too." She didn't have to ask what he
meant. He killed a man. In the breath it took a hammer to strike a
firing pin, his world changed forever. She had defended clients who
killed for less, men like Colin Spears – there, she'd said his
name, at least to herself – who felt no remorse. But the trauma of
taking another human's life would haunt Dillon to his grave. She'd
seen it before, working in criminal defense. Killing someone alters
a person's sense of self. She was thankful he found a way to exist
with his moral pain, carved a niche for himself in this remote
place. Survived.

He couldn't leave and she couldn't stay.

"What do we do about it?" he asked.

"You owe me a dance."

***

A light over the mirror cast rum, burgundy
and vodka prisms across the polished bar, reminding Claire of
downtown Portland after dark, how the city's lights reflected on
the Willamette River separating west from east. She smiled as her
gaze caught the multi-colored glow of a Wurlitzer jukebox at the
edge of a wood dance floor barely large enough to accommodate three
couples, at most. "It's perfect."

"I'm glad you like it."

"Just so you know, I don't do the Texas Two
Step."

"Neither do I." He crossed to the jukebox,
dropped in a coin and punched a selection. Turning, he held his
hand out to her as the opening cords of an Eric Clapton tune
began.

Claire gave a light laugh. At Dillon's raised
brow, she said, "I was listening to this song when I saw the
nonexistent powerline."

"I can change it."

Desire coiled through her like warm honey.
"Please don't."

She went to him, laid her head to the beat of
his heart, and moved with him, their bodies in fluid unison. The
lyrics spoke of heartbreaking love with a tenuous future. This was
her heaven, a place where she didn't belong yet ached to be. It
didn't seem to matter. Nothing mattered but Dillon's arms around
her. She tipped her head and kissed his neck, felt his pulse trip a
beat. He missed a step. That was all it took, she marveled, a light
press of the lips, a whispered word, a look, to ignite passion,
play havoc with a person's balance. His desire grew against her
abdomen. She nipped his chin, his jaw.

"I thought you wanted to dance."

"I changed my mind."

He dipped his head and claimed her mouth. The
force rocked her. She clung to him as his kiss skewed her own
equilibrium and weakened her knees.