Too Sexy for his Stetson (5 page)

“This whole area is a plethora of breathtaking waterfalls—”

He must have given her a strange look because she came back with, “It was the word of the day on the Internet. I like to keep up. You never know when you might need to impress someone.”

“I was already impressed.”

She laughed and started up the path. It rose sharply, winding in and out of trees, sheltering them from the Idaho sun that lazed in the cloudless sky.

Partway up, Blade stopped to take in the scenery. Brandy pulled out a canteen, tilted her head back, and took a healthy swig. Sunrays flickered through foliage and dappled intricate patterns on her face. He shouldn’t have had the urge to run his fingers over her sunlit skin. There were a lot of things he shouldn’t have had the urge to do. But
things
continued to evoke an inappropriate tightening of body parts below his belt.

He focused on the scenery. The mountain scenery. “A plethora of sensory perception.”

She laughed and wiped the back of her hand across full lips sparkling with water droplets.

“I’ve got a meeting this afternoon over at the Fort Shoshone PD with an old friend. You want to come along?”

She flinched and spit out, “Uh, no.”

Well, excuse me for asking.

“I’d rather not… go anywhere this afternoon.” She turned and stared across the valley.

He laughed. “Have you got something against Fort Shoshone? Or the police department?”

“Of course not. I’d just rather not ride along. I’ve got stuff to do.”

He settled his hand on her shoulder and eased her around to face him. “What’s the problem?”

She shrugged away, looked thoughtful for a minute, and then seemed to make a decision. “Actually, I’d rather not run into Skip Coogan.”

“You know him?”

“Sort of.”

“Well, then… you must know he’s a hell of a guy. He’s the reason I went into law enforcement.”

The instant chill in Brandy’s eyes made Blade’s heart thump. Violets quick–frozen in alpine ice. “What’ve you got against Skip?”

****

Brandy’s stomach tightened. She didn’t want to get into it right now, didn’t want to alienate Blade, and couldn’t bring herself to answer, yet she knew her contempt for Skip Coogan glowed like a neon sign.

Silently, Blade held her with his cop–in–charge glare. Cripes, there wasn’t a chance of him letting it go. Not even if she stood mute for a hundred years. He’d wait it out until he coerced a reply of some sort. She wished she hadn’t made the split second decision to trust him with the truth.

“I just don’t want to run into him. That’s all.”

“You’re not worth shit at lying. Maybe I’ll just ask him what the problem is when I see him today.”

“No—don’t… Please.” If she was rotten at lying, she was twice as bad at coping with Blade Beringer’s broad shoulders hovering inches from her. Which riled her more? His probing? Or his silent demanding presence holding her in some kind of breathless limbo?

Spray from the falls misted over his honey–gold hair. Sunbeams rainbowed off the water droplets, haloing him. Without moving a millimeter, she could count his eyelashes. He leaned in closer, so close his heat penetrated her skin. Despite the fact he’d just called her a liar, that he was her FTO, and millions of other reasons that escaped her at the moment, she was sure he was going to kiss her. Her heart slammed against her chest. She closed her eyes and surrendered.

The warmth of his breath washed over her.

“Just to set the record straight,” he said, almost against her mouth, “Coogan’s one damn fine cop. He turned my life around, and like I said, he’s the reason I’m wearing this badge today.”

Her eyes snapped open. She jerked back, her mouth tingling from pure anticipation of a kiss that would have been too hot to handle.
What a freaking idiot.
Her stomach tightened in a familiar knot. She struggled to gain composure, flailing like a trout caught in a net.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention anything about me, okay? I need to figure this out on my own. Please.”

Studying her, taking his sweet time to answer, he finally shrugged. “If that’s what you want.”

Relief flooded her, and she realized she took him at his word.
She trusted him.
For as long as she could remember, she’d operated on the premise that Brandy Wilcox was the only one she could depend on. Why should anything Blade Beringer said change that?

Maybe because he’s different from anyone you’ve ever met.
Honesty and integrity radiated from him like heat from the sun. He almost made her want…

“Have you tried talking to him about it?” he asked.

Unwilling to look him in the eye, she lowered her head and studied the path. Sand covered the tips of her hiking boots. “It’s personal. I’d rather not go into it right now.”

Blade idolizes Skip Coogan.

Once upon a time, she had, too. Years ago. And Coogan had also turned her life around. But not the way any eleven year old wanted their world scrambled. She wasn’t ready to confront Coogan. Not yet. “I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t even mention my name.”

One of Blade’s hands settled on her shoulder. The other tipped her face up, his fingers resting on her cheek. “I told you I wouldn’t.”

“Thank you.” Trust… a fragile, new concept in Brandy’s world.

Actually, Coogan wouldn’t recognize the name Brandy, her teenage boarding school tag. But he’d recognize Wilcox.

That Wilcox kid, daughter of convicted murderer Amanda Wilcox.

She could have saved herself a lot of grief in her younger years if she’d dropped Wilcox, her real father’s name, and taken her stepfather’s name: Coogan.

CHAPTER FIVE

A
t nine p.m., the light from one small directional lamp shone on the desk at Brandy’s workstation. Because Little Chute deputies rotated dispatch duty from their homes on weekday nights, she had the office to herself.

If she could have afforded it, she’d have bought a PC or laptop and saved herself sneaking around the office after hours. But every spare dollar she earned went to her lawyer and a private investigator in Wisconsin.

She’d just clicked onto the Internet when, for no reason, the hair at the back of her neck prickled. She glanced around the vacated office. Shivered. Then turned back to the keyboard and typed in the name Amanda Wilcox. Once she hit search and the list of articles came up, she scrolled down to Wikipedia–Amanda Wilcox.

She skimmed past the heading “Background” and continued to “Marilyn Abbott Murder.” She’d read it a thousand times. It always raised the same questions, and her stomach still tightened when she trudged through the data.

On November 22 at approximately 1:00 a.m., 24–year–old Marilyn Abbott was murdered by a pointblank shot from a .45 caliber pistol. The bullet entered through her back and lodged in her heart. Witnesses reported seeing a tall woman with long blond hair fleeing Abbott’s apartment building.

At the time of her death, Abbott was employed as a clerk by the city of Milwaukee and was involved with married Officer Skip Coogan. Though evidence pointed to Coogan’s personal pistol as the murder weapon, the handgun came up missing sometime between the initial investigation and the trial and was never recovered. The prosecution maintained Coogan had a solid alibi, having spent the evening with fellow officer Joey Secada.

The prosecution also maintained that Coogan had no motive for killing the woman he was allegedly having an affair with, and he was exonerated. Amanda Wilcox was portrayed by the prosecution as Coogan’s vindictive wife. She had access to Coogan’s gun and was accused of committing murder in a jealous rage. She was convicted of the crime and sentenced to life imprisonment.

Amanda Wilcox. Brandy’s mother. Brandy remembered her mother as an even–tempered, soft–spoken woman who rolled with the punches. At five foot five, she hadn’t been “tall.”

The evidence had been mishandled, and though it had been suggested that Coogan’s alibi, Joey Secada, had not been in Milwaukee that night, the defense was unable to produce evidence to discredit Coogan’s testimony.

Brandy knew Coogan had lied. Plain and simple. She knew her mother could not have committed murder. However, circumstantial evidence, along with Skip Coogan’s testimony, had convinced a jury that Amanda was guilty as charged. That, along with a statement made by Brandy. Guilt paralyzed her, an empty hollow sensation filling her chest. For seconds she was unable to breathe.

The overhead lights flicked on. She jumped, her heart cartwheeling.

“Well, well, lookie who’s burning the midnight oil.” Todd Christiansen strolled in before she could click the red “close” box.

She plastered on a smile. “Hey, Todd. What’s going on?”

“Nothing much.” His baby–face smile revealed nothing. “What are you up to?”

She shrugged and scooted her chair sideways, using her body to block the computer screen. “Just catching up on stuff. Beringer’s a stickler for paperwork.”

“You two seem to be hitting it off well.”

“He’s a lot easier to get along with than Bresten was.”

“Yeah, that’s for sure.” Christiansen tipped his head, trying to angle a glance at her computer screen. Brandy sat taller.

“You know, I know your secret, Brandy.”

Her heart pumped faster. She’d been in Little Chute over four weeks. Sheriff Noble was aware of her background, but none of her colleagues knew that her mother had been convicted of murder.

He sauntered closer. “And let me tell you, Brandy, you wouldn’t need to hold a rifle on me to get me to strip for you.”

Oh God.
That
secret?

Her breath hitched. Fire shot through her veins. Blade had promised. “Yeah, well don’t hold your breath.” Although the screen saver had kicked in, she maneuvered her chair to better block the screen. “Please tell me you’re not hitting on me, Christiansen, because you know the rules, and I’m not interested.”

“I’m just looking out for you, Wilcox. Wouldn’t want to see you mess up your career playing with fire. Lieutenants like Beringer won’t get the boot for messing around in this district, but rookies will get their asses kicked out for a lot less then checking out what’s under their FTO’s jeans.”

Dumbfounded, she glared at him. Anger bubbled in her gut. Todd Christiansen wasn’t her keeper. He wasn’t her boss, and she damn well didn’t like him trying to be.

“I can take care of myself, Christiansen.”

“Obviously. At least when you’ve got a rifle your in hands. But I’m not so sure it’s in your best interest to keep a certain lieutenant in your sights.”

And just how the hell had he found out about her debacle–slash–attempted–arrest of Beringer? From Blade? Disappointment settled like sludge, clogging her arteries. So much for trusting Beringer.

Beringer.
Who, when she looked past Christiansen, had materialized and stood leaning against the doorjamb.

What was this? It was long past office hours at the sheriff’s department, and deputies were crawling out of the woodwork like cockroaches.

“Come on in and join the party,” she said. “We were discussing apprehension procedures and department policy.”

Blade kept silent, holding his hat with one hand and thumbing a belt loop with the other. The fact that he was beltless agitated her, because she was responsible for him leaving his belt behind yesterday. Anger swelled and pressed against her diaphragm. She was angry with herself. Angry with Christiansen. Angry with Beringer. While she was at it, she might as well be angry at the whole damn world.

“Asshole.” Blade pierced Christiansen with an if–looks–could–kill glance and pushed away from the door, exuding enough quiet bravado to put fear in the devil’s heart.

Brandy enjoyed watching Christiansen squirm.

“Sorry, Blade. I was just making sure the rookie knew the score. I swear I didn’t say anything to any of the guys about…” He inched toward the door, shouldered past the looming figure of authority, and sauntered out.

Blade walked his fingers around the brim of his Stetson. “We went to the POST academy together. The guy’s nosey. Makes for a good deputy. Not so much for a good friend.”

Brandy stared him down with her bad cop glare. His hat hair—matted curls—gave him a vulnerable look.

“Look, I’m sorry.” He shifted his weight. “Christiansen dug out the report and read it. As you know, everyone has access.”

Several uneasy minutes ticked by.

Her inner bitch cringed. He was right. The reports were available to everyone on staff. Okay, she’d give him back a few points. Maybe he wasn’t a blabbermouth. Her solar plexus started to relax, and the rush of anger dissipated while guilt over mistrusting him took its place. For a card–carrying protester of
damnation based on circumstantial evidence
, she’d sure been quick to condemn her FTO.

“Sorry.” She cleared her throat. “For jumping to conclusions.”

With the dreaded website lurking beneath the screen saver, Brandy squirmed and willed Beringer to leave. Instead, he resumed his position holding up the doorjamb and said, “I suppose now’s not a good time to ask if you’d like to go out for a beer?”

“Go to a bar together? It’s got to be against department rules.”

“The rules don’t say we have to ignore each other after hours. I hear everyone goes over to Smokey’s to unwind.”

She’d just as soon he’d ignore her at the moment so she could clear the history on her computer, a computer which wasn’t exclusively hers. “I think not tonight.”

“Need a lift home?” he asked.

“No. I’d rather walk.”

He nodded, dragged his hand across his mouth. “Um… I was going to introduce you to Rambo.”

“Some other time.”
Leave already, Beringer.

He didn’t. Instead he hunkered against one of the desks.

“I was just going to lock up.” She dug in her pocket for the key. She’d have to coax him out and hightail it back later to clear the computer.

“Think I’ll stick around and catch up on some things.”

Things? Like snooping around on her computer?