But Clay had always been honest with himself. His feelings for Marty were not the kind of passing interest a man felt for a pretty woman. This went deeper than physical. He related to her on a level he didn’t with most people. He understood her. That brought the problem full circle: wanting what he could never have.
Best-case scenario, a miracle would happen and she’d be reinstated in Chicago. She’d return and he’d never see her again. But Clay knew that wouldn’t happen. He was going to have to deal with her. He was going to have to deal with his feelings for her. The question was how.
The good news was he didn’t have to figure it out tonight. Fatigue tugged at him as he pulled into his reserved parking space at the police station. Smitty had agreed to write up the accident report. Clay had been on his way home so his housekeeper could go home to her own family when he remembered he’d left his laptop in his office. Erica needed it for school the next day.
He crossed the sidewalk. Voices met him when he shoved open the door. Clay almost called out, but the words he heard stopped him cold.
“I’m telling you. He’s fucking her.” Smitty’s voice.
“The chief? Naw.” Jett, trying to defuse a potentially explosive conversation.
“He’s too smart for that,” Dugan put in.
Silently, Clay closed the door behind him and stood there in the dark, listening.
“If he wasn’t sticking it in her every night, there’s no way he’d keep her around,” Smitty said. “She’s frickin’ trouble, man.”
“Chief is too straitlaced to get hooked up with Hogan,” said Jett.
“He might be a straight shooter, but he’s got a dick. If you ask me, Hogan’s leading him around by it.”
“You’re full of crap.”
Smitty laughed, but it was a mean, argumentative sound. “Look, I drove by her place completely by accident this afternoon on my way to the accident out on the highway. I hadn’t been able to get him on the radio. Where do I find him? Hogan’s place. What do I find when I knock on the door? I’m telling you, they had ‘we’ve been fucking like rabbits’ written all over their faces.”
“No shit?” asked Dugan.
“No shit.”
“Hey, Smitty, maybe that’s not such a big deal,” Jett put in. “Chief ain’t married and neither is Hogan.”
“You want to know why it’s a big deal? Well, listen up and I’ll tell you. That bitch comes in here all high and mighty and starts breaking our balls. The chief takes one look at those little titties of hers and takes her side.”
“Settlemeyer’s a fair man.”
“I’ll tell you about fair. Lookit. She picks a fight with some biker at Foley’s Bar and gets herself decked. Settlemeyer puts her on Rufus duty. Next, she drives into the canyon and claims a sniper is shooting at her. What does Settlemeyer do? Instead of firing her for being a crazy bitch, he sends all of us out there to look for casings.” Smitty laughed nastily. “A freakin’
sniper
, man. When’s the last time you heard of a sniper in Caprock Canyon? If she’s not a fuckin’ head case, I don’t know what is.”
“So did you guys find brass?” Jett, trying to change the subject.
“The only one shooting in the canyon was her. Settlemeyer kept us in that canyon all damn day and we still didn’t find nothin’.”
“Lots of area to cover for just a few guys.”
“I say she made the whole thing up.” Smitty paused to chuckle. “Hey, maybe she’s got that disease. That Munchausen’s syndrome where people do weird shit for attention.”
Clay stood stone still in the reception area and willed his temper to cool. What he really wanted to do was walk into the break room and wipe the floor with Smitty’s face. But he knew decking one of his officers would probably cause more problems than it would solve.
That didn’t mean he couldn’t fire him; this wasn’t the first time Smitty had stepped over a line. A dozen other moments scrolled through Clay’s mind. He’d documented some, but not all. But he had enough to fire him without the threat of litigation.
He didn’t remember leaving the reception area. Conversation went quiet as he traversed the hall and headed toward the break room, and he realized the men heard him coming. He walked in to find Smitty standing next to the refrigerator, holding the door open. Jett was slumped in a chair at the break room table. Dugan stood at the sink, looking down at the mug he’d been rinsing, but his hands were frozen in place. None of the men met his gaze.
Clay focused on Smitty. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”
The younger man’s gaze darted to Jett, then to Dugan, as if looking for help, but neither man dared look at him.
“We were just goofing off.” Smitty stuttered on every word.
“You seem to be doing a lot of that lately.”
Smitty stared.
Clay pointed. “In my office. Now.”
Giving Jett and Dugan final, reproachful looks, Smitty closed the refrigerator and started down the hall. Clay’s heart was pounding as he followed.
They reached the office. Clay slammed the door and pointed to a chair. “Sit down.”
“Chief—”
“Shut up and sit down.”
“I don’t know what you heard, but—”
Clay went behind his desk. Too angry to sit, he yanked open the drawer, pulled out Smitty’s personnel file and threw it on the desktop. “Since you evidently don’t want to take that chair, I can fire you just as well standing up.”
“Aw, Chief, don’t do that.”
“I heard every word.”
“Hey, I know it must have sounded bad, but we were just messing around.”
“Neither Jett nor Dugan said a damn thing, so don’t try to put any of this on them.”
“This is bullshit.”
“Yeah, it is.” Clay snatched a sheet from the file. “You were already on probation. You blew it tonight. I want your locker cleaned out in the next five minutes. Whatever’s left will be mailed to you. You’ll have your check by the end of the week.”
Smitty gaped at him, his face turning a deep hue of red. “You can’t do this.”
“It’s done. Now get your things. If you can’t manage, I’ll do it for you.”
“You
are
fuckin’ her, aren’t you?”
Clay could hear his molars grinding. Before he could stop himself, he rounded his desk. An odd light entered Smitty’s eyes, but he stepped back. Clay knew the other man was baiting him. Egging him on. But his temper was lit, and for a moment he thought slugging him would be worth whatever troubles it brought down on his head later.
“I’ll take your gun and badge,” Clay said evenly.
“Fuck you.” Snarling, Smitty tore the badge from his shirt, leaving a hole the size of a quarter. “And fuck her.” He yanked the revolver from his holster and tossed both onto the desk.
“Get out before I throw you out.”
Smitty jabbed a finger at him. “You ain’t heard the last of this, Settlemeyer.”
Clay imagined himself grabbing the other man’s shirt and slamming him against the wall. The sound of his head crashing against the Sheetrock would have satisfied the dark anger pumping through him.
But Clay didn’t move. He knew once he crossed that line he would be no better than the man standing before him.
Hissing an expletive, Smitty turned on his heel. He slammed both hands against the door and sent it flying open. Jett stood at the doorway to the break room, looking wary, probably wondering if he was next. Smitty snarled at him, then headed toward the front door.
For the span of a full minute, neither man moved. Clay could feel the nerves coming off Jett. After a while, he made eye contact with him. “Where’s Dugan?”
Jett blinked a dozen times before answering. “Uh, he left.”
Clay almost smiled, but he didn’t.
The younger man’s Adam’s apple bobbed twice in quick succession. “Smitty gone?”
“Keep it under your hat for now, will you?”
“Yessir.”
“I’ll get Dugan on the radio and ask him to do the same.”
Jett didn’t move.
Realizing the young officer feared for his job, Clay sighed. “Looks like I’ve got some paperwork to do. There any coffee?”
“Uh, it’s old.”
Clay started toward the kitchen, setting his hand on Jett’s shoulder as he passed. “That’ll do.”
ELEVEN
“Dad, don’t forget about the barrel race this weekend.”
Clay glanced away from his driving to look at his daughter, who sat in the passenger seat beside him. She looked like a rough-and-tumble kid in her faded blue jeans, Western shirt and scuffed tennis shoes. But the signs of maturity were beginning to show through the pigtails and freckles. It was her birthday today; he couldn’t believe she was ten years old. In a few more years puberty would set in. The thought put a pang in his gut powerful enough to make his palms sweat on the steering wheel. A pang that was part fear, part grief and part pride.
“How could I forget?”
She shot him a determined look. “I’m going to win this time.”
“If you stay focused, keep George focused and run clean, you have a good chance, honey.”
“I want to beat Mary Lou Finkbine.”
He arched a brow. He was a firm believer that there was nothing wrong with a little competitive spirit. But he wanted his daughter to strive to win for the right reasons. “Why do you want to beat Mary Lou so badly?”
“She beat me last time and she says George looks like a mule.”
Knowing his daughter wouldn’t see an insult to her horse as even remotely humorous, Clay bit back the smile that tried to emerge. “You know better than that, right? George is a fine horse and you’re an excellent rider.”
She looked down at her sneakers. “I guess.”
“That horse has worked his heart out for you. You’ve worked hard, too, honey. All you can do is your best. Just concentrate on that. You can’t control what other people say or do.”
She raised her eyes to his. Within their innocent depths, he saw something he’d never seen before. Adult pain. Childhood curiosity that had become adult questions.
“Mary Lou said some other stuff, too,” she said.
Concern flitted through him. Erica was usually vocal and open with him on just about any subject. Clay had never known her to hold back. “Like what?”
“She said Mom left you for another man because he had a bigger wallet.”
A spear of pain shot through Clay’s chest. “What did you say?”
“I told her she was full of crap because you’re the police chief and no one cares about some stupid wallet.”
Small towns, he thought with dismay, and smiled through the pain. “I’ll talk to her mom, honey.”
“Don’t tell her I told you.”
“I won’t.”
Wondering about fifth-grade dynamics, Clay watched as she gathered her books and shoved them into her backpack. She was the most precious thing in the world to him. He loved her so much it hurt just to look at her some days.
She’d asked about Eve several times in the last year. When she’d been younger, it had never been an issue. Now Erica was becoming curious. And Clay was going to have to come up with an answer that wouldn’t break her heart.
She climbed out of the Explorer.
“Don’t forget your math paper.” Leaning across the seat, Clay picked up the fallen paper and handed it to her.
“Oh.”
“And don’t forget my smooch.”
Grinning, she jumped back in the vehicle and gave him a smacking kiss on the cheek. She did the same thing every morning when he dropped her at school, and it melted his heart a little bit more every time.
“Do we get to eat ice cream at the Dairy Dream tonight?” she asked.
“Mrs. Huffschmidtt is fixing fried chicken.”
“Chicken is boring.”
Ten years old going on sixteen, he thought, and sighed. Pretty soon he was going to be light-years out of his element. “She made you a cake, too.”
Erica grinned. “Really?”
“Chocolate.” He kissed her cheek. “Happy birthday, honey.”
“Thanks, Dad.” She pulled back and sobered. “I’m going to beat Mary Lou this time.”
“Get through your math test first.”
“I’m going to get an A.”
Clay didn’t doubt it. Erica was one of the most determined people he’d ever met. “See you at three o’clock,” he said.
Sliding from the vehicle, she waved, looked both ways and crossed the street at an all-out run. Clay watched her join another little girl on the sidewalk, where they walked side by side into the school.
He couldn’t put off telling her about Eve much longer. He’d decided a long time ago he would never malign his ex-wife. But he wouldn’t lie, either. That left him with the quandary he’d struggled with since the day she’d left them. How could he tell his daughter her own mother hadn’t wanted her, without breaking her heart?
The question gnawed at him as he drove toward the police station. Having parked in his reserved spot, he left the Explorer and headed for the front door. Midway there, he spotted Marty’s car a few spaces down and his thoughts shifted to her. He squashed the small thrill of anticipation that rose in his chest at the thought of seeing her. He wasn’t going to let himself become a victim of his own sex drive, for God’s sake. Especially after what had happened between them the day before.
Marty might be a decent person. She might even be a decent cop. But Clay had had enough trouble in his life to recognize it when it looked him in the eye. Marty Hogan had trouble written all over that pretty body of hers, in big red letters. He didn’t need another challenge. He needed to focus on Erica, on being a good father and running the police department the way it should be run.
But whether he wanted to admit it or not, things were starting to get complicated, something Clay had tried to avoid most of his adult life. And while he should have been thinking about Smitty and how he was going to break the news of his departure from the department to the rest of the team, his mind was on Marty and that earth-shattering kiss.
He entered to find Jo Nell sitting behind her desk looking like the cat that had just swallowed the canary. Next to her, Marty sat on the edge of the desk with a similar expression on her face. Jett stood next to Marty, looking like he’d been holding his breath for at least a minute.
Clay realized why when Jo Nell coughed and a puff of smoke blew out. “Oh, for chrissake.” Sniffing, he smelled cigarette smoke and realized Jo Nell had not only drafted Marty into her secret smoking society, but Jett as well.
“Chief, we were just . . .”
“I know what you were doing.” Trying not to be amused, he didn’t pause on the way to his office. “Doesn’t anybody have any respect for the law around here?”
He poured coffee, then wandered back into the reception area. Marty knelt at the four-drawer file cabinet, filing reports. Her uniform slacks stretched taut over her rear end, and for a moment he couldn’t take his eyes off those dangerous curves.
At the desk, Jett and Jo Nell were discussing the benefits of using the ten-code system for dispatch. An air purifier purred atop Jo Nell’s desk. Next to it, some sort of scented candle emanated the aroma of sugar cookies. Clay didn’t condone smoking, but he was secretly pleased to see that Marty had been accepted by Jett and Jo Nell.
He cleared his throat. “If I can have your attention for a moment.”
All eyes turned toward him. Clay looked at Jett, wondering if he’d told the rest of the department about Smitty’s termination. “Do they know?” he asked.
Jett shook his head.
Good boy, Clay thought, and continued. “I thought I should let you know. Smitty is no longer with the department.”
“You fired Smitty?” Jo Nell exclaimed.
Clay frowned. “I didn’t say I fired him. He left the department. That’s all you need to know.”
Jo Nell looked at Jett. “I can’t believe he fired Smitty.”
“Jo Nell,” Clay warned.
“We ain’t idiots, Chief,” she said without rancor. She glared at Jett and gave him an elbow to the ribs. “You knew and didn’t tell us.”
Jett ducked his head.
Wanting to avoid gossip, Clay moved to change the subject. “I also wanted all of you to know there’s a rodeo this weekend out at the Sheriff’s Posse arena. Erica’s running barrels. All of you are invited. Food’s on me.”
“I just love watching her beat the pants off the boys.” Jo Nell brought her hands together. “It’s her birthday today, ain’t it?”
Clay sighed. “Yeah.” But he could tell their collective attention was still on Smitty.
“What’s Smitty going to do now?” Jett asked. “It’s not like there’s another law enforcement agency nearby.”
“I don’t know,” Clay said. “Not my problem.”
Marty’s gaze met Clay’s. “What if he shows up?”
Just looking at her, his heart rate spiked. The memory of the kiss they’d shared flashed in his brain. His fingers tingled with the memory of her flesh. To his dismay a warm rush of blood headed south.
Damn it.
“You mean here?” he said in a thick voice.
“I mean anywhere.”
Clay knew what she was asking. He also knew Marty was capable of taking care of herself. She was a cop, after all. But Smitty had a temper on him, and a mean streak to boot. He liked to drink. And he knew how to handle a gun. A powder keg that might just explode if a disgruntled Smitty decided to blame his recent termination on Marty.
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Jo Nell put in.
Clay frowned, his eyes level on Marty. “You call me at the first sign of trouble, and I’ll take care of it.”
She nodded.
Hopefully, if a furious Smitty did make an appearance, Marty wouldn’t try to take matters into her own hands. And Clay would be able to get there fast enough to keep that powder keg from exploding into something ugly.
Driving back to the station, Marty wondered if a cop had
ever died of boredom. Back when she’d worked Chicago’s South Side, nearly every day was chock-full of events most cops would categorize as exciting. Robberies. Burglaries. Violent domestic disputes. Murder. She used to wonder what the world was coming to. Tonight, she’d longed for just a fraction of the action.
She’d longed even more for the easy camaraderie she’d shared with Rosetti. His funeral had been two days ago. Since Marty couldn’t be there, she’d used a good bit of her paycheck to send a massive spray of fall flowers with an anonymous note that read: “A good cop. An even better man. You were loved. And you will be missed.” Rosetti probably wouldn’t have appreciated it in the least, so she’d done it for herself.
The Chicago PD was working tirelessly to find the killers who’d taken out one of their own. When overtime limits were hit, many of the cops worked on their own time. To their credit, the brass looked the other way and let them do what they needed to do. Morale was low, but the cops had pulled together for this and made things happen. A potential break came when forensics produced fibers on the duct tape that had been used to muffle Rosetti’s screams. But the fibers were common and netted nothing more than a dead end.
For the thousandth time, Marty wished she were there, talking to the other cops, beating on doors, doing something—anything—to track down the bastards and bring them to justice. Instead, she was rounding up wayward livestock, writing tickets to grandmothers on their way to bridge and, well, fantasizing about her boss.
Of the three recent pastimes, the latter bothered her most. Marty was not an overly sexual creature. She could count on two fingers the number of relationships she’d had as an adult. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been kissed—pre-Clay Settlemeyer, anyway. She sure as hell couldn’t remember the last time she’d had sex. Celibacy suited her. Helped her stay focused on the important things and steer clear of the turmoil that came with relationships.
But damn, the man knew how to kiss. Marty felt sure he was probably just as adept in other areas, too. A real over-achiever when it came to knowing just where to . . .
She caught herself a moment too late to stop the shiver that rippled through her like warm water down her back. “Get over it,” she muttered as she pulled into a parking space next to Clay’s Explorer.
She tried hard to ignore the way her heart jigged in her chest as she got out of the cruiser. She told herself she’d been hoping he wasn’t there. But a very big part of her thrilled at the thought of seeing him again.
The intellectual side of her brain knew this could never go anywhere. Sexual tension did not a relationship make. If all went as planned, she’d land a better job and leave Caprock Canyon behind inside of a year.
That didn’t keep her palms from going damp as she opened the door. Jo Nell sat behind her desk. She grinned when Marty entered, held up an unsmoked cigarette, mouthed the word “Later,” then hand signaled to the chief’s office to let her know he was there.
Marty nodded and headed toward the break room for a soda. She couldn’t keep her eyes from flicking toward Clay when she passed his office. He frowned at her as she walked by. “Hogan.”
Marty returned his scowl and kept moving. “Chief.”
“Tell Jo Nell to hold my calls for a while, will you?”
“Sure thing.” To Marty’s dismay the minuscule exchange was enough to start an infusion of heat that ran straight down her middle and went all the way to her toes.
She was standing next to Jo Nell’s desk with her hand in a bag of chips and a soda in the other when the front door opened. An elegant-looking woman with platinum blond hair and the biggest green eyes Marty had ever seen entered with a gust of wind infused with Chanel No. 5 perfume. Marty’s first impression was that she must be lost. Or maybe had car problems. Evidently on her way from Los Angeles to New York or something. But then people who looked like her usually didn’t take cross-country road trips. They flew first class on some private jet.
She wore fitted ivory slacks that showed off nicely rounded hips and a tiny waist. An ivory-colored jacket covered a sleek black tank that dipped low enough to show ample cleavage and ivory skin. Her makeup looked professionally done, an array of smoky, shimmering colors blended together and applied with the brush of some talented
artiste
. A woman at the height of her beauty—and she knew it.