THIRTEEN
Clay stood in his darkened study and wished with all of
his heart that he didn’t have to do what he was about to do. But there was no way around it. He was going to have to tell Erica her mother was here. That she wanted to talk. And he hated it.
He knew his little girl well. Usually, he knew exactly how she would react to a situation or question or problem. This time, he didn’t have a clue.
Erica had started asking about her mother when she was six. Clay had always answered truthfully, but as vaguely as possible. He’d never told his daughter Eve had chosen her new lover over them. Now that Eve was back and wanting to see Erica, he wondered if he should have been more forthright.
“Damn,” he muttered, scrubbing his hands over his face.
His ex-wife wasn’t the only woman weighing heavy on his mind this evening. As had become the norm in the last week, Marty was in the forefront, dominating his every waking thought. He didn’t quite know what to make of his feelings for her. The one and only time he’d felt this way about a woman was when he was twenty-two years old, as dumb as the day was long—and falling headlong for Eve Sutherland.
She’d been the most stunning woman Clay had ever laid eyes on, a slender, platinum-haired beauty with eyes the color of an Amarillo sky and a voice as rich and sultry as the Louisiana bayou.
Marty Hogan was her polar opposite in every way. She was brash and reckless with a hint of tough that ran all the way to her core. All of those things were tempered with a self-destructive streak that made her all the more vulnerable. But Marty was also a cop. She could shoot with the skill of an Army Ranger sniper and take down a man twice her size. And yet Clay still felt the need to protect her. As much from herself as from the pain that had followed her here from Chicago.
Despite the fact that he’d only known Marty for a short time, he felt connected to her in a way that went deeper than anything he’d ever felt for Eve. He’d been in the same dark place Marty was in now. Somehow, that linked them. Made them kindred spirits.
Clay had sworn he wouldn’t, but he was getting caught up in things. In Marty. He spent far too much time thinking about her, the rest of the time fantasizing about her. Not a good frame of mind for a man who’d sworn never again. Damn it, he had Erica to think of. His career. His own peace of mind.
Shoving thoughts of Marty aside for the dozenth time that evening, Clay forced his attention back to the matter at hand and rose. He found Erica in her room, sitting cross-legged on the bed, a novel open on her lap.
“I thought you were going to do homework,” he said.
“I already did.” She looked down at the book and grinned. “I couldn’t wait to see how Jimmy rescued the stallion from the island.”
Reading a horse story. He should have known. It was her newest passion. In fact, anything having to do with horses fascinated her. He entered the room. “I need to talk to you for a minute.”
“Sure, Dad.” She scooted over to make room for him on the bed.
He sat and looked into his daughter’s eyes. So innocent of mind and pure of heart. How could he do this? “You know how sometimes you ask about your mom?”
“Her name was Eve and she was pretty and you and her were married, but you had to get divorced.” She nodded. “Jenny Watson’s mom and dad are divorced because they kept getting into arguments.”
“That happens sometimes, honey.” Clay drew a deep breath and then plunged. “Your mother is here to see you. She wants to talk to you.”
Seeming very adult, she thought about it a moment, then nodded. “Is she nice?”
“She’ll be very nice to you.”
She shrugged. “Okay.”
Just like that. His daughter opened her mind, her heart. No questions asked. In that moment Clay ached with love for her. “We’re in the living room. I’ll make some hot chocolate.”
“ ’Kay.” Unfolding her legs, she hopped off the bed. “Dad?” Her voice was too quiet.
“Yeah, honey?”
“Why did she leave us?”
The words cut him with the proficiency of a blade. For his daughter’s sake, Clay tried not to wince. “You can ask your mom that if you want to.”
“ ’Kay,” she said and they started toward the living room.
Clay found Eve pacing the length of the living room like
a sleek and elegant cat. She’d changed clothes and now wore fitted red slacks and a matching jacket over a white silk blouse. A glittering red stone sparkled at her cleavage. Earrings the size of hen’s eggs dangled from her lobes.
She turned when they entered the room. Her face lit into a smile at the sight of her daughter. “Erica!”
The girl took several steps into the room, looked back once at Clay. He held his ground at the doorway. Eve walked briskly toward the girl, leaned down and threw her arms around her.
“Darling, it’s so good to see you. My goodness, how you’ve grown!”
Erica kept her arms at her sides. She looked embarrassed, but Clay knew she was shy about being the center of attention sometimes, particularly when it came to strangers. Unless she was running a barrel race, she was a low-key kind of kid.
Eve shoved her to arm’s length and looked her up and down. “My God, you’re beautiful.”
Erica grinned. “So are you.”
Eve beamed. “Thank you, darling.”
Silence stretched for the span of a heartbeat. Eve rose and crossed to the sofa, where a shopping bag stuffed with pink tissue paper sat. “I bought you something. For your birthday.”
The girl’s eyes lit up with the sincerity only a child could manage. “For me?”
“Of course. Let’s sit down.”
Mother and daughter sat together on the sofa. Erica in her holey sneakers and Eve in her Via Spiga spikes. Picking up the shopping bag by its handle, Eve offered it. “Here you go.”
Erica dug into the bag with unencumbered enthusiasm. She pulled out a pink ostrich-skin purse with a short strap and a bling-bling latch.
“It’s from Paris,” Eve said.
“Paris, Texas?”
“Paris, France.”
“Wow.” Erica held it up as if it were a baby alligator that was known to bite. “It’s pretty.”
“I knew you’d like it. I thought about you the whole time I was there, wondering what to buy you.”
Erica opened the purse and looked inside, exploring the gift. Clay was astute enough to see Erica had about as much use for a purse as she did a Ferrari. Unless, of course, she could use it as a saddlebag. The thought made him smile.
Leaving them to get acquainted, Clay went to the kitchen, where he made hot chocolate for Erica. He poured coffee for himself and Eve. Setting the three cups on a tray, he carried them to the living room in time to hear Erica broach the subject she’d been dying to talk about.
“. . . and I’ll show you George.”
“George?”
“Yeah. He’s an appy.”
“An appy?”
“Appaloosa,” Clay put in, noticing Eve’s dumbfounded expression.
“Oh, of course. An appy. Right. But this is quarter horse country, isn’t it?”
“My dad and I like Appaloosas.” Erica dismissed the question. “Anyway, we’ve been running barrels, but he’s hard in the bridle. I’ve been reading books and trying to get him softened up. Last weekend we ran fifteen seconds.”
Jumping up from the sofa, Erica went for her mug of hot chocolate. “Oh, wow, Dad, this looks yummy.”
He set the tray on the coffee table. Eve shot him a grateful look and picked up her coffee. “So are you in fifth grade now?” she asked.
“Yeah.” Erica slurped whipped cream. “As soon as we finish our drinks, we can go look at George. He’s so cute. I’m teaching him to kiss.”
“Oh.” She glanced at Clay. “You must have inherited your love of horses from your dad.”
“He thinks George is a brat,” Erica said.
“He is,” Clay put in.
“A cute brat.” Erica gave him an impish grin, then turned her attention back to her mother. “Anyway, we can go look at him if you want.”
“Of course.”
Clay glanced at Eve’s spiked shoes and tried not to smile as he picked up his coffee and sipped. Ever since Eve had shown up, he’d been fighting the fear that his ex-wife would insert herself into their lives and try to take Erica away from him. That she would try to woo his little girl with all her glitter and sophistication. Clay didn’t want to share Erica, especially with a woman who’d discarded her like an old doll she’d lost interest in.
His thoughts were interrupted by the chirp of his cell phone. Unclipping it from his belt, he checked the display. Surprise whispered through him when he saw Marty’s number. He hit the Talk button. Before he could say a word, her voice crashed over the line.
“This is Hogan. I’ve got shots fired. My house. Someone broke in . . .”
Concern slammed into his chest like a cannonball. “Are you all right?”
“I’m . . . fine.”
“Anyone hit?”
“I don’t know.”
Clay was already in the kitchen, snagging his keys off the counter. “Where is he now?”
“Gone.”
“I’m on my way. Sit tight.”
When he reached the living room, Erica and Eve had both risen. Clay didn’t want to leave Erica with Eve. But Mrs. Huffschmidtt had already gone for the day, and Marty was in trouble. He didn’t have a choice.
“Can I talk to you for a moment?” he said to Eve.
“Of course.”
He went to the kitchen, aware that she followed. At the center island, he turned to her. “There’s an emergency in town. Can you stay for a couple of hours?”
He couldn’t believe it when she looked undecided for a moment. “Oh, of course. We’ll use this time to get better acquainted.”
He stared hard at her, aware that his heart was beating too hard. “Watch your mouth around Erica.”
She looked offended. “I would never say anything to hurt her.”
He leaned close, his voice falling to a whisper. “Don’t even think about going anywhere with her. If you so much as open your car door, I’ll know about it and I’ll come looking for you. When I find you, I’ll make you sorry you came back.”
Her flawless complexion reddened. “How dare—”
“You got that?” he cut in.
“Yes.”
Clay left the kitchen, went to Erica and pressed a kiss to her head. “Sorry kiddo. Gotta go.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s late, so don’t go anywhere, okay?”
“ ’Kay.”
“Take her out to see George.”
“I will.”
At that Clay turned and ran out the door.
He hit sixty miles per hour at Cactus Street and blew the
stoplight at the main intersection of the tiny downtown area. He had no idea what he’d find when he got to Marty’s house, but a dozen scenarios rampaged through his mind, and none of them were good.
Home-invasion type crimes did not happen in Caprock Canyon. Neither did sniper shootings. What the hell was going on? Did she have a disgruntled boyfriend who’d followed her to Texas? Had Smitty decided to make good on the hatred Clay had seen in his eyes? Or was there something more ominous in the works? Clay didn’t know the answers to any of the questions, but he intended to find out.
Marty’s house was totally dark when he arrived. The hairs at his nape prickled uncomfortably as he parked curbside. Grabbing the flashlight, he hit the ground running, took the steps in a single leap. His hand rested on the butt of his weapon as he traversed the porch. Clay didn’t bother knocking and entered the living room.
“Hogan?”
Silence screamed for a fraction of a second too long. Clay reached out and hit the light switch, but nothing happened. “Hogan!”
“I’m here.”
He shifted the beam to see her at the hall, walking toward him. The first thing he noticed was that she was wearing a robe. Her hair was wet. Her expression told him she was very frightened. “You okay?” he asked, knowing from the look on her face she wasn’t.
“I’m fine.”
“Where’s the perp?”
“I don’t know. Out the back, maybe.”
“Armed?”
“I didn’t see a gun.”
The urge to run his hands over her and make sure she was all right was strong, but Clay resisted. In the short time he’d known her, they’d been through a few intense situations, but he’d never seen her like this. “Stay put.”
Drawing his weapon, he entered the kitchen. The back door stood open, the screen door beyond closed. Clay pushed it open and stepped outside, listening, his eyes scanning the shadows around the small shed. Keeping the flashlight turned off, he started toward the shed. He tried the door, found it locked. The windows were intact. His boots crunched over dry grass as he walked around the structure. But there was no sign anyone had been there.
Turning on the flashlight, he walked the path back to the house, checking for footprints. He found them at the bedroom window. A hefty dose of anger went through him at the thought of some Peeping Tom son of a bitch watching Marty and getting his rocks off. But he knew that was a purely male response. The cop in him thought there might be more going on than either of them realized.
He entered the house through the front door just as the lights flashed on. He found Marty coming in through the back door in the kitchen.
“The fuse was unscrewed,” she said.
“I’m not surprised.” Clay grimaced. “I found footprints. By your bedroom window.”
For the first time he was able to get a good look at her. She was ghastly pale beneath the fluorescent light and clutched the lapels of the robe together with white-knuckled hands. Bright red abrasions glowed on both knees. She looked small and vulnerable out of uniform. And despite the circumstances, incredibly lovely.
“I need to get dressed.” She turned toward the living room.
Clay stopped her. “Marty, did he . . .” Unable to complete the sentence, he let the words trail.
“No,” she said quickly. “I fought him hard and managed to get my weapon.”