Troublemaker (20 page)

Tricks trotted back to him, an accusing expression on her face.

Bo had insisted that the dog understood most of what people said. What the hell; it was bullshit, of course, but—“Tricks, I hurt my back and I can't bend down. If you want me to throw your ball, you'll have to put it in my hand.”

She pounced on the ball like a cat, picked it up, and nosed it into his palm before taking off at a run again.

He stood there, stunned. No. Fucking. Way. It was a coincidence. She stopped when the ball didn't bounce in front of her the way she liked and looked back at him. He didn't dare try twisting his torso to throw overhand but he gave it a good underhand toss so it bounced in front of her, and she caught it on the first bounce. She stopped, posed, and he rolled his eyes even as he said, “Good girl.”

She brought the ball back and put it in his hand. He tossed it, she brought it back and put it in his hand. She did it a fourth time.

He was so astonished he forgot about his back and strolled toward the woods with her. As long as he kept his pace slow and even, as long as he didn't twist, he was fine. He tossed the ball, and Tricks brought it back. That wasn't coincidence; he'd never seen her do it before, she'd always dropped the ball at the feet of the person she'd chosen to honor. But she put the ball in his hand every single time after he told her what he wanted.

Eventually she got tired, stopped to pee. He was tired too, and his back was aching so he said, “Let's go, girl,” and they headed back inside. A glance at the clock told him it was almost time for her lunch, as if her standing beside her bowls and staring at him wasn't clue enough. In case he didn't get the hint, she looked at the bowls, then back at him.

“Not yet. Your mom keeps you on a strict schedule.”

With a sigh, she lay down beside the bowls to wait.

Was it possible she really understood him? Bo thought so and talked to the dog as if she were indeed a four-year-old child. He wasn't convinced, but damn, he was wavering.

He waited until Tricks's exact lunch time before squatting to dip the proper amount of food from the container into her bowl. Squatting didn't hurt his back, though he had a bit of difficulty in standing up again; he had to hold on to the counter top and pull himself up.

Tricks showed her appreciation with a wag of her tail and paused in her eating to bestow a lick on his knee. That was normal, he thought; dogs liked being fed.

He needed to eat, too; the council meeting was obviously running longer than Bo had thought it would, but he'd lived most of his life feeding himself. He was better; he didn't have to have food brought to him. He slapped together a sandwich and ate it standing up. He even drank milk because it was better for him than beer. He didn't want to drink her remaining Naked Pig beer when he didn't know how long it would be before the next delivery.

He sat at the table to read for a while because the chair had a straighter back, and that eased the ache in his own back. After letting Tricks rest and nap, he said, “Hey Tricks, want to go outside?” Let's see if she'd do that again, or if it had been a fluke.

Tricks retrieved her ball and went to the door, tail wagging in enthusiasm, feet dancing. They stepped out into the sunshine. She dropped the ball at his feet and took off running.

“Yeah, that's what I thought,” he muttered. Raising his voice he said, “Tricks!”

She stopped and looked back at him, surprised and displeased that he hadn't thrown the ball, but she trotted back to him. Come to think of it, she had the most expressive face he'd ever seen on a dog; reading her was as easy as if she could speak.

“You have to put it in my hand,” he said because, hell, if she under
stood that much, she should remember what he'd said about his back—assuming she knew what a back was.

She picked up the ball, put it in his hand, and took off.

Morgan looked down at the fuzzy, dirty, much-used yellow ball. “I'll be damned,” he said softly, and tossed it over her head so she could catch it on the first bounce and pose, waiting for his admiration.

When Bo entered the room in City Hall where the town council
meetings were held, she was surprised to see that both Miss Doris and Emily were there, as well as Jesse. Then she realized she shouldn't have been surprised because the meeting revolved around the Goodings and what meanness they might unleash on the town, which meant Emily, Jesse, and she herself were at the heart of it. She and Jesse took seats at the back of the room but didn't have time to chat.

Mayor Buddy called the meeting to order, then gave Emily the floor.

Emily was young, just in her mid-twenties, but self-possessed. She said, “First, I want to apologize to everyone that my personal life is causing problems for the town.”

There was a rumble of voices assuring her that the fault wasn't hers. She flushed and said, “I had the bad judgment to marry Kyle, so it goes back that far. This past week has been like a war. He and his daddy are threatening everything they can think of if I don't just sign over everything to Kyle and drop the domestic violence charges. I have to tell you, some of those threats involve the town.”

Miss Virginia Rose, the cashier at the grocery store who was also on the town council, said, “What kind of threats?”

Emily twisted her hands. “Well, it isn't just the people who work at the sawmills. Mr. Gooding said if he shut down the sawmills, the town would lose a lot of its revenue because the people who work there do most of their shopping here. And he's right.”

“I doubt he'd shut down the sawmills,” Mayor Buddy said. “That's his livelihood, too.”

“All I can tell you, Mayor, is that he's always talking about his investments and how much money he's got tucked away, and he said he can survive shutting down the sawmills for a few months, but the town and the people who work for him can't.”

The meeting erupted into a flurry of angry comments until Mayor Buddy gaveled it back to order. This was indeed a problem because the town operated on a shoestring budget with no surplus to tide it over. The loss of those sales taxes for even a few months would be catastrophic.

Bo and Jesse sat quietly listening. Everyone had a different idea about what to do, including Miss Virginia Rose's suggestion that some of the townsfolk take the Goodings out somewhere and beat the shit out of them. Bo could tell several of the council members thought that was a good idea, which was problematic with her and Jesse both sitting there.

Time ticked by. She checked her phone; this was taking far longer than she'd anticipated. She was glad Tricks had stayed with Morgan, she thought, because otherwise she'd have had to interrupt the meeting at least a couple of times to take Tricks out. Plus she would have had to go down to the police station to get some of the food she kept there. On the other hand, this might be the longest she'd ever been away from Tricks other than the one time when she'd had bronchitis and Daina had kept Tricks while Bo miserably waited her turn to be seen in a doctor's office. Tricks had been about six months old and hell on wheels; easygoing Daina had been no match for her, and still wasn't.

“We're going to have to arrest most of the people here,” Jesse muttered to her because the talk had segued from prevention to vengeance, which included hiring the Mean-As-Shit Hobsons to deal with the situation. Considering Mr. Gooding's reaction to Loretta, Bo thought that idea had some merit.

On the other hand, she also remembered how vehemently Mr. Gooding wanted Kyle out of this situation without a criminal record.

She held up her hand. Mayor Buddy banged his gavel and said, “Chief Maran has the floor.”

Bo got to her feet, and everyone in the room looked at her expectantly.

“Emily, which would you rather have, Kyle prosecuted for hitting you, or him signing the divorce papers and just going away?”

“Divorce and going away,” Emily said promptly. “I know I'm supposed to prosecute but I gotta say, he never beat me or anything like that, he slapped me that one time in the bakery and I'm ashamed to admit it, but I slapped him that morning before I left the house. He could file charges against me, too, couldn't he? But he hasn't.”

“Yes, he could,” Bo said. “I don't know if the mayor has told everyone, but Mr. Gooding came to see me on Monday and he's very concerned about Kyle having a criminal record. I think we can use that as leverage and work out something between the town and the Goodings, and that includes Kyle signing the divorce papers and leaving Emily alone.”

It took a while to hammer out a plan. As Mayor Buddy put it, the Goodings were bitter, vindictive sons of bitches who never forgot a slight unless “we make it in their best interests to do otherwise.”

The plan revolved around Emily, and she was all in. Only a week had passed, but she could push hard to have a divorce granted immediately, if not sooner. She could light a fire under her lawyer, they could get the papers ready, they could get Judge Harper lined up. The linchpin was getting Kyle to sign. The proposal they came up with was that if Kyle didn't give Emily any more trouble, if he agreed to the divorce settlement, which was simply that he kept his stuff and she kept hers and they sold the house and split the profits, assuming there were any, the charges against him would be dropped. He also had to stay away from her and get on with his own life without interfering in hers. If he couldn't do that, all bets were off. And if she started having any mysterious troubles, such as her car getting keyed or her tires knifed, the Hobsons would be sicced on him. That last wasn't legal, but what the hell—maybe none of it was.

Jesse was the law-and-order person there, and he didn't have any problem with it. He was for whatever served the community best rather
than going balls-to-the-wall for the few misdemeanor charges that were all they had on Kyle. “I'm okay with all this,” he said. “Kyle didn't get off without catching some good licks himself, including Brandy braining him with the chair. If everyone else is on board, I am too.” That pretty much sealed the deal as far as everyone else was concerned.

Then they had to decide who would make the proposition to Mr. Gooding. Mayor Buddy volunteered, and everyone heaved a sigh of relief. Mayor Buddy was as wily as they came; he'd make it sound as if they were doing the Goodings a favor and be damn convincing about it. The town lawyer said he'd draw up some papers because they had to have signatures on the deal or the Goodings wouldn't take it seriously. Whether or not the papers would stand up in court was something else entirely, but from the conversations around her Bo thought that if the Goodings reneged, court would be the least of their worries because the Hobsons would be called in.

Finally—
finally
—she was on her way home. She was starving but didn't take the time to stop and get a hamburger because she was anxious about how Tricks and Morgan had fared together. Tricks would be okay; Morgan's welfare was the most at risk. If Tricks felt put-upon or insulted, she might well refuse to come back inside, and Morgan was too weak to chase after her. He could fall and hurt himself if he tried to push too far.

She didn't exactly lock the brakes and sling gravel when she slid to a stop beside the Tahoe, but it was close.

The good news was that there was no one lying on the ground unable to get up, and no annoyed golden retriever refusing to obey “Come here.” Maybe they had rocked through without any major problems.

Silly, but her heart was beating a little faster as she opened the door, braced for whatever scene greeted her there. No, it wasn't silly because she knew Tricks.

Still, she wasn't prepared. Nothing could have prepared her.

Morgan was sitting on the sofa, all in one piece. Tricks was standing on her back legs in front of him, her front legs braced on his chest, looking up at him with an expression of pure delight while he scratched
behind her ears and crooned to her in a deep, soft tone. They were all but nose to nose. At Bo's entrance Tricks turned her head to look at her, giving her one of those joyous looks that always melted Bo's heart because she'd never before seen such a happy creature. Tricks looked back up at Morgan, and he bent his head to gently touch his forehead to hers. “There's Mom,” he said unnecessarily, and Tricks took that as her signal to go greet the center of her life.

She raced over and began dancing around Bo in an excess of joy. Bo knelt and indulged in a frenzy of petting, but she barely knew what she was doing. She felt as if she'd been hit between the eyes with a two-by-four, or maybe punched in the stomach. Something. Even her lips were numb.

No. Oh dear God,
no
.

S
HE DIDN'T WANT TO BE ATTRACTED TO HIM. SHE
shouldn't,
couldn't,
be attracted to him. There was no point in it, it was stupid, it was a total waste of time and emotional effort. She knew better.

Yet here she was, almost melting because he was snuggling with her dog. Well, not that exactly; Tricks had a way of making everyone eat out of her paw. It was
him,
specifically. She wasn't wearing rose-colored glasses when it came to seeing him for what he was. For the most part he had kept himself very low key, and she appreciated the effort he'd made, but she hadn't forgotten that he was here because he lived a very dangerous life, one so different from hers she couldn't begin to relate. He was also a temporary fixture; when he was well, he'd be gone. He wouldn't stay.

She'd never before been attracted to overt masculinity, the kick-ass-and-take-names mentality. So why him? Her ex-husband had been better looking; feckless, but better looking. Morgan's features were rough, carved by hard experience. A woman would never look at him and think “Pretty!” but she would definitely look at him and think “Man.” Maybe that was it; maybe it was a chemical reaction, and she was responding to all that testosterone.

Her heart was pounding way too fast, perhaps in panic. She'd been
aware
of him from the beginning, and it had been easy to delude herself
into thinking it was nothing more than his unaccustomed presence in her home making her on edge. She had tamped that awareness down, controlled it, rationalized it. What she hadn't been able to do was destroy it. The awareness had waited, ticking away like a time bomb; perhaps she'd let herself get too comfortable because the bomb had just exploded in her face and she didn't know what to do, how to handle it.

He'd changed. If he'd stayed the way he was, she'd be okay because she'd be in caretaker mode. He'd arrived a physical wreck, but now he wasn't. He'd been here just a little over a week, and though she saw him every day, she was still aware that his color was better, he was stronger, he was gaining weight. Without knowing for certain, she guessed that when she was gone he worked at building his stamina because she couldn't imagine a man who did what he did for a living being content to simply wait and let his body heal on its own. No, he'd be pushing himself beyond what an ordinary person would, fighting back against weakness, which was further evidence of who and what he was.

He was far from recovered, but in that one week he'd improved enough that he could manage by himself. In the name of self-preservation she should insist that he leave. Doing so would undoubtedly cost her what Axel had already put in her bank account, but she hadn't spent any of it so she wouldn't be any worse off than she had been before. It wasn't as if she'd be destitute; she was okay financially.

But where would Morgan go? He couldn't go home. He'd have to contact Axel, get some other arrangements made, and on that first day he'd made it plain any further contact could paint a target on his back. He had some money, he had credit cards, he was undoubtedly capable. She
could
tell him to go.

But what kind of person would that make her, if she put her emotions above his life? This wasn't a game he was playing. He'd already almost died. Axel had said he'd coded twice during surgery.

She would be endangering his life if she made him go.

She would be endangering her heart if she didn't.

All of those thoughts and realizations were racing through her mind like strobe flashes. The inner turmoil of realization was so great that
she felt the blood draining from her face, literally felt her flesh contracting. Morgan must have seen it because he started to his feet, caught himself and winced in pain, then forced himself upright. He moved fast, was beside her in three long strides. “What's wrong?” he asked, cupping her elbows in his rough palms to catch her if she staggered.

Bo fought down her reaction, conquered it, regained her mental balance. No way would she let him guess what she was thinking. She had too strong an instinct for self-preservation for that. She blew out a breath. “I just got woozy. Low blood sugar, I guess; I didn't stop to get anything to eat.”

He was frowning with concern. “Sit down, and I'll get you something. What do you want? A sandwich?”

“Just a yogurt. It's too close to dinner to eat a sandwich.” Dinner wasn't the only thing that was too close;
he
was too close, too warm, too big. She didn't want to notice that the top of her head didn't reach his chin, or how broad his shoulders were. She didn't want to see the faint line of a small scar on his jaw, or smell the hot man-scent of his skin. He was still holding her elbows, and she liked the feel of his hands on her skin, the heat of them. Oh, damn, this was bad. He needed to release her. She needed to move away.

Thank God, he let her go and went to the refrigerator to fetch the requested yogurt and a spoon. Bo went to the bar and eased onto one of the stools. She was shaking, both inside and out. He couldn't know. He could never know. She had to suck it up, hide her feelings—no, she had to ignore those feelings, box them up and seal it tight, until even she couldn't tell they were there.

He opened the yogurt container for her before he placed it in front of her, the piercing blue fire of his gaze searching her face. Keeping her expression bland, she said, “Thanks,” and put a spoonful in her mouth. Never before had she been so grateful to have something so ordinary to do.

“I've never got what it is women like about yogurt,” he commented, leaning his hip against the counter on the other side of the bar. He was
still thin, but he had the easy grace of an athlete, someone who had trained his body far beyond the capabilities of most humans. What was he like when he was at full strength?

Don't think about it, don't think about it.
She wrenched her thoughts from that path and made herself shrug. “The texture is creamy. It's easy, nothing that has to be prepared. When you don't want a lot, it's just enough.”

“The same can be said for peanut butter.”

“Do you like beef jerky?”

“Yeah. So?”

“So what's appealing about gnawing on something with the texture of leather?”

He grinned, his ice-blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “When you finish, you feel like you've accomplished something. Why didn't you stop to eat? Worried about Tricks?”

She scoffed, rolled her eyes. “I knew Tricks would be fine. I was worried about
you
. I just could see you doing something when you were outside that pissed her off, then she'd get all huffy and not come back inside, and you'd hurt yourself trying to catch her.”

He laughed as he looked at the dog, who was lying on her back with all four feet in the air while she enthusiastically chewed on the bedraggled one-legged giraffe. “Yeah, she's a terror.” He rubbed the side of his nose, his expression suddenly a little abashed. “You were right. For a dog, she's damn brilliant.”

“I know,” she said smugly. “I've been dealing with her for two and a half years now.” Tricks's intelligence wasn't due to anything Bo personally had done, but she was still proud of the dog. She paused, and curiosity got the best of her. “What did she do?”

“I was trying to do too much and got a muscle spasm in my back. She wanted to go outside, and I couldn't bend down to pick up her ball so I told her she'd have to put it in my hand. She did.” He slowly shook his head in amazement. “Every time. How did she understand that?”

“I don't know. All I know is, she does. If she could talk and had opposable thumbs, she'd rule the world.” She finished the yogurt, slid off
the stool to put the carton in the trash and the spoon in the dishwasher. “How's your back now?”

He turned to face her, lounged against the counter again. “Better. I borrowed her ball and used it to work the kink out. She thought that was a hell of a lot of fun, trying to get the ball from under my back.”

Bo laughed because she could just picture it. Having someone on the floor on her level was one of Tricks's favorite things. She would light up with glee . . . right before she pounced.

“So how did the meeting go?” he asked. “Given how long it took, I'm guessing not well.”

“Pretty good, actually. It was about the Goodings, of course, but we worked out a plan to handle the problem. Mayor Buddy is going to make Mr. Gooding an offer he can't refuse.”

“Does it involve a horse's head?”

She stifled a laugh. “Only if the Hobsons get involved. I hope it won't come to that. We're offering to drop the charges in exchange for Kyle signing the divorce papers and leaving Emily alone.”

Morgan slanted another of those blue-lightning looks down at her. “What will prevent him from going back on his word once the charges are dropped? Can you trust him?”

“Not one bit. That's where the Hobsons come in. If he doesn't honor the agreement, we turn them loose on him.”

He chuckled. “I like the idea. Every town should have the equivalent of the Hobsons.”

“They probably do, but it's our good luck that Loretta and her husband both work for the town. Charlie is in the water department.”

“She's married?”

“To her high school sweetheart. Their son is in Morgantown, in his junior year.”

“Is he a Hobson too?” Morgan asked, looking a little puzzled.

“No, why? Oh—her name. Loretta was already working for the town when they got married, and she said it was too much trouble to change everything.”

“I guess keeping Hobson has its advantages.”

“Oh, yeah.” It struck her that their easy conversation was
too
easy. She'd become too comfortable with him, and he was already too familiar with the town and her life. Time to get out. She bent down and scratched Tricks's silky belly. “You want to go for a walk, sweetie? I've been cooped up in a meeting room all day, and I could use some exercise.”

Tricks released the giraffe and jumped up, racing for her ball. As she passed by him, Morgan caught Bo's arm, his clasp light, his expression serious. “Do you feel up to a walk? I can take her.”

Part of her was warmed that he was concerned enough to ask; another part of her panicked at both his touch and the close attention he was paying to her. She didn't want him to notice her, didn't want him to think twice about her or anything she did. She hid her reaction with a casual, “I feel fine now.” And she did—physically, at least. Her reaction before hadn't been physical to begin with, not that she wanted him to know it.

“Where do you go?” he asked, looking through the windows at the woods on the right. “I figure I need to know, in case something happens and I have to call in the rescue squad.”

“I just follow the path through the woods, up the hill, and back. It's about a mile and a half, enough to give her a good walk.” Tricks brought her ball up, and Bo stroked her head, then said, “I need to change clothes, I guess. Hold on, sweetie, it won't take but a minute.”

She hurried up the stairs with Tricks right behind her. As soon as the bedroom door was closed behind her, Bo blew out a long breath. She needed the walk more than Tricks did, needed the time away from him to give herself a good talking to, to put her dumb-ass reaction in that mental box and seal it tight. She didn't rule out maybe someday finding someone and getting married again . . . not completely, anyway. That was okay. That was normal.

Falling for a man she
knew
was going to leave was just plain stupid. She learned from her mistakes; she didn't keep making the same ones over and over.

He was leaving. She had to keep telling herself that, because the minute she let herself forget, she was in real trouble.

The
following Tuesday, after dinner, Morgan said, “I climbed the
stairs today. I'm ready to graduate from the sofa to a real bed.”

“That's good.” Bo kept her tone absent though her stomach tied itself in knots at the idea of him upstairs, so close to her while they slept. Yes, he'd be in the guest room, and each bedroom had its own en suite bath so they wouldn't be sharing space, but still . . . she'd liked the sense of distance, the barrier of the stairs. Now he'd conquered that barrier, and he'd be upstairs with her at night. “I think there are sheets on the bed but I'll check to make sure, and put towels in the bathroom.”

“I've already taken my duffle up.”

She straightened to stare at him, almost dropping the plate she was putting in the dishwasher. He'd managed to lift that heavy thing?
How?
She'd had to drag it inside. Sure, some of his clothes were in the laundry, but still. “How did you manage that?” she blurted. And how had she missed its presence? The duffle was big, and the only place to put it where it was out of the way but still easily accessible was behind the sofa. The duffle was gone—but now that she was looking she noticed the big Glock was on the lamp table beside the sofa.

He smirked, leaning against the cabinet beside the dishwasher and crossing one booted foot over the other. “The smart way. I unpacked half of it, took it up, then came back down for the rest of the stuff. Which means I climbed the stairs
twice
.” He chuckled at her expression. “I never thought I'd be proud of just being able to go up a flight of stairs.”

“Considering your condition when you first got here, you've come a long way.” He was still thin, still didn't have a lot of stamina, but both his weight and his strength seemed to be increasing every day. “Exactly how long has it been since you were shot?”

“It'll be six weeks on Thursday. I'd be in better shape if it hadn't been for that damn pneumonia, but it kicked my butt big time.”

Just six weeks. To her that seemed like a very short time, considering how severe his wound had been, but here he was grousing because pneumonia had held him back.