A Cop's Honor

“Enough.”

“Where do you keep your flashlights? I’ll get them out in case you lose power while you give the ballerina a bath.”

“In the laundry room drawer, but I usually use the hurricane lamps on the mantel. Matches are with the flashlights. What did you find out from Mason?”

“Very little. Gathering info is a finesse job. It’ll take time, but I’ll get to the bottom of it. Do you know the families who live on the street behind you?”

“No. Why?”

“Mason kept checking the woods. I’ll see what I can get on your neighbors.”

“Why?”

“Just a hunch.”

“What kind of a hunch?”

“Nothing concrete.”

The lights went out before she could press for more. Belle cried, “Mommy!”

Brandon pulled his cell phone from his back pocket and hit the flashlight app. Hannah had left hers in her purse on the kitchen counter.

“Wait here. I’ll get you a light.” He left and returned a moment later with a box of matches. “Your flashlight batteries are dead. Do you have more?”

“Mason dropped the flashlight the night he tried to sneak out. I suspect it’s the bulb.”

After lighting the kerosene lamps, he handed her one. “Take care of Belle. You have city water and a gas water heater. She can still have her bath. I’ll check on Mason.”

Of course Brandon knew all the details about her house. He’d been a huge part of the purchase process. If not for him, she would never have been able to convince Rick to buy the old home she’d fallen in love with the moment she’d seen it. Brandon had been the one to shadow the inspector, and when Rick had been daunted by the amount of work the house needed, Brandon had pointed out that the previous owners had already done all the expensive renovations, leaving only cosmetic projects incomplete. He’d helped Rick make and prioritize the renovation list.

That Brandon had been such a huge part of their lives had made his failure to protect Rick even more difficult to comprehend.

They climbed the wide stairs side by side. Wind rattled the windows and whistled under the eaves. It was comforting to have someone else here to help with the weather this nasty. And that was crazy, because she’d handled every previous outage just fine by herself. She pushed that feeling aside, and on the landing, they went in opposite directions—her to her daughter, him to her son.

After giving Belle her bath and dressing her for bed, Hannah left the lamp on the table and headed for Mason’s room. Brandon had one hip parked on the corner of her son’s desk. Both he and Mason looked comfortable together. Even though she hadn’t made a sound Brandon looked up. “He has Rick’s head for numbers.”

“Yes. He does. Belle has picked out her book. She’s waiting for you. I’ll take over here.”

He rose and crossed the room. Their shoulders brushed as he passed, and static electricity zapped her, making her gasp. Brandon paused and their gazes met in the darkened room. The electricity between them had to be due to the storm. She hustled to Mason’s side and settled in to check homework, but her thoughts were anything but settled. She kept listening for sounds from Belle’s room.

Finally, Mason closed his book. “He’s pretty cool. Brandon, I mean. I can see why Dad would have wanted to be his friend. He knows stuff.”

She didn’t want her son comparing the men and have Rick come up short. “Yes. He does. But your daddy did, too. He was smart in a different way.”

“If you say so.”

“I’m going to leave the light with you. Be careful. It’s an open flame and fuel—”

“Moooom, I know!”

She returned to Belle’s room but paused outside the door to listen as Brandon read a much-loved tale using different voices for each character. Undetected, she observed the reflection of the man and child in the bed via the mirror hanging over Belle’s dresser.

Brandon was propped against the headboard, book in hand, looking as if he belonged there. His long legs, crossed at his ankles, were on top of the quilt revealing his sock-covered feet. Her daughter lay trustingly beside him with her folded hands beneath her cheek, eyes heavy lidded and close to sleep. A pang of yearning hit Hannah so hard it took her breath. Rick used to read in bed, and Hannah had often fallen asleep at his side.

How would it feel to be curled against Brandon’s side as trustingly as Belle? She shook her head. Thoughts like that were disloyal to Rick. Her husband had never known the simple joy of reading stories to his daughter. He’d been killed on the eve of Belle’s first birthday. Pain and regret rolled through her.

Then she realized Brandon had gone silent. She caught him watching her in the mirror and she couldn’t look away. Her pulse quickened. Why? Why did he have this effect on her?

He closed the book and eased from the bed. After gently covering Belle, he gathered his boots off the floor and the lamp from the table and joined her in the hall.

“She’s out, but she fought it,” he whispered. Lamplight and hushed voices engulfed them in intimacy.

His attention shifted behind her—to her bedroom. It lingered, scanned. Lightning flashed, illuminating her bed and the half-dozen throw pillows that hadn’t been there when he’d last slept in that same bed. Lord, she didn’t need to think about him between those same sheets.

Then his gaze swung back to her. The flickering light picked out the golden flecks in his irises. She felt vulnerable even though he couldn’t possibly know that her obsession with pillows was because she couldn’t bear to sleep in an empty bed.

He lifted his arm, the one holding the light. Her breath caught. An image of Brandon propped against her headboard flashed in her mind. Only in this picture his chest was bare and his legs were beneath the covers. Heat rushed through her.

The atmosphere changed, becoming as electrically charged as the storm raging outside. Her heart pounded harder, but it was barely audible over the thunder rumbling the house.

“After you,” he said.

What was wrong with her? He was indicating the stairs, not the bedroom. She blamed her unwelcome thoughts on her conversation with Lucy. She did not want Brandon. Not in that way. She had to get him out of her house. She turned and quickly descended the stairs. On silent feet he followed her, the edge of his circle of light nipping at her heels. In the foyer he set the lamp on the console table and stepped into his work boots.

“So you’ve read bedtime stories before,” she said to break the awkwardly intimate silence.

“I read to the twins sometimes when they stay with my folks to give Mom a break. And, once in a while, I get suckered into reading at the library on Cops and Kids day.”

She’d like to see that. No! She wouldn’t. “Why aren’t you married with children of your own by now, Brandon?”

He finished tying his laces then straightened, looming over her in the murky light. The corners of his mouth curved downward. “Two reasons. My job—you, more than anyone, know the risks that entails—and my dad.”

Yes, she knew the dangers of police work. And she needed to remember them. Right now. “What does your father have to do with anything?”

“He has Parkinson’s disease. It’s not believed to be hereditary, but the doctors can’t be certain of the cause. One day he’ll need ’round the clock care for his most basic needs. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

She was familiar with the disease and had worked with several afflicted patients in the past. “What stage is he in now?”

“Stage two. He’s still mostly independent, but he’s starting to need help. Not that he’s willing to admit that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It is what it is. You play the hand you’re dealt. You’ve done a good job of that, Hannah. Mason and Belle are great kids.”

The praise, something she heard so rarely, choked her up, made her eyes burn. But she would not cry in front of Brandon. “I wish Rick was here to see them.”

Brandon’s flinch stabbed her with guilt. She hadn’t intentionally used the spiteful barb to push him away, but distance between them was for the best. When she’d seen him so comfortable with Mason and then again with Belle he’d made her ache for something she would never have again. A partner, someone with whom she could share the joys and burdens of parenthood.

That wind-down period at the end of the day when you rehashed what had happened and planned for the future was tough. That was when loneliness enveloped her. And, yes, as much as she’d tried to deny it, she did miss intimacy. But taking a lover as casually as Lucy did just wasn’t part of her makeup.

Brandon’s lips compressed. “Make your project list, Hannah. I’ll be back. And we’ll get to the bottom of what’s troubling Mason.”

Chapter Five

BRANDON THREW DOWN his pen in disgust late Friday afternoon, pushed back from his desk and stabbed his fingers through his hair. He had shit for brains today. He’d tried repeatedly to focus on the case files on his desk, but no matter what he did, he couldn’t wipe what he’d seen Wednesday night from his mind.

For a split second while standing on the landing outside Hannah’s bedroom something hotter than the hurricane lamp’s flame had flickered in Hannah’s eyes. Want. Need. Hunger. And for the span of a dozen racing heartbeats, he’d been tempted to give her what she desired. Because he’d wanted it, too. Then he’d come to his senses. He’d tried blaming the heat in her eyes on the reflection of the lamp’s fire. But he wasn’t buying it.

Circumstances were throwing them together and causing the craziness. It had been five years and she didn’t date. That meant she didn’t have sex. She needed a man. Any man. Except him—the man she blamed for her husband’s death. It didn’t matter that she needed his help with Mason right now, a basic distrust—because he’d let her down, because he’d let Rick down—lay just below the surface.

His dry spell hadn’t been nearly as long as hers, but it had obviously been too long if he was looking at Rick’s wife that way. He needed to rectify the situation. He reached for his phone but didn’t pick it up. He had no interest in dialing any of the numbers in his contact list, and he wasn’t interested in a casual pickup.

As if his thoughts had activated the device, his cell phone vibrated on the desk. He glanced at the screen. He had a text message from his mother.

Hello, dear. Jessamine and Logan are flying into town for the weekend. We’re going to have an impromptu cookout. Are you able to attend?

His mother’s habit of always texting in complete sentences and with proper grammar made him smile. His youngest sister and her new husband lived in the Florida Keys. He didn’t get to see them often. He liked Logan, his brother-in-law, but a guy always had to keep an eye out for his baby sister’s welfare.

Depends on day and time. Helping Hannah, he tapped back.

Hannah? Are you dating someone new?

He cringed. He could practically feel her excitement even though they were miles apart. She’d made it clear she wanted more grandchildren. He’d also made it clear they wouldn’t be coming from him. But she wasn’t listening.

Rick’s Hannah.

I thought she wasn’t speaking to you?

His parents had been at the funeral and witnessed the blowup.

She needs help with a project.

What kind of project?

His mother had been a schoolteacher until she’d quit at the end of the last school year to help his father around the orchard, and she understood kids better than anyone he knew. He would like her advice. He debated filling her in. But that was a face-to-face conversation. Not a texted one.

Home maintenance.

Truth, just not the whole truth.

You could bring her and the children to the cookout. They are welcome and we would love to see them.

Given Rick had practically grown up at their house, the sentiment was no surprise.

I’ll relay message. When’s dinner?

Saturday night. Come early. Your father will need assistance, but don’t let on that you’re helping.

Will do.

He put down the phone. It immediately vibrated again, but this time “Hannah Leith” flashed on the screen, sending a jolt through him.

Need u 2 come over. NOW.

A freefalling sensation hit him, not unlike what he’d experienced the one time he’d stupidly let Rick convince him to try skydiving. He grabbed the phone and hit her number. This wasn’t texting material, either.

“Hello?” The whispered response was almost inaudible.

Adrenaline pulsed through him. People whispered on the phone when they were in danger. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“It’s me. Mason. Mom doesn’t know I swiped her phone. There’s water all over the kitchen floor. Something busted. She wants to call a plumber, but she told her friend Lucy we can’t afford it this month. She’s kinda upset. I think she might cry.”

Relief doused panic. Water and tears he could handle. “The cutoff valve is in the pantry. Bottom left corner. Turn off the water. I’m on my way.”

He grabbed the file he’d been working on and shoved it into his briefcase. Thankful the rest of the team had already left to begin whatever their Friday night entailed, he signed out and headed for Hannah’s. Twenty minutes later he pulled into the driveway. Mason was waiting for him on the porch.

Brandon grabbed the toolbox he kept in his truck. “Did you turn off the water?”

“Yeah. I umm...didn’t tell Mom I called you. She might be mad.”

“If she is, I’ll handle it. You did the right thing. Let’s see what we have.” The kitchen floor resembled a soggy quilt of multicolored, saturated towels. Hannah stood over the sink wringing out one. Her drooping shoulders screamed defeat. Her lavender scrub suit was wet at the bottom and down the front. The thin fabric clung to her—

“Occifer Brandon,” Belle cried out when she spotted him. Brandon welcomed the distraction.

Hannah stiffened and turned. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard you needed help.”

Hannah shot Mason a scolding look then nodded. “Clearly, I do.”

Oblivious to the tension in the air, the little ballerina sprang from her stool and splashed across the wet floor to wrap her arms around Brandon’s hips. He set his tools on the counter and hugged her back. She was, of course, dressed in the same hue as her mother. He liked that. But he couldn’t see his sisters ever doing it.

He crossed to the sink, squelching on wet towels with each step, and stopped beside Hannah. Her breath caught, her head tipped back and her lips parted. Standing only inches from her, her scent infiltrated his nostrils, addled his brain. He mentally shook himself. “I need to check under the sink.”

“Oh. Right.” She jumped out of the way, landing with a splash on a wet towel.

He opened the cabinet. “Dry here. That leaves the dishwasher and the refrigerator as water sources.”

He straightened and addressed Mason. “My dad taught me to check the easy fixes first. Since fixing the dishwasher means pulling it out from under the counter, I’m going to start with the fridge.”

“I’ll help.”

“First, try this.” Brandon cupped his hand beneath the water-in-the-door spout and pushed. It clicked but didn’t dispense anything. “This looks like the guilty party. Now I need your help, Mason.”

He didn’t really, but including the boy was a calculated move. Mason sprang forward, and together they rolled the fridge away from the wall. Brandon spotted the problem immediately, but instead of reacting, he asked, “What do you see?”

It took Mason a quarter minute. “The icemaker thingy is on the floor.”

“Bingo. Hoses don’t usually detach by themselves, but this one did.”

Hannah groaned quietly. “It might not have been by itself. I dropped Mason’s field trip permission form between the counter and fridge this morning. I pushed the fridge aside to retrieve the paper.”

“You might have jiggled the waterline loose. Grab my tools, Mason. I’ll show you how to fix it.”

Five minutes later the job was done. “Kids, carry the towels to the washing machine for your mom. Then Mason, you can turn the water back on.”

They hustled into action. Hannah stood with her hands wrapped around her middle. The gratitude in her eyes hit Brandon square in the solar plexus. She made him feel like a rock star when he was only a guy with a wrench. “Thank you for finding the leak. But more than that, thanks for making it a teachable moment and letting Mason fix it.”

“No problem. It’s what my dad would have done. He put tools in our hands as soon as we were able to carry them and taught us how to repair rather than replace. Besides, if the hose came loose once, it might again. He’ll know what to do next time.”

“We both will.” She shifted on her feet. “I’m sorry he called you. I hope he didn’t interrupt a date or something.”

Brandon stifled a wince over his lack of a social life and ducked into the closet to turn on the water without waiting for Mason. “I’m glad he did. It was past time for me to leave the office, and it’s important that Mason knows he can ask for help. I want to help, Hannah. But like Mason, you have to be willing to ask. Mind reading isn’t one of my skills.”

She ducked her head and plucked at her damp shirt. “I’m not very good at asking. My father raised me to be independent.”

“With him deployed as often as he was, I’m sure you had to be. Good thing you’re not too old to learn new tricks. Although you are pushing thirty-one. That’s cutting it close,” he teased.

Her gaze snapped back to his, surprised at first, then filling with amusement. A self-deprecating smile twisted her lips. “Thanks for making me feel ancient. My birthday isn’t for a few more weeks, and I’m still younger than you.”

He laughed. That was the old Hannah—quick with the comeback.

“Can Occifer Brandon stay for dinner?” Belle asked.

Hannah’s expression filled with dismay. “We’re only having hot dogs, sweetie, and I’m sure Officer Brandon has other plans.”

A smart man would go home. He, apparently, wasn’t that man. “I love hot dogs, and somebody needs to man the grill.”

He waited to see how Hannah would get out of that one. “The grill probably won’t work. I haven’t used it since Rick... Cooking outside was his domain.”

“Do you have propane?”

“I don’t know.”

“Mason’s old enough to take over. We’ll check it out.”

“Okay, then,” she replied with a noticeable lack of excitement. “Brandon, I need to pay you for what you’ve done and for the boards and whatever else you bought to repair the gutter.”

After hearing she couldn’t afford a plumber, the last thing he would do was take her money. “I had extra supplies laying around from fixing my rental houses.”

She shook her head. “They still cost you something, and your time is definitely worth—”

“Hannah, I don’t want your money.”

“I insist—”

Once again, opportunity knocked loud and clear. “There’s a way you can repay me. My parents are having a cookout tomorrow. I want you and the kids to come.”

He knew her answer before she opened her mouth. Refusal was stamped all over her from her puckered brows to her folded arms and even the curling toes of her bare feet. “No. I... I wouldn’t be comfortable.”

He held up a hand. “Hear me out. I told you my dad has Parkinson’s. He needs help. But he refuses to admit it. He’s losing ground, but he hates the physical therapist his doctor recommended. That means he doesn’t go. I want your professional opinion on his status. If you could evaluate him without him knowing what you’re doing and give me suggestions for managing the changes overtaking his body, it would be a great help.”

Compassion filled her eyes. She bit her lip. “Denial of the diagnosis is common. I guess we could drop by for a bit.”

* * *

EVEN THOUGH SHE’D been a guest at Rebecca and Thomas Martin’s home more than a dozen times, Hannah didn’t want to be here. She didn’t know how to act without Rick. But she followed Brandon’s instructions and circled the backyard, trying to keep up with her eager children.

A white board fence enclosed the large grass area. Beyond that border row upon row of peach trees, laden with fruit, stretched as far as she could see. Off to one side outbuildings, including a barn and a chicken coop, blocked her view.

“Ponies!” Belle squealed and tugged on Hannah’s hand. But Hannah held tight.

“Four-wheelers,” Mason called out with equal enthusiasm.

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