Pride Of A Hunter

Reverting to old technique, she turned off the light and edged her way to the barn in a toes-to-heel stride that kept her footfalls near silent. The well-oiled barn door slid smoothly on its runners. She knew the location of every shadow, every scent, every movement. Finding the one out of place didn’t take long. She moved in on it, slowly but surely.

Dom.

He slept on a bed of straw in the empty stall near the enclosure the goats shared. Fanny and Faye ignored him, but doeling Fiona seemed intrigued by the hair she couldn’t quite reach through the wooden planks with her tongue. Wrinkles pleated his forehead, as if his sleep wasn’t any more restful than hers. Was Cole haunting him, too?

Was the menacing growl of Dom’s truck what had started her dream? Why was he here? Hadn’t he caused enough trouble for one day?

The sight of Dom there, his big body lax in sleep knocked her back as if someone had pulled a carpet from beneath her feet. Memories seeped through the wall of pain her mind fought to keep up. Dom’s soothing voice. Cole’s bright laugher. The friendly kidding, the easy camaraderie that turned into fierce support when needed. How often had she woken up to find Dom sacked out on the couch, looking just like this?

No one had wanted her on the team, least of all Cole. But Dom had played negotiator from the start and, somehow, the three of them had become the best of friends. Those four years on the team were the best in her life and part of her yearned for that easy companionship.

For that brief reprieve in time, she’d belonged.

She clutched the flashlight more tightly in her hand. Don’t go there, Luci. That’s not the answer.

She flicked the switch on the flashlight and shone its light in Dom’s face. “What are you doing here?”

Dom jolted upright, ready to defend himself, then relaxed when he realized whose voice had roused him from a deep sleep. “I should’ve known you’d find me.”

He lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the bright light. “What are you doing up so early?”

Why don’t you sit a spell, Luce, tell me what’s on your mind? How often had Dom said that to her with his molasses drawl? How often had she done exactly that? Sagged into the comfort of his broad chest and cried her eyes out, spilling out her sad secrets while he listened without reproach? I’m trying to outrun nightmares. You should know that by now. But he was the last person she needed to share these dark dreams with. “This is a working farm. I work.”

“Not usually this early.” He rose, brushing straw from his jeans.

She flashed the light back into his eyes. “You’ve been watching me?”

“I had to weigh, Luce,” he said, taking the flashlight from her hand and resting it on top of the stall wall. “I had to figure out which would hurt you less, breaking my promise to you or working around you to try to help your sister.”

That was one thing about Dom, he was a man of his word. After he’d coached her through Brendan’s birth, and while she was still swimming in post-partum hormones, she’d made him promise never to see her again. He’d kept his word these past six years. Even with felons, he went with truth as often as he could. Using people wasn’t his style. He wanted everyone comfortable and happy.

That wasn’t apt to happen this time. Jill was going to get hurt, and nothing would ever quite be the same. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re entertaining my goats with your snores.”

He wiped one hand over his mouth as if reluctant to admit the truth. “Guilt. I let you down. I need to know you’ll be okay.”

Guilt she could understand. She sagged on a bale of straw outside the stall, the wooden wall still between them, and clasped her hands around one knee. “I talked to Renwick last night.”

Picking up the phone had taken much more courage than Luci cared to admit. After her less-than-cozy chat with her old boss, she’d stayed up past midnight, too hyped up on adrenaline and worry to find her way around to sleep.

“That couldn’t have been easy. Especially after the way he treated you.” Renwick had not been amused by Luci’s and Cole’s secret wedding. Rules strictly forbid family from working on the same team.

A note of hurt cracked the low, slow richness of Dom’s voice. “You thought I’d lied?”

“I—” Her shoulder lifted in a hesitant jerk. Sharing Brendan’s birth with him had bonded them in a way that had scared her. Turning to him then had been a moment of weakness she couldn’t repeat. The last thing she’d needed was a reminder of her failure every day of her life. The sight of Dom would always pull along the memory of Cole. She wasn’t strong enough to endure that torture. “I had to hear it from someone else.”

“Fair enough.”

She picked at the hole starting to fray on the knee of her jeans. “How’d Warren—or whoever he is—find Jill?”

“Her divorce probably made the papers. The Walden and the Courville names often make the society pages. She makes an easy target.” Dom leaned his forearms against the top of the stall and looked down at her. “I’ll do this however you want, Luci. I won’t let you or your sister get hurt.”

She could kid herself that the past didn’t matter. But it did. Every day she lived with that truth. She had to wash Cole’s blood out of her eyes every morning before she could put on her mom-skin for Brendan. And every time she looked at her son’s dark hair and smiling face, guilt pinged in her heart. She’d taken his father from him. He’d missed out on what fathers and sons did together, those manly rituals a woman could never hope to understand. J.J., Jill’s ex, was a good father to Jeff, but he’d never wanted to include Brendan in their father-and-son times.

Every instinct sharpened and honed by grief shouted that allowing Dom to stay was a mistake. Another vivid reminder that her son was growing up without a father. But her arrogance had already cost her the man she loved. She couldn’t risk her sister’s life because of pride. For Jill, she’d endure the torture. “The guest room is off the living room. I’ll get you some clean sheets.”

Chapter Four

In the darkest hour before dawn, Dom followed Luci to the back door of the old Victorian house. A single light out on the front porch made a soft halo appear to shimmer around it.

She walked across the packed dirt with an economy and efficiency of movement he’d often admired. He matched her stride with the ease of familiarity even six years of absence couldn’t erase, wishing she’d lean on him as she once had. Her tall and lanky body paired his at the hip, shoulder and head. He’d always liked that she was equal to him like that, eye to eye, heart to heart. Her ramrod posture betrayed her inbred country club etiquette and the military-like training Special Operations Groups endured.

She pushed open the back door, and the squeak of spring on the outer screen reminded him of home. He needed to call his parents and touch base. The anniversary of Nate’s death was creeping around the corner. Losing their eldest son so tragically had aged both his parents prematurely. They seemed to grow more brittle with each passing year.

Luci turned and held the door for him, the scent of her herbal soap a balm to his tired senses. Her narrow face was set and unreadable, except for the wariness and emotional exhaustion in her eyes. He couldn’t blame her. He must seem like the omen from hell, appearing out of the blue like that and bringing out all the demons she’d tried so hard to beat back.

“I can sleep in the barn,” he said, hand on the cold doorknob. If he could redo that day seven years ago—but no, he had to live with his mistakes. The least he could do was to make his presence here as painless as possible for Luci.

“What would the neighbors say?” She crooked one half of her mouth, bitterness rolling off her tongue so softly it took a moment before its acid burned.

She stepped out of her green rubber clogs and brushed by him before heading out toward the deeper recesses of her home.

“Forget the sheets,” he said, letting the unexpected longing the accidental graze sparked in him settle. “It’s too late for sleep.”

She hesitated, turned around and, at the white Formica counter, flipped the switch on the coffeemaker. It gurgled and hissed, then dripped, counting the seconds stretching between them. He hadn’t wanted to disturb her hard-gained peace, but if he was right, then the rage that drove Swanson’s obsession to ruin divorced women was escalating and what happened to Laynie McDaniels could happen to Jill. Dom would do everything he could to save Luci from losing her sister the way he’d lost his brother—the way they’d both lost Cole.

Under her skin, pale with fatigue, was a classic bone structure. Even etched with the weight of years of grieving, her features evoked an unyielding strength of character. Luci was a survivor, but even survivors needed support now and then.

He swallowed the ache of emotion he’d fought at Cole’s funeral, at Brendan’s birth and most days since Luci had made him promise to steer clear. He’d fought the pull Luci had on him and stayed away—more as an act of penance than an ethical duty.

“Do you want to talk now or later?” he asked, leaning against the door and mirroring her crossed arms and crossed ankles. There was no way to soften all the little darts he’d have to throw her way in the next few days.

She plucked two mugs from a doorless cupboard. She placed them on the counter and held on to them, as if to anchor herself, while the coffee continued to drip into the pot. “Like I said, this is a working farm. In a bit, I’ll have goats to milk and feed.”

“I can help.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“I want to.”

“I don’t.”

She’d talked herself through pain before. But Luci had refused to talk about Cole and his death. Still did.

Doing what they’d done, they’d known the risks going in and accepted them. Luci’s living death, that was something else.

He wanted to take her in his arms, as he’d done so often while she was grieving Cole, lay her head against his heart and let the vibrations of her voice seep into his blood and into his bones.

If he’d—No, stick to Jill. Forget the rest.

“Talk to me about Jill,” Dom said as Luci poured the fragrant brew into the mugs.

“Don’t you have everything you need in your files?”

She handed him a mug and, like a glutton for punishment, he reached for the coffee he didn’t want, deliberately skimming his fingers against hers, letting the brief contact sigh inside him.

“I have the black and white. I need the gray.”

“You always did have a way with words.” She leaned her trim rear against the counter once more, closed her eyes, shutting him out as if even looking at him was too painful to bear, and sipped. “Ask your questions. I’ll try to answer.”

“Does Jill have life insurance?”

“I would imagine she does, but I don’t know.”

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