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“No, it’s not. I came here to tell him to keep whatever it was. You didn’t need to go through any of that pain again. You just came home. I didn’t want him driving you away.” The sheriff laid his hand over Dylan’s.
Dylan glanced over his shoulder at the lifeless body of Chet Oliver. “He won’t be doing that now. I looked through his desk and his filing cabinet. There wasn’t anything addressed to me.”
“That’s just as well.” The sheriff took a swallow of water.
Dylan shook his head. “But I wanted to know what Steve Mars had left for me. I need some answers. It’s been ten years.”
“Answers to what?” With a shaky hand, Sheriff Buck set his glass back on the bureau, sloshing water onto the gleaming wood. “Some times things just happen. There’s no reason, no explanation. You just have to move on.”
Dylan nodded as if he under stood. But he didn’t. He’d been gone ten years, but he’d never moved on. And for his part, neither had Sheriff Buck Adams.
After Dylan’s mother had dumped him for Dylan’s father, the sheriff had never married. He’d stayed in love with a married woman and then with a dead woman. No, the sheriff didn’t know any more about moving on than Dylan did.
The young officer scram bled inside. His face flushed and eyes wide, he whispered, “She’s out there.”
Dylan narrowed his eyes. “Who?”
“A big-city reporter. She wants to talk to the officer in charge. She has questions, lots of them.”
Lindsey Warner. “I didn’t realize she was working for her father. I thought she was home—what had Marge said?”
The sheriff offered no information. The older man rested his head in his trembling hands.
“Yeah,” Dylan continued as if he’d been given an answer, “with a broken heart. Subdued.”
“Subdued!” The kid’s voice cracked.
“She’s not subdued?”
“Hell, no!” His face reddened even more. “Sorry, sir.”
“You can handle her.”
“No, sir, really you should talk to her. I’ve never talked to a reporter before.”
“Tell her she can come to the station tomorrow. We’ll have more information after the coroner gets here. We can’t tell her anything tonight.”
The young officer’s eyes filled with doubt.
“You can do it—” Dylan read the badge pinned askew on the kid’s shirt pocket “—Deputy Jones.”
After the kid dragged his feet out the front door, Dylan squeezed the sheriff’s shoulder again. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. I promise. We’ll find out who did this and why.”
Murder had revisited Winter Falls. This time Dylan was going to get all the answers.
He thought again of the stain on his kitchen floor. He reined his thoughts in. Jimmy was gone. A new victim had taken his place. Dylan had to think of something else.
He thought of Lindsey Warner. Subdued. Hell, no.
“SUICIDE.” LINDSEY SNORTED at her reflection in the rearview mirror of her Jeep. Then she squinted against the glare of the morning sun ricocheting off the rusted hood.
The young deputy, Jones, had called it suicide. Of course, he hadn’t offered it freely. No, Lindsey had had to pry the information from him.
Deputy Matthews had been stupid to let a rookie try to handle her. Even experienced, cynical city detectives hadn’t been able to handle her.
She gripped the steering wheel tighter as the old Jeep bounced along the gravel road. She was headed to the police department this morning, all right.
But after Jones’s stuttered explanations, she hadn’t returned home. Although she’d been gone awhile, she still had connections in this town. The coroner played cards with her father.
Despite the late hour, he’d given her an off-the-record preliminary report. She couldn’t print it until she got confirmation of…
Murder. A murder in Winter Falls. Again.
How did Deputy Dylan Matthews feel about a murder on his first day back on the job?
She hadn’t known Chet Oliver. She’d been gone nine years, and before then, she hadn’t had need of lawyers or city trustees. Dylan knew him, though. Chet Oliver had represented his brother’s murderer, but there hadn’t been much to rep re sent. Steve Mars had pleaded guilty. That case was closed.
Would this case be closed so easily? Although she hadn’t known Oliver, she believed he hadn’t deserved to die. Neither had Jimmy Matthews. She couldn’t imagine how his brother’s murder must still affect Dylan.
Some times it still affected her. His had been the first dead body she’d ever seen. Since then, on the police beat, she’d seen many more. It never got easier.
She shuddered and turned up the heat. Warm autumn mornings didn’t exist in northern Michigan.
She pressed on the accelerator. She had some questions for Deputy Dylan Matthews. Over the clatter of the heater motor, a siren wailed. A glance in her rearview mirror confirmed the flashing lights on the vehicle behind her.
The Jeep tossed up a shower of stones as she ground it to a stop. The last thing she needed was another ticket. Her insurance premiums were putting the agent’s kid through an Ivy League college as it was.
Then again, if it was young Deputy Jones, she would demonstrate to him how ill advised it was to lie to Lindsey Warner. Lindsey couldn’t stand being lied to. Too many people already had.
But the long, muscular body that unwound from the police car was too honed to be the rookie’s. Ten years had brought Dylan Matthews to his full, masculine potential. Despite how mad she was, Lindsey had to appreciate his long legs, lean hips and wide chest. His tan uniform displayed his impressive physique to perfection.
The brisk morning breeze tousled his golden blond hair. The sun glinted off the dark glasses he wore. She wanted them off. She wanted to see if his eyes were as deep a blue as she’d remembered in some stray dreams.
While she drooled over him, lost in la-la land, he tapped on the window. Startled, she quickly rolled it down.
“License and registration, ma’am.” Deputy Dylan Matthews used the same deep, impersonal tone he’d always used when citing her for a traffic violation.
But then he’d used her name, at least. Was it possible he didn’t recognize her? Was her father lying when he swore she had never changed a bit?
“How fast was I going, Officer?” she queried politely as she reached into her leather bag. Her fingers touched on her can of pepper spray, but she passed over it for her wallet.
“Fifteen over the posted speed limit” was his clipped reply. With a leather-gloved hand he accepted the license she’d pulled from its plastic sheath.
Because of the concealing dark glasses, she couldn’t discern if he recognized the name. “Out-of-state license and plates,” he observed. “I need to see your registration, too, please.”
“What? You think I stole this car? This old thing? This is the same Jeep I drove when you pulled me over when I was a kid, Dylan Matthews!” She threw open the door and flew out of the vehicle.
He stepped back, but she was in his face with one stride. She reached for his dark glasses, but before she could whip them off, her wrist was caught tight in his leather-gloved hand.
“Ma’am, are you assaulting an officer?” he queried, his tone too nonchalant.
“Not yet.”
“Are you going to invite me to frisk you like old times, Lindsey?” A grin teased one corner of his hard mouth.
She tried to pull her wrist free, but his grip was too tight. “Very funny, Dylan. You knew me the whole time!” She lifted her other hand to pry his fingers loose. He caught that one in the glove still holding her license. The hard plastic bit into her wrist. And he pulled her closer.
“Ooh.” She feigned a sigh. “Getting physical with me, Deputy?”
“Isn’t that what you were always tempting me to do ten years ago, Lindsey?” His voice had dropped to a low rumble in his chest, which vibrated against hers.
She took a quick breath. “Were you ever tempted, Dylan?” She hated the vulnerability that had slipped into her equally low voice. But he had been the first to break her foolish heart.
After a moment he offered, “You were just a kid then.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. Were you ever tempted to catch me any of those hundred times I threw myself at you?” Her heart ached with the old pain of every one of his rejections.
He chuckled. “Another woman would either deny throwing herself at a man, or, at the very least, never bring it up. There’s no humility in you.” He chuckled again and eased his grip on her wrists.
Despite her anger at him, for which he’d pay later, Lindsey was tempted to give in to desire. She leaned into his hard chest, his badge biting through her fleece sweatshirt.
“Lindsey.” Her name was a sexy rumble in his chest. Perhaps he’d meant it as a threat. “Dylan.”
“Haven’t learned to slow down yet?” He clicked his tongue. “How many times have I warned you about going too fast?”
“I like fast.”
His chuckle ended in a strained cough.
“You’re not trying to bribe your way out of this ticket?” He cleared his throat. “You know it’s a crime to bribe an officer.”
“What do you think I’m offering?” Lindsey asked with a coy flutter of her lashes.
Dylan shook his head. “I don’t know. That’s what scares me.”
Lindsey batted her lashes again. “Aw, Deputy, it won’t be anything you don’t deserve.” She flashed a bright smile.
Despite the dark lenses of his sun glasses, she read his reaction; he stiffened against her. His chiseled lips descended toward hers. In those dark lenses were twin reflections of herself, soft and feminine, yielding. Lindsey jerked back. The last thing she ever wanted to be again was yielding.
“Lindsey?” His head dipped close to hers, his lips just a breath away from hers. She could almost taste him.
“I want something, Dylan.”
A dark blond brow lifted above the rim of the sunglasses.
“I want the truth.” Although she leaned against him, she wasn’t vulnerable anymore. She’d remembered her anger. She really hated being lied to, and her battered pride stung.
“Jeez, you are determined. Yes, damn it, I was tempted ten years ago. I was tempted to do this….” He dropped her wrists to pull her fully into his arms. Then one gloved hand grasped the back of her head and pulled her mouth to his.
She dodged away, so that his lips grazed her cheek. “That’s not the truth I wanted, Dylan.” But the fast pounding of her heart told another story.
He raised his head, and she fervently wished she could see his eyes. His nostrils flared as he exhaled a deep breath. “What truth do you want, Lindsey?”
“Why are you trying to pass a murder off as a suicide?”
“What?” He dropped his arms from around her and stepped back.
She shivered from the loss of his body heat. “Why are you calling a murder a suicide?”
His response came softly but succinctly. “I didn’t call anything a suicide.”
“No, you didn’t.” She narrowed her eyes. “You sent your flunky to do your dirty work, to deal with the press.”
He had the audacity to laugh. She wanted to belt him, but she suspected he’d arrest her for assaulting an officer. With an effort she grappled for control, amazed she’d almost lost it.
“So you’re not denying it?”
“Denying what? I didn’t send my flunky to do anything. I don’t have a flunky. I told a young deputy to tell you to come by the station today, that we’d have more information then. Nothing was said about suicide. The deputy must have drawn his own conclusion. But none of that matters.”
“No.” A heavy sigh followed her agreement. “It doesn’t. A man is dead, murdered, and you lied about it.”
He chuckled again, but she shivered over the coldness in his tone. “You don’t give up, Lindsey. I didn’t lie about anything. You’re trying to twist my words. Now I have some questions.”
Imitating his gesture she raised a brow.
“I thought you just came home for a visit?” His voice dropped. “There was something about a broken heart?” He brushed the back of his knuckles over her cheek.
Heat climbed into her face, so she dipped her chin. “I guess the rumor mill is still as active as ever. I came home because I wanted to, not because I’m hiding or licking any wounds.” She lifted her chin.
“So why are you covering this story?”
She’d flown out of her father’s office the previous evening on the scent of a story. She hadn’t thought beyond it. Was there any reason for her to stay in Winter Falls? Was there any reason for her to return to Chicago?
“Because there’s a story.”
He nodded. “And your father can’t cover it on his own?”
She really needed to belt him. “No, my father isn’t used to covering murder, Deputy.”
“And you are?”
“I assisted on the police beat in Chicago. Yeah, I’m used to it. So you’re admitting Chet Oliver was murdered?”
“No, you’re saying that, Lindsey Warner, which makes me wonder how you would come to that conclusion if Jones told you suicide. What information or evidence has led you to believe this and how did you come by this evidence? You wouldn’t have intruded on a crime scene? As a reporter who has covered a police beat, you would know better than that. You would know better than to possibly contaminate evidence.”
She glared at him.
“Yeah, I would. I would never contaminate evidence. I’ve been gone awhile, but a good reporter has sources every where.” She waited a full second while she carefully studied his handsome face. He wasn’t giving. Neither was she.
