A Weaver Beginning

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Squire harrumphed. “Folks have always been willin’ to throw good money away.”

Tristan just smiled faintly, letting the jab pass.

It wasn’t often that Sloan saw Tristan looking so relaxed. He ran his insanely successful video-gaming company, Cee-Vid, but he was also the number two man behind Hollins-Winword, an international firm that dealt in private security and covert intelligence. And it was in that role that Sloan had first dealt with the man and his nephew, Axel. Before he’d gone undercover with the Deuces, he’d asked Hollins-Winword to watch over Tara. She still hadn’t quite forgiven him for not informing her of that particular fact, but since she was as happy as a clam now with Axel, she didn’t beat him up with it too often.

“Give me my great-grandson,” Squire told Sloan, and he was happy enough to push aside the memories as he detached the kid’s fingers from his hair to set him on the floor. The kid immediately bulleted toward the gray-haired man, who scooped him up and blew a raspberry against his neck. Aidan’s laughter filled the spacious room and immediately, young cousins began appearing, clamoring for similar treatment from the old man.

“I thought he was bad with his grandchildren,” Tristan commented, leaving his spot that was no longer peaceful at all to follow Sloan back up the stairs. “He’s twice as bad with his great-grandkids. The man was hell on us when we were growing up, but given the chance, he’ll spoil the daylights out of them.”

Sloan wondered if Abby’s grandfather had been similarly inclined, or if her grandparents had been stricter because they’d taken on a parental role.

They made it to the top of the stairs and turned into the kitchen. The enormous table there was covered with a dozen desserts in varying stages of demolition, sidetracking both of them. Tristan studied his choices while Sloan helped himself to a hefty wedge of the chocolate cake he knew his sister had brought. It was the same cake his mother used to make for their birthdays when they were kids.

The cake was incredible. The memories that came with it weren’t.

“Max sending you to that conference coming up in Cheyenne?”

Max had tried working on him to attend, but he couldn’t see the point. Not when he wasn’t even sure he was going to be around in a few months. “Dawson and Ruiz are going.”

His sister entered the kitchen. “There you are.” She was carrying Hank on her hip.

“Wasn’t exactly hiding,” he pointed out and watched the way his nephew eyed the cake on his fork. He knew better than to give the boy any, though. He’d made that mistake once already and quickly learned that Tara didn’t want him having anything sugary until he was older.

Not that Hank the Tank was looking particularly deprived. The kid wasn’t a year old yet, but he was already showing signs that he’d inherited the Clay genes when it came to size. He sure hadn’t gotten his height from his petite mama. Tara was nearly a foot shorter than Sloan, and he and her husband were pretty much eye to eye.

“This is the first time I’ve had a chance to talk to you,” she returned.

“Could’ve come talk to me earlier instead of sending your husband.”

Tara’s brown eyes flashed. “I didn’t send Axel to do anything! As if the man ever does something he doesn’t choose to do in the first place.” Tristan made a noise and buried his attention in his pecan pie as he escaped. So much for the big-shot secret agent.

Sloan wished he could follow. He pushed his fork into the cake again and ignored the hopeful gleam in Hank’s eyes. “He’d take a bullet for you.”

She rubbed her cheek against Hank’s bald head. “You’re the one who took a bullet,” she reminded him.

A graze. And it had been more than two years ago. She’d been pregnant with Aidan and on the verge of marrying Axel.

“But he has walked through fire for me,” she allowed. “Literally.”

“Which was my fault, too.”

She shook her head. “I’ve never blamed you for what happened at the church that day when Maria’s brother set that fire. He wanted to get back at you for her death by getting to me. He was insane with grief.”

“You have more pity for him than I do.” And more pity than the courts had. The lunatic had been convicted and would be locked away for a good long time.

“It’s all water under the bridge, anyway,” she dismissed. “If you really want a fresh start, don’t you think that should include letting go of the past?”

He wished he could give her the answers she wanted to hear. “I don’t want to promise something I’m not sure I can deliver.”

She studied him for a moment. “Would you go back to the ATF if you could?”

He let out a humorless laugh. “Goob, they don’t want me back.” They’d made that plain enough when he’d been fired after the Deuce’s trial had finally ended. They hadn’t taken kindly to him drawing in anyone from Hollins-Winword to protect Maria or Tara. They’d told him it had shown a strong lack of faith in his own agency and conveniently ignored the fact that they hadn’t been willing to provide any sort of protection themselves.

“But if you could?”

Would he? Nearly his entire adult life had been wrapped up in his ATF career. “I don’t know. Maybe. Probably.” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Well,” she said after a moment, “that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about, anyway.” She shifted Hank onto her other hip. “What’s this I hear about you and your new neighbor? She’s the new school nurse, right?”

He stared. “What do you know about her?”

“She was your mysterious plan last night, wasn’t she?”

“She, who?” Max and his wife, Sarah, chose that moment to wander into the kitchen, and her blue gaze bounced from Sloan to Tara and back again. “Pretty little Abby Marcum?”

Sloan eyed his boss, but Max just shrugged. “Don’t look at me. I might be the sheriff, but I don’t know anything.”

Sarah poked him in the side, and he jerked away, grinning. Then he frowned. “No more pecan pie?”

“Tristan finished it off.”

“Figures.” He took the last slice of chocolate cake. “This’ll do just as well.”

“Even after all these years together I do not know how you can eat the way you do and never gain a pound,” Sarah complained. “You had a piece of Gloria’s cheesecake an hour ago.”

Max swatted her lightly on the butt. “My wife keeps me well exercised.”

She rolled her eyes. “Here I thought you were going to help me get started on some of these dishes. Go on, then. Go back to your football game. I know that’s what you really want to do.”

“Always figure it’s smart to get while the gettin’s good.” Max looked at Sloan. “You coming? Half time’s over.”

Sloan finished off his cake in a single bite and tossed the paper plate in the trash. “Just like Mom’s,” he told his twin, and then he did what any smart man would do and escaped while the escaping was good.

* * *

The house was cold again when Abby waked early the next morning. She pulled on a thick sweatshirt over her flannel pajamas and checked on Dillon, who was still sound asleep, before starting a pot of coffee. With the water gurgling and the scent of coffee beginning to fill the kitchen, she pushed her feet into her boots and let herself quietly out the door. She didn’t like having to take more wood from Sloan’s pile, but they’d burned through the last of what she had during the night, and she didn’t want Dillon getting up to such a cold house.

Deputy Frosty’s fat belly was just as fat as it had been the day before, but the striped scarf had fallen onto the ground. She stopped long enough to wind it around the snowman’s neck, making sure the cardboard badge pinned to the knit was visible. Dillon had spent considerable time making the thing, and he’d certainly want to see it there today.

When she was finished, she balled her cold hands in the pockets of her sweatshirt and hurried across the yard.

“You’re an early riser.”

She nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of Sloan’s voice. The sky was gray and heavy, but it was still light enough to see him standing on his front porch.

And it was more than a little alarming the way pleasure engulfed her at the sight of him. Particularly considering the way he’d bolted the day before, after Pam Rasmussen had come by.

“So are you.” Her voice sounded breathless but she couldn’t help it. Seeing him made her feel breathless. “You’re looking very official.” He was coatless, too. But whereas she’d been caught in her flannel jammies and an oversize sweatshirt, he looked downright glorious in his uniform. He wore sharply creased khaki-colored pants with a dark green, long-sleeved shirt and black tie, complete with badge pinned to his insanely wide chest. She also noticed that, with a collared shirt, there was no hint that he had that intriguing tattoo that started on his neck and dipped beneath his clothing. “On duty today?” She cringed since it was pretty unlikely he would wear his uniform if he weren’t.

“In a while.” He lifted the mug he was holding. “Want some coffee?”

Even though she had her own pot brewing, she very nearly nodded. She pushed her fists deeper into her pockets, hoping to stretch the sweatshirt a little lower over her stupid pajama pants. “No, thanks. I was just going to grab some more wood. Dillon’s still sleeping.”

He straightened away from the post he’d been leaning against, set his mug on the rail and came down the steps toward her.

Her ability to breathe normally evaporated entirely.

All she could think of was the way he’d kissed her.

And the way he’d bolted.

Admittedly, he had been headed for a family dinner, but it still had felt as if he couldn’t wait to escape.

He kept going when he reached her, though, angling toward the back of the house. “Half expected to see another snowman keeping Frosty company in your front yard.”

She skipped to catch up with him and wished again that she’d taken the time to change into jeans. “If we get more snow out of those clouds, I expect he’ll have company soon enough.” She pulled one hand out of her pocket to tuck her hair behind her ear, only to realize she hadn’t taken the time to brush her hair yet, either.

Lovely. Plaid pajamas, morning breath and a rat’s nest of hair.

She ducked her chin into the collar of her sweatshirt and twitched the hood up over her hair.

“Cold?”

She smiled and shrugged, even though she was sure he was the cause of her shivering rather than the cold morning.

When they reached the back of the house, she quickly gathered several pieces of firewood. When he started to help her, she protested. “You’re going to get your shirt dirty.”

“Sweetheart, I’ve gotten worse things on my uniform before than a few wood slivers.”

Sweetheart.

She shivered again and headed back around the side of the house, crossing diagonally to her front door.

Sloan followed her inside, and they stacked the wood next to the fireplace. “Looks like you did some more unpacking. Are they your grandparents?”

She glanced at the framed photographs he’d noticed on the mantel. “Yes.”

“This you?” He tapped one in particular of Abby and her grandparents.

“We were pheasant hunting.” She added a split log to the fire and jabbed the embers before adjusting the screen.

“How old were you?”

She didn’t have to look at the photo to remind herself. “Seventeen.” She and her grandfather had gone out hunting only one more time after that. It hadn’t been the same without her grandmother coming along, but she hadn’t been healthy enough at that point to accompany them.

“You look about thirteen.”

And even more wet behind the ears, no doubt.

She pressed her hands against her flannel-covered thighs and straightened. “Maybe so,” she said, “but he taught me to shoot almost as well as he could.” She headed into the kitchen.

“You like hunting?”

“I liked going out with my grandparents. Without them?” She shrugged and filled a coffee cup. “I can’t really see myself going out again. I don’t think I have the heart for it.” She took a sip, watching him over the brim of the cup. Not even the width of the living room was enough to dim the sheer wattage of him. “I’ll get enough wood today to replace what I’ve used.”