Buried Secrets. Evelyn Vaughn
of Jo James as a sheriff. In Zack’s world, most sheriffs were overweight, balding and—oh yeah—men. He might not agree that’s how it ought to be, but it’s what he was mainly used to. It even seemed safer.
If he didn’t like women, that would be one thing, but he did. Grandmas and toddlers, housewives and businesswomen. That was his problem. He liked women enough that he couldn’t stand by to see one hurt. And if Jo James insisted on “helping” with this investigation, stirring up powers she couldn’t see or believe, the odds were on hurt. Zack didn’t need that responsibility or the guilt of failing at it.
Again.
Having a lady sidekick, even for the few days he was in Almanuevo, wasn’t going to help. It would just distract him.
So he lathered up and rinsed off and did his damnedest to think of Jo James only in terms of her professional role, rather than her small build. Or how crossing her arms plumped her breasts under the plain blue T-shirt she wore. Or how the hip-holster for her revolver—talk about your Old West cliches—emphasized the curve of her hips. A revolver, despite that most law-enforcement officers carried 9mm automatics like his.
Tomayto, Tomahto. It wasn’t like she needed quick reloads or stopping power in greater metropolitan Spur. But distractions were distractions.
She was female.
If he hadn’t had enough proof, her mood swings had confirmed it. By the time he was dressed and back in his tacky motel room, Jo had gone serious on him. Not I-really-survived-a-zombie-attack serious, either. Closed off.
“We’ll take my car to the clinic,” Zack announced as he buckled his shoulder holster on over his shirt, then threw on a light jacket to cover it.
The sheriff nodded, heading for the door with her hat in hand. It seemed too easy.
Zack pushed his luck. “You can help me with Nurse Vanderveer, but after that I’m working—holy crap, is this March?” It took less than two steps out the door to know that he’d overdressed. He turned around and stalked back inside, unbuckling the holster to strip to his white undershirt.
“After that you’re working what?” challenged Jo from the doorway. At least she’d averted her eyes—but her cheeks looked a bit pink. Blushing, or sunstroke?
Distractions. Zack slung his holster back on, using his long-sleeved shirt to conceal it—badly—before heading out again. “How hot is it out here?”
“Eighties…the weather’s been strange this last year. But there’s a breeze. After I help with Ashley, you’re working what?”
“I’m working alone.” He locked the hotel door behind them with a key; key cards were apparently beyond local technology. Actual sand—sandy dirt, anyway—overlapped the edges of the rutted parking lot, and beyond that, reddish-brown rocks and clumps of cactus. No grass, unless you counted some strawlike tufts. Things seemed kind of…dead.
He used his keyless remote to unlock the Ferrari with a beep, then headed for the passenger door. Sheriff Jo reached it first. “We’d make better time working together.”
“You shouldn’t be working this at all.” He swung into the driver’s side while she fastened her seat belt. She had to take her hat off, because of the headrest. Good. “For one thing, I’ve been doing this for almost four years. I know what we might be up against better than you do. For another, you’re…” A woman. But even his sisters would have bristled at that. And the only thing worse than a moody woman would likely be a well-armed moody woman. “Little.”
From the way Jo arched an eyebrow at him, she didn’t like that version of his argument either.
“And none of that matters, ’cause it’s my job,” he finished, smoothly starting the car.
“I’m not asking for payment,” she pointed out.
“Did I say you were? I still work alone.”
“I thought you had a business partner.”
“He’s a silent partner.” He considered young Cecil Taylor, the student who’d first told him Gabriella’s casket was empty and how talkative he could get, then qualified that description, “Technically speaking.”
“Look,” said Jo. “You tell me that dead bodies may be walking off on their own, not an hour away from where I live.”
Funny that she didn’t say, from my home. “Yeah. So?”
“So I’m one of the few people who’ll probably believe you. Since I do, I can’t just ignore that. Especially not if it has anything to do with what happened in the mine. I won’t just drive home and sing la-la-la and pretend it isn’t happening.”
Like she’d done after the cave-in. So the sheriff had something to prove—peachy. Zack squinted sidelong at her, sitting beside him, as he shifted gears. “La-la-la?”
She narrowed her eyes at him.
He said, “Just don’t get in my way.”
“Am I in your way?”
He was tempted to say yes—but she wasn’t. Not yet.
Give her time.
At least she proved useful with Nurse Vanderveer.
“Jo!” exclaimed the tall blonde, peeking from a back room into the empty waiting area. The clinic wasn’t exactly County General. “It is so good to see you again!”
She didn’t say the same to Zack.
“Hey, Ashley,” greeted the sheriff, awkward under the nurse’s friendly, one-armed hug. “Is it still a good time? You said on the phone…”
“Nothing’s come up,” the nurse assured her. “Wednesdays are generally pretty quiet.”
Zack said, “That wouldn’t have anything to do with you misplacing bodies, would it?”
Ashley Vanderveer flared her pale eyes at him. She was a pastel kind of person, especially in the pink smock she wore over her jeans, pure contrast against the smaller, sturdier sheriff. Jo looked more real, more competent…more touchable.
Though equally annoyed. “You really earn a living at this?” Jo asked him.
So maybe he’d been a little over the top. “Sorry,” he admitted, if with effort. “I just want to know what happened, and last time I came by here, Ms. Vanderveer here blew me off.”
“Go figure.” Now the sheriff looked amused.
“Jo said you wanted to ask questions about local Craft activity.” Ashley caught a chain around her neck with one manicured finger and tugged a small pentagram out to show him. She was witchy in more ways than one. “That, I will talk about.”
“But not about the dead boy,” Zack challenged.
“It’s all in the report I filed.”
“Don’t mind him,” said the sheriff in that voice—the condescending voice women use when discussing men right in front of them. “He’s from Chicago.”
“Hey!” he protested, but at least the nurse grinned.
“Come on into the break room, and we’ll talk,” said Vanderveer. “Over tea.”
Zack wasn’t real comfortable with getting this interview on Jo’s credentials, but he wasn’t dumb enough to turn it down, either. Not if he could learn why certain dead people weren’t staying dead around here. “You got coffee?”
A card table and metal folding chairs, two Salvation Army sofas, a sink, a microwave and a minifridge crowded the break room. Not a top-of-the-line facility. Though Vanderveer ran the clinic, she wasn’t even a doctor. From what Zack gathered in their previous talk, before she’d decided to hate him, a doctor visited on Mondays. Any other serious cases were sent to El Paso.
“I’m