Rachel Dahlrumple. Shea McMaster
nightstick. Yes, he had the baton hanging from his fully loaded utility belt, along with his gun and a dozen other tools of his trade. Proper and by the book, he had at least one pair of handcuffs on that belt. Did he ever use those handcuffs for non-official purposes? For a heartbeat, I envisioned him handcuffing me to the banister and having his wicked way with me. Just how big was his nightstick? The one behind those pressed uniform twills.
Mentally rolling my eyes, I let the thought vaporize. Like he would ever really unbend enough to have a personal conversation with me, contrary to the bantering of the night before. That had been business, and the chit-chat had served to make me talk. But then he went and did things like taking a good long look at me. Which he didn’t do then.
Because of his younger age, I’d never considered Dan might find me appealing, and any mild attraction I might have felt for him stood no chance against our mutual avoidance, which had been in place as long as we’d known each other. I’d managed to convince myself his amazing woman comment was a part of my dreams while in a dead faint.
In fact, other than Burt, I couldn’t remember any man ever looking at me that way because of my looks. Maybe Jim counted, but usually those looks had come because of the property I would one day inherit, never for me.
I looked okay. No warts, clear enough skin of a berries and cream shade, which I generally protected with hats and sunscreen, but managed always to get a sprinkling of freckles across my nose every summer. Straight hair of a mousy tone hung to my shoulders. No perm, curling iron or rollers had ever made a difference. It had no gloss, it didn’t throw off sparks of red in the sunlight, it hung blah-ly from my head, neither thick nor thin. A few inches shy of medium height, I had a medium build including average breasts and slightly more than average hips. Pear shaped. Burt liked to say I had hips just right for fucking. Good handholds. Mr. Romance? Not.
“Dan.” I greeted him cautiously. The way he stood, stiff and blank faced, started to set off little alarms in the back of my head. More like a little bell a lady once used to summon servants to the dining table.
“Mrs. Bruckmeister.” His eyes shifted to a spot just past my head, indicating a level of discomfort higher than usual. Probably because I’d swooned into his arms the night before. Once more, I wondered how much of me he’d seen and my cheeks burned.
A flash of pink to the left caught my eye and I turned to see Cyndi hurry down her drive far enough to take the path through the hedges. Probably wanted to see why Dan hadn’t stopped at her house.
“Would you like some ice tea? Ice water?” Always a good hostess, no matter the circumstances.
“No. Thank you. Ma’am.” He swallowed heavily, then reached back to open the door for Cyndi, who’d just run up the four wide steps to the porch.
“Thanks,” Dan muttered to Cyndi.
Was I supposed to hear that? He’d called her to come over?
“Dan,” she gasped. Not stopping at the door, she came right over to me, wearing a look of tragedy on her doll-like face. My heart clenched hard enough for my blood to feel icy. What was going on? Had Dan told her about the weeds and the note? Those bells chiming in my head became a bit more strident. More like the bell at the drycleaners, the one on the counter to let them know break time was over and they needed to come up to the register and take care of business.
“Ma’am…” Dan started, his voice strangely flat.
“For God’s sake, Dan,” I said. Exasperation made my voice sharper than I’d intended and he flinched. “You’ve known me more than half your life, can’t you use my name?”
His eyes widened. Clear hazel eyes, a little more green than brown, rimmed by dark brown lashes, their tips bleached by the summer sun, just like the ends of his slightly long golden brown hair. Disgusted with myself for noticing his looks instead of questioning the visit, I waved toward the grouping of seats near the front windows.
Cyndi took my hand, pulled me over to the sofa, practically pushed me down, and sat beside me. She didn’t even take the time to smooth her dress to keep it from wrinkling where she sat on it. The perfect southern blonde, Cyndi never just plopped down on a seat. The bells in my head grew louder, more like the bell choir at church, only not quite so pretty.
Reverting back to her best Pensacola drawl, Cyndi cooed, “Oh, honey…”
“What?” I demanded. Already on edge waiting for the cheating scum of my life, this sympathy didn’t help.
Dan remained on his feet, but he came to the end of the sofa, forcing me to look up. I hated that. Burt did it to emphasize his power over me and I fought the temptation to jump up onto the sofa so I could tower over a man for a change.
Because Cyndi held me in place, I snapped at him. “Don’t just hover there, driving me crazy. If you have something to say, just spit it out.”
Dan inhaled and cleared his throat. “Rachel… Your husband…Burt is…dead.”
“Oh.” Staring at Dan, I blinked. I sensed more than heard Cyndi speaking, as her hands clutched mine. I couldn’t hear over the bells of Notre Dame roaring in my ears, as if I stood in the belfry with a dozen different bells of all sizes swinging chaotically. No tune, just great ponderous, vibrating booms and spastic little tinkles filling in the spaces. I almost put my hands over my ears to block out the sound, only nothing could ever be loud enough to drown out just one thought.
Burt’s dead.
Burt. Dead.
Damn. I didn’t get to kick his ass out. I’d’ve killed him for that if I could.
Wait. He was already dead.
Dead.
Okay.
I inhaled deeply as I searched for something to say. “Well then, there are plans to adjust…”
Cyndi’s hands tightened around mine and, somehow, the cold glass dripping condensation left my other hand. Clammy, cold sweat ran down my back and the stars gathering before my eyes claimed my attention. Lovely glittering black and gold confetti type sparklies. A strong hand grabbed the back of my neck, and forced me forward until my head stopped between my knees.
“Breathe.” Soft and strong at the same time, the voice in my ear overrode the bells. Masculine. Not Burt. Kinder. Warmer. Certainly a strange thing to notice, but I breathed because the voice wanted me to. I breathed and listened to the voice even though my skirt partially blocked my air. It said everything would be okay. I had friends to help me.
Shaking off the hands holding me down, my vision cleared and I sat up. “Of course they’ll help. Everyone does each year. But we’ll need to draft someone else to supervise the beer.” The only thoughts I could seize had to do with what other jobs Burt had. Generally he did as little as possible by drifting from group to group, giving the impression of being in charge and doing everything, while actually doing nothing. “Dan, you could take over the beer station. You’d keep people from indulging too much.” I slapped my hands on my thighs and prepared to stand. With Burt not coming, I had more work to do.
Dan wrapped a hand around my wrist, keeping me on the sofa. “Rachel.”
I looked at him. “Well, if he isn’t going to be here…”
“Rachel, did you hear me? Don’t you want to know…?”
His hat rested on my coffee table, his thigh, his body, tight against my left side, fingers entwined with mine. He smelled good. A bit like leather and country air. The warm hand against my back must be his. A smaller, gentler, more feminine presence hugged me on the right. Cyndi grabbed my hand again and the two of them gently restrained me, like bookends, holding me in place. How different they were. One small and cotton candy soft, the other solid, strong and smelling so darn good.
“How?” The question automatically left my lips. Not that I really much cared other than to be pissed he’d taken away my opportunity to practice some truly evil revenge, but as