Operation Soldier Next Door. Justine Davis
add that because of that, anything could happen; he could see that Lacy got it.
“You miss her,” she said, still in that soft tone.
“Yes,” he admitted.
“It must be a bond like no other.”
Yes, she got it all right. “Yes,” he repeated, unable to think of anything to add. Then abruptly he remembered what he hadn’t said. “And thank you. For the food. When I cook, it usually requires a meat identifier.”
She smiled. “You’re welcome. But...a what?”
“You know. Potatoes mean beef. Applesauce says pork chops. Cranberry says it’s turkey. Otherwise you can never tell.”
She laughed, seemingly delighted by the old, corny military joke. But at that point he was out of things to say and was grateful when his cell phone rang, ending this silence that he thought should feel awkward, but oddly didn’t.
To his surprise, it was the county arson investigator.
“Foxworth has even more pull than I realized,” the woman said when he asked. “We got the report back from the federal lab just now. I didn’t expect it for days yet.”
Somehow he wasn’t surprised. Quinn Foxworth had that air about him, not just of confidence and authority, but genuine power, the power to get things done.
“And?” he asked.
“You want the whole thing or the bottom line?”
“Bottom line, please. I probably wouldn’t understand the rest.”
“No leak. The valve on the bottom tank was open.”
Tate opened his mouth to protest, then stopped. He had no proof, but he knew. Gramps would never, ever do that. He was meticulous, always had been, and age hadn’t changed him. Besides, Tate would have smelled it. He’d had the window open, and it was right beside the shed. And there was no mistaking the purposefully distinctive odor of propane.
“So what does that mean?” he asked.
“It’s early yet, but if I had to guess...”
“Please guess. I won’t hold you to it.”
“The tank that blew is pretty scorched on the bottom.”
Tate got there quickly. “So you think the lower tank valve got opened somehow, the leak got ignited somehow and the extreme heat from that fire blew the tank stacked on top of it?”
“That’s the theory, yes. There’s some additional recovered material we have yet to identify, but right now...”
That was a lot of somehows, Tate thought. But he said only, “So...a freak accident?”
“Sorry, I can’t say. That determination hasn’t been made yet. I’m only calling now because Brett Dunbar asked me to let you know something ASAP.”
It took him a moment to place the name. And after the call had ended he shook his head at the oddity of having a man he’d never met intercede for him at the request of a neighbor he’d met less than a day and half ago.
Yes, there was a lot to be said for this small-town stuff. And people—and dogs—named Foxworth.
Maybe even girls next door.
It was the dog again.
Tate scowled. Counting the first night, this was the fifth time in the last two days the dog had shown up. It was as if the dog made rounds, and he’d added Tate to the list. And each time he was followed by his people, one or the other or sometimes both. They seemed remarkably unperturbed at having to retrieve their pet so often.
But this time he’d made it into the house, through the patio sliding door that Tate had left open while he carried out debris he’d found thrown into other areas of the house. Even more irritating, he was in the kitchen. Sitting in that same alert way Tate had seen before.
At first he thought the dog was expecting a dog biscuit or some kind of treat. But then he realized the dog wasn’t just sitting, he was staring. As Sunny had, when something was wrong with the familiar landscape around her. Intent, undistractable, until something was done about the offending intrusion. Once it had been a visiting general, who landed high on the “don’t like this” scale. Once it had been a new video game with lots of loud car noises that somebody had brought into the mess tent. The last time he’d seen it had been a celebrity visitor she had pointedly turned her back on.
Tate shook off the memories, telling himself to focus on how he was going to get this dog out of here. It didn’t seem wise to grab a sizable dog he barely knew and try to drag him out. Something had him fascinated, and—
The pot.
He realized suddenly that the dog was staring at Lacy Steele’s cooking pot. Or whatever it was. That kind of big, tall pot had a name; his grandmother’d had one, but he couldn’t remember what she’d called it. He’d finished the stew last night—and it had been as good as it had smelled—and had thoroughly washed the pot when he’d finished. And there on the counter it had been ever since, because he couldn’t quite work himself up to taking it back to her.
“It’s empty, dog,” he said sourly.
Cutter glanced at him then, and Tate had the strangest feeling that had he been human, it would have been the equivalent of “Well, duh.” Maybe it was because obviously the dog’s nose would have told him that.
But he went back to staring at the pot, anyway. Only now he started glancing at Tate every few seconds, expectantly.
“What is it you want?” he asked after the third time through the cycle. “You know it’s empty. And you can’t possibly know it doesn’t belong here.”
Or maybe he did know, Tate thought suddenly. And almost on the thought, the person to ask knocked on his front door.
“Morning, Tate. I’m assuming my errant dog is here again?” Hayley Foxworth asked cheerfully as he opened the door. She was in running clothes, with her hair tucked up into a Seahawks cap. Her green eyes were bright, as if reflecting her mood. Or maybe the green on the cap.
“Leash?” he suggested wryly, then regretted it; he wanted to ask her something, not make her mad. At least her husband wasn’t with her to give him that warning look again if he didn’t like the way Tate spoke to his wife. And the man was impressive enough that Tate knew a fight would be a real one. Quinn Foxworth wasn’t someone to trifle with. He was the kind of man you wanted on your side, and the kind you dreaded to come up against.
“Wouldn’t do any good,” Hayley said, her cheerful tone unchanged. “He’s on a mission, and he’ll find a way.”
“A mission?” Tate repeated, diverted for the moment. “What mission?”
“You,” the woman answered simply.
Tate blinked. “Me?”
“Whatever your problem is.”
“My problem,” he said, speaking carefully, “is a dog who keeps showing up and interrupting what I’m trying to get done.”
“Maybe you should put him to work.”
“What?”
She smiled, and it matched her tone. Quinn Foxworth, Tate thought, was a lucky guy.
“He knows a hammer from a screwdriver from a wrench, and he’s happy to fetch and carry.”
He blinked. Again. “You’re saying if I tell him to bring me a hammer out of a pile of tools—”
“He will. Helpful if you need to nail something you can’t let go of.” As if she hadn’t just boggled him she