Fan the Flames (16 page)

Nodding, he opened his mouth, but a crash from the other room interrupted him. She spun, putting herself between the door and Ian, her hand reaching for a weapon that wasn't there. When she realized she was unarmed, Rory straightened her shoulders. Billy was going to have to go through her to get to Ian.

Ian skirted around her and dashed for the doorway, with Rory close behind. Julius's—and only Julius's—swearing made her realize it wasn't an attack by Billy after all, and she sucked in a shaky, relieved breath. She followed Ian to the bathroom, where the swearing had originated, but stopped a few paces away, not wanting to embarrass Julius if he was in an awkward position—quite possibly naked.

“What happened?” Ian asked.

“Slipped,” Julius muttered just loud enough for Rory to hear. She stayed out of sight, pretty sure her decision not to barge into the bathroom was a good one.

“Let me help you up.”

“Leave it, boy!” There were a few muffled sounds, which she hoped were Julius getting to his feet. “I can do it myself.”

“Okay.” Ian's voice was thick with frustrated patience. “At least let me check out your head. It looks like you bumped it.”

“I'm fine!” The words were practically snarled. “Go be a do-gooder somewhere else. I don't need help from a fucking traitor.”

There was a long silence, until Ian broke it with a quiet, “Traitor?”

“Billy told me what you did. Shooting a brother and turning another one over to the pigs. And all over a piece of tail.”

“A piece of tail?” His words were pure ice, his tone so scary that she shivered. “It's
Rory
, Julius. Not a piece of tail. Rory. The woman who saved your sorry life!”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about you trying to buy a gun after Mom died. This piece of tail kept you from blowing your brains out like the self-pitying, selfish bastard you're being right now.”

“I knew she never ordered that gun!” Julius snarled. “Told me she did, lying bitch.”

Ian stepped back until he was in the hallway. “I'm done.” He was using the soft, scary voice again. “Done. I'll ask Carrie to come over and check your head.”

Ignoring Julius's protests that he didn't need Carrie or anyone else bothering him, Ian turned and walked toward Rory. His face was blank as they moved to the front door. They donned their boots and coats in silence.

Ian held her arm as they plowed through the snow to the Bronco, then he opened her door. His movements were carefully controlled, his expression as smooth as a mannequin's. Instead of getting into the SUV, she circled around to the driver's side.

She climbed in behind the wheel and pulled her door shut. Ian was still standing by the open passenger door, staring at her like he wasn't sure what was happening.

“Keys.” Rory held out her hand, palm up.

“I'm driving.”

“No, you're not.” Flicking her fingers in a “gimme” gesture, she gave him her sternest look. “You always drive. This one time, I'm going to drive. Now give me the keys and get in.”

Although a hint of anger sharpened his features, he did as she asked. Rory started the Bronco, relieved to see an actual emotion breaking through the dead blankness.

“Call Carrie,” she ordered, easing the Bronco into the road.

He reached for his cell phone and proceeded to have a three-sentence conversation, asking Carrie to check on his stepdad before ending the call.

“Do I know Carrie?” she asked, turning onto the highway that would bring them home.

“No.” As if regretting his shortness, he added in a gentler tone, “She's Squirrel's wife.”

Rory nodded, and they drifted into silence. She drove slowly at first, feeling out the vehicle. It soon felt comfortable—fun even—and she relaxed as they sped along the highway.

“Why are we going to your place?” he asked a while later, just a short distance from her front gate.

“Figured you could use a physical outlet for some stress relief.”

“Physical outlet?” The odd note in his voice made her glance at him.

“Yes,” she said warily, slowing as she rolled through her gate that the cops must have left open. “Why did you say that so weirdly?”

“I didn't say it weirdly.”

Although she shot him a look, she didn't argue as she pulled into her lot and backed into a space between two sheriff's department squads. The deputy lounging by the front door straightened and paled as they approached. His hand rested on the butt of his holstered gun.

“What are you doing here, Walsh? The shop is closed,” the deputy snapped. “We're conducting a murder investigation.”

Rory wanted to roll her eyes, but she restrained herself. “It's a burglary investigation, not murder. If anything, it's a justifiable homicide investigation.”

The deputy turned an interesting shade of pinkish purple. “I'm going to need to see some identification before I can let you in.”

“Quit being an ass, Lawrence.”

The purple deepened to a vivid red, making Rory worry that the deputy was going to have a stroke. “Stay out of this, Walsh. It's none of your business. This is official procedure.”

With a sigh, Rory unzipped her interior coat pocket, intending to pull out her wallet, but the sheriff and Investigator Strepple rounded the corner of the shop before she could present her ID.

“What's going on, Lawrence?” Rob asked. “How are you doing, Rory?”

“Okay.” Strepple was hanging back, eyeing them with a neutral expression. It made her uncomfortable, but she tried very hard not to show it. “How are things going here?”

“We're just finishing up.” He raised an eyebrow in Strepple's direction, who confirmed the statement with a small nod.

“Already? Oh. I mean, good.” The thought of not having to sleep in the closet anymore was surprisingly bittersweet. She was distracted from her bouncing emotions when the front door of the shop swung open, revealing a woman holding a large case in one hand.

“Harding,” the sheriff greeted the woman. “All done?”

“Yep. Got everything cleaned up.”

Rory was pretty sure that by “everything,” Harding meant the BCA's equipment and not the blood and gore that awaited her in the back room. She barely restrained a wince at the thought.

Harding shivered and huddled deeper into her coat. “I'll be glad to get back to Denver. It's practically tropical compared to Simpson. This place is like Siberia.”

Strepple made a vague sound that could've been interpreted as agreement. It was going to be a relief for Rory when the investigator did leave town. He was still eyeing her and Ian a little too intently for her peace of mind.

“You had good timing,” Rob said to Rory. “The place is yours again. Unless you want to change your mind and show me how you get to your living quarters?” He raised a teasing eyebrow.

She just shook her head, and the four law enforcement officers made their way to the vehicles parked in her lot. All were facing outward, prepared for a quick departure. It almost made her smile. There was no question they were all first responders. As they climbed into their vehicles, she hurried to the gate, reaching it just as the first one—the sheriff's SUV—approached.

After watching the last car pass through the gates, she secured them. Glancing at the cameras still affixed above her head, she frowned. She'd need to take those down, but she figured she'd leave them up for a little while longer. Her place didn't feel safe yet, and she still hadn't looked at the residual carnage in the back room.

With a grunt of displeasure at her timid thoughts, she turned toward the shop. Immediately, she gave a startled yelp. Rory hadn't realized that Ian had been right behind her, and she'd almost gotten a mouthful of shirt when she'd turned.

Quickly regaining her composure, she asked, “Ready?”

“For what?”

“Your stress relief.”

“Right. The physical outlet.” He put an obscene amount of innuendo into the last two words.

It was impossible for her to calm the raging blush that heated her entire body. She strode toward the shop, unable to look at him, her eyes fixed forward. As she passed the Bronco, she let Jack out of the back. He took off toward the coop immediately, reminding her of the chickens.

With a grimace, she turned to follow the dog.

“What was that look?” Ian asked, quickly falling in place next to her, his long stride shortening to match hers.

“I just feel like a bad chicken mom.”

He gave a grunt that might have been a laugh if it had been any other day. “I told you that Squirrel is a marvel with poultry. They're fine.”

“I know.” It just didn't make her any happier. “Still feel guilty for neglecting them.”

Instead of arguing further, he silently took her arm. She already found it a comforting gesture, which was why she knew she should pull away from him. Instead, she leaned a hair closer as they walked to the coop.

As Ian had predicted, the chickens were fine, content to scratch around in the sun-warmed safety of the greenhouse. She watched them for a moment, relaxing as she took in the rhythm of their simple routine. A glance at Ian showed a slight lessening in tension. Jack had taken his usual position, sprawled next to the south side of the greenhouse, obviously happy to return to protecting his feathered charges.

“Don't most dogs want to
eat
chickens, not guard them?” Ian asked.

She shrugged. “Jack's always had a thing for the chickens. When my parents were alive, we had a few cows, but he'd never been interested in them. He and the cattle had a truce—if he didn't get too close to them, they didn't try to kick him in the head. He's always loved chickens, though.”

“Huh.” After a pause, he asked, “Why don't you have cows anymore?”

She hesitated before answering, not wanting to tell him the truth. It felt uncomfortably like she was admitting to a weakness. When she'd paused long enough for the silence to get awkward and Ian's expression to grow curious, she finally blurted, “I can't eat an animal if I've named it.”

“So don't name them.”

“I can't help it.” She looked at the chickens and pointed to a smaller hen. “See that one? I didn't set out to name her, but I couldn't help but notice how bossy she was. One morning, I said, ‘Out of the way, In-Charge Marge.' That was it. The name stuck.”

“Marge?” A corner of his mouth lifted in the beginning of a smile. This wasn't the stress reliever she'd originally intended, but chicken-watching did seem to be calming Ian.

“Marge.” She pointed to a different hen for each name. “Clara. Doughnut. Ms. Sprinkles, Lulu, Peeps, and Dinner.”

“Dinner?” He grinned, and her chest warmed at the sight.

“She's cantankerous.” Rory sent the hen a warning look, which the chicken ignored. “I keep telling her that if she doesn't watch it, she's going to be dinner.”

“Dinner,” he repeated under his breath, shaking his head but still smiling.

“Come on,” she said, turning away from the coop and heading for the shop. Although she was loath to interrupt their happy moment, she knew they had only a limited amount of time before daylight slipped away from them. “Stress relief is waiting.”

“They weren't it?” he asked, tilting his head toward the coop.

“Nope.” For some reason, maybe the reassurance of being home—despite the present bloodstained condition of that home—she felt a surge of happiness. “Those are chickens.
Chick-ens
,” she slowly sounded out, laughing and dodging when he reached toward her mock-threateningly.

He straightened from his playful lunge and looked at her.

“What?” Her smile faded at his unreadable expression.

“Nothing. I just don't get to see you laugh very often.”

“Oh.” Once again, she had no idea what to say.

Reaching out, he stroked his fingers from her cheekbone to her jawline. At his touch, she instantly stilled, as if they were playing freeze-tag. “I like watching you laugh. It makes you even more beautiful.”

Her skin reddened under his touch.

Dropping his hand to his side, he gave her a wicked smile, as if he enjoyed reducing her to this flustered, speechless state. “Stress relief?” he prompted.

Scowling, she stomped toward the front of the shop. She wasn't ready to see the back room in its current condition. Since neither the sheriff nor Strepple had arrested her, she'd just assume that her hidden arsenal hadn't been discovered during their search. “Quit distracting me.”

“Sorry.” Ian didn't sound sorry. He didn't sound sorry at all.

* * *

“This was great,” Ian said, eyeing the side-by-side targets. Both had a large hole where the center had been, as if they'd thrown apples at the target and not bullets. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” She kept her attention focused on the ground as she gathered the spent brass, dropping the casings into a bucket. “I had fun, too. Normally, I don't get to shoot as much as I want. I'm too busy helping other people pick out guns.”

Squatting down next to her, he began picking up brass as well. “I needed this. After Billy and then Julius…” The tense lines started to return to his face. “Never mind. I don't want to think about them right now. Especially since you figured out how to make me forget for a few minutes.”

“Shooting does that.” She kept her head tilted down to hide her expression, since she couldn't stop the smile that crept onto her face. “Everything else goes away except the gun and the target. It's like really loud meditation.”

He laughed, dropping a handful of casings in the bucket.

“Cleaning guns does that for me, too,” she admitted, shifting over a few feet to grab the stray brass. “Maybe not quite as much as shooting does, but cleaning does calm me.”

“Riding's my escape,” he said. “It clears my head. Going on a call, though…that's different. The split second we see that wrecked car or blazing fire or the person lying on the ground, not moving, everything else just goes away. The only thing I'm thinking about is the people in that car or how to contain that fire. And after… If it goes well, there's no better feeling. If it doesn't…” Tossing a final couple of casings into the bucket, he stood and brushed off his hands. “Then the crash is pretty brutal.”