Fan the Flames (5 page)

That first meeting had been seared into her brain for over a decade. “It was my birthday.”

He smiled. “You were just a tiny thing, like ten or something, and you were staring at this bakery display with huge eyes. From the look on your face, you'd have thought those cakes were magical.”

Rory started to smile. “My parents hated going to the store. Everything we ate or wore was either homemade or grown or raised or traded with a neighbor. My mom loved Colorado peaches, though, and Harry, the guy who usually had the roadside stand—remember him?” Ian nodded. “He never showed up that day, but the grocery store was carrying those peaches. My mom's code of ethics didn't hold up to her craving. It was the first time I remember being in there, and those princess birthday cakes were so pretty. I asked my mom for one, and she acted like I'd asked for a sealskin coat lined with the fur of innocent puppies. Instead of a cake, I got a lecture on corporate greed and rampant consumerism. I didn't care about any of that, though. I just really, really wanted a pink-and-white cake for my birthday.”

He laughed. “I could tell.”

“I saw you watching,” she admitted, remembering noticing that beautiful boy and being so ashamed. She'd been the weird, oddly dressed kid, and he'd been gorgeous, even as a gawky fourteen-year-old. “And then, in the parking lot…”

With a bashful shrug that looked strange on him, he said, “I wanted to get you a big cake, but I didn't have enough money. I'd just bought a part for a bike Julius was helping me fix up.”

“The cupcake was perfect.”

It had been. She remembered every second of that encounter, from him touching her arm while her mother was talking to a neighbor, to the detail of the pink and white frosting hearts on the cupcake in his hand. He'd held it out to her with an awkward, “Happy Birthday.” As soon as she'd accepted it, he'd hurried away, leaving her staring at his departing back. That was the start of a thirteen-year crush.

“I was older than ten, though,” she said, shaking off the nostalgia that wanted to cling. “I'd just turned twelve.”

“Even as a kid, you were so pretty.” Reaching over, he caught a few pieces of her hair between his fingers, running the full length of the strands until they slipped out of his hand and dropped across her shoulder. “Still are.”

She'd been too shocked to move away from his touch, and now she could only stare at him, not sure what to say. Rory had always figured she was attractive enough, but nothing special—straight, light brown hair and muted blue eyes. The way Ian was looking at her, though, made her feel more than just average. Much more.

But…what was he doing? What was he trying to say?

And what the
hell
had brought it on? The attempted break-in? Something else? Rory was barely equipped to deal with Ian on normal days. She had no idea how to respond to the look in his eyes.

“Ever since that first time I saw you, I've tried to get your attention.” The twist of his mouth was wry. “Never had much luck with that. Hell—heck, even that cupcake held your interest more than I did.”

Her mouth was open, but no words emerged. Rory couldn't wrap her head around the idea that gorgeous Ian Walsh, whom she'd crushed on forever, was seriously attracted to her. Sure, he'd flirted, but she assumed that was just his way. He was perfection, and she was just average—and weirdly hermitlike, to boot. Now, though, he was calling her pretty, touching her hair, and acting like someone who was interested—
romantically
interested.

As it started to sink into her brain, she closed her mouth and frowned.

“What does
that
look”—his finger made a circle in the air, indicating her face—“mean?”

She shifted back a step, stopping only because she bumped into the counter. “It means that I have a lot going on here. The shop, the back room”—she gave him a meaningful look—“dealing with certain customers—
including
your family.”

“Yeah? So?” His forehead was still wrinkled in confusion.

“So, you split your time between hanging out with criminals and working with cops.”

Ian leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “I wouldn't drag you into anything. Besides, the Riders aren't involved in anything illegal—anything serious, at least.”

“Ian. Billy just walked out of here with an untraceable rifle. Is that so he can use that gun for hunting, to keep the mule deer's family from tracking him down and getting revenge on him for shooting their loved one?”

“You just sold it to him!” His voice rose.

“
I know.
” Tucking her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, she moved her gaze around the shop, focusing on anything except the man standing a few feet away from her. “That's my point. Most of the money I make is in there.” Rory jerked her head at the door to the back room. “I don't want to get in any deeper than I already am. And I definitely don't want to attract any attention from law enforcement. Right now, the cops pretty much leave me alone. I'd like that to continue.”

As he stared at her, his expression changed to something closer to thoughtfulness.

“What?” she finally snapped, not able to take the charged silence for another minute.

“I just realized you're full of shit—er, baloney.”

“Excuse me?”

“I've been trying to figure it out. You're nervous about us getting together,” he said, watching her closely—too closely for comfort. “But it's not because of what I do. It's not Fire, and it's not the Riders.”

Making a scoffing noise, she pulled her hands out of her pockets and went to move past him. “I have work to do. If you want to stand here and play gun-shop psychologist, have at it.”

He caught her arm, turning her to face him. Meeting his eyes with a defiant gaze, she tried to ignore the way her heart was thudding in double time. It wasn't from fear—which made it so much scarier.

“In the three years we've been friends, haven't you ever wanted to be more?”

Yes!
The answer echoed in her brain so loudly that she worried for a second she'd actually shouted it. The images from the other night's dream replayed in her head, heating her cheeks—and other body parts, as well. For an instant, she allowed herself to consider it. Could she and Ian actually be a possibility? Then Rory imagined walking through Simpson while the locals whispered and laughed behind their hands, wondering what the crazy gun-shop lady was doing with the motorcycle-riding, lifesaving picture-of-beauty that was Ian Walsh.

Her nerves quickly smothered that spark of hope. It was ridiculous to even consider that she was good enough for Ian. Firmly squashing her secret thirteen-year-old dreams, she tugged her arm free of his gentle grip. Her expression must have given her away, though, because his eyes lit.

“Ror,” he said softly, hopefully, taking a step closer. “You do want me.”

“No.” It sounded weak, even to Rory's own ears.

“You do.” His voice was certain. “I know you're scared, though.”

“I'm not scared,” she snapped.

“We'll take it slow,” he assured her, ignoring her obvious lie. “As much time as you need. I can wait.” His laugh was short but happy. “I'm good at waiting.”

She didn't know how to respond, so she didn't. Averting her eyes, she hurried toward the back room, keeping her gaze focused strictly in front of her. If she looked at him, she'd waver. Just a conversation with him yesterday had made her restless and unsettled. Ian Walsh had the power to completely dismantle her safe life if she let him.

As she closed the back-room door behind her, Rory turned and let her forehead press against the cool metal. It felt good on her flushed face.

She knew perfectly well that he could make her miserable, so why did she feel like she'd just made a mistake by walking away?

When the alarm started beeping for the fourth night in a row, Rory swore vehemently enough to startle the dog. Stomping over to the desk, she grabbed her revolver and headed for the stairs. Her precautions stayed the same as the previous three nights, though—no light on the stairs, checking the shop cameras before opening the steel door, staying in the cover of the trees. Although she wasn't sure what the trespasser's endgame was, she couldn't allow repetition to dull her response. The intruder's plan could be to make it routine so Rory would start to disregard the alarm, or at least lower her guard while checking the perimeter. She couldn't allow that to happen.

It was a nasty night, too. The wind whipped the snow that had fallen that morning into blinding clouds, ruining her visibility and stinging her face. As she walked the west fence line, she peered into the neighboring trees, blinking the flying ice crystals from her eyes.

Rory had been tempted to wear her night-vision goggles, but it was too easy for someone to temporarily blind her with a flash of light. Although she'd regain her vision in a short time, that might be too late. She'd keep her unenhanced night vision, as poor as it was with the cloudy sky and blowing snow.

It was also hard to hear anything besides the howling of the wind. Rory didn't like having her two main senses so impaired. It made her feel exposed and vulnerable. As she approached the gate, Jack loping ahead, the trees on the other side of the fence thinned. A dark form darted across an open space between the shadows of two trees, making her suck in a breath.

Rory had dropped to a crouch, her Python out and aimed, before she even realized what she'd glimpsed. She strained to see, staring so hard at the spot where she'd last caught the shape that her eyes stung. There was no more movement, though.

Staying low, her eyes on the trees, she retreated ten feet to one of the several blinds she'd constructed the day before. Although the wooden shield wouldn't offer cover from gunfire, it would provide some concealment. Something moved next to the first tree. Her heart hammering, she aimed her revolver through an opening in the blind at the shifting dark shape. Her breath escaped in a long, silent exhale of relief when she realized it was just a pine tree branch bowing in the wind.

Peering through one of the peepholes, she watched the trees for a long time. When she finally accepted that the intruder had either slipped away without her seeing or had frozen to death, she stood, her muscles protesting the movement.

As she headed toward the gate, Rory tried to move quickly, but her cold-locked joints made her hobble. Sweeping her gaze from left to right and back again, she hurried as best she could to the gates to check the padlock. As she tugged on the steel loop, the material of her glove snagged on something.

She kept her eyes moving, conscious of her surroundings as she felt in her coat pocket for her flashlight. Cupping her hand over the front to block the light, she pushed the button on the end to turn it on. Allowing just a sliver of light to peek through her fingers, she quickly glanced down at the light before returning her gaze to the area beyond the gate.

There were two grooves on either side of the steel loop, as if someone had pressed down with a heavy-duty bolt cutter. The lock was still secure, but seeing the evidence that the intruder had tried to get through her gates made her flush with anger and her stomach knot with fear.

With her attention still focused on the area beyond the gates, Rory hurried into her shop, returning to the gates with three additional chains and locks. After securing all of the extra chains, she gave the surrounding space a final once-over before retracing her steps to her door.

For the first time in her life, however, her bunker didn't feel secure. Rory spent the night with her eyes glued to the security camera monitor, hardly allowing herself to blink.

* * *

The next morning, she regretted her sleepless night. Rory stared at the paperwork in front of her, but no amount of blinking could keep the print from blurring. Giving in, she folded her arms on the counter and let her head sink down to rest on them.

“Rough night?”

She sat up abruptly and had to catch herself before she toppled off her stool. Ian was standing by the front door, smirking at her. Despite herself, her first feeling was relief. After she'd run away from him, she figured he'd give up on her—and as nervous as the thought of
more
made her, she couldn't bear the idea of losing his friendship. Her next thought was panic that he'd gotten into the store without her hearing the alarm.

Logic pushed aside the last of her sleepiness, and she felt silly as common sense took hold. With a shake of her head, she tried to slow her pounding pulse. The front-door sensor sounded only in the back room. When it was installed, she'd assumed that she wouldn't need the sensor in the front room, since she'd actually hear and see the person walking into the shop.

“Not a rough night?” Ian must have taken her
I'm an idiot
head shake as an answer to his question.

“No. I mean, yes.” She rubbed a hand over her face, surreptitiously checking for any nap drool on her chin. “Never mind. What did you need?”

“Just wanted to check on you.” Moving behind the counter, Ian took his usual position leaning against the wall. She swiveled around on her stool until she was facing him. “Any more trouble with your trespasser?”

Her yawn turned into a grimace. “Every night.” When Ian's face went hard, she immediately regretted her words. “The deer cameras I ordered should be arriving today, though. Hopefully, I'll get a shot of this guy's face tonight. I've come to the realization that my security cameras are crap.”

“Rory.” The news about the deer cameras didn't lighten his scowl. “Has he—or they—gotten in your fence?”

“No. They tried to cut the lock on the front gates last night, though.”

He eyed her face closely. “How long's it been since you've slept?”

“A while.” She bit off another yawn. Despite her initial joy at seeing Ian, now she kind of wished he'd leave so she could take a nap.

“You're staying at my place tonight.”

“No. I'm not leaving my shop and all my inventory so whoever it is can go nuts at the gun buffet. I need to be here.”

He obviously didn't like that. “I'll stay here, then.”

“No.” She rejected the idea immediately as panic coiled in her belly.

“Why not?”

“Because.” Rory couldn't give him a reasonable answer, because her feelings weren't reasonable. If she tried to explain, she'd just end up sounding as loony as her parents had been. She didn't want Ian to see her like that.

A smile curled up one corner of his mouth. “What if I promise to behave?” Ian practically purred.

The suggestiveness in his voice threw her off balance and woke a whole herd of butterflies in her belly. Images of Ian in her home—in her bedroom!—flashed through her mind, and she opened her mouth and then closed it again. It was hard enough to banter with a sexily smiling Ian on a good day, much less when she'd been functioning on little to no sleep for the past four nights.

Ian's grin broadened. “I'll come over around six, then.”

“No.”

“Earlier? I can probably get here around five thirty.”

Rory pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. “No. No sleepover.” The word “sleepover” brought up all the tempting mental pictures again. She sighed.
Stupid brain.

“I'll pull up to your gate and spend the night in my truck, then.”

“Ian…” Lowering her forehead, she hid her face in the safe darkness of her folded arms. Her breath created a layer of condensation on the countertop. “Why can't you just let me handle this by myself, like I've handled everything else in my life?”

He touched her upper back, the heat from his palm soaking into her spine. “Why can't you let me help?”

Any physical contact was rare in her life, especially after her parents had died. The weight and warmth of his hand made her stomach clench with longing. How was she supposed to argue when he touched her like that?

“Please, Ian.” Even to her own ears, she sounded tired, defeated almost. “Give me one more night to figure out who it is.”

He went still, then sighed. “Fine. One more night. After that, though, if they're still coming around, you'll just have to call me your roomie. I'm not going to stand by and watch you get hurt.”

She couldn't find any words. His protectiveness warmed her even as her instinctual response to him scared her silly. All she managed to do was groan.

* * *

Melvin, the UPS driver, brought the deer cameras just before noon. As soon as he drove away, she grabbed her toolbox, coat, and a ladder, and headed for the front entrance.

After closing the gates, she set up two cameras along the top, pointing them down at different angles. To test the position, she stood in front of the gate and held her hand approximately six inches above her head. It might've been a sexist assumption, but she was fairly sure her intruder had been a man. Grabbing the memory stick after the cameras took several pictures, she hurried inside to download the contents onto the shop computer.

The camera on the left side needed a slight adjustment. After that, the second round of pictures were clear shots with her hand centered in the frames. The second pair of cameras went in two spots on her west fence, pointed into the trees.

Only one customer, George Holloway, interrupted her installation, but he just wanted to pick up the laser sights she'd special ordered for him. To her relief, he was his usual taciturn self and didn't want to hang around to chat. Usually, Rory didn't mind talking with her customers, but she wanted to get the cameras set up before dark. The threat of Ian Walsh invading her bunker hung over her head, providing even more motivation to figure out who the trespasser was that night.

By the time she'd finished hanging and checking the cameras, it was late afternoon. The light was fading, and the cameras flashed with each test shot. Rory was happy with them, though—the resolution was great and the pictures crisp.

Giving them one final, satisfied look, she headed for the coop to tuck in the chickens for the night. Jack ran ahead, his tail swinging. That afternoon, he'd been torn between his responsibilities, trotting back and forth between Rory's ladder and the poultry, his ears flat with anxiety. Now, with his feathered charges safely perched in the coop, he relaxed and bounded through the snow.

Rory smiled as she watched him play. Although exhaustion still pulled at her, she felt a little more relaxed with the cameras in place. Just one more night, and, with any luck, she'd have a face to put on the shadowy figure she'd seen in the woods. The intruder obviously knew where her security cameras were; he'd avoided them since that first night. Plus, anything out of the limited area illuminated by the lights at the gate blended into the night. With the deer cameras, by the time the flash went off and the trespasser realized his picture had been taken, it'd be too late for him to prevent it.

With a surge of renewed energy, she bounced through the new drifts left by the previous night's winds. Now all she had to do was wait for him to show.

* * *

The alarm never sounded that night.

Although Rory was disappointed that her trespasser didn't get caught on camera, the uninterrupted night did allow her to snatch a few hours of sleep. When she checked them in the morning, the memory cards were blank, except for a few pictures of a passing coyote.

She was still frowning at the computer screen when Belly Leopold, the Field County Coroner, shoved open the front door and clomped inside the shop. Rory swiveled her stool around to face Belly, amazed at how much racket the tiny woman could make when she moved.

“I'm doing it,” Belly said as she stomped over to Rory and leaned on the counter.

“The Ethos?”

“Yes. I need a new shotgun like I need another hole in my head, but I can't stop thinking about it.” She scowled. “It's just so darn comfortable to shoot.”

Belly's disgruntled look made Rory want to smile. “That it is. Benelli really managed to soften up the recoil on that gun. Do you want the plain black or engraved silver receiver?”

“Since when have I ever wanted my guns fancy?” Belly demanded.

Amused, Rory held up her hands. “Okay! Plain black receiver it is, then. Just for the record, though, there's nothing wrong with liking shiny things.”

Belly made a rude noise before changing the subject. “Nice shot.”

Since her brain was focused on guns, Belly's comment confused her until the other woman pointed toward the coyote's photo still displayed on the computer screen.

“Oh!” Rory said. “Right. It wasn't the predator I was hoping to photograph, but it is a pretty nice wildlife picture, isn't it?”

“Were you hoping to catch a mugshot of whoever's been lurking around here?”

Rory stared at the coroner, frowning. “How did you know?”

“Please.” Belly rolled her eyes. “First off, this is Simpson. Everyone knows everything. And second, I'm me. And I know even more about everything than the average Simpson resident.”

Blowing out a frustrated breath, Rory leaned back on her stool and rubbed her eyes. “I've lived here all my life. Why am I surprised to find out that everyone's in my business?”

“Because,” Belly answered, although Rory had intended it to be a hypothetical question, “you've never been what I'd call a participating member of the Simpson community. Since you leave everyone else alone, you figure they'll leave you alone, too. There's your mistake. Being all mysterious just adds to your allure.”

“My allure?”

“With the gossips.” The corners of Belly's mouth twitched. “And possibly a certain fireman.”