The Last Wilder Page 11

  In the living room, Dane’s aunt tsked. “There’s no need to be crude,” she said in response to his comment about the Wilders’ father siring one more bastard than they knew about.

  Dane did his best to swallow his frustration. “There’s no need to have this conversation again,” Dane answered as gently as he could. “Aunt Karen, I can’t tell them. You know my mother made me promise I wouldn’t.”

  “Dane, sweetie,” Karen said equally gently. “Your mother, bless her heart, has been dead for five years now.”

  Five years, and he still caught himself thinking, I’ve got to call Mom and tell her… “That doesn’t mean I’m not still obligated to honor her wishes.”

  “She had her reasons for what she did,” Karen said, “but you know I’ve never agreed with her on that. She was wrong to extract such a promise from you. You need family, Dane. Your family.”

  “You’re my family, Aunt Karen. All the family I need.”

  “That’s so sweet.” She reached up and patted his cheek.

  Dane bit back a smile. She was the only person alive who could do that and get away with it. Anyone else, he would have decked.

  “But I won’t live forever,” she went on.

  “Don’t start that—”

  “It’s true. No one lives forever. Your mother should be reminder enough of that. You need more than just me. When are you going to stop distancing yourself from the comfort of family just because my parents have been…”

  “I’d fill that blank in for you,” Dane said, “but I’m trying not to be crude again.”

  “Yes, well.”

  “What makes you think the Wilders would accept me, anyway?” he asked. “You don’t know them, Aunt Karen. They’re a close family. They have each other. They don’t need anyone else. Right now I have their friendship. I won’t risk losing that.”

  “What makes you think you’ll lose their friendship? If they’re good people, as you’ve said they are, they’ll accept you.”

  “It’s too late, Aunt Karen,” Dane said, trying to get her to see reason. “I’ve lived here and known them for more than two years now. If I was going to tell them, the time to do it would have been when I first came here.”

  Karen shook her head at him as if to say he was a lost cause. “If you weren’t going to tell them you’re their brother, why did you come here in the first place?”

  “You know why.”

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “Because of Susan.”

  Dane stiffened. “I came here because there was an opening for undersheriff and I thought it would be a good chance to meet the Wilders and see what kind of people they were.”

  Karen placed her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I’ve upset you. I shouldn’t have brought up Susan. I know that was a…a hard time for you.”

  “It’s history, Aunt Karen. Let it go. I have.”

  “Have you, Dane? Have you really?”

  Dane’s shoulders lost their stiffness. What was the use in trying to fool her? Aunt Karen had always seen through him.

  But some things were better left alone. He was as over what happened to Susan as he would ever get, so there was no point in discussing it. No point in even remembering it, except to avoid repeating that particular mistake again. That particular fatal mistake.

  “I’ve taken up enough of your time,” Karen said. “I need to get on the road again if I’m going to get to Jackson on time.”

  Dane mumbled something he hoped was suitable, but as much as he loved Karen, he was glad to see her go. He would cheer the day they had a conversation that did not include mention of the Wilders, or Susan.

  He kissed his aunt goodbye and watched her walk down the sidewalk and climb into her gray sedan. When she backed out of the driveway and pulled away, he closed the door. He stood there for a long moment, trying to clear his mind of their conversation.

  As he stood there staring at his closed front door, something changed in the room. A subtle shift in the air. Something. And he knew he was no longer alone.

  Stacey.

  He turned and found her in those crazy pajamas, balanced on her crutches in the doorway. Those little winged pigs made him want to smile, until he saw the look of ripe speculation on her face.

  “Well, hell.” He braced his hands on his hips and stared at her. “How much did you hear?”

  Stacey had a short, hot debate with herself. She could deny hearing anything, but as Dane had pointed out on several occasions, she was a lousy liar. She could admit she’d heard everything and threaten to tell the Wilders what she knew unless Dane arranged for her to return home to Cheyenne, which was where she most wanted to be, but if he called her bluff she knew she couldn’t go through with it. She’d seen the turmoil in his eyes just now. Was still seeing it.

  She couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for him growing up having never known his father, his half siblings. Stacey’s own father had certainly been no prize, but at least he’d been there. And now and then, he’d had his good moments. She had a few memories that still warmed her heart.

  “How much did you hear?” he asked again.

  No, she couldn’t use her newfound information against him. He was devastated enough by his aunt’s visit as it was. But she wasn’t sure she was up to telling him the truth, that she’d heard everything. Or rather, she wasn’t sure she was up to the eruption she was sure would occur when she told him the truth.

  Being on crutches, as she was, left her at a distinct disadvantage to deal with a man’s anger. Yet she’d had so much practice in her life, with her father and her ex, that unless she had totally misjudged Dane, she should be able to cope.

  She didn’t think she had misjudged Dane. Not that he didn’t look like a man who could get physical whenever he chose. He simply wasn’t the bully she had first thought. He might very well get angry, but he wouldn’t get physical. Not with her. Not with any woman. Not in anger. He wasn’t like her father. He wasn’t like her ex.

  Carl had never hit her—he’d be dead if he had, and she’d probably be in prison for manslaughter, at the least—but he’d been known to throw things, to browbeat, to purposely try to intimidate her. From what she’d seen of Dane Powell, he was a different type of man.

  She gave him a careless shrug. “All of it.”

  “Well, hell.”

  That was it? she wondered, amazed. A simple comment on an expelled breath? “It wasn’t as if I eavesdropped on purpose,” she added, just in case.

  “Wasn’t it?”

  Ah, a little anger surfacing there. “You left my door open,” she told him. “The doorbell woke me. I couldn’t help but overhear. But don’t worry, Sheriff, your secret’s safe with me.”

  Dane didn’t seem to care much for the breezy way she said that. “Is it?”

  “Of course.” But maybe there was something she could get out of this. It was worth a try, she thought, since he’d taken everything so well. “You promise not to ask any more questions about the man in the grave or the person who sent me here, and I’ll promise to forget everything I just heard.”

  He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. After a long moment, he agreed. “Sounds like a deal to me. But I can’t promise other people won’t ask you those things.”

  “But not your deputies.”

  “No,” he said. “I won’t put anyone up to asking you. That’s between you and the Wilders.”

  “Then so is your secret.” Tucking her right crutch more firmly beneath her arm, she held out her hand. She’d been right. Dane was not like her father or Carl. “Shake?”

  Slowly he crossed the room and stood before her. He studied her for so long, she started to feel like a bug under a microscope, but she wasn’t afraid, didn’t feel the need to brace herself for a verbal blow.

  He seemed to come to a decision. “All right.” He shook her hand.

  Stacey felt the sudden jolt of electricity from her fingers clear to her toes, and at several…interesting places in between
. She jerked slightly and released his hand. She couldn’t bring herself to look in his face to see if he’d felt it too.

  “Neither one of us got enough sleep,” he said. “We could fix something to eat, then go back to bed, or sleep now and eat later. Your choice.”

  After the jolt she’d just experienced, Stacey felt the need to retreat and regroup, convince herself she’d only imagined that sharp, tingling awareness. “If it’s all the same to you,” she said, “I’d just as soon go back to sleep, and eat later.”

  “That’s fine by me. By the way,” he said, “do you cook?”

  Ah, a subject she could handle easily. Stacey looked up at him and smirked. “Read my jammies, copper.”

  The next time Stacey woke it was to the sound of the shower running. Outside the bedroom window the daylight was fading rapidly. She’d slept for several hours this time and felt wonderful for it. Even her ankle had decided to give her a break in the pain department. It actually felt normal.

  At that thought she tossed the covers aside and held her leg up in the waning light. Hallelujah, the swelling was going down! In fact, the ankle looked so good she decided to give it a careful try.

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed, then leaned down and picked up her crutches. Using them to get herself up, she gingerly placed her right foot on the floor. A fraction at a time, she put weight on it.

  Not bad, she thought after a couple of small tries. She certainly couldn’t walk on it without her crutches, but she was able to put a little weight on it without undue pain.

  With Dane in the shower, she made her way to the kitchen, using both crutches but putting her right foot down and easing a little weight onto it with each step. By the time she made it to the kitchen she felt triumphant.

  She opened the refrigerator and scoped out the possibilities for breakfast. Her stomach didn’t care that it was suppertime; it had just awakened. That meant breakfast.

  “Are pigs flying?” Dane asked from behind her in the doorway.

  Stacey peered around at him. Damn, why did he have to look so good with his hair still damp like that and a crease from his pillow still marking his cheek? “Pardon?” After his tender care of her when he’d carried her to bed and put the ice pack on her ankle, then that sharp zap of…whatever, when they shook hands, she didn’t need to see him looking so good, so open and approachable.

  He arched a brow. “Have you decided to cook?”

  “In your dreams, Sheriff,” she said with a grin. “I’m just taking a peek.”

  Dane sauntered in and leaned a hip against the countertop next to the refrigerator. “See anything you like?”

  Yes. But she tore her gaze from it—him—and turned back to look in the fridge once more. “I’m not a picky eater. Especially when someone else is doing the cooking.”

  “You’re telling me the pigs aren’t flying, huh?”

  “We could always hit the café again,” she suggested.

  He shook his head. “I’d rather not have you out in such a public, visible place.”

  That fast, the warmth of sharing teasing banter with him in his cozy kitchen turned to the chill of reality. The bad guys were after her, trying to prevent her from identifying them. “Oh.”

  “Hey,” Dane said softly, placing a hand beside hers on the refrigerator door. “It’s just a precaution. Ask anybody, they’ll tell you I’m as bad as a little old lady when it comes to not taking chances.”

  Stacey laughed at both of them. At herself for letting his caution scare her, when it should have made her feel safe. At him for the whopper he’d undoubtedly just told. “Yeah,” she said with a chuckle. “I bet.”

  “No, really,” he said. “I look both ways before I cross the street, I unplug my computer—the one at home, anyway—during thunderstorms, and I always cook my bacon thoroughly.”

  That got another laugh out of her. “Talk, talk, talk.” She reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a package. “Let’s see some action with this bacon.”

  The next hour was one of the more enjoyable times Dane had experienced in recent memory. The enjoyment—the surprised pleasure—had started when he’d entered his kitchen and found a woman there. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a woman in his kitchen. Not ever since he’d moved to Wyoming.

  If he’d fantasized about waking up to find a beautiful, golden-haired woman in his kitchen, however, he doubted he would have been creative enough to have her wearing white flannel pajamas covered with improbably winged farm animals. But for this woman, they suited.

  She kept him company while he fixed bacon and eggs, although she’d been appalled when she’d realized that the package she had handed him contained turkey bacon rather than regular.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” she’d said. “Bacon is pork. Turkey is…”

  “Yes?” he’d asked, amused.

  “It’s stuffed with dressing for Thanksgiving dinner. It’s drumsticks and leftovers. It’s deli sandwiches. It is not bacon.”

  “It’s lean and has no nitrites, and far fewer calories.”

  “What is this?” she had demanded. “A macho, know-it-all, health-nut sheriff?”

  Dane had playfully narrowed his eyes at her. “You’ve got something against clean arteries and living longer?”

  She’d narrowed her eyes to match his. “What kind of eggs are those?”

  “Okay, so I’m not a purist.” That’s when he had noticed that she was putting weight on her right foot. “Aren’t you rushing that a bit?”

  “I’m being careful.”

  “I hope so.”

  And he did hope so. He didn’t like the thought of her in pain.

  Nor did he like the thought of her in danger, but if not for the threat against her, he wouldn’t have just spent one of the best hours of his life with her in his own kitchen. He wondered if his enjoyment of her company, under the circumstances, made him exactly what she’d called him that first night—a macho jerk. And he wondered if his feeling close to her, when he hadn’t felt close, not really, to anyone in years, made him a fool.

  “What’s on tonight’s agenda?” Stacey asked when they were ready to leave the house. It was seven o’clock, well past dark, and well past cold outside his warm, comfortable home, she realized when he opened the front door. “I don’t suppose I could just stay here while you go do your sheriff stuff?” She couldn’t keep the note of hope from her voice.

  “I don’t suppose,” Dane said, looking out at his neighborhood.

  Checking it out, Stacey silently amended. Looking around at the neighboring houses, some with porch lights on, some with them off. The nearby cars, some in driveways, some parked on the street. Checking out dark clumps of shrubbery, large-trunked trees, anything large enough to hide a man.

  She’d been married to a cop. She knew when a man was in his cop mode, and this was it.

  But apparently Dane saw nothing amiss, for he stepped outside and held the door open for her.

  This, she silently acknowledged, was not the time for her to proceed slowly enough to put weight on her right foot. Besides, it was still swollen enough that a shoe was uncomfortable. She was wearing her new pink slipper on that foot and didn’t want to get it dirty on the sidewalk.

  Less than five minutes later they made their way into the sheriff’s office at the courthouse. Stanley Bates was on again, as he’d been the night before, as night jailer and dispatcher. Bates gave Dane his usual “Howdy,” and welcomed Stacey back.

  “Damn,” Dane muttered as he stepped into his office.

  Stacey tried to peer around him. “What’s wrong?”

  He shook his head. “I should have had you pick up something to read earlier today while you were shopping. I’ve got some paperwork to take care of, and I want to read John’s report from the rustling site this morning.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” she told him. “I’m sure I can find something to amuse me.”

  “That,” he said with mocking sever
ity, “does not ease my mind. You have a knack for getting yourself into trouble.”

  “I do not,” she protested.

  He splayed his fingers and started ticking them off. “You get hauled in for trespassing, sprain your ankle—”

  “That was your fault.”

  “Witness a felony, have cattle rustlers after you.” He looked at her. “Unauthorized use of the department’s radio,” he added with a frown. “Shall I go on?”

  Stacey glared at him. “All right, Dr. Jekyll, what did you do with Mr. Hyde?”

  “Come again?”

  “I liked you better when you were out of uniform.”

  Bates, seated only a few feet away behind Stacey, tried, and failed, to stifle a snicker.

  Dane ignored him and raised out his arms. “I’m still out of uniform.”

  Which was true. He wore his usual jeans and flannel shirt, topped off with his fleece-lined jacket. But before they’d left the house he had clipped his gun to his belt. That, Stacey thought, must be his trigger, if he needed one. No pun intended. “You know what I mean.”

  “No, but then that’s nothing new,” he answered. “I’ll be at my desk. Try to stay out of trouble.”

  She made a face at him and turned around on her crutches. Bates pretended to go about his own paperwork, but his lips were twitching.

  Stacey looked around the outer office for something that might occupy her mind while she waited for Dane. She spotted a desk in the front corner that had been cleared of everything except a monitor—turned on, with desktop icons covering the screen—a keyboard and a single yellow legal pad.

  While all the other desks held stacks of paperwork, small framed photos of spouses, children, or pets, this one held none of those items. Remembering that Dane had said he was in need of a new office manager, Stacey assumed this had been the former manager’s desk. She wouldn’t feel quite so much like an intruder if she sat there, she decided, so she took a seat and leaned her crutches against the side of the desk.

  She really didn’t need anything to do. She was perfectly capable of enjoying a little down time. After all, it had certainly been an eventful couple of days. But that didn’t stop her from glancing at the neat handwriting covering the top, and evidently several subsequent sheets, of the legal pad.