The Sheriff's Daughter Page 7

  Or someone.

  “I’m not trying to pry or tell you what to do.” A rueful smile touched Jen’s lips. “God knows it’s never worked before. But you’ve said it yourself—no more temporary guys.”

  Actually, Sam’s vow had been more along the lines of no more drop-dead sexy, brooding temporary guys.

  All of which hit too close to home.

  Chastened, Sam let her shoulders drop. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.” And it wasn’t over yet. As soon as Logan was done with his preparations, they would leave for Boston.

  She hated the city.

  No, that wasn’t entirely true. She enjoyed the city. But she hated that it drew so many good people away from the small towns, and sent so many tourists in return. Tourists who bought flea-market puppies in June and left them behind in late August when they disappeared back to their city lives. Tourists who crowded around Horace Mann’s fighting pits and bet on the dogs.

  But in fairness, it wasn’t the city’s fault the people acted that way.

  Sam crossed her arms and frowned as she stared out the wide window, trying to avoid Jennifer’s knowing eyes and the unfinished conversation that hung between them. “Fine. I’m in trouble. Are you happy now?”

  Both of them knew she wasn’t talking about the danger, though there was that, too.

  “Just be careful, Sam. Please be careful. Of him. Of the…situation.” Jen shrugged helplessly. “I don’t want to see you hurt.”

  If the words seemed inadequate, the feeling behind them was anything but. The emotion hung heavy in the air until Jimmy barged in carrying a pizza box.

  “You ladies hungry? My dad brought some over for us from the restaurant.”

  His voice was startlingly male in the clinic waiting room, and both women jumped. Sam because she was on edge from…well, from everything. And Jen because…

  Just because.

  “Sure.” Sam took a slice to be polite and chewed it in small bites, deliberately not looking at the clinic doorway, where her two small suitcases awaited Logan’s re turn. She tried not to think about the danger and failed, tried not to think about being near Logan and failed.

  “Thanks.” Jen took a slice, but didn’t bite in as she carefully looked anywhere but directly at the sheriff.

  The tension in the room grew. The silence thickened.

  Suddenly, a deep-throated growl erupted from the recovery room. Then a furious fusillade of barks.

  “What the—?” Sam was on her feet, halfway across the waiting room before Jimmy grabbed her.

  “Wait! Let me go first.”

  God, she thought, was someone in the clinic?

  Maverick’s barking escalated to near frenzied. The sheriff stepped into the recovery room and fanned it with his weapon. Then he jerked his head for Sam to enter. “It’s clear.”

  But what was wrong?

  Maverick stood in his cage, plastered leg stuck out at an odd angle, every hair on end, barking as though the very hounds of hell had come to get him. The sight was enough to give her the shivers.

  Aware of Jimmy and Jen behind her, Sam crouched by the cage but didn’t reach a hand through. “Settle down, fella. Nothing’s wrong. Nobody’s going to hurt—”

  An explosion split the air. The floor rocked beneath her.

  And Maverick whined in fear.

  Sam shot to her feet, heart pounding. “What the hell was that?”

  But she didn’t need to ask. Shock and sick certainty paralyzed her, made her want to scream a denial.

  There was only one structure in the direction of the explosion.

  Her rental cottage.

  LOGAN WAS HALF-CONSCIOUS, pinned beneath a heavy oak countertop, but he heard them coming. Jimmy’s radio squawked at his hip as he ran into the cottage. Sam remained quiet, but even so, Logan knew she was there.

  He sensed her.

  He would have warned her off, but it was no use. He didn’t think she’d listen to him, and the bastard who’d rigged the explosive was long gone.

  But he’d left a present.

  “Sonofabitch booby-trapped the refrigerator,” Logan grated when Sam and the sheriff hurried into the kitchen.

  Sam dropped to her knees beside him with a cry of distress and touched his wrist for his pulse. “What happened? How badly are you hurt?”

  “I was behind the door.” At least he’d been smart enough to instinctively open the fridge away from himself. If he’d been standing directly in front of it, reaching for a soda…

  Boom.

  “Help me get this off of him.” Jimmy grabbed one end of the oak countertop and gestured for Sam to get the other. It couldn’t weigh more than a couple, three hundred pounds, but Logan had no leverage. No power.

  He tried to be grateful when Samantha lifted the slab with relative ease and slid it aside, but it galled the tough-guy core of him he’d developed by necessity in Trehern’s employ. Samantha shouldn’t rescue him, it should be the other way around, like it had been in the sinking truck.

  And wouldn’t Nancy be disappointed in him to hear that?

  Unaccountably ashamed, Logan let Sam haul him to his feet once she’d assured herself there were no broken bones. “Thanks.”

  The word came out gruffly, but at least he’d made the gesture. A sick twist in his stomach told him his preoccupation with Sam’s strength was nothing more than avoidance of the fact that he’d been a nanosecond from death by refrigerator bomb.

  He shoved his hands in his pockets, joined Jimmy beside the now-gutted refrigerator and surveyed the damage. The old heavy-duty white-and-chrome appliance still sat in the nook between counter and stove, but all resemblance to a normal kitchen ended there. Focused by the thick metal walls of the refrigerator, the blast had had only one exit—out through the open door, directly toward an unwary snacker.

  The inner walls of the fridge were blackened and melted, and the door had been blown across the room. Cabinet doors hung half-off, their meager bachelor-friendly contents forced to the back of the shelves or onto the floor.

  “Luckily I don’t cook much, or this would’ve been a real mess.” Logan’s weak joke fell like lead. Sam pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and her eyes filled. He took a step toward her. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that I came here, that I brought this here—”

  She backed away, shaking her head. But when she spoke, her voice was firm, her eyes sharp with anger through the moisture. “Don’t. Apologize.” She glanced around the devastated kitchen, then advanced on him. “You didn’t ask for this. Neither of us did.”

  But in a way he had, just as Stephen had asked for trouble by following orders into Tehru. At the thought, the last of the adrenaline faded away, leaving him with sore reminders of the past two days, bruises that sang and pulsed.

  “I don’t suppose you saw anything?” Jimmy asked. He poked through the wreckage of the once-nice kitchen table Logan had broken on impact.

  “Nothing.” When the world fuzzed ever so slightly and he had to raise his voice above the tinny ring in his ears, Logan braced his feet a little wider and scowled. “Viggo’s son likes plastique, though.”

  “Smells like ANFO to me.” The sheriff crouched down to the floor but didn’t touch. “Homemade stuff. We’ll let the state boys have at it. They should be here any time now. When I radioed them about the explosion they were nearly at the town line.”

  All three fell silent, instinctively listening for approaching sirens.

  They heard a dog barking, fast, hard and loud.

  “That’s Maverick!” Samantha’s face reflected shock, then horror, and she gasped, “Jennifer!”

  The sheriff bolted from the cottage. When Sam tried to follow, Logan grabbed her arm. “Wait! Who’s Jennifer?”

  She turned stricken eyes on him. “My best friend. We left her in the clinic.”

  And Trehern’s men were on the loose, looking for a lady vet. Oh, hell.

  “Come on!” Logan ran for the door, not letting go of her arm
. His hand slid down and their fingers linked and held.

  They ran up the sandy street together, spurred on by the dog’s frenzied barks and the wail of approaching sirens. The staties arrived just as Logan and Sam pelted up the clinic steps and burst through the waiting room door.

  A furry yellow body hurtled through the air toward them, echoing with blood-curdling growls. Logan lurched back and grabbed for the weapon he’d left behind in the cottage.

  Sam stepped forward, deftly grabbed the dog by the loose skin at the scruff of its neck, and pinned it to the wooden floor, being careful of the beast’s snapping teeth and plastered leg. She gestured over to the sign-in desk with her chin. “Grab me that nylon muzzle. We’ll need to restrain him.” She raised her voice. “Jennifer? Jen, are you okay?”

  Jimmy’s quiet voice answered from the recovery room. “She’s in here.”

  Samantha moaned low, clearly fearing the worst, and with good reason. Logan handed her the nylon contraption and let his hand linger on her shoulder. When the still-growling yellow dog was restrained, she let it up and kept a firm grip on its collar.

  Behind them, a half-dozen men and women in state uniforms mounted the steps, but Logan paid them little heed as he and Sam crossed the waiting area to the recovery room.

  There, they found Jimmy crouched down beside a pretty blond woman about Sam’s age, about Sam’s height and weight.

  She was alive. Weeping. Seemingly in one piece.

  “Jen!” The name drove out of Sam on a breath. She flung the yellow dog’s leash at Logan and dropped to her knees, nearly shoving the sheriff aside. “What happened? Are you okay?”

  “Maverick saved me.” The woman’s eyes darted to the yellow dog who stood, stiff legged and bristling, in the corner beside Logan. “He started barking again, so I came in here to talk to him. Then I heard something in the back room. A footstep.” Her words came quick and breathy, from the shock. “I called for you and Jimmy, but you didn’t answer. I got scared and didn’t know what to do…” She trailed off and buried her face against Samantha.

  “So you let Maverick out.” Sam stroked her friend’s hair. “That was a smart answer.” She glanced over at Logan and he read pain in her eyes, guilt, and the fear of what might have happened if Jennifer had been a little slower, if the dog had been a little less alert.

  Logan’s mind showed him the body of Sharilee Winters, sprawled in indelicate disarray on the floor of Viggo’s office.

  Only the body didn’t wear Sharilee’s slightly hard, slightly used face.

  Instead he saw Sam.

  Acid churned in Logan’s stomach. How had things gotten this bad this fast?

  Because Viggo was a professional, and so were the men who worked for him. The hit had been unsuccessful so far, but more from blind luck than anything.

  They couldn’t count on that any longer.

  As the staties eased into the room and began their investigation, Logan reached a hand down to Samantha. “It’s time to go.”

  She glanced up at him, eyes dark with emotion, arms still wrapped around her friend. “You’re right.”

  He wasn’t surprised by her easy agreement. Like him, a threat to someone she cared about was a far more effective incentive than a threat to her own body, God help him.

  But what did surprise him was the fire in her eyes when she took his hand and rose gracefully to her feet. “It’s time for us to nail these bastards to the wall.”

  The declaration brought a nasty, sick sinking sensation to his stomach, as did her expression, which had probably come straight from the local legend known as Sheriff Bob.

  The sheriff’s daughter was going to war.

  And how the hell was Logan going to keep her safe if she wanted to help investigate? He couldn’t, that was how.

  Because of it, and because of the need that tightened his belly at the feel of her hand in his, he dropped the contact and turned away. “Come on, then. We can be in Boston in three hours.”

  Then it would be time to set some ground rules.

  He knew full well she wouldn’t like the rules one bit, but they might keep her alive long enough for him to find Viggo’s hired thugs and make sure they never bothered anyone ever again.

  Especially her.

  Chapter Six

  Sam drove because Logan looked like hell. He refused to see a doctor, claiming it was nothing, but she knew a mild concussion when she saw one. And besides, his truck was easy enough to drive. It was virtually identical to hers, with the addition of a back seat and a single forward-swinging door.

  Except hers had contained all of her large-animal equipment. And it was at the bottom of the ocean.

  The state authorities said they’d salvage the vehicle as evidence, but all of her stuff was toast. Gone. A write-off.

  Not unlike her rental cottage. The kitchen could be fixed, but insurance would only cover so much. She’d barely budgeted enough to manage the shelter through the slow winter season, and now this? She’d even had to leave Jen in charge of the small-animal work and turned the large-animal customers away.

  Three days ago, she’d been looking to expand her clientele by taking on Bellamy Farms. Now she might as well roll over and declare bankruptcy.

  “Insurance should cover most of it.”

  She turned a startled glance over to the passenger’s side of the wide bench seat. Logan had been silent since they’d passed the Black Horse town line and hit the highway, headed for Boston. An hour into the trip, she was surprised to see his hazel eyes open and clear. “I thought you were asleep. And how did you know I was thinking about the damages?”

  “Just a hunch. You have that pinched look people get when they’re worried about money.”

  “Pinched. Gee, thanks.” Irritation spiked. What did he know about it? He was an M.D., and probably collected hazardous duty pay on top of it. Though he dressed casually, his clothes were all of the highest quality, and where her truck had—used to have—vinyl and plastic, his boasted chrome and leather.

  Then she sighed and dialed it down, knowing that though the money would be a real concern when this was all over and she returned to her life in Black Horse, that wasn’t the real issue now, wasn’t what really had her tense and on edge.

  “You’ll be safe in the city,” he said, his voice gruff.

  She stared fiercely through the windshield, unwilling to look over at him, to be caught once again in his eyes. “What are you, a mind reader?”

  “No.” He shrugged and his voice softened a notch. “But you’re not difficult to read. Your face reflects things. Fears. Emotions. De—” He coughed and his voice edged back toward gruff. “I bet you’re not much of a poker player.”

  She felt a faint smile touch her lips. “Dad gave up trying to teach me after a while.” But he’d done it with good humor and they’d compromised on chess, which required deadly strategy and not much bluffing.

  “You’re close to him.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes. He’s a wonderful man. You’d—” like him, she started to say, but then broke off because Logan would never meet her father, because he was just passing through.

  Her smile faded at the guilty realization that though Logan claimed to be able to read her, he hadn’t guessed—or hadn’t verbalized—the last part of her tension.

  Him. The situation.

  What sort of protective custody would his bosses provide? Would she even see him during the investigation, the trial?

  Maybe it would be best if she didn’t. Now, pressed together in the small truck cab, they created an energy that crackled over her skin and made her wish for impossible things.

  They passed a sign for a rest area, and Sam thought maybe it was time for a break, for some distance, to breathe some air that didn’t carry his scent, or the hint of char that reminded her of the bomb and her once-pretty rental kitchen.

  As she signaled and eased off the highway, Logan’s phone rang.

  He pulled it from an inner pocket of his ja
cket. “Hart here.” There was a pause, and his voice softened to an unimaginably tender degree. “Nancy! Hey, darling, how are you?”

  Nancy? Darling?

  Roaring jealousy caught Sam square in the heart, stunning her with its intensity.

  Logan glanced at her, then lowered his voice as though seeking privacy.

  Fine. She’d let him have it. He deserved it, and she had no right to her anger. They weren’t a couple, even though they had kissed with a passion that defied description.

  Rage spiked in Sam’s gut. He could kiss her like that, then soften his voice so achingly when he talked to some bimbo named Nancy?

  She knew she was overreacting, but couldn’t help it. Thankful that they’d reached the rest stop, she parked the truck, shut it off and leaped out. “I’ll leave you to your conversation.”

  “Hold on.” His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. “Wait for me.” He covered the receiver and dropped his voice. “They might have followed us here.”

  Interesting. He didn’t want his girlfriend to know about the danger. Then again, could she blame him? She didn’t even want to know about it, and she was smack-dab in the middle of the bloody situation.

  She shook him off. “I’ll be fine.” She gestured behind her to the other cars, the bright lights that illuminated the parking area against the fading dusk. “Nothing will happen to me here.”

  After a moment, he nodded, uncovered the phone and dropped his voice back to that tone he’d never once directed toward Sam. “Sorry. I’m back. What was that?” His eyes cut to her, then away. “Business, Nance. Just business.”

  As she walked from the truck to the busy rest stop, Sam told herself not to be petty, that she had no claim on the handsome M.D., that they’d made no promises to each other, not even an implied understanding beyond that one kiss. It wasn’t until after she grabbed a handful of prepackaged snacks and a couple of sodas that she realized that the hot, black emotion in her gut wasn’t pure jealousy, wasn’t just a catty hiss that someone else owned the man she might have wanted to call her own for a night or two—