Mercy Kill_ A Mystery - Lori Armstrong [6]
“What’re you doing here, Sheriff ? Chasing after bad guys?”
“No. Chasing after you.”
“Such a sweet-talkin’ cowboy.” Dawson and I had been making mattress angels since I’d started working at the bar. We’d kept our relationship—for lack of a better term—on the QT.
“FYI: I’d gone my entire shift without anyone aiming a gun at me.”
“So it was a boring day, huh?”
He laughed lightly. “Only you would think that, Sergeant Major.”
Then his imposing maleness loomed over me, invading my personal space as only a lover can. He wore his Eagle River County uniform, although he’d ditched the ugly hat. Like me, he carried a sidearm. Unlike me, he hadn’t even unsnapped the strap on the holster.
“I can’t help it if I’m of the shoot-first mind-set.”
“Acting like a soldier when you’re a civilian is liable to get you into hot water with the law.”
“Bring on the hot water, lawman. I need a shower anyway.”
“Feeling a little dirty tonight?”
“You’re in a mood,” I murmured.
Dawson curled his hand around my hip, letting his thumb sweep the bared section of skin between my jeans and my shirt. “Wanna guess what kind of mood I’m in?”
Damn distracting man. “Depends.”
“On?”
“Whether you plan on talking about your mood or acting on it.”
Dawson lowered his face to mine until our lips were a breath apart. “Talking is the dead-last thing on my mind tonight, Mercy.”
“Good. Meet me at the cabin. You can park—”
“In the carport so no one sees my vehicle from a half mile up the road. Yeah, I’m familiar with the damn drill by now.”
Huh. Dawson almost sounded . . . resentful.
But I knew that wouldn’t stop him from following me home.
I woke alone in tangled sheets. Sun blazed through the bedroom window. Tending bar until the wee hours made it hard to haul my ass out of bed at the crack of nothing.
Not that I had a reason to get up.
I heard Shoonga whining and scratching at the door. I let him in, resisting his attempt to herd me back outside.
“Not before my first cup of coffee, dog.” I yawned and shuffled to the tiny kitchen. I saw the note taped to the coffeepot:
You’re out of coffee again—MD
Mason Dawson. In the months we’d been together I’d never called him Mason, just Dawson. Did that bother him?
Probably not as much as the fact you won’t acknowledge you’re knocking boots with him.
I didn’t want to drive into town for a cup of joe, and coffee was always on at the house. Plus, Sophie would be making lunch soon. I could run over, make nice with the fam, fill my belly, fuel my caffeine fix, and get my aerobic exercise in one fell swoop.
Shoonga barked happy circles around me as I laced up my running shoes. Damn dog made me smile. Although Shoonga spent half his time with Jake at the ranch, I considered him my dog, and I’d gotten used to his company in the nine months since my nephew Levi’s murder. Shoonga had adjusted to life without Levi much better than the rest of us.
I slipped on my shades and we set off. With the excessive spring rain, the shortcut through the pasture to the main house was a mud bog, so I ran on the road. The gravel made a sodden squish, squish with my every pounding footfall.
My mind blanked to everything but the sounds of my huffing breath, the feel of sweat coating my skin, and the endorphin rush that was almost as good as sex.
Almost. But not quite.
Once the familiar jagged tree line of the Gunderson Ranch solidified, I slowed to a jog. Home sweet home. Not that I was hanging my hat here full time these days.
After Levi’s murder, I asked my grieving, pregnant sister, Hope, and Jake Red Leaf, her baby daddy and the ranch foreman, to move into the house we’d inherited from our father. I’d lived in group housing during my military service, so I was accustomed to being surrounded by people almost 24/7. I even believed it might be fun.
Wrong.
The first month of our communal living arrangement, Hope started to miscarry the twins. With the miracle of modern medicine, they managed to save one baby. Upon her release from the hospital,