Untamed. JoAnn Ross
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Because the comment came from a man Gavin considered a good friend, a man whose dogged devotion to the truth had eventually earned him his freedom, Gavin didn’t take offense. Especially since it happened to be true.
“Got a point there,” he said agreeably. His quick grin faded as his thoughts returned to Brigid’s house. “Although I never believed Brigid was a witch, unfortunately the kids in town do. Which is why they seem determined to break every window in the damn house.”
“I wish I had the resources to put a man on the place for a few nights,” Trace mused. “The problem with teenage vandalism is that it can lead down a rocky path straight to a jail cell.”
Knowing that the former big-city cop had put in his own time on the wrong side of the bars in the juvenile justice system, Gavin figured Trace knew what he was talking about.
“You know,” he said, “that’s not a bad idea. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me sooner.” The more he thought about it, the more he liked it. “I could do that.”
“Do what?”
“I could spend a couple of nights in the house. Wait for the kids to break a window, catch them in the act, then bring them to you for the scared-straight lecture.”
Trace’s expression was decidedly doubtful as he considered the proposed plan. “You’re not talking about being armed or anything?”
“Hell, Trace, you know I’ve never owned any guns. I just want those kids to leave the old lady’s house alone.”
“I hadn’t realized you were that close.”
“Neither had I,” Gavin admitted. “Until she was gone. Then I realized that somehow, when I wasn’t looking, she became the closest thing to a real family I’ve had in years.” He put some money on the table and stood. “Give Mariah a hug for me.”
Trace smiled at the mention of his wife’s name. Not a day went by that he didn’t consider himself the luckiest man on the face of the planet to have had such a gorgeous, sexy, intelligent, talented woman fall in love with him.
“She’s been away for four days wheeling and dealing in L.A., and as soon as she gets back tonight I intend to give her a lot more than a hug,” he said. “But I doubt your name will come up.”
Gavin laughed. “You’re a lucky man, Trace.”
“That’s what Mariah keeps telling me.” Trace grinned back. “You know, marriage isn’t such a bad institution, pal.”
“That’s what you keep telling me. And call me crazy, but having already experienced life in an institution, I think I’ll pass.”
“I’m serious.” Sober gunmetal gray eyes echoed Trace’s words. “From what I can tell, you spend all your time working.”
“When you love what you’re doing, it isn’t work,” Gavin automatically responded with the answer he usually gave to interviewers who remarked on his apparent lack of any life outside his work.
“Yeah, I read that quote in Newsweek.” Trace waved the words away with his left hand, his simple woven-gold wedding band gleaming in the buttery morning light. “I didn’t buy it then and I don’t now. The way it looks to me, all you’ve done is change your prison stripes for a denim jacket.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that the trappings may have changed. But although you’ve said that one of the reasons you came to Whiskey River was to enjoy life, you might as well still be spending your days behind bars.”
Gavin frowned. “That’s not a real attractive image you’re painting there, Trace.”
“If the boot fits,” Trace said mildly. “Mariah has asked you to dinner six times in the past month. And each time you’ve said you had to work.”
“I was up against a deadline.”
“That’s what you said. But you also just told me you mailed the new book off to your publisher this morning. So how about steaks tonight?”
“If Mariah’s been in L.A. for four days, the last thing you two need is me crashing your reunion.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
“I have this idea I thought I’d flesh out. About Morganna taking on a bunch of gang bangers—”
“See. That’s exactly what I’m talking about.” Trace folded his arms and shook his head. “You just finished a project. What the hell would be wrong with taking a few days R and R to recharge the batteries?”
“And do what?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Take up fishing.”
“I hate fish. Catching them and eating them.”
“Hiking, then. Or mountain climbing. Or go into Payson or Flagstaff and pick up a wild woman in some cowboy bar. When was the last time you got laid?”
Gavin took a moment to consider that question and realized that the fact that he couldn’t remember was not a good sign.
“You’ve made your point. Maybe I will have dinner in Flagstaff tonight.”
“Good.” Nodding his satisfaction, Trace stood and tossed a few bills onto the table beside Gavin’s. “Mariah will be glad to hear you’re at least attempting to have some kind of social life. She worries about you.”
“She’s just like every other woman in the world,” Gavin retorted as they left the café. “She can’t bear to see an unmarried man running around loose.”
“Believe me, pal,” Trace said as he stopped beside his black-and-white Suburban with the Mogollon County seal on the door, “there’s something to be said for spending your life in captivity with a gorgeous sexy woman.”
“Ah, but that’s my point. I do.”
Trace laughed at the obvious reference to the fictional Morganna. “I was talking about a flesh-and-blood woman.” He unlocked the door and climbed into the driver’s seat. “Have fun tonight. You’ve earned a night on the town. Just don’t try to drive back up that mountain after drinking. I’d hate to have to scrape you off the pavement.”
“More than two beers and I’ll crash in a motel. Or better yet, in some winsome young thing’s bed.”
“Always helps to keep a positive outlook,” Trace agreed with a grin.
Gavin was walking across the parking lot when he heard Trace call out his name. He turned and saw that the sheriff had rolled down the driver’s window. “What now?”
“Don’t forget protection.”
Gavin had a choice. He could be either annoyed or amused. He opted for amusement. “Yes, Mother.”
2
THE DRIVE TO her parents’ home in Santa Cruz took only two hours, although Tara felt as if she were a time traveler, journeying back to the 1960s. Her parents lived in a commune that had been established by a group of counterculture rebels who’d found the San Francisco Haight-Ashbury hippie scene too commercially artificial for their tastes.
They’d been part of the small band of flower children who’d traveled down the coast, pooled their scant resources and bought a small dairy farm with the intention of using the proceeds from the milk and ice cream to fund their various artistic enterprises.
Serendipity had proven to be their ally. More than one of the commune members had achieved fame and fortune. Among the former residents was a world-famous balladeer, a Pulitzer prize-winning novelist and, of course her father, who could boast, if he were so inclined which he wasn’t, that the past three First Ladies had been seen wearing bracelets fashioned in his workshop.
And as