Dust Up With The Detective. Danica Winters
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gun and hid it behind her hip as she eased around the corner and into the kitchen.
On the counter under the window, a fresh plate of fried chicken sat cooling, its oil oozing into the paper towel underneath. A can of beans was next to the plate, the can opener still resting on its lip, as if her mother had been opening it but had suddenly been called away.
A movement outside caught her eye as something scuttled across the backyard and disappeared behind the shed.
The hair on her arms rose. What is going on?
She took a step toward the back door.
Megan’s scream pierced the air. The sound resonated from the darkened shed.
Blake ran outside. Gun raised. Ready. If someone was hurting her daughter, they would die.
Through the thin particleboard door of the shed, she heard muffled voices. She stopped, trying to quiet her breathing as she listened. She could barely make out her mother’s voice.
She moved to the door. “Get down! Get down on the ground!” she yelled, kicking open the door, smashing it against the wall.
Megan was sitting at the table, her back to her. A man stood in the shadows, his arm raised. He was holding something.
“Put down your weapon!” Blake ordered.
The man moved, and a thin light from the tiny, dirt-covered window reflected off the blade of a hacksaw.
“I said put down your weapon!” She aimed her gun at his center mass.
The man looked at her. In the shadows she could make out only the whites of his eyes and the slight movement of his lips as he started to speak.
“Mom, no!” Megan turned around. Her round face was covered in sweat, and her eyes were wide with fear.
She raised her hands. Her wrists were in shackles.
Blake’s finger trembled on the trigger as the man slowly lowered his weapon to the floor. “What in the hell do you think you are doing to my daughter?”
“Not every situation requires a gun,” Gemma said as she walked up the steps to the back door. “You scared poor Megan. Didn’t she, honey?” Her mother wrapped her arm around her daughter and gave her a reassuring squeeze.
“I’m fine, Grandma, really.” Megan tried to wiggle out of her embrace.
Blake snorted lightly. If the girl was a bit older, she would have realized that, for good or bad, no matter how much she struggled, she would never be out of Gemma West’s grip.
“I’m sorry about this mess, Jeremy. Having a gun pointed at you isn’t much of a thank-you for your help in trying to get Megan out of those handcuffs,” her mother continued.
Blake looked over at Jeremy Lawrence. She’d always thought of him as the gangly neighbor she had once had a crush on, but seeing the grown-up detective now, it was clear he was nothing like the boy she remembered. Now he stood tall with impossibly wide shoulders, a chiseled jaw and the piercing green eyes of a stranger. Everything from the way he walked, solid and firm, to the way he watched their every move, in control and ever vigilant, screamed alpha man.
“You’re a tough one, Megan,” Jeremy said as he held the door for them. “You remind me of my daughter. I think you’d like her. Once she got ahold of my handset and started playing Simon Says on the radio. It was funny, except for the fact that it was on a live channel. I thought the dispatchers were going to lose it.” He turned to Blake and smiled like he understood what she was going through as a single mother.
She gave him a thankful nod, but he couldn’t possibly know how hard it was. How each day she was plagued with Mom-guilt—the overwhelming fear that no matter what choices she made, she should be doing more for her daughter. As it was, she tried her best to be there for Megan, but because of the crazy nature of her job and her unconventional schedule, Megan was often left with her grandmother—who never missed an opportunity to remind Blake of all the things she could do better.
There was no way Jeremy could understand all the hats she had to wear to make it through the day.
“Were you mad when your daughter messed up, Mr. Lawrence?” Megan asked him as she made her way into the house.
Jeremy shook his head as he smiled at Blake. “It was my fault. It hadn’t occurred to me she would play with my scanner.”
“See, Mom, he wasn’t mad when his daughter screwed up.” Megan looked back at her as if gauging her residual anger.
“I’m not mad,” Blake said as she followed her mother and daughter inside. “I just don’t understand what possessed you to take my handcuffs out of my drawer and put them on. You had no business—”
Jeremy put his hand on her lower back as he followed her inside and let the door close behind them. His hot, familiar touch made her stop midsentence.
“I’m sure she didn’t mean to upset you, Blake. Did you, Meg?” he asked, smiling as he gently moved his hand away, leaving behind the warmth of his touch.
Did he know what he was doing to her? The last man who had touched her, at least in that way, had been Megan’s father. Sure, she and Jeremy had known each other as children, but he couldn’t touch her so familiarly—not when their friendship had existed a lifetime ago.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” Megan said.
“Jeremy’s right. It’s your mom’s fault,” Gemma said as she moved through the kitchen. “If she wouldn’t have left the handcuffs where you could find them, none of this would have happened.” She turned to face Blake. “And it would have been nice if you would have answered your phone.”
She loved her mom, but the jab pierced deep, puncturing the little bubble of guilt that she tried to keep out of reach. Her mother was right; she had messed up. She shouldn’t have left her cuffs where Megan could find them. But... “Mother, I have no control over where and when my phone works—you know this.”
“Well, I don’t think you have any business traipsing around the county without a phone that works. Do I need to call the sheriff to make sure you get a satellite phone?”
She looked to Jeremy. He didn’t need to hear any of this. The last thing she needed was another officer thinking she was incompetent, or worse—that she needed her mother to fight her battles.
He gave her a Cheshire-cat grin, the same mischievous grin that he’d always used to get them out of trouble when they were kids.
“Mrs. West, is that your famous fried chicken?” He motioned toward the plate on the counter.
Her mother took the bait, brightening up at the chance to feed a man. “Oh, are you hungry? Why don’t you have a bite?” True to her nature, the question was more an order than a request. “I’ll throw the beans on, and it’ll be ready in a jiff.”
“That sounds great, but I need to get running home. I’m just up from Missoula for the night.”
“Really? Is everything okay?” From the look on her face, it seemed like Gemma meant the question to come from a place of concern, but her voice made it clear that she was more curious than empathetic. As if she looked forward to some thread of gossip that she could share at the next bunco party.
“I’m sure everything’s okay. Right, Jeremy?” Blake hinted, hoping that he would take this as his chance to get out before he and his family became the central focus of the Butte Red Hatters Bunco Club for the next six months.
He looked at her, his eyes shimmering with something she could have sworn resembled lust, but she shrugged it off. There was no way he would be interested in her. He was married.
She glanced down at his ring finger—his