5. Mara
MARA
“I’m going to the mill.”
“No.”
Sheriff Tate doesn’t even look at me when he answers. He stands behind the bar with his phone pressed to his ear, directing deputies to secure the road around the burning SUV.
“I wasn’t asking permission.”
“That’s unfortunate, because you need it.”
“I’m the deputy assigned to this investigation.”
“You were the deputy assigned to investigate the shot fired into your mother’s house. You became the victim when someone put your photograph in a rifle scope.”
“I can be both.”
“Not tonight.”
I look toward Wolf for support.
He suddenly finds something interesting about the broken front window.
Trigger does the same.
Cowards.
Doc stands near the wall with his arms folded across his chest. His jacket is gone, leaving the black shirt beneath it stretched across broad shoulders. The scar through his eyebrow makes him appear even more dangerous beneath the red emergency lights.
He isn’t avoiding my gaze.
Of course not.
“You agree with him.”
“Completely.”
“I didn’t ask you.”
“You looked at me.”
“I was checking to see whether you planned to say something irritating.”
“I do.”
Trigger turns away, but not before I see his mouth twitch.
I point at him. “You aren’t helping.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it loudly.”
Sheriff Tate finishes his call and places the phone on the bar.
“The fire department has the SUV fire contained. State police found no body inside and no sign of the driver. My deputies will process the scene as soon as it’s safe.”
“Which is why I should be there.”
“They know how to collect evidence.”
“I know what they should look for.”
“So does the man I put in charge.”
I know every expression Sheriff Tate owns.
The one he’s wearing now means the argument ended before it began.
I try anyway.
“The numbers painted on the vehicle match the note hidden in Grant’s journal. That makes me the person most familiar with?—”
“It makes you the person someone is trying to lure out of a building filled with armed men.”
The words silence me.
He softens his tone, but not the order.
“The SUV was left on an isolated road with those numbers painted on the back. Whoever abandoned it wanted us to find it. Maybe he wants you running toward the next clue.”
“I’m not staying here while everyone else does my job.”
“Tonight you are.”
“What happens tomorrow?”
“We’ll decide that tomorrow.”
I hate that answer.
Doc pushes away from the wall.
“Where’s my truck?”
“Still across the street,” Tate says.
“I need the box inside it.”
“So does whoever fired through that window.”
Doc’s face hardens. “Then we retrieve it before he gets another chance.”
“We’ll bring the truck around back,” Sheriff Tate says. “Parker can drive it while two deputies cover the street.”
“No one drives my truck.”
I stare at Doc.
“You traveled all the way to Eagle River to protect me, but you draw the line at someone touching your truck?”
“Yes.”
The answer comes without hesitation.
Despite everything, a laugh threatens to escape me.
“You sound like Grant.”
“He once threatened to break my hand because I adjusted the seat in his Humvee.”
“That also sounds like Grant.”
The memory catches between us.
For a second, Doc’s expression changes. The hard lines ease, and I see the younger man from the funeral photograph. The one who stood beside my brother in Afghanistan and believed they would all make it home.
Then the walls return.
“I’ll get the truck.”
Sheriff Tate shakes his head. “You aren’t walking across that street alone.”
“I’ll go with him,” I offer.
Two men answer at once.
“No.”
I glare at them.
Sheriff Tate points toward the stairs. “Wolf has rooms upstairs. You’re staying in one until we secure your house and determine whether the shooter is still in Eagle River.”
“I have a home.”
“You also have a bullet hole in the wall beside what used to be your mother’s front window.”
“That was Mom’s house.”
“And we don’t know whether your home has been compromised.”
I hadn’t considered that.
My small house sits three blocks from the sheriff’s department. I’ve always felt safe there. I know my neighbors, the vehicles that belong on the street, and every dog that barks when someone walks past after dark.
The shooter knew I was cleaning out Mom’s house.
He knew my routine well enough to photograph me outside the bank.
He could know where I live.
Doc watches the realization cross my face.
“You’re staying here.”
I turn on him. “Sheriff Tate already gave the order. You don’t need to repeat it.”
“I wanted to make sure you heard him.”
“I heard him.”
“Your expression says you’re planning a way around him.”
“My expression says I don’t like you.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
This time Trigger laughs.
I give him a look that shuts him up.
Wolf retrieves a ring of keys from beneath the bar.
“Room Five is ready. Nora put fresh sheets on the bed yesterday.”
“I don’t need a room.”
“You do unless you intend to sleep on the floor.”
“I’m not sleeping.”
Doc’s gaze passes over the cut above my eyebrow.
“You need rest.”
“I’ve had more serious injuries from rosebushes.”
“We’ll discuss your dangerous gardening habits later.”
“There won’t be a later.”
Something unreadable passes through his eyes.
I regret the words before I can stop them.
Not because I want a later with him.
I don’t even know him.
But I remember what he said.
I didn’t need her to tell me I had no right to be part of your life.
Doc doesn’t expect to stay in Eagle River after the danger passes.
That shouldn’t bother me.
It doesn’t.
I tell myself that twice.
Sheriff Tate picks up his radio.
“Trigger, you’re with me. Wolf, lock the doors and keep everyone away from the windows. Doc, wait here until we bring your truck to the alley.”
“I can cover the street.”
“You can do what I tell you while you’re in my county.”
Doc studies him for a long moment.
Then he nods.
I almost smile.
It’s nice to know I’m not the only person Sheriff Tate orders around.
Twenty minutes later, Doc’s truck is parked behind the tavern.
The rain has weakened to a steady drizzle, but thunder still rolls somewhere beyond the edge of town. Sheriff Tate’s deputies have blocked both ends of the alley. Portable work lights illuminate the brick walls, the Dumpster, and the wet pavement.
I stand inside the kitchen doorway while Doc walks out and circles his truck.
He checks beneath the chassis, studies each tire, and shines a flashlight along the doorframes before touching the handle.
I recognize the methodical search.
“You think someone tampered with it.”
He glances toward me. “You were told to stay upstairs.”
“I was told I’m staying upstairs tonight. I wasn’t told when tonight begins.”
“Does that work on Sheriff Tate?”
“Never.”
“Then why try it on me?”
“Because you don’t know me well enough to anticipate all my arguments.”
“I knew Grant. I’m catching up quickly.”
He examines the lock on the driver’s door.
Scratches mark the metal around it.
I step outside.
Doc immediately lifts one hand.
“Stop.”
I do.
Not because he ordered me to, but because his entire body has gone rigid.
“What is it?”
“Someone tried to force the lock.”
Sheriff Tate comes through the alley with Trigger behind him. Both men wear gloves.
“Fresh marks?” Tate asks.
“They weren’t there when I left Fort Worth.”
“Could they have been made in front of the tavern?”
Doc scans the alley.
“Most likely during the shooting.”
“The shots may have been a distraction,” I say.
“So someone could get to the box,” Trigger adds.
Doc looks at me. “Where’s the key?”
“In my pocket.”
“I meant the truck key.”
“I know. I wanted to see how you liked answering unnecessary questions.”
“Check your pocket.”
Trigger coughs to cover another laugh.
Doc pulls the key from his pocket and unlocks the door. The interior light comes on.
Nothing appears disturbed.
He reaches behind the passenger seat and removes a black duffel. The zipper remains closed.
“Check it before opening,” Sheriff Tate says.
Doc lowers the bag to the wet pavement. He runs his hands along the outside, then opens each compartment carefully.
Clothes.
A medical kit.
A box of ammunition.
Finally, he removes a black metal case about the size of an old cigar box.
“This is what Grant gave you?” I ask.
“Part of it.”
Doc opens his shirt collar and removes a chain from beneath the fabric.
Two military dog tags hang from it.
I read the first.
SHAW, COLIN.
The second is darkened with age and scratched along one edge.
ELLIS, GRANT.
The sight knocks the breath from my lungs.
“You have his dog tags.”
Doc closes his hand around them.
“He was wearing two sets when he died. I returned one with his personal belongings.”
“And kept the other.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His eyes meet mine.
“Because I couldn’t leave all of him behind.”
No one speaks.
The rain taps against the metal fire escape above us.
For fifteen years, I believed Doc walked away because Grant’s death meant less to him than it did to us.
I was wrong.
The man standing in the alley never left that valley.
A loud bang echoes from the far end of the street.
Doc shoves me behind the brick wall before I can react. Trigger draws his weapon while Sheriff Tate moves toward the alley entrance.
“Report,” Tate orders into his radio.
A deputy answers immediately.
“Car backfired on Main Street. False alarm.”
Everyone exhales except Doc.
His body still shields mine. One arm is braced against the wall beside my head while the other holds the metal case tight against his side.
“You can move now.”
His gaze drops to my face.
“You stepped into the open.”
“I stepped three feet outside the door.”
“You didn’t know the alley was secure.”
“There were deputies at both ends.”
“That didn’t stop someone from reaching my truck.”
His voice is low.
Controlled.
Too controlled.
“You’re angry.”
“You think?”
“At me?”
“At whoever put you in that scope.”
“I’m not the sixteen-year-old girl you remember.”
“I noticed.”
Something changes in the space between us.
His gaze moves over my face, pausing on my mouth before returning to my eyes.
My pulse stumbles.
Doc steps away so suddenly that cold air rushes into the space where he stood.