Chapter Eight
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The exam room at Crossfire Ops headquarters smelled faintly of antiseptic and strong coffee, and Brenna stood near the wall, arms crossed, trying to stay out of the way.
Colt sat on the edge of the padded table, shirt off, his ribs mottled with a massive, angry bruise.
The deep purple and red splotch spread across his left side, and Brenna couldn’t stop staring at it.
If the bullet had hit an inch or two farther left…
She didn’t let herself finish the thought.
Across from him, Beck Culver—Crossfire’s resident combat medic—grunted as he gently palpated Colt’s ribs.
Beck was tall and broad-shouldered, with shaggy blond hair that she was betting wasn’t styled but fell as if it had been.
He looked like he belonged on the cover of a biker magazine, not inside a pristine exam room with latex gloves and a stethoscope.
“You know, some guys just ask for attention,” Beck muttered, giving Colt a dry look. “All that running into gunfire, trying to be a damn hero. You could’ve just sent me a text if you wanted to stay in touch.”
Colt winced but smirked. “Wouldn’t want you getting rusty.”
“I’m the one who has to patch you up when you get your ribs cracked. Again.”
“That’s only the second time this year,” Colt said.
Beck snorted and looked over at Brenna. “He’s your problem now.”
“Thanks,” she replied, not even trying to hide her concern.
Colt caught her expression, and something in his gaze softened. “Hey, I didn’t get my ass shot off.”
Brenna met his eyes and tried to school her face, but the heat that crept up her throat betrayed her. He was alive. But it had still been a close call. Then again, anytime shots were fired at you, she supposed that qualified as close.
“Yeah,” she murmured. “Well. Try to keep it that way.”
Beck finished wrapping the compression bandage around Colt’s torso and took a step back, arms crossed. “Good news is your ribs aren’t broken. Just a deep-ass bruise that’s gonna hurt like hell for a while.”
Brenna didn’t need to be told that. She could see it in the way Colt held himself, in the tightness of his jaw and the sweat beading at his temples. He’d been hurting ever since the bullet hit his vest, but he hadn’t said a damn word about it.
“I can call in a script for some pain meds and have them delivered—”
“No,” Colt cut in before Beck even finished. “I need a clear head.”
No one looked surprised. Not Beck, and definitely not Brenna.
“Suit yourself,” Beck said, clearly used to stubborn patients. He looked over at her then, a spark of curiosity in his eyes. “You planning to work for Crossfire Ops or just freelancing your way into firefights?”
Brenna gave a half-laugh. “No. This isn’t a job interview.”
“But?”
She sighed. “But this place already feels more like home than my apartment or my PI office back in San Antonio. And I hate that.”
Beck grinned. “That’s usually how it starts.”
He gave them both a nod and a smirk on his way out. “Try not to get shot again today,” he said over his shoulder, then pulled the door shut behind him.
Colt eased off the exam table and reached for his shirt. He moved slowly, stiff from the hit and the wrap, and even slower as he tried to lift his arms. “Where’s Harlan?”
“At the Crossfire Creek Sheriff’s Office,” Brenna said. “He’s waiting to hear Naomi’s statement once the locals finish taking it.”
Colt nodded, then winced as he worked the shirt over his head. “I want to hear it, too.”
Brenna let out a breath and stepped forward. “Stop moving. Let me help.”
He lowered his arms, and she eased the shirt over his shoulders, careful not to jar the bandage. The heat of his skin brushed her knuckles. His chest was bruised and battered, but still strong, still Colt. Still the man whose body could press her to the edge of reason.
It wasn’t easy standing this close to him, not with everything between them still unresolved. And when she lifted her gaze to meet his, she realized he’d caught the flicker of heat in her eyes.
His hand came up, fingers curling gently around the side of her neck. His mouth brushed over hers, a slow, scorching kiss that curled her toes and shorted out her thoughts. It wasn’t deep, wasn’t demanding.
It was worse. It was a reminder.
She broke the contact, breath catching hard and fast. “That was a mistake.”
Colt’s mouth curved, slow and sure. “Maybe. But it was a damn good one.”
Brenna sighed, shook her head. What she couldn’t do was disagree about that. It had been a damn good one. And bad, too, because it was whittling away at barriers that needed to stay in place if she hoped to hold onto even a shred of focus and objectivity when it came to this investigation.
Colt tucked in his shirt with slow, careful movements, then looked at her. “Did you mean what you said to Beck? About this place feeling like home?”
Brenna hesitated. She wished she could take it back, keep that piece of vulnerability locked down tight. But the truth was out, and there was no walking it back.
“Yeah,” she finally admitted. “I miss being part of a team. The camaraderie. It’s like the military, only with fewer rules, fewer deployments, and a hell of a lot less sand.”
He nodded once. “Noah would hire you in a heartbeat.”
She gave a small shake of her head. “That’s not the point. I still get the flashbacks.”
What she didn’t say, what pressed at the edges of her thoughts every time she closed her eyes, was that she wasn’t sure she could trust herself in the field again. Not with the fear still waiting to pounce. Not with Timberline still living in her head.
Colt didn’t push. He didn’t need to. His gaze softened, as if he saw all of it anyway.
“There’ll always be memories,” he said. “Always be flashbacks. Not just Timberline. All the other shit we’ve seen, too.” His voice lowered. “The only way I know to stomp that down is to do something good. Help someone. Save someone innocent from dying or getting taken.”
She let that sit in the space between them. “I’m not sure I can.”
He stepped in close, his eyes never leaving hers.
He brushed his mouth across hers again, the kiss light but filled with meaning.
“You already did,” he said. “Today. On that bridge. Flashbacks and shitty memories aren’t going to erase who you are, Brenna.
You belong here. You should be doing exactly what you did today. ”
She was afraid he was wrong. But more afraid that he was right. Because being right meant she should step back into this life. And she wasn’t sure she could do that, especially with Timberline front and center in her life again.
The door opened and Noah stepped in, giving them both a quick once-over. “Beck just updated me,” he said, voice calm but edged with concern. His gaze shifted to Colt. “You want some time off?”
Before Colt could answer, Noah held up a hand. “I know. You don’t want it. But do you need it?”
“No,” Colt said without hesitation. “I need to go to the sheriff’s office. I need to hear Naomi’s interview for myself.”
Noah gave a short nod. “Sheriff Chase won’t give you any hassle. I already cleared it.”
Brenna could see the tension in Colt’s shoulders ease just a little. He wanted to be there, needed to feel in control again. So did she. And right now, that meant chasing down every lead, every whisper, until they had answers.
Noah leaned against the wall, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Still no sign of Wallace or Gary,” he said.
“And nothing on whoever attacked you out there. But we did find Naomi’s car.
It was parked on a trail about a quarter mile from the bridge.
Tire tracks around it suggest her attacker moved the car there, then took off in a different vehicle. ”
Brenna exhaled slowly and tucked her hands into her back pockets. “Or Naomi could have moved it herself to make it look that way. Or those other tracks could belong to her accomplice.”
Noah gave her a long look. “How high is she on your suspect list?”
“She’s up there,” Brenna admitted. “Right behind Gary. But I still can’t pin down a motive. I don’t know why either of them would start the murders up again.”
Colt’s gaze cut to her, unreadable but sharp. He was thinking the same thing. Someone was pushing this forward with purpose. And they were running out of time to figure out who.
Noah checked the time on his watch. “Right at noon,” he said. “You should get moving. The sheriff’s planning to start Naomi’s interview in about thirty minutes.”
Brenna and Colt turned toward the door, but Colt paused. “Any updates on Cassandra?” he asked, and Brenna knew that was the name of the heiress he and Harlan had rescued the night before.
“She’s doing well,” Noah said. “Stable. The doctors expect her to go home tomorrow.”
Relief swept across Colt’s face, softening the hard lines that had taken up permanent residence there over the past hours.
“Good,” he said, and then fell into step beside Brenna as they headed out of headquarters.
The midday heat hit them the second they stepped outside, but it didn’t slow their pace. They crossed the parking lot to one of the Crossfire Ops SUVs. Before Colt could reach for the driver’s side door, Brenna cut him off and opened it herself.
She looked at him. “No need to aggravate that bruise by driving.”
Colt raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. He moved around to the passenger side and climbed in without a word. That alone told her just how much he was still hurting.
The drive to the sheriff’s office took less than ten minutes.
Crossfire Creek might’ve been small, but its charm punched well above its size.
The streets were clean, lined with mom-and-pop shops that had been there for decades.
A diner with a tin roof and hand-painted windows sat on the corner, its chalkboard menu advertising peach cobbler and the day’s lunch special.
Across the street stood a hardware store, a barber shop, and a boutique with flowerpots hanging from the eaves. The buildings were all wood and brick, weathered and proud, giving the town the feel of a place where gunslingers once walked the streets and maybe even died for less than a wrong word.
Brenna parked in the lot beside the sheriff’s office and stepped out into the sun.
She waited for Colt to join her, then led the way up the steps and through the double doors.
Inside, they showed their IDs to a deputy who allowed them to bypass a metal detector before entering the main area.
It was clean, utilitarian, and smelled faintly of coffee and lemon polish.
Harlan stood a few feet ahead, talking to a woman in a brown uniform.
The woman turned slightly, revealing a gold badge and a sharp, assessing gaze that landed directly on them.
Sheriff Arden Chase. No doubt about it.
Harlan waved them over. “Sheriff, this is Colt Morgan and Brenna Keane with Crossfire Ops.”
“Appreciate you coming in,” the sheriff said with a firm nod. She had a clipped tone and a no-nonsense stance that made it clear she didn’t have time for fluff. “We’re about to start the interview.”
Harlan looked at Colt. “How’re you holding up?”
“I’m fine,” Colt said, though Brenna could tell by the tightness in his jaw that the pain was still there. He shifted slightly, like standing still too long made the bruise flare hotter.
Colt turned to the sheriff. “Has Naomi said anything that could help us find Wallace Kemp?”
Sheriff Chase shook her head. “Just the opposite. She’s insisting she has no idea where he is. Her lawyer’s already balking about police harassment. Says his client is a victim.” She arched a brow and added with thick sarcasm, “Should make for a pleasant conversation.”
Brenna exchanged a glance with Colt, who didn’t look the least bit surprised.
They followed the sheriff down a short hallway, past bulletin boards filled with wanted posters and community notices.
At the end was a small observation room with a narrow window of two-way glass.
Through it, Brenna saw Naomi Darnell seated at a table, her face pale but composed.
Across from her sat a man in a navy suit, his arms crossed and his jaw tight. Definitely her lawyer.
Sheriff Chase was reaching for the interview room door when footsteps pounded down the hallway behind them. They all turned as a young man appeared, breathless and clearly flustered.
He looked mid-twenties, lanky but wiry, with curly brown hair that stuck to his forehead like he’d been running for a while. His khakis were wrinkled, and he had a messenger bag slung across his chest. His wide eyes darted from the sheriff to Naomi behind the glass.
“I’m Naomi’s assistant,” he said between gasps. “Jared Tripp. I need to speak to her right away.”
Sheriff Chase narrowed her eyes. “Can it wait? She’s about to be interviewed.”
Jared shook his head, still panting. “No. It’s urgent.”
Naomi must have heard her assistant’s voice because the interview room door practically flew open. “Jared? What’s wrong?” Naomi asked.
He didn’t hesitate. He reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper, his hand trembling as he thrust it at her.
“This was taped to your office door. I didn’t know what to do. I tried to call you, but you must have silenced your phone, so I drove right over.”
Naomi snatched the paper and read it. Her lips moved silently for a moment, then she whispered the words aloud.
“Since you didn’t pay the price, since you were rescued by those perverting the cause of justice, your assistant, Jared Tripp, will pay instead. One way or another, justice will be served.”
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