Chapter 10
With her coffee halfway to her lips, Erica stilled. The house was quiet except for the hum of the air-conditioning. It was shaping up to be a typical West Texas summer day—cloudless, humid, and scorching.
She turned her head slightly. She didn’t hear a car in the drive or footsteps on her porch, but she knew someone was at her door, and knew it was Coop. How she knew, she couldn’t say, except it felt more intuitive than her gift.
She’d been waiting for his call. Maybe that was it. That he came in person said it couldn’t be good news. For a second, she considered pretending she wasn’t home. Then he knocked. Not loud, and just twice.
She set her cup down. Telling herself she needed to know what happened. It wasn’t that she wanted to see him.
She huffed a quiet laugh as she crossed the foyer. Even she didn’t believe that tall tale.
When she pulled the door open, the man on her porch looked like the night had taken its best shot, and he’d taken it personally. Rumpled shirt with sleeves rolled, mussed hair, the shadow of a beard darker than before.
Concern had her blurting out, “You look like you haven’t slept in a month.”
His mouth twitched. “That good? I’m surprised.”
“I didn’t mean…” She shook her head, another topic more important. “Never mind what I meant. Did you find her?”
“Yes. She’s safe now.”
Everything inside her unclenched.
“She was dehydrated and pretty banged up. She’s at the hospital.” His tone roughened when he added, “The bastards used zip ties.”
Erica briefly shut her eyes, thinking of Cheyenne’s raw, bloody wrists. “I know.”
“Yeah, I guess you do,” he replied softly. “Most of her injuries are superficial. It’s the ones we can’t see that will take longer to heal.” He paused, looking at her like he was trying to decide something. “I shouldn’t be here.”
“Probably not,” she agreed. Neither of them moved for several counts, then she stepped aside. “Come in anyway.”
As he passed her, his arm brushed her breast. He froze for the briefest of seconds before moving into the foyer. She braced for the usual onslaught of emotions. When it didn’t come, she should have been relieved, but she was too busy dealing with the tingling his inadvertent touch had left behind.
“Would you… um… like some coffee?” she offered haltingly.
“Black and strong, please.”
She waved him into the living room. “Sit, while I make it.”
He eyed her light-blue couch with its embroidered pillows like he was calculating the weight limit.
“It may not look sturdy, but it has held up for fifteen years and through three moves. There’s a recliner on the far end.”
“If I sit down, I might not wake up until sundown.”
“That’s okay. You can tell me what you have to over dinner.”
He hesitated, clearly tempted, then gave in and sank onto the couch.
“The lever for the footrest is on the side,” she told him.
“That for sure would put me to sleep.”
“You need it. Have you been up since I called?”
“I’m fine.”
He wasn’t.
Erica walked around and put up the lever herself. With his feet up and his head back, she saw the fight leave his shoulders.
“Five minutes,” he murmured. “While you make the coffee.”
He shut his eyes, and his breathing deepened almost immediately.
She stood watching him for a moment. She shouldn’t, but she couldn’t seem to stop.
The faint crease between his brows was gone. He looked younger in sleep. Less guarded. Less the Ranger. Although that could have been the lack of a badge and his Stetson.
Her clock chiming the top of the hour told her the five minutes had long since passed, and there was no coffee.
He was still asleep when she returned. She set his mug on the end table within reach, and, since she had nothing pressing, curled into the chair across from him with her own and tried to read. Four pages and twenty minutes later, with nothing retained, she set the book aside.
Her attention drifted to the front window.
Midmorning sun came in flat and bright across the plant stand, and she took stock.
The peace lily had wilted again, but a good drink always perked it up.
The pathos beside it had turned mostly brown and was likely beyond hope, which was saying something, since the woman at the plant shop had promised they were notoriously hard to kill.
She’d never claimed to have a green thumb. Hers was usually covered in paint.
Case in point, the seascape on the opposite wall.
At first light, the horizon a mix of pink and copper, the water smooth without the waves that rose when the heat of the day settled in, before the whole hectic world awoke.
She’d painted it from memory, two years after leaving.
She was still a little startled by how true it had come out.
That quality of stillness. She hadn’t thought to capture it.
“That’s the Gulf.”
She glanced over. Coop was awake, watching her. He spoke in a slow, almost-distant tone, like when you’ve slept too hard, and it won’t let it go.
He tracked her gaze to the painting.
“Galveston at sunrise,” she confirmed. “After Abilene and before El Paso. The Gulf shore was my favorite.” She paused. “Except for the storms.”
She caught his curious expression and looked back out the front window.
“I moved around a lot.”
He didn’t ask why. He’d seen her file and must know. Or maybe he was still half asleep. Either way, the quiet held, and she was grateful for it.
He sat up and stretched, and she made no effort to look away.
The movement pulled his shirt taut across his shoulders and chest, fabric straining against the kind of build that didn’t come from a gym membership but from years of actual use.
Through his open collar, she could see the strong line of his throat and a scattering of dark chest hair.
He scrubbed a hand over his face and exhaled.
Her belly coiled tight at the rough-edged yet vulnerable sound.
She could reach over and run her fingers through his sleep-mussed hair, press her palms flat to his chest, and feel nothing but warmth and the slow thud of his heartbeat. No flood of emotion, only him. Clean and simple, the way other people did without thinking.
Her fingers curled in her lap. She was single at forty for a reason.
The men who believed her found her fascinating right up until they didn’t, until the novelty morphed into suspicion.
They started watching her closely, wondering what she saw when she looked at them.
Vince Cooper was a variable she hadn’t accounted for, and she didn’t quite know what to do with that.
He tensed suddenly. “Is that the right time?”
She glanced at her mantel clock, too. “Yes. You were asleep for about an hour.”
Leaning forward, elbows to his knees, he put his face in his hands, rubbing. “Sorry. I don’t think I’ve ever fallen asleep so fast before.”
“You were exhausted. I’m guessing you didn’t sleep much the night before, either.”
“I owe you an apology.”
Her expression didn’t change. “Really, Lieutenant. It’s fine.”
“I mean for dismissing you.”
“Oh, that.” She waved him off. “You didn’t dismiss me. You doubted me.”
“Same thing.”
“No,” she said gently. “It isn’t.”
“You saved that girl.”
“I helped you find her. You saved her.”
He studied her for a moment. “You’re different than I imagined you’d be.”
She tilted her head. “Not a crackpot?”
His mouth curved faintly. “I never said that. Crackpot was your word.”
“Maybe not. But you thought it.”
He didn’t deny it. “Does that bother you?” he asked.
“Only if it still applies.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Ah, a convert,” she teased, but warmth spread through her. His belief in her meant something.
He gave her a look that wasn’t quite reluctance, but close. “There’s one more thing.”
“All right,” she said carefully.
“I may have… volunteered you for something.”
Her brows lifted. “That sounds ominous.”
“Cheyenne’s cat,” he said. “Her aunt can’t take him to California. The kid was falling apart over it.” He paused, watching her reaction. “I told her you’d look after him until they’re settled.”
Erica stared at him, unsure if she’d heard right. “You volunteered me to cat-sit for an unknown period of time?”
“Yes,” he said simply. “I’ll take him myself if you say no. But this is his neighborhood. It’s familiar. More importantly, he already trusts you. And she does too.”
She stared at him, the absurdity and tenderness of it hitting at the same time. “You’re lucky I like cats.”
The tension in his shoulders eased, and a sheepish smile curved his lips. “I was counting on that. Thank you. For helping her. And for helping Whiskers.”
“Honestly, he’s a sweet boy. I’m happy to.”
He stood. “I need to get back to work.”
“What you need is a bed,” she said as she followed him to the door. Knowing how that sounded, she stood in the entryway, not looking at him, a blush rising in her face like she was fourteen instead of forty.
He hesitated with his hand on the knob then turned to face her. “This complicates things.”
Curiosity got the better of her. “What does?”
“The fact that you’re connected to this case, and I really want to kiss you.”
His words landed before she could brace for them. He wasn’t asking, merely stating it, like a conclusion he’d already reached.
“That’s bad, I take it.”
“It’s dangerous. I don’t mix work life with personal.”
She waited, sensing there was more.
“But after this morning,” he added, “your involvement is over.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.” He held her gaze. “I’d like to take you to dinner.”
He wasn’t laying on the charm or being overly cocky. Just real. She liked that, and him. Her heart skipped a little. Still, she wouldn’t want him to have regrets.
“Isn’t this unwise… professionally?”
“I’ll risk it.”
She exhaled slowly. “When?”
“Tomorrow night. I probably need a solid eight hours, so I don’t fall asleep in the dinner salad.”
Now he was charming as well. She should have pretended to hesitate. To mull it over. She didn’t. “I close the gallery at six. I can be ready at seven.”
He moved toward her. “You can tell me all about the gallery.” He stopped in front of her. Close enough to feel. “Don’t have another vision before then.”
She arched a brow. “I’ll try to schedule around you.”
He almost smiled. Then he did something small. He brushed his thumb lightly over her cheek. It wasn’t possessive or rushed. She leaned into it, the way you lean toward warmth when you’re cold for much too long. She’d been freezing for what seemed like forever.
The texture of his skin. The unhurried contact. Simple things she hadn’t let herself think about. There was no noise, no images, nothing flooding in except what she should feel as a woman. She liked that. So much.
His thumb lingered a moment longer, like he was memorizing the feel of her. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
Then, as though he hated to, he let his hand fall. “Lock the door behind me.”
“In this neighborhood? Always.”
One sandy brow lifted at her attempt at humor. Too soon, probably.
When he left, she took the coffee mugs to the kitchen. While she rinsed them, she looked out the window at the Esperanza and salvia she’d planted when she’d moved in. The red and yellow blooms were more vivid than she remembered.
Without him, the house felt too quiet. She headed out to swing.
As if summoned by the steady creak of the chains, within minutes, Whiskers came trotting up the walk and onto the porch. He sat at the top of the steps and blinked at her. Then he meowed.
Already, she recognized it as hungry.
“Sorry, buddy, but this was kind of sprung on me.” Courtesy of a man who complicated things, but in a good way.
She stood, scratched behind Whisker’s ears, then went inside. She grabbed her car keys and purse from the entryway table. Tuna topped her shopping list as she headed out the door.