“First time he did that I thought he’d snap her in half,” she comments from behind me.
“Wouldn’t take much. He seems to have strong paternal instincts, though. A bit unusual for a male dog.”
“I know, I did some research. But what I discovered is that it’s not uncommon in wolves.”
“You think he could be part wolf?”
It isn’t that farfetched, actually. He has the tall legs, the somewhat lanky build, and coarse fur, but his head doesn’t fit the bill and neither do the floppy ears.
“He was a mature rescue when I got him last year. He was found wandering not too far from here at Greenmount Cemetery and did not look taken care of. Anything is possible, I guess. I always thought he might have Irish Wolfhound blood, but wolf would work too.”
“You could get genetic testing done,” I suggest, but she shrugs her shoulders.
“It doesn’t really matter where he came from. Won’t change the way I feel about him.”
I know she’s talking about her dog—she doesn’t even know my history—but I feel those words penetrate deeply, as if they were meant for me.
“Good,” I mumble, before turning my attention to the pile of wood.
It doesn’t take me long to load the boards on top of the old shingles and when I go look for Meredith, I find her sitting on a camping chair holding a couple of beers. She gestures at the second chair and holds out one of the bottles.
“I was gonna get outta your hair,” I tell her, as I accept her offer and sit down.
She chuckles softly. “Afraid I’d invite you for dinner?” she teases, and I’m not sure how to respond to that without putting my foot in. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t make you eat tofu again.”
Clearly, I didn’t hide my distaste as well as I thought I did. She doesn’t appear to mind, though.
“I’m not normally that adventurous,” I confess. “A man of simple tastes.”
She scrutinizes me, sinking her teeth into her generous bottom lip, and I can’t help staring.
“Nothing wrong with that,” she finally says, her voice low. “Although it’s tempting to see if you’ll let me try and broaden your horizons.”
Fuck me. I’d have to be deaf not to hear the full extent of the invitation and I’m willing to let her try whatever the hell she wants on me.
I shift in my seat and clear my throat before I trust myself to speak.
“I’m game.”
Her mouth stretches into a smile. “You’re a surprise, Detective VanDyken. A good one.”
I’m about to get out of my chair and kiss that gorgeous mouth when my phone vibrates in my pocket.
Fucking Blackfoot has the worst timing.
Meredith
“We can take my car.”
Jay turns his head to look at the little red Toyota Prius I indulged in a few years ago. Then his eyes come back to me.
“I don’t think my six-foot-four frame will fit,” he announces, before starting in the direction of his truck. “We’ll hit the dump on the way back.”
“Isn’t it easier if I just take my own car?”
“Not a big deal to drop you off when I have to come back this way for the waste station. Makes no sense to drive two vehicles to the same place. Get in, Meredith.”
Normally I’d bristle at the order, but I’m too busy noting the slight tingle that accompanies his use of my first name. I don’t think he ever has before—everyone just calls me Doc—but it sounds good rolling off his tongue.
“Merry, get in,” he repeats, shoving the passenger side door open.
Merry, even better.
It comes with warm memories of my adoptive parents, who passed away too soon.
I get in and before I have a chance to buckle up, the truck is already moving.
It’s interesting to see the immediate change in him; from almost bashfully flirting one moment to assertive professionalism the next. He’s both, which is what makes him so intriguing. It’s always been clear to me there are depths to this man he doesn’t show. I’ve only lifted a corner today, but it makes me want to peel away the layers to expose the answers below. It’s what I do best.
The drive is silent, but I use the time to quietly observe him. At first glance his hands appear to rest casually on the wheel, but the prominence of the tendons right below his skin shows a tightness that betrays his level of alertness. As does the minimal flare of his nostrils and the slight press of his lips. It gives meaning to the saying, he’s on the scent. When the job calls on him, the years of training kick in like full-body muscle memory.
I wonder if he’s as instinctive in the bedroom.
The thought pops into my head and I quickly avert my eyes, but I almost jump out of my skin when he starts talking.
“You’re staring.”
I clap a hand over my face when an inadvertent snort escapes me. His mouth twitches as he throws me a quick glance.
“Busted,” I mumble before adding frankly, “you fascinate me.”
That earns me a full smile.
“Good,” he says firmly. “It’s a good start.”
His hand lands on my knee and his long fingers wrap around to give it a squeeze before returning to the steering wheel. The first meaningful touch.
Am I ready for this? It’s not a question of wanting—I want, there’s no denying that—but of wisdom. There’s a reason I’ve learned to appreciate the solitary life and avoid entanglements that lead to true intimacy. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a nun, but have always picked my sexual partners based on my ability to maintain my distance. It’s safer for me that way.
Intimacy leads to need and expectations, which leads to disappointment and eventually loss.
I’m taking a risk—a big one—and the only reason I’m even contemplating it is the fact Jay appears to be as cautious as I am. Interested, certainly, but careful.
My inner thoughts grind to a halt when Jay turns the truck onto a dirt road off US-160. We’re heading toward the Animas River, where a woman walking her dog on a trail bumped into more remains.
This location is only nine or ten miles south of where the leg was found by Lake Nighthorse and it seems logical to assume it’s from the same victim. It’ll be up to me to prove it.
I notice a young woman leaning against a fire department rig, a uniformed officer by her side, and what looks like an Australian shepherd at her feet. The hiker, presumably. A larger group is visible closer to the river and I’m already reaching for the door handle as the truck comes to a stop.
“What’ve you got?” I ask before I reach the circle of men, Jay’s footsteps close behind me.
Blackfoot turns around and I recognize Joe Benedetti, Blue Ramirez—one of the fire department’s EMTs—and Paul, who obviously beat me here. He’s the one who answers.
“Looks like an arm and hand. Badly burned, though.”
I take a step closer to see the hand, palm-side up, with fingers curled in. Or rather what is left of the fingers, because most of the soft tissue was burned back enough to show the tips of the small bones protruding. The arm fared a little better, retaining most of its shape, despite the badly charred surface.