meant that the burglar hadn’t found what he was looking for.
She exchanged the phone for a brass lamp base, checked the closet and started to breathe a little more easily. Across the room, a shutter banged softly against the side of the house. That explained the noise she’d heard. No ghosts. No burglars. Just the breeze.
The state of the apartment and Max’s office reinforced her theory that Max had left something that would incriminate his killer. All she had to do was figure out what it was and find it before the killer did. If he hadn’t already found it.
That was when she noticed the partially closed bathroom door. She headed for it, thinking about what she’d tell Deputy Cline. Surely when he saw this place, he’d have to give up his hitchhiker theory. Reaching into the bathroom, she fumbled for the light switch with her free hand.
Cold fingers clamped over her wrist in a deathlike grip. Denver let out a cry of total terror as she was jerked into the darkened bathroom. She swung the lamp. It connected with something solid and veered off. She heard a male voice swear as the fingers on her wrist let go, and a loud thud followed. Denver retreated, fumbling for the bathroom light switch on her way out, this time with the lamp in her hand ready to swing again.
She found the switch. The bathroom light flashed on. Denver blinked. At first because of the sudden brightness, then out of disbelief. Sitting crosswise in the bathtub swearing and holding his head was none other than J. D. Garrison.
Denver stumbled backward and fell over, tripping on the overturned chair. She landed on her bottom in a pile of mattress stuffing. J. D. Garrison leaned over her.
“Hello, Denny,” he said, offering her a hand. “It’s been a long time.”
Chapter Four
Denver lay staring up at the man standing over her, unable to move. J.D. J. D. Garrison. After all these years.
She’d envisioned the day he returned thousands of times, always in Technicolor, always with the same basic plot. He’d come riding in like John Wayne, all handsome and charming. He’d beg her to forgive him for not taking her with him, sweep her off her feet, promise his undying love, maybe play a few songs on his guitar. And then she’d tell him to drop dead.
Never would she have imagined it quite like this.
She ignored his offer of help and got to her feet on her own power, dusting herself off. The gesture gave her a few moments to compose herself; J.D. was the last person she’d expected to see in that bathtub.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, her pride as well as her bottom still smarting. Damn. The effect he had on her! Her heart was pounding and not from fear anymore; she felt sixteen again. The feeling made her all the more angry with him.
“It’s nice to see you again, too,” he said, his smile widening.
She’d practiced at least ten thousand times what she’d say to him if she ever did see him again. But nothing came to her lips. He’d changed; he wasn’t that lanky young man she remembered. A dark mustache and neatly trimmed beard nearly hid his deep dimples. His eyes, always a blend of moonlight silvers and midnight grays, seemed darker, but there was an older look about them, almost a sadness....
She realized he was holding his head where she’d hit him with the lamp. His gray Stetson dangled from his other hand. “Are you all right?” she asked guiltily.
He nodded and tried to get the hat back on his head over the lump she’d given him. “My head’s too hard for most lamps. But the fall into the bathtub I could have done without.” As he rubbed his backside, she noticed the flashlight stuck in his belt. “I’m sorry I scared you. I heard a noise and thought the prowler had returned.” He grinned.
Prowler indeed. His grin sent her heart racing around in circles. Just what she needed. “So you’re back in town,” she said, before adding, “you missed Max’s funeral and you better have a damned good reason.”
He leaned back and laughed. “You had me worried for a moment there. I thought you’d lost that charming way you’ve always had with words.” Those wonderfully deep dimples were now just a hint under the beard, and little wrinkles had been added around his eyes. It didn’t matter. He still had that same heart-thumping effect he always had on her.
She frowned and turned away from the look in his eyes. What was it? Affection on his part? Or imagination on hers? Without another word, she hurried down the stairs; she could hear J.D. right behind her.
“Don’t you want to hear my damned good reason?” he asked.
“I didn’t really expect you’d make it anyway,” she said, pulling on her boots. “I figured you were probably busy making a new album or performing for all those fans of yours.” Bitterness and hurt crackled from her words and she wished she could bite her tongue. She bent down to pick up files and loose papers from the floor, forgetting all about saving evidence for Cline. “I told Pete not to bother calling you.”
“Pete called?” J.D. sounded surprised.
“Don’t pretend you didn’t get the message.” She heard the soft tread of his boots on the floor as he came up behind her.
“Denny, I was so sorry to hear about Max.” His voice was soft. So was the touch of his fingers on her shoulders. “I wanted to be at the funeral for you.”
She shrugged his hands away and spun on him. “I thought you cared about Max. I thought you cared about—” Tears brimmed in her eyes. She fought the culprits, determined not to cry. She’d shed enough tears for J. D. Garrison. Damned if she’d cry in front of him.
“I do care,” he said, lifting her chin to meet her gaze. “I caught the first plane out. But getting to West Yellowstone this time of year is kind of tricky. You might remember the airport’s closed until Memorial Day weekend.” He flashed her a sheepish grin that beseeched her to give him a break. “I’m here now, though.”
She wished he’d just take her in his arms and hold her, but he didn’t, and she stepped back, all the hurt flowing out of her in place of tears. “I’m sure we’ll probably read in the tabloids next week just how hard it was for you to get back for the funeral.” The tabloids had followed his exploits with one woman after another for years now. “I suppose there’ll be flight attendants involved this time.”
J.D.’s jaw tensed as he shook his head at her. “I’m surprised you read the tabloids, let alone believe them.” He met her gaze and held it as gently as a caress. “Come on, you know me better than that.”
Know him? She thought she knew him. She’d shared his dreams. And a lot more. She’d given him her heart. No, she’d given her heart to J. D. Garrison, the boy she had grown up with, not this stranger in designer Western wear.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked, motioning to the mess in the room, probably thinking a little humor would soften her up.
Fat chance. “Don’t you remember? This is the way Max liked his office. Everything out where he could find it.”
J.D. nodded, his eyes darkening. “Yeah, I remember that about Max.” He stood, just staring at her. “You’ve changed.”
Her chin went up instinctively. “I’ve grown up, if that’s what you mean. I’m not a kid anymore.”
“I can see that.” The look in his eyes blew the devil out of her theory. Those weren’t the eyes of a stranger. She looked away. “I assume you won’t be staying long?” she asked, bracing herself for his answer.
He tipped up one of the drawers with his boot toe, and then let it back down gently. “I’ve taken a room at the Stage Coach Inn for a few days.”
She nodded. In a few days he’d be gone again. That old pain gripped her heart. What had she expected? “A few days? And Max’s funeral is what brought you home?” She