sunlight playing through stained glass. His palms were strong and warm, tough enough to indicate he worked with his hands when he wasn’t on duty—or maybe the calluses were from hauling on a leash all day. And the faint scent of garlic was more enticing than any cologne. “That sounds fair to me.” She went to the trunk and fished out a lug wrench.
“Let me change that tire for you,” he said, taking the tool from her hands and hefting the spare from the trunk.
“I can do it,” she said quickly. Take care of yourself, Mads.
But he was already crouched over, easily detaching the lug nuts. “I’ve never let a lady change her own flat, and I’m not about to now.”
“Thanks,” she said. She hadn’t expected to find chivalry in this desert nowhere. It both pleased her and kicked up some anxiety. He’s a cop, Mads. Perfectly okay to let him change your tire. “What were you searching for, anyway?”
“Just following a hunch.”
The trees behind them were thick with tangled branches, the perfect place for someone to hide. A killer, perhaps?
“So, you’re following a lead on Veronica Earnshaw’s murder? Or maybe the attack on Marian Foxcroft?”
He frowned. “We’re all doing our best.”
“You must be making progress. You’ve got a lot of extra rookies assigned to this town, not to mention the dogs.”
He knelt to remove the tire. “Yes, that’s true. The town is practically crawling with K-9s until we’re reassigned elsewhere.” There was a touch of cynicism in his voice. “Why are you so interested?”
She shrugged. “Who isn’t? Murders and a bludgeoning attack in a small town like this? How is the investigation going?”
He paused in the act of wrestling on the spare. “Slowly.”
“In your opinion, is the Earnshaw case linked to what happened to Marian Foxcroft?”
He didn’t answer.
She pressed on eagerly. “And those deaths on the night of the police fund-raiser. Officer Ryder Hayes’s wife was murdered, and two other deaths were ruled accidental. What’s your take on it?”
He kept his eyes on the tire this time, and she drank in his strong profile, noting that his full mouth was now drawn into a tight line. “Why is this beginning to sound like an interview?”
She ignored the question. “Murders, assaults. What is going on in this town?”
They were interrupted by the arrival of another car. This time an older officer got out, late thirties with thinning hair and a gaunt look about him except for his well-padded waist. Hawk greeted him with a flapping of his enormous ears. He scratched the dog’s fleshy jowls, earning a lick, which he wiped from his cheek.
“Hey, James. Afternoon, ma’am,” the officer said.
“This is Officer Ken Bucks,” James said by way of introduction. “Madison Coles.”
Bucks eyed her and the car. “Got some trouble? Shall I call for a tow?”
“I’m taking care of it,” James said. “Just needs the spare put on.”
Bucks quirked an eyebrow. “Madison Coles. I know that name.” His eyes shifted in thought, sparking when he’d made some connection. “You might want to let her change her own tire.”
James shot him a look. “Why?”
Officer Bucks raised his chin at James. “She’s another reporter, Canyon County Gazette. Carrie said she’s called three times this week.”
Great. Now she’d get the cold shoulder from these two cops. Carrie Dunleavy, the Desert Valley Police Department secretary, hadn’t given her any information Madison hadn’t read herself in her own employer’s newspaper. Was the secretary even passing along her messages to the chief and officers? Probably.
“I wouldn’t have had to call so much if one of you had bothered to return my messages.”
“We’re a small town,” Bucks said. “We like to respect the privacy of our citizens and play things close to the vest, and we’ve had our fill of reporters nosing around in police business. Isn’t that right, Officer Harrison?”
The change in James’s expression from the moment the other cop outed her as a reporter was dramatic. It was as if someone closed the shutters, cutting off all the light from his expression. “You’re a reporter?”
She nodded.
He finished the tire and stood. “Should be good to go now. Sorry for the trouble.” There was none of the previous warmth in his voice. He handed her a business card. “I’ll pay to get you another spare since the accident was my fault.”
He summoned the dog, and they walked toward his car, which she now spotted some twenty feet up the road. Bucks remained behind, next to Madison.
“Wait. Can I ask you a few questions?” she called to James.
“No, ma’am,” he threw over his shoulder.
“Why not?” she asked his departing back.
“Because he doesn’t like reporters,” Bucks said, removing a stick of gum from a pack in his pocket and folding it into his mouth. “And he’s got a good reason, since a reporter ruined his family.”
Ruined his family? Ironic, since a reporter had saved hers, though her sister didn’t see it that way. She straightened her shoulders. “Well, how about you, Officer Bucks? I’m actually just here to write a story about how crime has affected local businesses. Would you be willing to answer a few questions? Just for background information?”
“No, ma’am,” he said with a grin. “I would not. Enjoy your stay in Desert Valley.” With a tip of his hat, he returned to his car, smacking his gum.
“I’m going to be in town writing a story whether you cooperate or not,” she called to him.
Bucks gave her a sardonic salute, eased into his driver’s seat and pulled away.
She stared after them. Both officers clearly did not want a reporter poking around, but that wasn’t anything new. They could throw up all the roadblocks they wanted. There was a story here, bigger than the failing businesses in Desert Valley, and she was going to find out what it was, with or without police cooperation. Sure, she’d write the business piece, but it wouldn’t hurt to keep her ears open for something more significant. Instincts prickling, she got back into her car and drove the rest of the way to Desert Valley.
* * *
James turned onto the narrow paved road, allowing his breathing to return to normal. So she was a reporter. So what? He’d met plenty of them recently. Only natural that journalists would start flocking around where there was a potential for a juicy story. Reporters. They were all the same, vultures who reworked the facts to suit their fancy, like the one who’d smeared his brother in the papers, condemning him in the public eye for a rape he didn’t commit. He realized his jaw was clenched as usual whenever he thought about his brother. Take a breath.
Madison was doing her job, and he was going to do his. Deep down in his gut, he knew the real reason he was upset was that he’d been enjoying her company, chatting easily about cooking and canines, while something had been poking at him. Her red hair and easy smile reminded him of his teen crush, Paige, a girl who had fractured his family, a viper he had let into the nest. That was a long time ago.
A movement in the shadows beside the road made him tense. James’s pulse ticked up. Was it the dog they’d been searching for? Marco, the police K-9 German shepherd puppy, had gone missing from the training yard the night Veronica Earnshaw was murdered. How in the world could a puppy stay lost for so long? A few weeks ago, a witness had reported seeing someone on a bicycle pick up what looked like a small dog and ride off with it. But it was dark, and the