In Seconds

“I see.” If he was offended by her clipped response, he didn’t show it. His fingers brushed hers as he took the screw and her stomach did an inconvenient little somersault. “So once they go to bed, you design purses?”

He smelled like soap. She wondered if he’d come home and showered. Probably. Anybody would want to wash after seeing what he’d seen. She knew because she’d watched two men gunned down four years ago. In some ways, it seemed as if eons had passed since that night. She’d come so far since then, had changed so much. In other ways, it felt like only yesterday, as if the horrifying sights and sounds of those murders were forever etched onto her brain and would stay there, as vivid and constant as the moment it happened.

Myles had stopped to look at her; she hadn’t answered. “I do some designing, yes. I also handle orders, do the accounting, check out my competition or look at the photographs for my new catalog.” Or, occasionally, Claire talked her into taking the night off and watching a movie. “I’ve got more than enough to stay busy.”

“Your job is unusual for someone living in the wilds of Montana.” He put the screw she’d picked up in his back pocket and she had to fight to keep her gaze from lowering to his ass. “How’d you get into designing?”

Although they’d never discussed this—they typically exchanged nothing beyond a few pleasantries—she was fairly sure he’d heard the story through the grapevine. That much of her past she’d already divulged. But if he wanted to make small talk while she waited for an opening to bring up the murder, she had no objections. He didn’t seem to think there was anything strange about what had happened to the fridge, thank God. “I entered a contest sponsored by Coach purses and Vogue magazine while I was living on the East Coast and—” she shrugged “—my design won.”

The interest in his green, brown-flecked eyes felt as good as a long massage. Maybe it was the two glasses of wine she’d drunk to get up the nerve to go next door, but a warm tingle swept through her whenever he looked up or smiled. She missed having a man in her life. She hadn’t realized how much.

“Were you surprised?” he asked.

“Shocked.” Even that was an understatement. Other than the births of her children, winning that contest was the best thing that had ever happened to her.

“To what do you attribute your success?”

To an intense fascination with fashion and design. To watching every show there was on the topic. To reading all the beauty magazines. To trial and error. She was self-educated, but careful not to miss the tiniest detail. She had too many handicaps to overcome, she couldn’t afford to be halfhearted or sloppy. But exposing the desperation that had fueled her dream seemed too personal. “Luck,” she said to make it simple.

“That contest must’ve opened the right doors.”

“It did. Coach asked me for other samples of my work, so I quickly came up with a few.”

“They liked those, too?”

“Even more than the one that was selected as the winner.”

“You must have natural talent.”

With the kids asleep, the clock ticking rhythmically above the sink and the wine circulating in her blood, it was easy to let down her guard enough to enjoy his company. “That’s what my boss at Coach said when he offered me a job. Before I went out on my own.”

“Had you been to fashion school?”

She laughed out loud. There’d been no time or money for that. “No.”

“Where did you go to college?”

Her levity vanished. Inevitably one question led to another. And so much of her past was too painful to talk about, or would be too dangerous to reveal. That isolated her from others, kept her from being able to connect…?. “I didn’t.”

Once again, he paused. “You didn’t have the opportunity?”

“No.” She jerked her head toward the fridge. “That looks pretty complicated. Have you ever fixed one before?”

Taking the hint, he continued working. “Actually, I have.”

“Did they teach you that at the police academy?” She grinned to make up for her coolness. Prickly wasn’t her true nature. It was a learned response, the only way she could create the space and privacy necessary to function somewhat normally.

He changed the head on his electric screwdriver. “Not quite. My father was an attorney, but he was raised by the most frugal individual on earth. Fortunately, he didn’t turn out to be quite as tightfisted as his old man, but he refused to hire anyone to fix what we could learn to fix for him. He believed boys should grow up to be self-reliant. And there were four of us, so he had a lot of ready labor.” He raised his voice to compensate for the hum of the screwdriver. “He’d find broken garbage disposals, toasters, fans—you name it—at the dump and haul them home just to make us fix them.”

“What’d you do with those things after you got them working? Four boys could potentially fix quite a few toasters.”

“We’d sell some.”

She could picture him in a household of rough-and-tumble brothers. With his charm and energy, she guessed he’d be right in the thick of trouble. “And the others?”

“We’d give them to the poor. Until I got into college, anyway. Then I was ‘the poor,’” he said with a chuckle. “I survived and paid my tuition by fixing various appliances. And cars. When I turned sixteen, my dad had a tow truck deliver an old clunker for me to rebuild. That was my birthday present.” He gave her the crooked smile that had half the women in Pineview swooning over him. “Now I love to tinker.”

Trying not to be taken in by that smile, Vivian leaned against the edge of the table. “Is that what you do in your garage late at night?”

She’d often seen the light seeping out from under his garage door. When she stepped onto the screened-in porch in the middle of a dark and silent night, she sometimes heard the whine of his power tools—even though quite a bit of space separated her home from his. Enough for two old sheds and a large garden, and that was just on her side. On his property, an expansive deck and party-type barbecue area took up most of the back and side yards. She’d never known him to use it, though—and she would’ve noticed since there was no fence. She was pretty sure he’d built it as a gift to his wife. She’d heard from Claire and the other women who liked to discuss the handsome sheriff that he’d finished it shortly before Amber Rose passed away, and then couldn’t bear to see it once she was gone.

“I’m restoring an old Ducati,” he explained.

“A Ducati’s a…car?” When he glanced at her, she couldn’t help wondering whether he liked her new haircut. He hadn’t mentioned it, despite the fact that it was now as short as his.

“Motorcycle.”

Briefly it occurred to her that Jake might have seen it. Was this one of the marvels that drew him next door?

She didn’t ask, didn’t want to acknowledge her neighbor’s massive appeal to her nine-year-old, or all the manly activities and shared interests Myles could offer Jake that she could not. “How long does a project like that take?”

“Depends. I’ve been at it for six months, but it should’ve been done already.” A dimple appeared in his cheek. “I haven’t made a concerted effort.”

Maybe there was a reason for that. Maybe he was afraid to finish for fear there’d be nothing left to distract him during those lonely hours. Sometimes she’d slip out, hoping to hear him working so she’d know she wasn’t the only one walking the floor while the rest of the world slept. If he wasn’t in the garage, she’d occasionally spot him sitting on his porch, drinking a cup of coffee or tea. He’d stay there for some time, even in the dead of winter, staring into the inky blackness. She’d stay, too, until he went inside. She could feel the hole his wife’s death had left in his life, knew he missed Amber Rose. But Vivian was too attracted to him, and too afraid of where it might lead, to lend him more support than these secret vigils.

“Are you almost done with it?” she asked.

“Getting close.”

“Will you keep it or sell it?”

“Don’t know yet.”

Vivian was about to bring up the murder, but he spoke before she could. “Are you glad you branched out on your own?”

Cursing herself for not jumping in sooner, she forced a smile. “Definitely.”

“Why’d you leave Coach?” He was on his hands and knees so he could reach whatever he needed in the motor.

“I wanted more artistic freedom and control, and that meant establishing a separate brand.” She’d also had to quit, but she couldn’t tell him that. There was no way to keep her job and assume a new identity. “It’s a little lonely being such a small enterprise. I have only three employees who run my showroom in New York. But we’re starting to grow.”

“Did you ever consider using your name, like so many other designers?”

Which name? Certainly not her real one. She had to stay behind the scenes or run the risk of putting her life, not to mention her kids’ lives, in jeopardy. She had Colleen Turnbull, her most experienced employee, handle all media appearances. “No, to me Big Sky Bags lent itself to a certain look and a certain feel, which was more in keeping with the type of brand I was hoping to create.”

He held up one part of whatever made her fridge work. It wasn’t the part she’d damaged, fortunately. “This fridge isn’t that old. I’m surprised it’s giving you trouble already.”

Planning to place the blame on rats or precocious children once he diagnosed the problem, she mumbled something about having bought a lemon and got him a paper towel so could set the part on the floor.

“How long have you been out on your own?” he asked.

“Since forever.”

When he twisted around to look at her, she wondered why she’d said that. He’d asked in regard to her business. But she was just so tired of having the same superficial conversations with everyone. She wanted to go deeper, to really talk to another human being—to talk to him—but she couldn’t. She had to watch herself even with Claire. She couldn’t trust anyone.

“Care to elaborate on that?” His voice suggested he understood her desire to open up and welcomed the honesty, but she already knew she could say no more.

“No. Sorry. It’s the wine.” She waved an apologetic hand. “I started Big Sky Bags the minute I moved here.”

She could sense his reluctance to let the more personal comment go, but to his credit he didn’t pry. And for that, she was grateful. Her brother constantly warned her, in almost every one of his weekly emails, that she couldn’t trust anyone. Especially a cop, who had access to far more information than the average Joe.

“Isn’t it tough to succeed as a designer when you’re so far from New York City and all your competitors?”

It was hard. For months she’d been afraid that she’d taken too much of a gamble when she launched Big Sky Bags. But a lot of designers lived west of the Rockies. Like her, they had their showrooms, their PR companies and their ad agencies in New York and their warehouses in New Jersey, but so many things could be done over the internet these days that it worked. Although she’d initially planned on running her business exclusively on the internet, and had been managing in just that way for two years, her designs were gaining popularity among a few influential fashionistas in Los Angeles. In the past three months, several high-end boutiques had begun to stock her purses. She felt encouraged, as if she was entering a whole new phase of her career. It was one of the reasons she’d been so happy recently.

But now, after Pat’s murder, she had no idea whether or not she might have to move again, just like before. And she simply couldn’t face the thought of it, couldn’t deal with the loss.

“It’s not as important to be in New York as it once was,” she told him. “The internet makes it possible for me to work from almost anywhere. The factories are in Hong Kong, anyway. Once the sample purses arrive, I hire a freelancer to take photographs and load them on my website. Then they go to my showroom, where they’re seen by department-store buyers and the wholesale places that focus on more niche markets. I don’t have to be in New York to do that.”

“It’s a long flight if you have to go back there.”

She’d already had to go twice this year, once when she’d decided to change her ad agency and once to meet with her PR firm. She didn’t mind because it gave her a chance to see Virgil and Peyton, his wife, who were now going by the names Daniel and Mariah Greene. They lived seven hours from the city. But it wasn’t easy for Vivian to leave the kids at home. Fortunately, Vera Soblasky, who lived behind the church in town, had been willing to take them in the past. An unmarried retired schoolteacher, Vera worked as a librarian three days a week, but since she had no children or grandchildren, she preferred to spend her free time with Jake and Mia, who didn’t have a grandmother of their own. Not one they had contact with, at any rate.

Vera was another reason Vivian couldn’t move. She couldn’t tear her children away from their “Nana.” They’d never forgive her. Then there was Claire, who’d become such a big part of her own life. Claire was always willing to help out with the kids but usually had to work.

“I try to avoid the trip, if possible,” she said.

“Here’s your problem.” He held up the metal piece from which she’d removed the wires. “These are supposed to be attached.”

She frowned as if this was surprising to her. “I wonder what could’ve happened to them. Could a rat have done that?” She felt like a rat just saying this.

“It’s possible.”

“So…can you fix it?”

He turned the part over. “It’d be easy if this wire wasn’t so damaged. It isn’t safe with so much of the protective coating gone. But I might have some wire in the garage that’ll work.”

Rubbing damp palms on her shorts, she blew out a sigh. “That’s really nice of you. I appreciate it.”

He went home and returned a few minutes later with a piece of wire, and put the motor back together—which left Vivian scrambling for a way to keep him longer. She hadn’t broached the subject of the murder; she was afraid to blurt out her questions for fear she’d give away her true intention in having him over.

“I think we’re set,” he said when he plugged the refrigerator back into the wall and it began to hum.

“Wow. That’s amazing. Thank you so much.” The guilt she felt about lying made it difficult to meet his eyes.

“No problem.”

“Would you like a glass of wine?” she asked as he packed up his tools.

She’d surprised him. That was obvious from the way he straightened. “Okay.”

It’d been so long since Vivian had had company, she felt awkward, out of practice. Her life wasn’t conducive to socializing. Even after coming to Pineview, she hadn’t entertained. Not a man, anyway. Claire and Vera dropped by every now and then. But she tried not to get too attached. What if she had to pull up stakes and leave?

That question hung over her. Always.

At least she was the only one who had to endure the weight of it. Her children didn’t understand why she was so guarded. And she didn’t want them to know, didn’t want them to become as paranoid as she was. But that left them unprotected from possible disappointment.

“Did you grow up wanting to become a cop?” she asked as she poured chardonnay from a new bottle.

He put his toolbox by the kitchen door, which led to a mudroom on the side of the house facing his property, and took a seat at the table. “Pretty much. My uncle was in law enforcement. He used to come over on the weekends, help me work on whatever project I had going. And while we worked he’d talk about his job. His stories not only fascinated me, they made me passionate about seeing justice done. I wanted to get involved in that fight.”

She set his wine in front of him. “You didn’t want to be a lawyer, like your father?”

“No. Definitely not enough action in that.”

“What about an electrician?”

“I figured that could be a fallback. But I was more interested in police work.”

She’d already drank enough wine for one evening. It didn’t take much to make her tipsy. But she was so self-conscious. And the alcohol was doing a great job of relaxing her.

One more glass… “If you want action, what are you doing in a sleepy little town like this?”

He studied his wine, swirled it around. “My wife visited here once, with her parents, when she was a child. They spent the whole summer. She’d always dreamed of coming back to live. So once she got sick and the doctors said there was nothing more they could do, I thought it might be the best place for her.”

He’d done everything he could, even built her that expensive deck. Claire had told Vivian how, in her last days, he’d carry Amber Rose outside and hold her on his lap so she could feel the sun…?.

Did it hurt him to talk about his late wife? Vivian wanted to ask, but such personal questions fell into what she’d designated a restricted area. She had to respect other people’s boundaries if she wanted them to respect hers.

“Where did you live before?” she asked.

“Phoenix.”

She cradled her glass. “That’s a big change.”

“And yet I love both places,” he said with a shrug.

“Will you ever go back?”

His nicked and scarred hands served as a testament to all he did with them. And they were so large they made his glass appear small by comparison. “No. Marley’s settled here. She’s happy. After she lost her mother, I’d never take her away from her friends. I think stability’s important, don’t you?”

Very. That was the problem. Thanks to The Crew, stability wasn’t an easy thing for her to provide. “But do you think it’s as safe here as we once believed?”

Weaving his fingers together, he clasped them behind his head. “You’ve heard about the murder.”

She’d found the lead-in she’d been searching for. But she was afraid she’d given herself away. He could read people so well. She’d seen him do it many times—watched him step in to defuse a disagreement at the Fireworks by the Lake show last July fourth before it could erupt into a fight, watched him steer various inebriated people away from the bar so he could drive them home before they tried to get behind the wheel, watched how gently he deflected unwanted female attention. He kept his finger on the pulse of everything that went on around him, noticed changes and figured out the reasons for them. And inviting him over had definitely been a change. So he had to be wondering. And watching for clues.

“I think most people have heard about the murder,” she said. “You know what gossip is like in this town.”

“I do, which is why I’m curious…”

When his eyes latched onto hers, she knew he wasn’t going to limit his comments to the superficial and polite. And that made her uncomfortable enough to drain her glass. “What?”

“Why no one ever has any dirt on you.”

Her stomach muscles tensed, but she smiled. “You’re changing the subject.”

“Maybe I am. But I can tell my statement doesn’t surprise you. And that makes me even more curious.”

“I haven’t given anyone a reason to talk,” she countered.

“Exactly. You don’t flirt. You don’t date. You don’t sleep around. You don’t get involved in church or the school board or the politics of this town.”

“I take the kids to church on Sundays.”

“That’s it, though. You rarely even go out for a drink. As far as I can tell, your social life consists of having Claire over to watch an occasional movie and book group on Thursday nights. You live in the background of a place that’s already in the background. Why?”

Oh, God. She shouldn’t have had him come here, let alone served him a drink. “I’m too busy with my business and raising my children.”

“You don’t feel the need for intimacy?”

He wasn’t talking about sex but, thanks to the wine, that was precisely where her mind went. By the time her marriage ended, she’d cringed whenever Tom touched her. But her opinion of making love had improved once she met Rex McCready. Giving pleasure was one thing Rex could do right. “How do you know I’m not in a relationship?”

“I’d notice if a man came to the house.”

Was he as preoccupied with her as she was with him? She hoped not. For the past several months she’d been absolutely infatuated. He and he alone occupied her thoughts during the long nights when she was too tired to work but couldn’t sleep. Claire was starting to pick up on her interest and badger her about why she kept turning him down.

More wine. Right away. Getting up, she retrieved the bottle and poured herself another glass. She offered him a refill, too, but he shook his head. “Maybe I had a bad experience, so I’m hesitant to take the risk,” she murmured.

He ran a finger over his lip in a thoughtful gesture. “Bad in what way?”

The anxiety that’d been gnawing at her seemed to have lost its teeth, but she held fast to the rules she’d established for herself when she moved here. She was already too close to Claire; she didn’t need to wag her tongue to the sheriff. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

That should’ve been direct enough to head him off. He couldn’t possibly have missed her “you’re treading too close” signal. But the sheriff wouldn’t let it go. Not tonight. “What’d he do to you?”

She downed more wine as she searched for a casual response. But even the alcohol couldn’t stifle the painful memories. Tom forcing her to have sex with him several times a night whether she was interested or not. Tom heaping on the guilt simply because she craved other people and relationships in her life, especially girlfriends. Tom undermining her attempts to get a job so she’d be completely dependent on him. And then there was the physical abuse, the worst of which she’d blocked out…?.

When she finished what was in her glass, the sheriff was still waiting, and watching her closely. “He was abusive, okay? I’m sure you’ve guessed that already. But if you want to hear me say it, I just did.”

“Physically?”

She winced as she remembered some of the humiliating things Tom had made her do, how easily he’d been able to manipulate her because of their children. “Yes.”

He leaned over and touched the scar where Tom had cut his initials into her arm. “Did he do this to you?”

That had been minor, compared to some of the other stuff. She pulled away. “That and more.”

“Where is he now?”

“I don’t know. I just hope he never finds me.” There were others she feared far more, but she couldn’t tell him that. This would appease the sheriff’s curiosity; make him believe he understood why she was so withdrawn and secretive. Make him stop questioning her about the past.

“You think he’s looking?”

“He could be.” She’d had a lot to drink tonight, too much, and wanted even more—anything to further numb the sharp edge of fear—so she refilled her glass.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wouldn’t have pushed. Except…I’ve tried asking you out so many times.”

She didn’t want to talk about them. “Sheriff, please.”

“Sheriff?”

“Myles, then.” It wasn’t easy to say his name; it felt too familiar. “In case you haven’t guessed, I’m not interested in a relationship.”

Instead of getting offended, he leaned forward again and caught her chin so she had to meet his eyes. “Is that right?”

She got the impression he wanted to touch her. Desperate for even this small amount of contact—it’d been so long since she’d been with a man—she drew a shallow breath. “You don’t believe it?”

“Sometimes the way you look at me is…a bit contradictory.”

Gazing at him from beneath her lashes, she attempted to deny it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Take now, for instance.”

The wine was going to her head. But she welcomed it. She’d had to battle for her life and the lives of her children for so many years that she felt too weary to continue. “Now?” she repeated.

“Yeah, now. This very second. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re definitely…interested.”

He could’ve said aroused, because she was. The warmth of his body appealed to her, the hard muscle, the completion he could offer, but… “Not in a relationship,” she said.