Atonement (6 page)

For three years, she'd beat it off. Managed to bury the ugliness that had taken over her. The scope was supposed to keep the veil there for her. Somehow, in the course of the years, it had lost its power. She'd joined the victim at the other end of her barrel.

A pink stain on the wall.

• • •

Her boot braced on the bottom rung, arms crossed on the top, Nic settled her chin on her hands and watched her boss in the center of the pen. A blue roan trotted around him, its movements like fluid. Dust puffed around the horse's hooves. Nic could appreciate the horse's beauty in motion and well-proportioned body. The roan made a great Western stock horse, but it wasn't a mount that Nic—personally—would find herself riding.

Hamilton glanced over his shoulder, nodded, and returned his focus to the horse.

Nic leaned against the wood panels. No sense letting her boss see that yesterday's shooting, last night's binge, and today's events had ill effects on her. Hamilton took care of his deputies, but he tolerated little.

He smooched, and his horse increased the pace to a lope. The blue roan's muscles flexed and smoothed as it circled the pen. Nic picked up the tang of sweat as the horse swept past her.

The sheriff had asked her out here, and he'd yet to bring up his reasons. Nic's suspicions were getting the better of her. Did he know? Had O'Hanlon told?

Out of uniform and wearing filthy Wranglers and a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, Shane Hamilton appeared too young to be a four-term sheriff. The voters of McIntire County liked the former two-time champion bareback and bronc rider. He had a way with horses, and people.

The blue roan ceased its circle around Hamilton and strolled toward the center of the ring. Hamilton stroked the horse's neck, gave it a pat, and then he exited the round pen. “With me, Rivers.”

She met him at the gate and fell in step as he walked to his barn. Tension rolled off him. Nic clicked her teeth together. He knew.

“How long we known each other, Nic?” He shoved the barn door aside; the rollers creaked.

The use of her first name unsettled her. Oh, God, he was going to suspend her from the job. “Three years.”

He stepped into the darkened interior. “In that time, did I ever steer you wrong?”

Her hand shot out, snagging his shirt sleeve, and she dragged him to a stop. “Sir, I don't beat around the bush. Whaddya want?”

Flicking back the brim of his Stetson, his brown eyes bored holes in her. “What did I tell you yesterday before you talked to the attorney?”

“No regrets.”

“No regrets,” he said with her. Hamilton sighed. “Rivers, what the hell happened last night?”

Heat flashed into her face. “O'Hanlon told you?”

“O'Hanlon knows, too?”

Ramming her hands in the back of her Wranglers, Nic blocked out Hamilton's stare. “Shit.”

“Start talking.”

Her gaze darted from the round pen with the blue roan to her Jeep parked in the drive. She slid a hand over her hair, catching it on the ponytail. “How do you know something happened last night?”

He shook his head, the hint of humor twitching on his lips. “Your reaction. Hell, you're an easy read.” He bumped a hip into a door. The heady scent of horse, manure, and the sweetness of hay buffeted her face. “Can't believe Con O'Hanlon is privy to whatever you did.”

“Me either,” she muttered.

While Hamilton picked up stray items lying around his barn and gathered feed for the stalled horses, Nic leaned a shoulder into the door frame and watched him.

“I took a risk hiring you for this job. The mayor and town council were against me bringing you on. Feared you were damaged goods after coming home from the war. I said no.”

The muscles in her shoulders coiled tautly. Somehow the town council had figured out what she hoped no one except her family knew.

“Rivers, do I need to be worried?”

She pushed upright. “No, sir.” Craning her neck, she shifted to loosen her shoulders. “We all have rough days. Right?”

Hamilton's gaze narrowed on her. “For some, it's tougher.”

A chill lanced her veins. How far would he push to get the truth? “Look, I called O'Hanlon because it was a bit awkward calling my boss about a shooting that might get him in trouble.”

The suspicion left his craggy features. Sighing, Hamilton headed outside. “If that's your story.”

Story or not, that's all he was getting. Her ponytail whipped in the wind. She looked at the sky and grimaced. “I need to get home before that storm hits.”

He glanced up. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, later.” She jogged to her Jeep.

She slammed the door and hesitated before turning over the engine. No more slip-ups. One more and she could kiss this job good-bye, too.

The Jeep purred to life; she shifted into gear and spewed gravel. Once on the pavement she shifted into a higher gear.

All day, she'd managed to keep a hold on her sanity. All day, she'd buried the images that haunted her. The threads unraveled one at a time. Seth Moore's suicide brought it forward—the stench, the horror, and the hysterical weeping.

Nic's knuckles paled as the steering wheel leather squeaked under her grip. The differences between the two incidents were not lost on her. But she had a personal stake in the first.

Her chin trembled. Nic shook her head hard. No, she wouldn't succumb to her weakness. He made the wrong choice. He'd been weaker. She wasn't.

Nic tilted her chin higher and sighed. The alcohol had to go. She'd empty the house of the liquor and think about getting rid of the pills. Suicide wasn't the way out of this.

Her driveway loomed. The headlights slashed through the building gloom, revealing the bent and shuddering trees. The Jeep tires rumbled over the bridge's wood slats. Hopefully the storm wouldn't dredge up a mess and block the bridge.

Sucking in deep breaths, she managed to strap down her emotions. Color flooded into her hands. She had a good plan in place. As long as she stuck to it, she'd be fine.

The Jeep rounded the curve, and the headlights landed on a familiar silver sedan parked in the drive.

“Ah, hell no.”

“How the hell did you find me?” The windows rattled as Nic banged open the front door. The inclement weather outside was nothing compared to the storm raging in her body.

She had done everything possible to keep her family from locating her, except change her name or wipe herself from existence. Even with The General's connections, she'd managed to keep him in the dark, thanks to a few people in certain government positions who still liked her. Nic went so far as to make all of her purchases in cash only. So, how had her baby sister done what the old man couldn't?

Nic marched into the kitchen and came to a halt at the sight of Cassy standing behind the island counter.

Her sister lifted her chin a fraction; those piercing, crystal-blue eyes bored holes into Nic. “Nice to see you, too, sis.”

A black object next to Cassy's hand caught Nic's attention. The Ruger gleamed under the island lights. Cassy wasn't taking any chances of a repeat performance from the last time the sisters were unexpectedly thrown together.

Eyes narrowed, Nic crossed the floor. “You didn't answer me. How did you find me?”

“You're not the only one with connections.”

“The hell you say! If you located me that easily, then he can, too.”

Slowly, Cassy placed her hands on the edge of the counter. Nic tensed, bracing herself for a quick draw. When they were younger, they'd spent a lot of time watching old Westerns and pretending to be gunfighters. While Nic was taking down terrorists and insurgents with her sniper rifle, Cassy had gone into law enforcement. Nic didn't want to find out who was the better shot.

“Right now, I'm all that stands between your location remaining secret and Pop finding you.”

“Not buying it. You were his favorite. Like hell he'd let you just disappear.”

Cassy shook her blonde head. “I never disappeared. He knew exactly where I was living. I didn't let on how close I was to you. Having one daughter off the radar was enough.”

“It should have stayed that way.” How long did Nic have before The General pulled strings to locate Cassy? Two, maybe three days? He wouldn't be out of contact with her long.

“He won't find you. I took precautions.”

Nic caught her sister's meaning. Emma, her stepmother, Cassy's mother, was onto what Cassy was doing and probably had The General under constant surveillance to ensure he didn't break his word.

“How'd you get in here? This place is always locked up.”

The corner of Cassy's mouth twitched in what could be the hint of a smile. “Picked the lock.”

Nic bit back a curse. One of those vices she'd taught Cassy that came back to bite her in the ass. Stepping aside, she pointed at the door. “Go home.”

Sighing, Cassy's shoulders drooped. “No.” A flame flickered in her eyes. “I'm not going anywhere, and this time you won't run me off at gunpoint.” Her fingers rested on the butt of the Ruger. “Don't force my hand.”

Li'l sister's backbone had thickened. Hard lines dragged on Cassy's features. Those hadn't been there the last time Nic saw her. Suddenly, the aroma of peppers, cumin, and tomatoes crashed into Nic's senses. Her anger seeped out of her veins, and her arm dropped.

“Since when did you learn how to cook?”

Her sister lifted one shoulder. “People change. Some for the better.”

Point driven home. She wasn't going to get rid of her sister anytime soon. Time to retreat and figure out a new strategy.

Nic huffed and stalked to her bedroom. She shed her jacket and uniform, leaving them on the floor where they dropped. Dragging open the middle drawer of her dresser, she froze. The neatly rolled and arranged T-shirts were askew. She rummaged through the stack, and her fingers didn't bump the sidearm she'd hidden under the shirts.

“Damn it!” She slammed the drawer closed and ran out of the room. “Where is it?”

“Where's what?” The mild expression on Cassy's face stirred Nic's hornets' nest into a frenzy.

“My gun. I had one in—you found them. All of them.”

“Ten? Why would a cop need ten guns in her home?”

Swallowing the acidic words that wanted to explode from her mouth, Nic balled her hands at her sides and glared at Cassy. Her chest heaved. “Where are they?”

Bent over the open oven door, Cassy reached inside. “Safely tucked out of your sight.” She slid out the glass baking dish. “When I leave I'll tell you where they are.” The baking dish clattered on the range top. “After I've left the state.”

A nasty name tickled Nic's tongue. No, she wouldn't let Cassy bait her anymore. It would prove what Cassy suspected and bring a heap of trouble on Nic.

Aluminum foil crinkled as Cassy pulled it back, and steam rolled off the enchiladas. “Get some clothes on, sis. I don't want to see you in your skivvies while I eat.”

Nic glared at her sister. “Then leave.”

Cassy tossed the potholders onto the counter, braced against it, and smiled blandly. “No.”

Silence suffocated the room as they stared each other down. Once more, the uncontrollable urge to rail at her sister slithered from the back of Nic's brain. And once again, she repressed it. Banging her fist into the wall, she pivoted and marched back to her bedroom.

The coincidence of Cassy showing up here, the day after Nic killed a man, was not lost on her. If her sister lived close enough, she might have seen the news reports on TV. Or …

Someone knew about Cassy and told her. That thought didn't settle well with Nic. Only two men could be responsible, and both of them were privy to too much sensitive information about her. One because he was her boss. The other because she got drunk off her ass last night and might have babbled.

Eventually, the truth would come out on whoever alerted Cassy.

And Nic would pound 'em.

• • •

The moment Con knocked off from his shift, he headed home to let Cadno have a run in the fenced-in backyard before the storm hit, then fed him. After that, Con went straight for his mam's pub and grill. He was in serious need of a good, extra stout Guinness and some of his sister's cooking. Seth Moore's apparent suicide, Nic Rivers's unstable mindset, and yesterday's murder/death fallout had all combined to give him the much-needed excuse to visit his mam. And have a few beers.

When there was a break in the rain, he ran for the building. Passing through the heavy wood doors with their original stained glass windows, Con entered the oddly cheerful atmosphere of Killdeer Pub. The place didn't hold to the normal conventions of depression and darkness to promote longer stays and more drinking. It was open, bright, and airy, much like his mam. And the name of the pub was something of a running joke among his family. Maura O'Hanlon got a kick out of seeing those peculiar birds called killdeer run around, trying to lead any potential threat away from their nests. Their irritating calls amused her to the point she named her business after the batty birds.

Or so she told everyone who came through those doors. Con knew otherwise. For a bird that wanted to keep people away from its nest, the pub never drove people away; they flocked to it.

The tantalizing aroma of seared beef beckoned him to the kitchen. A few early patrons called out, and he waved at them. Slipping behind the bar, he grabbed a bottle of Guinness, popped the cap, and took a drag on the beer. The kitchen door swung open, nearly smacking him. He backpedaled out of the way as the newest addition to Killdeer's staff backed out of the kitchen, his arms laden with trays.

Patrick Keegan winced when he caught sight of Con. “Sorry, didn't see you there, Mr. O'Hanlon.”

Con grinned. “You're fine, m'boy. I know better than to barge in without checking.” He stepped aside to let Patrick pass. “You liking it here?”