Jaded (Walkers Ford #2)

“No,” she said. “He lifted his head and looked at me, then laid it back down and grunted. When I come back in my next life, I want to be that dog.”


He felt the corners of his mouth lift, a totally unexpected response. “He worked hard for eight years as a police dog. He’s earned a rest.”

The humming noise she made in response slipped over his nerves like velvet. “I’d like to change before we head out.”

“Sure,” he said, forcing himself not to look up from his notebook.

“I need the bathroom to take my makeup off,” she said.

Startled, he turned sideways and slipped past her. Like the first time they brushed up against each other in this doorway, his chest brushed her breasts. Unlike the first time, he went from aware of her to desperately aroused in a split second.

She bit into her lower lip but firmly shut the door behind him. He went into the kitchen and sat down at the table. Thinking through the renovation would take his mind off a quickie before running into Brookings.

Only a few minutes later, she came back down the hall wearing slim jeans, a white T-shirt, and a fitted cardigan in a blue that matched her eyes. She’d taken off her makeup and wore glasses. Chic, blue-rimmed glasses, but glasses to be sure. He couldn’t speak for the rest of the species, but he would totally make a pass at this woman in glasses.

She offered him another quick smile as she wrapped a scarf around her neck, then slipped her feet into the flat black shoes by the kitchen door. “I’m ready.”

Lucas looked down at his jeans and gray T-shirt, both faded to near white. For a second, he contemplated changing, but discarded the idea. Alana always looked like that, and when he was off-duty, he always looked like this. This wasn’t a date. They weren’t a couple. He had no reason to put on nicer jeans or a button-down shirt when they were going to a home-improvement superstore, and he’d probably end up loading building supplies into his truck.

“Let’s go,” he said brusquely.

? ? ?

ALANA SPENT THE first half of the drive into Brookings watching the sunset transform the prairie into rolling green gilded with reds and oranges. The wide-open expanse of grassland changed constantly, the wind and sky conspiring in ceaseless shifts, cross-hatching and patchworking.

“How was your day?” she asked Lucas. She had to make conversation, knew how to do it, but she hated to break the warm silence in the truck’s cab.

“Fine.”

She glanced over at him. The last rays of sun filtered weakly through the truck’s windows, picking out hints of red in his hair and the five o’clock shadow on his cheek, and highlighting his firm lips. He drove with one wrist on the top of the steering wheel, the other hand on the gearshift.

Was she supposed to dig deeper? Sometimes when David was in a mood, she knew to keep asking questions, but Lucas seemed too straightforward for that. She tucked her hair behind her ear, and returned her gaze to the window. He shifted in his seat.

“How about you? Cody give you any trouble?”

“No,” she said. “He did everything I asked, perhaps not cheerfully but at least without fussing. He’s sorting books for me. I want to figure out which ones have some resale value. Then he read to the preschoolers during story time.”

Lucas turned to look at her, one eyebrow cocked. “He read to little kids.”

“He told them a story and drew illustrations in real time on the chalkboard,” Alana said. “He used voices for all the characters, too. It was almost performance art. Surprised?”

“Nothing surprises me anymore,” he said. “I went to see my cousin today.”

The non sequitur startled her. It was her turn to make a noise that passed for a comment in the hopes that he’d continue.

“She’s an addict.”

This was news to Alana. The prairie might stretch to the horizon, but Walkers Ford held the craggy terrain and hidden crevices of small-town secrets. “I didn’t know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“She lives less than a mile from Gunther Jensen.”

The puzzle pieces clicked together, connecting Cody to the crime to his cousin. “That can’t have been easy.”

“It wasn’t.”

What to say now? Ask him whether or not his cousin had anything to do with the break-in? Ask him how he felt? Ask him something else? Sit quietly?

“What did she say?”

He turned and looked at her. “You can’t trust an addict.”

Wrong question. “But . . . you must know her.”