Don’t get carried away, Kat. He’s not declaring undying love. He’s still Blair Kincaid.
“Hey, Little Kat,” Blair said softly, upon seeing she was blinking back tears. He drew her into his arms, and she let him, laying her head on his shoulder. She wanted someone to lean on. She’d been the strong one for a long, long time.
Soon she and Blair wound up back in bed together, making love with a tenderness neither had been willing to wait for earlier. And then her cell phone rang once more, and Blair groaned, “This is your day off?”
“Shhh.” She saw it was her dad, and she answered, “Yes?”
“Have you left yet? You said you were leaving.”
“Dad.”
“This guy’s a sexual predator, and girls like you are his prey. I think it might be best if you let a man do the interviewing on this case from now on.”
“I’m just going to invite him down to the station for an interview. That’s all. Okay?”
“Okay.” He was grudging.
“So how’re things going with Goldie?” she asked as a means to change the subject.
“It’s all business.”
“Sure it is.”
Blair’s head was back under the covers. She could feel his tongue on her belly button, and it was moving lower. Sucking in a quiet breath, she gritted her teeth, then said, “Okay, let’s make this the last call, okay?”
“I want to hear from you after the interview.”
“Fine!” she gasped.
“You okay?”
“Fine!” she said again. “I’ll call you after . . .” She snapped off the cell phone, and it slipped from her hand to clatter onto the night stand. “My God, Blair . . . stop!”
But he didn’t, and she was soon floating in liquid sensations that had her fingers clutching the bedclothes and her body writhing.
*
She left for Massey’s ranch in the late afternoon, hoping to catch Scott at home. Blair followed in his truck, bound and determined to be Kat’s protector. She kept looking at him in her rearview mirror, though he kept his vehicle way back from hers.
She was practically in a fever all the way to Massey’s property, which was tucked up against Forest Service land, nestled up against rolling hills that led into the mountains. She watched the fence posts whip by in a blur and patchy white clouds flutter overhead, her mind on Blair. She saw the stuttered white lines that split the two-lane road run into one long ribbon, her mind on Blair . . .
Blair’s lovemaking had turned her into a puddle. His hands . . . and mouth . . . and well, the feel of him thrusting inside her, body straining, the hot passion in his eyes . . . the taste of his probing tongue . . .
Just thinking about it brought a flush to her cheeks, and she flexed her hands on the wheel. One tire suddenly slipped off the pavement onto the hardpan on the side of the road, and she yanked the Jeep back on course. Shit. With an effort, she forced aside the vision of their lovemaking, dragging her thoughts back to her driving. She didn’t want to miss the turnoff to the gravel road that led to the Massey house. As the thought crossed her mind, she damn near drove right by it and had to stand on her brakes, looking in her rearview for approaching vehicles, then reversing to make the turn.
Blair’s truck was just easing up at the end of the Massey drive as she turned into it. He pulled over to the side of the road, nodding toward her, his Stetson tipping forward. She lifted a hand in acknowledgment, then drove farther along, watching in the mirror as Blair’s truck became a dark speck behind her, then disappeared behind a rise. On either side of the dusty drive lay pasture land currently covered with a blanket of bright, bobbing wildflowers in blues and pinks, yellows and reds, and shades of purple from lilac to magenta to grape. Someone had strewn seeds, she thought, as it was such a riot of color as far as the eye could see down the long drive. Joleen, Scott’s wife, probably.
It was half a mile to the house, which was a small, tired-looking ranch-style with a barn and several outbuildings in much better repair behind it. Kat knocked on the door and heard light footsteps heading her way. The door opened, and Joleen Massey peered out. Kat had seen her a number of times but had never made her acquaintance.
“Mrs. Massey? I’m Katrina Starr from the Sheriff’s Department.”
Joleen stared at her blankly, a little unfocused. Her expression grew worried. “Yes?”
“I’ve talked to you a few times, but I’ve never connected with your husband. I was wondering if he’s home now.”
“Oh.” She was peering somewhere near Kat’s left ear, and Kat recalled vaguely that Joleen had some vision problems. “I’m sorry. Scott’s out hunting for that poor missing girl.”
“He’s searching for Addie Donovan?”
“Yes. He knows these woods inside out.” She half-turned toward the back of the house and swept a hand behind her to indicate the forest rising behind their property.
“He’s an excellent hunter.”
“I saw him at the parade,” Kat said, her gaze searching the interior of the house. “He’s a trick rider, isn’t he?” She noticed a series of black-and-white photos of Scott on a galloping horse, making some intricate moves, along the wall above a flight of stairs that led down to a lower level.
“Well, yes, but mostly he helps out at some of the spreads around Prairie Creek, and he loves to hunt.” She smiled. “There’s nothing like venison.”
It wasn’t deer hunting season yet, but that didn’t stop some of the men around Prairie Creek who felt it was their God-given right to go after game any time.
As if she’d spoken aloud, Joleen added, “He’s always been a good provider. I’m having some trouble with my sight these days, but I can still help trim a deer.”
Kat could almost smell the scent of animal blood, but wondered if that was just her jittery stomach reacting to the mere idea.
Joleen tilted her head. “Are you Patrick Starr’s daughter? The policeman?”
“Yes, he used to be with the Sheriff’s Department,” she allowed, “but he’s retired now.”
“Scott always said he was one of the good ones.”
Kat smiled. With Paul Byrd being so down on her father, it was nice to hear someone else praise him. “Would you have your husband call me?” She gave Joleen the number and expected her to write it down, but she said she had an excellent memory and didn’t need to.
“The one good thing about losing a sense. The others make up for it,” she said.
At that her nose wrinkled. “Although the smell can be pretty rank.”
So the odor was real. Massey must have killed something recently.
“I’m lucky because he usually does most of the skinning at his hunting shack.”
“Is that one of the outbuildings?”
“It’s further away. Into the woods.”
A hunting shack in the woods.
The hair on Katrina’s arms lifted. She envisioned Scott Massey tramping through the undergrowth, stalking prey. She gazed thoughtfully to the hills behind the Massey house. Hunting . . . in the off-season. . .