Hot on the Trail. Vicki Tharp

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СКАЧАТЬ The engine purred, the vibration rumbled through his system, calming his nerves better than a shot of whiskey or any drug ever could.

      “Yeah, but…” He pulled out of the parking lot, headed toward his apartment, the road ahead of him blurry, but not because of the rain sheeting down his face shield.

      “But what?”

      “I don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense. Kurt had a problem with drugs, with alcohol, but he’d kicked that. And even when he was using, he wasn’t suicidal. He leave a note?”

      “Not that we’ve found.”

      “Talk about harming himself?”

      “No.”

      “Act in any way that made you think he was a danger to himself?”

      “No. Nothing.” Her voice shook. “Nothing like that.”

      Tailing the slow-moving car in front of him, Quinn laid on his horn. The driver slammed on his brakes, and Quinn stomped on his, his rear tire skidding on the slick road, the rear end of his bike overtaking the front. His heart revved; his pulse pounded at his temples.

      At the last second, the lane next to him cleared and he released the brakes and slid clear of the bumper with inches to spare.

      Jesus, that was close. He swallowed a couple of deep breaths and said, “Then, what makes the sheriff think he killed himself?”

      “He was using again. They found a syringe.”

      Shit. The stupid, stupid bastard.

      “I’m coming.”

      “Ok. Fine.” The dismissive way she said it, him going back to Wyoming was most definitely not fine, and he doubted it had anything to do with the fact that Kurt was dead.

      “I can stay at my parents’ place. You don’t have to see me.” Quinn turned into the parking lot of his complex. The rain had stopped, but his clothes were soaked through and clung to his body. That wasn’t a problem, because the fire in his belly kept him plenty warm.

      “You can stay in Kurt’s cabin if you want. Might give us a chance to talk about…to talk…”

      “Talk about what?”

      The line went silent again. Quinn took the stairs up to his apartment two at a time.

      “Us. We never—”

      He opened his front door, his heart tripping as he crossed the threshold. He coughed out a laugh as bitter as the base’s twice-burned coffee beans.

      “Sweetheart,” the cold, clear way he said it, she’d never mistake his “sweetheart” for a term of endearment. “There is no us. There is no we.”

      * * * *

      Jenna sat on a stool in the sun in front of the barn, cleaning saddles and bridles that didn’t need it. She caught a whiff of leather cleaner every time the breeze kicked up.

      The scent was one of her favorites, but today it didn’t bring back memories of the early years with her dad. The good years before he’d left her behind with her grandparents for a life on the rodeo circuit.

      Now there was this chasm in her chest where her heart used to reside. Her dream of helping veterans, which she’d been so close to realizing, struggled to stay alive.

      Behind her came the clomp of horse hooves. Boomer led her blue roan horse, Angel, by the reins, Sidney with him, astride a sorrel paint mustang she had in for training. Her foster daughter, Pepita, brought up the rear on Sidney’s buckskin gelding, Eli. Though the way that horse had taken to the fourteen-year-old, you couldn’t call him “Sidney’s horse” any longer.

      “You sure you don’t want to come?” Boomer said, “I could saddle up another horse. Beautiful day to blow off some steam.”

      Jenna glanced at Angel, tempted to hop on her horse, head for the hills, and never come back, but that wouldn’t solve anything. Or bring Kurt back.

      “I have two more saddles to clean.”

      “Pepita cleaned them last week,” Sidney said. “They’re not even dirty yet.”

      Pepita stopped Eli in front of Jenna. “Come on, prima.” “Cousin,” Pepita had nicknamed her. “Race you to the stock pond.”

      Pepita put on a too-big smile and batted her brown eyes—an I-know-you-can’t-resist-the-cute-kid kind of face.

      Jenna tossed the cleaning rag and stood to go find a horse to ride as the deep rumble of the motorcycle came up the long drive.

      “Quinn?” Sidney asked.

      Jenna nodded.

      “We can stay,” Boomer offered.

      “No.” The word was more squeak than substance. Jenna cleared the tension from her throat. “I think I need to do this alone.”

      “If you’re sure,” Sidney said as Boomer swung up into the saddle.

      “Positive.”

      The engine grew louder, and the roar settled in her chest like a hard-rock bass line. Boomer held her gaze, waiting for her to change her mind. When she didn’t, he reined Angel around, and the three of them trotted off toward the range gate. Sidney stopped to open it, but Pepita and Eli sailed over the top.

      Pepita might not have been born on the back of a horse, but she’d made up for the lost time since she’d come to live at the ranch.

      Quinn pulled up to the barn and killed the engine, and her eardrums rattled from the vibration. He sat there unmoving for the longest time, as if he couldn’t decide whether to stay or go back to California. She hadn’t expected him so soon. He’d had a fifteen-hour drive without stops. By her calculation, he’d made it in fourteen.

      Four years ago when he’d pulled up, he looked much the same. Matte-black helmet, black jacket, black riding pants, heavy-duty black motorcycle boots. A black rucksack bungeed to the jump seat behind him.

      Finger by finger, he stripped the leather gloves off, laying them across his tank. He unfastened his chin strap and pulled the helmet off his head. All his movements slow, purposeful, as if that little effort consumed all his concentration.

      Jenna took a hesitating step forward. She tried for a smile, but it felt stiff, wrong.

      He brushed his fingers through his short-cropped hair, but the action did little good against the helmet hair. He had bags under his eyes, and his color was two shades off from normal. But then again, it had been a long time since she’d seen him last, so what did she know?

      She took another step forward. “Hey.”

      He looped the strap of the helmet over the throttle. A chin bob was his reply. He put the kickstand down and swung his leg over, taking a quick step to balance himself, like a sailor hitting the docks after months at sea.

      He looked СКАЧАТЬ