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The Lawman's Secret Son
Alice Sharpe
Former cop Brady Skye hadn't seen Lara Kirk in nearly a year, and yet she could still penetrate his soul with a twitch of her lips.But with a murderer hot on his trail, seeking revenge, Brady had no time for reminiscing. For whoever was after him also had his sights set on Lara…and the child Brady had never known existed. Now, in order to keep them safe, Brady appointed himself their protector.Spending time with Lara and bonding with his son made the closed-off Brady rethink his self-imposed solitude. But how long before the past–and a killer–reminded him of all he had to lose?



“He was conceived on our wedding night.”
He had a son? Just like that? One moment alone in the world, the next moment, a son?
Very slowly, he lowered his hand until the backs of his fingers grazed the baby’s round cheek. How could skin be that soft?
His son. Nathan.
“Will you lift him for me?” she said, glancing at him.
He nodded. And just like that, he lifted his son for the first time, careful to put one hand behind the little guy’s heavy head. The baby kicked and squirmed and Brady held on tight, terrified he’d drop him.
“Relax,” Lara said. “You’re doing fine. Just comfort him. Hold him closer. Don’t be afraid.”
He pulled Nathan against his chest, one hand all but covering the small boy’s back. Then he tipped him away from his chest for a moment, anxious to really look at this few pounds of humanity that instantly redefined his life.

The Lawman’s Secret Son
Alice Sharpe


This book couldn’t have been written without
the patient support of my son, Officer Joseph Sharpe
(mistakes are mine, not his), and is dedicated, with love,
to his wonderful daughter, Carmen Amelia Sharpe.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alice Sharpe met her husband-to-be on a cold, foggy beach in Northern California. One year later they were married. Their union has survived the rearing of two children, a handful of earthquakes registering over 6.5, numerous cats and a few special dogs, the latest of which is a yellow Lab named Annie Rose. Alice and her husband now live in a small rural town in Oregon, where she devotes the majority of her time to pursuing her second love, writing.
Alice loves to hear from readers. You can write her at P.O. Box 755, Brownsville, OR 97327. SASE for reply is appreciated.

CAST OF CHARACTERS
Brady Skye—The oldest son of alcoholic parents, this ex-cop has lost both the career and the woman he loves. Now someone’s out to take something even more precious—but they’ll have to kill Brady first.
Lara Kirk—Brokenhearted, she left when Brady rejected her. Now she’s back with a secret capable of destroying them all.
Tom James—Will Brady’s old partner let his temper be the death of him?
Chief Dixon—The chief’s decades-long hatred of Brady’s father has now spilled over onto Brady.
Billy Armstrong—Brady is almost positive the boy drew a gun. Most think it never existed. Billy’s death throws Brady’s and Lara’s lives into a tailspin.
Bill Armstrong—Billy’s father’s lust for revenge is pushing him over the edge of sanity. He swears to ruin Brady as well as anyone Brady loves.
Jason Briggs—This teenager must be silenced.
Roberta Beaton—The querulous old woman will pay a price for her curiosity.
Karen Wylie—A rebellious teenager with dreams of becoming a movie star.
Nicole Stevens—She’s positive something horrible has happened to Karen Wylie. And she may know what.
Charles Skye—Brady’s father has been lost in a bottle for thirty years.
Garrett Skye—Brady’s younger brother has become a bodyguard for a casino comptroller and his attorney wife. This decision to make more money so he can gain custody of his toddler daughter is about to blow up in his face.

Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen

Prologue
Officer Brady Skye scanned the dark, empty road. Parked on a side street, he waited for his shift to end, using the dashboard light to attend to last-minute paperwork. He checked his watch—a quarter of midnight and still hot outside. Well, that was August for you.
He checked his watch again a minute later and smiled at himself. Talk about being anxious. But in fifteen minutes, he’d be off duty for two weeks and in fifteen hours, he’d stand at the altar with Lara Kirk.
Again.
He had to admit he’d been confused when Lara suggested they elope a week before the wedding. Why would she want to ruin her big day?
Her smile had been wistful when she replied, “My big day? You mean my mother’s big day. This wedding is turning into the social event of the year, Brady, it’s not about you and me anymore. I want to go to a justice of the peace. I want to get married, just the two of us, the way we wanted. Then we’ll come back and do it Mom’s way.”
The memory of that private, secret ceremony and the night that followed made Brady all the more anxious to put this shift to bed. He would make her the happiest woman in the world. Things would be perfect. He’d make them perfect.
The squad car radio burst into life at that moment. Brady leaned forward, adjusting the volume. He caught little more than blue sedan, dented right front fender before a car matching the description sped past. He reported his location and that he had the vehicle in sight, rattling off the license-plate number as he trailed behind.
Apparently noticing Brady’s flashing lights, the sedan accelerated. It made a series of turns, brake lights flashing through intersections. Brady followed, but not too close. They weren’t going to get very far and he didn’t want to push them into doing something stupid.
More information came in over the radio as the sedan made a wide turn toward the river. Car stolen, two suspects, both minors, unarmed, alleged to have lifted beer from the all-night store up on Breezeway…
Brady and his brother, Garrett, had grown up in Riverport, Oregon, not far from this very neighborhood. Unless the kid driving that sedan had a trick up his sleeve, he’d soon dead-end against the gate securing the old Evergreen Timber loading dock.
But the gate was old, the chain connecting the two sides weak with rust. With barely a pause, the sedan busted through the gate and kept going, careening back and forth as it skidded toward the waterfront and the Columbia River beyond.
Dumb kids. Lifting a couple of cases of beer was nothing to die for, even if they’d compounded the offense by stealing a car. Brady backed off as his buddy and soon-to-be best man, Tom James, chimed in he was seconds away from lending backup.
A collision with a stack of oil drums saved the car from plunging into the river. With a series of thuds, the sedan came to a grinding halt in the middle of the pile, heavy drums rolling and bumping into each other with dull heavy clunks. An overhead light illuminated the scene. Brady stopped his car and exited, rushing forward as the welcome sound of a waning siren announced Tom’s arrival.
A few empty beer cans fell to the ground as the driver and passenger doors opened. Two kids got out of the car. The passenger looked familiar, hardly unusual given Riverport’s modest population of under five thousand. The driver, closest to Brady, stumbled once before taking off across the torn concrete, leaping over oil drums with surprising agility.
“Hey,” Brady yelled as he pursued the driver, leaving the passenger to Tom who he’d heard come up behind him. Within a hundred yards, Brady caught up with the kid and wrestled him to the ground. He avoided a few drunken punches and a torrent of swearwords as he flipped him onto his stomach and cuffed him. He pulled the boy to his feet and marched him back to the squad car where he found no sign of Tom or the passenger.
“If you’re smart, this will be the last night you ever get drunk,” Brady said.
The kid swore at him again.
Once the driver was safely secured in the backseat, Brady turned his attention to Tom and the other teen, following their raised voices. The ground became trickier as the pool of light dispersed. Rambling blackberry vines had sprung up between the cracked concrete pads and snagged his pants as he ran. He got out his flashlight and flicked it on.
A movement caught Brady’s eye. Two figures, six or seven feet apart, facing each other a scant foot or so from the edge of the wharf, the river a shimmering ribbon behind them. Tom, a barrel-chested man who had played football when young, was heaving after the run. He’d lost his hat in the chase and his balding dome glistened with sweat. The boy, only half Tom’s size, appeared posed for flight. The kid yelled something was his fault as Tom’s low voice droned on.
Brady hung back, giving Tom a chance to calm the kid with his usual aplomb. He had a way with kids though some in the department thought him too lenient. Nevertheless, Tom usually got his point across. The kid grew quiet. Good old Tom and his silver tongue.
Brady swung his flashlight down before switching it off. In the last instant before the beam died, he caught a glimpse of the boy reaching behind his back, his pale arm stark against his dark T-shirt, then the glint of light off metal as a gun emerged from beneath the shirt. It all happened in slow motion, time suspended—
A torrent of training flooded Brady’s brain as he pulled his Glock. Tom was a microsecond away from taking a bullet in the gut and he obviously didn’t know it. In that instant, Brady, without options, fired.
For a few seconds, the echo of the gunshot was the only sound in the world. The kid, bathed in shadows, flew to the ground.
The shot thundered again and again in Brady’s head. He couldn’t feel his hand still gripped around his gun. He saw Tom kneel beside the boy, his body mercifully blocking Brady’s view for a brief moment, saw Tom’s jaw work as he looked over his shoulder and yelled something, saw him yank his cell phone from his pocket and start punching in numbers.
The place would be swarming with help within minutes.
Brady, finally able to move, walked toward Tom and the still shape of the fallen boy. He’d lost his flashlight, he couldn’t feel his feet, he still held the gun and it weighed a million pounds. He stopped short.
Tom’s flashlight illuminated the scene. His florid face had taken on green undertones. “It’s the Armstrong boy,” he said. “He’s dead.”
Brady’s heart sank like a rock to the very bottom of the sea. No wonder the kid had looked familiar. The Armstrong family had lost their only other child, a sixteen-year-old girl, a few weeks before. This kid was a year behind her in school. Billy, that was his name. Brady had gone to school with Bill Armstrong Senior.
His voice low as though afraid of being overheard, Tom said, “What in the hell happened?”
“He was going to shoot you,” Brady said. Wasn’t it obvious?
Tom shone a light at Billy’s empty hands, flung toward the river. The boy’s silver watchband shimmered on his wrist. “With what?”
Brady made himself concentrate past the roaring inside his head. “He pulled a gun out of his waistband in the back. There wasn’t time to do anything but react.”
“Are you sure? I mean, the light is tricky—”
“He pulled a gun.” Brady tried to muster more confidence than he felt. He had seen a gun, hadn’t he? Oh, God…
Tom’s voice sounded just as dazed. “I was trying to talk some sense into him. You must have heard him, ranting and raving, blaming himself for his sister’s suicide, blaming the cops—”
“I thought you had him calmed down, but when I lowered my flashlight, I saw him reach—”
“All right, Brady, all right. If you say there was a gun, there was a gun.”
Brady wasn’t any more convinced by Tom’s words than by his own thoughts. If there’d been a gun, where was it now? If he’d made a mistake, how would he ever live with himself?
Tom pushed his hat back on his high forehead and added, “This is going to hit his parents hard. And Chief Dixon. A thing like this looks bad for the department and he’s been waiting for you to mess up.”
Like my father, Brady thought. He couldn’t wrap his mind around any of that, not now, not so soon. Distant sirens announced the imminent arrival of the troops. The supervisor, an ambulance, the M.E. The place would soon be crawling with professionals.
“Lara, too,” Tom added as though it just occurred to him. “I bet she got to know Billy and Sara down at the teen center.”
Brady shook his head. He couldn’t think. Wait, sure, she’d mentioned these kids along with a dozen others…
Tom suddenly seemed to grasp the impact of his comments. He said, “Damn, I’m sorry, Brady. Don’t worry, if there was a gun, we’ll find it. You saved my life. I won’t forget it.”
Brady’s gaze shifted to the river rushing only a few feet from where the boy had fallen. If Billy Armstrong’s gun had flown into the water as Billy took the bullet, it was possible they would never find it.
And in the back of his mind, a voice. Slurred like his father’s voice, thick with booze. What if there wasn’t a gun, you moron? What if you gunned down an unarmed kid? What then?

Chapter One
One year later
The minute Lara drove over the bridge into Riverport, she knew coming back was a big mistake. It didn’t matter how many times she told herself it was only for a couple of days, the feeling persisted. There was too much history here.
She turned on Ferry Street, passing the teen center without looking at it. Next came the bank and the hardware store. A red light at the corner of Ferry and Oak caught her as it always had. She kept her eyes on the road until the light turned green.
Her mother’s big old Victorian sat perched on an acre of manicured gardens on the outskirts of town. Most of Riverport’s other big old houses were gone, their land cut up and sold off to contractors for subdivisions. The mansion had been updated over the years—a solarium on the back, the kitchen expanded—until now it was quite a showpiece.
Lara had grown up in the house and it was with a surge of familiarity, if not homecoming, that she turned into the driveway. Her mother wasn’t actually in residence as she’d left for an Alaskan cruise just a few days before. Myra, her mother’s housekeeper, must have been waiting, though, for Lara had barely set the parking brake when the garage door rolled upward. Lara restarted the car and drove into the enclosure, sighing with relief when the doors closed behind her. She glanced into the backseat, then heard Myra coming through the side door that connected the house with the garage.
“Miss Lara,” Myra called as Lara got out of the car. She approached with a big smile. “Your poor mother will just die when she learns she missed your visit. Here, let me help you.”
Myra Halifax had worked for Lara’s mother forever. A woman in her sixties with gray permed curls, she was built with a low center of gravity and formidable forbearance. That trait was a plus when it came to dealing with Lara’s high-strung mother.
Lara returned the smile. She couldn’t return the sentiment.
An hour later, she’d emptied the car and spent several moments upstairs settling into her old bedroom. Restless and uneasy, she decided something cold to drink and a friendly chat with the housekeeper might ward off her growing sense of foreboding.
She was one step into the kitchen when the doorbell rang. The shrill interruption came as a surprise. With her mother gone and her own presence in Riverport more or less a secret, company was unexpected and unwanted.
“I’ll send whoever it is away,” Myra said as she bustled past Lara into the foyer.
Lara hung back. There was a sense of destiny in the air, of colliding worlds. An overwhelming desire to race out the back swept through her and yet she stood off to the side as Myra impatiently flung open the door.
“You!” Myra said, and even though Lara couldn’t see who stood on the front-porch step, she knew. Myra added, “What do you want?”
There was a pause during which Lara stopped breathing. Her heartbeat drummed in her head.
And then his voice.
“I need to speak to Mrs. Kirk.”
“Mrs. Kirk is away for several weeks.” Myra started to close the door.
Lara saw the hand that caught it. His hand. “Maybe you can help me.”
Myra sputtered a little before saying, “I don’t see how—”
“I need to get in touch with Lara,” he cut in. “I have to talk to her. Warn her. All I need is her address or a telephone number.”
Was it possible he didn’t know she was at this house? It seemed so unlikely. No, someone must have seen her drive by, someone must have alerted him.
What else had they reported?
“I won’t give you her phone number,” Myra announced. “You broke her heart once and I won’t stand by while you do it again.”
Lara grabbed the edge of the door and opened it wider. “It’s okay,” she told Myra who stood her ground, glowering at their guest. Staring up into two very dark eyes, she added, “Hello, Brady.”
For a second he didn’t answer. For a second he looked as dumbstruck as she felt and she knew in that instant that he hadn’t expected to find her here, that she was as much a surprise to him as he was to her.
That moment gave her a second to absorb his changed appearance. The thinner face, the longer hair, the hollows in his cheeks, the deep, deep tan, the solid muscles under the worn T-shirt, the dusty-looking jeans. What had happened to Mr. Press and Fold, Mr. Perfect Haircut, Mr. By the Book?
This Brady looked younger, rangier, cagier, sexier.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said, which was an out-and-out lie. Sure, she’d planned on seeing him while she was in Riverport, of course, but not quite so soon, and not here at her mother’s house. She’d spent three long hours in the car rehearsing her what-comes-next speech and now drew a total blank.
She hadn’t taken one factor into account. She hadn’t considered the impact of seeing him face-to-face. The months of tears that had cleared her head apparently hadn’t cleared her heart. Yet.
“I’ll just be a minute or two, Myra,” she said with a backward glance. “You’ll take care—”
“Of course,” Myra huffed as Lara stepped onto her mother’s broad porch and softly closed the door behind her.
“I was going to call you later,” she told Brady.
Before he could answer, a car drove by, slowing down as the driver craned his neck to see who stood outside the Kirk house. Brady said, “Let’s walk around back so we don’t give the whole town something to talk about.”
Lara suspected it was too late for that. She’d recognized Frank Duncan leaning forward, eyes wide. The hardware store would be abuzz within minutes. But she led the way around the back just the same, toward the riverside garden where they couldn’t be overheard through the open windows.
The back sloped down to the river, which flowed by at a leisurely pace this late in the summer. Lara stopped by a grouping of wrought-iron patio furniture arranged on a brick island, surrounded by a sea of flowers. Too nervous to sit, she stood in back of a heavily scrolled chair, gripping the metal for support. Brady leaned against the edge of the old brick barbecue, linking his arms across his chest. He’d always been fit, but had his shoulders and arms always bulged with so many muscles?
“I didn’t know you were in Riverport,” he said.
“I’ve been here less than an hour.” She tried not to stare at him but her traitorous gaze strayed his way every chance it got.
“How have you been?” he said.
She shook her head, unable to bear the thought of small talk.
“You look good,” he added, his gaze taking her in from head to toe. She hadn’t changed out of her traveling clothes, the white shorts and white halter top felt suddenly too revealing.
She whispered, “It’s too late, Brady. I didn’t come back for this.”
His eyes flashed, then he smiled, kind of, his lips doing all the work, his eyes not playing along. “Oh? Then why did you come back? Explain it to me.”
“Don’t use that tone with me. You’re the one who called everything off.”
“And you’re the one who left.”
“You sent me packing like a kid. I was hurt at first but I’m over it now.”
No reaction showed on his face. He was quiet for a long moment before saying, “Listen, Lara. Things between us ended kind of abruptly.”
She met his gaze.
“Okay, okay, it’s all my fault. I know that.” He threw up both hands. “I admit it. I take full responsibility. I couldn’t give you a whole man—”
“So you gave me nothing,” she said, pushing herself away from the chair and walking toward the river and the abandoned dock her father had built twenty years before.
“I was a wreck—” he said from right behind her.
She jumped at the nearness of his voice. “Of course you were,” she said, memories of the night flooding back. His stunned expression, his self-incrimination, the reality of the last few hours circling them like a cyclone, lifting them off their feet, tossing them around before flinging them back to earth a hundred miles from where they’d been.
She pushed it all away. “This is pointless. Let’s skip the postmortem on our very short marriage. You told Myra you needed to warn me. Warn me about what?”
His voice, pitched low and combined with the mysterious intensity of his dark gaze, made Lara’s knees go weak as he said, “I expected divorce papers by now.”
“I have a lawyer working on them.”
“For a year?”
“I haven’t wanted anyone to know—”
“‘Anyone’ being your mother.”
“Does it matter? I’m sorry I haven’t moved fast enough for you. I’ll get to it right away.” The truth was the papers were ready. They were upstairs, in her suitcase. But she couldn’t give them to Brady without an explanation. There were things he needed to know, things they needed to work out. But not now, not in her mother’s garden, not when she needed to get back inside the house.
“The only reason it matters is Bill Armstrong,” Brady said.
“Billy’s father? Why—”
“Since the internal investigation found reasonable cause for the shooting, he’s threatening a civil suit against me. I guess I don’t blame him.”
She waited.
With a bitter twist to his lips, he added, “They never found the gun and trust me, they looked. Armstrong insists his boy didn’t have access to a handgun and wouldn’t have carried one if he did. I still swear I saw one. It’s a stalemate.”
“But the river…” she began, something more niggling at the back of her mind. But what?
“Yeah. I know. It could be buried in three feet of silt and muck, it could be halfway to the ocean by now. Who knows?”
“Mr. Armstrong won’t win.”
“He’ll have the sympathy of the jury. He lost both his kids within a month. And you know what the name Skye is worth around here.”
“You are not your father,” she said. She’d said it before, but it never seemed to sink in.
His laugh was sudden and without mirth. “You’ve always been naive. Maybe it comes from being born with a silver spoon in your mouth.”
“And you’ve been afraid you’ll turn into your father. It’s not written that you will be a drunk and a loser.”
“Ah, darling, it’s the family tradition,” he said, his voice low and silky and taunting. “My dad, my brother—”
I will not rise to the bait, she told herself and stood there with her mouth closed.
He finally added, “Anyway, it’s not me I’m worried about.”
“Maybe you should.”
Frowning, he said, “What does that mean?”
“What’s happened to you? When did you stop caring?”
“Stop caring about what? What are you talking about?”
“Your appearance, for instance. I can’t believe the department lets you wear your hair that long.”
“I’m not a policeman anymore, Lara. That part of my life is over. I thought you knew that.”
She could hardly fathom such a thing. Brady had always wanted to be a cop. “Then what do you do?”
“I work construction like I did in college.”
That explained the muscles. “But you were exonerated, weren’t you? Why didn’t you go back? Was it Chief Dixon?”
He shrugged and looked away.
“Brady,” she said, touching his wrist. Big mistake. Sensory recognition traveled through her system like a lightning bolt, erasing the last three hundred sixty-three days in the blink of an eye. She drew her hand away at once. “You wouldn’t have shot the boy if you hadn’t had to,” she said, her voice gentle. “You saved Tom’s life.”
He looked straight into her eyes and her heart quivered in her chest. She did not want to feel anything for him, let alone the tumultuous combination of lost love and resentment currently ricocheting inside her body like a wild bullet. Her mother had warned her a man with Brady’s past could never really love anyone. Lara hadn’t believed it until that night when he’d proved it to her.
He said, “I have nothing to lose. But you do.”
“Me? Oh, you mean money. You think Bill Armstrong is going to come after my family’s money.”
“If he finds you’re legally my wife, yes. If he finds a way to stick it to me or anyone I care—cared—about, yes, I do. Our marriage is a matter of public record. All he has to do is look. Maybe you ought to light a fire under your lawyer.”
She closed her eyes, trying to imagine her mother’s reaction to someone suing Brady and walking off with the Kirk fortune.
“It’s not the civil suit I’m worried about,” Brady added. “It’s Armstrong himself. He’s gone half-crazy since losing Billy. If he finds out about you—”
“Why would he even think about me?” she said, looking at Brady again, but her mind’s eye casting a different image. Both of the Armstrong kids had come into the teen center on occasion. First Sara, Billy’s delicate sixteen-year-old sister, then Billy and his pal, Jason Briggs, both a year younger. When Sara took a whole bottle of her grandmother’s sleeping pills, it had stunned the community and it had devastated Billy.
The senior Armstrong had come into the teen center looking for answers no one could give him. Grief and anger had battled in his feverish eyes and she’d felt horrible for him. And truth be known, a little afraid of him, too.
And then, three weeks later, Billy died.
Good Lord, no wonder Brady looked haunted.
But she couldn’t offer him what he needed. Maybe another woman could, someday, one who knew how to crack through his defenses or live with them. But not her. She said, “I’ve been gone a year, Brady. I’ll leave again in a few days. As far as anybody in Riverport knows, I’m just the girl you didn’t marry.”
He looked down at his feet then back at her, his gaze unfathomable. How could she have ever thought she knew him better than she knew herself? He was a stranger. She glanced at her watch. Almost three o’clock. “I have to get back inside.”
His eyebrows raised in query. Before he could ask a question she wasn’t prepared to answer, she told him something she hadn’t planned to. “I have a meeting this evening with Jason Briggs.”
As she’d known it would, this news diverted his curiosity. “What does he want?”
“I guess he wants to talk.”
“Why does the boy who convinced Billy Armstrong that stealing a car and a half case of beer was a good idea want to talk to you?”
She shrugged. “He got out of juvenile detention earlier this week and apparently went straight to the teen center. My replacement called me up in Seattle where I live now, and I called Jason. He asked if I was going to be around Riverport soon because he needed to talk.”
“And so you drove all the way back here to talk with a delinquent sixteen-year-old boy.”
“Among other things,” she hedged. “But, yes. There was something in his voice.”
“What do you mean?”
“He sounded nervous.”
“Jason Briggs hasn’t, to my knowledge, told anyone anything about that night except to try to blame everything on Billy.”
She almost smiled. Brady was acting like what Brady really was. A cop. How could he not see that? She said, “I won’t know what’s troubling him until I talk to him.”
“Yeah. Okay, I’ll go with you. This may be a break.”
“No, you won’t go with me,” she said firmly.
“Where are you meeting him?”
“Like I’m going to tell you?”
“You don’t know what he has in mind.”
“And neither do you,” she said. With a warning glance, she added, “Come back later tonight. If Jason says anything I can pass along to you, I will.”
“I don’t like you going alone.”
She stared at him until he had the grace to drop his gaze. “I’ll call my lawyer tomorrow. We’ll have this sham of a marriage annulled.”
One minute he was staring at her as she talked and the next he’d closed the three feet between them and grabbed her arms. The energy that surged directly into her bloodstream almost knocked her off her feet. Her heart banged against her ribs.
He dipped his head so low his deep dark brown eyes burned into hers. “Can a marriage consummated the way ours was be annulled?”
“Brady…”
“Don’t you remember our wedding night? Don’t you remember what we did—”
She shrugged herself away from him. Sex had never been the issue. “You’d better go now.”
Seconds ticked by in absolute silence before he finally moved. He paused at her elbow. “I’ll be back at nine o’clock.”
“Make it ten,” she said.
He nodded once before striding away. She stood in the garden for several moments, staring out at the old dock, waiting until she heard the roar of his motorcycle and knew it was safe to move.
Then she walked back inside the house, head high, eyes mostly unseeing. She’d shed her last tear for Brady months before. She was over him.

Chapter Two
Good Neighbors was a nonprofit organization utilizing volunteer workers to build low-income housing. Brady was one of the few paid employees. It was his job to assign and approve projects. He was also in charge of contracting jobs too big for the volunteers to handle alone.
The man who had donated the property had been truly generous as it wasn’t a tiny city lot but a small parcel backed by the river. Eventually there would be additional houses built on the property. Brady hoped to have a hand in all of them.
After visiting with Lara, Brady couldn’t keep his mind on anything. The sun baked his bare back as he sat on the plywood roof, banging in a slew of nails. They’d run out of ammo for the nail gun and he’d sent everyone else home for the day.
Had Lara really come back to Riverport just to talk to Jason Briggs? What was the boy up to? He’d been in and out of trouble most of his young life and Brady would bet money a few months in detention hadn’t changed that. Brady knew the type, his own brother, Garrett, was a carbon copy.
For a second, Brady thought about Garrett and wondered where he lived now and what he was up to. Last he’d heard, Garrett was out of the army. Brady hoped that gig had helped his little brother get his head screwed on straight, but he wouldn’t count on it. Garrett was more like their father than Brady was. The same reckless streak ran through both of them.
A bitter smile never touched his lips as that thought hit home. Could Garrett have done any worse with his life than Brady had? Had he killed a fifteen-year-old boy? Had he destroyed his one chance for a happy marriage with a woman who outclassed him in every way possible? Had he abandoned the only job he ever truly wanted and cemented his reputation as another worthless Skye, all because the thought of carrying a gun—and possibly making another mistake—made him queasy?
Unless Garrett had turned into a serial killer, he was probably doing as well if not better than his responsible big brother.
Brady missed a nail head twice and laid the hammer aside. Staring out at the river, he faced the fact he wasn’t going to get much more done here today. He picked up his tools and scrambled down the ladder. He’d just finished storing the equipment in the on-site storage shed when an SUV pulled up alongside his Harley.
Brady yanked on his T-shirt as the dust settled around the SUV. The window slid down to reveal Tom James, flush face toying with a smile.
Twice divorced, Tom was five or six years older than Brady, creeping up on forty. His former partner was also shorter than Brady, heavier, big chested with very short black hair ringing a bald spot.
“Have I got news for you,” Tom said.
Brady leaned against Tom’s vehicle. It was brand new and the fact he could afford it after the cleaning his last ex-wife and her lawyer accomplished, spoke to the fact that Tom was banking on his future promotion within the Riverport Police Department.
And no reason he shouldn’t. Brady was just damn thankful the Armstrong shooting hadn’t destroyed Tom’s reputation on the force as well as his own.
“Let me guess,” Brady said.
Tom laughed. “You won’t guess this. I got it hot from Carlson’s Hardware Store.”
“Lara is back in town, staying at her mother’s house while her mother is on a cruise.”
Tom’s round face fell. “Someone told you.”
“I saw Lara. I spoke with her.”
Tom nodded, all humor gone now. He knew what the last year had cost Brady. He said, “How was it?”
“About how you’d expect.”
Tom nodded. “What did she come back for?”
“She’s meeting Jason Briggs tonight.”
“Really,” Tom said, eyes narrowing. “I heard he got out of juvie. What’s she meeting him for?”
“He wanted to talk to her. Maybe you could keep your eyes open tonight just in case there’s trouble.”
“Where are they meeting? What time?”
“Don’t know, she won’t say.”
“You going to tail her?”
Brady shook his head. “She’d kill me if she found out I was butting into her business.”
“So?”
“So, she’s right.”
“But you want me to keep an eye out,” Tom said, a smile pulling at his lips.
Brady looked away.
“Don’t worry, buddy, I’ll mention it to Chief Dixon, too. He can tell anyone else he sees fit.”
Brady bit his tongue at this suggestion but said nothing as Tom drove off. He just hoped Lara never got wind that half the Riverport police force would soon know—thanks to him—that she had a meeting with Jason Briggs.
The thought occurred to Brady as he climbed on the Harley that Jason’s driver’s license had been yanked. Using a little deduction, that meant Lara would probably meet him in town. Like maybe at the teen center or the diner or even Lara’s mother’s house. He toyed with doing a little research but let the idea go.
Lara had made it clear she didn’t want him in her face. Tom was going to keep a sharp eye peeled just in case. That was enough.
He got to his place about five o’clock and ate a tuna sandwich while standing at the counter. It was a new place, about as nondescript as they come. He’d changed just about everything in the last year, including his residence. The old place had reminded him too much of Lara.
At first, after the shooting, he’d toyed around with leaving Riverport himself. Without his job on the force, without Lara, what was there to stay for? But then the Good Neighbors job came along and he admitted to himself that, for good or bad, Riverport was home. Garrett could move around the country all he wanted—Brady would stay here.
After dinner, he usually went back to the Good Neighbors house to map out the next day’s activities. No reason not to do so again tonight. He couldn’t sit in the impersonal apartment longing for a life he no longer had. He was too restless to read or watch television. If he couldn’t settle down at work, he’d take the Harley out to the river and use an evening swim to work out his anxiety.
He and Lara used to do that, most of the time on the spur of the moment after a movie or dinner out. He could still picture her in the scraps of satin and lace she called underwear, swimming in the river, honey-blond hair mingling with the darkening water, the summer smell of blackberries, the taste of her skin. She wore summer the way some women wore diamonds…
He’d go anyway. Despite all that.
It took him two hours to plan the next day’s work and finish up a few odd jobs. It was nearing nine o’clock by the time he started home. He went the long way in order to avoid the Kirk house. He wasn’t due there for over an hour and he didn’t want Lara catching sight of him and accusing him of spying.
He was driving down Main Street near the west end of town, undecided about the swim, when he spotted Tom talking to what appeared to be a high-school girl standing beside a little blue car. She’d probably been caught speeding. As usual, when Tom put on the charm, a scared kid relaxed. Brady knew he wouldn’t give her a ticket, he’d cut her some slack. Back in the day, Brady had actually talked to Tom about his live-and-let-live take on citing minors, questioning whether he was actually doing a kid much good by not holding them accountable for minor offenses. Tom had laughed him off.
And again, that ache of no longer belonging. He missed being out on the street, helping people, looking for miscreants, figuring things out. Sure, he was still alive, he still walked and talked and worked and occasionally, even laughed. But it all seemed brittle and hollow. His life, abandoned.
Not wanting to talk to Tom again, he took a side street that led to the industrial side of town. There was a smattering of bars along the street. No doubt his father was holding up a stool at the River Rat or the Crosshairs. Brady avoided even looking in the open doors.
That’s when he caught sight of a guy on a bicycle who looked familiar. Of course. Hair shorter, body a little bigger, but that was Jason Briggs.
For one long second, options flashed through Brady’s mind. Turn around and go the other way, pull over to the curb, find a cold drink and do nothing or…
Brady slowed way down, giving Jason a good lead. He waited until Jason had cleared the edge of town and disappeared around a corner before taking off, hanging back, trailing him but not close.
What was the harm of trailing Jason if Lara never knew?
It looked as though the kid was headed for the river. Maybe he just wanted a swim. Maybe Brady would join him—if Lara wasn’t there. Who knows what Jason might talk about while paddling around the river on a summer evening?
Traffic was light, so following Jason took skill. Brady left lots of room between them, uneasy with the inevitable times Jason disappeared around a curve. But Brady knew this road and there was only one place it really went—to the river. Unless the kid was headed over the bridge and on up to St. George.
Brady came around the latest hairpin curve to find the road ahead empty. This was where it branched, straight across the bridge, or an abrupt right on the south side of the river. The bridge had two cars on it but no bikes. That left the southern road and it appeared empty. Brady concluded Jason had ridden his bike into the turnout on this side of the bridge.
So, he wasn’t going to swim. The bank there was too steep, the river too deep thanks to the proximity of the bridge excavation. There was a far better spot just a quarter of a mile downstream where the river made a wide turn.
As the noisy motorcycle would ruin a stealthy approach, Brady steered the Harley behind a few trees, took off his helmet and started walking.
He found Jason still astride his bike, feet planted on the ground, facing the road. Waiting. He was wearing earphones attached to an iPod in his pocket. He was a lanky, fair-haired kid with shifty eyes, dressed in baggy shorts and flip-flops. Brady remembered the punches he’d thrown the night of the shooting, and his own advice to Jason: stop drinking. Well, they didn’t serve adult beverages in juvenile detention, so hopefully a little time away from temptation had been good for him.
Brady ducked behind some very dense Oregon grape bushes. He scooted along until an abandoned wooden pavilion provided cover from the road and the parking area. The downside of this position was he couldn’t see the road. The upside was twofold—he could, by contorting a bit, see the clearing and no one could see him.
Ten long minutes later, he heard an engine. Jason must have seen a car. He took off the earphones and got off his bike, pushing it near a picnic table where he leaned it against one of the benches. At last, a silver car with Washington plates drove slowly into the clearing.
Brady saw Lara behind the wheel. She parked the car facing the river embankment and rolled down her window. Jason walked toward Lara with his head down.
Brady tensed. He could imagine no reason Jason Briggs would hurt Lara, but his walking up to her like that made him nervous.
They spoke for a few seconds and Jason started around the back of the car. Lara’s window slid back into place. Had she seen the Harley? Was she going to drive Jason to a different spot?
But Jason got inside the car and turned in the seat to face Lara. Brady could tell she hadn’t turned the engine off. Probably wanted to keep the air-conditioning running.
He watched them talk for a couple of minutes, then became aware of an idling engine out on the road. Before he could finish wondering what Lara and Jason would do when another car rolled into the parking lot, a shot blasted the evening stillness.
An instant later, a muffled scream hit Brady like a gust from a tornado. It came from Lara’s car. There was a perfect round hole in her back window. Jason had slumped forward. Lara leaned toward him. Brady started moving. Another shot. Some idiot was out on the road, shooting at Lara’s car.
Before he could scramble from behind the pavilion, Lara put the car into gear and gunned the engine into a broad turn to escape. It appeared Jason fell against her during the turn. Another shot. She grabbed her arm. The car lurched forward. Brady watched helplessly as it hung on the embankment for a second before heading for the river.
As he ran toward the quickly disappearing car, he heard an engine rev and tires squeal out on the road. No doubt thinking his mission accomplished, the gunman had fled. Every cop-related fiber of Brady’s body quaked at the thought of the gunman getting away.
He got to the embankment in time to see Lara’s car fly over a strip of boulders, its tailpipe clanging as the car launched into the river, a geyser of water spraying as it landed like a whale doing a belly flop, and quickly sank from view.

Chapter Three
Jason’s limp body pinned Lara’s foot against the accelerator pedal. Blood from the wound on her right arm dripped on his white T-shirt as she tried to push him away.
Oh, God, he was hurt, she didn’t want to hurt him further, but the car was racing toward the river.
A final push and he slumped the other direction. She moved her foot and the racing engine slowed, but it was too late. The car hit the rocks skirting the river’s edge and launched itself into the water. Her last act before she hit the river was to pound the electric window button. The window slid down six inches before water washed over the hood and the engine died. Within an instant, water covered the windshield and the vehicle sank to the bottom of the river as cold water gushed through the window.
“Jason!” she screamed.
He mumbled something as the water seemed to revive him for a moment. It was too dark to see much. “Jason, we’re sinking. I’m going to try to get us out of this. Hold on.”
A million images flashed through her mind as she searched frantically for something heavy enough to break a window. Her purse, no. Sandals, a small flashlight. Nothing heavy. No big tire iron.
A million images. Brady. Nathan. Her mother. A million regrets, a million sorrows, all racing like electronic bleeps through her brain, like a movie reel moving too fast for images. And all the while she searched for a tool that would break the window and save their lives, and all the time she searched, she knew no such tool existed within the passenger cabin of her new car.
The water was up to their waists now and still gushing. She wished she’d not lowered the window or had thought to do it sooner though twin streams also spurt from the bullet holes in the back window. Her actions had more or less set them up for certain death. No one knew they were there but the person who shot them. He or she wasn’t coming to their rescue.
She should have told Brady! She should have told her mother’s housekeeper. She should have told someone.
How long would it take for anyone to notice she was gone. Nathan would first, of course, and then Myra, but neither of them would tell the one person who could help.
Brady. She should have told Brady.
She held Jason’s head up for him as he seemed to have slipped back into unconsciousness and the water was above her shoulders. He would die without the terror. Lucky him.
A banging on the window behind her head caused Lara to gulp river water and she coughed. A rock. Someone was using a big rock to pound on the rear window. She immediately shoved Jason through the middle of the car, between the two front seats into the back, the water making it easier to move him, struggling to keep his face up, his nose above water. He ran into the seat and sputtered as she lost hold of him. She felt around in a panic until she caught hold of his hair and hauled him back to the surface. He gagged. At least he was still alive.
There was only a small pocket of air against the ceiling of the car now. The rock pounding sounded hollow until suddenly the window shattered into a thousand little cubes of glass. Hands reached inside. She shoved Jason toward them, praying the car hadn’t sunk too deep, that their savior would get Jason to the surface before he gulped too much water and drowned.
As Jason’s feet disappeared, Lara pushed herself through the seats. Her sandal strap caught on the gearshift and she wasted precious seconds yanking it off her foot. Hands appeared again, reaching toward her. She reached out. They grabbed her. A feeling of safety shot through her body as the hands pulled her free of the car. Her rescuer put an arm around her waist and swam to the surface, towing her along.
She emerged into the warm night air coughing and choking. Arms lifted her from her feet and carried her up the steep embankment, laying her down on the grass beside Jason, who was being tended by an older woman Lara had never seen before. A gray car was parked a few feet away, the driver’s door wide open. A beeping sound indicated the keys were still in the ignition.
Lara coughed up a half gallon of water before looking up at the man who had saved her.
Dripping wet, hair streaming down his brown face, clothes molded against his powerful body, expression unfathomable.
Brady.
Somewhere in her heart of hearts, she’d known it was him. “Why are you here?” she sputtered.
“It’s a long story,” he said, leaving her side to kneel beside Jason. “This lady saw your car go into the river as she crossed the bridge. She called an ambulance on her cell phone.” He put his fingers against Jason’s throat. Even from where Lara sat, she could see the spreading red stain on Jason’s chest and she groaned.
“His breathing is shallow, he’s going into shock,” Brady said. Addressing the Good Samaritan, he added, “Do you have a blanket in your car, something to keep him warm?”
“I’ll look,” she said, struggling to her feet.
“He’s lost a lot of blood,” Brady said as he propped the boy’s feet atop a rock. Lara took Jason’s limp hand. He felt so cold.
Brady was in the act of stripping off his wet T-shirt, when the woman hurried from her car carrying a blue blanket. He rung out his shirt before wadding it up and placing it on Jason’s wound. The muscles under his wet skin rippled with effort.
“It’s the dog throw,” the flustered woman said as she pushed the blanket toward Brady. “It’s probably hairy—”
“It’s fine,” Brady said, tucking the blanket around the wet boy. “Can you take over for me? Can you keep pressure on his wound?”
“Of course.” The woman did as Brady asked before looking up at him with frightened eyes. “This is a gunshot, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And the girl?”
Now that survival wasn’t foremost on her mind, Lara realized she felt not only light-headed, but her arm throbbed. She looked down to find new blood seeping into the wet cloth, making a pink watercolor of her blouse.
Brady took her good hand, pulling her to her feet. She stumbled against him and he caught her, his grip tight.
“You okay?”
No, she wasn’t okay. She wasn’t okay at all. She’d come close to dying. She’d come close to leaving secrets untold. She had to bite back tears as she said, “You know about the shooting?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t understand. How did you get here?”
“Put some pressure on your arm,” he said evasively. “Better yet, keep it elevated.” He looked toward the road. “I hear a siren. Let’s hope they had the good sense to alert the police.”

OVERLAID ON THE IMAGE of Jason’s unconscious body being loaded into the ambulance as red and blue police lights flashed in the dark was the old replay of the same thing being done to Billy Armstrong.
Two boys out for a joyride. One dead, the other hovering near death.
And now Lara.
Along with the police, two ambulances had responded. The ambulance carrying Jason took off almost immediately. The other stood waiting for Lara. Brady watched as Lara greeted one of the EMT guys like an old, lost friend. They’d probably gone to school together. It struck Brady that Lara had walked away from her whole life—her family, her friends, her job—when she walked away from him.
Ran away. And what choice did you give her?
“I have to talk to you,” she told him, pausing as a medic guided her to the ambulance.
“Did Jason have a chance to say anything to you?” he asked.
She cradled her wounded arm with her good hand. Sympathy, the last thing he wanted from her, flooded her eyes. She said, “He was just getting settled when it happened. The only person he had a chance to mention was his girlfriend, the Wylie girl. I guess she broke up with him.”
“That’s all?”
“Yeah. I’m sorry.” She lowered her voice and added, “I need to talk to you about something even more important. I could have died tonight. I would have died if you hadn’t magically appeared.”
“Not magically,” he said, gazing into her green eyes. The flashing lights cast revolving colors across her hair and face. Her eyes glistened.
So many memories. Of holding her, kissing her, making love to her. She had been his and he’d lost her.
“There’s something I have to tell you,” she repeated.
“Me, too. I didn’t just happened to be here tonight.”
She shook her head. “I don’t care. I’ll wait for you at the hospital. Come get me when you can.”
“Just tell me now—”
“Not now,” she said. He felt his throat close as she walked away. His last glimpse was of her eyes before the ambulance doors shut and the vehicle charged back to town.
Tom hadn’t arrived yet, but his new partner, a young guy named Hastings, took Brady’s statement, russet eyebrows arching when Brady described the gunfire.
“Two shots,” Brady said. “Maybe three.”
“But you didn’t see the vehicle?”
“No.”
“Show me again where you were standing when the shots started.”
Brady walked Hastings through the whole thing, using flashlights. Tow trucks had arrived and the underwater recovery of the vehicle had begun. Hastings left as another squad car tore into the clearing and Tom emerged, tugging on his hat. Hastings and Tom spoke for a few seconds, then Tom came to stand beside Brady.
“I’d like to get to the hospital,” Brady said.
Tom nodded. “Soon. But hell, Brady, what were you doing out here? Did you follow Lara?”
“Actually, I followed Jason Briggs. I saw him riding his bike.”
“You followed Jason? With what?”
“The Harley. It’s parked down the road, behind some trees.”
“Let me get this straight. You shadowed the kid out of town, then hid your motorcycle and continued on foot? Why?”
Brady shrugged. “Because the Harley is noisy and I didn’t want Jason to know I was following him.”
“He never saw you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“And when you got here—”
“I stayed out of sight.”
“How long did he and Lara talk before the attack? Did he say anything about Billy having a gun?”
“He didn’t have time. They only talked for a minute or two. She said he never got past mentioning his girlfriend. A girl named Wylie.”
“What about her?”
“I guess she broke up with Jason. You’ll have to ask Lara.”
“And you didn’t see the gunman or his vehicle?”
“No.”
“This doesn’t look so good,” Tom said, pushing his hat back on his head.
Brady’s eyes narrowed as he said, “Just what are you suggesting, Tom?”
“Nothing. Nothing. But you’ve got to admit it looks bad.”
“Why?”
“The first day you find out Jason Briggs is home you follow him. The next thing anyone knows, the boy is as good as dead. And you’re on scene.”
“Are you saying I shot Jason Briggs?”
“I’m saying it looks like you could have shot the boy. He was the only other one in the car with Billy Armstrong that night. He’s fresh out of juvie. If he knew something maybe you didn’t want him telling, he might confide in his old counselor—”
“I am this close to giving you a black eye,” Brady growled, his fist bunched into a knot.
Tom shook his head. “I know you didn’t do this, pal. No matter how you felt about Jason, you would never have jeopardized Lara. But Chief Dixon is going to ask these questions.”
“I don’t have anything against Jason. Did you tell Dixon about Jason wanting to talk to Lara?”
Tom thought for a second. “I guess so. At the briefing. Sure.”
“And how many others?”
“I don’t know. Half a dozen.”
“Any way for Bill Armstrong to have heard the news?”
Tom thought again for a second before saying, “His ex-brother-in-law works in dispatch so I guess it’s possible. What are you getting at?”
“I don’t know what I’m getting at.” Brady took a steadying breath. “How do we know Lara wasn’t the real victim?”
“Why would anyone want to shoot her?”
“I don’t know. Ask Bill Armstrong where he was tonight.”
“Don’t start on that. Bill Armstrong wouldn’t shoot Jason Briggs.”
“Wouldn’t he? Your scenario of my not wanting Jason to tell Lara something might also pertain to Armstrong. Maybe there’s something Billy told Jason that Armstrong doesn’t want Jason telling Lara. Or maybe he just wants to hurt Lara to get back at me.”
“Is something going on between you two?”
“No,” Brady said. “But he doesn’t know that.”
Tom looked unconvinced. “We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

HOW DID YOU FIND a madman when you had no clues? Jason could have made new enemies in juvenile detention, he could have tempted old enemies who heard he was back in town and saw him riding his bike off on his own. Like Brady had. Was he sure there hadn’t been a third party trailing him while he trailed Jason? Had he even thought to look?
No, and yet somehow Brady didn’t believe that was the answer. He thought it was as simple as someone not wanting Jason Briggs talking to Lara Kirk.
Why?
Or maybe someone wanted Lara dead and was a lousy shot.
Twenty minutes after leaving the clearing, he entered the emergency-room doors for the first time in almost a year, nodding at the nurse behind the desk as his still-soggy boots squeaked with every step. In lieu of a shirt, which he’d donated to help stem Jason’s bleeding, he wore an old jacket he carried on the bike. It was too hot a garment for August.
“Hey, Brady. Long time no see.”
“How you doing, Tammy? I’m here to check on Lara Kirk and Jason Briggs.”
She frowned for a second. About his own age, she looked ten years older, probably because she smoked like a fiend when no one was watching. Brady had caught her outside a few times and used to tease her about it.
“Ms. Kirk was treated for a superficial gunshot wound in her right arm and was released an hour ago. The Briggs boy is in surgery. It’s touch and go.”
“I thought Ms. Kirk was going to wait for me,” Brady mused aloud, unsure what to do now.
“She got a call and left.”
Brady thanked her briskly and took off. Who had called her? Why? What was important enough for her to leave the hospital when she’d made a point of telling him to meet her there? Was it possible she didn’t understand the importance of the fact that Jason Briggs wasn’t the only one who had been shot tonight?
He got as far as the Harley before feeling a hulking presence behind him. He turned abruptly and immediately recognized Bill Armstrong emerging from between parked cars.
Armstrong was about the same size as Brady though a couple of years older. He’d been a mechanic since graduating from high school. Married his high-school sweetheart. As far as Brady knew, he’d been doing okay for himself and his family until his daughter committed suicide and a few weeks later, his son died.
Thanks to Brady.
Now word was that Bill Armstrong had taken to drinking, his wife had threatened to leave him and his job was in peril.
“I heard you almost killed another kid tonight,” Armstrong said, coming to a halt six feet away from Brady. The overhead lights illuminated the thatch of sandy hair that continued around his face in a trimmed beard.
“You heard wrong,” Brady said. He didn’t want to waste time with Armstrong, but he didn’t want to turn his back on him, either.
“I heard Jason Briggs got shot and that you were there.”
Brady waited.
“That little gal who left when you murdered my son is back in Riverport.”
“Who told you that?”
He tapped his forehead with a finger. “I just know. Maybe it would have been better for her if she’d stayed away.”
Brady advanced a few steps. “She was a counselor to your kids,” he said. “She tried to help them. She’s an innocent in all this.”
Armstrong backed down a little. He looked in the direction of his shoes as he said, “Do you suppose she’d miss you if some concerned citizen took it in his mind to eliminate a public menace?”
Brady’s gut tightened. His decision to stop carrying a gun suddenly seemed shortsighted.
“I don’t, either,” Armstrong said. “But killing you is too easy.” His voice caught. “I want you to know what it’s like to lose someone you love,” Armstrong continued, his eyes moist now. “If you had a son it would be perfect. An eye for an eye. Poetic justice.”
“Where were you tonight?” Brady said softly.
Ignoring the question, Armstrong said, “You don’t know what it’s like to lose a kid.”
With total sincerity, Brady said, “I’ve told you a dozen times how sorry I am about your son. I had no choice. There was no time. He pulled a gun.”
Please, God, let that be true…
For a second, Armstrong looked ready to throw his weight at Brady. And then he rocked back on his heels and steadied himself by grabbing the hood of the closest car.
Brady picked his helmet up off the seat. “Stay away from Lara Kirk and Jason Briggs,” he said.
Armstrong shook his head. He took a deep breath and glared at Brady. “You’re not a cop anymore, Skye. You’re a washed-up has-been just like your old man. Maybe the other cops let you off the hook for murdering my kid, but I won’t. You’ll pay for what you did to me and mine.”
“I know,” Brady said. “You’re going to take me for every dime I have.”
The smile that broke Armstrong’s face was worse than his sneer. “That’ll be a start. We’ll see where it ends.”
Brady got on the bike and started the engine.
Was Armstrong a grieving man, more bark than bite, or was Brady’s gut feeling Lara was in terrible danger more than his guilty conscience at work?
At any rate, he wasn’t going to leave her alone tonight. He’d swing by his place and grab a toothbrush and some dry shoes and clothes. Trade the Harley for his truck in case they needed to go somewhere. Like it or not, she had a guard tonight.

WHAT WAS KEEPING Brady?
Lara stood by the front windows, freshly showered, wearing old sweats she’d found in a bottom drawer. She was still cold even though she knew it was a warm night, summer at its apex. When she closed her eyes, the cold river flooded her head.
Before the night was over she would tell Brady what she’d come back to Riverport to tell him.
She’d wanted to tell him forever.
The sitting room, as her mother called the room to the left of the foyer, was typical Victorian with very high ceilings and tall, stately windows. A rose and ivory Oriental carpet, its silk soft against Lara’s bare feet, covered the hardwood floor.
“Lara?” Lara turned at the sound of the housekeeper’s voice. “Everything is quiet upstairs,” Myra added. “I think I’ll turn in.”
“Of course. Thanks for your help today. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. I’m just glad I didn’t go on that cruise with your mother like she wanted. I did that once a couple of years ago and if you don’t mind my saying, it wasn’t much of a vacation for me.”
Lara nodded. She could imagine. As Myra left the room, a pair of headlights pulled up in front of the house. Lara recognized Brady’s green truck parked under the streetlight and she left the room, headed for the front door, suddenly aware her feet tingled and her palms felt sweaty. She took a deep breath as she pulled open the door.
He looked up as he took the last few steps. He’d obviously taken a shower and changed clothes and in the porch light, dressed in black jeans and a gray Henley, he looked lean, capable and focused.
She stood aside and he entered the house. He paused in the foyer, his gaze traveling up the broad, curved staircase as though looking for an invading army. Then his eyes met hers.
“You left the hospital.”
“Myra called. She was having trouble—”
“What kind of trouble?” He covered the few steps between them and caught her arm. She recoiled and he dropped his hand.
“I’m sorry. I forgot about your wound.”
“It’s okay. There’s a huge bandage on it. The doctor said there might be a scar but there was no permanent damage.”
“Good. What kind of trouble did the housekeeper have?”
She looked away for a second, then back at him. “It didn’t have anything to do with tonight, Brady, honest. I found a cab outside the hospital and took it home. Myra had to pay the man. I’d forgotten I no longer have a purse or a wallet. Do you know how Jason is doing?”
“I called from my place. He’s out of surgery, but it’s still touch and go.”
She nodded. Touch and go. “Poor kid.”
They each stared at the floor for a moment, then spoke at the same time.
She said, “Let’s go sit down—”
And he said, “I’m staying here tonight—”
They both stopped talking, he turned his hand palm up as if to give her a turn first. She repeated herself. He sat down on the second from bottom step and patted the space next to him.
Lara understood that he felt uncomfortable in her mother’s house and was reluctant to stray too far inside.
“You’re nervous,” he said.
She nodded.
“I want you to know I didn’t follow you out to the river. You told me not to come, but I happened to see Jason riding his bike and—”
She put her hand on his arm and he met her eyes. “You saved my life. You saved Jason. How could you think I would resent you being there?”
“Well, you’re nervous.”
“Not about that.”
“And you’re angry with me.”
“Oh, Brady. It’s been a long year.” Tears stung the back of her nose and she struggled to keep them out of her eyes and her voice. Though they didn’t fall, the emotion behind them must have showed, because he covered her hand with his.
His face was very close. She could smell soap and aftershave and toothpaste. She stared at his lips. Flames licked her groin.
And just like that, their lips drifted together, inevitably, touching in a way that was at once familiar and bittersweet. These lips she’d thought she’d never touch again. Soft and warm with the power of life behind them.
But not for her. Not ever again.
She drew away and took a shaky breath.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“It’s me. My emotions are all over the map.”
“I won’t let it happen again,” he added. “I promise you.”
She nodded.
“What do you want to tell me?” His hand had slipped from hers.
She bit her lip and finally decided how she should share her news. “Come with me,” she said, standing. He stood as well and seemed startled when she led him up the stairs. Was he remembering the first time they’d climbed these stairs together, two and a half years ago when her mother had taken off for the Aegean Sea and Lara had used the opportunity to show him the room in which she’d grown up?
Things like that were impossible when her mom was in the house for the simple reason her mother didn’t like Brady. She was one of those people Brady talked about, one of those who based their opinion of him on his family name. To Lara’s mother, Brady was and always would be, “One of those worthless Skye boys.” Slightly less troublesome than the younger boy, Garrett, but not to be trusted just the same.
She led Brady into her old bedroom. The light was low, the bed was covered in white eyelet just as it had been years before when she lived at home with her mother. Knowing she was coming, Myra had filled vases with roses from the garden and placed them around the room. Their fragrance perfumed the air.
“This is why I rushed home from the hospital,” she said softly.
His brow furrowed as he looked at the bed, which suddenly seemed to glow with remembered passion. She moved aside so he could see what occupied the far corner.
So he could see the crib.
“Myra needed help getting Nathan to sleep,” she said.
She watched his face as realization dawned. It was like watching the sunrise. He glanced at her and she nodded once, sniffing back tears before they could glisten in her eyes.
He moved toward the crib like a sleepwalker and stood staring down at the slumbering infant within.

Chapter Four
“He was conceived on our wedding night,” Lara said. “His name is Nathan.”
He had a son?
Just like that? One moment alone in the world, the next moment, a son?
Very slowly, he lowered his hand until the backs of his fingers grazed the baby’s round cheek. How could skin be that soft? The baby tucked one tiny fist close to his chin. A bubble blew at his lips and then he made a sudden face, a frown, and scrunched up his tiny body before relaxing again, hands flung to the side.
His son. Nathan.
“You named him after your father,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
Brady kept his gaze glued to the infant because he didn’t trust himself to look at Lara. Men usually had a few months to prepare themselves for fatherhood. Time to get used to the idea of a baby, to merge the dreamy possibilities of the future with the uncertainties of the past. Time to reckon.
But she’d deprived him of this.
She hadn’t trusted him with the knowledge he was to become a father. She’d gone through pregnancy and birth and the first three months of his child’s life alone rather than trust him.
She’s here now, a small voice whispered in the back of his mind. They’re both here now.
He wasn’t ready to listen. He shoved his hands in his pockets as he turned to face her.
Their eyes locked for a heartbeat before she lowered her gaze. “I’m sorry, Brady,” she said so softly it might have been his imagination. “I was frightened.”
That made it better? Now she not only didn’t trust him and didn’t like him, she was afraid of him?
“Later,” he forced himself to say. He needed time to think.
“I just want you to know I didn’t know I was pregnant when I first went away, and when I found out—”
He held up a hand to still her.
The baby made a little noise and Lara leaned over, her shoulder brushing Brady’s arm. She grabbed her own arm, wincing, and he remembered her injury and how close he’d come to losing her. Good God, if she’d died tonight, would anyone have bothered to tell him about Nathan?
“Will you lift him for me?” she said, glancing up at him. “Or shall I call Myra?”
Brady blinked a time or two. “I can do it.”
“It’s easy, just make sure you support his head,” she said.
And so he lifted his son for the first time, careful to put one hand behind the little guy’s heavy head. The baby kicked and squirmed and Brady held on tight, terrified he’d drop him.
“Relax,” Lara said. “You’re doing fine.”
“What do I do now?”
“Just comfort him, Brady. Hold him closer. Don’t be afraid.”
He pulled Nathan against his chest, one hand all but covering the small boy’s back. He tried making soft noises and bouncing a little. One or the other of these tactics apparently worked because the baby settled down. Brady tipped him away from his chest for a moment, anxious to really look at these few pounds of humanity that had instantly redefined his life.
His throat tightened as he took in every amazing inch of his son’s face. The dark orbs as he opened one eye, then the other. The very small nose, the tip of a tiny tongue. What struck him was the baby’s total dependence. Was he ready for this?
He was still trying to work out his complicated relationship with his own father. What did he know about being a father to an innocent child? How could he teach what he’d never learned?
“Did you hear that?” Lara said, and he opened his eyes abruptly, yanked back from his thoughts.
“Did I hear what?”
“A noise downstairs. Maybe it was Myra.”
“I’ll go take a look,” Brady said.
The door flew open at that moment. The housekeeper, dressed in a voluminous green robe, took one look at them standing by the crib and crossed the room in a half-dozen sturdy steps. “Give me the little lamb,” she crooned. Brady looked at Lara, who nodded. Reluctantly, he handed the child over, amazed at how empty his hands and arms suddenly felt.
“I was downstairs in my room,” Myra said, expertly wrapping Nathan in a blanket. “I heard breaking glass. When I went to look, I found the window in the sitting room with a hole—”
Brady left without hearing the rest, taking the stairs two at a time. Armstrong had known Lara was back in town—did he also know about Nathan? He’d talked about an eye for an eye…
“The sitting room is to the right,” Lara said. She’d followed him down the stairs. There was no color in her face and her eyes were wide. He moved into the formal Victorian sitting room lit only by a glass-shaded table lamp. Shards of glass lay on the table and carpet and a rock with a paper tied around it had tumbled to a stop on the floor in front of the table.
Myra, still holding Nathan, arrived in the doorway as Lara leaned down to pick up the rock. Brady grabbed her hand. He looked around the room until he spied a small lace doily draped over the armrest of a floral love seat. Using a corner of the doily, he picked up the rock and slipped the paper from beneath the rubber band.
“What does it say?” Lara asked, her voice little more than a whisper.
He angled the paper toward the light. A few words had been cut from a magazine and glued in place. “‘Go home before it’s too late,’” he read.
“Mrs. Kirk will have a fit when she hears someone broke her window,” Myra fumed. She held Nathan against her polyester-covered bosom as though protecting him from the hounds of hell. “What is the world coming to? And that note can’t be directed at Lara. It must mean you, Mr. Skye. What trouble have you brought—”
“Get a paper bag big enough for the rock and the note, will you please?” Brady interrupted.
Myra looked from him to Lara. “That’s a good idea,” Lara said, holding out her good arm. Myra very gently placed Nathan in Lara’s embrace before leaving the room. Lara’s eyes glistened in the dim light as she rested her cheek atop Nathan’s fuzzy head.
Brady looked down at his shoes, not trusting his voice. What a sight the two of them made. His wife and his baby son. Her beauty, his innocence, elicited a cavalcade of emotions.
How had things gotten to this point? How had he so thoroughly screwed up?
How had he lost them?
He finally managed to say, “Someone wants you to leave Riverport,” and looked at Lara again. She’d closed her eyes as though she couldn’t stand to face another moment of this interminable night. She surprised him as she often did. Opening her eyes and pinning him with her gaze, she said, “That’s too bad. I’m not going anywhere until I’m damn good and ready.”
“Listen to me, Lara. This isn’t just about you and me anymore, it’s about Nathan now, too. Let me stay the night. Let me—”
“Okay.”
“No argument?” he asked, surprised she was agreeing so readily.
“No argument. I’m not a complete idiot. But who would do something like this?” She moved a few inches closer to him and he took comfort that she still found his presence reassuring. “You said Bill Armstrong would try to get back at you. Do you think it was him?”

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