Show Me a Hero Read online

  Just like Officer Ali Templeton, his ex-wife publisher had found him.

  He grabbed the box and carried it inside, dumping it on the fireplace hearth.

  He’d burn them right now, except he’d probably also end up burning down the entire house. Considering the overall condition of the place, he wasn’t setting a match to anything in the fireplace until he got a chance to have the chimney inspected.

  He knew he had electrical problems. The porch light was just one example. He also knew he had plumbing problems. The kitchen faucet only worked on hot. The shower in his bathroom upstairs only worked on cold, which meant he was out of luck because the bathtub in the bathroom downstairs was too damn short. He was also pretty sure he smelled something burning every time he turned on the furnace, which was why he wore a damn coat inside the house, even when he was sleeping.

  He could make things a lot easier on himself by giving up the notion of living here.

  He could go back to Oregon anytime he chose. Calling his place there a “cabin” was basically just a nod to the fact that it was located on a remote, forested ridge that overlooked the wild coastline. But it had plenty of amenities. All the electrical outlets there worked. His shower had eight jets, and they all produced hot water. He could also go to the condo in Los Angeles that had sat vacant for more than a year while he’d holed up in Oregon pulling words out by his teeth to finish writing the book he hadn’t planned to write in the first place. And if he really wanted a different flavor, he’d never gotten rid of the New York brownstone that he and Chelsea had shared. When they’d gotten divorced, she’d moved into an apartment closer to her Manhattan office. He’d gone to Los Angeles, putting as much distance as he could between them.

  Any one of those properties was by far better than this run-down ranch house he’d decided to fix up himself. But he had no desire to go anywhere else.

  He just wished the box of books hadn’t found its way to him. It meant that he’d be hearing from his ex-wife sooner or later. Not because she harbored some emotional leftovers from their marriage, but because she still wouldn’t accept his decision to quit writing.

  She called it a waste. Accused him of being lazy. Lacking ambition.

  His gaze landed on the ancient mirror on the wall. The image looking back at him seemed to smirk.

  “Right.” He grimaced. “That’s what you get for being married to your publisher.” He turned away. Nobody stood to make more money on another CCT Rules book than Chelsea did.

  Not even him.

  It was too cold inside the house to paint the walls. Besides, the holes in the plaster that he’d spent the previous evening patching were still damp. The gas stove in the kitchen worked—and he had even installed a couple of the cabinets now—but there was nothing in the refrigerator. That was what had driven him out the front door in the first place when he’d spotted the book shipment.

  He went back outside and pulled the door closed behind him. Out of habit, he started to lock it, but didn’t. If anyone wanted to break in to steal a couple gallons of paint, they probably needed them more than he did. If they stole the plastic-wrapped couch...well, he could order another one online the same way he had this one.

  It had seemed necessary to put at least a few pieces of furniture in the house when he’d gotten here. He might not have unwrapped the couch yet, but he’d been using the mattress set from the first night it had been delivered.

  He crossed the cold, hard ground between the house and the barn, following the path he’d shoveled yesterday morning. The snow had nearly filled it up again, but he didn’t mind. Shoveling snow was mindless muscle work. Yeah, he had to concentrate harder than he wanted to in order to keep his brain from dwelling on anything other than where to pitch the next shovel of snow, but at least with the physical exertion and then the highway mess, he’d slept more than an hour at a stretch last night.

  Instead of nightmares of Afghanistan, his fitful dreams had been about a chocolate-eyed brunette with blond streaks in her hair. And for once, the cold shower had been handy.

  He pushed open the oversize, rolling barn door and studied the two vehicles inside. He’d bought the black SUV two months ago. It had every bell and whistle: the car salesman’s fantasy sale. And it had gotten Grant from Oregon to Wyoming in perfect comfort.

  Instead of heading to the SUV, he went to the rusted pickup. Why not? He’d bought the ranch lock, stock and barrel. That included whatever was left behind on the property. And the truck had definitely been left behind. He’d even found the faded title to it when he’d scrubbed the kitchen enough so that he didn’t feel like he was still back in Afghanistan. It had been stuck to the bottom of one of the drawers, along with a newspaper ad for dial-up internet and a half-empty roll of hard candy.

  The name on the title was Roger Carmody.

  Grant knew Roger Carmody was dead. He had no living heirs. Except Grant, the illegitimate grandson Roger had made certain never used the Carmody name. Grant had grown up knowing exactly who his biological family was. And he’d known that they didn’t want him.

  The same perverseness that had made Grant buy the property when it had gone to auction had motivated him to get the hunk of rust running. It was the same perverseness that had him getting behind the wheel and driving the truck now.

  “Too bad, Rog,” he muttered, cranking the key in the ignition. The engine sputtered a few times, but it started. Grant didn’t consider himself a great mechanic, but he figured with enough tinkering, he’d get rid of the sputter, too. The same way he’d get the cold water going in the kitchen and the hot water in the shower. It just took time.

  And all he had these days was time.

  He drove out of the barn, closed the door behind him and then headed into town. The parking ticket Officer Ali had given him had fallen onto the floorboard on the passenger side and was fluttering in the blast of air from the heater.

  It was still fluttering when he parked in front of the town’s municipal building. He saw the parking sign and grimaced, checking his pockets for coins.

  “There’s free parking around the back of the building.” An attractive woman bouncing a red-cheeked baby on her hip smiled at him from the sidewalk. Her eyes were friendly. Bright. “They just won’t post a sign that says it. Silly if you ask me.” She pointed. “Turn at that corner, then make another quick right. You can’t miss the parking lot.”

  He pulled out his keys again. “Thanks.”

  “You bet.” She turned, and her long dark ringlets bounced against the back of her coat as she pulled open the glass door of the municipal building and went inside.

  He drove to the corner, made two rights and found a space in the parking lot. Ticket crumpled in his hand, he went into the building from the back. A guard directed him to the cashier’s office and he joined the short line in front of the counter. The town wouldn’t advertise the free parking in back of the municipal building, but it spared no expense on signs warning the line occupants to remain behind the wide yellow line painted on the floor until it was their turn to approach the cashier. Small-town idiosyncrasies at their best.

  The woman with the ringlets and the baby was in front of him. Her eyes crinkled a little as she turned and smiled at him. She was older than he’d first thought. That wild brown hair was deceptive. Then the baby wrapped a hand in her hair and gave a merry yank that had her wincing, even though the smile in her eyes never dimmed.

  It felt rude to stand there and not say something, considering her friendly smile. “Got quite a grip there,” he said.

  “I’ll say.” She flipped the rest of her hair around her other shoulder, trying to keep it away from the baby. “I ought to have learned by now.” She realized the person in front of her had stepped up to the yellow line. Now only she and Grant were still in line. “You know what they’re like, though.”

  He smiled noncommittally. What he knew abou
t babies was somewhere between nothing and less than nothing. Being godfather to Seymour’s twins didn’t change that. He and Seymour had watched their baptism via Skype. Grant sent Claudia checks on their birthday and at Christmas so she could buy whatever she figured they needed. And unfailingly, within a few days, he received thank-you notes printed in their youthful handwriting.

  The line moved forward and he automatically shuffled forward, too.

  He never had to wonder what age Eva and Emi were.

  They’d been born the same day their father saved Grant’s life at Hunt Ridge. Eleven years ago. Covering Grant’s body with his own while RPGs and machine-gun fire rained over them because Grant, with his specialized skills, couldn’t be as easily replaced as Seymour.

  If Grant had stayed in the service, would Seymour still be alive today?

  He didn’t have the answer to that. Never would.

  And it haunted him. Morning. Noon. Night.

  “Mom!”

  His attention was yanked back to the present. The person working at the cashier’s counter was none other than Officer Ali.

  And she was looking at the lady in line in front of him. Calling her Mom.

  “What’re you doing here?”

  “Paying the water bill.” The woman jiggled the baby and pulled an envelope out of her purse as she moved to the counter. “I thought I’d mailed it, but I guess I forgot. What’re you doing here? You’re supposed to be off this weekend.”

  “Well, clearly, that didn’t work out. Gowler called me in again ’cause Jerry’s out with the flu.” Officer Ali stood up from her chair to reach for the baby, but froze for a second when she spotted Grant standing behind the yellow line.

  She wasn’t wearing her police uniform or the short, figure-hugging red dress. This time she had on a thick pink sweater, and her hair—instead of being scraped back in a tight knot or flowing in a mass around her shoulders—was pulled back in a messy ponytail.

  She was still looking at him, so he inclined his head slightly. “Officer Ali.”

  Her mother looked back at him with a surprised expression as she surrendered the baby to her daughter. “You know Ali.” Her smile was suddenly even wider. “Well, now. Isn’t that nice.”

  He held up the parking ticket between two fingers. “Depends on how you look at it,” he said drily.

  She chuckled. “Oh, well. Blame Growler. He’s positively anal about some things.”

  “Mom!”

  The woman took no notice of her daughter’s horrified exclamation. “I’m Meredith. Ali’s mother. And you are—?”

  In the wrong place at the wrong time. “Grant,” he answered.

  “You’re definitely a new face around here.” Meredith’s musical laugh fit the sparkle in her bright blue eyes. “And a handsome one, too. Is there a Mrs. Grant?”

  “Mom!”

  Noting Ali’s reddened cheeks, Grant’s mood suddenly lightened. “Who’s Growler?”

  “Gowler,” Ali said through her teeth, “and with my luck, he’s standing behind the wall, overhearing all of this.”

  “He’s her sergeant,” Meredith explained in a loud whisper. “He’s been giving her a hard time ever since she dumped his—”

  “Muh-ther!” The baby joined the game, too, letting out a loud, garbled squeal that didn’t drown out Ali’s pained exclamation.

  Ali carried the baby around the counter and dumped her in her mother’s arms. “Do you need a receipt for the payment?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “No? Okay then.” She went back behind the counter and looked at Grant without really looking at him. “Next!”

  Instead of being upset at her daughter shutting her down, Meredith appeared as if she wanted to laugh more than ever. “Don’t let Ali’s bark scare you too much. She doesn’t really bite.”

  Pity.

  He looked Ali’s way, having the good sense to keep the thought to himself. He may have been living like a hermit for the last year, but he still possessed some social sense. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he told her mother when she carried the baby out of the cashier’s office.

  Then it was just Officer Ali and him.

  He stepped over the yellow line and approached the counter, setting down the crumpled ticket and flattening it beneath his palm. “You look like you need some sleep.”

  “Flattery won’t get you out of the ticket.” She tugged it free of his grasp. “I assume you’re here to pay the fine?”

  He pulled out his wallet. He’d used most of his cash on dinner at the grill in Weaver the night before, so he’d pay with his credit card. “I assume that’s true?” he asked, tapping the corner of the card against the laminated Cash or Credit Only sign taped to the counter.

  “Yes.” She delicately pinched the edge of the credit card between thumb and forefinger as she took it from him and ran it through her machine. “I really would let you out of the fine if I could. You were a big help last night.” Her lips suddenly rounded. “Oh,” she murmured. She looked up at him. “I’m sorry. Your card was declined.”

  He frowned. “Try again.”

  She slid the card through the machine once more, then looked at him a moment later with the same expression. Embarrassment. Sympathy. “Do you have another method of payment?”

  He held open his wallet so she could see the meager supply of single bills inside.

  “Well—” she held out his card “—don’t worry. You still have thirty days to pay the fine.” She hesitated for a moment. “If you’re looking for work, I can probably recommend a few places—”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.” But he wasn’t worried. Irritated? Yes. The card had a massive credit limit. After the money had started rolling in from his first CCT Rules book, banks had started throwing credit at him. He’d ignored nearly all the offers. His parents—the ones who had cared enough to give him their name after adopting him when he was ten—had been staunchly middle-class. They had passed on their pay-as-you-go mentality to him.

  Karen, though, had never seemed to learn the same lesson. She’d just been a baby, already adopted by the Coopers when he’d officially joined the family. She’d never known any other family besides Cal and Talia Cooper. But she’d flown in the face of everything they’d tried to teach their children.

  When she’d forged Grant’s name on a contract, he’d been glad they hadn’t been alive to see it.

  He took the credit card back from Ali, making no effort to avoid brushing his fingers against hers, and enjoying more than he should the way she quickly curled them against her palm. But if he expected her dark eyes to shy away from his, he was wrong. “I’ll come back with cash.” There was a bank not too far away.

  “Cashier’s office closes at noon on Saturday.”

  He glanced at his watch. “Then I’ll be back before noon.”

  “Templeton!”

  She visibly stiffened and the dark circles under her eyes looked even more pronounced as she stared beyond Grant. He glanced behind him. A uniformed officer stood in the doorway. Except for the paunch he carried, the gray-haired man reminded Grant of one of the drill sergeants from when he’d gone through basic training.

  “Yessir?”

  “Mendez needs help finding something in the evidence locker.”

  Her expression didn’t change much, but Grant saw the way the skin around her eyes tightened slightly. “I’ll get on it.”

  Grant waited until the officer was gone. “Growler?”

  “Gowler. And, yes. He’s my sergeant.” She set a desk bell on top of the counter, with instructions to ring for assistance, and handed Grant his ticket. She locked a drawer beneath the counter and came out from behind it.

  He took in her faded blue jeans and heavy-duty leather work boots.

  “Reminds me of a drill sergeant I had a long time ago. He was a royal pain in the ass.”

&nb
sp; She pressed her lips together, but a faint dimple showed in her pale cheek.

  “Every time I see you, you’re working one job or another.”

  “Everyone in the department has to put in their time covering the cashier’s office.”

  “Even Gowler?”

  “Theoretically, yes.”

  Grant lifted his eyebrows and her faint dimple deepened. They headed out into the tiled corridor that led to an information desk in front of a solid door and a long window. A kid sat there, wearing a stiffly pressed police uniform, reading something. He looked so wet-behind-the-ears that Grant was willing to bet it was a children’s story. Through the window behind him, Grant could see a half-dozen desks, though only a few were occupied.

  Everyone he saw was male, from the kid to the grizzled gray-bearded guy nodding off at another desk behind the window.

  “Remember, you’ve got thirty days to pay the fine.”

  He’d be back in thirty minutes to pay the fine. “How many women work in the department?”

  She looked surprised by the question. “Civilian employees or sworn officers?”

  “Sworn.”

  She shrugged. “Just me.”

  “And civilian?”

  “Darlene Dunworthy—we call her DeeDee—is the chief’s secretary.”

  “That’s it?”

  “We’re a small-town police department. We have fourteen officers and four civilian employees. And not a lot of turnover, so...” She shrugged again. “To use a cliché, it is what it is.”

  “Templeton!”

  She sighed. “I’d better get back to the evidence locker before Sergeant Gowler has a stroke.”

  “Why’s he got it in for you?”

  “He doesn’t.” She made a face. “Well, he does. But he’ll get over it. In time.” She started to turn away again, only to hesitate. “Do you, ah...lunch? I mean, would you like to have lunch? My treat,” she added quickly. “I can’t fix the ticket for you, but it seems the least I can do after all the help you gave me last night.”

  “Or you’re trying to sweeten me up to get more information about my sister.”