recognized the person’s voice earlier, but he could have sworn he recognized that huff.
“Carley Matheson?”
“Sheriff Carley Matheson,” she corrected with absolute authority.
Sloan mumbled some profanity. Oh, man. He didn’t need this. And he definitely didn’t need her. He could already hear the argument they were about to have before he even turned around to face her.
It actually took him several moments to face her though. First, there was the already brutal morning sun that was spewing light from behind him and on her. Sloan had to squint and then he had to look past her .45-caliber Colt automatic to see her face.
Yep, she was squinting, too, because of the sun. And she was also riled.
And, yep, there would be an argument.
Since the argument was inevitable, Sloan decided to go ahead and start it.
“You’re supposed to be in bed, resting,” Sloan reminded her.
Less than a week ago, Carley had been shot while in pursuit of a killer and she wouldn’t be cleared for duty for at least another forty-eight hours.
“I’m fine,” she said as if that explained away everything. Carley lowered her Colt. Not gently, either. Her movements were jerky and stiff, and she shoved her firearm into her leather shoulder holster.
She also winced.
Probably because that rough gun shove had pulled at her bandages and caused some pain. After all, the shooter’s bullet had apparently sliced through Carley’s right side and nicked a rib. She was lucky to be alive.
The shooter’s other victim, Sarah Wallace, hadn’t been nearly as fortunate.
In an eerily similar way to how her own mother had been murdered sixteen years earlier, Sarah Wallace had been strangled while staying at the Matheson Inn—just a stone’s throw away from where they stood and in the very inn owned by Carley’s family. The inn where Carley now lived in a converted attic apartment.
Murder on her own doorstep.
That couldn’t have been easy for a peace officer to accept. Especially this peace officer.
Unless she’d changed a whole bunch in the past couple of years—and Sloan doubted that she had, Carley would have taken this crime personally even if she hadn’t been shot. Justice was her town, and keeping it safe was her responsibility.
Sloan reholstered his own weapon, and because of that wince, he nearly moved closer to check on her. However, Carley’s steely expression had him staying put. It’d be suicide to try to get a look at her wound, especially since it would involve unbuttoning the shirt of her khaki uniform.
Definitely suicide.
So why did he even consider it?
Sloan gave that a little thought and he quickly figured out why. Despite the surly glower, Carley Matheson looked vulnerable.
Yeah.
A man didn’t have to dig too deep to find it. The vulnerability was there, stashed beneath that khaki uniform, shiny badge and five-and-a-half-foot-tall lanky body. Her sea-green eyes were sleep-starved. Her normally tanned skin was shades too pale. Her brown-sugar hair was pulled back into a near haphazard ponytail that left stray wisps fluttering around her neck. She looked weary.
No, Carley hadn’t fully recovered from her injuries and yet she was apparently on the job.
Part of him admired her for that.
The other part of him wasn’t pleased that she was in his way. And she was definitely in his way.
“Why are you out here?” he asked.
For a moment Sloan thought she would fire that exact question right back at him. Instead she pointed to the eaves on the backside of the police station. Specifically to the surveillance camera that was mounted there. Or, rather, what was left of the camera. It had sustained some major damage and was no doubt disabled.
“I had it installed early yesterday morning,” Carley explained. She walked toward it, propped her hands on her hips and stared up at it.
Sloan lifted a shoulder. “Why? When I was sheriff, we didn’t have a surveillance camera.”
That earned him a glaring glance. “When you were sheriff, you also didn’t have anyone attempt to break into your office, now did you? Nor did someone try to kill two women right in this area. This is definitely a place that needs some 24-7 surveillance.”
He knew about the attempted murders. One was Carley’s own shooting that’d taken place in the parking lot of the inn adjacent to where they stood now. The other, the more recent one, involved his soon-to-be sister-in-law, Anna Wallace, and the attempt to kill her in the police station itself. Sloan’s brother, Zane, was still beyond riled that he hadn’t been able to catch the person who’d tried to murder the woman he loved.
Sloan had been briefed about those near deadly attempts but not about the camera or the first concern that Carley had addressed.
“Someone tried to break into the police station?” he asked.
“Unfortunately, yes.” She slapped at the yellow crime-scene tape that the breeze was batting against her side. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard. It’s all over town.”
“I only arrived an hour ago.” But Sloan was a little miffed that he hadn’t already been informed about this from his brother, Zane—the Ranger who was heading the investigation into Sarah Wallace’s murder. Zane had certainly been thorough in his updates about the murder itself and the subsequent attacks, but he’d apparently left out this little detail. It made Sloan wonder if and how it fit into the grand scheme of things.
“You think this busted camera and the attempted break-in are related to Sarah Wallace’s death?” Sloan asked.
Her icy glare melted away. “Maybe. The killer might have thought your brother stored evidence inside. After all, Sarah’s sister, Anna, did find those papers, the ones that Sarah had hidden. Zane put them somewhere, and the most logical place would be here at the police station.”
Since her inflection made it seem as if she had something to add to that, Sloan stared at her.
Their eyes met.
The morning sun was still haloing around her, and despite the khaki polyester attire, she looked…interesting. She smelled interesting, too. Like fresh coffee, cream and honey. Because he was a male and therefore driven by totally stupid urges that could never be logically explained, he felt that punch of interest that he often felt when he was looking at an attractive woman.
And Carley was attractive, no doubt about it.
She was also hands-off.
Because in a bottom-line kind of way, they were enemies. Not just regular enemies, either. Big-time enemies with a feud that’d been going on for sixteen years, since Carley was barely thirteen years old. He’d only been fifteen at the time, but time didn’t matter when an issue like this was at stake. Even lust and basic
