that foot thing again.
“They feel like the only pincushion at a ladies’ quilt club on a Monday afternoon.”
“You should have stayed down.” He set the cup on the nightstand and retreated to the foot of the bed.
Before she could utter an objection, he pulled the comforter back and exposed her feet.
Mariah braced herself when he touched her right foot, taking it in both hands.
She was unprepared for her body’s response to his gentle touch, or the desire that flared and twisted through her, taking her breath with it. She closed her eyes, hoping he hadn’t gotten a read on her, but the moment she opened them again, she knew that wish was futile.
His eyes narrowed, a half smile pulling at the left side of his sexy mouth. “Better?” he asked.
Mariah cleared her throat and focused on the sensation. The needling was slowly beginning to relent. She wiggled her toes trying to ignore the feel of his warm hands firmly forcing the blood to the surface of her skin with each stroke.
“It’s not too bad. I can feel my toes.”
“We caught it in time, but you need to stay off them.” He put her right foot down and started on the left. By now she’d gotten used to his hands on her skin and she tried to relax. Tried to make it a clinical experience even though her body was humming and aware of his every movement.
“You’ve dealt with frostbite a time or two?”
“Living this far from civilization, it’s a necessary skill.”
“One I’m glad you possess.” Warmth worked its way up her lower legs. “Thank you for rescuing me, and my toes.”
“You’re welcome.” He settled her foot onto the bed and pulled the covers back over her feet.
“I’d like to know what you’re doing on my ranch, Detective Ellis.”
Mariah bristled at the abrupt change of subject. “I’m here to ask you a few questions.”
He didn’t speak. She pushed on. “Were you aware James Endicott went missing two weeks ago?” She considered herself an expert on suspect behavior and body language; she planned to absorb even the slightest measure of reaction he exhibited.
His blue eyes glistened with anger. A muscle pulsed along his square jawline, and his breathing rate shot up.
Mariah’s heart skipped a beat as she visualized the pistol tucked under the pillow next to her, ready to be used if he showed any sign of aggression toward her.
He knew something; he had to. His dislike for the man was obvious from his physical reaction.
“And you believe I had something to do with it? Once a suspect, always a suspect?” A glimmer of amusement flashed in his eyes and played out of sync with the seriousness of the implication.
“He tried to put you behind bars, Mr. McCullough. That’s motive.”
“For the record, Detective, he has tried to put hundreds behind bars. Many more badass than me.”
She knew it was true, but she planned to push him. Interesting things bubbled out of people when you stressed them beyond their capacity to withhold the truth.
“I’ll give you that one, but we’re not talking about those badasses. We’re talking about you. You’ve got to have some resentment built up. You’ve had almost a year to plan your revenge.”
His face went placid, hiding the emotions she knew rippled just under the surface and beyond her reach for the moment.
“I’ve had time to figure things out. Time to make sense of what happened to Amy. A patch of hell, Detective, not a minute of it spent on revenge.”
He stood at the foot of the bed looking like a warrior poised for battle. Hard, prepared, invincible.
Mariah suppressed an insurmountable wave of sympathy. “Will you consent to a polygraph?”
Clutching the footboard rail, he stared at her for a moment before she saw his shoulders relax. Whatever grudge existed between the two men was still there. She had the facts of the case, but not from his point of view.
“No.” His arms dropped to his sides. “Get some rest.” He strode out of the room, leaving her alone with a crackling fire and more questions than answers.
Gingerly she picked up the steaming mug he’d carried in, and smelled the vapors. Earl Grey, her favorite. Its rich aroma of bergamot wafted up her nose and calmed her nerves. She clutched the mug in both hands, letting the blessed warmth infuse her fingers.
She was lucky to be alive. She owed Baylor McCullough her life. Could she cut him some slack?
The question burned a path in her brain between her professional obligation as an officer of the law, and her happiness at being alive instead of a human popsicle.
She sipped the tea, letting it heat her throat, until she was warm and relaxed and barely able to keep her eyelids open. Setting the empty mug on the nightstand, she snuggled into the covers, listening to the wind batter the sturdy ranch house, much like her gratitude toward Baylor McCullough battered her resolve about his guilt.
Amy McCullough had been her friend years ago, but she’d lost touch with her after high school. How had she and Baylor met? What had their relationship been like?
She closed her eyes, letting the questions compile in her brain. She’d read every last word of the accident report, every interview…so why had James Endicott been so determined to prosecute Baylor in a case that read like a tragic accident out of a horror flick?
Wham…wham…wham.
Mariah bolted awake and sat up, trying to place the loud banging coming from somewhere in the unfamiliar house.
A fire still blazed in the fireplace. Fresh wood had recently been added, judging by the still uncharred ends of the logs.
“Hello,” she called out. No response.
Where was Baylor?
A measure of caution edged down her spine. She threw back the covers and crept out of bed.
“Hello,” she called as she crossed to the doorway and stared out into the living room.
The fire in the living-room hearth was little more than a heap of glowing embers now, but Baylor’s woodsy scent hung in the air, surrounding her, and she sensed he hadn’t been gone long.
Wham!
Mariah jumped.
A cut of icy wind sliced into her, raising goose bumps on her body. The noise was coming from somewhere in the area of the kitchen.
Easing
