she said with a hint of a smile. “His name is Logan.”
The little boy had settled down to a series of soft hitching sniffles. “Can I get something for him?” Dalton asked, trying to remember what he’d found comforting as a little boy. “A cookie or a toy or something?”
“There’s ice cream in the freezer. Strawberry—it’s his favorite.”
Dalton headed for the kitchen. He noticed, in passing, that she’d cleaned the place up sometime between the night before and now. Even the torn sofa cushions had been mended.
As he reached for the refrigerator’s freezer compartment, Briar said, “No, not that one. The one in the corner.”
He spotted a chest freezer nearby and pulled open the top. Inside, instead of the brand-name carton he was expecting, he found a large plastic tub labeled Strawberry Ice Cream in neat, clear handwriting. He pulled out the tub, uncovering what looked to be stacks and stacks of vacuum-packed cuts of some sort of meat. Looking closer, he saw that, like the ice cream, they were labeled in the same strong handwriting. Venison Shoulder, read one of the packages, with a date—December of the previous year—inscribed below. Another nearby contained pork—wild pig, to be exact—apparently put in the freezer only four weeks ago.
He closed the freezer and set the container of ice cream on the small kitchen table. “Hey, Logan, how about some ice cream?”
The little clinging monkey turned his tearstained face toward Dalton, his big gray eyes wide with a mixture of caution and curiosity.
Dalton tried again. “Ice cream, Logan. You want some?”
Logan looked up at his mother as if to seek her permission. She lowered him to the floor. “It’s okay,” she said. “You can have some.”
Logan crossed the distance to the kitchen with small cautious steps, still watching Dalton with a healthy dose of distrust.
But when Dalton plopped a hearty scoop of homemade strawberry ice cream into the bowl in front of his chair, he climbed up and grabbed the spoon, ready to dig in. By the time Dalton put away the ice-cream container and turned back to the kitchen, Logan was half-bathed in the sticky sweet stuff.
His mother stood at one of the front windows, peering out through a narrow gap in the curtains.
“Do you see anything?” Dalton asked, walking toward her.
She let the curtains fall closed and turned to look at him. “It’s dark out.”
Not quite the question he’d asked, but he let it go. “How’s your throat?”
“Why are you here?”
Yeah, he’d figured that question would occur to her sooner or later. “I don’t suppose you’d buy it if I said I was just driving by?”
Her dark eyebrows twitched in reply.
“I was staking out the place. In case the intruders returned.”
The tiniest hint of a smile curved one corner of her mouth. “And what did you plan to do if they did?”
“Call the cops.”
She nodded toward the Remington 700 propped by the door. “Where’d you get the rifle?”
“It’s mine.”
“You hunt a lot, do you?”
He took a stab at changing the subject. “Somebody around here does. Freezer’s full of game.”
“I bag as much as I can during the hunting seasons. We’ll live off that meat for the rest of the year.” She waved her hand toward the rifle. “May I?”
He nodded, and she picked up the weapon, first checking for ammunition. “I heard two rounds. Where did you aim?”
“At the ground.”
She looked up at him. “You have the rest of your ammo on you?”
He didn’t know if there was any other ammunition for the rifle at all, he realized. He’d been lucky it had been loaded—he wasn’t sure what he’d have done if he’d pulled the trigger and nothing had happened.
“Have you ever shot this rifle before?” She sounded as if she knew the answer.
“No.”
“Why do you have it, then?”
“Emergencies,” he answered, the truth too humiliating to admit.
From the look on her face, she saw through his answer anyway. She set the empty rifle against the wall. “If you’d like shooting lessons, I can help you out with that.”
“For a fee?”
Her gaze snapped up to meet his. “You saved us tonight. I reckon I could let you have a lesson for free.” Her voice tightened. “One, at least.”
Great. He’d insulted her. “I didn’t mean—”
“What do you think you’re going to find here?” She leaned her back against the front wall and crossed her arms, looking at him through narrowed eyes. “Or maybe you’re here because those men were working for you?”
He stared at her a moment, wondering if she was joking. The look on her face suggested otherwise. “You think I would put you and your son at risk? For what possible reason?”
“To play hero? To worm your way into my life so you could use me for whatever it is you’re up to.”
“What do you think I’m up to?”
She shrugged. “Hell if I know. Maybe you just want to punish your brother for existing.”
He wouldn’t mind knocking the smug smile off Doyle’s face now and then, but he wouldn’t use someone else to do it. He’d knock it off himself.
“I told you the truth last night at the hospital. I think your husband’s involvement with Wayne Cortland may have gone beyond sleeping with the man’s bookkeeper. I even think his murder wasn’t as random as the police believe.”
She was silent for a long moment, as if letting that thought sink in. Finally, she pushed herself away from the wall, rubbing her eyes with both hands. “What do you want from me? What do you think I can give you?”
It was a good question, and until just a few minutes ago, he’d have said all he wanted was a few minutes of her time, a chance to pick her brain for anything in her husband’s last few months of life that might offer a new lead in the Cortland case. But two attacks on the woman in a row went far beyond coincidence. Apparently he wasn’t the only person who thought Briar Blackwood could aid in the investigation, and unlike Dalton, the others didn’t care who got hurt in the process.
“I think the more pressing question is, why did someone break into your house last night? And why did someone attack you again tonight?”
The
