Flash Point Read online

  “You have proof of that?”

  Steadier, feeling less shaky, she nodded. “Yeah. There’s a box in my car with files. I have letters from the lawyer and copies of everything I signed. I told you I can be here.”

  “Show me the paperwork.”

  He followed her to her car, and Emma opened the back hatch. She shoved aside a duffel to reach a large plastic bin with a hinged lid. Before she could pick it up he reached around her to lift it and carried it to the porch steps. He raised the light so she could see into the bin.

  Half the bin was taken up by the box containing an urn with her grandfather’s remains, the other half with hanging file folders. Walt’s will had stated he wanted his ashes scattered on the lake, so she would make that happen.

  First things first. Emma pushed through the files until she found the one she wanted. She pulled out a manila folder and handed it to the cop. He didn’t take it from her. Instead closing the lid of the bin and motioning for her to set down the file on the flat surface. “Open it and show me what you’ve got.”

  Emma could barely resist rolling her eyes. She pulled out the copy of the title transfer and, smiling sweetly, handed it to him. “Is this sufficient, Chief?”

  He scanned it before giving a brief nod. “For now.” After she replaced the file, he handed her the light and hefted the bin. “I’ll take this in for you.”

  Emma frowned. “I’m quite capable of taking it in myself.”

  He looked back at her. “I guess you are. I’ll take it in all the same.”

  She moved ahead to open the screen door. Cold and tired, she desperately wanted him to leave so she could unroll her sleeping bag, close her eyes, and snuggle in.

  After he set the bin on the check-in counter, he picked up the light and handed it to Emma. “Here, keep this until you get the electricity on.”

  She wanted to tell him he could keep his fancy light but the idea of stumbling around the cabin if her flashlight batteries died held little appeal. She took the light.

  “I really was more prepared than it might seem. I called the power company last week and ordered service. They told me it would be on by today.”

  “Call them in the morning. It’s a long shot but they might come out on the weekend. Do you have a cell phone?”

  She nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”

  He reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a card and a pen, flipping the card over to write on the back. “Here’s my cell number. Put it in your phone. I live close by and can be here in a couple of minutes if you have any trouble.”

  Emma shook her head. “Thanks, but that’s not necessary. I can take care of myself.”

  He set the card on the counter. “Take it anyway.” He gave her a long look. “The Bluebird Motel has rooms available, you know. You could get a good night’s sleep, come back in the morning.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll be fine.”

  He shrugged and lifted his hand in a half salute before walking outside to his SUV. The driver’s door slammed, and Emma watched the big vehicle back up and turn onto the dirt driveway that led to the highway. When his taillights disappeared from view, she shivered.

  She didn’t like cops. She really didn’t. But she sure hadn’t felt so alone when Police Chief Brad Gallagher had been with her.

  ***

  Pulling onto the narrow highway, Brad fought the urge to go back and make sure Emmaline Kincaid was settled. His job was to serve and protect, and it went against the grain to leave a woman alone in an unfamiliar area without electricity. An idea which, no doubt, would incite his mother and sisters to clobber him. But still.

  The inside of his SUV smelled like the burger and fries he’d picked up at the diner. His rumbling stomach let him know too long had passed since his late lunch. He turned right onto the gravel road that was his driveway, pulling in behind his garage as the motion lights blazed on. He waited for the garage door to rise, his thoughts on Walt Kincaid getting sicker and sicker and still trying to run that rental business. Like other folks in town, Brad had tried to visit him regularly, to help out when he could.

  The old guy had sure liked talking about his granddaughter. Brad still remembered the uncomfortable jolt the first time he saw that photo of Walt and Emmaline. She’d been about eighteen or nineteen, wearing a broad smile and a fishing hat perched on her head, an arm wrapped around her grandfather’s waist. Those smoky gray eyes laughing at the camera had drawn him in. Seeing her now felt like a sucker punch. He hadn’t needed to look at her driver’s license to know she was Walt’s granddaughter. He eased the SUV into the garage, thinking that as pretty as she’d looked in the photo, the real deal was a whole lot more potent.

  Grabbing the bag holding his dinner, he exited the garage and made his way to the back of his cabin. He’d nuke the burger and fries to warm them, then he’d get himself a cold beer and catch a little ESPN, see how the Giants were doing.

  He pushed back on an odd feeling of discontent. That kind of evening had always been fine in the past. Something about tonight made him feel restless. Like something was missing.

  Ignoring those thoughts, he opened his back door and walked into the empty house.

  Chapter Two

  Emma slowed her Toyota where the highway curved into Hangman’s Loss. Despite the unfamiliar surroundings and the cold temperature, she had slept dreamlessly and woken ravenous. She’d eaten her last PB&J late the night before, and this morning the idea of splurging on a hot breakfast had been too tempting to ignore.

  She glanced to her left where the lake glinted silver, choppy waves forming in the stiff breeze. The highway that ran past her cabins became Main Street once it hit town. Hangman’s Loss looked bright and shiny in the early morning sunlight. Most of the businesses bore a Western motif, and flower boxes along the boardwalk provided splashy color. Pine trees dotted the landscape, and the sky was a deeper blue than she had ever seen in Los Angeles.

  The town had a slow, lazy feel though Emma knew business would be hopping during the two peak seasons. Summer drew water and mountain enthusiasts, while winter snows brought skiers to the slopes on the far side of the lake. Now in mid-spring she figured most of the people walking along the wooden boardwalks were locals.

  Passing an older, wood-sided building, Emma saw what looked to be a likely place for breakfast. The wooden sign over the door identified it as Hangman’s Best Café and Bakery, and a board painted with a cartoon character of a hangman wearing a black hood and holding an empty noose decorated the side of the door. An A-frame sign on the boardwalk displayed a steaming cappuccino and advertised the special of the day, the Western Bagel Sandwich with egg, bacon, and cheese. Her decision made, Emma pulled onto a side street to park.

  When she opened the café door, the smell of coffee and something baking with cinnamon made her mouth water. Joining the line at the counter, she noted a poster tacked to a bulletin board that announced the Hangman’s Loss Founders’ Day Picnic to be held at a park by the lake.

  Framed paintings on the wall, one with a card noting the artist’s gallery on Main Street, showed how the town must look in winter with snow on the ground and store windows warmly lit and welcoming. She hoped she would still be here when the snows came again.

  A wide display case filled with muffins, scones, and other baked goods stood beside the cash register. The smiling blonde taking orders at the counter had a white apron tied around her waist and looked to be in her late twenties, about Emma’s age. She chatted with a lady whose silver-gray hair was restrained in a dignified bun while she expertly boxed muffins.

  The door behind Emma opened and closed, its bell announcing another customer while she listened to their conversation.

  “Mrs. Donahue, are these muffins for you or are you going to share a few with your beau?”

  She liked that the woman behind the counter knew Mrs. Donahue and could tease her about a beau. It didn’t matter how many times Emma had shopped at the market near her L.A. apartment, the clerk
always looked at her with the same blank lack of recognition.

  “Maybe they are for my beau,” the old woman said slyly as she turned with her box. Looking past Emma’s shoulder, she added, “And here he is.”

  Emma glanced back and felt her stomach dip. His eyes were green, a deep, dark green that locked on hers for a long moment before shifting to the elderly woman.

  “Has that hillside stayed in place, Mrs. Donahue?”

  Emma tried to edge to the side and wished she could disappear. That morning she’d decided she could avoid the chief completely if she didn’t attract any attention to herself. She’d planned to buy a lantern from an outdoor shop, then drop his off at the police station when his vehicle wasn’t in the parking lot. She didn’t want there to be any reason for him to stop by the cabins.

  Mrs. Donahue glanced curiously at Emma, then back at the man who’d come to stand beside her. “Yes, Bradley, and I’m going to see Bert Morales about the retaining wall, like you said. I hope he’ll be able to build it quickly before it rains again.” She held out a hand shaky with age, offering the box. “These blueberry muffins Madison baked this morning are for you. I don’t know that digging out a mudslide is in the police chief’s job description, but I want you to know I appreciate it. Share them with that boy, Warren. It’s a wonder he’s old enough to shave, much less be a police officer, but he was good help yesterday with a shovel.”

  The chief grinned, and an electric shock rippled through Emma. Who knew he had a killer smile?

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you. We’ll enjoy these.”

  Mrs. Donahue nodded, then walked with careful steps to the door. He moved back and opened it to her dignified thank you. Emma heard the squawk of his radio and, to her relief, he stepped outside to respond to it.

  She turned back to find the woman, Madison, eyeing Emma with curiosity. “Welcome. What can I get for you?”

  Emma stepped forward. “I’ll have the Western Bagel with a bowl of the fresh fruit and a large coffee, please.”

  “You must be new in town.”

  Emma shifted uncomfortably as she pulled out her wallet, then silently scolded herself. If she wanted to belong to this small town, if she wanted people to know her name, she had to get over her natural reserve and get used to being asked, and answering, questions. “I’m Emma Kincaid.” She paused, then added, “I inherited the Hangman’s Cabin and Lake Resort.”

  At Madison’s surprised look, Emma spoke evenly. “It was my grandfather’s.” She wondered if others would think what the chief apparently did—that she was only here for her inheritance and she hadn’t cared about her grandfather.

  “Well, that’s something.” Madison’s smile had dimmed somewhat. “I’m Maddy. We always wondered what happened to Walt’s family. He could be real closemouthed about himself.” Her look was assessing. “Are you planning to open the cabins for the summer season?”

  “I hope to. I haven’t had a chance to look around yet, though.” She was going to leave it there. Keep it short like she always did, not be too forthcoming. But the pretty woman’s expectant expression had her adding, “I got in late yesterday and haven’t checked out the condition of the cabins. I need to get the propane system inspected and the electricity on, and then I’ll figure out more definitively when I can open.”

  Maddy handed Emma her change. “If I see Bert Morales, I’ll ask him to check out the propane tank. He’ll be straight with you. As for the electricity, you can try calling, but if it’s not on now, you aren’t likely to get any help until Monday.” Maddy looked at her thoughtfully. “Do you have a camp lantern or a flashlight or something?”

  Emma nodded. “I have a flashlight. I’ll be fine.” No point mentioning the light the chief had left since she planned to return it after breakfast.

  Maddy waved away Emma’s comment. “It gets awful dark out there.” She nodded toward the man outside the door. “Brad will have a lantern you can borrow at the police station. Either that, or I bet your grandfather had one for emergencies.”

  Emma shifted uncomfortably. “Actually, Chief Gallagher came by yesterday evening right after I arrived. I think he wanted to make sure I wasn’t breaking in. He loaned me a lantern.”

  Maddy nodded, her blue eyes warm. “I’m not surprised. Not much in this town gets by Brad. He’ll want to make sure you can get on out there, that you don’t have any trouble.”

  “I don’t need him checking on me. I’ll be fine,” Emma repeated.

  From a window to the kitchen, the cook passed through her breakfast sandwich with strawberries and melon in a small bowl. Maddy handed the tray to Emma.

  “I’m sure you will be. Go ahead and get your coffee over at that counter. Enjoy your first breakfast at Hangman’s Loss.”

  Emma stood at the counter to add sugar and milk to her coffee. Through the glass door, she could see the cop had finished with the radio and was now talking with an older man who wore bright yellow suspenders over a worn denim shirt.

  Despite him being a cop, despite not wanting to notice anything about him, Emma took in details she’d missed the previous night. His hair was a deep, rich brown and on the longish side, brushing over his collar. The bright sunlight set off mahogany highlights. He seemed to reject a uniform, and instead wore a navy-blue chambray shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing strong forearms. Way too appealing and, she knew, completely untouchable.

  As the chief opened the door, Emma took her breakfast into the dining area. She slid into a booth with a view of Main Street and hoped fervently he would make his a to-go order.

  Surreptitiously, she watched him walk to the order counter to reach across and grab a coffee mug. He kissed Maddy briefly on the cheek and said, “I’ll settle up with you at lunch, darlin’. See you.”

  He stopped to add sugar to his coffee and Emma glanced quickly out the window to before he caught her staring. A kiss and an endearment. It looked like the hunky police chief had a girlfriend. Good for him. She didn’t need him making her heart go all funny. If being a cop wasn’t enough, add a girlfriend, and he most certainly fell into the no-touch, off-limits zone.

  Emma bit into her bagel sandwich, her first hot meal in days. Chewing thoughtfully, she observed the people around her. A group of elderly men sat together over coffee in a corner booth, newspapers spread before them. They looked like a regular coffee klatch.

  At another table a young couple with a towheaded toddler looked to be enjoying a morning out. What usually didn’t trouble her, that she was an observer of relationships rather than a participant, bothered her today.

  By necessity and circumstance she’d always dealt with her problems on her own, but sometimes she sure did wish she was a part of something, a family or community that would be there for her and have her back.

  ***

  Brad filled his mug, letting his gaze sweep the dining room. Part of that was the job, keeping an eye on what was what. The other part was personal. There she sat, gazing out the window, looking a little lost. And for the second time in twenty-four hours he felt the pull that made him think if there were a hundred people in the room, he’d see only her.

  He slid into the seat across the table from her, sliding the box of muffins to the side. He could almost feel her tension ratchet up several notches. The hand gripping her coffee mug tightened to white knuckles, and the hiss of breath when she took a hasty sip made him think she’d scalded her tongue.

  He raised a brow. He’d like to think she was reacting to him as a man, but figured it more likely the badge bothered her. “You sure are jumpy. Law enforcement make you nervous?” He took a slow sip of coffee, letting the caffeine do its job. “You hiding something, Emmaline?”

  “It’s Emma, Chief Gallagher.” She eyed him levelly. “And no, I’ve got nothing to hide. I guess it’s your job to be suspicious.”

  “Maybe. Call me Brad.”

  He sat for a long moment, then figured he might as well get it out of the way and ask the question that had be
en bothering him in the months since Walt Kincaid’s illness and death. “Why weren’t you here when your grandfather was dying?”

  “That’s my business.”

  “True. But I know this town, and if you plan on staying here, that’s not going to fly. It’ll go a long way if you’re straight with folks. Walt kept to himself, but that doesn’t mean people didn’t care about him.”

  Carefully, she set down her fork and took a deep breath, gray eyes direct. “Okay, but I don’t want to go into all the details. The primary reason was that my mom and my grandfather were sick at the same time. They died within days of each other.”

  Shit. Walt had said something about his daughter being sick, but not how sick. “How did you deal with that?”

  She swallowed convulsively and took another hit of coffee. “I’d been calling Grandpa daily, but he didn’t tell me how bad he was until the very end. He wanted me to stay with my mom, so that’s what I did.”

  He held her gaze, then nodded. “That must have been a difficult choice.”

  “It was.” She picked up her fork and speared a piece of cantaloupe. “I guess people here will think I didn’t care about my grandfather, that I just showed up for the inheritance.”

  “Maybe at first, but you can explain otherwise. Plus, if you don’t turn around and sell to the highest bidder, they’ll see the place means something to you.”

  Two women carrying steaming mugs and plates with scones smiled and said good morning as they walked past. “Mrs. Chastain, Mrs. Montes.” Brad nodded his head in greeting. He caught Emma’s questioning look. “Retired teachers. They taught just about every kid in Hangman’s Loss at some point.”

  He acknowledged a wave from across the room before leaning back in his seat, forearms resting on the edge of the table. He found his attention caught by the long, slender line of her throat, the way she had of angling her chin. His reaction shouldn’t surprise him. In those last few months before his death, Brad had tried to visit the old man most days. To pass the time, Walt would read him letters written by his granddaughter. Starting in her late teens, Emmaline Kincaid had sent her grandfather old-fashioned, snail-mail letters almost every week.