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As I pull up the video from the day Dakota had her panic attack, my police scanner crackles on the desk.
“Car 59 ready to go. Deputy Topper and Deputy Andrews on duty.”
“Dispatch: received 141. You were late to the party tonight, Topper, so you can have the first job. 315 at the top of Dead Fred’s Curve. Vehicle is a black Chevy.”
“Keeping tabs on the town?” Dakota asks with a smile.
“Baby, you know it.”
We sit in silence and watch the sped-up footage from noon until five.
At three forty-five p.m., I pause it. “You know him?”
She shakes her head.
“Wait.” I lean in. After a long second, I frown. “I know him.”
Dakota freezes. “Who is it?”
“Pappy Starr.” I point at the man waddling down Main Street. A big-time rodeo agent, who Wyatt and Charlie have avoided like the plague. I can already hear Wyatt complaining now.
I fast forward and freeze it around the time of Dakota’s panic attack. There is a man, dressed in jeans and a jacket, walking by The Corner Store window.
Dakota leans closer to the screen. Her pupils dilate.
My heart hammers in fury. “Recognize him?”
“No.” A shudder rocks her frame. She folds both arms over her belly. “I don’t think so.”
“If your ex is in town, how’d he get here?”
“He’d fly.” She startles. Grabs my arm. “Davis. He has his own plane.”
I give her a look, fighting the urge to get frustrated with her. “That info would have been handy when you got here, Cupcake.”
“He has money. Owns properties. He could travel anywhere.” A guilty look overtakes her pretty face, and she says, “I call his work every Monday to check in on him. He’s been there.”
“Again, more news that would have come in handy,” I say flatly.
With a small growl that makes me smile, Dakota stands and rubs slow circles on her belly. She’s been touching her belly more often, and I drink her in, noting every single detail. She’s put on weight. Her hair’s shiny and her eyes are without clouds. She looks happier than she has in weeks.
She paces the Bullshit Box, those gears in that beautiful brain of hers turning. “I know I saw him, Davis. I’m not crazy.”
“Not saying you are.” I push out of my chair and go to her. “I don’t doubt that you did. The mind can be a powerful thing.” She stares at me patiently, so I go on, the memories unlocking. “The night after my team was taken out, I was cleaning up in the bathroom and…” A muscle works in my jaw. “I saw Sully in the mirror. I threw up. Freaked the fuck out. My bunkmate thought I was losing it. Now, six years later, I still check the mirror when I go in to wash up. Trauma hides, but it doesn’t go away.”
“Trauma hides,” she echoes.
“I shouldn’t have told you that,” I say with a frown. Why in the hell did I tell her that? Making her feel better, not worse, is the objective.
“I’m glad you did.” She reaches up and cups my cheek. “Makes me feel less alone.”
It’s a compulsion to lean in and sweep my mouth against her lips.
I hold her close, trying to tamp down the guilt welling in my chest. Temptation bested me last week. In her fragile state, Dakota should have been off-limits, yet I took advantage of that.
What kind of asshole fucks a woman when she’s vulnerable?
Me. I’m the asshole.
