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Bronson grinned inwardly. Shane always did that. Moved his lips while reading. The habit was charming and brought a hundred memories back all at once, leaving him a little breathless.
“Ah, Mr. Montgomery,” the sheriff said, walking toward him with hand outstretched. The odds of getting the actual sheriff of Bernalillo County to do something as menial as serve a paper to a demolitions crew were astronomical, but they’d been friends ever since the sheriff got himself into a bit of a scuffle over what boiled down to a real estate scam. Bronson came to the rescue and the sheriff had felt indebted to him ever since.
“Sheriff Lopez,” he said, taking the man’s beefy hand into his own.
Even the tan Stetson the sheriff wore couldn’t keep the low morning sun out of his eyes. He squinted against it before turning back to the foreman. “I was just explaining to Mr.—”
“Crews,” Bronson said, interrupting the official.
Shane wrenched his gaze off the paper and planted it on Bronson. First on his face then his business suit only to return it to his face and let it linger there in all its sapphire glory.
Bronson was hoping for a hint of recognition. None came, but the sliver of interest that flashed across Shane’s face made up for it tenfold.
“Have we met?” Shane asked.
Boy, had they, but now was not the time. At least not in front of the sheriff, Mrs. Acosta, and the half dozen crewmen who’d wandered closer, curious to know what was going on.
“A long time ago,” he said, leaving it at that before wandering up the uneven walk toward the front door.
“You don’t want to do that,” Shane said after issuing an order for his men to start packing up. He followed on Bronson’s heels.
“I’ll be on my way then,” the sheriff called out.
“Thank you, Sheriff,” Bronson said over his shoulder, pausing for a quick glance at Shane. “I just bought the place. Don’t you think I should at least have a look?”
“No,” Shane said, hurrying to take the steps to the front porch before Bronson could. Once on top, he turned and literally blocked Bronson from ascending the final step, the man’s shoulders even wider from Bronson’s new perspective. “It’s been condemned. It’s too dangerous to enter.”
Bronson let a grin lift one corner of his mouth before sidestepping around him. “I’ll take my chances.”
Shane didn’t budge. He lifted an arm to block him yet again. The appendage hovered a centimeter from Bronson’s chest, the sleek muscles taut, contracted as though readying for a fight.
“Boss?” one of the crewmen called. “Is there a problem?”
Bronson turned to see the concern on the men’s faces as well as Mrs. Acosta’s. She took a hesitant step forward, still hugging her notebook. He offered her the barest shake of his head. She backed down immediately, but her concern remained firmly in place.
“No problems here,” Shane said. He relocated a slim, almost elegant hand, flattening it across Bronson’s chest. “Right?”
Bronson studied the hand, the warmth from it spreading like a wildfire thundering through him. “If you knew what this suit cost, you’d be more careful.”
Shane leaned closer, his breath fanning across Bronson’s cheek when he spoke. “You’d be more careful, too, if you knew how dangerous this place was.”
Bronson finally looked back at him, their gazes the exact same height. And then it happened. The faintest hint of recognition flashed across the man’s face.
He lowered his hand and took a small step back as though stumbling with the realization. “Montgomery?” he asked, his voice betraying his disbelief. “As in Bronson Montgomery?”
“Better late than never,” Bronson said before stepping around the man once again. He wouldn’t have been able to suppress the Cheshire smile he now wore if Mrs. Acosta had paid him to. And she’d tried once, offering him a million dollars in a board meeting when he busted her flirting with his accountant. She didn’t have a million dollars. Even if she had, he wouldn’t have curbed his amusement for anything. The woman was a bombshell and she was flirting with a balding, pudgy bean counter. A blading, pudgy bean counter with a heart of gold. He was all for the match.
He took out the set of keys the state had just given him that morning and started trying one after another until he found one that slid into the loose doorknob and turned. The glass had been broken out, but someone had boarded up the door and most of the windows, doing their best to keep the vagrants out. Thankfully, the razor wire would have helped with that as well. Since there wasn’t much graffiti, Bronson assumed some combination of the two had worked.
“Wait,” Shane said, following him inside.
Bronson stopped short, letting his transitions adjust to the darkened room. Trash and random debris littered the entryway and great room. All furnishings were gone, probably reallocated by the state or sold at auction. His gaze drifted up the stairs and across the landing, wondering if the beds were still there. Wondering if the bed he’d hidden under countless times was still there.
“Why would you buy this place after everything that happened?” Shane asked.
Bronson forced his feet to move toward the stairs, and said absently, “You still keep your hair blond.”
“Because it is blond,” he said. “I heard you went all Howard Hughes.”
