So what if she was attractive? Nick had more self-discipline than he knew what to do with, and a whole lot more common sense. He certainly knew better than to court trouble. Erin McNeal had trouble written all over that shapely body of hers. Not that he'd been looking, of course. But there were times when a man couldn't help but see the finer points of a woman, no matter how staunch his resistance.
Nick was truthful enough with himself to realize the woman intrigued him. But he assured himself he could handle it. Even after three years, he was in no frame of mind to take on a relationship. After losing Rita, he'd sworn he'd never put his heart on the line ever again. The consequences were too dire. Besides, he didn't even like McNeal.
The bell on the front door jingled. Nick jumped, cursing when some of his coffee sloshed over the top of his cup. Even without looking, he knew it was Erin. Steeling himself against the anticipation winding through his chest, he glanced out his office door. His heart kicked against his ribs when he spotted her striding toward him through the outer office.
He watched her approach against his better judgment, knowing his slow perusal of her would probably cost him later. The navy jacket and skirt she was wearing should have been conservative, but the sway of her hips and the shape of her thighs beneath the material were anything but. She reminded him of a sleek panther. Graceful. Wary. A little dangerous. A hint of tightly wound energy lay behind that smooth gait. Her legs were long, her strides confident. She returned his gaze levelly.
"Morning," he said.
"Morning." She entered his office.
"You're early. It's barely eight."
"I like to get an early start."
Even as an inner voice warned him against it, Nick found his eyes seeking out the silk blouse beneath her jacket. Before he could look away, the outline of lace and curves he had absolutely no business noticing scattered his concentration.
Silently cursing himself, he motioned to the chair opposite his desk. "Have a seat."
"Thanks."
Her eyes seemed darker today. They were the color of a rain forest, filled with shadows and secrets as mysterious as the forest itself. Taking the chair he'd indicated, she crossed her legs.
When her jacket parted, he looked down at his paperwork. "Did you find an apartment?"
"Actually, I took the one you recommended."
"Good. I think you'll find Mr. Barton is a fair landlord." Nick wasn't sure why he felt so off-kilter. In the ten years he'd been chief of police, he'd never felt awkward with his deputies. What was it about Erin McNeal that had him acting like a tongue-tied juvenile?
Disgusted by his behavior, he rose and walked to the metal file cabinet behind his desk, where her uniforms, service revolver and badge lay in a neat pile. He scooped it up and set it on the desk between them.
"You and I are riding together today," he said. "We'll be together until your probationary period is up in thirty days. I'll show you around town. Point out the trouble spots, the city limits, the landmarks. Clyde Blankenship's horses got out this morning. We'll drive by and make sure he fixed the fence. He's over ninety years old and doesn't always do a good job."
"Horses?"
Nick frowned at her, wondering if the lady hotshot cop from Chicago considered herself above such menial law enforcement tasks. "School started last week. Hector drew crosswalk duty. We'll drive by and see how he's doing."
Erin nodded.
"There's a locker room next to the water cooler," he said. "You can change there. Locker number five."
"It'll just take me a minute to change clothes."
The image of her slipping out of that skirt came to mind unbidden, but he ruthlessly shoved it away. "Assignments and shifts are posted weekly on the board above the time clock."
Rising, she gathered her uniforms, revolver and badge from his desk. "How many other deputies work for you?" she asked.
"Hector and two part-timers." Nick caught a whiff of her sweet, exotic scent—and nearly lost his train of thought. This was becoming downright annoying.
He studied her, trying not to notice the softness of her mouth or the delicate slant of her jaw. "Any questions?" he asked, rising.
"I'll just get dressed."
Rounding his desk, he started toward the main office, starkly aware that she was behind him. "Locker room's there." He motioned toward the hall leading to the rear of the building.
"I'll be five minutes."
"Take your time."
* * *
Erin's hands shook as she stepped into her uniform slacks and tucked in her shirt. Her service revolver lay on the bench beside her, reminding her that after six months and four interviews she was once again a police officer. She should have been ecstatic now that she was finally getting her life back on track. But the reality of what she faced was as disconcerting as it was thrilling. The responsibility of it pressed down on her like a lead weight. As she slipped the revolver into her holster, she tried not to think about whether she'd have the guts to use it.
Erin refused to second-guess herself. Not when she'd already passed the point of no return.
Smoothing her shirt, she picked up her extra uniform and started for the door, all too aware that her heart was pounding. "You can do this," she murmured, determined not to let the uncertainty rattle her.
The sound of a child's voice coming from the outer office broke into her thoughts. Curious, she continued down the hall and stopped on entering the main office. A little girl with hair the color of a wheat field sat at Hector's desk, tugging a coloring book from her backpack. She looked to be only eight or nine years old, but possessed the most adult eyes Erin had ever seen on a child.
Nick had come out of his office and was walking toward the girl. "Why aren't you in school, honeybunch?" he asked.
The child shrugged. "I wanted to ride with you today."
"It's a schoolday."
"I don't want to go to school today."
Stooping, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, then stood back and regarded her with an expression of stern amusement. "I thought you liked school this year. Isn't today library day?"
"Mrs. McClellan doesn't like me."
"Doesn't like you? What's not to like?" He tousled her hair, his hand lingering. "Just between you and me, Mrs. McClellan told me you're her favorite librarian."
The little girl looked at the coloring book spread out on the desk. "Can't I just stay here awhile? I brought my coloring book, see? I'll be quiet."
"Honey, I'd love to spend the day with you, but you can't miss any more school and I've got work to do." Digging in her backpack, he pulled out a box of colorful markers. "Who brought you here to the station?"
The little girl leaned over and shot Erin a less-than-friendly look over Nick's shoulder. "Who's that lady?"
Nick glanced at Erin, then turned back to the girl. "Her name's Erin. She's my new deputy—"
"That's a boy's name."
"Steph, I want you to tell me who brought you here."
"No one." She selected a marker and began to color. "I just left. Mr. Finn sent me to the office for talking to Kimmy Bunger during attendance. The hall monitor was in the bathroom, and nobody was paying any attention, so I just left."
Erin saw Nick's shoulders go rigid. "Wait a minute," he said firmly. "You just left? An adult didn't drive you here?"
"It's not that big a deal, Daddy. The school's only two blocks away."
"I'm afraid leaving school without permission is a big deal, Steph. You know I'm going to have to call the school and talk to the principal again, don't you?" Gently easing the marker from her fingers, he rounded her chair and pulled it back from the desk.
That was when Erin noticed the wheelchair. She stared, trying valiantly to curb the resulting shock.
"You know you're not allowed to leave school without permission," Nick said, picking up the phone and punching in numbers. "Why didn't you tell your teacher you wanted to go home? Why didn't you call me?"
In some small
corner of her mind, Erin heard him ask for the principal. She stood frozen in place, telling herself the sight of the wheelchair hadn't upset her, hadn't made her remember.
Images from the night of the shooting burst forth in her mind's eye. She fought the flashback, but it pressed down on her, a solid weight of fear that stole her concentration and threatened her control. Danny lying on the floor in a pool of blood. The churning in her gut. The smell of gunpowder.
The folded uniform she'd been clutching slipped from her hands and fell to the floor in a heap. Nick looked up, his eyes narrowing. Terrified he would misinterpret her reaction, Erin quickly scooped up the fallen uniform, then backed into the relative safety of the hall. Her chest felt as if it was being squeezed by a giant vise, but she forced air into her lungs. She was going to be okay, she assured herself. It had been a while since she'd had a flashback, but they still came on occasion. Whenever a sound or smell or sight reminded her of the night she'd been shot, it all came rushing back…
Ordering herself to calm down, she smoothed the front of her uniform and watched Nick kneel to tie his daughter's shoe. The little girl wore a pink sweatshirt and matching pants, with polka-dot sneakers. It was a happy outfit, made for climbing trees and playing hopscotch. But Erin could plainly see by the look in this child's eyes that she wasn't happy. She certainly wasn't going to get up out of that wheelchair and play hopscotch anytime soon.
"Get your books and markers together, kiddo," he said. "I'm taking you home."
"I don't want to go home."
"It's either school or home," he said firmly. "I'll let you choose."
"Please, Daddy, I want to go with you."
Erin didn't miss the pain that knifed across Nick's features. Jaw clenched, he looked down at the floor, then slowly straightened, as if the effort cost him more energy than he had to spare. "Put your books and markers in your book bag, honeybunch. I'll take you home."
Huffing in displeasure, the little girl wheeled closer to the desk and started throwing markers one by one into her book bag.
Erin hadn't even known Nick Ryan had a family. He didn't wear a ring; she'd assumed he was unmarried. That his child was handicapped struck a chord within her. Pain broke open in her chest—a slow ache that burgeoned until it enveloped her entire body. And her heart silently wept when she remembered another wheelchair, and a man she'd sentenced to the kind of hell she could only imagine in her worst nightmares.
"McNeal."
She started at the sound of Nick's voice, and forced her gaze to his.
Standing at the end of the hall, he shot her a look cold enough to freeze acid. "In my office."
Pressing her hand against her stomach, she walked past him and into his office. Oh, Lord, she hadn't intended to react to the wheelchair. She couldn't imagine what he must think of her.
Nick entered behind her and closed the door. When he turned to her, his eyes were the color of a force five tornado that was headed straight in her direction.
"If the wheelchair bothers you I suggest you go back to Chicago and forget you ever set foot in Logan Falls," he snapped.
"It doesn't—"
"You look like you just saw a ghost. I can't have you falling apart every time you see my daughter, for crying out loud."
Erin stared at him, heart pounding wildly, while the words built in her chest like a sickness. "I'm sorry. I was … distracted—"
"You were about to come apart at the seams," he interrupted.
"I was … thinking—"
"Thinking?"
"I was thinking about … Danny," she said, knowing it would be professional suicide to tell him about the flashbacks or the nightmares.
"What does he have to do with this?"
When she trusted her voice not to betray her, she raised her chin and met Nick's gaze. "He's in a wheelchair. I'm the one who put him there."
* * *
Because he had an eight-year-old daughter, Nick didn't usually curse, but today he made an exception. Of all the explanations Erin could have offered, the bit about her ex-partner knocked him speechless as effectively as a set of brass knuckles.
He was accustomed to negative reactions to his daughter's wheelchair. Some people stared. Others ignored her. Some people just smiled too much because they were uncomfortable with the prospect of a child who couldn't walk. No matter how innocent, those reactions invariably upset Stephanie—and set his own temper ablaze. He would never forget the day she'd come home from school crying so hard she couldn't speak. His heart had broken into a thousand pieces when she'd told him the kids had made fun of her. He couldn't count the number of times he'd wished it was him in that wheelchair instead of her.
He wasn't sure why, but he'd expected Erin to be different. She was a decorated cop. She'd seen a lot over the years. He'd hoped she'd be somehow above it. Then she'd hit him with that bit about her partner, and he'd realized her reaction didn't have anything to do with a lack of character, but with her own private hell.
Damn, he didn't want to have to deal with this.
"It was wrong of me not to tell you I'm still … dealing with what happened to Danny," she said.
"Frank didn't bother," he said dryly. "Why should you?"
"Frank doesn't hold me responsible. It's not an issue for him."
"He didn't clean up your file, did he?"
"He wouldn't do that."
"Internal Affairs cleared you?"
She looked at him as if she were about to walk the plank—and he was the one holding the gun at her back. "Yes."
Nick didn't like the way this was playing out. It was clear this woman had been exonerated by the department. The problem was she hadn't yet exonerated herself.
"The police department isn't the place for personal baggage," he said. "Even in Logan Falls."
"I'm working through it."
Even from three feet away he could see she was shaking. What in the world had happened to this woman? What had Frank gotten him into? Whatever the case, Nick wasn't happy about the situation. He sure didn't like the way he was reacting to her. At the moment, he wished he'd never heard of her. Wished he'd never hired her, for God's sake.
But another part of him knew that wasn't completely true. She might be an attractive woman who was affecting him in all the wrong ways. She might have let her partner down in a crisis. But she was still a cop. A cop who'd been cut down in the line of duty and needed a chance to get back on her feet.
Frowning, Nick crossed to his desk, but he didn't sit. His temper was still lit, but he knew it would be wrong of him to take it out on Erin. He didn't know all the details of what she'd gone through. Frank had told him the shooting wasn't directly her fault—she'd followed procedure for the most part. But her momentary hesitation had cost her—and her partner—dearly. The ensuing Internal Affairs investigation irrevocably damaged her career. She'd lost her confidence. In the end, she'd resigned voluntarily, to keep herself from getting fired.
"I hope this doesn't affect your decision about hiring me," she said.
He turned and looked at her, taking in the rigid shoulders. The high chin. The gaze that was level and a little too intense. His chest tightened uncomfortably when he realized it was taking most of her nerve just to maintain eye contact. Whatever happened in that warehouse had taken a heavy toll on her. She blamed herself, he realized. Nick knew firsthand how easy it was to accept blame when the real culprit wasn't able to.
"This isn't going to work out if you can't handle being around the wheelchair," he said.
"I can handle it."
"You sure about that?"
"It just … caught me off guard. I didn't mean to upset her."
"I don't think she noticed. But she's sensitive about her handicap. I don't want it to happen again."
"It won't." Guilt shimmered in the depths of Erin's eyes. "I overreacted. I'm sorry."
Once again, Nick couldn't take his eyes off her. She gazed steadily at him, her green eyes dark against her pale complexion. Rel
ief flashed through him when he realized she wasn't a crier. Female tears were the one thing he'd never handled well. Thank God he didn't have to deal with that heaped on top of those bottomless, troubled eyes and soft mouth.
"We don't have time to discuss this right now," he said. "But you owe me a more detailed explanation."
A breath shuddered out of her. "I know."
He glanced toward the door, beyond which Stephanie waited. He'd always been protective of his daughter. Especially since the car accident three years ago that had taken her mother from her and injured her spine. As of late, it seemed his protective instinct had grown into something even Nick couldn't control.
"I need to take her home," he said. "You can ride along. Then we'll start our shift, and we can talk."
"Look, Nick, I'm a good cop—"
"This has nothing to do with whether or not you're a good cop. The question is whether or not you're ready to return to the field."
"I'm ready," she snapped.
He contemplated her, trying not to notice the way the sunlight brought out the red in her hair and made it shine like Oriental silk. Damn her for complicating things by being a woman. Damn him for noticing.
"I hope you're right," he said, and headed toward the door.
* * *
Erin watched Nick scoop his daughter out of the wheelchair and settle her onto the back seat of the Suburban, where he strapped her in place. He didn't speak, didn't even look at Erin as he folded the wheelchair and stowed it in the rear. Crossing in front of the truck, he slid behind the wheel and started the engine.
Erin got in beside him, hating that she'd reacted to the wheelchair so intensely. She'd thought the flashbacks were over. But the moment she saw Stephanie's wheelchair, the night of the shooting had rushed back like a deluge of rancid floodwater. The man on the catwalk. The blue steel of a gun. The split-second hesitation that would haunt her the rest of her life.