Savage by Nancy Holder Page B

slung over their shoulders, one man sighting down a handgun as he raised it toward the ceiling. Some of them were drinking coffee.
    The front door opened, and Trick stood in the doorway in his sheepherder’s jacket and a pair of leather gloves. Snowflakes dusted the crown of his black cowboy hat and he kicked the snow off his boots before he crossed the threshold. He was holding a rifle at his side.
    He looked up and saw her, and hurried across the room toward her. She flew down the stairs as he set down his rifle and threw his arms around her, planting a kiss on her lips. That kiss loosened something inside her that she’d been holding onto very tightly, and she fought hard to stay in control. She wanted to crawl inside a little place where it was just her and Trick and nothing else, not a thing, certainly none of this.
    “Hey, girl,” he said softly, kissing her again. He pressed his cheek against the side of her head and she heard his thundering heartbeat. He smelled so good. He felt even better. She wanted to stay like this forever.
    He whispered something against her hair, in Russian, and she looked up at him.
    “What did you say?”
    Her field of vision was nothing but his eyes. “I think you know,” he murmured. And then the light in his eyes faded. Something had replaced his joy in seeing her.
    “What’s going on? What’s happened?” she asked, indicating the crowd in her grandfather’s living room.
    “Oh, darlin’,” he said, and he wrapped his arms around her again. He cradled the back of her head and rubbed his cheek against her temple. She wanted to melt against him again but now she was too afraid.
    “Someone’s died? Someone else has been killed?” she said.
    “Yes.”
    The news hit her like a punch to her stomach. More death. “Who?”
    “I don’t know. Your pappy didn’t say. He called, I came.”
    She shut her eyes tightly. “Mauled?” she ground out.
    “Neck broke first, looks like. Before the . . . mauling. So maybe this time it really was just a wild animal.”
    She looked at the milling crowd. Faces were vaguely familiar — she’d seen a lot of these people around town, but hadn’t actually met many of them.
    “Folks in Wolf Springs are used to taking care of things themselves,” Trick said, following her gaze. “It’s not like our police department can do much. We only have two officers.”
    “But it’s dark out. It’s dangerous. Guns, a big group—”
    “Exactly why I am going,” he said in a soft voice. At her look, he added, “Don’t want Doc out there without me.”
    She was touched beyond words. Her grandfather was Trick’s godfather, and Trick called him “Doc” because Mordecai McBride had a PhD in philosophy. He had taught at the University of Arkansas for many years.
    “You don’t tell him I said that, hear? Man’s got his pride,” Trick said.
    “He told me you’ve been cleared of suspicion in Mike’s murder.” She made a little face in case it wasn’t cool with him to talk about it.
    His face hardened. “Official word is lack of evidence. Unofficially? I think my parents made a donation to the police officers’ benevolent fund.”
    “Oh, my God, a bribe ?” she blurted.
    He rolled his eyes. “And you thought graft and corruption were just big-city values.”
    “But I met Sergeant Lewis. He helped find our silver. He wouldn’t take a bribe.”
    He gave his head a little shake. “Your daddy was a district attorney, yes? I’ll bet he knew some real nice police officers who took freebies now and then. First you give Officer Friendly a cup of coffee here, a donut there, tickets to a Lakers game. Then she fixes your parking ticket. Next she withholds evidence so your kid stays out of jail.” He blanched. “I didn’t mean it that way. No evidence is being withheld on my account.”
    She flashed back to the first time she’d met him, when he had made a big deal out of having to be formally invited into the cabin before he entered.