Stowaway by Becky Barker Page A

it. I don’t want him up here lecturing or hovering. I just want a couple gallons of gas.”
    “Well, it’ll be my hide if he finds out from somebody else.” Dwayne moved to the back of his vehicle and lifted out a five gallon gas can. “I’m duty bound to report the theft.”
    “In that case, I’ll be duty bound to tell him how you showed Marla Moville your cruiser last week. You had the windows nice and steamed in the wee hours Tuesday morning.”
    His response was explosive. “Damn it now, Keri!”
    “Damn it now, Dwayne!”
    Nick watched as the two faced off with equally belligerent expressions. Stubbornness had to be a genetic Merritt trait, but he knew who’d win this particular battle. Dwayne set the gas can on the porch, grunted a concession to her demand and turned to go. He had nearly returned to the truck when Keri yelled again.
    “Hey.”
    “What?”
    “How’s Deputy Monroe doing?”
    Nick strained to hear the response.
    “Okay, I guess, but that friend of his tried to kill him again last night. Some friend. Destroyed some equipment, but the hospital alarms scared him off again.”
    “You mean Lamanto?”
    The only part of Dwayne’s response Nick could hear was the word foreigner . His jaw locked in irritation.
    Keri grabbed a porch pillar to brace against the wind, still yelling to be heard. “Don’s okay?”
    Thunder prevented Nick from hearing the reply. He watched her wave as her cousin revved the engine of his jacked-up truck. As soon as he headed down the road, she stepped back into the cabin and took the gas can with her.
    “Whew! It’s really getting ugly out there,” she said, setting the can aside and leaning against the closed door.
    Nick lowered the gun as he moved closer. “What’d he say about Don?”
    “That you tried to kill him again last night.”
    He shrugged off her sarcasm. “How is he? How successful was the attack?”
    “All Dwayne said was he’s still unconscious.”
    “How the hell could it happen?” he demanded harshly. “Why the hell wasn’t someone guarding him?”
    She stared, studying him with big, curious eyes. “Are you angry because you’re still under suspicion?”
    “I’m angry because Don is an officer of the law. He deserves more respect, some loyalty and a helluva lot better protection.”
    Her chin rose and her spine stiffened. “Times are tough everywhere,” she defended. “Hospital and law enforcement work hours have been slashed. We do the best with what we’ve got.”
    “That’s an excuse for letting a good man die?”
    “He’s not dead!” she snapped. “Our trauma team got him stabilized in record time. The gunshot wound was superficial, but he suffered a severe blow to his head. We all do our best. What we can’t do is protect the world against lunatics with guns!”
    “Can’t or won’t?” he snapped.
    She glared at him. “What are you suggesting?”
    “I’m saying it’s damned suspicious that someone managed to get to him again.”
    “They think you’re the villain. They probably thought you left the state.”
    “I’m not, and I didn’t.”
    “Maybe you didn’t shoot him but you can’t blame them for suspecting you. You disappeared and hid from the search teams. Why not go straight to my dad and tell him you’d been shot too?”
    The question surprised him into silence. He clamped his mouth shut and returned her steady gaze. Tension hummed between them as the silence grew. He could see the wheels of her brain spinning until she came up with the answer herself.
    “You don’t trust my dad?” she said on a gasp of outrage, her body stiffening. “You think he or someone in his department is dirty?” When he still didn’t comment, she stepped close and slapped an open hand on his chest. The slap jarred his shoulder a little but the heat of her touch seared him through the thin shirt. That, combined with her flare of temper, stirred him in a totally different way.
    “Listen here, city boy! My dad is the