“What are you doing?”
He glanced over his shoulder. Standing right behind him, she stared at the now exposed ammo and pistol box as he pushed in his code. Instantly, the lid popped open, and he paused to pull and check the magazine in the Glock nestled inside, then shoved it into the black holster and strapped it on.
Good thing he had kept all his concealed carry permits, those had been one of the first things he’d showed the sheriff and JB when he got to town. They’d both told him to keep them. Maybe somewhere in the back of his mind, he’d known he’d be back in the business one way or another. So had they.
“You sure you know what to do with that?” She clutched her arms across her chest and watched every move he made.
He grinned. “Just a little bit.”
“Ever had to fire one of those?”
“Yep. What about you? You ever fired a gun?”
“Uncle Cal taught all his children plus me and my sisters how to fire a gun when we were old enough to take the safety courses. Of course, my dad had already taught my mom how to shoot.”
Cain nodded. He’d figured as much, but had to ask. Knowing what the person you’re working with can and can’t do came in handy during an emergency.
“Ever shot anyone?” Her tone was soft. Not defensive. Not antagonistic. Not hostile.
Now it was his time to ask a question and watch her reaction. “I’ve done a lot of things in my life. You sure you want me to answer that one?”
From the fading tension lines in her forehead, he could tell she was taking everything in. Processing. Putting two and three and four together. Coming up with more questions. Also probably coming up with some of the answers on her own.
“Sorry. I was out of line on that last question,” she said.
He nodded and untucked his shirt, shoving an extra magazine into the back waistband of his jeans, then he threaded a belt through the loops and tightened it. He locked the lid before he kicked the box back under the bed.
“Excuse me.” Cain brushed past her. “You ready?”
Her fingers did a slow pitter-pat on her left forearm. Impatient? No. Analyzing? Yes.
Tilting her head just a tad to the right, she released her arms, shrugged her shoulders in one impatient sigh, and wet her lips. “Okay, let’s say I don’t believe you’re a drug runner. But somebody thinks you are. Otherwise, why would they go to such lengths to get you kicked out of Peyton’s?”
“That’s what I want to know. The sooner the better.” He tossed her a pair of his gloves from the hall closet as he steered her to the back door. “In case you get cold.”
“Thanks.” She looked confused on a lot of levels, but the Betsy he knew was back in control. The orange juice had done its job.
Whoever was jacking around with him this time didn’t want him dead. At least not yet. But whatever they were up to included him. He had no idea why.
A pumped-up adrenalin rush charged through his body just like it used to every morning of his life with the DEA. For a moment, the familiar feeling of being in the zone felt good. Felt powerful. Felt like he could step over the line and disappear. He hadn’t, and he wouldn’t. Still, old habits were hard to break.
“We’ll take my truck,” he said as they exited the back door of his house.
“Good. I’m all driven out for the day.” She hoisted herself into the passenger seat and snapped her seatbelt. “Cain?”
He reached across to the glove box and retrieved a couple of chocolate power bars. She followed them with her eyes, until he ripped them both open and handed one to her. Could be a long night.
“Cain?”
Ignoring her might be best right now. Sure, he had answers to probably every question she had, but they might take longer than a ten-minute ride across town. He started the truck and eased out of the driveway.
“Cain Connery?” With each syllable she poked her finger into his bicep.
“Like I said earlier, if you want to keep that finger, you better ease it back.” He shot her his best mean-guy, I’m-in-charge look. She didn’t flinch. Guess ignoring her would not be easy after all.
He quirked the side of his mouth and chuckled. Might as well pull the pin and let her rip. “What do you want to know?”
“I want to know exactly what all you’ve done that may show up on my” —her serious expression accompanied a tone laced with a steel-edge of controlled anger— “I mean Peyton’s doorstep. Who’s the woman in the photo?”
