Hometown Hero (Hometown Alaska Men Book 2) (5 page)

"Fun party," he said to break the silence.

"Yes." Her voice was cool, colder than the temperature outside.

One mile down, nine more to go. He'd be lucky if the inside of the windshield didn't frost before they got to town—that's how cool she was toward him. Like an ice queen.

But he knew differently.

He remembered how warm she could feel, how hot she'd made him when they'd been teenagers. No, she wasn’t a cold woman. Far from it.

He smiled; he couldn't help it.

"What's so amusing?" she asked, her focus on him now.

Damned if he didn't find her perusal of him unsettling. "Just thinking about how different you seem from the girl I once knew."

"That girl is gone." The words were flat.

"Too bad."

She shifted. "Too bad? You didn't like that girl. You left that girl at the altar, remember?"

"Oh, I liked her," he said. "Too much. What I didn't like was how that girl stole my common sense and made me lose focus. I was all about career then. You were all about fun."

"So, you're a control freak," she said, as if that made perfect sense. "I get it now. I rocked your tidy, perfect world."

He laughed. "I guess you did."

She smiled. "Well, I guess that's something."

"Tawney, I—"

Pop!

Gunshot! Rick's fingers tightened on the steering wheel. He fought for control of the Jeep. His heart raced. The Jeep bounced, veered. He braked, hard. The Jeep skidded off the road into a snow drift and stopped.

Short gasps left him. Terror froze him. He couldn't separate now from the past.

"Rick?" Tawney said. "What happened? Rick? Talk to me."

He swallowed, his eyes on the dashboard, on the soft blue glow of the instrument panel.

"God, what's happening?" Tawney cried, panic in her voice. "Rick!" She shook his arm. "For God's sake, what's going on? Snap out of it." She slapped his arm.

He flinched, the slap catching him where his injury had been. He dragged his mind back to the present. There were no victims, no metallic taste of blood in his mouth, no shrieking sirens. Blinking, everything zoomed into sharp focus. The dashboard clock, the speedometer set at zero. With effort, he let go of the steering wheel and put the Jeep into park before turning off the engine. Only then did he look at Tawney.

Her eyes were wild, her breath as labored as his.

"What happened?" she asked. "Did someone shoot at us? If so we need to get the hell out of here."

"No," he said, reality and sanity returning at the speed of light. "I think we blew a tire."

"A tire?" she repeated weakly. "We have a flat tire?"

"I think so." Rick removed a flashlight from the glove box. "Wait here." He exited the Jeep, taking a second to steady himself. He thought of the gun under his seat, but his gut told him he didn't need it. He'd overacted to the noise, the pop of the tire bringing back that night. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. PTSD. He'd been warned this would happen; that he'd be caught off guard.

Man, he was as screwed up as ever. Shit.

The left front tire was buried in the snow drift. Around the other side, he saw the front right tire had blown. He rapped on the passenger window. "Flat tire." He had the back open now and was already removing the jack. "I'll have it fixed in a jiffy."

She was out of the Jeep now. "What can I do?"

"Nothing. I'm a whiz at tire changing." It was life he couldn't handle. He ignored the hard ache in his gut and got to work. What was Tawney thinking? That he was a nutcase? Or worse?

"Okay." Tawney crossed her arms over her chest. "What was that about anyway? You seemed spooked, like you didn't even hear me."

"I don't like loud noises."

"You're a bouncer in a bar. You used to be a cop; Star told me. I don't think noises are the problem."

He placed the hubcap on the ground, unable to think of an appropriate response to her statement. Thankfully, she didn't press him.

Rick made quick work exchanging the blown tire for the spare. Minutes later they were back on the road.

Tawney's arms were wound tightly around herself, again reminding him of armor, as if she were trying to ward him off.

He pulled into his garage and cut the engine.

"No need to walk me over," she said, opening her door. "Thank you for the ride home."

She ran across the driveway; a second later the lights came on in the cottage. He waited for a minute, for what he didn't know. He'd made a fool of himself in front of her. How did he explain his PTSD to her when he didn't fully understand himself?

Curious about the blown tire, he removed it and set it on his workbench.

The rubber had blown apart. He'd run over rocks last week, probably doing damage. The tire had been compromised by rocks, not a gunshot. He really was losing it.

He had to get it together. He thought of the police department shrink, Marion Best. The woman had tried to help him, but he'd been unreceptive. She'd warned him that if he didn't deal with his emotions the trauma could resurface at any moment.

Well, Marion had been right.

No one was trying to shoot him. He was safe here.

Safe.

He knew it, yet long after he'd turned in for the night, the pop of the blown tire stayed with him, leaving him restless, reminding him of everything he was running away from.

*    *    *

The following afternoon, Tawney started her shift at The Junebug with a headache—the product of poor sleep. She'd replayed Rick's reaction to the flat tire over and over in her mind. His reaction had not been normal. For crying out loud, she was the one with the reason to be spooked. She expected Fox Lassiter to shoot at her. After all, she had run off with his expensive emerald ring. Worse, she'd pawned that ring. It was bad enough she'd skipped town, but to do so with the ring, well, right now she didn't know what she'd been thinking. She did know Fox was capable of anything. She had no idea how his twisted mind worked. Finding out they'd only had a flat tire had been a huge relief.

Tawney started the coffee pot, then poured two beers, taking them over to a young couple who'd come in for lunch. The Junebug had great food, bringing in locals who didn't come there to drink, but to eat. Made for a nicer crowd as far as she was concerned. After being in Vegas, the clientele at The Junebug was tame. Tawney smiled.

"Nice party last night," June said. She sat in her usual place at the end of the bar.

Tawney freshened up June's coffee. "It was fun. Rick drove me home last night. We had a flat tire. Did he tell you?"

"Really? A flat tire?" June asked with interest. "On the highway?"

"Yes." Tawney slid the cream to June. "Rick had a pretty strong reaction to the pop."

"What kind of reaction?" June gave Tawney her full attention now.

"I'm not sure. It was almost like he froze, like he couldn't hear me."

"Order up," Roy called from the kitchen.

Tawney grabbed the two orders and left the food with the young couple.

"So," Tawney said to June, "why do you think Rick reacted like he did?"

"Rick's been through a lot," June said. "His stories aren't mine to tell. You should ask him."

"Star told me that he'd been shot and beaten," Tawney said, wanting to know more. "Is that true? Is that why he left his job?"

June smiled. "Be gentle with my boy."

"Okay." Tawney wondered about the circumstances of the shooting. Did she really want to pry into Rick's life? Probably not. She sure didn't want him prying into hers. He still had police connections, the kind of connections that could dig up dirt on anyone. Not good.

"Hey," Rick said.

Tawney swung around as Rick closed the door behind him. "Hey." She shivered at the burst of cold air that followed him in.

Dressed in his black jacket and blue knit cap, he passed her, heading for the back room.

"He's early," June said.

Tawney busied herself with the customers, refilling drinks, topping off coffee, delivering orders. Rick took the seat June had vacated.

"Order up," Roy called again.

Tawney picked up the plate.

"It's for Rick," Roy called over his shoulder at the same time he flipped a burger. The meat sizzled and hissed as it met the hot grill.

"What are you, a mind reader?" Tawney asked. "Rick just got here."

Roy grinned. "He calls ahead."

"Here you go." Tawney set the food in front of Rick—a garden salad with grilled chicken. Same meal she usually ordered.

"Thanks." Rick forked up some salad.

"Coffee?" she asked.

"Sure. Thanks." He pushed the food around on his plate. "What time are you off tonight?"

"Ten," she said. "June's letting me work part of the late shift. I think she feels sorry for me. The tips are better at night."

"But the clientele is rougher." Rick's mouth tightened.

"I can take care of myself." Tawney gave him a smile.

He cocked his head to the side. "You must be tougher than you look."

"Ha, ha."

When Rick finished his meal, he helped out behind the bar. There was no way Tawney could avoid him as she delivered and picked up drink orders. He set her on edge and she wasn't sure why. What had happened between them was long over, silly, teenage drama. She had to let it go.

"Hey, Barbie," a local called from his seat in the center of the bar.

"Are you speaking to me?" Tawney asked.

"Yeah, you, how about a beer?" He winked at her and Tawney noticed he had a missing front tooth.

"Sure and the name's Tawney, not Barbie."

"I'm Mel." He grinned. "You're a living doll, ain't she, Harry?"

"I'll say," Harry agreed. His eyes did a slow burn down Tawney's body.

This she was used to. The lewd looks, the comments. She ignored both and turned to Rick. "Two drafts."

"So I heard." Rick poured the beers, taking them to the men himself. "Treat the lady with respect."

"Aw, hell," Mel said. "It's a compliment."

"Whatever," Rick said, rejoining Tawney.

"I don't need you to champion me," Tawney said. "You'll ruin my tip."

Rick frowned.

The phone rang, and June picked up the call, her back to them.

Tawney got the men a bowl of pretzels. "Here you go."

"Thanks, honey," Mel said with a wink.

"You're welcome." When she turned, June was talking to Rick.

"Any chance you'd like to stay on until closing tonight?" June asked. "Debbie called in sick."

Rick's stare bored into her as if he were willing her to say no.

Tawney's chin came up. "Of course. Happy to."

June smiled. "Thank you, honey. These old bones don't like the late shift anymore."

"No problem."

The rest of her shift passed in a blur of drinks, loud music, and a couple of pats to her butt as she passed by. At two a.m. they ushered the last of the customers out and locked the door.

Tawney sat on the barstool. "I'm beat and my feet are aching."

Roy walked over to the jukebox and put on a popular dance song. Music filled the bar and without the customer chatter they could actually hear the song.

Rick slid the salt and pepper shakers to her.

"Thanks." She worked to fill the shakers as Rick finished loading the dishwasher and wiping down the bar area. In the kitchen, Roy sang along with the music as he cleaned the grill. An hour later they were done with their closing chores.

"See you tomorrow," Roy said. "Late shift for me again."

"Have a good night, Roy." She liked the cook. He was a friendly, family man, nice, always in a good mood.

Tawney wound her red scarf around her neck and put her hat on before slipping into her jacket.

"Goodnight, Rick," she said on her way out.

"Give me a minute and I'll walk with you," Rick said. "I just need to lock the till."

"No need." She waved on her way out the door.

She'd never left work this late. She shoved her gloved hands into her pockets. The street was empty. Clouds obscured the moon, casting the town into shadow. Tawney put her head down and picked up her pace. She rounded the corner heading toward the boardwalk to the cottage. She passed the back of The Junebug. When she hit the boardwalk, something snapped behind her. She whirled around but didn't see anything. Sure it must be an alley cat, or something worse, a rat, she keep going.

Another snap. Tawney glanced over her shoulder. Not seeing anything, she kept moving. She reached in her purse, her fingers finding her pistol, but with her gloves on she had little or no chance of using the weapon. Still, her fingers curled around the little gun. Her breath burned in her chest. She could see the cottage now. With her other hand, she dug for her keys.

At the front door, she dropped the keys.

"Hey."

She whipped around, holding the gun in front of her.

"Rick," she said, his name bursting from her lungs.

"What are you doing with a gun?" Rick asked.

She lowered her weapon. "Were you following me? You scared me to death." She picked up her keys.

"I'm sorry." He stepped forward. "Put the gun away, okay?"

Her hands were shaking, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might come through the wall of her chest and land on the frozen ground.

"Give me your keys." Rick took the keys from her and opened her door.

"Thanks." She passed him, turning for her keys. He dropped the keys into her outstretched palm. "Next time let a girl know you're behind her. I didn't see you."

"Again," he said. "I'm sorry. You were walking at quite a clip. I had to run to catch up to you."

"I was spooked. I heard something behind me a couple of times."

"It wasn't me. You were running when I saw you. Why didn't you call The Junebug or 911 if you were spooked?"

"I don't own a phone."

"Who doesn't have a phone?" Rick asked. "That's crazy. You're a woman living alone."

"I lost my phone," she lied. "Haven't found the time to figure out a new phone. I'm enjoying being off-grid."

"You need a phone." Rick frowned. "Seward is a safe town, but at three in the morning, no town is safe. Next time wait for me, okay?"