Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 99132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
“Of course. You have my word.” His eyes softened, the fierce determination melting into something achingly genuine. “But I won’t leave you uncovered.”
She dipped her head. “You’re too good to me.” Tomorrow, she could get to work and find the shooter long before Wayne ever could. She leaned over and kissed him on his rough cheek. “I’m so glad we’re together.” She put just the right amount of purr in her voice this time.
He grinned, his hand squeezing hers. “So am I.”
She had to ditch him soon if she was right about what was happening . . . and she was always right.
Chapter 27
After a fairly sleepless night, Walter Smudgeon listened as the rain hit his wooden roof with dull pings. He stood at his kitchen sink with a chipped coffee mug in one hand, watching steam curl off the surface. Dark roast. No cream. Not now that he was healthy.
He hadn’t slept well after the sniper had dared shoot into their office the night before. This guy didn’t care who he killed.
Behind Walter, the bedroom was quiet. He didn’t need to turn to know Ena was still sprawled across his bed, long legs tangled in the sheet, one arm draped over the pillow. Her dark hair fanned across the white cotton like spilled ink. Who would’ve thought he’d fall for a younger Fish and Wildlife Officer who somehow liked him back? It was way too early to get serious since they hadn’t been dating long. But he was serious.
She always looked peaceful in the morning. Peaceful and, honestly, a little dangerous.
He’d seen her take down a guy twice her size with a collapsible trout net once. Flipped him like she was landing a steelhead.
Walter took another sip, then checked the time. Almost eight in the morning. He needed to be at work by nine to head out and execute a warrant with Laurel and keep her from getting shot. Somehow.
He’d lived out about twenty minutes from Genesis Valley for six months now. One of his favorite things? The damn mail. Every morning, like clockwork, his rural route carrier came rumbling up the gravel road and dropped that day’s envelope-shaped pile of junk, bills, or bad news into the black metal box nailed to the post at the end of his drive.
By eight in the morning, he had mail. Rain or shine.
He grabbed his coat, shrugged it on, and spared one last glance at the bedroom. Ena shifted in her sleep, the blanket sliding off one shoulder, baring smooth skin and the thin strap of her cami. He paused.
Damn, she was beautiful. Way prettier, kinder, and smarter than he deserved. She was part Japanese, and he was trying to learn the language. Just so he could someday propose to her in it. When was a good time? Was it too early? His best friend, besides Ena, was Laurel Snow, and she didn’t understand relationships any better than he did. But it had to be way too early.
He thought, for the third time that week, about looking for an engagement ring, just in case. Ena didn’t exactly scream “diamond solitaire,” but he wasn’t going to propose with a fishing lure. Even if she might appreciate that kind of practicality.
Let her sleep. It was her day off, and he had a quiet moment before everything inevitably turned to—
He opened the front door and froze. A man stood at his mailbox. The figure hunched low, hoodie up, one hand inside the black box, his box, like it didn’t belong to a federal agent with a .40-caliber Glock and a mean hook.
“Hey!” Walter barked.
The guy spun and bolted.
Walter leaped down the porch steps in two strides, boots pounding wet earth, mud splashing up his jeans. The rain picked up. The guy slipped, scrambled, and ran like hell toward the tree line.
Walter gave chase.
His legs were longer. His boots were better. He’d chased men through strip clubs, cornfields, and once through a Mardi Gras parade in full riot gear. This? This was just cardio, and he was finally in the best shape of his life.
Until his mailbox exploded.
A sharp crack behind him split the air like a hammer to concrete. Walter ducked instinctively, pivoting in the mud as shrapnel hissed by like angry bees. His ears rang. Bits of charred paper drifted like snow.
He kept running.
The guy slipped at the creek line, fell hard, scrambled again. Walter tackled him from behind, both of them slamming into wet ground. Fists flew. Elbows. The guy had a knife—cheap, dull—but Walter yanked it away and flung it into the mud. Took a hit to the cheek, gave two to the ribs. Flippped the guy onto his gut.
“You idiot,” Walter snarled, planting a knee on the guy’s back. “You blew up a federal officer’s mailbox. That’s a felony in every zip code.”