Run Wild, page 16
The moment he’d laid eyes on Natasha there had been chemistry strong enough to suggest incredible orgasms might not be enough with her. Yet the urge to run, or keep her at a safe, work-related distance, had never once crossed his mind. More than likely it was because Trent had always known she wasn’t going to stay in Weaverville. Natasha was a big-city girl. A town like Weaverville would have eventually made her nuts. He had allowed himself to consider something more than sex with Natasha because he had always known it would never work. Trent had no idea why a long-term relationship was about the only thing on the planet that truly terrified him, but there it was. The reasons he’d wanted Natasha were obvious. Because he had always known she would leave.
Natasha might be gone but there was still a murder to solve, and a hell of a lot of unanswered questions to figure out. She had been a distraction, and the kiss they’d shared before she’d driven out of town got him so hard every ounce of blood in his body drained into his dick whenever he thought about it. But no amount of thinking about her would bring her back, or put his murderer behind bars.
“You have your court order.” Porter stood outside his office just behind the tall, long counter where the tellers worked all day.
Trent walked across the small lobby, aware of Tamara Shelby standing at her teller cage and watching him. When she knew she had his attention she smiled and gave him a noticeable once-over. He returned the smile but then focused on Porter as he handed him the paperwork he’d just received from the judge. It was probably Trent’s least favorite part of being a sheriff, ridiculous pieces of paper that gave him permission to ask certain questions.
Porter looked over the order, taking his time, then hummed as he nodded. “Everything is in order. I’ll start checking on that key in the morning.”
Trent really didn’t want to end his day without having accomplished something other than burning gas in his Suburban as he ran around town without learning a damn thing.
“I’d hoped you could give me some kind of information on it before you went home today.” Trent turned his back on the tellers and faced Porter, keeping his voice low so as to prevent a world of gossip flowing once all the bank employees were home for the night. “This key is part of a murder investigation.”
“A murder investigation?” Porter repeated.
Trent grabbed the older man by the arm and escorted him back into Porter’s office, then stood in the doorway, his back to the lobby, and faced a rather disgruntled Porter.
“If word gets out that I brought a key into your bank to open a safe-deposit box, and it’s connected to the murder, we’ll be giving him a running start to escape.” Trent crossed his arms, watching Porter puff out his narrow chest, then make a show of running his hands down his outdated suit as he put himself back together. “The only way I can bring Carl Williams’ murderer to justice is if I have the full cooperation of the pillar of this community.”
No one would ever accuse Trent of kissing ass, but his last words grabbed Porter’s attention.
“Of course. Of course,” he babbled, turning around in his office and looking disoriented for a moment.
Trent held up the key when Porter once again faced him.
“Oh yes.” The older man took the key, nodding and mumbling to himself as he walked around his desk and sat in front of his computer. Somehow the picture didn’t match and Trent imagined Porter preferred doing business the old way, the way Trent had found him when he’d walked back into the bank, pillaging through filing cabinets made out of metal instead of files that were Word documents.
Trent forced himself to remain patient while Porter used his index fingers and hen pecked the keyboard. He glanced over his head at the clock on the wall and stifled a sigh. Porter was vice president of the bank but, if Trent were to guess right, in title only. Merv Conroy, an annoying twit Trent went to school with, was bank president. Merv was probably a stickler for the bank closing on time and all employees being out of the building so the alarm could be set.
“Now this might be a bit of a challenge,” Porter mumbled after remaining hunched over in front of his large computer for a few minutes. He continually glanced at the keyboard, then the screen, then mumbled under his breath before repeating the process.
It was almost five and closing time. Trent rubbed his hands together, wanting to grab Porter again and give him a hard shake until his faculties were in order in his brain and he’d do his job, instead of moaning and whining about how difficult it was to do.
“You do realize if a key is neglected it is the responsibility of the customer leasing the safe-deposit box to have the box rekeyed,” Porter pointed out, giving Trent a shrewd look as if Trent had something to do with the current condition of the key.
“Do you know which box it belongs to?” Trent had no problem bringing a locksmith out; that is, if he couldn’t break into the box himself.
“I am doing that now. Ah-h, yes.” He smiled triumphantly. “The numbers on the key were hard to read, but we have a match.” Porter jotted something down on a small notepad, ripped the piece of paper free, then stood. “Shall we?” he asked, gesturing to the door.
Trent stood to the side, suddenly feeling as anxious as if it were Christmas morning. He was a boy all over again, waiting at his bedroom door and fighting not to get grouchy. His father had always ordered him to stay in his bedroom while he made sure Santa had shown up. It had always taken forever.
“And for the record,” Porter said when they’d reached the bottom of the stairs and walked along the wide hallway underneath the bank. There were deposit boxes lining the wall on either side of the hall. “You’re turning into a pushy old fart, just like your father,” Porter told him, then stopped and bent over, running his finger over the numbers of each box. “Here we are.”
Trent stared at the skinny old man, rather surprised. Porter Vaskins was everything prim and proper. Yet he’d just called Trent a pushy old fart? He fought a smile and rocked up on his heels in spite of himself.
It didn’t bother him a bit being compared to his old man. There were days when Trent missed the hell out of his father. Most of the time, when the pain of his loss grew to be too much, Trent made himself remember how much pain his dad had been in before dying. His old ticker, as Trent’s father used to call his heart, had a lifetime warranty and his life was up. He was in a better place now.
Porter struggled with the key. Trent moved in around him and watched him try to get the key into the lock.
“Let me try.” Trent reached for the key, taking it from Porter, who backed up and exhaled, wiping his brow, acting as if that were more physical labor than he was used to doing.
Trent used a bit more force than Porter had used, got the key into the keyhole, then turned and watched it break in two.
“God damn it,” Trent cursed under his breath. He glared at the half of the key in his hand and the lock with the other half stuffed in it. “Whose safe-deposit box is this?” he demanded.
“That’s right. You’re going to have to pay to replace their lock.” Porter nodded his head viciously and handed Trent a piece of paper.
Trent was beginning to wonder if the old banker had all of his oars in the water. “No problem,” Trent grunted, the lock being the least of his worries. He stared at the piece of paper Porter had given him.
It was the note pad paper Porter had written the box number on, but as well, above it he’d written a name. MaryAnn Piney.
“Piney?” he whispered, scowling.
He went to school with Ethel Piney before she was Ethel Pope and now Ethel Burrows. He might have to head out to Trinity Ranch again and pay the Burrowses a visit.
He wanted to take a closer look at that cabin, too, in the daylight. Suddenly Trent really wanted to call Natasha. The last he’d checked the tracking device Natasha was still in L.A.
Trent thanked Porter and got out of the bank, wishing there was more time in the day to research what he’d learned. Natasha was right about him not being that computer savvy. Tracking devices were pretty simple contraptions. He preferred using his gut when solving a crime, but he’d wanted to know where Natasha went while in Weaverville. It wasn’t his fault the little contraption was still transmitting.
As Trent neared his Suburban, ignoring the snow flurries dancing in the air around him, he wondered if Natasha had learned anything more about her father’s whereabouts now that she was home. He wouldn’t ask, he decided. He’d find George King without her help.
He almost pulled his phone out to call Natasha, though. All Trent wanted was to hear her voice, and as much as he hoped she would sound happy, it wouldn’t bother him too much if she was a bit remorseful for leaving him.
“Piney,” he mumbled when he reached his truck. It was time to find out where Ethel’s family was living today.
*
The forecast didn’t say it was going to snow. Natasha flipped on the windshield wipers and reached for the volume on the GPS. She’d better not get lost in some terrible blizzard. Scowling out the windshield, she forced her hands to relax on the steering wheel and listened to the directions as her GPS told her where to go in the town of Redding, California.
Just because Natasha had lived all her life in L.A. didn’t mean she was an idiot about snow. It was blowing all over the place but maybe there wouldn’t be a blizzard. This part of California would get nailed with snow, and plenty of it, before the holidays even got here. As long as it didn’t start while she was up here all would be fine.
It wasn’t bad right now. Natasha knew better than to drive once it got bad. She would look up the forecast as soon as she got where she was going. Then she would be sure and have a room if the weather were to get bad.
“It better not get bad,” she whispered, and looked up at the sky through her windshield.
Natasha slowed when the monotone female voice on her GPS started instructing one turn after another. She glanced at the houses on either side of the side street she was now on, then reached for the piece of paper where she had jotted down Sandra Burrows’ address.
“You have reached your destination,” the GPS said blandly.
Natasha spotted the small but clean-looking bungalow-style home in the middle of the block. Pulling up in front of it, she turned off the truck and took a moment to gather her thoughts and figure out what she would say.
It had been her uncle Greg’s idea for Natasha to return north and do some hunting on her own. Although he’d told her it would be a good exercise and practical for her to do some fieldwork, Natasha knew if he could drop everything and come up here himself, he would have done it in a second. Uncle Greg was as worried about his brother as she was her father.
Uncle Greg had left L.A. on more than one occasion to hunt down a criminal. Times were different now, though. Marc and Jake weren’t with KFA anymore. It was just her aunt and uncle running all their cases these days and training new bounty hunters.
Natasha took one final look at the nice cozy home of Sandra Burrows, Jim Burrows’ ex. She wasn’t going to get any answers sitting there.
Trent Oakley entered her thoughts, and she hesitated another moment before opening the truck door. He’d been on her mind nonstop since she left him. Her stomach had been twisted in anticipation knowing she was coming back to his part of the country. Of course, Trent thought she was in L.A. The tracking device she’d found in her purse was sitting on her dresser at home.
At least now she knew what Matilda had been doing when she’d been going through Natasha’s luggage. That little device had pissed her off at first. She hadn’t mentioned it to Uncle Greg or Aunt Haley. Before she left, she wasn’t as upset about it. Especially when she realized leaving it at home would make Trent think she was still in L.A. It served the good sheriff right thinking she was still home, when she was actually back up here trying to prove her dad’s innocence.
Natasha had spent the evening at her aunt and uncle’s house, munching on pizza and drinking beer. They had given her an awesome pep talk and good pointers on how to investigate. Natasha saw that they’d been right. She didn’t do well in situations where her world wasn’t in order. It was why she did so well running the office, and why she sent men packing when they got too close.
Aunt Haley and Uncle Greg had both pointed out fieldwork often got sloppy before the answer became clear. With their analogies, Natasha couldn’t help wondering if they had guessed something had sparked between her and the sheriff. She tried not to mention him too much, and when she did, with casual indifference. They told her even when all evidence suggested someone’s guilt, if she knew in her gut they were innocent, then the proof would come to her. She just had to be patient and take an honest look at everything around her.
People weren’t always as they appeared. Evidence wasn’t always cut and dried. But sometimes, the proof she needed might be right before her eyes. She needed an open mind and to remain alert always.
Her aunt had hugged Natasha after she told both of them she would drive up to northern California again the following morning. It was four in the morning when she left, and before she did, Aunt Haley had whispered in Natasha’s ear, Don’t give up when it feels right in your heart. Natasha knew she hadn’t been talking about proving her father innocent.
After hashing out a plan, going over everything they knew so far about her father’s situation, Natasha drove the mile or so to her apartment, where she’d packed every warm piece of clothing she owned, and dropped the tracking device on her dresser.
Natasha grabbed her scarf and wrapped it around her neck before getting out of the truck. A smug grin played at her lips. Let Trent think she was in L.A. At least now she might get some answers without him showing up and distracting her so she couldn’t think straight.
Natasha hurried up to the house, ducking against a bitter wind that burned her cheeks and hands almost instantly. It killed her knuckles when she knocked on the door. She stuffed her hand in the heavy coat she’d brought from home. It was the heaviest one she owned and she was still frozen. She wouldn’t make it another day up here without buying a much heavier coat.
The door opened almost immediately and a woman about Natasha’s age stared at her a moment, her expression bordering on hostile.
“I’m Natasha King,” she said, trying to talk with her teeth chattering. “Sandra Burrows agreed to talk to me.”
For a moment she thought the woman would close the door in her face. Finally, when Natasha was so cold she almost barged into the warm home, the lady opened the door farther and stepped to the side.
“Why do you want to talk to my mom?”
Natasha stepped inside and pulled her numb hands from her pockets, gripped her scarf, but held it to her neck for a moment.
“And you are?” Natasha asked, keeping her tone pleasant.
“Not pleased that you’re here,” the woman snapped. She closed and locked the door, then wrapped a short curl of mousy brown hair behind her ear as she narrowed catlike eyes on Natasha. “Why do you want to see my mom?”
Natasha remembered the Burrowses had six children, two girls and four boys. The oldest, Rebecca, was twenty-four. Natasha guessed she was looking at Rebecca now. Sandra’s other daughter was the youngest of the six children and was eighteen. Natasha remembered being shocked to learn the Burrowses had six kids all so close in age, two of the boys, who were now men, being twins. Sandra Burrows deserved better than her marriage ending in divorce and her ex-husband now being married to a much younger woman, who was now pregnant with his seventh child.
“She very kindly agreed to meet with me,” Natasha told Rebecca, repeating all the advice her uncle had given her concerning talking to Sandra Burrows. Natasha hoped it worked on her daughter as well: remain humble, be incredibly grateful, and maintain the impression that Natasha believed her father was a murderer and was simply searching for closure.
“And agreed to meet with you before talking to me about it.” The young lady ignored Natasha’s request for an introduction. Nor did Rebecca appear willing to escort Natasha farther into the house, since she remained booted with her back to the front door, scowling at Natasha.
“You must be Natasha King.” A woman approached from behind, her low heels making soft thudding sounds on the thick carpet.
Natasha turned her back on the hostile young lady and smiled politely at the friendly-looking middle-aged woman approaching her.
“I’m Sandra Burrows.” She extended both hands in greeting.
“Natasha King,” Natasha said, holding both her hands out and letting Sandra hold them for a moment with warm, soft hands. “Thank you so much for letting me come over.”
“No problem. You said Ethel wouldn’t see you?”
Natasha noticed the sudden eagerness in Sandra’s voice and expression. She didn’t mind the small white lie since it got her in the door. Sandra didn’t live at the ranch anymore, but she had lived there for forty-two years and would know a lot of the ranch hands and other employees on her ex-husband’s payroll.
“No, ma’am. And as I told you on the phone, my father and I aren’t exactly close. I was raised by my aunt and uncle,” she added, trailing off.
“Rebecca, would you mind bringing us all coffee?” Sandra asked the young woman behind Natasha once they were in a small living room.
“What am I now, hired help?” Rebecca snapped.
“Please,” Sandra said, her tone remaining calm and pleasant sounding.
Rebecca looked like she would start blowing smoke out of her ears. Her hands were balled in fists at her sides when she spun around and left the two of them in the living room.
“Please, be seated.” Sandra gestured as she took a comfortable-looking, well-padded rocking chair in the corner of the living room. “And don’t mind Rebecca. She has a lot of anger to work through still. She feels her father betrayed her.”
