Jackson knew the drill. He’d issued the same command enough times in his years on the New York City police force. He dropped to the ground, waiting impatiently as the officer checked the safety on his gun, frisked him for weapons and pulled the wallet from his pocket.
“I guess you have a permit for your gun?” Judging from the way she asked the question, Jackson figured she didn’t guess any such thing.
“I do. I’m a private investigator. My ID and permit are in my wallet.”
The deputy opened the wallet and took her time looking through it. Finally, she seemed satisfied with what she’d found. “You can get up, Mr. Sharo. Did you fire your weapon tonight?”
“One shot.”
“Did you hit your target?”
“Unfortunately, no,” he said as he accepted the wallet she held out to him.
“I’m not sure the law would agree with that.”
“I was firing in self-defense, Officer…?”
“Deputy Lowry. Want to tell me what happened here?”
“I saw a light on in the gallery and thought it might be open for business. When I rang the doorbell a woman answered. She looked beat-up and scared, so I searched the perimeter of the building to try to get a feel for what was going on.”
“You didn’t think to call the police?”
“For all I knew, she’d been in an accident of some sort and didn’t need help.”
“So, you walked around the house and…?”
“I didn’t see any reason to be concerned.” But he hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that something was wrong or to forget the look of stark terror in Morgan’s eyes. “I was going to leave, but decided to check on the owner one more time. Before I got to the door, she ran out. Next thing I knew, two men were shooting at us.”
“And you fired back.”
“One shot.” He repeated the answer he’d given before, knowing he’d probably be asked the same thing a hundred times before the night was over.
“Have you been back in the gallery since you fired the shot?”
“I was never in the gallery.”
“I see.”
Before she could explain what she thought she saw, another squad car pulled into the parking lot. The door opened and a tall, dark-haired man got out. He wasn’t alone. Morgan sat in the passenger seat, huddled beneath a blanket, a coffee mug cupped in her hands. She met Jackson’s gaze, offering a smile that turned into a grimace of pain.
“You should be on your way to the hospital,” he said as he walked to the vehicle, ignoring the deputy’s sputtered protest.
“She will be,” the man offered before Morgan could reply. “I’ve already called an ambulance, but Morgan wanted to make sure you were all right while we waited for it. I’m Sheriff Jake Reed.”
“Jackson Sharo.”
“From New York?” The sheriff’s brow furrowed and he cocked his head to the side, studying Jackson.
“That’s right.”
“You’re here for the Sinclair wedding?”
“Right again.”
“Jude told me you were coming. Said you were partners when you worked homicide in New York. I’m surprised you’re not hanging out with him. This being his last night as a bachelor and all.”
“That’s exactly what I’d be doing if I hadn’t run into trouble.”
“I guess what I’m asking is how you ended up at Morgan’s gallery tonight.”
“I’m happy to tell you, but you might want to get some men out looking for the perps before you waste time listening to my story.”
“I’ve already taken Morgan’s statement and issued an APB based on her description of the suspects. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear your story.” If the sheriff was annoyed by Jackson’s comment, his tone and expression didn’t show it.
“You want the long or short version?”
“Either will work.”
“I was working on a case and missed my flight out of New York last night. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get another flight, so I drove down here. I got into town a few hours ago and realized I’d left Jude and Lacey’s gift in New York. After Jude’s rehearsal dinner, I decided to drive around town to see if I could find a place to buy one.”
“So that’s the short version?”
“Yeah.” The long version was something Jackson didn’t plan to share. He had wanted to find a gift for his friend, but he’d also needed space. Seeing Jude’s family together had reminded Jackson of his own family and the loss that had torn them apart. It was that more than anything that had driven him to his solitary search for a gift. If he’d been the kind to believe that God intervened in the business of men, Jackson would be tempted to think that He’d put him in just the right place at just the right time to save Morgan’s life.
“Tell me what happened when you got here,” the sheriff said, interrupting Jackson’s thoughts.
Jackson gave him as many details as he could, his gaze drawn to the squad car and the woman inside it. She looked vulnerable, her eyes hollow and empty. Jackson had gone into police work to help people like her. He’d left it because he’d failed when it counted most. The truth was a hard knot in his chest. He cleared his throat, wishing he could clear his mind of the past as easily. “That’s as much as I know. I think the rest of your answers will have to come from Morgan.”
“All right. Thanks. Are you staying with Jude?”
“Yes.”
“Leaving after the wedding tomorrow?”
“I’d planned to do some fishing and head back to New York Sunday morning.”
“Then I’ll let you get back to what you were doing, but I’ll want to ask a few more questions before you leave town. How about we meet after the wedding reception?”
“Sure.” Not that he had a choice in the matter.
“You have a business card?”
“In my wallet. Your deputy still has it.”
“Here you go, Mr. Sharo.” She dropped it into Jackson’s outstretched palm.
“And my gun?”
The sheriff nodded, and the deputy returned that to Jackson, as well. That meant he could do exactly what the sheriff had suggested and get back to the wedding gift hunt.
It was probably what he should do. It was even what he wanted to do, but Jackson knew he couldn’t. Quitting the police force hadn’t changed his desire to serve and protect. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t leave until he was sure Morgan would be all right. “You said you called an ambulance?”
“Should be here in a few minutes.”
“A few minutes or an hour, it doesn’t matter, because I’m not going to the hospital,” Morgan said as she eased out of the squad car, leaving the blanket and coffee cup behind.
“I think we discussed this already,” the sheriff said. “You need to be checked out at the hospital. We’ve got a victim’s advocate there who will talk to you and help you through the process.” His tone was implacable, but Morgan didn’t seem to notice.
“I’m not a victim.” Despite the argumentative tone, her