Strangely, she hadn’t dreamed last night. One would think being locked up in a cold jail cell would bring her nightmares on full force. But she felt rested and ready to tackle the task of discovering why Paul had been murdered.
First she had to deal with Sheriff McClain.
Once Gordon explained about the house, the sheriff would have to let her go. But she had a disquieting feeling her association with the man wouldn’t end there. He seemed the type to press, to find challenge in uncovering secrets. Her heart skipped a beat. Maybe the sheriff could help.
She sat up abruptly.
No. She couldn’t trust anyone, save God. Even this man who’d sounded so sincere when he’d offered his help, who had cared enough to supply another blanket, who’d…she glanced down.
On the floor, next to her feet, sat a tray with juice, cereal and milk. Surprise and a good dose of pleased warmth suffused her.
Her gaze sought out the sheriff. He sat leaning over his desk with his cheek resting on his forearms. Asleep. He looked boyish, with waves of ebony spilling over his forehead and dark lashes splayed across his cheeks. Kate shook her head in wonder. Just when had Sheriff McClain brought the tray in? She’d heard the squeak of the cell door only once, when he’d brought her the blanket.
A violent shudder swept her body. She’d spent a dreamless night within the cell, lulled to sleep by a false sense of security. Anyone could easily have killed her in her sleep. Anyone being the sheriff.
But he hadn’t.
Sheriff McClain was not the enemy. He hadn’t known Paul. The man was simply a small-town sheriff doing his job. In her heart, she acknowledged that as truth, but her brain wasn’t so sure.
Trust no one.
“Get a grip, girl,” she muttered as she opened the milk carton and poured the liquid into the bowl of corn flakes. Paul’s warning couldn’t have extended to the sheriff. There was no reason she couldn’t trust Brody McClain.
As she finished the cereal and was about to open the orange juice, a pained grunt split the air. Kate’s gaze jumped to the sheriff. His once-relaxed features pulled back into a grimace, his head jerked and a moan slipped from between his lips.
She realized he was gripped within a nightmare. She knew what it was like to feel helplessly lost in the dark swirl of fear, memory and sleep. Compassion filled her chest until it ached with the need to relieve him of his dreams.
“Sheriff McClain?” Her voice bounced off the walls but held no power. “Sheriff?” she tried again, but to no avail. His head thrashed across his bent arms, his big body tense.
Taking a deep breath, Kate used her diaphragm to add more strength to her voice. “McClain!”
Her voice snapped through the station like the slam of a door.
As a wake-up call, it worked well.
Brody jerked his head up and blinked several times before he realized he was at the station, not on a darkened street in the middle of a storm facing the barrel of a gun.
His gaze met that of the woman occupying the cell. Red curls framed her face, emphasizing her large, compassion-filled eyes. She’d witnessed his nightmare. Great.
Taking a shuddering breath, Brody composed himself and rose from his chair. Rigid, stiff muscles objected to the stretching. His limbs ached. The need to work out the kinks demanded his attention, but Brody had a job to finish first. The gym would have to wait.
He moved away from the desk to the coffee machine. With each step of his right leg, pain shot into his hip. He refused to allow himself the luxury of limping when meadow-green eyes followed his every move.
By rote, he went through the process of making strong coffee. Soon, the sound and smell of brewing French roast filled the air. Brody inhaled the rich scent for a moment, and pushed away the unease of Kate having witnessed what he worked so hard to keep beneath his heel. He walked steadily to the cell and opened the door. “Good morning.”
His charge stared at him. Her head listed to the side and questions fairly radiated from her expression. “Good morning.”
The corners of her mouth kicked up in a tentative smile that sneaked inside his chest and made it difficult to breathe.
“Thank you for breakfast…and the blanket.”
He swallowed against both her gratitude and the effects of her smile. He didn’t want either one. “I hope you slept well.”
“I did, actually.” She stood and stepped past him, then stopped in the center of the room. She looked around uncertainly. “Is there a restroom I could use?”
“Down the corridor, on the left.” Brody watched her disappear before he shifted his feet and took his weight onto his left leg, easing the ache in his right hip. Why was he bothering? It didn’t make sense; vanity wasn’t usually one of his faults. But letting her witness his weakness was…out of the question. He didn’t want her to look at him with pity.
Most everyone in town knew vague details of how he’d acquired his limp. Few dared approach the subject and even fewer knew the truth of the situation. Taking a bullet was a hazard of the job that every law-enforcement officer faced. Only for Brody it was so much more and so much worse.
Forcing his torturous thoughts to recede, Brody limped over to his desk, sat down and tried to boot up the computer. The screen remained blank. He made a mental note to call the local computer expert and have him take a look at the infernal machine, which was always on the fritz. Somewhat ruefully, he figured he’d have to check out his guest the old-fashioned way.
As he reached for the phone, it rang, the shrill sound ringing hollow in the small station. Picking up the receiver, he answered, “Havensport County Sheriff’s Office, Sheriff McClain speaking.”
“I understand you have Katherine Wheeler in your custody.” The gravelly voice boomed in Brody’s ear, the tone sharp, the words clipped.
“And you are?”
“Gordon Thomas, Katherine’s attorney.”
Figured a Beverly Hills address could buy attitude. “She was caught breaking into one of our residents’ summer home.”
“The Kinsey residence?”
“Yes.”
“The house belongs to my client.”
Brody didn’t like the condescending tone in the man’s voice. “I’ll need proof of that.”
“What’s your fax number?” the man asked curtly.
Brody rattled off the number and a few seconds later the machine in the corner beeped and hissed. Paper rolled out; sheet after sheet until finally it gave one final beep and remained silent.
“Sheriff McClain, I’d like to speak with Ms. Wheeler.”
“Sorry, she’s indispos…” Brody’s voice trailed off as he noticed Kate standing beside his desk. Even with her wrinkled clothes and finger-combed hair, she radiated a quiet confidence. He’d give the lady credit; she was no fragile flower.
“Here she is.”
Kate took the phone and turned away. He could hear the urgent note in the low tones of her voice. Picking up the fax, he flipped through the pages and realized Katherine Wheeler, though he liked Kate better, had been telling the truth. She now owned the house.
“Here, he wants to talk with you.”
Kate’s little smile grated on Brody’s nerves. So she hadn’t been lying.