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CHAPTER TWELVE

Because Elana did need more practice, Sloan slowed her usual pace. But she already knew part of her evaluation would likely label Officer Sanchez as game, and someone who knew how to take direction, follow orders.

About a half mile up the trail, Sloan heard it. Not the roaring buzz of a chainsaw but the steady thump of an axe against wood.

“Hear that? That’s not a woodpecker.”

“I can’t believe he’s cutting down trees. Why? Oh, Sloan, look!”

“Yeah, I see it.”

A stump, the cuts no more than a day or two old. And prints—human ones—drag marks where he’d hauled the tree up the trail.

“Poaching trees. For firewood, maybe, to sell or use. Maybe both. The trail levels out a few yards ahead.”

“I won’t mind that. I think I’m in good shape, but I have to admit, my quads are burning.”

“I’ll be taking the lead with this one.”

“It’s all yours. And,” Elana added with a big smile of relief, “whew!”

He’d taken down two more trees, and when they topped the rise, she saw another down. And the man—big belly, big brown beard—using the axe to split the logs he’d made on the fresh stump.

Sloan judged him at mid-forties, five-ten, and carrying about two hundred pounds. He wore a flannel coat, yellow work gloves, and a ratty black cap.

He shifted when he spotted them, then gripped the axe handle with both hands.

Sloan put hers on the butt of her weapon.

“Get off my land!”

“Sir, this is public land.”

“I’m the goddamn public. My taxes pay for these trees, and I’m taking my share. Fuck off.”

Sloan kept her hand on her weapon, and her eyes on his. And blocked out the dread crawling up her spine as she had one quick flash of the mini-mart.

This was now, she reminded herself. Right here, right now.

“Sir, we’re with the Natural Resources Police. You’re not permitted to cut down trees on public land. Please put down the axe.”

He shook it. “Why don’t you come over here and take it? Try it, and you’ll lose an arm. No bitch is going to tell me my rights.”

“You’re threatening police officers with a deadly weapon. Please put down the axe and step away from it.”

“If I give it a toss, I’ll split your head in two where you stand. Get the hell off my land. I’ve got a right to defend it, and I damn well will.”

“No, sir, you don’t, but we do.”

Since he looked perfectly capable and just crazy enough to throw the axe, she drew her weapon.

“I really don’t want to fire my weapon, but if you make any threatening movements, I absolutely will. Now put the axe down and step away from it.”

“You gonna shoot me?” Through the thick beard, he bared his teeth. “You gonna shoot me over trees? A million goddamn trees around here, and you’d fucking shoot me over them?”

“No, sir. I’m going to arrest you for that. But I will shoot you if you continue to threaten us with that weapon.”

He did throw the axe, but down into the stump. Then he lifted fisted hands. “Come on and try it.”

Sloan holstered her weapon, pulled out her baton. As she approached, he charged forward. She ducked his wild swing, sidestepped.

Then whipped the baton hard against the back of his knees.

He went down like, well, a tree.

“Stay down!” She yanked his arms behind him, snapped on cuffs. “Officer, report in. We’re bringing a prisoner down Deer Track Trail. We need a team up here to record the scene, to confiscate the prisoner’s axe, chainsaw, snowmobile, and sled and to clear the downed trees.

“Sir, what’s your name?”

“Fuck you!”

“Fine, Mr. Fuck You, you’re under arrest for defacing public land, for threatening police officers with bodily harm, for assaulting a police officer and resisting arrest. On your feet.”

She started to haul him up, waited to feel that snap and pain in her chest. It didn’t come, but neither did he.

She drew in another breath, relieved, so relieved, it came steady and clear.

“Give me a hand, Officer Sanchez. Mr. Fuck You’s still resisting.”

They managed to haul him to his feet. Sloan patted him down, removed a knife from his belt—over the legal limit—but found no other weapons. No wallet, no ID.

“Go ahead and read him his rights,” Sloan said as they walked him down the trail.

Elana maintained a professional demeanor, remained silent a great deal of the time. At the foot of the trail, Sloan gave the arriving team directions, a brief report.

After they’d transported the prisoner, Sloan asked Elana if she felt confident to write the incident report.

“Yes. It’s etched in my brain. My first assisted arrest. Wow, what a morning! What’s the rest of the day going to be like?”

“Probably a lot quieter.”

Sloan dreamed that night in her creaky new house.

She walked into the mini-mart and into the raw winter air of the forest. The man at the counter turned. He had a big belly, a big beard, and an axe in his gloved hand.

“Get off my land!”

When he threw the axe, the blade struck her dead center of the chest.

The shock of pain, so real, so intense, woke her. Struggling for air, she sat up, both hands clutched at her chest.

The dream faded before the pain did, and the pain faded before the shaking.

Switching on the bedside lamp, she got up to walk across the hall to the bathroom. The pipes banged when she ran water in the sink, but she found the reality of the sound a comfort.

Her house, her pipes. Just a bad dream, and she hadn’t had one in a couple of weeks.

She’d handled the incident. She hadn’t frozen, she hadn’t panicked. She’d done her job.

She was fine. She looked at herself in the mirror. No longer pale, no longer so drawn. A few more pounds to go to get back to her fighting weight, but she’d made progress.

Most important, she’d done good work that day.

So she’d get up in the morning, put on the uniform, and do the same.

Until her board interview, Sloan put off all but the most urgent repairs. Prettying up her house could wait. The ancient water heater and the chimney cleaning couldn’t.

Once the interview was behind her, she made some time and a plan. The two bathrooms equaled gut jobs, but she opted to focus on one as her first genuine home improvement project.

The one across from the bedroom she’d chosen had a shower the size of a broom closet, a nasty vanity someone had tried, unsuccessfully, to paint a pea-soup green, a sink the size of a teacup, and rusting faucets. The room also held a tub that was barely big enough to accommodate a ten-year-old, that someone had somehow cracked, and linoleum flooring covered in bright yellow daisies that had begun to peel.

Rather than obsessing on the board’s decision, she researched tile, showerheads, finishes, paint on her off time until she had a solid vision.

She saw her family, and twice ran into her father while she and Elana were on patrol.

“Your father’s so handsome. And so fit.”

“He is. Also just great.”

“My dad’s great. He made a New Year’s resolution to get fit. Bought a tracker watch, joined a gym. My mom says it’s going very slowly.”

“One day at a time.”

When they’d finished their shift, she took Elana back to headquarters. Travis called Sloan into his office.

He rose, held out a hand. “Congratulations, Sergeant Cooper.”

She gripped his hand, and when he came around the desk to hug her, hugged back.

“Oh God. I’ve been trying to convince myself if I didn’t get it, it wouldn’t matter.”

Laughing, he hugged her again. “How’d that work?”

“Not even a little. Thanks, Cap. Thank you.”

“You did the work. And starting tomorrow, you’ll do more of it. Full duty, including supervisory duties. I’d like you to report a half hour earlier so we can go over all those duties. I lean hard on my sergeant.”

“I’ll be here.”

“Now go home. Celebrate. Dean and Elsie are going to be over the moon. My family’s going to jump over it right behind them when I give them the news.”

“I’m already celebrating. In here?” She pointed to her heart. “Champagne’s popping.”

She let out a happy sigh.

“You’re a big reason I’m wearing this uniform, doing this job. I grew up listening to your stories, what you did, how you did it, what you saw, how you felt.”

“Stories? I got a million of ’em.”

“And I loved every one.”

As she drove home she remembered her parents planned to go out to dinner. And Drea had a date. She didn’t want to tell them the news over the phone. No, she wanted to see their faces.

So she’d go over later. Her parents should be home by nine, since it was just dinner. She’d wait, tell them face-to-face.

Meanwhile, she had to do something to celebrate.

She could buy that champagne, but who wanted to drink cham pagne alone? She could turn on the music and dance in her own house.

Then it struck her.

Or she could start getting herself a new, up-to-date bathroom. One where she didn’t smack her elbows whenever she washed her hair.

A bathroom with good lighting, with a floor that didn’t hurt her eyes and sensibilities, with a toilet that didn’t threaten to buck her off.

She’d already decided not to ask her father and Jonah on this one. This wouldn’t be a couple-hour project, or a weekend job. They had enough going without her poking every time she wanted something done.

This would be her personal celebration. One she wanted and could afford. She could afford it because her parents had helped with the down payment, because her father had negotiated a deal below what she’d expected to pay.

And because she’d just gotten a promotion.

She drove past her own bumpy drive—a project for the spring—and up to the old Parker house.

She’d already pulled up and parked when she remembered Theo—the brother she’d actually met—was out somewhere with her sister.

If the other one wasn’t home, she’d just contact the Fix-It Brothers later.

She got out, approving the fact they’d cleared snow—falling again—from the walkway, the drive. She noted the vast improvement of new windows, and the smoke curling out of both chimneys.

When she knocked, she heard the yip-yip-yip and remembered Theo saying his brother had gotten him a puppy for Christmas.

That single fact made her disposed to like him, at least a little.

When he opened the door, her first thought was he didn’t look much like Theo. A little taller, more muscular. His hair and eyes hit a few shades darker, his face more sharply angled.

He had a few days’ worth of stubble going where she’d only seen Theo clean-shaven.

“Mr. Littlefield?”

“Yeah. Is there a problem, Officer?”

“It’s Sergeant, actually.”

“Okay, same question. Oh, man, have a little pride.”

He spoke to the dog, who’d shoved its way between his legs to jump on Sloan.

“He’s fine. Just fine.” She gave the dog—a rambunctious yellow Lab—a good rub. Then she pointed, said, “Sit!”

When the dog’s butt hit the ground, Nash stared. “What did you do and how did you do it? How did you get him to sit?”

“I told him to.”

In response, Nash shoved at all that thick, wavy brown hair.

“You think I haven’t tried that? He never listens. Hell, it’s snowing again. Come in out of it. We’re in the middle of a major rehab, so it’s a wreck.”

The dog raced in ahead, ran in crazed circles, then grabbed a paint rag between his teeth and raced with that.

“Can you make him stop doing that? I’ll give you a thousand dollars.”

“What’s his name?”

“Tic. We call him Tic. Short for Lunatic. Reasons obvious.”

“Tic!” She pointed. “Sit.”

He sat, tail thumping, eyes filled with adoration.

“No charge. This time.”

“It’s like magic. Witchcraft. Sorry.” Baffled, Nash shoved a hand through his hair a second time. “Are you with the State Police?”

“No. I’m Natural Resources Police.”

“No kidding? I never heard of them before we moved here. Now the woman my brother’s dating has a sister… You’re the sister.”

“I am. Sloan Cooper.” She offered a hand.

He took it, gripped hard. “Are they okay? Did something happen?”

“No. No. This has nothing to do with them. I stopped by to see about hiring you. I bought a house.”

“Oh. Well. Okay then.”

The dog, rag still clamped, bellied over to Sloan and laid it like a tribute at her feet.

“You’re a good dog, aren’t you?” She crouched, rubbed. “Yes, you are.” She made an uh-uh sound when he jumped at her. “You’re going to be too big for that really soon. So no jumping, or no pets.”

Tic wagged and rubbed against her knees.

“Are you like Dr. Dolittle?”

“No.” She looked up. “I’m an alpha, and he knows it. Be an alpha. I don’t think this is yours, Tic.” She picked up the paint rag, handed the now slobbery thing to Nash. “What do you have that is?”

“He’s got balls, bones, squeaky things. He had a stuffed rabbit but he tore it to shreds. A massacre.”

“Go ahead and get him something that belongs to him.”

“Ah… There.” He walked over, around a pile of lumber, and picked up a bright orange bone.

Sloan took it, offered it. “This is yours.”

Tic clamped around it and sat at her feet, staring up at her with heart eyes.

“Would you consider living here for maybe six months?”

Looking up again, Sloan decided she did like him and his flustered, frustrated ineptitude with a puppy.

“We never had a dog,” he continued. “We don’t know what we’re doing. I read this, and it doesn’t work. Theo reads that, it doesn’t work.”

“Be an alpha. Correct, reward, repeat. Anyway, I just bought a house.”

“Right. You want to hire us to fix something.”

“My bathroom. It’s a gut job. My father, you obviously know, could take it on, but I don’t want to ask him and/or Jonah to carve out that kind of time. It’s not a big space, about ninety square feet, but it’s easily a week’s work. Maybe ten days, especially if you need to juggle jobs.”

“Okay. Let’s go take a look.”

“Now?”

“Why not? It’s practically next door, right? Theo said Drea’s sister bought it.”

“All right.”

“I need to block the dog into what will, one day, be my home office.”

“Bring him. Like you said, it’s practically next door. Put some dog treats in your pocket.”

Obviously baffled, he frowned at her. “I should put dog treats in my pocket?”

“Always.”

He did what she said before they walked out into the snowfall together.

The dog immediately raced around, leaped in the air, rolled in the snow.

“Mop does that. My family’s dog. Some of them just love the snow. Tic!” Sloan snapped her fingers. “Come.”

When he did, Nash just picked him up. “You could take him for six months. Name your price.”

“You’ll do fine.”

“Be an alpha,” Nash muttered as he carried the dog to his truck. “I thought I was an alpha. Between you and the blond wood nymph, suddenly I’m a wimp.”

He followed Sloan the short distance while Tic leaped from front to back, back to front. Navigating the bumps and potholes of her drive, he hoped she’d budgeted enough for a grader and gravel.

And he immediately saw half a dozen things he’d do to the exterior of the house. New siding, paint the trim, new windows, a new front door, a porch. Add window boxes to play up the cottagey feel.

But maybe she liked a shit-brown house.

All the charm came from the location. The surrounding white-flocked trees, the falling snow, the shadows spreading as dusk approached, and the sense of being tucked away, just a little secret.

It seemed like a good choice for a woman who looked like she might sprout wings.

After leaping from the truck, Tic dived into the snow. Rolled, ran, paused, sniffed.

“Tic, come.”

With a snap of her fingers, magic happened, and the dog pranced over to her.

Maybe she actually was a wood nymph.

“Exterior work.” She chin-pointed at the house. “Spring or summer.”

“Exterior work?”

“The siding’s crap,” she said as they walked to the house. “It needs a porch, new windows, and I grew up with a mudroom so I want one. But all that can wait.”

She unlocked the front door, which required a quick hip bump as it stuck. “I’ll be replacing this eventually.”

When he walked in, the contrast struck him. Dull walls, cheap trim, brick fireplace painted screaming red—and poorly—with a poky mantel, open to a roomy enough but very sad kitchen.

And everything in the space was neat, organized, well-placed, and had style.

The size of the sofa, in a strong blue, suited the size of the room. She had a wingback chair in minute blue-and-gray checks facing the fire with a gray throw draped over it, a small armchair in a surprising red that worked. None of the tables matched, but looked old and polished. Like family pass-downs, he thought, that added warmth and character.

Tic immediately raced around, wagging, sniffing.

Then nosed into her basket of yarn. “Uh-uh! Come.”

He wagged his way to her.

“Give him a treat for being a good boy.”

Nash dug one out of his pocket. Tic leaped for it.

“No. Tell him to sit. Mean it.”

Since it worked for her, Nash added the point. “Sit!”

Tic tried one more leap, then sat.

“This is not a small miracle.”

He looked around as the dog all but swallowed the little biscuit whole.

“It’s a good space.”

“It’s ugly, but I can live with it.”

She hung up her coat in a narrow closet, unrolled a scarf, and put it in a tub on the shelf. The undeniably sexy Stetson went beside it.

And the hair, full in the front, short and shaggy in the back, only added to that fairy-gliding-through-the-trees image.

She held out a hand for his coat.

“You have a gun.”

She gave him a nod and a slight smile. “Yes, I do. I’m a police officer.”

“I guess I figured… you arrest people?”

“When necessary. We educate, and we enforce.”

He couldn’t quite figure out why seeing her in uniform gave him a buzz.

“Interesting.” Now he had to look up the Natural Resources Police. “First house?” he asked her.

“Yeah. Home, college dorm, apartment, this. You?”

“Pretty much the same.”

“You don’t start small.”

“The house spoke to me.”

“Really. What did it say?”

“ Help .”

She had a quick laugh, and one that sparkled in those amazing eyes.

“It’s been saying that for years. You’re the first one who listened. You’ll hear the same plea from my bathroom. It’s this way.”

The living area split off into two—they didn’t rate as wings—sections. She went to the left into what barely qualified as a hallway, then right.

He walked in as she stood in the doorway. The dog raced in to sniff, tried and failed to climb into the tub.

“Yeah, I hear it. It needs it. What crazed mind picked this flooring?”

“Can’t say, but I curse them daily. It goes. It all goes.”

“Good choice. Even somebody your size must barely fit in this shower.”

“You are correct. I want bigger. I don’t need the tub, so a nice-sized shower goes there, and what’s now the shower could be open shelves. I thought about a closet, but the room’s small, and open shelves would give some breathing room.”

Since he couldn’t argue with her choices, he nodded. “You know what you want.”

“I do.”

Tic wandered out.

“He’s housebroken—through too much trial and error to speak of—like ninety-five percent of the time. But—”

Sloan just shrugged. “If this is the five percent, you’ll clean it up. Listen, I’ve drawn up a plan if you want to take a look.”

He glanced back at her. Yeah, the uniform was a killer. He just couldn’t figure out why.

“Sure.”

She led the way into the kitchen, where the dog bounded back. With a ball of yarn in his mouth.

Sloan pried it free. “This is not yours.” Opening a cupboard, she took out a rawhide stick. “For when the family dog visits,” she explained, then pointed.

Tic sat.

“This is yours.”

He collapsed on the floor with it in ecstasy.

“It’ll keep him busy.” She gestured to the square oak table and its pair of chairs. “Have a seat. I’ll get my file.”

He saw she’d set up a small room off the kitchen as an office. Decent desk, ugly walls to go with an ugly light on a popcorn ceiling.

She opened a drawer in the desk, took out a file folder.

“I’ve decided on the fixtures, the tile, the flooring, and all that. That’s in here, too.”

When she took out a sheet of graph paper and he saw her drawing, he shook his head. “You’re a Cooper, all right.”

“I am. Sorry, I should’ve asked before. Do you want coffee, a Coke?”

“Coffee if it’s handy,” he said as he studied the drawing. “Black’s fine.”

She’d measured everything, very precisely. She had the square footage of the room, the shower space, the size of the vanity, even the mirror, the side lights.

And she had printouts of everything. The tile, where she’d calculated how much required for the shower, the floor, new trim, a compact, floating vanity, fixtures, towel rods, all of it.

“Thorough.”

“My middle name. I’m sticking with the one-room-at-a-time plan. My dad and I already pulled up the bedroom carpet. Hardwood under it.”

“Why do people do that?”

“A question for the ages. New paint and trim in there, a little closet work, get rid of the popcorn—that’s everywhere. So that’s a quick and easy. This?”

She set down his coffee, then with her own sat at the table as she looked around the kitchen.

“The cabinets are in good shape, just blah. So paint them, new hardware, all good. New countertops—probably quartz to replace the ancient Formica. In that question for the ages, there’s hardwood under this weird linoleum. The stove’s okay, the fridge is crap, the lighting’s horrible, as is the school bus–yellow paint.”

“Goes with the daisies on the bathroom floor.”

She smiled at the basic mind meld.

“I think that was the plan. Anyway, that can wait until we add on the mudroom. Come through that—a good drop zone—into the kitchen.”

“Laundry room?”

“Currently down in the serial killer basement. I might move it up when we work out the mudroom.”

“You could put the laundry where you have your office, use the second bedroom as a combo guest room and office.”

“Under consideration, but right now I have my home gym set up in the second bedroom. I thought about setting that up in the serial killer basement, but just no.”

“That’s where mine is. Well, it doesn’t reach serial killer status, but it needs a lot of work. It’s okay for now.”

She smelled like the woods, he thought. The woods she looked as if she wandered in moonlight.

“I’ve got one suggestion on your bathroom plan.”

“All right.”

“If you put in a small cabinet, the shelves over it, you’d add storage without displaying the stuff. Can I?” He took a sheet of graph paper, and though he free-handed it, the design was precise.

“Gives you three, maybe four shelves depending on how much space you want between, and a cabinet below, which gives you another flat surface for whatever.”

He glanced up again as she frowned over the design. “I’m surprised Dean didn’t suggest it.”

“Now that I see it, I’m sure he would have. I haven’t shown him, or mentioned moving on this. If I did, he’d want to do it for me, and he just doesn’t have time during the workweek. That means his weekends— when he doesn’t have to go fix something in one of the units—is eaten up with more work.”

“He’s already offered to lend a hand around my place.”

“It’s what he does. I like this. This would work. I can start sourcing cabinets.”

“We can build it, match it up with the vanity you’ve picked out.”

She sat back, considered. “How about you work me up an estimate on the work, including the cabinet, give me a start and end date.”

“I can do that. I can tell you now…” He pulled out his phone, checked the work calendar. “We can start Thursday morning. I’m going to say two weeks because we don’t know what we might find when we start tearing things out.”

“I figured that. Second bath on the other side of the house. Not as bad as this one. Close, but not as bad. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay then. If you put your contact in my phone, I’ll get you an estimate by tomorrow.”

“I see why Dad likes you.” She took his phone, put in her number, her email.

“It’s mutual.” He pointed to the chevrons on her sleeve. “Doesn’t a sergeant have three of those?”

“Yes. I just got the promotion today.”

“Today? Well, hell. Congratulations, Sarge.”

“Thanks.” In that moment, she realized he was the first one she’d told.

“My parents are out to dinner tonight, so I’m going over a little later to tell them. So, if you happen to see them before I do, do me a favor and don’t mention it. Or the bathroom.”

“No problem.”

She tapped his drawing. “Did your dad—or mom,” she added, “build things?”

“No, they never built a thing.” He rose. “I’ll go get started on this. Thanks for the coffee, and the dog pointers.”

“I appreciate you moving on this so quickly. I’ll get your coat.”

Tic scrambled up, bounded after her.

“He already likes you better than me.”

She gave that quick laugh again. “A dog like this? It’s love at first sight whoever he meets.”

“I’m surprised you don’t have a dog. You’re really good with them.”

“I’m gone all day. Luckily, I have Mop—the family dog.”

Then it clicked. Theo talked about Mop. The Cooper family dog.

“I saw you.”

“Sorry?” She turned from the closet with his coat.

“Walking with the big shaggy dog. A few times along the lake.” Slowly, he remembered, as if recovering from a long illness. Not at all like the woman he’d spent most of an hour with.

He replaced that with “Your hair was longer.”

“It was, then I cut it.”

“I like it, if that matters. It suits your face.” Those magical eyes.

Thinking it wise to switch gears, he nodded toward the fireplace as he put on his coat. “Tell me you’re not going to leave that fire-truck red. You’re going to repaint, resurface, something.”

“It’s on the list.”

“That’s a relief. Let’s go, Tic. I’ll be in touch.”

He walked out through the thickening snow, boosted the dog into his truck.

He’d work up the estimate—he already had some of it figured anyway. And he’d look up the Natural Resources Police to find out why she carried a gun. And what he thought was a baton.

And though he felt strongly about privacy, his curiosity hit stronger. He’d see what he could find out about Sloan Cooper.