Page 8 of Long Arm of the Cowboy

As he approached her car, she realized she didn’t pop the hatchback. She hurried after him and circled to the driver’s side.

Clay stopped dead and gaped at her. “I told you to stay inside.”

“Just being helpful.”

She swore she heard him groan. Then she pressed a button to open the hatch. Clay peered inside and let out a cuss that would have once had Andrew slapping his hands over her ears to protect her young, developing mind from corruption.

Most men would step back when they saw a bomb. Clay edged closer. “Dammit. Where did you evengetthis thing?”

“I work for Quick Bunny.”

“Is that a strip club?”

“No…it’s an app that people contract me through to run errands for them.”

He didn’t look away from the crate. “This needs defused.”

She nodded.

“This task force is a shit show of one,” he muttered.

She walked over to where he stood peering into the crate. Suddenly, he jerked his head up.

“Should you be standing next to a bomb?” he asked her.

“You are.”

She didn’t remember the exact color of his eyes, and now that she saw them again, she saw all the shades of brown that made up his very beautiful irises. Nutmeg, cinnamon, toasted marshmallow, all the yummy colors she loved and reminded her of fall.

“I think we should call Roberta,” she announced.

“Fine.” When he reached for his pocket, the sleeve of his shirt tugged tight across his biceps. He brought the phone up and paused. “What do I dial again?”

“Oh, it’s 911. But you’ll get Roberta on the line.”

He pushed a violent snort through his nostrils and clapped the phone to his ear. “Hi. I have a bomb here. I need to speak to the sheriff.”

Roberta’s overly loud voice projected through the phone speaker, clear as day for Lark to hear. “The sheriff is taking care of a domestic call between Eddie Schuman and his wife. They must call three times a week. Always arguing, and sometimes it escalates.”

Clay’s stare landed on Lark’s as he said, “I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t be telling me this.”

Undeterred, Roberta proved a fount of information—a very useful trait. When Lark became a reporter, she was going to befriend Roberta for all the breaking news.

“Fine, I’ll just take care of the matter myself. Why not? It’s all on me anyway.” Clay’s gravelly tone vibrated with irritation. Without so much as a goodbye, he ended the call and stabbed his finger into the phone screen to dial another.

As he waited for someone to pick up, he clasped Lark by the forearm and dragged her off the street and onto the brick sidewalk leading to his house.

She kept half an ear on his conversation.

“She works for Quick Bunny. No, that’s not a strip club,” Clay growled. “It’s an app that runs errands for people. Somebody contracted her to pick up the crate. We need to find out who he is. Dude, you’re the guy sitting in a big office with all the resources at your fingertips. Find out who’s behind it…”

Lark’s mind drifted from the conversation, keenly tuned into the deep gravel of Clay’s voice.

Which left her wondering just what the man had been up to all these years besides the Army and police force. How was he stillsingle?

There had to be a story there—a shattered heart from a cheating wife maybe? Ohh, that was too tragic. The man must really have suffered in order for him to deny any other connections in his life…

Clay moved to the trunk again and spent some time studying the bomb while conveying what he saw to the person on the phone. He also snapped a few photos of it. Lark watched him closely. All her life, words flew onto the page of her mind when really inspired by a story. And this man and his rough talk were definitely writing fodder.

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