Murder in the Smokies - By Paula Graves Page 0,17
like flames. He let go of her wrist, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. He swallowed and found his voice. “Better let ’em fog up. Makes it harder to see us inside, in case he’s out there looking for a target.”
She dropped her hand to her lap. It curled into a fist, her knuckles pressing hard against her thigh. She gazed forward at the opaque windshield, her chest rising and falling more swiftly than before.
The sudden whoop of a siren, close by, made them both give a start. The flash of blue and cherry lights painted the condensation on the passenger window with streaks of color. Sutton lowered the window to reveal a white-and-green Sevier County Sheriff’s Department cruiser pulling up beside them. A man in his early thirties with sharp blue eyes and a close-shaved head gazed back at them, his expression wary.
“John,” Ivy said, and the deputy’s expression immediately cleared. He shot her a smile so friendly, so full of male appreciation, that Sutton felt the absurd urge to knock it right off his face.
John’s smile died suddenly. “Good Lord, Hawkins, you’re bleedin’! Did you get hit?”
No mention of the bloody shrapnel wound on Sutton’s jaw, he noticed, not sure whether he was amused or pissed off by the omission.
“Just a scratch.” Ivy pressed her fingertips to the nick. “John, I don’t know if the shooter is still up there. He could be. I don’t know how far he could have gotten in such a short time or whether he had a getaway vehicle parked over on the North Carolina side. You might want to see if you can get a chopper in the air and maybe give the Swain County boys over in North Carolina a heads-up.”
“Chopper’s on its way already, and the sheriff was on the phone with the Swain County sheriff last I talked to anyone at the station. Come on. Let’s get the two of you somewhere safe and dry.”
Sutton looked at Ivy. “See you in Sevierville?”
She reached out to catch his hand as he started to open the door. Her gaze was fathomless. “I’m not sure I’d have gotten off that mountain alive without you. Thanks.”
As he let go of her hand and headed for his truck, he didn’t remind her she wouldn’t have been on the mountain in the first place if it weren’t for him. Whether he said it aloud or not, Ivy Hawkins would figure it out on her own, sooner or later. She’d realize her mama had been right about him all along.
Calhouns were nothing but trouble.
* * *
“YOUR FELLOW ANY KIN to old Cleve Calhoun?” John Mallory touched the antiseptic-soaked cotton ball against the cut on Ivy’s cheek, making her wince.
“Son,” she answered with a wary glance up at him. She should have known the old man’s reputation would have spread far past Bitterwood after so many years. “And he’s not my fellow.”
“Is he anything like his old man?”
She started to say no but stopped. What did she know about Sutton Calhoun these days, really? Hell, she hadn’t even called Cooper Security to check his credentials, had she? Cleve Calhoun had made his reputation on the back of some of the biggest, most reasonable-sounding lies ever told. Maybe Sutton had followed in his daddy’s footsteps, for all she knew. There was a lot she didn’t know about his life after he left Bitterwood—and her—behind.
“That’s to be determined,” she answered John’s question.
“Maybe someone figured he had a damn good reason to take a shot at him.” Johnny’s sharp eyes met hers with the hint of a smile in their crinkled corners. He put an adhesive bandage over the cut on her cheek. “My cousin Arlen lost a big chunk of change on one of old Cleve’s land deals about a decade ago, and he hasn’t ever really recovered, financially or otherwise. I reckon Arlen might want to take a shot or two at old Cleve, if he could still afford a rifle.”
“So you think that was someone trying to send a message to my daddy through me?” Sutton’s slow, amused drawl drew Ivy’s gaze. He stood in the open doorway of the interrogation room where John had taken her to patch up her scratch. Someone had seen to his wound as well, applying a small, round bandage to the nick on his jaw.
“You tell me,” John replied. “Who do you think shot at you?”
“I’m not sure.” Sutton walked into the room at an unhurried pace. He studied John’s first-aid