Sassy Blonde - Stacey Kennedy Page 0,17

gone to the hospital for stitches above his eyebrow, a relocation of his shoulder, and to get fluid drained from his knee, and that was only recently. The first eight months after Laurel died, he couldn’t even leave his house until Maisie showed up. “Like I said, the fall wasn’t bad.”

“What’s this, the second hospital visit in six months?” his father countered.

“Third, actually,” Hayes corrected.

His father’s expression softened, his strong hand cupping Hayes’s shoulder. “I’m not exactly sure what you’re doing with these horses other than punishing yourself, but don’t you think it’s time to stop it?”

Hayes glanced out to his red brick bungalow, with black accents and a matching roof. The flower bed hugging the walkway had been Maisie’s touch, as was the flowerpot resting by the front door—with the gold lion door knocker—that she repotted every spring. When Hayes returned home to River Rock, he’d bought the property with half of Laurel’s life insurance policy. The rest of the money was sitting in an untouched bank account. The only reason he bought the property was for the mature weeping willow tree that rested on the edge of the creek. Weeping willows were Laurel’s favorite, and Hayes had spread her ashes there, exactly where she would have wanted, giving her the perfect resting place that, in life, she would have loved. “This is my life now,” Hayes finally said, glancing back to his father. “You’re going to have to accept that.”

Dad frowned, slowly removing his hand. “Laurel wouldn’t want this. Getting yourself hurt all the time isn’t going to bring her back.”

“I know that,” Hayes shot back, heat building in his chest.

“Then come back to the force,” Dad countered gently. “You don’t need to work in Denver. Come work for me, in town. You’re a damn good cop, Hayes. That’s where you belong.”

The radio in the SUV crackled, and the dispatcher’s voice rambled off a radio code. That high-pitched voice was like an anchor, yanking Hayes back to the night when Laurel’s life ended, reminding him why, no matter how much he missed being a cop, he couldn’t ever go back.

“10-32 at 420 Mill Street,” the dispatcher called along the radio waves.

Hayes and the other cops were celebrating the arrests of five punks who unleashed a reign of terror on Denver. Men and women had been beaten and robbed. A few cars set on fire. The last of their crimes involved a banker, who had been abducted for the money he had access to at the bank. Now those bastards were behind bars, and the residents of Denver could sleep soundly again. Well, mostly. They still had cops out searching for the leader of the gang, Earl Falik, who’d gotten away with a gunshot to his shoulder from Hayes’s weapon.

Hayes had a split second to decide if he’d kill Falik or disarm him. Hayes went with the latter, and the second after the bullet sliced through Falik’s shoulder, Falik said through gritted teeth, his ice-blue eyes dead and cold. “You’ll pay for that.”

Falik smiled a deadly promise, and it looked like the devil was grinning at Hayes, when Hayes was suddenly hit from the side. He hit the pavement…hard, his head smashing against the concrete. Darkness crept into his vision as Hayes fought against Falik’s cousin, watching as Falik ran away.

Hayes never should have let Falik run. He should have shot him dead.

In the station, when Hayes heard the address come across the radio, he finally understood what Falik meant, and Hayes’s fucking world blew apart. The code the dispatcher used meant man with a gun. And that address was Hayes and Laurel’s home.

Not knowing if his fellow cops were following him, Hayes sprinted to his cruiser and pressed his phone to his ear while he gunned it down the road, the blue and red flashing lights cutting through the darkness. “Answer, Laurel. Dammit, answer.” Four times, he’d tried calling. Four times, she didn’t pick up. “Fuck.” He threw his phone to the car’s floor. He’d thought he’d felt fear, pain, and worry before in his life, but not until this moment did he truly understand those emotions. And they left him reeling.

When he reached his house, he drove up onto the grass of his lawn. His neighbors screamed at him from their houses as he ran from the cruiser. They were obviously hearing the gunshots, but too afraid to come any closer. Hayes couldn’t make out what they said past the thundering of his heartbeat. Gun drawn, he