Texas Hold 'Em (Smokin' ACES) - By Kay David Page 0,19

he?” Rose threw a look at him. “I want to talk to this guy before he finds a lawyer—”

“That questioning thing’s not going to happen.” They’d reached the body, and he pointed to it with his gun. “Not unless you follow him to hell.”

…

The EMTs loaded the body into their ambulance then demanded Rose let them take her to the hospital. She refused, promising instead that she would check in with the urgent care clinic in Aqua Frio. A nurse came in twice a week and set up shop in the back of the drugstore. Everyone used her for their ailments. Santos’s actions upset her more than her ankle did, anyway.

King insisted on driving her back to the station in his truck, and he peppered her with questions about Santos all the way. She told him nothing. All she could think about was the expression on Santos’s face when he’d spotted her lying on the ground. He hadn’t been able to disguise his concern, and as silly as it sounded, she’d felt a rush of warmth. If he still had feelings for her…

The three of them entered the building as King sent Santos a silent message she could easily read: it wasn’t over between them. Leading Santos into her office, she closed the door and turned to him, hiding her earlier thoughts. “Did you have to kill the guy?”

“He cut in front of the bike. I couldn’t have stopped if I’d wanted to.”

Rose took a deep breath then winced. “I’m glad you were there, and I appreciate what you did. This is the second time you’ve ridden in to save the day. Talking to that guy would have been more helpful than planting him, though.”

“I tried to avoid him, but I couldn’t. End of story.”

The highway outside shimmered in the moonlight. In another few hours, a ray of heat would stab through the blinds as the sun rose over the mountaintops. The taste of dust was still in her mouth, and fear was there as well. She pulled the cord to lower them harder than she needed to, and banished the dark.

She turned back to Santos. “No, that’s not the end of the story. You’re involved now—King saw you, you ran over the guy, you have to give us a statement…”

“I can’t.”

“You have to.”

“Then write the damned report yourself and bury it as deep as you can for now.” His intensity didn’t waver as he dropped his voice. “When this is all over, you can dig it up. In fact, I’ll put the handcuffs on myself and meet you at the courthouse.”

She hesitated. Santos was right to have done what he did. When an officer was under fire, like deserved like. At least the man had been a stranger, the name of a small-time gang inked on his back, a declaration of love written in Spanish to Concepción underneath a poor rendition of a woman’s face.

Rose wanted to say no to Santos’s solution, then she remembered the heat of the bullet that had flown past her face. Both of them knew she didn’t need rescuing; she could take care of herself. Between the budget cuts and the dangerous situation, though, she’d been grateful for the help.

Meeting his eyes, she saw a darkness she’d never seen before, his legendary disregard for danger as obvious as his concern had been earlier. Turning to her desk, she gave a curt nod. “Start talking.”

Two hours later, with his statement lying on her desk, Rose watched him walk out of her office and turn down the hallway. How could he look so damn good in threadbare jeans and a battered vest? She took a shaky breath as a delayed reaction swamped her. Something really bad was brewing in Rio County. Had Timothy Santos brought it with him, or was he really here to fix it? And what part did her mother play in all this, if any?

Rose was still sorting the tower of paperwork the episode generated when Lydia Gomez opened the office door and let in the morning light. The dispatcher’s forehead was wrinkled with worry, and her fingers were twisted before her. The tiny town’s gossip downloaded faster than any Internet connection could ever hope to be; she clearly knew what had happened during the night.

“Dios mio, Sheriff Rose. I’ve been worried like crazy. You need to go home. We will cover here. Por favor.”

Lydia had been running the phones—and the station—for years. She’d even worked for Rose’s grandfather before he’d retired. Caring