Jessie was Cole’s sister who lived in Denver. Generally, Mattie felt drawn to dogs more than people, but Jessie seemed direct and kind, someone who said what she meant so that you didn’t have to guess. Cole’s parents, whom she’d not met but could recognize by sight, owned a ranch outside Timber Creek. “I bet you miss the kids.”
“Like crazy at first. The house was too quiet. Now I’m getting used to having some time to myself, although it’s easy to fill it with work.”
“I get that.”
“I’ve noticed.” She could sense the smile behind the words as he took her hand. “We share that tendency.”
Someone opened the windows on the back side of the building, and the music drifted into the park. Another slow song.
Cole moved away from the tree, pulling her against him into dance position. He swayed with the beat. “You’re a good dancer.”
“You, too.”
“Where did you learn to dance like that, Miss Mattie?”
He always could make her smile, despite the seriousness of a given moment. “In a bar over in Willow Springs when I was in college. And you?”
“I grew up dancing.” He swayed with her in more of an embrace than a dance. “We move well together.”
With his hand beneath her chin, he tipped her face up toward his. She closed her eyes as his lips touched hers.
The siren on top of the water tower began to blare, interrupting their kiss. They pulled away from each other a few inches to listen to the signal that called in the volunteers who made up the bulk of their small town’s fire department.
Boom! An explosion from the west echoed off the building.
Mattie turned to search in that direction, seeing nothing but shadows and trees in the park. “What was that?”
Cole’s hand lingered at her back. “I don’t know.”
Her mind jumped to Robo—she’d left him at home on the west side of town. “Let’s go. I want to make sure that fire isn’t at my house.”
They rushed around the side of the building toward the front, where people spilled out onto the porch. Several headed off to their cars, while amid subdued laughter, others speculated on what was going on.
At his truck, Cole opened the passenger door for Mattie and handed her up into the seat before hurrying toward the driver’s side. After starting the engine, he threw the truck into reverse, angled out of the narrow parking space, and steered toward the highway. “Let’s beat the rush out of here.”
Mattie pulled her cell phone from the hip pocket of her jeans and tapped the number for the sheriff’s station. Sam Corns, the night dispatcher, answered.
“What’s up, Sam?”
“Burning vehicle out on west County Road Seven. Fire department notified.”
“How far out?”
“About a mile north of Highway Twelve.”
It would take only a few minutes to get there. “I heard an explosion.”
“Don’t know what that was. Person who called in said it was a burning van before she disconnected.”
“All right. I’m on my way.”
“Fire trucks should be there soon. Garcia’s on his way, too,” Sam said.
Garcia kept night watch in Timber Creek, but in this small town all department employees were expected to be on call for emergencies. Mattie ended the call and turned to Cole. “It’s not at my house. It’s on County Road Seven.”
Cole turned at the next intersection and reset his course. “What is it?”
“A burning van.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Gas tank must’ve blown.”
“Maybe. Although that’s not as common as it’s made out to be.”
When they reached the highway, an orange halo glowed in the west, the blaze leaping up and taking shape as they turned onto the county road and drew near. Flames consumed a panel van that was parked on a pull-off at the side of the road. A pickup truck sat beyond the van, its driver’s side door hanging open and its headlights backlighting three figures in the barrow ditch, one person lying near the van and another hovering over a prostrate form closer to the pickup.
Mattie opened her door as she spoke. “Pull over here, Cole. Don’t park too close in case that van blows again. Leave your lights on.”
Staying as far away as the fencing allowed, she skirted the burning vehicle, her shoes crunching on broken glass. Heat poured off the van in waves and fire curled around its body, creating a great whoosh as it gobbled oxygen. As she ran toward the people in the ditch, she raised her bare forearm to shield her face, and the intense heat stung her skin.
She stopped at the first person she came to, a man lying facedown, his clothing torn from shrapnel, a bloody wound on the back of his head. She knelt, curling her fingers against the front side of his neck, feeling for a pulse. Cole passed by, heading toward two other people about twenty feet beyond, where a woman was calling for help.
Cole evidently recognized the woman’s voice. “Leslie!”
Leslie shouted to Cole. “It’s Garrett. He’s unconscious.”
Mattie’s gut wrenched as she realized that the man on the ground beside Leslie was Cole’s best friend, Garrett Hartman, a man Mattie knew, respected, and yes—loved unconditionally. She’d met the Hartmans last summer after their daughter Grace had been murdered. Though her mind screamed to go see how badly Garrett was hurt, she had to let Cole tend to him while she focused on the man before her.
She couldn’t find a pulse but noted a large bloodstain on his shirt. She strained to turn him faceup, bent to listen, and felt for a breath. Nothing.
She tore open the snaps on his western shirt. Blood covered his torso. There were two darkened wounds on his left upper chest. Bullet wounds? Though she believed it hopeless, she decided to try CPR.
Mattie positioned her hands over the lower part of his sternum, but when she pressed hard to deliver chest compressions, dark blood gushed from the wounds, streaming onto his chest and covering her hands. Heart shot. CPR would never bring this man back to life.
Fear that Garrett had suffered the same fate drove her to move on to see if she could help with him. She ran to Leslie as Cole bent over Garrett, touching his neck, apparently seeking a pulse. Waves of heat boiled off the blazing van. Shattered glass and debris littered the area around them.
Cole shouted above the noise from the fire, “What happened to Garrett?”
“He got knocked out when the van exploded!” Her eyes wild, Leslie pointed toward the man Mattie had just left. “That’s Nate Fletcher! Garrett was carrying him on his back, but the blast knocked them down. I dragged Garrett over here.”
Mattie needed to know what happened. “Did someone shoot Garrett?”
Leslie looked startled but shook her head. “No. He was fine until the van exploded. Why?”
Two bullets to the heart meant someone had shot Nate Fletcher at close range with the intent to kill. “Which vehicle is Nate’s, Leslie?”
Leslie pointed at the blazing van. “The van! We were on our way to town and saw it sitting here, already on fire. Garrett tried to get Nate out to safety, but it exploded!”
Cole still knelt beside his friend, apparently assessing his condition, while Mattie’s heart thudded at her throat. Who in the world could’ve killed Nate Fletcher? And did the person who shot him torch his van to destroy some kind of evidence?
Mattie turned her attention back to Garrett. “How is he?”
“Something hit him here.” Cole indicated the back of Garrett’s head. “He’s unconscious, but respiration and pulse are steady. Lots of small cuts but no serious bleeding.”
Mattie held Cole’s gaze for a heartbeat while mutual fear passed between them. The Hartmans had lost their only child, and now this. This couldn’t be happening to the couple.