Iditarod Nights Read online

  ***

  Dillon couldn't get back to sleep, had no desire to even try, so he showered and went in search of Claire.

  He didn't have far to go. She and Vic sat at the small table in a corner of the kitchen used by the staff for breaks.

  "We were just talking about you," Vic said.

  "Explains why my ears are burning. Isn't your shift over?"

  "Yep."

  And that, apparently, was all the explanation he'd get. Vic stood, planted a kiss on Claire's forehead, murmured something for her ears only which drew a small smile, and walked away.

  Dillon took the man's place, reached for Claire's hand on the table. Her fingers twined with his. "How're you doing?" he asked.

  She shrugged, gripped his hand tighter, as though clinging to a lifeline. "I knew this day would come. It's just..." Tears pooled in her eyes.

  Dillon tugged and she came to him, let him bundle her in his lap, bury her face in his collar and hold her as she quietly cried.

  "I'm sorry, I can't seem to stop blubbering."

  "Have you had any sleep?"

  "A little this morning, until I woke thinking I had a team to feed."

  "It'll take awhile to get over that."

  "How about you? Have you slept?"

  "Some. Until the nightmare."

  She looked at him. "You ready to talk about it yet?"

  He could see how difficult it was for her to ask. Considering his bullheaded silence up until now, he didn't blame her. But she deserved to know. Maybe knowing would make it easier for her to say goodbye. "Yes. But not here."

  ***

  He took her to his loft apartment on the second floor, an open space of tongue and groove flooring and varnished wood. An area rug in greens and reds provided a central focal point of color, flanked on one side by a double bed with a forest green quilt, the other by an island and kitchen. The entertainment center tucked in one corner faced two deep armchairs. Claire took it all in at a glance, thinking comfortable, basic, masculine, but her attention was drawn to the broad windows that made up the west wall and looked out over Front Street and the Bering Sea.

  "God, what a view," she said on a breath. She crossed the room and stepped out to the balcony. Dillon followed. Below was the burled arch and a mass of people in festive activity, laughter and dozens of conversations going at once. Farther out, the frozen ice of Alaska's west coast. She moved to the railing and inhaled the cold, sharp air redolent with grilled reindeer and wood smoke, humans and canines packed together at the edge of a horizon that stretched forever. I could be happy here crossed her mind. It brought a twinge of envy. "The sunsets must be stunning."

  He leaned with his elbows against the railing, close but not quite touching, looking out to sea, the scruff of beard on his weather-scoured jaw and the compelling line of his mouth familiar. Intimate. "This place keeps me anchored," he said. Those glacier-blue eyes aimed at her then, startling, and still so full of secrets.

  Sane. This place keeps him sane. She acknowledged the feeling, identified with it.

  The fire department siren announced another musher and team coming in. The crowd below cheered and applauded the arrival and Claire joined in, remembering her own thrill at reaching the finish of the race; Dillon gave a long, sharp whistle.

  "Do you know how many are still on the trail?" Claire asked.

  "Maybe a dozen. I stopped counting once you made it in."

  "You heard about the blizzard?"

  "I was taking my eight at White Mountain when the news came through."

  She slid her hands into her jacket pockets and gave an involuntary shiver. "It hit so fast. If Ranger hadn't found that cabin, I don't know what – "

  "You did everything right, Claire. You survived and you got your dogs home safe."

  A sweet ache of accomplishment laced with sadness tumbled across her heart. "I'm going to miss them." Dillon nodded his understanding and her eyes pooled. She would miss more, much more, than just the dogs. If only she could stop crying, she thought, and palmed tears from her face. "Shit."

  "You need food."

  His declaration startled a laugh from her. "You're right. I am hungry."

  They went inside. Claire perched on a cushioned stool at the island, facing the functional, nothing-fancy work space, white counters, natural wood, white appliances. Tidy. Not a single dirty dish in the porcelain sink. Dillon rounded the island and opened a cabinet.

  "Need any help?" she asked, though she suspected he knew more about cooking than Vic gave him credit for.

  "Got it handled," he said, and pulled out the biggest bag of barbequed potato chips she'd ever seen.

  "Oh my God."

  He dangled it over the island. "Potato, not corn."

  She snagged the bag from him, ripped it open and stuffed an orange chip in her mouth. "Oh my God," she repeated, her words muffled around the salt and tang of artificially flavored, deep fried potato. She eyed Dillon's slanted smile. "Don't expect me to share."

  "I thought I'd open a can of soup."

  "Mmm." She crunched another chip. "That sounds good too."

  "Vegetable beef okay?"

  Her stomach growled. "Uh huh."

  They ate seated side by side at the island. Dillon brewed a pot of coffee. "If you'd like anything stronger, I can run downstairs to the bar."

  "Coffee's fine. Alcohol right now would just knock me out. But go for it if you want something."

  "I don't drink."

  His abrupt statement caught her off guard. "Oh. Okay."

  "It's one of the things I left behind when I came to Alaska."

  She blew on a spoonful of soup, tasted. It was good. Really good. She took another spoonful while she waited for him to continue. When he did, she wished he hadn't.

  "I lied to you, Claire."

  Chapter 25

  Dillon regretted the hurt he saw in her eyes, felt her draw away and put her guard up. He released the lock on the door to his past and pulled it open. "The first day we met, I told you I'd never been to Portland. That was a lie. When I said I was a cop, it was for the Portland Police Bureau."

  "Why did you feel the need to lie about it?"

  "I made up my mind to forget that part of my life...forget the things I did."

  She set her spoon down. "I'm listening."

  He narrated the events by rote, the memory already too close to the surface. "It was a late afternoon, raining like hell. Officer Lewis and I responded to a domestic dispute at an apartment complex. We heard the screaming when we drove up." Shrill, plaintive, nerve wrenching. "We exited the patrol car and approached on foot. We were almost to the door when it opened and a woman stepped out, her face swollen, her blouse ripped. She saw us and shouted at us to hurry." He's killing him! "Lewis asked her if she needed an ambulance but she kept screaming at us to hurry. I asked her if there were any weapons in the house. She indicated no." Nothing except his big ape fists! "We announced ourselves and entered."

  Whether or not the woman knowingly lied, they never determined. She didn't stick around to be questioned.

  "A big man, about two hundred and fifty pounds, had his hands around the neck of a smaller man, pinning him to the wall, choking him." Put the man down and step away from the wall! "The big man didn't acknowledge our presence."

  What happened next came as a series of disjointed flashes. Lewis flying across the room. The big man attempting to shove his way out the door and Dillon knocking him down. The small man gasping for air, then reaching behind his back. "The small man pulled a handgun from his waistband and fired. Lewis returned fire." A movement in his peripheral vision. Turning. "A third suspect on my left, wearing a hooded sweatshirt, reached inside his pocket." He didn't remember pulling his service weapon, just that it was in his hand. "I fired. My bullet hit the man in the chest." Too young to call a man. He looked up at Dillon, confusion in his eyes. Then nothing. "He died almost instantly."

  "Was he armed?" Claire asked.

  "Yes. When he fell, a
9 mm semi-auto dropped from his hand."

  Time slowed. Time spent staring at the handgun by his foot. Did I see it before I fired? Time spent watching Lewis handcuff the big man. The smaller man stretched out face down, blood trickling from a hole in his pant leg, hands cuffed behind his back. Dillon had no memory of the smaller man being shot, just the sound of Lewis's pistol going off next to his ear. Which one of us handcuffed him? He remembered staring at the dead body at his feet. "I killed a nineteen-year-old kid," he said, forcing the words past dry lips.

  If his admission shocked her, she didn't let it show. No sympathy or disgust. Society frowned on police shootings, but like an experienced criminal defense attorney, her expression remained impassive.

  "Were there any charges against you or your partner?"

  "No. Lewis took a three-day leave to recover from being knocked around by the gorilla. I was back on the job the next day. I didn't want to sit at home thinking about it, figured it was better to put the incident behind me and get on with my routine." He drew in a heavy breath. "Then the nightmares began."

  "Did you talk to anyone?"

  "If you mean a psychologist, no. I wanted to keep my job." Seeing the department shrink sent a signal of instability, opened the door for a fitness evaluation and possible termination. He'd seen it happen before. "I started going out for a few beers after my shift." Choir practice. Letting off steam. Sharing war stories. His fellow officers meant well. Hey, good shooting. The bastard got what he deserved. But the support wore thin. It didn't change the fact that he'd killed a kid. "Eventually I moved to the hard stuff." He had a particular taste for bourbon. "If I stayed numb enough, drunk enough, I could face the next day, and the day after that. It wasn't long before my marriage fell apart. My parents disowned me. I lost my job. I figured I had two choices – put my service pistol to my head and end it, or get as far away as possible and start over where nobody knew me or asked questions."

  "Then I showed up, a criminal defense attorney asking question. Two strikes."

  "Yes." He wouldn't lie to her again. "Strike three was shooting at the moose. I've been carrying that damn revolver around, pretending I'm okay with it, but the trail into McGrath was the first time I've actually fired it. I forgot how it felt, the recoil, the smell, the repercussion on my ears." The look in the kid's eyes as he died.

  "And now the nightmares are back."

  "Different versions of the same thing. I shoot but the suspect doesn't stay dead, chases me, grabs at me." Fear. "I can't get away. I'm slipping on blood and empty pizza boxes."

  "Pizza boxes?"

  "The apartment was full of them. I haven't been able to look at a pizza since without it turning my stomach. Damn shame, too. I used to love pizza."

  "Let me guess...pepperoni."

  He smiled a little around the edges. "Not much of a challenge there, counselor."

  "Hey, I'll take an easy case any day. And don't call me counselor," she said, though her tone lacked bite. "What became of the woman?"

  "She took off. Probably because she knew the back room was full of stolen drugs – Vicodin, Oxycodone, antidepressants, anti-psychotics – a mini pharmacy."

  Claire's expression tightened. "Shit."

  He remembered the client she told him about, the one who beat a family to death for their prescription meds. It occurred to him that of all the people who might understand what he'd gone through, it would be someone close to the ugly side of the law.

  "I'm glad you killed him," she said.

  The vehemence in her voice yanked at his heart. "No you're not."

  She fixed him with a narrowed look, as if prepared to argue. Dillon counted five weighted beats, dull thuds at the back of his eardrums, before he saw her shoulders sag.

  "I hate that I've let him do this to me," she said.

  "He's the reason you took a leave of absence."

  "Yes."

  "Not the Hammertown guy?"

  She snorted. "Not even close."

  Her answer should have made him feel better, but it didn't. Nothing about the situation felt good. She had a promise to keep, a career to return to. And after dealing with her own emotional baggage, why would she choose to get tangled up in his?

  "You made the right decision," she said, "getting the hell out."

  "Now it's caught up with me."

  She slid to her feet and came to him, caressed his check, planted a light, salty kiss on his mouth. "You're not alone," she told him.

  He turned and pulled her between his thighs, his hands loose on her hips. "I want you, Claire, more than I've wanted or needed anybody in a long time. But Alaska's my home now. What happens the day after tomorrow, when you have a plane to catch?"

  "We've got two days to figure something out. Let's not waste them."

  The memory of her kisses kept him warm on cold Iditarod nights. This time her mouth promised heat, seduction, intimacy. Things he didn't have a right to, sensations he'd shut himself off from. He felt exposed even as he craved. "Are you sure?" he asked.

  "I'm staying."

  ***

  She would need time to process the things Dillon told her, to grasp the full impact of his trauma. But at the moment, other needs drove her and demanded her attention. The way he touched her. The way he looked at her, needed. It had been a long time for her too.

  Clothes discarded with fevered urgency left a trail from the kitchen island to the bed. The jukebox in the bar below pulsed a deep, sorrow-filled tune. His callused hands covered her, explored her body the way she did his. Arms and legs tangled, damp skin over damp skin.

  Her heart cried a little as he slid inside her, the tenderness and passion in his touch unbearably sweet.

  "Look at me," he whispered.

  She did. His eyes – close, intense, unguarded – sent a flutter of panic snagging through her. She didn't want to fall in love with this man, but in that instant she knew she already had. He thrust deeper and she gasped.

  "I want you to see what you do to me."

  Heat rushed to her cheeks.

  "I want you to remember," he said.

  Always. I will always remember.

  She came hard and fast. Seconds later he followed on the crest of her orgasm. He held her to him until his body stopped trembling, then cradled her as he lay back on the mattress. "Wow."

  "Yeah. Wow."

  She listened to the hammer of his heart against her ear, felt his chest rise and fall in an effort to bring his breathing back to normal, and smiled. She hadn't felt this boneless and satisfied in...well, an eternity.

  The room took on a pink hue. She lifted her gaze to the windows and saw her stunning sunset.

  ***

  In the early hours before the Bering West opened for business, Dillon led her downstairs to raid the kitchen. "Are you sure Vic won't object?" she asked, as she pulled a huge tub of potato salad from the cooler and just about dropped it. "Jeez, what's in here? Concrete?"

  "Vic's not big on giving out recipes. As long as the customers are happy, I don't ask."

  Claire popped the lid off the container and spooned some onto the two plates he laid out. "Smells delicious. Got any more chips?"

  "How about a couple reindeer dogs instead?"

  Caribou meat, like venison but not as gamey. "Perfect."

  "Onions?"

  "Of course."

  She took a seat at the table and watched him work. He wore a long white apron over his jeans and flannel shirt – tails loose, sleeves rolled – and moved with economic grace, engaged in a routine intimately familiar to him. She liked having a man cook for her. Her skin warmed remembering another intimate side he'd shown, one he'd been less confident of. Her heart told her two days wouldn't be nearly long enough with this man.

  The snap and sizzle of onions hitting a hot grill yanked at her senses. Their aroma stirred a boisterous rumble in her stomach. To avoid drooling, she forked a bite of potato salad. Pickles. Celery. Garlic. And...fresh basil? Did Vic have an herb garden? Small, decor
ative clay pots lining a window at home, perhaps? The gruff-looking cook, who'd ordered her to sit with him for a cup of coffee and consoled her with a story about the time Dillon set the kitchen on fire, babying pots of herbs. The image brought a smile.

  "Vic told you, didn't he."

  She dragged her eyes from the plate of food in Dillon's hand. "He said when the grill burst into flames, you screamed like a girl."

  He grunted a laugh. "I did." Sitting next to her, he put a reindeer dog smothered in caramelized onions, nestled in a hoagie roll, on her plate. "I saw my investment going up in smoke."

  "It didn't help that you tried to swat out the flames with a dishtowel."

  "Almost set myself on fire. I suppose he told you how he barreled in and saved the day."

  "Of course." She took a huge bite of her dog. "Oh. My. God. This is fabulous."

  "I've learned a few things about using a grill since then."

  She could have reminded him of the burnt sausage links from the day before, but chose instead to take another bite and make appreciative sounds of pleasure. She finished half her dog before asking, "Tell me about Helen."

  He paused mid bite. "Did she make a move on your dad?"

  "Big time. He looked like he was enjoying it, too."

  "She's a hard worker. Got a heart the size of Alaska. Tends to get what she sets her mind to." He took a bite, chewed. "Would it be so bad if she got her way this time?"

  "No. God no. It's just...unexpected. After all these years, to see Dad fall for somebody so unlike Mom."

  "He told me about her. Caroline."

  Claire's breath hitched, the prick of sadness at hearing her mother's name reassuring. She never wanted to forget. "Why would he do that?"

  Dillon put the his food down, met her look. "He wanted me to understand what keeping a promise means to you."

  "Oh." Dad only knows the half of it, she thought.

  "I'm sorry, Claire."

  "Me too." She didn't have to ask what he meant. He killed a man. In the breath it took a hammer to strike a firing pin, his world changed forever. She had defended clients who killed for less, men like Colin Spears – there, she'd said his name, at least to herself – who felt no remorse. But the trauma of taking another human's life would haunt Dillon to his grave. She'd seen it before, working in criminal defense. Killing someone alters a person's sense of self. She was thankful he found a way to exist with his moral pain, carved a niche for himself in this remote place. Survived.