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WHILE KIERA GAVE THE information to the 911 dispatcher, Frank yanked the stole from the man’s vestments and had him bound like a calf in a rodeo event in seconds. Closer examination said these garments were from a costume shop, not genuine religious garb. Frank stood beside the man, making sure he’d seen his Smith and Wesson revolver.
“Is this Stu?” he asked Kiera, who’d backed away and was leaning against a pine tree.
She nodded. “What are you doing here?”
Frank chuckled, remembering their dinner at the tapas restaurant. “What kind of a greeting is that?”
A faint smile played at the edges of her mouth. “I’ll start over. Thank you for rescuing me, Frank.”
He tapped the imaginary brim of the Stetson he wasn’t wearing. “You’re quite welcome, ma’am. I thought you might need some moral support.” He didn’t tell her his gut had said she might need physical support, too.
Stu struggled against his bonds. “You have no right to tie me up like this.”
Frank shrugged. “If you’d prefer, I can tie you up a different way. Once the cops get here, they’ll cuff you instead. I suggest you keep your mouth shut until then.” He pulled out his phone. “If you’d prefer to talk, I’ll record it and turn it over to the cops.”
Stu struggled a moment longer, then seemed to accept his plight.
Kiera moved closer, her face pale, fury in her eyes. “You killed Madelynn, didn’t you?”
Stu—obviously not a stupid man—didn’t answer.
She balled her hands into fists. “You sent me that candy, too. I saved it. I’ll give it to the cops. If you tampered with it, they’ll find out.”
More silence.
Two police cars pulled into the parking lot. A uniformed officer with a build like a refrigerator got out of the first one, weapon drawn. “Let me see your hands.”
Kiera’s eyes went saucer wide, but she raised her hands above her head.
Frank set his Smith and Wesson on the ground, along with Stu’s Glock, and showed his now-empty hands to the officer. “The revolver’s mine,” Frank said. “I have a permit. I took the Glock from the man on the ground after I observed him trying to force this woman—Kiera—into his car.”
The second officer, a slender woman, got out of the other car and secured both weapons. “You can put your hands down now.”
“Are you Kiera O’Leary?” the walking refrigerator asked.
“Yes.” She pointed to Stu. “That’s Stuart Thurman. He tried to abduct me. At gunpoint.”
“You have anything to say, Mr. Thurman?” the officer asked.
“Lawyer.”
The woman removed the makeshift rope Frank had bound Stu with and replaced it with cuffs. “Nice work,” she said. “You a rodeo man?”
“Nope,” Frank said. “Just a cowhand.”
“I’ll transport the prisoner,” she said to her colleague. “You can take their statements.”
The officer wanted to take Kiera’s statement at the station. Since he’d noted what Frank had relayed, he saw no need for him to go as well. Not a chance. Frank drove to the station and waited—almost two hours—for Kiera to emerge.
Color had returned to her face, and a satisfied expression had replaced the fury. Frank stood as she entered the lobby.
Her eyes widened. “I thought they took your statement at the church.”
“They did.”
“So why are you here?”
“I wanted to take you to lunch.”
She didn’t answer. Waiting for her to reply was worse than waiting during a Rangers mission. His mouth dried, his palms sweated.
“I could eat,” she said. “But Dutch.”
“Fine with me. You know any places around here? I’ll meet you.”
That seemed to relax her. She named a place. He called it up on his phone, and fifteen minutes later, they were seated at a table in a deli, surrounded by the aromas of freshly baked bread, onions, and roasting meat.
“Thanks again for playing knight in shining armor,” she said. “Maybe I should use some of my free time to take self-defense classes. I can’t rely on others riding to my rescue.”
“Disarming a person with a gun, especially if they’re bigger and stronger, isn’t an easy task, even with training.”
“You did it before I knew what was happening.”
“I was a Ranger, remember. Training. Experience.”
“Seriously, how did you find me?”
“I’m Sherlock.” He chuckled at the look of exasperation crossing her face. “It wasn’t hard. I knew the date—you told me, remember? Cecily gave me Madelynn’s last name. Google did the rest.”
Their server put their orders in front of them. Frank picked up his roast beef sandwich—piled with as much meat as Tanya would have used—and took a serious bite. Kiera spooned a mouthful of chicken soup.
“Comfort food,” she said.
“You deserve it. What took so long in your interview?”
“I had to wait for the homicide detective and give him an official statement about why I thought Stu was a suspect in Madelynn’s so-called accident as well as sending me the candy—they’re going to have it tested—and everything Stu did and said today.”
“He’s a serious suspect then?” Frank asked.
“Apparently. The cops like getting information, not sharing it.” She set down her spoon and wiped her mouth. “Why did you stick around?”
“I wasn’t happy with the way we left things.”
She picked up her spoon, put it down again. Toyed with her water glass. “To be fair, it wasn’t we. I’m the one who said it was over.”
“It’s not all on you. I haven’t been completely forthcoming. You have your Ben. For me, it’s Ashlyn. She was an army colleague. We were on a KLE. A key leader engagement, to meet with some village elders, to build trust. She was there to document the meeting. Some of the village women asked her to go with them, join them for chai. I had a bad feeling about it, but I let her go. It wasn’t out of the ordinary to have the men and women segregate themselves.” He sucked in a breath, forced himself to go on. “Several men were waiting in the hut. They attacked her. Raped her.”
He shoved his plate away. “She died. Left behind a husband who had to tell their two kids Mommy wasn’t coming home. If I’d listened to my gut, maybe she’d be alive today. I didn’t. I followed orders. From that day on, I vowed I’d never ignore those niggles that say something’s not right.” Frank reached across the table for her hand. “Can we try again?”
“What is your gut saying now?” she asked.
“That I’ve never met anyone like you. That I’d be a fool to let you walk out of my life without a fight. If it means taking my temperature every morning, or weekly medical checkups, I’ll do it.”
She worked her hand from his grasp and stirred her soup for what seemed to be hours before she spoke. “You think it could work? I live in Highlands Ranch, and you live in Pinon Crest. I travel—or I plan to—so my schedule’s going to be unpredictable.”
Her expression sobered. “I’ve thought about things, too. Losing Ben ripped me apart. I never let another man get close.” She took his hand again. “When I met you, things started healing.”
He held his breath. “And?”
Her eyes twinkled. “I think once-a-week temperature taking, and bi-annual checkups will be fine.”
While his heart did an Olympic gold medal gymnastics routine in his chest, Frank said, “Can we get out of here?”