Morgan woke to the sound of hammering coming from somewhere above her. She groaned, pulled her pillow over her head, and tried to ignore the sound.
Her sleep had been poor, punctuated by dreams she couldn’t remember, but that had left her feeling restless and achy, with the sheets twisted uncomfortably around her.
It was tempting to try to go back to sleep, but after a good five minutes of constant racket, she gave up and rolled over, staring up at the ceiling.
No prizes for guessing what was going on: Zeke making good on his promise to fix her house. He hadn’t been kidding when he’d said he’d be over first thing, had he?
A small thread of anticipation and what she hoped wasn’t excitement, but probably was, wound through her.
She hadn’t expected him to visit her the day before and had been surprised he’d come to find her out on the dock where she’d gone to cool her feet in the river.
Especially given how he’d walked away from her in the Moose earlier that day.
She’d been just about to demand an explanation then had noticed how wary he was, his dark gaze narrow, his posture tense. So she’d bit down on her questions, had gotten him to sit beside her, then had let the sun and the rushing water do its calming work instead.
She’d even managed to get some information out of him. It wasn’t much, but at least she’d found out two things she hadn’t known before: he was from Texas and he didn’t like cities.
She hadn’t meant to tell him about her mother though, and she wasn’t sure why she had. There had just been something about his presence, a silent strength at her side that had made her feel as if she could tell him anything, anything at all.
A strange thing to think about a man she’d only known a matter of days, but there it was.
He said your vibe was honest cop. And sunshine.
Warmth glowed inside her, a tiny star sitting just behind her breastbone.
She didn’t need compliments or flattery. She didn’t need that kind of validation—a good thing, since her father had never been a demonstrative man. Yet she couldn’t deny liking that he thought she was sunshine, just as she’d liked him calling her pretty.
She’d liked the gleam in his dark eyes as he’d looked at her too, as if he saw more than just Morgan West, cop.
As if he saw Morgan West, woman.
What about you not wanting to be bothered with men?
Well, she didn’t. But she could appreciate compliments. And in the heavy, loaded silence that had fallen between them afterward, she found herself appreciating him too.
His eyes had been so dark, polished and gleaming like obsidian, his stare compelling in a way she couldn’t describe. She hadn’t been able to look away from him.
He was not so much strange as…rare. Unique.
Had she ever met a man like him? There were lots of curt, surly hunter-types in Deep River, that was for sure, but none of them had the same kind of wild, uncivilized energy she’d sensed burning in him. A fierce intensity she found—yes, she might as well admit it—deeply attractive.
More hammering came from on the roof.
Morgan scowled.
He might be very attractive, but he was also, right in this moment, deeply annoying. Why hadn’t she said no to the early-house-repairs thing?
Then again, she had work to do so she might as well get up.
Fifteen minutes later, freshly showered and uniformed, she strode out of the house since she had yet another busy day ahead of her.
She wanted to check up on Lloyd, make sure he was okay, but her first port of call this morning was a visit to Filthy Phil, one of Deep River’s oldest and quirkiest inhabitants, who lived up the hill behind the township. He found it difficult getting down into town these days, so people did the odd supply runs for him.
He was pretty healthy for his age, but Connor James, Astrid’s son, who’d been helping Phil with his wildlife sanctuary set up, had mentioned that he’d been a bit unsteady on his feet lately, and so Morgan had decided it was time for a surreptitious welfare check.
Phil always swore blind he was fit as a fiddle, but he was also a stubborn old goat who’d say he was fine while in the middle of a heart attack, so Morgan felt she couldn’t be too cautious.
She loaded a box of baking she’d gotten together as a bribe in return for some truthful answers about the state of his health into the basket of her bike, then got on, preparing to pedal off.
Only to pause as the hammering continued.
Morgan sighed, got off the bike, leaned it up against the side of the house, then stalked onto the lawn, where she turned around and looked up. She couldn’t see anyone up there, but that’s where the sounds were coming from.
She circled around until she was standing between the house and the river, where the living room windows were, and sure enough, leaning up against the side of the house was a ladder and on top of the roof, busily doing something with a hammer, was Zeke. And he was shirtless.
The sun shone on him like a blessing, highlighting smooth bronze skin and broad shoulders heavy with muscle. His biceps flexed as he brought down the hammer in a powerful movement, and she found herself staring, transfixed by the glorious ripple of his biceps and the flex of his abs as he twisted to grab a nail from the tool belt around his waist. The sheen of sweat on his hard, carved torso…
Holy hell. He was magnificent.
Morgan swallowed, her mouth bone dry, all the blood rushing into her cheeks.
“What?” he asked, not looking up.
Oh dear. He’d caught her staring at him? That was embarrassing.
“Uh…what are you doing?”
“Replacing shingles.” He didn’t look at her, raising his hammer and bringing it down again in a smooth, economic movement. “Told you I was going to start repairs this morning.”
His arms were amazing. She couldn’t stop looking at him. Her fingers itched. Would he feel as hot as he looked? Would he be as hard? His skin as smooth?
What on earth are you doing? Have you never seen a half-naked man before?
Morgan let out a long, slow breath, trying to get her heartbeat to slow down. Yes, she’d seen plenty of half-naked men before, though admittedly, not ones who looked like him. Still, he was only shirtless. No biggie. She could deal with it.
“Oh, right,” she said muttered. “So you did.”
“Anything else?” Zeke put another nail in and hammered at it loudly.
“Um…I’m going out. So if you need me…I won’t be here.”
“Okay.”
Morgan stood there unable to move, watching his powerful arm rise and fall as he hammered in yet another nail.
And after a moment, he paused and glanced down at her. “I thought you were going.”
Yes. Yes, she was.
Annoyed with herself and blushing furiously, Morgan tore her gaze from his gorgeous body and forced herself to move. “I am. I’m going. Like now.”
She turned and headed back to her bike.
“Hey,” Zeke called unexpectedly after her. “Where are you going anyway?”
“Filthy Phil’s,” she shouted over her shoulder as she got on the bike and started up the driveway.
“Who’s Filthy Phil?”
She didn’t respond. If he was going to hang around casually shirtless and disturbing her peace of mind, he could stand to not have his questions answered. After all, he did it all the time to her.
The sounds of Zeke’s hammer faded, though it took longer for the heat in her cheeks to ease and her heartbeat to slow. The sight of his bare torso wasn’t something she’d forget in a hurry, more’s the pity for her heart rate.
Pushing Zeke firmly from her brain, she concentrated on pedaling, turning off just before the Deep River township and following the road that branched off and wound its way up into the hills behind the town, where the majority of the people lived.
Filthy Phil lived at the top of the hill, and he was called Filthy Phil not because of any personal hygiene issues, but because once when he was younger, he’d dropped a Bible on his foot in church and had let forth a stream of expletives that had turned the air blue. It was just the kind of embarrassing thing that the people of Deep River enjoyed and never let anyone forget about.
It took Morgan another ten minutes to bike up the hill, but the exercise was welcome and she reached Phil’s place soon enough.
She got off the bike and pushed it up the path that led to Phil’s house. It was a tumbledown old place, the yard overgrown, the porch full of hand-carved furniture, knickknacks, and bric-a-brac. Usually Phil was ensconced in a chair on the porch, but his chair today was empty.
Morgan laid her bike against the porch stairs, gathered the food in her basket, and went up to the front door. No one locked their doors in Deep River, but she gave it a knock for politeness’s sake and then pushed it open.
“Phil?” she called as she stepped into the tiny, dark hallway. “It’s Morgan. I’ve brought you some supplies.”
There was no answer.
It was very quiet in the house. Suspiciously so.
She frowned, moving down the hallway and stepping out into the back of the house, where there was a tiny living area and an even tinier kitchen along one wall.
The living area held a wood stove, a couple of very old couches, and a low coffee table. One of the couches was pushed up against the window and a small figure sat on it wrapped up in a hand-knitted blanket. It was Phil. His face was almost buried in his bushy white beard and almost as bushy eyebrows, but she could tell that his eyes were closed. A knitting project—Phil loved to knit—was lying on the sofa next to him.
He was so still.
A cold hand wrapped icy fingers around Morgan’s heart. She should have checked on him sooner. She’d been so busy with some of the other families and sorting out the first responder stuff with Sonny. And then there had been the new tourism ventures starting up…
She put her food down on the stainless steel kitchen counter bolted to the wall, then went quickly over to the couch, pushing her fear aside, going into cop mode.
She was all set to pull aside the blanket and check his pulse when his eyes snapped open, bright blue and not all cloudy. He blinked. “Morgan?” His voice was its normal scratchy, slightly irritated self. “What are you doing here?”
Relief flooded through her, though she tried not to show it. She straightened up, nodding toward the counter. “I thought you might like some baking. I accidentally made too many pies and a lot of eclairs and can’t eat all of it.”
Cooking wasn’t one of Phil’s strong points, and though she knew Mal made regular deliveries of supplies when the old man couldn’t come down into town, Phil often made himself some unidentifiable stew and ate it for the entire week. He’d once offered Morgan a plate and because she didn’t want to be rude, she’d accepted it. To say that Phil’s stew was edible would have been to overwhelm it with praise.
Sure enough, his eyes lit at the mention of food. Though they narrowed just as quickly as he sat up. “Does that also include a welfare check?”
Sharp old man. Phil hated “fussing” and was very sensitive to it.
She gave him a level look, knowing from experience how to deal with him. “Well, do you really want to die before your sanctuary opens?”
He gave cackle. “Hey, I might be ancient, but I’m not on my last legs yet, girl.”
“I know you’re not.” Morgan quelled the urge to rearrange his blankets and also to tell him not to call her girl. “You’ll keep going forever, right?”
“Yep. Piss and vinegar keeps me young.” He pushed himself off the couch, an old man made out of pieces of dried leather roped together and swathed in plaid flannel and a pair of old and patched trousers. But he moved in a spritely enough fashion, going over to the counter where she’d put the food and investigating the boxes.
The cold hand around her heart released its grip and she took a slow, silent breath, trying to calm herself. Then she realized he was watching her, his gaze narrow.
“Don’t get worried about me, Morgan West,” he said firmly. “You’ve got enough on your plate already, what with this oil business and strangers running the town.”
He was playing devil’s advocate, as he was wont to do; he liked to stir, did Phil.
“They’re not strangers, Phil,” she said patiently. “You know Silas and you’ve met Damon.”
“But not that other one.” He opened the box and took out one of the eclairs she’d made the day before, examining it approvingly. “Should have been you, you know. You’re a West. Why didn’t you take it?”
He was talking about the town and Cal’s will.
Morgan didn’t want to talk about this, but Phil relished bringing up subjects that people didn’t want to talk about, and the more you didn’t want to talk about it, the more he did.
“Because I didn’t want it. I’m too busy with my job to handle the town as well, and it’s hard to find new VPSOs.” Which was the truth.
“Oh, horse manure.” Phil bit into the eclair. He chewed, then closed his eyes, obviously enjoying it. “This is good,” he said after a moment. “You sure can cook.”
“Thanks.”
“Anyway, that’s horseshit. It’s got nothing to do with your job.”
“I don’t think—”
“This is about Jared, isn’t it?”
For a second Morgan could only stare at him. “What?”
Phil took another few bites of the eclair, finishing it quickly. Then he wiped his fingers on his flannel shirt. “Don’t look at me like that. You think I hadn’t noticed the way you’re always running around? Busy trying to make yourself indispensable to folks?”
A little shock went through her. “I’m not trying to make myself indispensable. It’s just a busy job. And what’s that got to do with Dad?”
“He was very hard on you.” Phil turned and pulled open a cupboard, grabbing out a pan and filling it with water from the sink. “Too hard.”
Unease crept through her. Well, yes, her father had been difficult after her mother had left. He’d been unhappy and bitter, especially at being left with a daughter he didn’t know what to do with. But she’d made very sure that he didn’t have to do anything for her, making it clear that she could look after herself, not to mention him as well.
Didn’t stop him from dying though, did it?
Morgan pushed that thought away.
“He wasn’t that hard, Phil,” she said with a touch of impatience. “He just had high standards for Wests.”
Phil put the water on the stove to boil, then grabbed some mugs from an overhead cupboard. “Understandable you didn’t want to take ownership of the town,” he went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “Jared and particularly Cal left you with one heck of a legacy to live up to.”
“I’m not living up to anything,” Morgan said before she could think better of it. “I’m just serving the town the way I know best. Anyway, I’m not sure it should be owned, not these days.”
Phil gave her a sharp glance as if she’d revealed something important. “Haven’t heard that kind of thinking before. What makes you say that?”
But Morgan had had quite enough for one day. “Look, I’m not here to talk about this, okay? I’m only here to make sure you’re—”
“You don’t have to prove anything to me, girl,” Phil interrupted, pulling a carton of milk out of his tiny fridge and sniffing suspiciously at it. “And why you still think you need to prove yourself to Jared I have no idea.”
“I don’t have anything to prove to Dad,” she snapped before she could stop herself. “He’s dead, remember?”
“Oh, I remember,” Phil went on, taking no notice of her tone. “And so’s your brother. And your Mom too.”
“Yes, thanks for the reminder, Phil. I’m well aware.”
He glanced at her, as if only now hearing the hint of acid in her voice. “It’s not your fault, Morgan. That’s what I’m saying.”
A cold shock went through her, and she found herself sitting on the couch, one of Phil’s knitting needles jabbing her uncomfortably in the thigh. She shifted out of the way.
He’d gotten the wrong end of the stick of course. She didn’t think it was her fault she was the only one left of her entire family. Her mother’s cancer certainly had nothing to do with it, or the heart attack that had killed her father. And she hadn’t exactly taken Cal’s plane down herself.
“I don’t think it’s my fault,” she began.
“You’re a hard worker.” Phil plowed on, oblivious. “And you care a heck of a lot for this town. It’s not your fault your father never gave you the credit you deserved for that either.”
Morgan shut her mouth, trying not to pay any attention to the strange ball of hurt that sat just behind her breastbone.
“You need to take a break now and then,” Phil was saying. “Go on vacation or something. Find yourself a nice man and—”
“Oh, no,” Morgan interrupted, coming to the end of her patience. “You can stop right there. I don’t need a nice man.”
She had Lloyd to check up on and then there was the Smith kid who’d been mixing with a bad crowd at school and his mother had wanted Morgan to talk some sense into him.
She didn’t have time for overly personal conversation with elderly men who, just because they’d known you from a child, seemed to think they could talk about whatever the hell they wanted.
“Now,” she went on firmly, deciding to get this conversation back on track. “Have you had any health issues lately?”
Phil looked unrepentant as he took the boiling pan off the stove and poured out some water into a teapot. Morgan watched, looking out for any tremors that could indicate his health wasn’t as good as he made out, but there weren’t any.
“I’m fit as a fiddle, girl,” he said, carrying the mugs and the teapot from the kitchen area over to the coffee table. “It’s you who need some resting up. You’re running yourself ragged and have been ever since Cal died.”
He’s right. You have.
Morgan shoved the thought away. “Do we really have to keep talking about this? It’s because I have lots to do. This town doesn’t police itself, you know.”
Phil gave her a look. “It might police itself better if it didn’t belong to a whole bunch of strangers.”
“Silas isn’t a stranger,” a deep voice said from the doorway. “And once I introduce myself to you, then neither am I.”