Page 79 of Skin and Bones

“That’s our next step,” Dash said as we pulled into my driveway. “But it can wait until morning. Right now, you need rest.”

The porch light blazed, and through the front window I could see movement—the Silver Sleuths waiting anxiously for our return.

The front door flew open before we’d even reached the porch, and Dottie emerged, brandishing what appeared to be her pearl-handled revolver. Behind her, Walt, Hank, and Deidre crowded the doorway, their faces a comical mixture of concern and relief.

“Land sakes, girl, you look like you’ve been through a hurricane,” Dottie exclaimed, tucking the gun into the pocket of her bathrobe. “Did you get that no-good Reynolds? Because if not, I’ve got plenty of ammunition.”

“Reynolds is in custody,” Dash assured her, guiding me inside. “A man who has nothing to lose will take desperate measures. Mabel needs to get cleaned up and rest.”

“I’ll put on some tea,” Deidre declared, already heading for the kitchen.

“Tea won’t cut it,” Dottie said, following her. “Get out that bourbon Mabel keeps in the cabinet over the refrigerator. This calls for something stronger.”

“First it calls for antiseptic and bandages,” Hank corrected, eyeing my injured wrists. “Where’s your first aid kit?”

“Upstairs bathroom,” I said.

“I’ll get it,” Dottie said, heading upstairs.

I let them fuss over me, too drained to protest as they cleaned and bandaged my cuts, brought me tea (and bourbon), and helped me into fresh clothes. Their concern wrapped around me like a warm blanket, and I realized with a pang how much I’d come to care for this odd collection of friends.

“All right, enough,” Dash finally said, his tone gentle but firm. “Mabel needs sleep, and so do all of you. We’ll regroup in the morning.”

After a chorus of protests and several more fussings over my injuries, they finally retreated to their assigned rooms.

“You should get some rest too,” I told Dash as we stood in the foyer, the house finally quiet.

“I’ll be on the couch,” he said, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over the banister. “Close enough if you need anything, but not so close as to scandalize the Silver Sleuths.”

I smiled, despite the exhaustion weighing on me like a physical thing. “You know Mrs. Pembroke will still talk?”

“Let her,” he said, stepping closer. His hand came up to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over my skin. “You scared me tonight, Mabel McCoy. And I don’t scare easily.”

The intensity in his gaze stole my breath. “I’m tougher than I look.”

“So I’ve noticed,” he murmured, leaning in slowly, giving me time to pull away if I wanted to.

I didn’t.

His lips met mine, gentle at first, then with increasing urgency as I responded. This wasn’t the tentative, questioning kiss from before. This was something else entirely—an affirmation of life, of possibility, of a connection neither of us had been looking for but couldn’t seem to resist.

When we finally broke apart, both a little breathless, I found myself at an unusual loss for words.

“Get some sleep, Mabel,” Dash said softly, his fingers lingering on my cheek for a moment before dropping away.

“Yeah, right,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’m going to sleep great now that you shot my blood pressure through the roof.”

He grinned and turned toward the living room and his makeshift bed for the night.

“Good night, Sheriff,” I called out loudly.

“Good night, Mrs. McCoy,” he answered, and I could hear the laughter in his voice.

As I climbed the stairs, I realized two things with perfect clarity—we were getting closer to uncovering the truth about Elizabeth’s murder, and I was falling for Dash Beckett far more quickly than was prudent for a proper Southern widow. When common sense kicked back in, I’d remind myself that I didn’t know a thing about him.

Chowder was waiting on my bed, his wrinkled face somehow managing to convey both relief and judgment as I slipped beneath the covers.

“Don’t you start,” I muttered, scratching behind his ears. “It’s been a long night.”

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