Lover Beware
frowned at the gathering crowd, her eyes glittering with the light of battle. “Why don’t you people just go home and leave the boy alone. When he’s been here at all, he’s never done anything but help.” She fixed an older man with a sharp glare. “ You can attest to that, Mason. Didn’t he help dig that cow of yours out of the river last spring?”
Mason Wheeler, another local identity whose family had been one of the original settlers of Tayler’s Creek, looked uncomfortable. “That he did.”
“And did he try to shoot you while he was about it?”
A crease formed between Mason’s bushy eyebrows. “Don’t be ridiculous—”
“I’m not being ridiculous.” She tapped her forehead. “I’m using this. Wish Tucker was capable of doing the same; maybe then we’d get some crimes solved. For my money, Tucker needs to retire. I’d put Rider in the job.”
Mason looked outraged. “He can’t take Tucker’s job. He has to be trained.”
“He’s trained,” Marg retorted flatly. “Afghanistan, Bosnia, Bougainville, Timor…You want me to go on?”
Mason crossed his arms over his chest. “That doesn’t mean he can do a policing job.”
Marg rolled her eyes. “What it means is he’s been doing a policing job, and he’s got the medals to prove it. Ever heard of peacekeeping, Mason? It’s in the papers a lot these days, on account that some people can’t settle their problems with common sense and discussion, they have to use a gun to finish their arguments. That’s the job Rider’s been doing, and he picked up a bullet a couple of years back for his trouble. If Tucker ever comes near a live round, aside from a misfire because he’s dropped his gun, I’ll eat every hat in my store. And that,” she muttered beneath her breath, “would probably kill me.”
Someone muttered that it would take a hell of a lot more than that to kill the old bird.
Marg didn’t bother to turn her head. “I heard that, Owen,” she said calmly. “I was talking to your mother this morning. Shouldn’t you be in Winslow today, picking up your benefit? Or have you finally got a job?”
There was a muttered imprecation, as Owen Mullens, a lanky blond youth who had more of an affinity for surfboards than anything that might have a paycheck attached to it, slunk back into the shadows.
There was a small silence as Marg marched pointedly back to her shop, which was wedged between the supermarket and the police station.
Ely Murdoch, the head of the community council, and Tayler’s Creek’s self-appointed mayor, cleared his throat and adjusted the bill cap shading his craggy face. “Well, whoever did do the crime stole the Dillons’ home theatre that was worth upwards of twenty thousand dollars. And all the videos.” He shook his head. “Apparently the screen was one of those fancy new ones you hang on the wall.”
There was another small silence, then someone murmured, “Wonder what was on the videos?”
Jane snapped her boot closed, abruptly sickened by the prurient interest in the petty details of the crime, when Rider was probably at this very minute being read his rights and questioned. She was more certain than ever that he could never have committed such a crime. Marg had hit the nail on the head when she’d stated that Michael wasn’t a criminal, he was one of the good guys.
She glanced at Mason, who seemed set and determined that Michael was guilty. “In this country people are innocent until proven guilty. Michael hasn’t been proven guilty yet.”
Mason’s expression was cold. “The police don’t cuff people for no reason. An arrest’s been made, which means they must have evidence.”
Cold skimmed the length of Jane’s spine. Her mind replayed the image of Michael being pushed down the path to the entrance of the police station, and it registered that her own inner certainty aside, she knew less about her neighbour than she’d thought. She knew he was a special forces soldier; she knew he was trained to kill, and neither fact was reassuring.
Nothing about Michael Rider was designed to make people feel comfortable. He was too overtly male, too mysterious, a double handful of everything that was wild and dangerous. She was beginning to think she was crazy, fixating on him for so many years.
He was an unknown quantity. Even more so than she’d imagined, because according to Marg, he wasn’t single as Jane had thought; he was involved with someone.
The fact that he had a
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