The Welcoming

The first bird of the morning trumpeted the new day.
    Roman gathered her to him to love her slowly under the lightening sky.
    She dozed as he drove back to the inn. The sky was a pale, milky blue, but it was as quiet now as it had been when they’d left. When he lifted her out of the van, she sighed and nestled her head on his shoulder.
    “I love you, Roman.”
    “I know.” For the first time in his life he wanted to think about next week, next month, even next year—anything except the day ahead. He carried her up the stairs and into the inn. “I love you, Charity.”
    He had little trouble convincing her to snuggle between the sheets of the rumpled bed once he promised to take Ludwig for his habitual run.
    Before he did, Roman went downstairs, strapped on his shoulder holster and shoved in his gun.
    Taking Dupont was a study in well-oiled police work. By 7:45 his secluded cabin was surrounded by the best Sheriff Royce and the F.B.I. had to offer. Roman had ignored Conby’s mutterings about bringing the locals into it and advised his superior to stay out of the way.
    When the men were in position, Roman moved to the door himself, his gun in one hand, his shoulder snug against the frame. He rapped twice. When there was no response, he signaled for his men to draw their weapons and close in. Using the key he’d taken from Charity’s ring, he unlocked the door.
    Once inside, he scanned the room, legs spread, the gun held tight in both hands. The adrenaline was there, familiar, even welcome. With only a jerk of the head he signaled his backup. Guarding each other’s flanks, they took a last circle.
    Roman cautiously approached the bedroom. For the first time, a smile—a grim smile—moved across his face. Dupont was in the shower. And he was singing.
    The singing ended abruptly when Roman yanked the curtain aside.
    “Don’t bother to put your hands up,” Roman told him as he blinked water out of his eyes. Keeping the gun level, he tossed his first prize a towel. “You’re busted, pal. Why don’t you dry off and I’ll read you your rights?”
    “Well done,” Conby commented when the prisoner was cuffed. “If you handle the rest of this as smoothly, I’ll see that you get a commendation.”
    “Keep it.” Roman holstered his weapon. There was only one more hurdle before he could finally separate past and future. “When this is done, I’m finished.”
    “You’ve been in law enforcement for over ten years, DeWinter. You won’t walk away.”
    “Watch me.” With that, he headed back to the inn to finish what he had started.
    ***
    When Charity awoke, it was full morning and she was quite alone. She was grateful for that, because she couldn’t stifle a moan. The moment she sat up, her head, unused to the generous doses of wine and stingy amounts of sleep, began to pound.
    She had no one but herself to blame, she admitted as she crawled out of bed. Her feet tangled in what was left of the shirt she’d been wearing the night before.
    It had been worth it, she thought, gathering up the torn cotton. Well worth it.
    But, incredible night or not, it was morning and she had work to do. She downed some aspirin, allowed herself another groan, then dove into the shower.
    ***
    Roman found Bob huddled in the office, anxiously gulping laced coffee. Without preamble, he yanked the mug away and emptied the contents into the trash can.
    “I just needed a little something to get me through.”
    He’d had more than a little, Roman determined. His words were slurred, and his eyes were glazed. Even under the best of circumstances Roman found it difficult to drum up any sympathy for a drunk.
    He dragged Bob out of his chair by the shirtfront. “You pull yourself together and do it fast. When Block comes in you’re going to check him and his little group out. If you tip him off—if you so much as blink and tip him off—I’ll hang you out to dry.”
    “Charity does the checkout,” Bob managed through chattering teeth.
    “Not today. You’re going to go out to the desk and handle it. You’re going to do a good job because you’re going to know I’m in here and I’m watching you.”
    He stepped away from Bob just as the office door opened. “Sorry I’m late.” Despite her heavy eyes, Charity beamed at Roman. “I overslept.”
    He felt his heart stop, then sink to his knees. “You didn’t sleep enough.”
    “You’re telling me.” Her smile faded when she looked at Bob. “What’s wrong?”
    He