"We have to work together. You don't have to like me."
Clint Calloway didn't even glance up when Dakota Winston
spoke. His attention remained fixed on the small piles of
matchsticks in front of him, and on the street below his
window. She might have been talking to a deaf man.
"Look, Clint, it's apparent you don't like having me for
your partner," she continued earnestly. "I guess I
can understand that. You're an experienced detective and I'm
just a rookie." A female rookie. The unspoken
adjective, seemed to vibrate in the air.
He still didn't respond, just reached out with one blunt
fingertip to move a matchstick across the blotter on his
desk, placing it in another group. Dakota had been watching
him do that periodically since they had started working
together two days ago. She couldn't imagine what he was
doing with those matchsticks, and when she asked, he
wouldn't answer. All she knew for certain was that the end
of each of them had been painted a different color. It was
clear to her that they represented something, but he wasn't
going to enlighten her. That was just another of the man's
frustrating characteristics, and he had quite a few of them.
The matchstick, tipped in red, joined a different pile. Then
Clint turned his head a fraction of an inch and studied the
street to his left. His cubicle was in a corner of the
police station and had two windows, the one in front of him
overlooking Center Avenue, the other overlooking Coyote
Path. Dakota figured that absolutely nothing on this corner
of Whitehorn, Montana, escaped Clint Calloway's attention.
Not that too terribly much seemed to happen down there.
Leaning forward a little, she looked over his shoulder at
the dress shop, the beauty salon, the sagging McManus Hotel
and the Dogie Diner. Other shops and vacant storefronts were
visible, stretching along both streets for a block or two,
until the residential areas began. Nothing out there to hold
anyone's attention for long.
"Look," she said to Clint's back, "I'm a fast
learner. Just tell me what you want me to do and I'll do it.
If I mess up, I want to hear that, too. I really want to be
a good cop."
Not even that drew a response. Her sense of frustration was
overwhelming, but there didn't seem to be a thing she could
do about it. If this man didn't speak a single word to her
throughout the time they were paired, she'd just have to
live with it. She had too much to prove and was too new at
this business to make a stink about anything a respected
veteran detective might do. If she complained, she'd be
labeled a pain in the neck, never mind that it was Clint who
was being the pain.
So she bit back any further words and tried to find another
way to handle this. The only thing she could come up with
was to shut her mouth and try to be the best damn cop this
guy had ever worked with. It was a tall order for a rookie,
and she knew it, but he sure wasn't leaving her any other
alternatives.
The seconds dragged by. He moved another matchstick. Then,
slowly, he turned his head a little and asked, "Are you
through?"
Her cheeks heated. "Yes."
"Then let's get some things clear here. I don't like
you. I'm not going to like you. You can work your
butt off trying to be a good cop, but you aren't going to
make it. Women shouldn't be cops. They get too tangled up in
their feelings and mess things up. This job calls for a cool
head, not emotional reactions to everything."
"I—"
He cut her off ruthlessly. "I've been listening to your
drivel, now you can listen to mine. What I think about women
cops doesn't matter. Fact is, I got saddled with you because
you're a rookie and need supervision and I have to put up
with it or get fired. So I'm stuck with you and you're stuck
with me. Just keep your mouth shut, do what I tell you and
stay out of my way."
Anger blossomed inside her, but it was tempered by the fact
that she had already suspected these were his feelings.
Getting them out in the open this way merely saved her from
having to wonder about it. He was a male chauvinist. Fine.
He wasn't the first she'd met and he wouldn't be the last.
If his objection to her was simply that she was a woman, she
could handle it, and prove him wrong in the process. She
certainly wasn't going to slink away with her tail tucked
between her legs.
"Great," she managed to say steadily. "I prefer
to know where I stand."
"Now you know." His voice was deep and as rough as
gravel, which suited his appearance. Built solidly, he
looked tough, invincible, like the kind of guy you'd want
beside you in a fight. She'd heard he'd earned that
toughness as a kid on the wrong side of the tracks. She
could only imagine what that must have been like for him,
but she was willing to excuse some rough edges as a result
of it.
His gray-green eyes were stormy as they raked over her, and
she found herself thinking that he had the raw, ragged good
looks of a successful alley cat. There were faint scars on
his knuckles, mementos of any number of fistfights, she
supposed, and his nose had an interesting little bend in it,
probably from contact with someone's fist. An old scar
bisected one of his dark eyebrows, giving him a satiric
appearance.
The look he gave her was distinctly male, that of a man
measuring a woman and evaluating her sexual attributes.
Dakota had received plenty of those looks in her life and
had learned to ignore them, but this time she felt an almost
overwhelming urge to fold her arms across her breasts.
Instead she pressed her fingertips into the sides of her
thighs and resisted the urge to clench her hands into fists.
Act relaxed, she told herself. Don't let this guy know he
can get to you.
Evidently it worked. His gray-green eyes became hooded and
he looked toward his desk. He pointed to a stack of thick
manila folders. "These are our open cases. Start
reading."
"I thought we were supposed to be looking for Jennifer
McCallum's kidnapper."
He made an impatient sound. "The kid was kidnapped a
week ago. We haven't a damn thing to go on. No ransom demand
has been made, and nobody saw a thing. Rule of thumb is that
after forty-eight hours the trail is ice and the kid's
chances are slim. If we're going to accomplish anything at
all now, we have to use our brains, Ms. Winston. If you have
one, familiarize it with the case."
"Why you son of a—" She caught herself and bit
the word off, glaring at him.
"If you can't stand the heat, get back in the
kitchen." He pointed again to the stack of files.
"Start reading all the unsolved cases. You'll be no damn
good to me if you're not ready to work on any of them when
opportunities arise."
He swiveled his chair back to face his desk, pointedly
dismissing her. Dakota clamped down on her anger, her teeth
clenched so tightly that her jaw ached. Keeping her
movements deliberate so as not to reveal the depth of her
anger, she picked up the stack of files and carried them to
her desk. Two days with Detective Clint Calloway and she was
ready to commit murder. She wondered what she'd be ready to
do in another couple of days. Wipe out the entire station?
But at her own desk, away from the source of her anger, she
calmed down swiftly and began to think. She couldn't keep on
getting this upset by his provocation or she was going to
seriously mess up…which was probably what he was
hoping for. Once she messed up, he'd be justified in asking
that she be assigned to someone else.
And while that might be a whole lot more comfortable, the
bottom line was that she didn't want to mess up, and she
wanted to work with Clint Calloway. He had a reputation for
being a maverick, a not quite by-the-book and almost
psychically talented investigator. That meant he knew tricks
she wanted to learn, that he had a way of viewing problems
that could be really useful for her to know. Skills that
could someday set her apart the way Clint Calloway was set
apart. She always was driven to be the best at anything she
attempted.
So she had to hang on to her temper and endure whatever
hazing he gave her. She had to prove to everyone that she
had what it took, sort of a trial by fire. She'd expected
some of this, of course. Women cops weren't rare by any
means these days, but they still weren't entirely welcome,
and would probably never be welcomed at all by some
policemen. She'd suffered from some of that attitude at the
academy, and even a little of it in college when her
classmates in criminal justice had learned of her desire to
join law enforcement. She'd certainly suffered from it
during her two years with the Miles City force. Clint
Calloway was just a more blatant expression of an outdated
attitude. She could handle it. She could handle him.
Reaching out, she snagged the first file and began to read
about the abduction of a three-year-old child named Jennifer.
Sometimes, thought Clint Calloway, he was positively sure
that the gods hated him. There could be absolutely no other
reason why he had found himself saddled with both an
un-solvable kidnapping and a female partner within the short
space of a week.
The "Baby Jennifer" kidnapping—as everyone in
White-horn was referring to it—ought to be enough
karma for one man. He shouldn't be forced to sit here,
staring out a window at the quiet street below, wondering
what awful fate had befallen a little girl with a cherub's
face. He shouldn't have to sit here and bear the weight of
responsibility for finding her when he hadn't a clue as to
what had happened to her.
The whole damn thing was gnawing at his guts with a
persistence that was keeping him up most of the night.
Terrible things happened to sweet little girls in this awful
world, and well he knew it. The scariest thing was that
there had been no ransom demand. The kidnapping had followed
so fast on the heels of the discovery that Jennifer was the
illegitimate child of rich old Jeremiah Kincaid that it was
impossible to believe she had been taken for any other
reason. But no ransom had been demanded, no attempt had been
made to contact the child's distraught adoptive parents.
And then, to make the kidnapping even more horrible—
as if it weren't already just about the most horrible thing
that could be—the police had been told by an attorney
that Baby Jennifer wouldn't have inherited a dime.
Jeremiah's estate had long since been settled in probate,
and left at his direction to his son Dugin.
"After-discovered heirs," as the lawyer had
described the little girl, had no claim at this late date.
Clint himself was one of those "after-discovered
heirs" of Jeremiah Kincaid, and the news had given him a
blessed sense of relief. Bad enough to find out that his
unknown father had been someone he had loathed all his life,
without finding himself the recipient of any of the old
man's wealth. Bad enough to have to live down all the looks
and all the speculation again. Seemed like he'd
been doing that his entire life.
But little Jennifer was another problem, and the lack of
inheritance raised some thorny questions about her fate. If
someone had kidnapped her, thinking she stood to
inherit, why hadn't he or she—they—demanded any
money? Had they found out the little girl had no claim? The
possibility made Clint's stomach knot, because then Jennifer
would be useless to them, and they might well have killed her.
For at least the hundredth time in the past week, he wished
Jeremiah Kincaid were still alive so he could get his hands
around the old reprobate's throat. Somebody should have
castrated that man fifty years ago.
But nobody had, so little Jennifer McCallum had been
kidnapped. At least Clint was presuming that to be the
motivation. Somebody with a grudge against Jennifer's
adoptive parents might have conceived of this, too. Her
father, Sterling McCallum, being a police officer and a damn
fine detective, certainly had his share of enemies. But a
revenge motive seemed farfetched compared to greed. If
someone had wanted revenge on McCallum, shooting him would
have made more sense than this.
But then who said a bad guy had to make sense?
Clint looked down at the matchsticks on the desk before him,
but saw no useful pattern in them. It wasn't the first time
he'd had the feeling that something more than met the eye
was going on in this county, but so far he hadn't a single
fact to substantiate it.
His big mistake, he found himself thinking, was wanting to
be a detective. He should have stayed in uniform. At least
then he'd had the satisfaction of a quick solution to most
of the problems he had encountered. Now… now cases
dragged on for months or years, and some never got solved.
And then there was Dakota Winston. Yep, the gods must hate
him. Had she been anyone else, he'd have been glad to spend
time with her. She was a beautiful young woman, with a
delicate appearance that made an enticing contrast to her
straightforward manner. All feminine without any of the
affectations that drove him nuts, she had dark hair and blue
eyes, the bluest, most attention-grabbing eyes he'd ever
seen. She was probably a great date and a fantastic
lay… but he absolutely did not want her for a partner.
In the first place, she hadn't been a cop all that long and
she'd only hired on in Whitehorn two months before her
promotion to detective. Clint had a sneaking suspicion that
her family's influence had had something to do with her
quick promotion. The Montana Winstons, he had learned long
ago, weren't afraid to buy what they wanted. Oh, the
sheriff, Judd Hensley, wasn't a man who could be bought, but
he was a politician, and politicians had a slightly
different view of things than career cops did. Still, Clint
didn't hold Judd responsible, except for not putting his
foot down about it. The promotion committee that made the
decision to make Dakota Winston a detective took the full
blame for this one, but Judd could have flatly
refused to approved the placement. Which he hadn't.