Matters of the Blood Read Free Page B

others couldn't get in; mine couldn't get out. Survival training at its finest.
    But Greta's silent agitation wasn't directed at me. She approached her brother and took his arm. He grimaced as her fingers dug into the cloth of his shirt, but didn't remove her hand. There was more than tension there. Fear maybe? I couldn't tell by just watching them and I wasn't prepared to do more than look with my eyes.
    Maybe that's all this was—fear, worry that Boris was descending back into his own private mental hellhole, triggered by what he'd seen at the ranch. I didn't want to upset him any further, but it did bother me that Boris seemed to be trying to warn me in the same breath he used to speak of the Wild Moon and mutilated animals. Who did he want me to tell—and what?
    Before I could say anything, Greta spoke.
    "We need to go now, Boris. Let Keira have her breakfast.” Her voice still sounded strange—strained, as though she were forcing out the words, making herself act normally. She turned and practically dragged her brother out the door with her. As they exited, Boris shot me a despairing look.
    * * * *
    Still a popular hangout after more than fifty years, not much ever changed about Bea's Place, not even after Bea took it over from her parents ten years ago. Still single, like me, Bea and I had been friends since nearly forever.
    As a feisty eight-year-old and the only child of aging parents, Bea took me under her wing, determined to befriend the pallid, scared and semi-motherless seven-year-old with bushy black hair, pale gray eyes and a funny accent.
    Thirty years later, I'd lost the accent and tamed the hair, but still had the same pale eyes and best friend. Bea was the one person in my life who I could count on to be there for me without an underlying agenda. My family always had ulterior motives for everything. Bea did things out of the goodness of her heart and for friendship. At least some things never changed.
    And some things most definitely did not stay the same. The string of brass bells tinkled again; the caf? door swung open and my day got even more complicated.
    Beige Stetson poised on his once very familiar head, Carlton Larson, acting county sheriff, stood in the doorway, his handsome face serious as a funeral. Nearly six-five, and with a build to match, he'd always tended to overwhelm a lot of things, not the least of all—some fifteen years ago—me.
    I spoke first, hoping my voice would stay steady and friendly. “Hey, there. Welcome back."
    I succeeded.
    "Well, if it isn't Keira Kelly,” he replied, his deep voice rumbling throughout the restaurant. “Been awhile. Good to see you."
    He seemed just as calm as I was pretending to be. Good sign. Last time we'd been in the same room together, sparks flew, and not from passion. We'd both lashed out. Me to wound him, him in anger—cut too deep, not wanting to hear what I was saying. I'd still wanted to be with him then, but not in the way he'd wanted. Not forever, because that was impossible.
    Flirtation at twenty-two became an affair at twenty-three. Then one morning, nearly a year after our first date, I woke up and realized he really meant what he said the night before about the whole white-wedding-and-matching-appliances-from-Sears thing, and ended it. No looking back. No other options.
    A couple of months after that, just long enough to go through the application and admissions process, Carlton left Rio Seco to join the San Antonio PD. I'd beat his exit by five days and five thousand miles.
    I'd beat him back, too—by just under two years. Except ... unlike me, he brought back a hell of a lot more baggage than he'd taken away. He was married and had children.
    This was the first time I'd seen him since he'd returned a couple of weeks ago. In fact, it was the first time I'd seen him since I'd left.
    We stared at each other, appraising, the silence acknowledging every single one of those thirteen years. He'd trained to become a cop. I'd trained to