A Better Man. Emilie Rose

the way her dimples used to flash, the love that had once shone from her blue eyes or the taste of her lips and the feel of her soft curves pressed against him.

      The follow-up strike had been Piper’s accusation that he’d been looking for a way out of their relationship. As much as he hated to admit it, there was some truth in her words. Leaving her twelve years ago had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done, and his pride had been eviscerated when she’d sworn she’d never have the baby of white trash like him and thrown his money in his face.

      But part of him had been relieved. He’d decided long before he met Piper that he’d never have children. If he didn’t have kids, he couldn’t fail them—or hurt them—the way his father had him. His opinion hadn’t changed over the years. Marriage wasn’t high on his to-do list, either. Cop marriages didn’t last.

      What really burned like a chemical weapon was her accusing him of being like his father. He’d left Quincey behind and racked up numerous commendations to wipe that connection from his life. Yet less than twenty-four hours back and the one person who’d never judged him by his father’s actions was the one throwing that at him.

      The fear and revulsion in her eyes when she’d grilled him about his job had gouged deep. Uneasiness wasn’t an uncommon reaction to finding out his specialty, and it was the primary reason he didn’t blab about his missions. But he wasn’t ashamed of his skills, his success or his service, and he wasn’t going to lie about the role he’d played. He’d saved a hell of a lot of lives. That was all that mattered. Why did he care what anyone—Piper—thought?

      But something about the afternoon nagged him as he drove down Main Street checking out the new storefronts, and he’d learned not to ignore his instincts. Piper’s body language had been off. There’d been a slight tremor of her hands and her gaze had bounced away repeatedly. That, combined with the deep breaths she’d taken before answering his questions led him down an unexpected path.

      His training automatically identified those as traits of someone with something to hide. But in a town like Quincey where your business was everybody’s business and secrets were impossible to keep, what could Piper be concealing? Probably nothing. More than likely their past was the issue. But he would find out.

      He stopped at the light and weighed his options. He could see his apartment from here, but the idea of returning to his claustrophobic rooms held no appeal. Determined to lay one more ghost to rest, he steered the truck toward the old home place.

      He passed one of the deputies driving the opposite direction and waved. The gesture wasn’t returned. Maybe the man didn’t recognize Roth’s truck. But given what Piper had said about her father being forced out of office, the lack of acknowledgment could be because the deputies were loyal to the old chief. Roth would have to deal with that Monday.

      A few new houses had sprung up along the rural route. He slowed as he approached the hairpin turn that had changed his life. Chuck had hit the curve at full speed in Gus Benson’s Corvette, lost control and nailed a hundred-year-old oak. The oak still stood with a scar in its trunk. Miraculously, Chuck had walked away without a scratch, as drunks often do, but he’d totaled the car.

      If not for that wreck, Gus and the chief would never have known about the joyride. What would have happened then? Roth had asked himself a hundred times during those early years when he’d been fighting to forget Piper. Would they have married? Would their baby have been a boy or girl? Would he have turned into an abusive ass like his father and ended up in jail as so many people had predicted? Or would he have, as Piper had insisted today, found another way to escape?

      He detoured down a back road leading to the bridge spanning Deer Hunter’s Creek. He’d slept under the old wooden trestles too many nights to count—most of the time to hunt at sunrise, but sometimes to escape the sound of his mother’s crying.

      More than once after his father had beat her then passed out in his recliner, Roth had contemplated ending his mother’s suffering by using his hunting rifle on his father. But that would have made him as much of an animal as his old man. Leaving had been the only way to avoid temptation.

      Something about the dense woods bordering the creek snagged Roth’s attention as his tires rumbled over the boards. One thing drilled into him as a sniper was that if something didn’t fit he’d better check it out. He pulled onto the shoulder, climbed from the cab and studied the landscape. Not one broken branch or pinecone littered the ground. Too clean.

      Resting his hand on his holstered Glock, he carefully made his way down the steep, leaf-covered bank, cataloguing the signs of habitation. Someone had tucked an old metal chair and small table into a hollow. The tracks along the bank looked a few days old. A recent rain had caved in the edges, making it impossible to identify the type or size of shoe or the original depth of the impression.

      The prints led to a rock-ringed fire pit. He squatted and touched the carefully positioned stones. Cold and damp. Somebody had been camping here. But not recently.

      On the far side of the bridge a neatly stacked pile of branches acted as a screen and/or fuel supply. A metal can hung from a bungee cord suspended between two bridge supports. Pretty smart to hang it out of wildlife’s reach. He took down the can and pried off the lid with his pocketknife. Matches. Beef jerky. Packages of sunflower seeds and peanuts. A resealable plastic bag with two cookies. A small pocketknife.

      No drug paraphernalia. No booze.

      He returned the bucket and scanned the makeshift camp again, looking for any clue to who’d been here. Probably not a hunter judging by the lack of spent shotgun shells or rifle casings. And not likely pot-smoking teens, who tended to leave snack wrappers lying around. He hadn’t noticed any beggars in Quincey. Did the town have homeless people? Charlotte’s street corners had been littered with them.

      He scanned the area one last time. Today, who camped here wasn’t his concern, but come Monday morning, once he’d donned his badge, it would be. He’d check for crimes in the vicinity and ID the squatter. A known hazard was easier to control.

      Determined to get the next item checked off his list, he returned to his truck. The pine forest gave way to fields. He braked involuntarily when he spotted a white clapboard house that shouldn’t be there. This was his family’s land, wasn’t it? Or had he been away so long he’d lost his orientation?

      He checked the side mirror. Sure enough, there at the base of the oak tree he’d carved his and Piper’s initials in stood the hundred-year-old cement post marking the beginning of Roth land. His mother’s family had owned this property, and she’d given him her maiden name in good ole Southern tradition.

      He rolled forward again, finding two more houses in what had been soybean fields. Not that his father had ever farmed. After his grandfather died Roth’s parents had leased the land to supplement the meager income his father made from the garage.

      Roth had hunted the fields to put meat on the table. Deer. Rabbit. Turkey. Quail. Wild boar. If you could eat it, he could shoot it.

      Had his mother sold the property? Or had it been repossessed for nonpayment of taxes? She hadn’t mentioned either when she’d called to tell him about his father’s pending release three months ago.

      He’d never been able to understand why she hadn’t divorced her good-for-nothing husband. Her name was the only one on the property deed she’d inherited, and she had the income from the acreage to support herself. Eloise had always claimed it was because she loved Seth, and no matter how hard Roth had tried, he’d never been able to convince his mama that love didn’t blacken eyes or break bones.

      It was a shame a deputy had to die before the cops did anything about his father’s actions, and for that he blamed Lou Hamilton. Hamilton’s department had been useless whenever Roth called them as a kid because Roth’s mother had refused to press charges. Seeing his father hauled off to prison had been a tremendous relief.

      Roth’s muscles tensed and his grip on the wheel tightened as he crested the hill leading to the home place. He focused on tactical breathing, exhaling slowly and forcing each kinked muscle to relax the