Jess was tired of sitting and doing nothing, so she was in the tack room, cleaning up after the parade of police officers, crime scene people and investigators. Once she'd been given the okay to clean, she had attacked the floor with a mop, and then the walls with cleaner and a bucket of hot, soapy suds. It felt cathartic to wipe it all up, like she was scrubbing at the absolute rage that was building inside of her.

Now, she was polishing her own tack in a vain attempt to keep busy and not think about what had happened. It wasn't working.

They'd dusted every doorway for prints, leaving black smudges on the white paint. They'd trapsed mud everywhere. They disturbed every bit of equipment in the room, which she'd had to fix.

There were more smudges all over Champ's stall, and even a bootprint in one of his poop piles was being–carefully–cast by some poor SOB who seemed unfazed by the notion he was pouring Plaster of Paris into a pile of horseshit.

Shaun had called into his Chief as they had walked back to the house, and they'd set into motion the renewed scramble to catch up to Mary. Four-wheelers and a few mounted units, plus canine units had hurly-burlied their way through the yard out towards the back property, the tracks cutting through the dirt, the dogs making a racket that in turn made the cows restless.

The media at the gate was now doubled in size. The constant in and out at the gate was punctuated by flashing police car lights, and with every vehicle, she could see the surge of people with tape recorders follow the vehicle until it rolled through, the officer literally pushing people back with the gate.

Sunshine was pacing the fence, ignoring the heifers they'd herded in that morning. The flashbulbs and camera lights were more interesting, for now. So far, no one had tried to outrun him, and he was doing his job.

Shaun was at the center of it as he directed traffic, co-ordinated grids off the map she had pored over while they waited for the horde to descend, and basically, doing his job. Their kitchen table was groaning with food, Gertie doing her best to feed the officers. Because of course she would empty out their pantry. It was what was done.

She'd caught Shaun looking for her a couple of times, finding her in the crowd, assessing if she needed him, and she would nod and he would go back to whatever it was he needed to do. She caught him watching her, and somehow, it comforted her. He was supposed to be a protective detail, and that was good, but it was feeling a bit more personal than that. She reconciled that she felt comfortable with him; he was becoming a person she liked.

He was considerate, the way he would grab the pot to fill her coffee before she'd even thought of it. He was kind, the way he handled the animals, and how sweet he was with her aunt. She had always maintained that you could tell the base of a person by how they treated man and animal, and he had a gentle soul.

She also felt grateful for how he had respected Uncle, evident that he had a good, moral upbringing. He wasn't just a cop. He'd had a good life.

She also failed to stop herself from watching him when he wasn't aware she could see him. He looked wrecked, the dark circles under his eyes and his hair in every direction a dead giveaway. She wanted him to take a break, but also wanted him to stay here, not leave. It was ping ponging in her head, this quick attachment to him, considering she'd met him only yesterday.

She'd experienced his concern that morning in the barn, and it had shaken her resolve. She was already on the brink, and her uncle talking her down from going after her mother just because she was angry as Hell made it all bubble up and she almost lost it, crying in front of him. She did not cry. She couldn't. If she did she might not stop. She had no idea why.

She finished a breastplate and slammed it onto the tack trunk beside her, swearing as the anger bubbled up again.

"Hey now."

She looked up, and Shaun was standing in the doorway, a bottle of water in his hand. He held it out to her. She shook her head and pointed at her thermos, set beside her on the floor. He cracked it and took a long slug, and she couldn't help but watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and lowered himself down on the tack trunk in front of her.

"You okay?" he said quietly.

What could she say to that? Of course not. But she didn't feel the need to punish him by telling him off for the obvious question. What had he done? Nothing.

"I want to be a smartass right now but I think I might just be too numb," she said finally, wondering where the uncharacteristic candid remark had come from. "What do you think?"

"I think you need to slow down, and I think you need to talk to someone," he replied. "I don't know who that is, but someone has to be able to lend an ear to you. This is insane, and you need to process it."

She raised her eyebrows as they looked at one another. He was right, of course. She thought about her girlfriends in town who were likely frantic to talk to her, or her barrel coach a town over whom she could likely relate her frustration to. But they weren't there, and dragging them into this mess wouldn't do them any good.

"What is it?" he asked softly again, moving closer to her. Their knees bumped, and her insides did that little flip, instantly recognizable as that niggle of attraction she had clamped down on since yesterday. Dammit. He even smelled good right now, like horses and aftershave.

"No one that could come here now."

"You could call," he offered, taking another sip of water. "Friend? Boyfriend?"

She sucked in a breath at that. Was he fishing? She pursed her lips. Well, it wasn't like he wouldn't know after she'd talked to the investigators. They would pore over her personal life, and then it would all be out there.

"No boyfriend. He's... Well, he didn't work out. Friends are all in town. Don't want to bother them with this. Not ready for the pity party just yet."

He made an exasperated sound and she looked up sharply. He was pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed.

"What?" she asked, batting her polish cloth at him. "What did I say?"

"You are a stubborn woman, Jess Nichols," he muttered, and then let his hand drop, looking at her with exasperation mirroring the sound he had just made.

"Because I don't want to talk to my friends?"

"No, because you are willing to take on all the hurt and anger this woman is causing you, the grief over a father you didn't know, and a violation of your home. You don't want to lean on anyone, let alone your aunt and uncle. You don't have to be the strong one here, Jess. We— err, your family can be that for you too, you know."

Jess caught the "we" before he stopped and corrected himself. She bumped her knees against him, letting her guard down a bit.

"How did a guy like you become a cop? You seem like you should be running a ranch, not chasing bad guys."

He looked at her, his face indicating he was fully aware of her deflection, and that he allowed it. He slumped a bit, and leaned in, looking at his hands, knitting his fingers.

"I grew up on a ranch, much like this one. My parents raised cattle and mom did the AQHA* circuit. I was a roper. Not a very good one. But I managed at the junior level."

"Aha. I knew it! You sat too far back in the saddle and your stirrups were too short," she blurted, and then covered her mouth. "Sorry, that was rude."

He chuckled, and nodded. "Indeed. But likely true."

"So what made you leave?" she prodded, interested now. There were layers to this man that she suddenly, desperately, wanted to know. Needed to know, to perhaps put a finger on the reason she was drawn to him. It had to be more than just lust for a hard body in a uniform, or respect for the way he was around her horses.

"I'd always wanted to be a cop. My parents have two other boys, both younger, adopted after they had me. They're more into the rodeo scene, so there are other King boys to run amok over there," he said, smiling.

"What are they like?" she prodded more, cleaning forgotten, her entire focus on him. It felt good to be distracted and she followed it.

"Seth, he's a bronc rider. He loves that adrenaline, and my mother thinks someday it's going to kill him. He's the reason she needs antacids. Frank, he likes riding pleasure and showing the models with mom. He's a gentle giant, and the stallions they stand at the ranch are his pets. He towers over them and they all just follow him like puppies."

She laughed at that, and his smile, the one she had rarely seen, burst out.

"You should smile like that more often," she blurted before she could stop herself.

"I should?" he replied, the smile growing wider. "Why?"

Jess was at a loss for words then, because he leaned in. Their legs were interlocked, and she was keenly aware his hands were moving towards her from his legs to hers.

"Tell me Jess, why should I?" he prodded, his voice graveled.

She licked her lips, their eyes meeting, and her heart hammered against her chest. "Uhm... it... it suits you?" she ventured.

One of his hands came up to her face, cupping her jaw, the thumb brushing her lower lip. Her skin broke out in goosebumps again, and she very slowly opened her mouth, leaning into his touch. She felt his whole hand twitch as she did. She wanted him, right now, and it was torture to feel him touch her but not kiss her.

Not breaking his gaze, he let out a sound that was deep-seated male frustration and he reluctantly backed away from her.

"Sorry," he rasped before he stood. "That was not appropriate."

She wanted to scream that it was perfectly appropriate, but before she could correct him, one of the detectives rounded the corner and they broke apart hastily.

"Mack," Shaun said, stepping back further from her. "You ready for her?"

Mack walked into the room, hand extended. "I am. Ma'am, I'm Ed Mackenzie. I'm the lead investigator on your Dad's case. I'd like to sit down with you to go over some details. My partner Clint Lewis is just driving out from town, he should be here soon."

Jess felt the jolt of the situation hit her again, and she steeled her spine, shoving aside the desire she'd felt a moment before. It would have to wait. This was reality. She stood, and brushed her hair back with her hands.

"Yes, sure," she replied. "Shall we go up to the house? I can put coffee on."

As she left with the investigator, she turned to see Shaun with his hands in his back pockets, a tortured look on his face. Their eyes met, he nodded and she stepped out, away from the urge to stay with him instead poking through the calm.

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*AQHA - American Quarter Horse Association, which runs a show circuit throughout North America.