Ashley’s eyelids drooped. Her head nodded forward before she gasped and jerked back into full consciousness. For what felt like the hundredth time, she stood and did a circuit of the vet’s waiting room. It took about thirty seconds to make the trip around the four plastic chairs and battered coffee table. She’d walked the same path so many times, she half expected to see a little moat ringing the room’s perimeter.

She stopped by her chair and bounced in place in a futile attempt to banish the sleep from her brain. She had to be awake in case Smith needed her. The vet’s office had been dark when they’d pulled in, an unconscious Deuce on the seat between them. Luckily, the veterinarian lived in a small cottage next to the building. He’d taken one look at Smith’s expression and threatened to call the police.

Smith had stuck his foot in the door. “I am the police.”

The vet’s eyes had widened.

Worried Smith was near his breaking point, Ashley had stepped forward. “Please. His dog is everything to him. We think he might be dying.”

That had been four hours ago. She hadn’t seen the vet or Smith since. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? She looked at the door next to the reception desk. What was going on back there? Just as she started for the door, it swung open and a weary-looking Smith walked out. He’d put a clean shirt on before they left the house. Now it was covered in wet splotches.

She rushed to his side. “Is he okay?”

His eyes were bloodshot, his mouth compressed in a thin, white line. He sighed and shoved his hand through his hair. “He should be. The vet pumped his stomach. I’m going to take you home and come back. He can’t be alone.”

“No, I want to stay.”

He shook his head. “There’s nothing you can do right now.”

“I can be here for you. I can take the truck and get you some clothes and something to eat.” She clamped her mouth shut before she sounded too desperate. But he was shutting her out! If he wouldn’t even let her help when his was dog was sick, what kind of chance did she have for a relationship with him? The hope she’d felt after the storm withered.

His smile was weak, but it was there. He tugged the end of her ponytail. “I appreciate it, sweetheart. And I’ll gladly take you up on it in the morning. Right now, I want at least one of us to get some sleep. Eventually, I’m going to crash, and I’ll need you to sit with Deuce.”

Oh. Relief coursed through her so quickly she felt light-headed. At the same time, hope flared back to life with the fanfare of a marching band. She cleared her throat. “That makes sense. I agree to go home. For now.”

He brushed her cheek. “Thank you.”

The drive home was quiet. Ashley stared out her window as darkened homes and shuttered stores flashed by. At this time of night, Prattsville was a ghost town. The streets were a glossy black from the recent rain, and the only sound was the faint shush of water against the truck’s tires. They were nearly at the house when a thought struck her. She looked at Smith. “What did Deuce eat?”

Smith put on his turn signal and made a right down their street. “Poison,” he said, his voice short.

“What?” She shook her head. “How? What kind of poison?”

“Drain cleaner.” He glanced at her, his mouth tight. “Concealed in a chicken.”

Confusion swamped her. “I don’t understand. Do you have drain cleaner around the house?”

“No.” Streetlights flashed over his face. “And I sure as hell didn’t stuff any inside a chicken. But someone did, and they left it on the porch.” He slowed as they approached the house.

A chill crept down her spine. “Someone did this on purpose.”

“Yeah…” He slowed and then stopped in front of the driveway without pulling in. He kept his gaze on the house.

“Smith?”

His body went totally still. With his head still turned toward the house, she had to lean forward to see his face. “Smith?”

“Stay here.”

Alarm made her heart pound. “What is it?”

He threw the truck in park and got out without looking at her or bothering to close his door. Gravel crunched as he strode up the driveway. She checked for oncoming cars in her side mirror, then got out and followed him. “Smith? What’s going on?”

He crouched in the middle of the driveway, his fingers splayed over a deep rut in the gravel.

She stopped a few feet behind him. For some reason, the hair on her arms lifted, and her pulse sped up. “What are you doing?”

“Go inside. Now.”

The command made her hackles rise. His posture and tone were the same as the night she’d startled him in his sleep. This was the side of him he’d warned her about, and something about the driveway had brought it out. She took a deep breath. “Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

He stood and faced her, and the cold, emotionless look in his eyes made her take a step back. He didn’t even blink. “I told you to go inside.”

Every fiber of her being urged her to obey. The primitive part of her brain wanted nothing more than to flee the ruthless killer staring her down. But the emotional side of her mind knew better. If she ran away now, it would never work between them. There would always be some part of him closed off to her. Oh, she’d have access to most of him. But the parts he kept from her would be like splinters in the soul of their relationship. And even the smallest splinters could fester. Sometimes they came out on their own. But if you wanted relief, you had to grit your teeth and pull the damn things out.

She squared her shoulders. “No. Tell me what’s going on.”

“Ashley…”

“I’m not a soldier, Smith Salvatierra. You don’t give me orders.”

He seemed to chew that over. After a second, he narrowed his gaze and said, “Fine. I need to make an arrest, and I need you inside the house with the alarm on so I know you’re safe.”

“Why wouldn’t I be safe? Who are you arresting?”

“I’ll tell you later. This is wasting time.”

“Tell me now.”

“Ashley—”

“Just tell me what’s going on!”

He threw up his hands. “Dean Lacy poisoned Deuce.”

Dean? If he’d told her the Easter Bunny did it, she couldn’t have been more surprised. “How do you know that? Why would he—”

Smith pointed to the rut in the driveway. “Tire marks.”

She stared at the deep groove. It looked indistinguishable from several others beside it. “Your truck could have done that.”

He gave her a look. “I’m a cop, Ashley. These marks were made by Corvette tires. It’s been raining all day. He might as well have left a sign in the yard. There could be other people in town with the same tires, although I doubt it. But I’m damn sure no one else has a reason to retaliate like this. He’s too much of a coward to face me man to man, so I doubt he’d show up here, but I can’t be sure of that. Until I have him in custody, I don’t want you outside.”

If she hadn’t lived with Pia for four years, she might have missed the most important part of his statement. But being roommates with a prosecutor’s daughter had wired her brain to pounce on incriminating information when she heard it. “Why would Dean need to retaliate?”

His mouth tightened. “We can talk about it later. For now, will you please do as I ask?”

A creeping awareness prickled along the back of her head. There was something here—something she wasn’t going to like. “Why would Dean need to retaliate, Smith?”

A little of the stiffness drained from his posture. He put his hands on his hips and looked into the distance, clearly displeased at this turn in their conversation.

“Smith?”

He swung his gaze back to her. “Because I went to his office and made sure he’d never come near you again.”

The air whooshed out of her lungs. He’d gone to Dean? The memory of Smith’s face the night of Dean’s attack rose in her mind. He’d been hell-bent on her filing a police report. She’d begged him to respect her decision not to. The next day, she’d marveled at his sensitivity. His understanding.

Her voice shook. “I asked you not to press charges.”

“And I didn’t.”

“I told you why it was important to let the matter drop. I explained how bad publicity can sink a career—”

“That’s bullshit.” Anger flared in Smith’s gaze. “That son of a bitch put his hands on you.”

Her own anger exploded. “Yes! He did. And it was disgusting and terrifying.”

Smith snarled. “You’re not helping your argument.”

“There isn’t an argument!” She was yelling in the street in the middle of the night, and she didn’t care. “You don’t get a say in this! It happened to me, and it was up to me to handle it.”

He yelled right back. “You didn’t handle it. You were going to let him get away with it.”

“That was my decision to make, not yours.”

He let out a bark of scornful laughter. “Well, it was a stupid decision.”

“I was protecting my career!”

“What career? You don’t have one anymore!”

She staggered backward, as if his words had punched her in the gut.

His face turned ashen. He stepped toward her. “Ashley—”

“Don’t.” She put out a hand.

He stopped. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, you’re right. It’s about time I accepted it, you know?” She forced a laugh. “It’s seems like everyone else realized it before I did.” As she faced him over the muddy ruts in the driveway, a sickening thought entered her mind. Her throat went dry, and her skin felt hot all over. She’d come to Prattsville determined to rebuild her career. Then she’d met Smith. Over the past few weeks, she’d thought about acting less and less. Smith was right. She didn’t have a career because she’d done nothing to salvage it.

She looked over her shoulder, toward her grandmother’s house.

“Ashley?” Smith’s voice was concerned.

Dizzying realization crashed over her. All this time, she’d judged her mother for changing her life every time she met a new man. She’d rolled her eyes over Cheryl’s cruise ship wedding. She’d mocked it over dinner with Smith.

Then she’d watched a stage play and hadn’t once thought about how she planned to get back into acting. But she’d thought plenty about a future with Smith.

After a lifetime of observing her mother’s mistakes, she’d walked right into one.

“Ashley, what’s wrong?”

She looked at him. “Nothing. I just… I need to get some sleep.”

“All right.” He took a deep breath. “About what I said—”

“It’s fine. Listen, I’m really tired. I’m going to crash at my place.”

He frowned, an argument gathering in his eyes.

She hugged her arms over her middle. “I just need some space. And you need to worry about Deuce right now.”

“There’s no alarm over there.”

Right. He still meant to arrest Dean. Because it wouldn’t make any difference to her non-existent career if her name got splashed across the tabloids. “I’ll lock all the doors.”

His expression said he didn’t like it, but he nodded. “I’ll wait here until you get inside.”

“Okay. Well, goodnight.” She turned and walked toward her grandmother’s house.

“Do you have your phone?”

She stopped and looked over her shoulder, thankful the darkness obscured her face. She patted her empty front pocket. “Yep.”

He nodded again. “I’ll call you.”

She headed across the lawn, her flip-flops squeaking in the damp grass. Did he think Dean was hiding in the bushes, ready to pounce on her? What exactly had Smith done to make him “retaliate?” That was just one more reason why they wouldn’t work. He’d lied to her. More than that, he was determined to keep the troubled parts of himself hidden. He obviously wanted to protect her, but his idea of protection meant deceiving her whenever he decided she couldn’t handle reality. No matter how much she loved him, she couldn’t live like that.

Loved him. Holy shit, she loved him. Of course she loved him. It had been staring her in the face for days. She’d just been too stupid to see it. Her throat grew tight. With each step, pain stabbed at her heart. Walking away was the right thing to do. She knew that.

But why did doing the right thing have to be so damn hard?