Lone Rider Bodyguard

Chapter Three

The grim lines bracketing Tye’s mouth bore witness to the past five tension-filled hours he and Susannah had spent waiting for news of Greta. But as he replaced the receiver on the wall-mounted telephone in Del Hawkins’s kitchen and turned to her, his expression held more than a touch of thankfulness.

“She’s finally out of surgery. Her doctor told Del she’s going to pull through.”

At his announcement, sudden moisture filled Susannah’s eyes. She made no effort to blink away the relieved tears as he went on, his shrug slightly dubious.

“The surgeon said she must have had a guardian angel watching over her. If the bullet hadn’t been deflected by her breastbone the way it was, Greta wouldn’t have stood a chance of surviving.”

“Thank God,” she said simply, sinking into one of the hoop-backed chairs ringing the massive table—a table, she’d learned from Tye on the drive here to Hawkins’s ranch, that normally seated over a dozen rowdy male teens rather than one exhausted female with a baby, since the ranch was some kind of a boot camp for wayward youths. Despite the warm glow from the brass oil lantern hanging overhead, Danny, his carry-cot sitting in the center of the polished pine surface, was sleeping peacefully. With an unsteady finger she pushed a wisp of spun-silk hair from his forehead.

“She said she didn’t believe in miracles, didn’t she, little man?” she said huskily. “Guess that didn’t make a speck of difference to Him. He just went ahead and gave her one.”

She raised her gaze to Tye. “You let Del know we’d help his hired hands look after everything here?”

“Yeah.” Rolling his shoulders as if to massage out a stiffness, Tye grimaced. “Probably Johnson and Bradley could have handled things by themselves, but I told him I still remembered how to muck out a stall, although it had been a while since he’d taught me. I’m not sure he believed me.” A ghost of a smile momentarily lifted his lips. “Damn fool said he’d get home for a few hours later today to check on things. I passed on Bannerman’s message about dropping by to give a formal statement, so he’ll do that first, but he won’t be able to tell him anything more than I could.”

He didn’t say what Susannah knew they were both thinking. Whatever Del could or couldn’t tell the sheriff wouldn’t matter, if her own interview with the lawman was anything to go by. It had been as fruitless as had all the previous interviews with the police in the past nine months—more so, in fact, since Sheriff Bannerman hadn’t even wanted to hear what she had to say. He’d taken one look at the spent shells and bullet casings littering the portale and his expression had closed.

“A partnership gone sour, that’s what I’m putting my money on. Only a drug war generates this kind of firepower,” he’d declared, rubbing his jaw. “Hassell used to be a model, didn’t she? They live a pretty fast life, from what I hear. Maybe her past caught up with her, or maybe those trips she’s always making to New York and L.A. are about selling something other than paintings.”

Beside him Tye had started to protest, and Bannerman had turned on him. “Hell, Adams, I’ve seen those daubs she calls art. Don’t tell me people are crazy enough to shell out big money for something that doesn’t even look like a real picture. I’ll arrange protection for you while we’re looking for the two shooters who got away, Miz Barrett, but I’ll wager you weren’t their primary target.”

Susannah had been close enough to Tye to see the anger in his eyes as he spoke, his words measured. “Couple things, Sheriff.” His tone had been ominously mild. “First and foremost, Susannah’s my responsibility. That’s what I do for a living, as I’ve told you.” Before Bannerman could respond he went on. “Secondly, if she wasn’t being targeted tonight why did a hit man come within seconds of taking her out, for God’s sake?”

“Miz Barrett was in the wrong place at the wrong time. When she tried to run they probably thought she was trying to get away with whatever it was they’d come for.” Bannerman’s grunt had been dismissive. “Save the convoluted deductions for those movie detectives you rub shoulders with in Hollywood, Adams. Like I told you last week when you came to me insisting I investigate Miz Barrett’s so-called abduction, things are usually a whole lot less complicated in the real world. When we get the results back on the dead man’s prints I’ll wager it turns out he worked for one of the big dealers.”

At that the older man had turned on a booted heel and strode off, the subject obviously closed as far as he was concerned. Tye hadn’t gone after him but had helped Susannah gather up a few essentials for herself and Daniel before informing a deputy that they could be reached at the Double B if Bannerman needed them.

“If we’re talking miracles you might want to send up a prayer of thanks that Del’s latest crop of bad boys left a few days ago and the next batch isn’t due till next month.”

Recalled to the present by his words, Susannah saw Tye had crossed to the old-fashioned sink, a battered tin coffeepot in his hand. “Livestock I can handle. A dozen or so juvenile delinquents with chips on their shoulders would be too much for anyone to take.” He twisted the cold-water tap and shrugged. “Anyone but Del, that is,” he added, his back to her.

Earlier this evening when he’d hustled her and Danny out of the garage and away from the body of the man he’d shot, he’d kept his arm protectively around her shoulders, as if he was afraid of letting her get too far away from him. Even when the helicopter Del had requested had touched down just beyond the devastated patio’s walls and an unconscious Greta had been carefully lifted onto a stretcher—not by hospital paramedics, Susannah had realized numbly at the time, but by figures in military uniform—Tye had left her side only long enough to exchange a few hurried sentences with Del and an officer whom she’d seen salute Hawkins as the men had loaded their precious cargo. It wasn’t until the chopper was lifting off and a wail of sirens had pierced the desert night, signalling the arrival in force of the local law, that he’d detached himself from her.

And detached was the right word, she thought unhappily now, taking in the straight line of his back and his precise movements as he set the coffeepot on the ancient cast-iron cook stove. She’d told Greta tonight—had it really been just a few hours ago? she wondered in tired amazement—that she’d done Tyler Adams a wrong. It was time to put that wrong right, if she could.

“Sugar-cured ham and sunny-side-up okay with you?” He threw the query over his shoulder as he opened the restaurant-size refrigerator and pulled out a bowl of brown eggs. “There’s not much point in going to bed now if I’m starting chores in a few hours, so I might as well make us some breakfast. Give me a second here and I’ll show you the spare first-floor bedroom. No cribs in the place as far as I know, but maybe we can rig something up with a dresser drawer for Danny to sleep in.”

“I’ll cook.” Rising from the table, she went to a hook on the wall and took down the striped cotton teacloth she’d noticed hanging there. It was big enough to serve as an apron and deftly she wrapped it around her waist, securing it with a neat knot. As Tye set a platter holding half a huge ham on the counter, she put a restraining hand on his arm.

Beneath her fingers was solid muscle. Warmth flooded through her before she tamped down the inappropriate reaction.

“Bannerman said you reported me missing. I—I’m sorry you were worried about us, Tye.” Her hand was still resting on his arm and she let it slip to her side. “I hoped you’d just put us out of your mind and continue on your way, I guess.”

This time the rush of warmth in her cheeks was shame. As her guilty gaze met his skeptical one, she shook her head.

“Oh, that’s a lie, and not even a white one,” she said, sliding her palms against the tea towel. “Granny Lacey used to say Mr. Scratch started with a body’s tongue first when he was trying to take over, and she was right. I knew you’d probably be looking for us, but when Greta showed up the way she did all I could think of was keeping Danny safe. It was like the story of baby Moses in the rush basket floating downstream out of danger,” she ended inadequately.

“Sorry, honey.” Under the once-white and now begrimed T-shirt he wore, broad shoulders lifted in a controlled shrug. “I’m far from being the Bible scholar you seem to be, so you lost me at the end there. But I’ll accept what you said about lying just now. You didn’t hope I’d forgotten you, Suze. You knew damn well I wouldn’t, just like I knew damn well you weren’t about to forget me anytime soon. Who the hell’s Mr. Scratch?”

“You swear too much.” Even as the automatic comment left her lips Susannah knew it was more of a defense than a reproof. Was it was her imagination or had the space between them, slight as it had been in the first place, lessened somehow? She took a step away from him, all her earlier misgivings suddenly flooding back.

Could you call a man beautiful? she asked herself, forcing a deep breath into her lungs in an attempt to dispel the unfamiliar edginess that was electrifying all her nerve endings. But breathing was a mistake. As she inhaled, the very scent of him seemed to rush into her—a scent compounded of cordite and skin salt and the faintest trace of the soap he’d presumably used earlier this evening.

He was beautiful. He was beautiful the way a stallion was beautiful, beautiful the way a timber wolf standing over its prey could be beautiful, beautiful because he was a perfectly built male animal.

And that overpowering maleness could make even someone like her forget everything else except the basic fact that she was a female.

“Mr. Scratch is the devil,” she said, making herself turn back to face him. “Bible scholar or not, you must have heard of him.”

“Red tail and horns, pointed beard?” He hacked off a couple of slices of ham, his question disinterested, and something about the careless tone of his voice roused a tiny spark of anger in her.

“I don’t think that’s what he looks like at all,” she said. “If he did we’d be able to recognize him, and he couldn’t do us any harm. If you’ll show me where Del keeps his skillets I’ll take over from here, Tye. I’m not partial to having a man in the way when I’m cooking.”

She started to move past him toward the stove, her posture rigid, but even as she took a second step he was in front of her, barring her way.

“Okay, so tell me, Suze,” he said, his tone edged. “How do you know him when you see him? What exactly does he look like, your Mr. Scratch?”

His hands were on her shoulders, and suddenly the worn cotton of her dress felt as insubstantial as shattered silk. He tightened his grip by a fraction, and at the barely noticeable adjustment she felt the fabric of her bodice tautening against the swell of her breasts. Instant heat suffused her, and this time when she tried to breathe she found she couldn’t. She stared up at him, her gaze painfully wide.

Steal the blue from the most perfect summer sky on the most perfect summer’s day and you’d have his eyes, she told herself. A woman could fall into that blue—fall straight in and never want to come out again. What would it be like to let those eyes see every inch of you, to feel that mouth everywhere on your skin, to forget everything you’d ever been taught and give yourself for just one sinful night to the de—

The breath she’d been trying to take slammed into her with the force of an arctic gale, sweeping away all heat and replacing the lassitude that had gripped her with cold awareness. She swallowed past the dryness in her throat, and he released his grip on her.

“I—I think he looks just like you, Tye,” she said unevenly. “That’s why he’s so dangerous.”

Just for a moment she would have sworn she saw something flash behind those eyes—something that could have been pain. Before she could identify the emotion it was gone.

Or maybe it hadn’t been there in the first place. A crooked smile lifted a corner of his mouth.

“What’s that expression about giving a dog a bad name?” This time it wasn’t her imagination. Without seeming to move at all, suddenly he’d lessened the distance between them to no more than a few inches. Behind her she felt the hard edge of the counter pressing into her back.

“Give a dog a bad name and he’ll bite?” she ventured. “Tye, I—”

“That’s it.” He bent his head, obliterating the last of her precious buffer zone. “You can call me off anytime, Suze,” he said, his tone velvety. “But maybe you don’t want to. Maybe after a lifetime of putting the devil behind you, just this once you’d like to be tempted.”

His last words were murmured against her lips. For the space of a heartbeat his gaze held hers, and during that heartbeat Susannah knew she should step away from him.

Her lips parted. Her veins felt suddenly as if they were filled with something much thicker than blood, something so heavy and hot she found it impossible to move her limbs. An identical heat pooled in the pit of her stomach and seemed to spill downward toward her thighs.

She heard herself sigh, the sound so light and insubstantial it was barely audible. His mouth came down onto hers before the soft exhalation was completed.

Tye’s tongue moved past her lips, past her teeth, and without conscious volition she felt herself opening up to him, her startled reaction based on instinct rather than experience. The next moment his palms were on either side of her face, pulling her closer to him and steadying her. His tongue went a little deeper, as if it were trying to coax her very soul from her, and some last spark of self-preservation flared desperately inside her.

With the half-formed intention of pushing him away she brought her hands up, but even as her fingers spread against the solidity of his chest he lifted his head.

“You don’t have to do that. I said you could call me off anytime.” His whisper was hoarse, his breath warm on her lips. “But you don’t trust the devil, do you? Is that why you ran from me the day you disappeared, Suze—because you were afraid of what I was?”

Dazedly she shook her head, her gaze locked on his. “I don’t think so.” The heat that had been spreading through her was now a searing ache. Her throat felt scratchy and raw as she forced the words out. “I don’t think that was it at all. I think I ran because I was afraid of what I was, Tye. Or of what I wanted to be, from the first moment I saw you,” she ended, her voice low.

His gaze darkened to indigo. “I don’t get it. What did you want to be?”

She didn’t reply immediately. Instead she allowed herself to drink in the sight of him, needing every detail her gaze lingered on to be imprinted in her mind—the tanned cheekbones, the thick and incongruously dark lashes half veiling his eyes, the chiselled cut of his mouth. A muscle moved at the side of his jaw. She attempted a smile, and knew her attempt had failed.

“Why, everything I wasn’t, of course,” she said softly. “Beautiful and sophisticated and—and sexy, the kind of woman a man like you would be used to.”

She stepped away from him, staring down at the tea towel around her waist. She blinked, and tightened the loosened knot. Although this time her lips curved as she wanted them to, she felt a stinging moisture behind her eyes.

“When I looked at you I didn’t want to be me. And I knew that was wrong.”

Susannah glanced toward the table, where Danny was still fast asleep in his carry-cot. She took a deep breath. “He’s my world, Tye. I can’t let anything get in the way of keeping him safe, and no matter what Sheriff Bannerman thinks, those men showed up tonight looking to find me. So even if you’re right and I knew I wasn’t going to forget you when Greta stopped to help me that day, I couldn’t let myself think about that. I still can’t.”

Tye held her gaze for a second longer. Then he looked away, his shoulders lifting again in that half shrug she’d seen him give before, as if he were unconsciously trying to adjust the weight of a burden he couldn’t rid himself of. When he spoke there was a harsh edge to his voice.

“Want to hear something funny, Suze? When I looked at you I didn’t want to be me, either. And just for a while I persuaded myself there was a chance I could change.”

He exhaled tightly. “Bannerman might have taken your disappearance more seriously if anyone but me had reported it. I should have known I couldn’t wipe the past out by coming back here. Like Greta, I’ve never believed in miracles, so I don’t know why I let myself hope I’d been handed one.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, troubled by the bleakness in his words. A moment ago the man in front of her had been holding her so closely she’d been afraid she was in danger of losing herself in him. Now he seemed once again to be separated from her by an insurmountable wall—a wall not only isolating him from her, but from everything else around him. He turned to face her, his smile humorless.