Her bodyguard was murdered.

Will she be next?

Following her scandalous divorce, fans turned on country music “bad girl” Daisy Delaney. Now someone wants her dead. But former FBI agent Zach Simmons isn’t letting this violent psychopath get any closer to Daisy. Because the bodyguard will do whatever it takes to protect the bad girl he’s falling for...

NICOLE HELM grew up with her nose in a book and the dream of one day becoming a writer. Luckily, after a few failed career choices, she gets to follow that dream—writing down-to-earth contemporary romance and romantic suspense. From farmers to cowboys, Midwest to the West, Nicole writes stories about people finding themselves and finding love in the process. She lives in Missouri with her husband and two sons and dreams of someday owning a barn.

Also by Nicole Helm

Wyoming Cowboy Marine

Wyoming Cowboy Sniper

Wyoming Cowboy Ranger

Wyoming Cowboy Justice

Wyoming Cowboy Protection

Wyoming Christmas Ransom

Stone Cold Texas Ranger

Stone Cold Undercover Agent

Stone Cold Christmas Ranger

All I Have

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Wyoming Cowboy Bodyguard

Nicole Helm

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09409-2

WYOMING COWBOY BODYGUARD

© 2019 Nicole Helm

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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For the female songwriters in country music whose

songs make up the bulk of my book soundtracks, thank

you for the inspiration.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Tom was dead. She’d been ushered away from his lifeless body and open, empty brown eyes thirty minutes ago and still, that was all she saw. Tom sprawled on the floor, limbs at an unnatural angle, eyes open and unseeing.

Blood.

She was in the back of a police cruiser, moving through Austin at a steady clip. Daisy Delaney. America’s favorite country bad girl. Until she’d filed for divorce from country’s golden child, Jordan Jones. Now everyone hated her, and someone wanted her dead.

But they’d killed Tom first.

She wanted to close her eyes, but she was afraid the vision of Tom would only intensify if she did. So she focused on the world out the window. Pearly dawn. Green suburban lawns.

She was holding it together. Even though Tom’s lifeless eyes haunted her. And all that blood. The smell of it. She was queasy and desperately wanted to cry, but she was holding on. Gotta save face, Daisy girl. No matter what. Never let them see they got to you.

It didn’t matter the name her mother had given her was Lucy Cooper. Daddy had always used her stage name—the name he’d given her. Daisy Delaney, after his dearly departed grandmother, who’d given him his first guitar.

She’d relished that once upon a time, no matter how much her mother and brother had disapproved. Today, for the first time in her life, she wondered where she might be if she hadn’t followed in her famous father’s footsteps.

She couldn’t change the past so she held it together. Didn’t let anyone see she was devastated, shaken or scared.

Until the car pulled up in front of her brother’s house. He was standing outside. She’d expected to see him in his Texas Rangers uniform of pressed khakis, a button-up shirt and that shiny star she knew he took such pride in.

Instead, he was in sweats, a baby cradled in his arms.

“You shouldn’t have brought me here,” she whispered to the police officer as he shifted into Park.

“Ranger Cooper asked me to, ma’am.”

She let out a breath. Asked. While her brother was a Texas Ranger and this man was Austin PD, Daisy was under no illusions her brother hadn’t interfered enough to make sure it was an order, not a request.

When the officer opened the door for her, she managed a smile and a thank-you. The officer shook hands with Vaughn, then gave her a sympathetic look. “We’ll have more questions for you, Ms. Delaney, but the ones you answered at the scene will do for now.”

She smiled thinly. “Thank you. And if there’s any break in the case—”

“We’ll let you and your brother know.”

The officer nodded and left. Daisy turned to Vaughn.

“You shouldn’t have brought me here,” she said, peeking into the bundle of blankets. She brushed her fingers over her niece’s cheek. “It isn’t safe having me around you guys.”

“Safety’s my middle name,” Vaughn said, and there wasn’t an ounce of concern or fear in his voice, but she could feel it nonetheless. Her straitlaced brother had never understood her need to follow their father’s spotlight, but he’d always been her protector. “You didn’t tell me you’d come back to Austin.”

She’d thought she could keep it from him. Keep him and Nat from worrying when they had this gorgeous little family they were building.

Daisy had been stupid and foolish to think she’d be able to keep anything from Vaughn. She couldn’t afford to be stupid and foolish anymore. Though she’d lived in fear for almost a year now, she’d believed it would remain a nonviolent threat. Her stalker had never hurt her or anyone she’d been connected to.

Now he’d killed Tom. The man Vaughn had hired to protect her. It wasn’t her own failure. Rationally, she knew that, but kind, funny Tom, who’d done everything in his power to protect her, was dead.

“Come inside, Lucy.” Vaughn slid his free arm around her shoulders and the first tear fell over onto her cheek. She couldn’t let more fall, and yet her brother’s steadiness, and the name only he and Mom called her, was one of the few things that could undo her.

Well, that and murder, she supposed. “Tom...”

“We’ll handle the arrangements,” Vaughn said, squeezing her shoulders as baby Nora gurgled happily in her daddy’s arms. “He was a good man.”

“He shouldn’t have died protecting me.”

“But he did. He signed up for that job. You’ll have time to mourn that. We all will, but right now we need to focus on getting you somewhere safe.”

She wanted to say something snotty. Vaughn could be so cold, and though she knew it was his law-enforcement training, it grated. Except he held his baby like the precious gift she was, and Daisy had watched years ago as his voice had broken when he’d made his vows to his wife.

Vaughn wasn’t cold or heartless. He just had control down to an art form. And his concern was her. Daisy felt like such a burden to him, and yet there was no way to convince him this wasn’t his problem.

“Nat’s got coffee on and Jaime is on his way over,” Vaughn said, locking the door behind her then leading her up the stairs of his split-level ranch.

“What’s Jaime got to do with this?” Daisy asked warily. “You can’t get the FBI involved. I—”

“I’m not getting the FBI involved. I’m using my FBI connections to find a safe place for you while we let the professionals investigate.”

“And by professionals you mean you.”

“I mean anyone and everyone I can get on this case. With our connection, I’m not legally allowed to be part of the official investigation.”

Which meant he’d launch his own unofficial one. No matter how by-the-book Vaughn was, he’d always break rules for his loved ones.

Nat came out of the kitchen as they crested the stairs. She pulled Daisy into a hard hug. “How are you?” she asked, brown eyes full of compassion.

Daisy had no questions about how Vaughn had fallen for Natalie, but she did have some questions about the reverse.

“Unscathed.”

Natalie pursed her lips. “Physically. Which wasn’t all I meant.” She eyed her husband. “Coopers,” she muttered with some disgust, though Daisy knew—for as little time as she managed to spend with her family here due to her crazy touring schedule—Nat spoke with love.

The doorbell rang, Nora fussed and Nat and Vaughn exchanged the baby and words with the choreographed practice of marriage. It caused a multitude of pangs in Daisy.

Her divorce had started the press’s character assassination—thanks to Jordan’s team, who were desperate to keep his star on the rise.

Then the stalking had started, and everything had become a numb kind of blank.

But she could still remember marrying Jordan with the hope she’d have something like Nat and Vaughn had. That had been a joke.

“Sit down. You want to hold Nora for me? I’ve got to go check on Miranda.” Nat was maneuvering her onto the couch, placing tiny Nora into her arms and hurrying off to check on their other daughter as Vaughn and his brother-in-law ascended the stairs.

“Ah, the cavalry,” Daisy said with a wry twist of her lips.

“Good to see you again, Daisy,” Jaime Alessandro greeted. An FBI agent, married to Natalie’s sister, Daisy had met him on a few occasions. He was more personable than Vaughn, but the whole FBI thing made Daisy uneasy.

“Let’s get straight to it, then,” Vaughn said, taking a seat next to Daisy on the couch. Jaime settled himself on an armchair across from them.

“I’m sure you know how concerned Vaughn’s been even before the murder.”

Daisy eyed her brother. “No. You don’t say.”

Jaime smiled. Vaughn didn’t.

“We’ve been looking into some options, along with the investigation. As long as the stalker continues to evade police, the prime goal is keeping you safe. To that end, I have an idea.”

“That sounds ominous coming from an FBI agent.”

“How do you feel about Wyoming?”

“Cold,” Daisy replied dryly.

“I have a friend I was in Quantico with. He has a security business. I talked to him about your situation and he came up with a plan. It involves isolating you.”

“I was isolated before. The cabin—”

“Is isolated, but not completely off the grid,” Vaughn said of their old family cabin that had been vandalized during her last hiding stint. “It was traceable, and you’ve been easy to follow. We’re going to take extra precautions to make sure you aren’t followed to Wyoming.”

Daisy wanted to close her eyes, but she shifted Nora in her arms and looked down at the baby instead. “So you want me to secretly jet off to Wyoming and then what?”

“And then you’re safe while we find this guy. This is murder now. Things are escalating, which means everyone else’s investigation is going to escalate.”

“We can have you there by tomorrow afternoon,” Jaime said. “They’ll be ready for you.”

Part of her wanted to argue, but Tom’s lifeless body flashed into her mind. She didn’t want to die. Not like that. And more, so much more, she didn’t want Vaughn or his precious family in the crosshairs.

“Just tell me what I need to do.”

* * *

ZACH SIMMONS SURVEYED the town. It looked like every picture of a ghost town he’d ever seen. Empty, windowless buildings. Dusty dirt road that would have once been a bustling Main Street. You could feel the history, and the utter emptiness.

It was perfect.

He grinned over at his soon-to-be brother-in-law and business partner. “Still worried about the investment?”

Cam Delaney eyed him. “Hell yes, I’m still worried.” He scanned the dilapidated buildings and the way the mountains jutted out in the distance, like sentries, in Zach’s mind. This would be a place of protection. Of safety.

“This job’s a big one for your first.”

Zach nodded. He was under no illusions this wasn’t a giant challenge. Tricky and messy and complicated. He couldn’t explain to Cam, or anyone really, how thrilling it was to be out of the confines of the FBI’s rules and regulations. He wouldn’t take his time back as an agent for anything, but it had been stifling in the end.

So stifling he’d ended up getting himself kicked out.

This was better. Even if the first job was with some spoiled country singer star who’d gotten herself in a mess of trouble. Probably her own doing. But she was in trouble, and Zach and Cam’s security company was getting paid, seriously paid, to keep her safe.

“Laurel come up with any connection to you guys?” Zach asked, hoping Daisy Delaney’s last name was a coincidence. Not that he’d tell anyone, but all the Carson and Delaney coupling worried him a little.

He was technically a Carson, though his mother had run away from her family at eighteen and only started reconnecting this year. He told himself he didn’t believe in curses or the Carson-Delaney feud the town of Bent, Wyoming, was so invested in.

So invested, Main Street was practically split down the middle—Carson businesses on one side, Delaney businesses on the other. Then there was the curse talk, which said if a Carson and Delaney were ever friendly, or God forbid, romantic, only bad things would befall Bent.

But over the course of the past year Carsons and Delaneys had been falling for each other left and right, and while there’d been a certain uptick in trouble in Bent, everything and everyone was fine.

Which his cousins and their significant others had turned into believing it was all meant to be, and went on and on about love solving things.

Zach didn’t buy an inch of either belief—but still, the idea of a Delaney under his protection gave him a bit of a worried itch.

“She’s still researching. It’s giving her something to do now that she’s on maternity leave. Baby should come any day, though, so I’m not sure she’ll come up with any answers one way or another. You can always ask the woman.”

Zach shrugged. “Doesn’t matter either way.”

Cam chuckled. “Sure. You’re not worried about what might happen if she’s some long-lost cousin of mine?”

“No, I’m not. I’m worried about keeping Daisy Delaney safe from her stalker, assuming there really is one.” Because the Daisy Delaney case would set the tone for what he wanted to offer here. On the surface it would look like a ghost town. But below the surface it could be a place for people to find safety, security and hope while the slow wheels of justice handled things legally.

If he believed in life callings, and these days he was starting to, his was this. He’d been a part of the slow wheels of justice. He’d failed at protecting because of it. Now he’d do all he could to keep those entrusted to him safe.

“I should head off to the airport. You’ll do the double check?”

Cam nodded. “Is turndown service offered as part of the package?”

“Up to you, boss,” Zach said with a grin, slapping Cam on the back.

Cam eyed him, but Zach ignored the perceptive look and headed for his car. He didn’t need Cam giving him another lecture about taking things slow, having reasonable expectations for a fledgling business.

Zach had endured a bad year. Really bad. His brother had been admitted to a psychiatric ward, and his long-lost sister had forgiven the man who’d murdered their father and kidnapped her. He’d been kicked out of the FBI—which meant no hope of ever getting back into legitimate law enforcement. And then he’d tried to help one of his cousins outwit a stalker-murderer and been hurt in the process.

In some ways all that hardship had brought him everything he’d ever wanted—his long-lost sister back in his life, a job that didn’t seem to choke the very life out of him and some closure over the murder of his father.

Then there was this project. Ghost Town. He couldn’t tamp down his enthusiasm, his excitement. He had to grab on to the rightness he finally felt and hold on to it with everything he had.

He didn’t want to go back. He wanted to move forward.

Daisy Delaney was going to be the way to do that. He drove down deserted Wyoming roads to the highway, then to the regional airport in Dubois where his first client would be landing any minute.

Zach parked and entered the small airport, all the excitement of a new job still buzzing inside him.

He’d facilitated crisscrossing flights with his former FBI buddy, and only Zach knew the disguise she’d be wearing. Though he wondered how much a wig and sunglasses would do for a famous singer.

Zach liked country music as much as the next guy, so it was impossible not to know Daisy Delaney’s music. She’d somehow eclipsed even her father’s outlaw country reputation with wild songs about drinking, cheating and revenge. Country fans either loved her or loved to complain about her.

Of course, since her divorce from all-American sweetheart Jordan Jones, the complainers had gotten more vocal. Zach hadn’t followed it all, but he’d read up on it once this assignment had come along. She’d been eviscerated in the press, even when the stalking started. Many thought it was a publicity ploy to get people to feel sorry for her.

It had not worked.

Zach couldn’t deny it was a possibility, even if a man was dead—the security guard. A shame. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t a ploy. You never knew with the rich and famous.

Still, Zach was determined to make his own conclusions about Daisy Delaney and what might be going on with her stalker, or fictional stalker as the case may be.

The small crowd walked through the security gates. He’d been told to look for black hair and clothes, a red bag and purple cowboy boots. He spotted her immediately.

In person, she was surprisingly petite. She didn’t exactly look like a woman who’d burn your house down if you looked at another woman the wrong way, but looks could be deceiving.

He’d done enough undercover work to know that well.

He adjusted his hat, gave the signal he’d told her people to expect and she nodded and walked over to him.

“You must be Mr. Hughes.” She used the fake name Jaime had chosen and held out a hand. The sunglasses she wore hid her eyes, and the mass of black hair hid most of her face. Whatever her emotions were, they were well hidden. Which was good. It wouldn’t do to have nerves radiating off her.

He took her outstretched hand and shook it. “And you must be Ms. Bravo.” Fake names, but soon enough they wouldn’t need to bother with that. “Any more bags?” he asked, nodding to the lone duffel bag she carried.

She shook her head.

“Follow me.”

She eyed everyone in the airport as they walked outside, but her shoulders and stride were relaxed as she kept up with him. She didn’t fidget or dart. If she was fearing her life, she knew how to hide it.

He opened the passenger-side door to his car. She slid inside. Still no sign of concern over getting into a car with a stranger. Zach frowned as he skirted the car to the driver’s side.

But he wiped the frown into a placid expression as he slid into his seat. “We have about a thirty-minute drive ahead of us.” He pushed the car into Drive and pulled out of the airport parking lot. “You could take your wig off,” he offered. “Get comfortable.”

“I’d prefer to wait.”

He nodded as he drove. Tough case. A hint of nerves here and there, but overall a very cool customer. Cautious, though, so she clearly took the threat of danger seriously.

He drove in silence through the middle of nowhere Wyoming. He flicked a few glances her way, though it was hard to discern anything. He didn’t get the impression she was impressed, but he hadn’t expected her to be. He imagined she preferred, if not the glitz and glam of the city, the slow ease of wealthy Southern life she was probably used to.

Wyoming wouldn’t offer that, but it would offer her security. He drove down the main street that was now his domain, this ghost town he and Cam had bought outright.

At some point they’d all be safe houses. Or maybe even a functioning town behind the facade of desertion and decay.

For right now, though, it was just the main house. He pulled up in front of the giant showpiece.

It had been built over a century ago by some railroad executive. From the outside the windows were all knocked out, the wood was faded and peeling paint hung off. Everything sagged, and it had the faint air of haunted house.

It made him grin every time. “Well, here we are.”

For the first time he could read her expression. Pure, unadulterated horror. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t get a little kick out of that. “I promise it’s not as bad as it looks.”

She wrenched her gaze away from the large house, then stared at him through the dark sunglasses. “Can I see your ID or something?” she demanded.

He shifted and pulled his wallet out of his pocket and handed it to her. “Have at it.” He pushed open the door and got out of the car. “When you’re ready, I’ll show you where you’ll be staying.”

Chapter Two

What Daisy really wanted to do was call her brother and ask him if he’d lost his mind. Call Jaime and ask if she was sure this guy was sane. Call anyone to take her home.

But inside the wallet the man had so casually handed her was a driver’s license with the name Jaime had given her. The picture matched the man currently standing in front of the horror-movie house outside the car. There were also all sorts of security licenses and weapon certifications.

Vaughn had said this place was isolated, even more isolated than their old family cabin in the Guadalupe Mountains. But she hadn’t been able to picture how that was possible.

Oh, was it possible. Possible and horrifying.

She flipped the wallet closed and then looked at the giant, falling-apart building. If she didn’t die because a stalker was after her, she’d die because this building was going to fall in on her.

It had to be infested with rats. And probably all other manner of vermin.

She couldn’t get her body to move from the safety of this car, and still, the man whom she’d been assured would keep her safe stood outside, grinning at the dilapidated building in front of him.

He wasn’t sane. He couldn’t be. She was stuck in the middle of nowhere Wyoming with an insane person.

But Vaughn would never let that happen. So she forced herself to get out of the car and slung the duffel bag over her shoulder. She tried not to mourn that she hadn’t been able to bring her guitar. This wasn’t a musical writing escape. It was literally running for her life.

She stepped next to Zach. She still didn’t trust him, but she trusted her brother. She looked up at the building like Zach Simmons did, though not with nearly the amount of reverence he had in his expression.

“I know it looks intimidating from the outside, but that’s kind of the point.”

“The point?” Daisy asked, studying a board that hung haphazardly from a bent nail.

“From the outside, no one would guess anyone’s been here for decades.”

“Try centuries,” she muttered.

He motioned her forward and she followed him up a cracked and sunken rock pathway to the front door.

“Watch the hole,” he announced cheerfully, pointing at the gaping hole in the floorboards of the porch. He shoved a key into the front door and pushed open the creaky, uneven entry. “Even if someone started poking around, all they’d see is decay.”

Yes, that is all I see. She looked around. She had to admit that although everything appeared to be in a state of decay, there were some important things missing. She didn’t see any dust or spiderwebs. Debris, sure. Peeling wallpaper and warped floorboards, check, but it didn’t smell like she’d expected it to. There was the faint hint of paint on the air.

He led her over the uneven flooring, then pushed a key into another lock. When this door opened she actually gasped.

The room on the other side was beautiful. Clean and furnished, and though there were no windows, somehow the light he switched on bounced off the colors of the walls and filled the room enough that it didn’t feel dank and interior.

“This is the common area,” Zach said. And maybe he wasn’t totally insane. “Then over there past the sitting area is the kitchen. You’re free to use it and anything inside as much as you like. Once we ascertain that you weren’t followed on any leg of your trip, you’ll be able to venture out more freely, but for now you’ll have to stay put.”

Daisy could only nod dumbly. Was this real? Maybe she’d gone insane. A break with reality following a stressful tragedy.

He locked the door behind them, which was enough to jolt Daisy back to the reality of being in a strange ghost town with a man she didn’t know.

But he simply moved forward to a set of two doors. “Your bedroom and bathroom are through here.” He unlocked the one on the right.

“What’s that one?” she asked, pointing to the door on the left as he pushed the unlocked door open.

“That’s where I’ll stay.”

“You’ll... Right.” He’d be right next door. This stranger. Hired to protect her, and yet she didn’t know him. Even Vaughn didn’t know him, and Jaime hadn’t known him since they’d trained together in the FBI. Why were they all so trusting?

He handed her the key he’d just used to unlock the door. “This is yours. I don’t have a copy. The outside doors are always locked up in multiple places, so how and when you want to lock your room is up to you.”

She knew he was trying to set her at ease, but she could only think of a million ways he could get into the room even without a key. Or anyone could.

People could always get to you if they wanted to badly enough.

He studied her for a moment, then gestured her inside. “You can settle in. Make yourself at home however you need to. Rest, if you’d like.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“You’ve been through an ordeal. Take your time to get acquainted with the place. I’m going to do a routine double check to make sure you weren’t followed from Austin. If you need me...” He moved over to the wall, motioned her over.

Hesitantly, she stepped closer, still clutching her bag on her shoulder. He tapped a spot on the wallpaper. “See how this flower has a green bloom and a green stem instead of a blue flower like the rest?”

She nodded wearily.

He pushed on the green flower and a little panel popped out of the wall. Inside was a speaker with a button below it. “Simple speaker to speaker. You need something, you can just buzz me through here. I can either answer, or come over, depending.”

He closed the panel and it snapped shut, seamless with the wallpaper once again. How on earth had her life become some kind of...spy movie? “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”

He smiled briefly—something like pride and affection lighting up the blank, bland expression. Just a little flash of personality, and for one surprising moment all she could really think was gee, he’s hot.

“That’s what they pay me for.” Then the blankness was back and whatever had sparkled in his blue eyes was gone. Everything about him screamed cop again, or, she supposed in his case, FBI. It was all the same to her. Law and order didn’t suit her the way it had her brother, but she’d be grateful for it in the midst of her current situation.

She studied the room around her. Gleaming hardwood with pretty blue rugs here and there. Floral wallpaper and shabby-chic fixtures. The furniture looked antique—old and a little scarred but well polished. The quilt over the bed looked like it belonged in a pretty farmhouse with billowing lace curtains.

It was calming and comforting, and in a better state of mind she might even be able to ignore all the facades and locks and intercoms and the lack of windows. But she wasn’t in the state of mind to forget that Tom, who’d been paid to protect her, was dead.

“Settle in, Ms. Delaney. You’re safe here. I promise you that.”

She carefully placed her duffel bag on the shiny hardwood floor. Exhaustion made her body feel as heavy as lead, and she went ahead and lowered herself onto the bed with its pretty quilt. “I’m not safe anywhere, Mr. Simmons.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but she wasn’t in the mood, so she waved him toward the door. “But I feel safe enough to take a nice long nap, if you’ll excuse me.”

He raised an eyebrow, presumably at her regal tone and the way she waved him off, but she was too tired to care.

He moved to the door, twisted the lock on the interior knob, then closed the door behind him as he exited.

Daisy took off the wig and then let herself fall into sleep.

* * *

ZACH SPENT THE afternoon going over the information he’d been given about Daisy’s stalking, and the information he’d gathered himself in anticipation of her arrival.

The murder of her bodyguard while she’d been on stage was certainly the tipping point. The formal investigation had been lax up to that point. Except for the private one her brother had launched.

Zach appreciated the detail of Ranger Cooper’s intel, and since he knew too well the stress and helplessness of trying to keep a sibling safe, Zach was grateful for his willingness to share.

Still, there were things that had been missed—well, maybe not missed. Overlooked. Probably still not fair. One of the things that had allowed Zach to do so well in the FBI was his ability to work out patterns, to find threads and connect them in ways other people couldn’t.

The stellar way he’d handled himself as an agent prior to his brother’s involvement in a case and Zach going rogue was what had kept him from having a splashier, more painful termination from the FBI.

He shrugged away the tension in his shoulders. He hated that it still bothered him, because even if he could rewind time, he’d do most things the same.

Daisy’s doorknob turned, and she took one tentative step out. She’d finally ditched the heavy black wig, and her straight blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She’d done something to her face—it’d take him a little more time to get to know her face well enough to know exactly what. If he had to guess, though, he’d say she’d freshened her makeup.

She’d changed out of the sleek black outfit into a long baggy shirt the color of a midsummer sky and black leggings. On her feet she wore thick bright purple socks.

She’d been in there for five hours, and from the looks of it, she’d spent most of the time sleeping—unless her makeup magically fixed the pallor of her skin and the dark circles under her eyes.

“Got any food in this joint?”

He stood and walked over to the side of the common area that acted as a kitchen. “Fully stocked kitchen, which of course you’re welcome to. Tell me what you want to make and I’ll show you where everything is and how to work everything.”

“Coffee. Scratch that. Coffee hasn’t been settling lately.” She sighed, some of that weary exhaustion in her voice even if it didn’t show in her face.

“My suggestion? Hot chocolate and a doughnut.”

A smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. “That’s enough sugar to fell a horse.”

He scoffed. “Amateur hour.”

She sighed. “It sounds good. I guess if I’m stuck with a crazed psychopath ready to kill those who protect me, I shouldn’t worry about a few extra calories.”

“I think you’ll live.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’ve never read the comments on photos of women online, have you? Still.” She waved a hand to encompass the kitchen. “Lead the way.”

“You sit. I’ll make it. We’ll go over where everything is in the kitchen tomorrow. You get a pass today.”

“Gee, thanks.” But she didn’t argue. She sat and poked at his stacks of notes. “That’s a lot of paperwork for keeping me out of trouble.”

“Investigating things takes some paperwork,” he returned, collecting ingredients for hot chocolate.

“I thought you were just supposed to keep me safe while Vaughn and the police figured it all out.”

He slid the mug into the microwave hidden in a cabinet and put a doughnut onto a plate. “I could, but that’s not what CD Corp is all about.”

“CD Corp sounds like the lamest comic villain organization ever.”

“It’s meant to be bland, boring and inconspicuous.” He walked over and set the plate in front of her.

She smiled up at him. “Mission accomplished.”

“And this mission,” he said, tapping the papers, “is keeping you safe by understanding the threat against you.” Not noticing the little dimple that winked in her cheek or the way her blue eyes reminded him of summer. “Anything I can do to profile or find a pattern allows me to better keep you secure.”

“Can I help?”

He turned away, back to hot chocolate prep and to shake off that weird and unfortunate bolt of attraction. Still, his voice was easy and bland when he spoke. “I’m counting on it.” He stirred the hot chocolate and then set that next to her before taking his seat in front of his computer.

“Have you noticed the pattern of incidents?” he asked, studying her reaction to the question.

With a nap under her belt, she didn’t seem as cold and detached as she had on the ride over. But she also didn’t seem as ready to break as she had when he’d shown her her room hours ago. As they’d walked through the safe house earlier, he’d finally seen some signs of exhaustion, suspicion and fear.

Now all those things were still evident, but she seemed to have better control over them. He supposed singers, being performers, had to have a little actor in them, as well. She was good at it, but it had frayed at the edges when he’d told her she was safe.

She’d shored up those edges, but there was a wariness and an exhaustion, not sleep related, haunting her eyes.

“The pattern that they always happen when I’m on stage? Yes, my brother pointed that out, but as I pointed out to him, that’s just means and opportunity or whatever phrase you guys use. They know exactly where I’ll be and for how long.”

“Sure, but I’m talking about the connection to your songs.”

She frowned, taking a sip of the hot chocolate.

“The incidents, including the murder of your security guard, always crop up in the few weeks after one of your singles drops on the radio. Not all of them, but I compiled a list of titles.”

“Let me guess. The drinking, cheating and swearing songs?”

“No. There’s not a thematic connection that I can find.” Though he’d look, and would keep considering that angle. “But the connection right now seems to be that things escalate when the songs you wrote yourself do well.”

She put down the doughnut she’d lifted to her lips without taking a bite. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Not yet. I figure if we pull on it, it will.”

“How did you...”

He shrugged. “I’m good with patterns.”

“Good with or genius with?”

He smiled at her, couldn’t help it. He’d been trained as an undercover FBI agent. Took on whatever role he had to. He’d learned to hide himself underneath a million masks, but his personal attachment to this job and the safe world he’d created made it hard to do here. “Hate to bandy a word like genius around.”

She laughed and for a brief second her eyes lit with humor instead of worry. He wanted to be able to give that to her permanently, so she could laugh and relax and feel safe here.

Because that was his job, his duty, what he was good at. Completely irrelevant to the specific woman he was helping.

He looked down at his computer, frowning at the uncomfortable and unreasonable pull of emotion inside him. Emotions were what had gotten him booted from the FBI in the first place. He didn’t regret it—couldn’t—but it was a dangerous line to walk when your emotions got involved.

“So, I think we can rule out crazed fan. It’s more personal than that.”

“Fans create a personal connection to you, though. They think they know you through your music—whether it was written by me or someone else doesn’t matter to them.”

“It matters to someone,” Zach returned. “Or the incidents wouldn’t align so perfectly with the songs you wrote.”

She pushed out of her chair, doughnut untouched, only a few sips of the hot chocolate taken. She paced. He waited. When she seemed to accept he wasn’t going to say anything, she whirled toward him.

“Look, I don’t know how to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Hide and cower and...” She gave the chair she’d popped out of a violent shove, then raked shaking hands through her hair. “A good man is dead because of me. I can’t stand it.”

The naked emotion, brief though it was, hit him a little hard, so he kept his tone brusque. “A good man is dead because good men die in the pursuit of doing good and because there are forces and people out there who aren’t so good. Guilt’s normal, but you’ll need to work it out.”

“Oh, will I?”

“I’d recommend therapy, once this is sorted.”

“Therapy,” she echoed, like he was speaking a foreign language.

“Stalking is basically a personal form of terrorism. You don’t generally get through it unscathed. Right now the concern is your physical safety, but when it’s over you can’t overlook your emotional well-being.”

“You spend a lot of time evaluating your emotional well-being, Zach?”

“Believe it or not, they don’t let you in or out of the FBI without a psych eval. Same goes for in and out of undercover work—and a few of those messed me up enough to require some therapy. Talking to someone doesn’t scare me, and it shouldn’t scare you.”

“That hardly scares me.”

But the way she scoffed, he wasn’t so sure. Still, it was none of his business. Her recovery was not part of keeping her safe, and the latter was all he was supposed to care about.

“Let’s talk about the people on this list,” Zach said, pushing the computer screen toward her. On the screen was a list of people she’d told her brother she thought might want to hurt her.

Daisy rubbed her temples. “Vaughn gave you this?”

He rose, retrieved some aspirin from the cabinet above the sink and set it next to her elbow. “Your brother gave me copies of everything pertaining to the stalking.”

Daisy frowned at the aspirin bottle, then up at him. “Am I supposed to tip you?”

“Full service security and investigation, Ms. Delaney. Speaking of that, Delaney’s a stage name, isn’t it?”

“What? You don’t have a full dossier on my real name and everything else?” She smirked at him.

He shook his head. The Delaney connection wasn’t important. As unimportant as the way that smirk made his gut tighten with a desire he would never, ever act on.

What was important was her take on the list and what kind of patterns and conclusions he could draw. So he turned the conversation back to the case and made sure it stayed there.

Chapter Three

Sleep was a welcome relief from worry, except when the dreams came. They didn’t always make sense, but Tom’s lifeless body always appeared.

Even hiking up the mountains at sunset. It was peaceful, and Zach was with her, smiling. She liked his smile, and she liked the riot of sunset colors in the sky. She wanted to write a song, itched to.

Suddenly, she had a notebook and a pen, but when she started to write it became a picture of Tom, and then she tripped and it was Tom’s body. She reached out for Zach’s help, but it was only Tom’s lifeless eyes staring back from Zach’s face.

She didn’t know whether she was screaming or crying, maybe it was both, and then she fell with a jolt. Her eyes flew open, face wet and breath coming so fast it hurt her lungs.

Somehow, she knew Zach was standing there. It didn’t even give her a start. It seemed right and steadying that he was standing in her doorway in nothing but a pair of sweatpants, a dim glow from the room behind him.

Later, she’d give some considerable thought to just how cut Zach was, all strong arms and abs. Something else he hid quite well, and she was sure quite purposefully.

“You screamed and you didn’t lock your door,” he offered, slowly lowering the gun to his side. He looked up at the ceiling, and gestured toward her. “You might want to...”

He trailed off and in her jumble of emotions and dream confusion, it took her a good minute to realize the strap of her tank top had fallen off her arm and she was all but flashing him.

She wasn’t embarrassed so much as tired. Bone-deep tired of how this whole thing was ruining her life. “Sorry,” she grumbled, fixing the shirt and pulling the sheet up around her.

“No. That’s not...” He cleared his throat. “You should lock that door.”

She wished she could find amusement in his obvious discomfort over being flashed a little breast, but she was too tired. “Lock the door to shield myself from lunatics with guns?” she asked, nodding at the pistol he carried.

“To take precautions,” he said firmly.

“Are you telling me if I’d screamed and the door had been locked you wouldn’t have busted in here, guns blazing?”

“They were hardly blazing,” he returned, ignoring the question.

But she knew the answer. She might not know or understand Zach Simmons, but he had that same thing her brother did. A dedication to whatever he saw as his mission.

Currently, she was Zach Simmons’s mission. She wished it gave her any comfort, but with Tom’s dead face flashing in her mind, she didn’t think anything could.

“You want a drink?” he asked, and despite that bland tone he used with such effectiveness, the offer was kind.

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

He nodded. “I’ll see what I can scrounge up. You can meet me out there.”

She took that as a clear hint to put on some decent clothes. On a sigh, she got out of bed and rifled through her duffel bag. She pulled out her big, fluffy robe in bright yellow. It made her feel a little like Big Bird, which always made her smile.

Tonight was an exception, but it at least gave her something sunny to hold on to as she stepped out of the room. Zach was pouring whiskey into a shot glass. He’d pulled on a T-shirt, but it wasn’t the kind of shirt he’d worn yesterday that hid all that surprisingly solid muscle. No, it fit him well, and allowed her another bolt of surprisingly intense attraction.

He set the shot glass on the table and gestured her into the seat. She slid into it, staring at the amber liquid somewhat dubiously. “Thanks.” But she didn’t shoot it. She just stared at it. “Got anything to put it in? I may love a song about shooting whiskey, but honestly shots make me gag.”

His mouth quirked, but he nodded, pulling a can of pop out of the fridge.

“No diet?”

“I’ll put it on the grocery list.”

“And where does one get groceries in the middle of nowhere Wyoming?”

“Believe it or not, even Wyomingites need to eat. I’ve got an assistant who’ll take care of errands. If you make a list, we’ll supply.”

She sipped the drink he put in front of her. The mix of sugar and whiskey was a comforting familiarity in the midst of all this...upheaval.

“You don’t shoot whiskey.”

She quirked a smile at him. “Not all my songs are autobiographical, friend. Truth be told, I’d prefer a beer, but it doesn’t give you quite the same buzz, does it?”

“No, but I’d think more things would rhyme with beer than whiskey.”

“Songs also don’t have to rhyme. Fancy yourself a country music expert? Or just a Daisy Delaney expert?”

“No expertise claimed. I studied up on your work, not that I hadn’t heard it before. Some of your songs make a decent showing on the radio.”

“Decent. Don’t get that Jordan Jones airtime, but who does? Certainly no one with breasts.” This time she didn’t sip. She took a good, long pull. Silly thing to be peeved about Jordan’s career taking off while hers seemed to level. Bigger things at hand. Nightmares, dead bodyguards, empty Wyoming towns.

“The police don’t suspect him.”

She took another long drink. “No, they don’t.”

“Do you?”

She stared at the bubbles popping at the surface of her soda. Did she think the man she’d married with vows of faith and love and certainty was now stalking her? That he killed the person in charge of keeping her safe?

“I don’t want to.”

“But you think he could be responsible?” Zach pressed. Clearly, he didn’t care if he was pressing on an open, gaping wound.

“I doubt it. But I wouldn’t put it past one of his people. After I filed for divorce they did a number on me. Fake stories about cheating and drinking and unstable behavior, and before you point it out, no, my songs did not help me in that regard. Funny how my daddy was revered for those types of songs, even when he left Mama high and dry, but me? I’m a crazy floozy who deserves what she gets.”

Zach’s gaze was placid and blank, lacking all judgment. She didn’t have a clue why that pissed her off, but it did. So she drank deeply, waiting for that warm tingle to spread. Hopefully slow down the whirring in her brain a little bit. “I don’t want to have a debate about feminism or gender equality. I want to be safe home in my own bed. And I want Tom to be alive.”

“I’m working on one of those. I’m sorry I can’t fix the rest.”

He said it so blankly. No emotion behind it at all, and yet this time it soothed her. Because she believed those words so much more without someone trying to act sincere.

“What did you dream about?” he asked as casual and devoid of emotion as he’d been this whole time.

Except when he’d been uncomfortable about her wandering breast. She held on to the fact that Mr. Ex-FBI man could be a little thrown off.

“Hiking. You. Tom. It’s a jumble of nonsense, and not all that uncommon for me. I’ve always had vivid dreams, bad ones when I’m...well, bad. They’ve just never been so connected or relentless.”

“I imagine your life has never been so relentless and threatening.”

“Fair.”

“The dreams aren’t fun, but they’ll be there. Meditation works for some. Alcohol for others, though I wouldn’t make that one a habit. Exercise and wearing yourself out works, too.”

“Let me guess, that’s your trick?”

He shrugged. “I’ve done all three.”

“Your job gave you dreams?”

“Yeah. Dreams are your subconscious, the things you often can’t or don’t deal with awake. It’s your brain trying to work through it all when you can’t outthink it.”

“You’ve given brains a lot more thought than I ever have.”

“There’s a psychology to undercover work. Your work deals with the heart more than the brain.”

Because he cut to the quick of her entire life’s vocation a little too easily, and it smoothed over jagged edges in a way she didn’t understand, she chose to focus on the other part of the sentence.

“You went undercover? Yeah, I can see that. Bring down any big guns?”

He shrugged. “Here and there.”

“What’s the point if you’re not going to brag about it?”

He pondered that, then gave his answer with utter conviction. “Justice. Satisfaction.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I’d prefer a little limelight.”

“I suppose that’s why I’m in security, and you’re in entertainment.”

“I suppose.” She finished the drink. She wasn’t really sure what had mellowed her mood more—the buzz or Zach’s conversation. She had a sinking suspicion it was both, and that he was aware of that. “I guess I’ll try to sleep now. I appreciate the...” She didn’t know what to call it—from responding to her distress to a simple drink and conversation—it was more than she’d been given in...a long time.

Well, if she was fair, more than she’d allowed herself. And that had started a heck of a lot longer ago than the stalking.

She stood, never finishing her sentence. Zach stood, as well, cleaning up her mess. For some reason that didn’t sit right, but she didn’t do anything to remedy it. She opened the door to her bedroom, took one last glance back at him.

He was heading for his own door. A strange mystery of a man with a very good heart under all that blankness.

He paused at his door. He didn’t look at her, but she had no doubt he knew she was looking at him.

“Daisy.” It might have been the first time he’d said her name, or maybe it was just the first time he’d said her name where it sounded human to human. So she waited, breath held for who knew what reason.

“You’ve been through a lot. It isn’t just losing someone you feel responsible for losing. You’ve uprooted your life, changed everything around you. You might be used to life on the road, but this is different. You don’t have your singing outlet. So give yourself a break.”

With that, he stepped into his room, the door closing and locking behind him.

* * *

ZACH DIDN’T NEED much sleep on a normal day, but even with the usual four hours under his belt, he felt a little rough around the edges the next morning. He supposed it had to do with them being interrupted by Daisy’s screaming.

It had damn near scared a year off his life.

Any questions or doubts he’d had were gone, though. Someone or something was terrorizing her. Didn’t mean he wouldn’t look at cold, hard facts. Hadn’t he learned what getting too emotionally involved in a case got you?

Yeah, he was susceptible to vulnerability. He could admit that now. Being plagued by dreams, by guilt over the man who’d died only for taking a job protecting her, it all added up to vulnerable.

And he was not thinking about the slip of her top because that had nothing to do with anything.

He grunted his way through push-ups, sit-ups, lunges and squats. He’d need to bring a few more things from home. Maybe just move it all. He wasn’t planning on spending much time back in Cheyenne with his business here.

His room still needed a lot of work, and he’d get to it once this case was shored up—as long as he didn’t immediately have another one. Still, he had a floor, a rudimentary bathroom and a bed. What more did a guy need?

He knew his mother worried about him throwing too much into his job, whether because she feared he’d suffer the same fate as his father—murdered in revenge for the work he’d done as an ATF agent—or because she just worried about him having more of a life than work, it didn’t matter.

He liked his work. It fulfilled him. Besides, he had friends. Cousins, actually. Finding his long-lost sister meant finding his mother’s family, and he might get along more with the people they’d married, but it was still camaraderie.

He had a full life.

But he sat there on the floor of a ramshackle room, sweating from the brief workout, and wondered at the odd pang of longing for something he couldn’t name. Something he’d never had until he’d met his sister—of course that had coincided with being officially fired from the FBI, so maybe it was more that than the other.

It didn’t matter. Because not only was he fine, he also had a job to do.

He could hear Daisy stirring out in the common room. Coffee or breakfast or both, if he had to guess.

He’d hoped she’d sleep longer because there were some areas he wanted to press on today, and he’d likely back off if she looked tired.

Or he could suck it up and be a hard-ass, which was what this job called for, wasn’t it? He knew what being soft got him, so he needed to steel his determination to be hard.

He ran through a cold shower, got dressed, grabbed his computer and stepped out to find Daisy in the kitchen.

She was dressed in tight jeans and a neon-pink T-shirt that read Straight Shooter in sparkly sequins on the back. On the sleeve of each arm was a revolver outline in more sequins. When she turned from the oven where she was scrambling some eggs, she flashed a smile.

Her hair was pulled back to reveal bright green cactus earrings, and she’d put on makeup. Dark eyes, bright lips.

The fact she’d made herself up, looked like she could step on stage in the snap of her fingers, he assumed she was hiding a rough night under all that polish.

But the polish helped him pretend, too.

“Want some?” she asked, tipping the pan toward him.

“Sure, if you’ve got enough.” He dropped the laptop off on the table and then moved toward her to get plates, but she waved him away.

“You waited on me yesterday. My turn. Besides, I familiarized myself this morning. Thanks for making coffee, by the way. Good stuff.”

“Programmable machine,” he returned, not sure what to do with himself while she took care of breakfast. He opted for getting himself a cup of coffee.

He didn’t want to loom behind her, so he took a seat at the table and opened his laptop. He booted up his email to see if there were any more reports from Ranger Cooper, but nothing.

She slid a plate in front of him, then took the seat opposite him with her own plate.

“So, what’s the deal? Play house in here until they figure out who did it?” she asked with just a tad too much cheer in her voice—clearly trying to compensate for the edge she felt.

“Partially. We’re working on a protected outdoor area, but staying inside for now is best.” He tapped his computer. “It gives us time to work through who might be after you.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Believe it or not, sifting through who might hate me enough to hurt me isn’t high on my want-to-do list.”

“But I assume going home, getting back to your family and your career is. Lesser of two evils.”

She ate, frowning. But she didn’t try to argue, and he was going to do his job today. Nightmares and vulnerability couldn’t stop the job.

“I want to talk about your ex.”

“So does everyone,” she muttered.

“Your divorce was news?” he asked, even though he’d known it was. Much as he didn’t keep up with pop culture, he’d seen enough magazines at the checkout counter with her face and her ex’s.

“Yeah. I mean, maybe not if you don’t pay attention to country music, but Jordan had really started to make a name for himself with crossovers. So the story got big. And I got crucified.”

“Why didn’t he?” Zach asked casually, taking a bite of the eggs, which were perfectly cooked.

“Because he’s perfect?”

“You wanted to divorce him,” he pointed out. “He can’t be perfect. No one is.”

“Or that’s exactly why I wanted to divorce him.”

He studied her. The lifted chin, the challenge in her eyes. “Yeah, I don’t buy that.”

Her shoulders slumped. “Yeah, our families didn’t, either. Neither did he, for that matter. I don’t know how to explain... Do we really have to discuss my very public divorce?”

“Yeah. We really do. The more I understand, the better I can find the pattern.”

“And if it’s not him?”

“Then the pattern won’t say it is.”

“People aren’t patterns, Zach. They’re not always rational, or sane.”

“Yeah, I’m well aware, but routine stalkers are methodical. It’s not a moment of rage. It’s not knee-jerk or impulse. It’s planned terrorizing. Murder of your bodyguard? There was no struggle. It was planned. This person is methodical, which means if I can figure out their methodology, I can figure this out.”

She heaved out a sigh. “You believe that.”

“I know that.”

“Fine. Fine. Why did I file for divorce against Jordan? I don’t know. It’s complicated. It’s all emotions and... Did your parents love each other?”

Unconcerned with the abrupt change, because every thread led him somewhere, he nodded. “Very much.”

“Mine didn’t. Or maybe they did, but it was warped. It hurt.”

He thought about his brother, alone in a psych ward, still lost to whatever had taken a hold of his mind. “Love often does.”

“You got someone?”

“Not romantically.”

“Family, then?”

He nodded.

“I used to think loving my brother didn’t hurt, not even a little—not the way loving my father did, or even my mom. Vaughn was perfect, and always did the right thing. He protected me and loved me unconditionally. But this hurts, thinking he could be in danger because of me.”

“He’s a Texas Ranger.”

“That doesn’t make him invincible. He also has a wife and two little girls and...” She swallowed, looking away from him. “I can’t...”

“The best thing for ‘I can’t’ is figuring this out. Looking at the patterns, and finding who’s at the center.”

“You really think you can do that?”

“I do. With your help.”

She nodded. “Okay. Okay. Well, sit back and relax, cowboy. The story of Daisy Delaney and Jordan Jones is a long one.”

He lifted the coffee mug to his lips to try and hide his smile. “We’ve got nothing but time, Daisy.”

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