Patricia Rosemoor: Someone To Protect Her

Kyle muttered, “She doesn’t seem like the kind to give up.”

“Yeah, yeah. And we wouldn’t want her to be unhappy.” Daniel held his hand out to Frank for a brisk shake. “Good luck. We’ll see you and Birch tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Frank echoed as Daniel and Kyle rushed off.

Glad for his excuse to get out of dancing to the woman’s tune, Frank shook his head and climbed into the passenger seat.

Already behind the wheel, Patrick started the truck. “That one’s gonna be something else.”

“Daniel can handle her.”

Patrick shot the truck down the driveway, spewing gravel in all directions. Frank felt himself hurtling toward a situation that could too easily spin out of his control.

Suddenly, getting to know the lovely, if spoiled, Whitney MacNair seemed far more appealing than going after some nerdy little man who could be a powder keg in disguise.

CECILIA JANE BIRCH wasn’t thrilled to be leaving for the wilds of Montana at the crack of dawn the next morning. Having lived her entire thirty years in ultra-civilized England but for the past few months, she considered Boulder, Colorado, as uncivilized as she cared to get. All those mountains in the distance…all that open sky…all those snakes, one of them with her name, she was certain.

She shivered at the thought.

But her work was her life, after all, and the Quinlan Research Institute needed her expertise, so she had no choice, really.

And how much less civilized could things get, anyway?

At least that’s what she decided to believe as she left her colleagues to their drinks at the outdoor table of the Brickwalk Café, where they’d had a dinner meeting to catch up loose threads. Not knowing how long she might be gone, she’d turned over her files to her assistant Len Miller, who would take over the project she’d been heading—for good if he had anything to say about it, she assumed.

Well, it just couldn’t be helped.

Dusk had fallen over the Pearl Street Mall, the red-bricked pedestrian-only heart and soul of the city. The area around the restaurant was sparsely populated since an outdoor concert with Cowboy Sam and the Spurs had lured university students to the other end of the mall. Now, if only they knew some civilized tunes. C.J. had always preferred the classics.

She did enjoy the short walk along historic buildings housing numerous shops, galleries, offices and sidewalk cafés—not that it could compete with London, of course. All summer, entertainers had abounded, including the Zip Code Man, who could identify towns and sometimes even describe building styles in neighborhoods, based on a visitor’s zip code. Then there was the sword swallower, contortionist, juggler and professional accordionist—all buskers who played for the hat.

As she stopped to pull a chocolate bar from her pocket, a sudden goosey feeling along her neck gave her pause. Surreptitiously, she looked around.

From a few feet away, a bronzed statue seemed to be watching her.

C.J. blinked. Not a statue, but another busker, skin and clothing like painted bronze. He leaned on his closed umbrella, his hat upended at his feet. Then he deliberately changed positions to a new pose and froze.

Performance art such as this she would never understand, C.J. thought, caught by the statue’s steady gaze on her as she backed off.

For some reason her mouth went dry and she realized she was holding her breath.

Suddenly the statue lunged for her, grabbed her arm so that she dropped her candy bar, and whirled her from the walkway toward a side street. Not knowing whether to laugh or to express outrage, C.J. attempted to be good-natured about the situation…until she realized the man wasn’t letting up.

“I say, you may stop now!”

But he didn’t.

Heart fluttering, C.J. dug in her heels and attempted to pry the man’s fingers from her arm. “Sir! What do you think you’re about?”

He wasn’t letting her go, that was for certain. Not even looking at her, he was inching her into the shadows, away from any conceivable assistance.

“Stop!” she yelled, attempting to hit at him.

Her fist glanced off his arm, not deterring him in the least, so C.J. did the only thing she could think of—she opened her mouth and screamed. Quite loudly. Before she could see if anyone noticed, her attacker jerked her and knocked the breath from her. She threw herself to the ground. He barely paused before continuing to drag her.

“Stop, please!” she gasped out as her hip hit a bump in the walkway. “Take my wallet and leave me be.”

He didn’t so much as pause.

Frantic now—what did he want if not her money and credit cards?—C.J. tried grabbing on to a litter can, but she couldn’t get ahold before he jerked her along. Her shoulder burned viciously. She cried out again, but had little hope that anyone would hear.

“What is it that you want?” she cried, fearing the worst.

Her very life?

Wondering if she would be alive to see the sunrise, C.J. was amazed when a man hurtled past her and tackled the busker so hard the force almost ripped her arm from its socket before the knave finally freed her.

A panting, hurting, horribly frightened C.J. tried to make out the identity of her rescuer, but it was nearly dark now. All she could see was a tangle of limbs as the men did a bizarre dance away from her seemingly in slow motion. Punches were traded, though in such close quarters, she suspected neither man had enough leverage to do harm. Suddenly, her attacker forced the other man away from him, kicked out and connected with the man’s knee, then ran, so the incident was over nearly as quickly as it had begun.

Her rescuer caught himself and appeared ready to follow the blackguard, but then he stopped and limped back to where she still sat in a dazed puddle.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes—at least I think so.” Testing her limbs, she winced when she stretched out her abused arm. “Bruises and strains, I suspect, but I shall live. Thanks to you.”

“Let me help you up.”

The touch of his strong hands at her waist shot a foreign sensation through C.J. He helped her to her feet and continued to steady her. Inches from her attractive dark-haired savior—she could see that much, at least—she felt her throat clog. That darned tongue of hers must have swollen to twice its size as it often did around interesting men. And when he reached out to right her glasses, which sat crookedly on her nose, her knees weakened.

“Can you walk?” he asked.

Glad for the excuse to put some distance between them, she nodded her head and demonstrated. The joints wobbled but worked. Well, perhaps it was more of a teeter than a true walk, but she managed.

When a few yards separated them, she choked out, “You see? All better.”

“But I can’t just leave you here.” He looked past her. “Think you can make another half block?” He indicated the hotel ahead. “I can get you there, make sure you’re safe until someone can come for you.”

She nodded, not bothering to protest that there would be no one to fetch her. No husband. No suitor. Not even a female friend, since she hadn’t been in the country long enough to bond with anyone. But a respite in soothing surroundings was the very thing, she decided. He took her arm in a gentlemanly fashion and let her set the pace.

Realizing that he was still limping slightly, she said, “Perhaps it’s you who is hurt.”

“Nah, just an old war injury kicking up.”

Humor? she wondered. At a time like this? How curious. As they approached the old hotel that had been restored to its former elegance, his stride evened out, so she didn’t think more of it.

C.J. loved Hotel Boulderado with its domed, stained-glass skylight, cantilevered oak staircase and lovely period furniture. In addition to eating in the hotel’s restaurant, she often wandered through the place and sat in the lobby as if waiting for a friend, when all she wanted was to experience the pleasure of being in someplace civilized.