Rachel Lee - A Secret In Conard County

He watched her step through the door straight into his small living room, and glance around. Hardly something out of an interior design magazine, but comfortable and marked by long years. A battered chintz-covered couch, a wooden rocker with pillows, a braided rug.

“Have a seat if you want,” he suggested, “or explore. Single story, so your bedroom is in the back on the left. Kitchen is through there,” he said, pointing. “And you get your own bathroom.”

She glanced at him. “In a house this size?”

He flashed a smile. “I shared this house with my mother until she died. Two bathrooms were essential. Coffee? I can’t make you a latte, I’m afraid.”

“Coffee would be great. I need to stay awake.”

She needed more than that, he thought, and was relieved to see her at last settle into a padded rocker. It was almost like watching someone who was just learning how to use a body. “How about a pain pill to go with it?”

“You a pusher?” she asked, and he was relieved to hear the teasing note in her voice.

“Hey, if there’s any time it would be safe to stuff your brain with cotton, the next few hours are probably it.”

She just shook her head. “I’ll get some ibuprofen in a minute.”

Well, he could provide that as well as the coffee. In his kitchen—a comfortable room because his mother had made it so over the years—he started the drip coffeemaker and got a glass of water and the bottle of ibuprofen. He carried both back to her immediately, and she accepted them with thanks.

“I’m gonna step outside for a few minutes. Give me your keys and I’ll put your car in the garage. I’ll be back by the time the coffee’s ready.”

She simply nodded as she tipped two pills into her hand.

He walked out the front door and stood without moving for a while, feeling a bit like an old goat. Not that he was all that old, but that woman was raising his flagpole, as it were. He felt guilty as sin for even having such feelings when she was so clearly in recovery, but she appealed to him on the most basic level. He’d have bet the homestead that she wouldn’t like that either.

Regardless, he needed a few minutes to clear his head and get back on the real purpose of her being here. They had work to do, and no time for dalliances, even presuming she’d tolerate it.

The air held the musty, dusty, not-quite-green scent of midsummer. The world still hadn’t completely dried out from winter and spring, but it was on the way. They badly needed some rain, but he knew better than to wish for it. At this time of year, ponds were starting to dry up and only the toughest, hardiest of plants could make it. In a few weeks, dang near everything would be brown. That the mountains were still somehow managing to dump water into the creeks was amazing, but most of them wouldn’t be running for long.

But thinking about rain wasn’t helping him either. He stepped off the porch, sank into her small car and put it in his aging detached garage. Then he walked around the outside of his house, trying to make a professional judgment about what needed doing to keep Erin as safe as possible. The guys coming tonight would probably have more ideas than he, because they had more experience at this kind of thing.

But for now he looked at the windows, which no longer seemed like such a good thing to have, and the three doors, which was two doors too many right now.

He needed more information about the kind of man who was coming after her, more than that he liked to blow up women. They must have been piecing together some kind of profile, and Lance needed to know what was in it. Impossible to guard against the complete unknown.

And he was just wasting time and he knew it. Whatever demons this woman unleashed in him, he needed to bury them.

Finally giving up his search for a way to ignore his response to her, he went back inside. She was still awake, sitting in the rocker, and from the way she jerked when he came in she hadn’t quite left fear behind her. She covered quickly, however. He had to give her that.

But what kind of person wouldn’t be afraid after what she’d been through?

“I’ll get the coffee,” he said. “You want anything in it?”

“Just enough milk to lighten it a bit, if that’s okay.”

“Not a problem.” He hung his hat on the coat tree by the door, then hesitated only a moment before removing his gun belt. He doubted the guy could find the place this quickly unless he was a psychic, and Erin was armed anyway. She could probably draw fast enough if necessary, despite her wounds. He did lock the door, though, something he rarely did out here.

He filled two large mugs with coffee and carried them back to the living room. He found her sitting bolt upright in the rocker.

“Erin? What’s wrong?”

She drew a shaky breath. “Just some twinges.”

More than twinges, he suspected. Frustration nearly goaded him into going through her suitcases to find some of those pain meds. Instead he set the coffee on the side table, then took up position on the couch facing her. He thought he’d settled down until the words escaped him.

“What are you punishing yourself for?”

She drew a sharp breath and her gaze landed on him with almost physical force. The woman she had been before all this. Powerful. In control. And right now angry with him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Staying alert is just an excuse right now. You know why they give you pain meds? Not just to make you more comfortable. No, they give them to you because pain is exhausting and can delay your recovery. Plus if you can’t move around easily enough you won’t limber up. So take a dang pill, give yourself some rest and start using some of those parts that hurt too much to want to move.”

Those sherry-brown eyes glared at him, but he kept his mouth shut and waited it out. Finally her expression relaxed.

“I shouldn’t be doing this to you,” she said.

“Doing what?”

“Moving in on you, taking over your life. And now there seems to be no way out.”

“I know I’m irritating, but that bad?”

Her face relaxed the rest of the way. “You’re not irritating. What’s irritating is how long it’s taking me to get back to normal. What’s irritating is how poorly thought-out this whole trip of mine was. I figured that if I just got in a car and roamed aimlessly, I’d be as safe as any safe house. Maybe safer. But now I’m pinned down.”

“In a kill box,” he said, using her earlier description.

“Yeah, and I should have thought that through, shouldn’t I? But I didn’t. I’m angry with myself.”

He reckoned he could understand that, but didn’t see how it would help anything. “What’s done is done, Erin. You’ve been through a lot. Some poor decision-making is to be expected and if that’s the worst of it, you’re doing good. None of us thinks well when we’ve been through a trauma. Besides, I don’t think your decisions were all that bad. How were you to know you wouldn’t just sail to wherever without being discovered?”

Her jaw tightened. “I should have thought. After all, somehow this guy found out about me to begin with. Somehow that didn’t seem to enter my calculations.”

Why would it? he wondered. Not very many serial bombers chased a target across country. The Unabomber had, but he’d done it by mail. “It could have been a slipup. Yes, your bosses are concerned there might be another one, but truth is, they don’t know that. Nobody knows that yet. So they’re being hypercautious. So are we. Just in case.”

At last she leaned back in the chair, wincing a bit. “Just in case,” she repeated. “Yeah. And it’s causing a whole bunch of trouble.”

“Not really. Hey, you’re giving me a break from prowling the roads, writing tickets and trying to convince couples I know that they really don’t want to kill each other.”