Harper Allen - Lone Rider Bodyguard

“Listen to me!” His hands were on her shoulders. He gave her a small shake, sharp enough that her eyes flew open and she raised her gaze to his in shock. His face was grim.

“If anyone’s at fault, I am. I should have pushed Bannerman harder when I realized he wasn’t convinced of my story the day I found you gone. I should have guessed someone had taken you in, instead of hitting gas stations and motels asking if anyone had seen a woman with a baby who looked like she didn’t belong with whoever was transporting her. But I didn’t. I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

A muscle moved at the side of his jaw. His eyes, bluer than heaven in the tan of his face, blazed down at her.

“And I’ll never forgive myself for leaving you and Daniel unprotected,” he grated. “It won’t happen again. From now on I’m not letting the two of you out of my sight.”

He kept saving her and she kept leaving him, Susannah thought again, meeting his gaze and experiencing again that almost-painful current flowing from him to her and back again. It seemed he’d decided to change the pattern.

For a moment she couldn’t identify the feeling spreading through her. Then she recognized it for what it was. For the first time in nine months she felt completely, totally safe.

And that didn’t make any sense at all.

Because something told her that looking into those blue, fallen-angel eyes was the most dangerous thing a God-fearing widow and mother could do.

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.