Beverly Barton - Guarding Jeannie

"I ran a preliminary check on Reverend Reeves," Sam told Painter. "He talks a good game, and he appears to be a spellbinding speaker. I'd say he sees an opportunity for publicity and intends to use his damnation of Jeannie Alverson as a stepping-stone to national recognition."

"I'd say the man could be dangerous." Painter motioned to the two uniformed policemen. "Go outside and ask the reverend to take his band of merry men and women somewhere else before I have their butts tossed in jail."

"Yes, sir," the two men replied in unison.

Painter opened the door for his men. "Whatever you do, Dundee, keep Ms. Alverson inside."

Sam stood in the open doorway, watching Painter walk out onto the veranda. Suddenly a war cry of "Witch!" rose from the Righteous Light disciples. Reverend Reeves, sweat dripping from his flushed face, pointed a neatly manicured index finger toward the Howell house and demanded that Jeannie end her unholy alliance with the devil. The WXBB newswoman shared with her audience the hoopla surrounding the Howell home, where the Mississippi faith healer lived. The camera zoomed in on Reeves's face, showing plainly the righteous indignation of the evangelist determined to bring Jeannie Alverson to repentance.

Sam realized that Reeves considered himself a power to be reckoned with. His gut instincts warned him that the scripture-quoting evangelist was evil incarnate, a disciple of hate, not of love. And Jeannie was right. The man probably did intend to kill her.

What Sam needed was a complete, detailed report on Reeves's life. Somewhere there was bound to be a well-kept secret, a little flaw in the man's holier-than-thou armor. Sam hoped he could show the police proof that Reeves was a real danger to Jeannie before the man actually tried to harm her.

He had to find a way to stop Reeves. Even if that meant killing him to defend Jeannie. If it came down to that, he'd have no other choice. But what would she think of him then, gentle, tenderhearted Jeannie? Would she be able to understand the savage warrior in Sam, the primitive nature inside him that made him capable not only of dying to protect her, but also capable of killing, if need be, to keep her safe?

Sam shouldn't give a damn what Jeannie thought of him. But, heaven help him, he did.

Chapter 5

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Later that Friday evening, Jeannie decided to face the mounting correspondence piled on her desk. She divided the letters into three separate stacks on top of the pale pink heirloom quilt that covered her bed. Every day, more and more letters poured in from across the United States, and now requests were coming in from Canada, Mexico, South America and Europe. In a week's time, her sane, sensible, orderly life had been completely destroyed. Poor little Cassie Mills, in all her sweet innocence, had opened a Pandora's box of problems for Jeannie.

"Why do you read those things? You should throw them in the trash." Sam Dundee stood just inside the open door, pure masculine beauty in his tailored gray pin-striped suit and coordinating burgundy-and-gray silk tie.

"I divide them into categories." Jeannie patted the stack directly in front of her. "These I throw away—" she pointed to the stack on her left "—and these, too."

"Let me guess." Sam closed the heavy wooden door behind him. "The throwaway letters are from journalists requesting interviews and from crackpots condemning you as a witch."

Jeannie looked up at Sam, standing by her bed, his steely blue-gray eyes piercing in their intensity as he stared at her. Her heart skipped a beat. "These—" she cleared her throat "—are from people asking for my help." Lifting the large stack of letters in her hands, she pressed them to her bosom. "They break my heart. So much misery and suffering, and I can't even offer them hope."

Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. Sam looked away, not wanting to see her cry. Why the hell did she care so much about people she didn't know? And why weep over the fact that she couldn't permanently heal the whole world of its illnesses? Because Jeannie was that kind of person. She cared too much, and that caring caused her great pain.

He realized there was a lot he didn't know about Jeannie. And he wanted to know everything, yet at the same time he was afraid to find out more.

Sam walked over to the window and looked outside. Early-evening shadows, violet blue and cool, wavered in the August twilight. He kept his back to Jeannie, hoping she wasn't crying and hoping she didn't realize what he was thinking. Sam Dundee was a man who'd seldom been afraid of anything, and yet Jeannie Alverson frightened him in a way nothing and no one ever had.

In some ways, she reminded him of his niece Elizabeth. Both of them were unique women, born with special talents. But there was a vulnerability in Jeannie that Sam had never seen in Elizabeth. A sadness that ran so deep in her that he instinctively knew that only an abundance of love could ever lessen it.

The telephone on the nightstand rang. Jeannie reached out to answer it; Sam grabbed the phone.

She glared at him. "I don't like not being able to answer the phone in my own home."

He thrust the phone at her. "Here, answer it!"

Snatching the telephone out of his hands, she scooted to the center of the bed and turned her back on him. "Hello. Oh, hi, Julian." She cut her eyes in Sam's direction. He looked at her, his expression unreadable. "No, no, you musn't come home for dinner on my account. Ollie's prepared us a nice light chicken salad. You go ahead and take Marta out for dinner."

Sam hated it when Jeannie confronted him with her displeasure over his specific orders. One of his rules was to always let Ollie, Julian or him answer the phone if she chose not to let the answering machine get it. He'd also strongly advised her to allow him to take care of her mail, without her ever having to see it. But she was so damned stubborn. She didn't like having her routine disrupted and seemed to resent his suggested changes, changes meant to protect her.

Jeannie replaced the telephone on the nightstand. "Who did you think it was, Maynard Reeves? I doubt he has our new number, since it's unlisted."

"There are ways to get unlisted numbers." Sam stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trousers, lifting the edges of his jacket, revealing the hip holster that held his Ruger.

Jeannie shivered at the sight of the gun. She hated guns, hated weapons of any sort. But she understood the necessity of Sam carrying a gun. There were bound to be times when a man in his line of work would have to rely on more than brute strength.

How difficult it must be for him, Jeannie thought, to protect others, to carry the burden of their security on his wide shoulders. She could not imagine a man more suited for the job, a man more capable. Despite his cool and aloof attitude, his hard, ironclad exterior, Sam Dundee possessed a golden center of gentle strength and loving compassion. He would deny its existence, perhaps didn't even know of its existence, but Jeannie knew. She knew because she had once tapped into that golden core, had touched the secret heart and soul of this man.

She knew she shouldn't be fighting him at every turn, repeatedly refusing to follow his orders. No, not orders, exactly. Perhaps directions was a better term. He didn't make suggestions to irritate her, even though they did; no, he made suggestions he thought would protect her.

"You're right about these letters. There's really no need for me to go through them." She mixed together the three piles of correspondence, scooped them up in her hands and placed them in the curve of her left arm. Bracing herself with her cane, she walked into the sitting room and tossed the letters into the brass wastepaper basket near the mahogany writing desk. "From now on, you can handle all the mail. And I won't answer the phone again."