Читать книгу Code Name: Baby - Christina Skye - Страница 13

HE DIDN’T DO WINDOWS.

He knew how all right, but it wasn’t in the job description.

Wolfe glared down at the mess at his feet and shook his head. Apparently there was a time and a place for everything. If he didn’t clean up the glass all over the kitchen floor and replace the pane, one of the dogs could get hurt.

He rubbed his neck, remembering that Kit’s frugal father always kept panels of uncut glass for repairs. Unless she’d changed things, they would be neatly stacked, separated by particleboard, out in the shed near the kennels.

Ten minutes later, glass crunched beneath his feet. Baby whined, watching him from across the room while he worked.

The dogs sniffed the broken glass, but didn’t come closer. Was that normal, Wolfe wondered? He didn’t have a clue, so he’d list it in his report, along with everything else.

After he dug the remaining fragments out of the window frame, Wolfe ran his fingers over the inside pocket of his shirt, where the map was now carefully stowed until he could get it analyzed. Why had Emmett been carrying a diagram of the ranch, especially one that looked new?

The simple answer was that the map stemmed from the old local belief that a treasure was buried somewhere on the O’Halloran ranch. Every few months Kit’s father used to catch someone prowling around, digging in the deserted washes near the house.

But why a new map?

He stopped as Kit’s phone echoed somewhere down the hall. After two rings, her answering machine clicked in, and Wolfe went back to work lining the clean window frame with putty. The dogs watched him, absorbing every move, while the moon’s silver eye rose above the mesa.

Carefully he lifted a six-foot pane of glass over the frame and checked the placement. As a teenager he’d worked as a handyman for extra money, and one summer he’d learned the glazier’s trade. Now the techniques came back to him, putty moving smoothly under his knife. It felt good to watch something take shape beneath his hands for a change.

Not like running surveillance out of a filthy shack in the jungles of Paraguay while you tried to track a money trail that led to Mexico or Burma or downtown Chicago.

As he laid down the last line of putty, Wolfe saw his reflection, cool and silver against the new glass. There were deep shadows at his cheeks, and his eyes were the color of bitter coffee. He looked tough and aloof, as if he’d seen too much too fast—and he had. Those memories were carved into his face, leaving a distance that could not be crossed.

But Kit had crossed it. He didn’t frighten her in the slightest. He thought about how she had nearly decked him, then threatened him with her rifle, and a faint half smile crept over his face. No, she wasn’t the kind of woman who ran from hard problems.

He feathered his knife along the frame, sealing the glass with long, deft strokes. When he was finally done, he faced his own reflection once again.

He was a hard man, trained to have the hands and mind of a killer, but there in the moon’s cool light, Wolfe was reminded that he could also be surprisingly gentle.