Читать книгу Shadow Protector - Jenna Ryan - Страница 9

“Logan?” As amused as she was amazed, Sera worked her way over the console to the driver’s seat. She stared into the rapidly expanding darkness. “Forget Jesse James. Houdini must be one of your ancestors.”

No matter which direction she looked, she couldn’t see him. He was gone, and so were the two men. Obviously they’d vanished into the trees, but talk about witchy people—this place had it all over San Francisco—and that was saying a lot.

She was searching for the lock control when a face popped up at the driver’s side window. A split second later the door flew open and a pair of grimy hands, one of them wielding a knife, shot inside.

Startled, Sera jumped back. She gave the passenger door a shove and the man’s wrist a kick.

Spying Logan’s gun, she grabbed it and tumbled from the truck.

It was hardly surprising that her heels unbalanced her and she landed on the ground. But she didn’t spend three nights a week at the gym for nothing. She was on her feet before the man could wriggle through the interior.

His lips peeled back when he got his first good look. “Hoo-ee, you are a pretty thing, aren’t you, baby doll?”

On her feet now, Sera raised the gun. “Don’t make me shoot,” she told him. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

He hopped out, snickering when her hand trembled. “You sure you got the right end pointed at me?”

“Do you want to find out?”

He didn’t stop completely, but she saw him hesitate. He was drooling, she noticed. And limping slightly.

She kept her arm extended, and flicked her gaze down then back to his face. “How old were you when you broke your right leg? “

Shock halted him in a way the gun hadn’t. “How’d you know about that? You Jessie-Lynn’s cousin from Casper?”

“No, I’m …”

“A witch then.” His already small eyes narrowed. “Gramps says there’s a bunch of them living up Buffalo way.”

“He means Wiccans.”

“Don’t matter what he means. How’d you know about my leg? “

“It wasn’t set right so the bone didn’t heal properly. I’m guessing you were young and still growing. Maybe ten or eleven? “

“Twelve.” His lip curled. “You a doctor?”

“Yes.”

He made a sound of disgust and spit to the side.

Sera kept her tone and expression calm. “I see.”

“You’re a jackass like Prichard.”

“Only on weekends in Haight-Ashbury. Don’t make me shoot,” she said again when he lurched forward.

The snarl became a sneer. “Doctors don’t go round shooting people, now do they, baby doll? Anyway, I think you’re lying. Saw me limping, took a lucky guess.”

Still fifteen feet away, Sera could smell the alcohol on his breath. He whipped out a taunting arm, then laughed and feinted forward.

Double handing the gun, Sera put pressure on the trigger. “You really don’t want me to do this.”

“Want it more than you do, I figure. Come on, baby, show Benny what you got.”

When he moved again, she fired. Missed him by several feet, but the shock of it had him hopping backward.

“You ain’t no doctor, lady.” Then he stopped. “You ain’t no kind of shot either.” His eyes gleamed as he recovered lost ground. “Grab her, Danny.”

She heard a twig crack. Waiting a beat, she plowed her elbow into the stomach of the man behind her, then spun away to fire a second shot. The bullet thwacked off a tree. From her knees—when had she lost her footing—she squeezed again.

The Bulley with the bruised stomach bared his teeth.

Sera knew she couldn’t win this. Both men were advancing, both were drunk and she had a feeling it was the heel of her shoe snapping off that had landed her on the ground.

“Looks like we got a she-cat on our hands, Benny,” the bigger Bulley growled. “How ‘bout I …”

The rest of his sentence emerged in a whoosh of air as he hit the tree behind him with enough force to send him slithering down the trunk.

Swinging around, Logan used the butt end of his rifle on the other man’s jaw. Benny pivoted in a slow half circle before dropping like felled timber.

“Might want to take your time getting up,” Logan suggested. His eyes were on Sera as he spoke. Holding out a hand, he drew her to her feet. “You hurt? “

“No more than if I’d been working out with Hulk Hogan in his prime.” She waved the tip of his gun between the two prone men. “Do you do this sort of thing often then?”

“Often enough.” Raising his voice, he said, “Lloyd and Jake are cooling off in the barn. They were smart enough to ditch their knives when they spotted me.”

“Didn’t mean no harm, Logan.” Benny’s words were muffled by the dirt beneath his face.

“You threatened the lady with a weapon. It’s called intent. On your feet, both of you, and into my truck.”

“Come on, Lo …” But one look and Benny dropped his face back into the dirt. “Yeah, sure, whatever you say.”

Danny worked himself into a squat. “I’m supposed to be stocking shelves at the grocery store tonight, Logan. Miguel won’t be happy with you.”

Ignoring him, Logan indicated the gun in Sera’s hand. “I hope you pointed that a good long way off target.”

“I did. Here.” She handed it over.

“Her bullet came closer to my crotch than my knife did to any part of her,” Benny called out. “Maybe I wanna press charges myself. Against you for bringing her here and her for almost shooting my balls off.”

“Right.” Sera extended her hand. “Give it back.”

Logan grinned. “He’s just pissed because he’s going to be spending a couple nights in jail.”

She wiggled her fingers. “Give it. I promise, I won’t shoot them.”

Clearly intrigued, he relinquished the weapon.

“Hey, wait a minute,” Benny spluttered.

“Don’t move,” Sera said and, taking aim, sent one of the pebbles on the ground between his spread feet zinging into the bushes behind him.

AN AMUSED LOGAN said little on the drive into town. That was fine with Sera. After changing her shoes, she climbed into his truck and let Etta James drown out the Bulley boys’ gripes.

Apparently, the police chief planned for her to stay in his home. It made sense, but it hardly set her mind at ease. The more time she spent with him, the stronger the feeling that she should know him.

They hadn’t met—she’d have remembered that in a minute. Seen his name then? Possibly. She could see it well enough on the lighted dash.

Michael Richard Logan. And, ding, there went another bell. Had her memory been more compromised than she realized?

Unable to answer that, she returned to the moment.

The Bulleys’ grumbles grew louder the closer they got to Blue Ridge. Inside the station, Logan handed them over to his deputy, Toby, a young man with bright red hair. “Separate cells,” he said and tossed the young man the keys.

The deputy looked like he’d rather drink arsenic. “Uh, Logan, er, Chief, I’m not sure—I mean, they’re my cousins. I can’t just, you know, put them behind bars.”

Logan searched through a drawer. “Don’t sweat it, Toby. You’re only the messenger.”

“But don’t messengers get shot sometimes?”

“Hang around here long enough, you’ll get shot one way or another,” Danny Bulley snarled. “Do what you gotta, Toby. Just know you won’t be getting no freebies for a good long while.” At Logan’s raised brow, he added, “Dinners.”

All in all, Sera spent less than fifteen minutes at the station. Ten more, and they were pulling up outside a very old, very large house that Logan informed her had come with the job.

Sera sensed his stare as he removed her bags from the back of his truck. With her skin prickling, she swung to confront him.

“What?” she demanded and received the kind of slow smile she really didn’t need to see right then. “Is it the gun?”

“Yeah, but it can wait until we’re inside.”

As he spoke, a drop of rain from clouds she’d failed to notice plopped onto her head.

“You’ve got about five seconds to decide … or not,” he amended when the night sky simply opened up.

If this had been San Francisco and she’d been going to work, Sera would have run. But here, in the middle of nowhere, with the lights of town a distant blur and her clothes already streaked with dirt, she simply lifted her face to the warm rain.

“I have to tell you, Logan, this qualifies as one of the strangest days of my life, and I’ve had some really bizarre days.”

He set his hat back on her head and picked up the heavy bags. “Courtesy of your patients?”

“Not even close.”

Hoisting her carryall, laptop and purse, she preceded him up a short walk to a porch that appeared to wrap around the entire farmhouse. She counted three floors, plus an L-shaped jut and an attic.

Lamps burned in three of the first floor windows. A dog barked deep inside.

“Her name’s Ella Fitzgerald. She’s a two-year-old golden retriever who thinks she’s a lap dog. Can you handle that?”

She smiled. “I love dogs.”

“Good, now how are you with …”

The door opened before he could finish and a small, thin woman with a frizzy gray bun whisked them inside.

She looked cranky, made rough tutting noises and, with a single sharp look, held them on the hallway mat.

“Moon Flower.” Logan caught the towels she tossed from the closet. “Also came with the job.”

“Use it.” The woman pointed downward. “I waxed the floors today.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Call me Flo. You’d be Dr. Hudson, then. Sit, Ella. Her room’s ready, like you wanted, Logan—the one across from yours. If you have a moment, Doctor, my sister’s foot’s been troubling her. And before you ask, she drinks plenty of milk.”

Sera had no idea what to say. “I’m uh, glad to hear it.”

Logan hung their towels on the doorknob and removed the dripping hat from her head. “She’s not that kind of doctor, Flo, and she’s not here to work in any case.”

“I see. Fine then. Babe can just hobble around until that knot head who calls himself an MD decides to practice human rather than simian medicine. Room’s this way, Doctor.”

“Sera’s good.”

“You know, Babe can hardly walk some days. Doesn’t matter how much milk she drinks.”

“Phone’s ringing, Flo.” Logan nodded into the living room. “I’ll take Sera upstairs.” When the woman bustled off, he said, “Don’t ask. She was part of the original hippie movement. She lived in a bus for three years. The engine died after one. She met my dispatcher Fred thirty-seven years ago. They got high, got married and started their own business in Sacramento.”

“Would that be a hemp shop?”

He indicated a set of stairs that jogged to the right halfway up. “Fencing mainly, and not the white picket kind.”

“So thirty some years later, it’s only natural they’d be working for the chief of police in a northern Wyoming town.”

“Life meanders, Sera. Why don’t you tell me your shoot-’em-up story?”

Wet and dirty, with a big dog nosing her hip and a too-sexy man on the stairs behind her, Sera opted for the abbreviated version.

“An adopted aunt whose father was a Texas Ranger thought every girl heading to college should know how to fire a handgun. I put her off for two months. Then I got mugged and decided she had a point. Now can I ask you something? Or—no, I’ll rephrase. Will you answer a question for me? “

He walked behind her down a surprisingly homey corridor. “I might.”

She aimed a humorous look over her shoulder. “You said for every Jessie-Lynn there were fifty normal people in Blue Ridge. My question is, when do I meet one of the fifty?”

THE DRIVE THAT had taken Sig Rayburn two days going took him less than thirteen hours on the return trip. Fueled on bad coffee and hoarse from two and a half packs of cigarettes, he called his captain as he crossed the bridge into the city.

Ten minutes and a great deal of cursing later, the clearly out-of-sorts captain told him to report to his office at 9:00 a.m. and disconnected sharply.

Sig felt the sting but didn’t care. Sera would be safe in Blue Ridge. Logan would see to that. He’d done the only thing he could, the right thing, he was sure. All he could do now was wait and hope her memory would return.

Unlike Wyoming, it was misty and cool in San Francisco. Fog slunk around the piers and the lower half of the city. He had time to grab breakfast, thirty minutes of sleep and a hot shower. By eight-forty he was back in the alley where he’d parked his car. He gave the dented roof a pat and the door a kick to open it.

A man in a black hoodie plodded past, drinking from a bottle in a bag. Sig spared him an uninterested look, then sighed at the interior of his Ford. He’d be swimming in trash soon.

He heard the sound behind him as he started to slide in. The blow to the side of his head stunned him—almost as much as the sight of the man who’d delivered it.

“You,” he managed to croak.

Grinning nastily, the man stuck a gun in his throat. “No bandanna for you, cop.” He shoved the tip in deep. “I’m saving it for the shrink.” His face floated closer. “You’re gonna tell me where she is.”

“Go to hell,” Sig managed to gurgle. “She’s safe, and she will remember.”

“Oh, I’m sure of it. What she won’t do is live to testify.”

“I’m not telling you squat.”

“Not verbally,” the man agreed. His gun made a quiet popping sound as the bullet discharged into Sig’s throat. “But there are other ways, my friend.” He folded his latest victim’s body into the car, located his wallet and eyed the trash on the seat and floor. “Plenty of other ways.”