Читать книгу Heart and Soul - Jillian Hart - Страница 7

Senior Special Agent In Charge Gabe Brody shucked off his motorcycle helmet, still straddling the idling Ducati M900. He waited on the graveled turnout along the country road while the cell phone connected. The hot Montana sun felt good, and so did the chance to rest. His first time on a motorcycle in years and his thighs and back muscles hurt immensely.

He prided himself on being the best agent in his division, but the truth was that the hours spent in the gym couldn’t prepare a man for the rigors of a mission.

Even if that mission involved riding a powerful motorcycle in the middle of a summer afternoon with heaven spread out all around him. He breathed in the fresh air that was sweetened with the scent of seeding grass and wildflowers from the surrounding fields.

Not much different from the kind of place where he’d been as a boy. The countryside was peaceful and he didn’t mind looking at it while he waited to be connected with his commander. Finally, he heard his direct supervisor bark out his usual gruff salutation.

“Agent Brody here, sir. I’m on assignment in Montana and good to go.”

“Watch your back, agent.” Captain Daggers was an old-time agent who believed in a job done right. And who’d seen too much in his years at the Bureau. “The Intel we’ve got says this McKaslin fellow is a wild card. We can’t predict what he’s gonna do. You keep your head low. I don’t want to lose my best agent.”

“Don’t worry, sir. I’m cautious.” He patted his revolver tucked in its holster against his left side and ended the call.

He was ready to make his move. His first objective was to make contact with McKaslin. Brody figured that with heaven on his side, he’d soon have enough evidence for a team to move in on an arrest warrant.

Please, Father, let this mission be a safe one, fast and clean. It was his last assignment for the Bureau. He wanted a textbook case, a solid evidentiary trail and an arrest without incident, as he was known for. He’d built the last ten years of his reputation on working hard and smart, and he wanted to leave the same way. Without a single blot on his record.

What could go wrong in paradise? Brody breathed in the fresh country air, once again taking in the scenery that spread out before him in rich fertile rolling hills. The beauty of it was deceptive. As if injustice never happened here. As if criminal activity could not exist where the wide ribbon of river sparkled a brilliant and perfect blue.

Mountains jabbed upward, rimming the broad valley spread out before him. Larks sang, a few cottonwoods rustled lazily in the breeze and the hum of tractors in a distant field sparked a memory of his childhood.

He’d been a farm boy in the quiet hills of West Virginia. A lonely childhood and a hardworking one, and sometimes he missed it and his parents who had passed on when he’d turned twelve. When his happy country life had come to an abrupt end.

Enough of that. Brody shut off the sadness inside with a shake of his head. He yanked on his helmet and drew down his shades. What sense was there in looking back?

Life was in the here and now, he’d learned that the hard way. Now was the only thing that mattered. He’d leave the worry over tomorrow to God, and make the most of what he had today.

And today he needed to get rolling. His stomach rumbled something fierce—he’d skipped lunch again. A sign of too much on his mind.

He’d find a room, grab a bite, right after he made a pass through the McKaslin property. Get a feel for the lay of the land and what he’d be up against.

The swish of an approaching vehicle on the two-lane road was a surprise. He’d been sitting on the pullout of a dirt driveway for eight minutes—he checked his watch—and no one had passed by. Until now. Was it too much to hope that it was Mick McKaslin speeding along in his truck?

Brody took one look at the ten-year-old Ford Ranger that had seen better days judging by the crinkled front bumper, the rust spot in the center of the hood and the cracked windshield. Nope, he didn’t recognize the vehicle from the workup in his file. It wasn’t Mick’s truck.

He waited until the vehicle whipped by before he revved the Ducati’s sweet engine, released the clutch and cut out of the gravel with enough spin to spit rocks in his wake.

He hadn’t been on a bike since the counterfeiting bike gang down in Palm Springs five long years ago, and he felt rusty. He needed to practice, put the bike through its paces. Dust off his motorcycle skills so that when he drove up and asked old man McKaslin for a chance at a job, his cover would be flawless.

No one would see one of the top agents in his field, but a drifter on a bike who, like so many others across America, was looking for temporary work.

With the wind on his face and the sun on his back, Brody lost himself in the power and speed of the machine.

He intended to make this last case his best job. No matter what he faced.

Was it wrong to love shoes so much? Behind the wheel of her little blue pickup, Michelle McKaslin considered the three shopping bags crammed beside her on the bench seat. It was officially summer, so she needed the right shoes. The styles this summer were so cute—strappy flats and sassy mules and the softest suedes a girl just couldn’t say no to.

Even if her credit card was significantly maxed.

Well, nothing good came without sacrifice. It was a tough job, but someone had to sacrifice themselves for fashion, right?

Her cell chirped out the melodious strains of Pachebel’s Canon in D. That was the song she’d picked out for her trip down the aisle—not that she was getting married any time soon, but a girl had to hope. Besides, how could she sit through two of her older sisters’ weddings and not imagine one of her own?

She dug in her purse with one hand, keeping a good hold of the wheel because she’d already run into a fence post while she’d been searching for her phone and had the dent to prove it. She’d learned her lesson. She kept her eyes on the road and on her mirror. There was a motorcycle buzzing up behind her. A bright red one. She didn’t recognize the motorcycle or the broad-shouldered man whose face was masked by a matching red helmet. He wasn’t anyone she knew, and she knew everybody. That’s what you got for growing up in a small farming town. It was just the way it worked.

So, who was this guy? Probably someone passing through. She saw it all the time—drifters, travelers, tourists, mostly tourists. This guy looked young and fit.

Hmm, it never hurt a girl to look. She found her phone, hit the button and held it to her ear. “Hey, Jenna, talk to me.”

“I’m dying and my shift isn’t close to being over.” Jenna, her best friend since the first grade, sounded absolutely bored.

Of course she was. What other way was there to be? They were living in the middle of nowhere. In the middle of rural Montana where growing grass was news. Where exciting headlines like the current price of hay, wheat, soybeans and potatoes dominated the radio stations’ airwaves and headlined the local paper.

Her life was so uneventful it was a miracle she didn’t die of boredom. Her life was good and she was grateful, but a girl could use some excitement now and then.

“Check this.” Michelle leaned forward just enough to keep the biker in her side-view mirror.

Of course, he was passing her because she always drove the speed limit; one, she couldn’t afford a ticket and two, she felt guilty breaking the law. “There’s this really cute guy. At least, I think he’s cute. Kinda hard to tell with the helmet. He’s passing on the straight stretch like right down from my driveway and—”

“He’s not a gross scary guy, is he?” Jenna was never too sure about men she didn’t know.

With good reason, true. “But this is a daydream, Jen. We’ve got to make it good. He’s got these broad shoulders, strong arms, like he’s in command of his bike.”

“In command of the road.” Jenna sighed, picking up on the game they’d played since they were freshmen in high school. “He’s a bounty hunter, wrongly accused. A good man, but hunted.”

“That’s an old TV show,” Michelle reminded her, taking her attention completely off the road as the man and his bike swept past her window. She caught a good profile, a strong jaw and the sense of steady masculinity. “How about a spy on the run, disenchanted?”

“Or how about a star hockey player. A man of faith, a man of integrity, taking a trip across the country looking for that piece missing from his life.”

“The love of his life,” Michelle finished and they sighed together. It was a nice thought—

“Oh! No!” She saw the tan streak emerge from the tall grass along the side of the road. A deer and a fawn dashed onto the road and turned to stare at the oncoming bike and Michelle’s truck.

The phone crashed to the seat as Michelle hit the brakes and turned into the skid with both hands trying to figure out who was going to move first—the biker or the deer—and which way everyone was going to go.

A little help, please, Father, she prayed as time slowed down like a movie running too slow. Her vision narrowed. Only the road in front of her mattered. The biker had turned too fast, hit his brakes too hard and was going down. One strong leg shot out trying to break his fall, but all he was doing was wiping out right in front of her.

She aimed for the deep irrigation ditch, crossing the double yellow, bracing herself for the impact she knew was coming. She put both feet on the brake and prayed. The deer and fawn skipped safely off the road and disappeared into the field of growing alfalfa.

The man and bike fell in a graceful and final arc to the pavement and skidded. She heard the crash of metal and the revving engine rise and then cut off. Her feet on the brake didn’t seem to do any good. She was skidding toward the deep ditch and a solid wood telephone pole on the other side of it.

Then, as if angels had reached down to stop her, the truck’s brakes caught and the vehicle jerked to a stop.

Silence.

Thank you, Lord. Michelle tumbled back against her seat, grateful that her seat harness had secured her tight. The truck’s engine coughed and died. In the space between one breath and another she saw the man on the ground. He was as motionless as a rag doll sprawled on the two-lane county road.

She grabbed her phone only to hear Jenna sobbing. “Michelle? Can you hear me? Are you okay? I’m calling the police—”

“I need an ambulance,” she said in a rush. “Not for me. The motorcycle guy. Tell them to hurry.”

She ripped off her seat belt, leaped from the truck and flew across the road. Dropped to her knees at the fallen man’s side.

He was so still. All six feet of him. His black leather bomber jacket was ripped at the shoulder where blood streamed through a tear in the seam of his black T-shirt. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths.

Good. That meant he was alive. Thank God. She leaned over him, careful not to move him. “Mister? Can you hear me?”

“Seraphim for the win” came a muffled response from behind the shaded visor.

Seraphim? He was talking about angels? He must be at death’s door. Oh, please don’t die on me, mister.

“Mister, hold on. Help is coming.” She lifted his visor with her fingertips. His eyes were closed, but those dark lashes were perfect half moons on the sun-browned perfection of his face. A proud nose, high cheekbones. No obvious signs of injury. “Mister, do you know your name?”

His eyelashes flickered, giving her a glimpse of dark brown eyes before those thick black lashes swept downward.

Where was the fire department? Michelle glanced up and down the road. Empty. There was no one! Even the deer had fled the scene and there was only her to help him—like she knew what to do!

He clearly needed help. A big drop of blood oozed from beneath the left side of his helmet, over his left brow. She yanked down the sleeve of her faded designer denim jacket that she’d gotten on sale for an unbelievable one hundred and twenty dollars, and wiped away the trickling blood. Was it a head injury? What if he was suffering from head trauma? She was a faithful TV watcher of medical dramas, but what did she know about intracranial hemorrhaging?

He moaned, still unconscious, and moved into her touch as if he needed her comfort. Tenderness rolled through her. She watched a shock of his dark hair dance in the wind, brushing her knuckles. Her heart tugged at the brief connection. He dragged in a shaky sigh and his dark lashes fluttered again.

Please, Father, help him. He looked so vibrant and strong, so fit and healthy, like a mighty dream of a man who’d fallen to the ground before her.

Except his skin was warm and he moaned again. He was no dream but a flesh-and-blood man.

She slid two fingers down the warm leather of his jacket’s collar to feel the steady pound of his pulse. He was breathing. His heartbeat was strong.

“Hold on, mister.”

His eyelashes fluttered again.

“Help is coming. I promise.”

Who was speaking? Brody wondered as he struggled against the dark. He flashed back to scuba school, when he’d been underwater without air, training for every disaster, fighting off fake enemies and holding his breath. The moment he’d been free, his lungs had been close to bursting as he surged up, up, up toward the glowing light. Once again fighting with all his might, he broke through the light and opened his eyes.

“Why, welcome back.”

Her voice was light music, and his vision was nothing but brightness and a round blur of a shadow directly overhead. The bright light speared pain through his skull. Dimly he registered the pain but his body felt so far away.

Who was talking to him? It was that silhouette before his eyes. Wait, it was no silhouette but an angel kneeling over him, golden-haired and radiating light. A light so pure and perfect, he’d never seen the like.

Where was he? A fraction of a memory flashed into his mind. The rumbling vibration of the bike’s engine, the kiss of the summer wind on his face, the rush of the asphalt beneath him as he shifted and the deer and fawn leaping onto the road in front of him.

He was dead. That’s what happened. The crash had killed him and he was looking at heaven. At an angel who watched over him with all of the good Lord’s grace.

Boy, his captain was sure going to be disappointed, and Brody was sad about that, but he’d never seen such beauty. It filled his soul, made insignificant the pain beginning to arch through his body—

Wait. He was in pain? That didn’t seem right. And he was lying on something hard—the road. And where was St. Peter? No pearly gates, no judgment day.

Pain slammed against him like a sledgehammer drilling into his chest. He wheezed in a breath, alive, on earth and gazing up into the face of the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

“Lie still.” Her voice was like the sweetest of hymns. Her touch was like a healing balm as she eased him back onto the ground.

He hadn’t realized he’d even lifted his head, but he was breathless as he rested against the road. His senses cleared, and he could feel the breeze shivering over him, the heat radiating off the pavement. See the blue of the flawless sky and the peaches-and-cream complexion of the concerned woman gazing intently down at him.

“The paramedics are coming.” Relief shone in her deep blue eyes. “You just lie still and have faith. You’re going to be fine.”

She said those words with such force that he believed her. Even with the pain rocketing through his head and jabbing through his ribs and zipping all the way down his right leg. He knew he was going to be fine.

The siren shrilled louder, closer, magnifying the pain in his throbbing head. He gritted his teeth, refusing to give in to the inviting darkness of unconsciousness. He could hold on. He would.

She laid her hand against his unshaven jaw, and it was as if light filled him from head to toe.

Who was she? Why did she affect him this way? Maybe it was shock setting in or how hard his head had hit the pavement, but when he looked at her, his soul stirred.

Boots pounded to a stop. Men dropped equipment and a uniformed man—a local fireman—dropped to his knees.

“Had a spill, did you?” Kindness and wisdom were written into the lines on the man’s face. “No, don’t try to sit up. Not yet. What’s your name, cowboy?”

“Brody,” he said before the fog cleared from his brain and he realized he was in big trouble.

He’d blown his cover. He hadn’t been on the job more than five minutes, and what did he do?

Blow it all to bits. He’d given his real name instead of the cover name he’d been given. And this was his final mission. When he wanted to go out with a bang, not hanging his head.

It’s not over yet, he realized, biting his tongue before he could say his first name. He had to think quick.

“Brody,” he repeated. “Brody Gabriel.”

It wasn’t the name that matched his false ID and social security card, his insurance information and the registration papers to the bike, but he’d worry about that later.

This mission could still be salvaged.

“Don’t worry about your bike,” the fireman reassured him, the name Jason was embroidered in red thread on his shirt, “It’s still in one piece. Sure is a beauty. How’d you wipe out on a straight stretch?”

“A deer.”

“Rough, man.” The fireman shook his head and patched in his equipment.

Brody tried looking around again. Where had his rescuer gone? All he knew was that he couldn’t see her. He tried to sit up and nausea rolled through him. He sank weakly to the pavement and let the medics check his pulse and blood pressure.

While they did, he took a quick inventory of his pain. His ribs were killing him. But his right ankle hurt worse.

Lord, Brody prayed, please don’t let my leg be broken. That would be an end to everything. He’d worked hard to prepare for this mission. No one was as primed and prepared as he was. He refused to hand over his hard work to a junior agent. This was supposed to be the mission he’d be remembered for.

“I’m good,” he told Jason. “I just need to sit up, get my bearings. I hit pretty hard going down.”

“You’ve got a mild concussion to prove it, is my bet.” The fireman flicked a flashlight and shone it into Brody’s eyes. “Let us take care of you. Sometimes you can’t tell how bad you’re hurt right off. It’s good to go to the hospital, let ’em take their pictures and run their tests. Make sure you’re A-OK. Now move your fingers for me. Can you feel that?”

“Yep.” Brody’s relief was tempered by the cervical collar they snapped around his neck. His toes moved, too. Another good sign.

That’s when she moved into his line of sight. His golden haired rescuer leaned against the front quarter panel of the sheriff’s cruiser and crossed her long legs at the ankles.

My, but she was fine. Tall, slim and pure goodness. Her long blond hair shimmered in the sun and danced in the breeze. Her blue eyes were now hidden behind sunglasses, but her rosebud mouth was drawn into a severe frown as she gestured toward the road, as if describing what had happened.

She wore a faded denim jacket over a light pink shirt and stylish jeans. The sleeves were rolled up to reveal the glint of a gold watch on one wrist and a glitter of a gold bracelet on the other. Her voice rose and fell and he was too far away to pick up on her words, but the sound soothed him. Made longing flicker to life in the middle of his chest.

He’d never felt such a zing of awareness over a woman before. He was on duty. He was the youngest senior agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He knew better than to take a personal interest in anyone when he was dedicated to a case, to upholding the laws of this great land.

What he ought to do was put her out of his mind, ignore the sting of longing in his chest and concentrate on his job.

Then she turned in profile to gesture toward the side of the road, and that’s when he recognized her. The perfect slope of a nose, the delicate cut of cheekbone and chin. She was one of the McKaslin girls. Michelle.

The youngest daughter of the family he’d come to investigate.