Читать книгу Wyoming Cowboy Bodyguard - Nicole Helm - Страница 12

Sleep was a welcome relief from worry, except when the dreams came. They didn’t always make sense, but Tom’s lifeless body always appeared.

Even hiking up the mountains at sunset. It was peaceful, and Zach was with her, smiling. She liked his smile, and she liked the riot of sunset colors in the sky. She wanted to write a song, itched to.

Suddenly, she had a notebook and a pen, but when she started to write it became a picture of Tom, and then she tripped and it was Tom’s body. She reached out for Zach’s help, but it was only Tom’s lifeless eyes staring back from Zach’s face.

She didn’t know whether she was screaming or crying, maybe it was both, and then she fell with a jolt. Her eyes flew open, face wet and breath coming so fast it hurt her lungs.

Somehow, she knew Zach was standing there. It didn’t even give her a start. It seemed right and steadying that he was standing in her doorway in nothing but a pair of sweatpants, a dim glow from the room behind him.

Later, she’d give some considerable thought to just how cut Zach was, all strong arms and abs. Something else he hid quite well, and she was sure quite purposefully.

“You screamed and you didn’t lock your door,” he offered, slowly lowering the gun to his side. He looked up at the ceiling, and gestured toward her. “You might want to...”

He trailed off and in her jumble of emotions and dream confusion, it took her a good minute to realize the strap of her tank top had fallen off her arm and she was all but flashing him.

She wasn’t embarrassed so much as tired. Bone-deep tired of how this whole thing was ruining her life. “Sorry,” she grumbled, fixing the shirt and pulling the sheet up around her.

“No. That’s not...” He cleared his throat. “You should lock that door.”

She wished she could find amusement in his obvious discomfort over being flashed a little breast, but she was too tired. “Lock the door to shield myself from lunatics with guns?” she asked, nodding at the pistol he carried.

“To take precautions,” he said firmly.

“Are you telling me if I’d screamed and the door had been locked you wouldn’t have busted in here, guns blazing?”

“They were hardly blazing,” he returned, ignoring the question.

But she knew the answer. She might not know or understand Zach Simmons, but he had that same thing her brother did. A dedication to whatever he saw as his mission.

Currently, she was Zach Simmons’s mission. She wished it gave her any comfort, but with Tom’s dead face flashing in her mind, she didn’t think anything could.

“You want a drink?” he asked, and despite that bland tone he used with such effectiveness, the offer was kind.

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

He nodded. “I’ll see what I can scrounge up. You can meet me out there.”

She took that as a clear hint to put on some decent clothes. On a sigh, she got out of bed and rifled through her duffel bag. She pulled out her big, fluffy robe in bright yellow. It made her feel a little like Big Bird, which always made her smile.

Tonight was an exception, but it at least gave her something sunny to hold on to as she stepped out of the room. Zach was pouring whiskey into a shot glass. He’d pulled on a T-shirt, but it wasn’t the kind of shirt he’d worn yesterday that hid all that surprisingly solid muscle. No, it fit him well, and allowed her another bolt of surprisingly intense attraction.

He set the shot glass on the table and gestured her into the seat. She slid into it, staring at the amber liquid somewhat dubiously. “Thanks.” But she didn’t shoot it. She just stared at it. “Got anything to put it in? I may love a song about shooting whiskey, but honestly shots make me gag.”

His mouth quirked, but he nodded, pulling a can of pop out of the fridge.

“No diet?”

“I’ll put it on the grocery list.”

“And where does one get groceries in the middle of nowhere Wyoming?”

“Believe it or not, even Wyomingites need to eat. I’ve got an assistant who’ll take care of errands. If you make a list, we’ll supply.”

She sipped the drink he put in front of her. The mix of sugar and whiskey was a comforting familiarity in the midst of all this...upheaval.

“You don’t shoot whiskey.”

She quirked a smile at him. “Not all my songs are autobiographical, friend. Truth be told, I’d prefer a beer, but it doesn’t give you quite the same buzz, does it?”

“No, but I’d think more things would rhyme with beer than whiskey.”

“Songs also don’t have to rhyme. Fancy yourself a country music expert? Or just a Daisy Delaney expert?”

“No expertise claimed. I studied up on your work, not that I hadn’t heard it before. Some of your songs make a decent showing on the radio.”

“Decent. Don’t get that Jordan Jones airtime, but who does? Certainly no one with breasts.” This time she didn’t sip. She took a good, long pull. Silly thing to be peeved about Jordan’s career taking off while hers seemed to level. Bigger things at hand. Nightmares, dead bodyguards, empty Wyoming towns.

“The police don’t suspect him.”

She took another long drink. “No, they don’t.”

“Do you?”

She stared at the bubbles popping at the surface of her soda. Did she think the man she’d married with vows of faith and love and certainty was now stalking her? That he killed the person in charge of keeping her safe?

“I don’t want to.”

“But you think he could be responsible?” Zach pressed. Clearly, he didn’t care if he was pressing on an open, gaping wound.

“I doubt it. But I wouldn’t put it past one of his people. After I filed for divorce they did a number on me. Fake stories about cheating and drinking and unstable behavior, and before you point it out, no, my songs did not help me in that regard. Funny how my daddy was revered for those types of songs, even when he left Mama high and dry, but me? I’m a crazy floozy who deserves what she gets.”

Zach’s gaze was placid and blank, lacking all judgment. She didn’t have a clue why that pissed her off, but it did. So she drank deeply, waiting for that warm tingle to spread. Hopefully slow down the whirring in her brain a little bit. “I don’t want to have a debate about feminism or gender equality. I want to be safe home in my own bed. And I want Tom to be alive.”

“I’m working on one of those. I’m sorry I can’t fix the rest.”

He said it so blankly. No emotion behind it at all, and yet this time it soothed her. Because she believed those words so much more without someone trying to act sincere.

“What did you dream about?” he asked as casual and devoid of emotion as he’d been this whole time.

Except when he’d been uncomfortable about her wandering breast. She held on to the fact that Mr. Ex-FBI man could be a little thrown off.

“Hiking. You. Tom. It’s a jumble of nonsense, and not all that uncommon for me. I’ve always had vivid dreams, bad ones when I’m...well, bad. They’ve just never been so connected or relentless.”

“I imagine your life has never been so relentless and threatening.”

“Fair.”

“The dreams aren’t fun, but they’ll be there. Meditation works for some. Alcohol for others, though I wouldn’t make that one a habit. Exercise and wearing yourself out works, too.”

“Let me guess, that’s your trick?”

He shrugged. “I’ve done all three.”

“Your job gave you dreams?”

“Yeah. Dreams are your subconscious, the things you often can’t or don’t deal with awake. It’s your brain trying to work through it all when you can’t outthink it.”

“You’ve given brains a lot more thought than I ever have.”

“There’s a psychology to undercover work. Your work deals with the heart more than the brain.”

Because he cut to the quick of her entire life’s vocation a little too easily, and it smoothed over jagged edges in a way she didn’t understand, she chose to focus on the other part of the sentence.

“You went undercover? Yeah, I can see that. Bring down any big guns?”

He shrugged. “Here and there.”

“What’s the point if you’re not going to brag about it?”

He pondered that, then gave his answer with utter conviction. “Justice. Satisfaction.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I’d prefer a little limelight.”

“I suppose that’s why I’m in security, and you’re in entertainment.”

“I suppose.” She finished the drink. She wasn’t really sure what had mellowed her mood more—the buzz or Zach’s conversation. She had a sinking suspicion it was both, and that he was aware of that. “I guess I’ll try to sleep now. I appreciate the...” She didn’t know what to call it—from responding to her distress to a simple drink and conversation—it was more than she’d been given in...a long time.

Well, if she was fair, more than she’d allowed herself. And that had started a heck of a lot longer ago than the stalking.

She stood, never finishing her sentence. Zach stood, as well, cleaning up her mess. For some reason that didn’t sit right, but she didn’t do anything to remedy it. She opened the door to her bedroom, took one last glance back at him.

He was heading for his own door. A strange mystery of a man with a very good heart under all that blankness.

He paused at his door. He didn’t look at her, but she had no doubt he knew she was looking at him.

“Daisy.” It might have been the first time he’d said her name, or maybe it was just the first time he’d said her name where it sounded human to human. So she waited, breath held for who knew what reason.

“You’ve been through a lot. It isn’t just losing someone you feel responsible for losing. You’ve uprooted your life, changed everything around you. You might be used to life on the road, but this is different. You don’t have your singing outlet. So give yourself a break.”

With that, he stepped into his room, the door closing and locking behind him.

* * *

ZACH DIDN’T NEED much sleep on a normal day, but even with the usual four hours under his belt, he felt a little rough around the edges the next morning. He supposed it had to do with them being interrupted by Daisy’s screaming.

It had damn near scared a year off his life.

Any questions or doubts he’d had were gone, though. Someone or something was terrorizing her. Didn’t mean he wouldn’t look at cold, hard facts. Hadn’t he learned what getting too emotionally involved in a case got you?

Yeah, he was susceptible to vulnerability. He could admit that now. Being plagued by dreams, by guilt over the man who’d died only for taking a job protecting her, it all added up to vulnerable.

And he was not thinking about the slip of her top because that had nothing to do with anything.

He grunted his way through push-ups, sit-ups, lunges and squats. He’d need to bring a few more things from home. Maybe just move it all. He wasn’t planning on spending much time back in Cheyenne with his business here.

His room still needed a lot of work, and he’d get to it once this case was shored up—as long as he didn’t immediately have another one. Still, he had a floor, a rudimentary bathroom and a bed. What more did a guy need?

He knew his mother worried about him throwing too much into his job, whether because she feared he’d suffer the same fate as his father—murdered in revenge for the work he’d done as an ATF agent—or because she just worried about him having more of a life than work, it didn’t matter.

He liked his work. It fulfilled him. Besides, he had friends. Cousins, actually. Finding his long-lost sister meant finding his mother’s family, and he might get along more with the people they’d married, but it was still camaraderie.

He had a full life.

But he sat there on the floor of a ramshackle room, sweating from the brief workout, and wondered at the odd pang of longing for something he couldn’t name. Something he’d never had until he’d met his sister—of course that had coincided with being officially fired from the FBI, so maybe it was more that than the other.

It didn’t matter. Because not only was he fine, he also had a job to do.

He could hear Daisy stirring out in the common room. Coffee or breakfast or both, if he had to guess.

He’d hoped she’d sleep longer because there were some areas he wanted to press on today, and he’d likely back off if she looked tired.

Or he could suck it up and be a hard-ass, which was what this job called for, wasn’t it? He knew what being soft got him, so he needed to steel his determination to be hard.

He ran through a cold shower, got dressed, grabbed his computer and stepped out to find Daisy in the kitchen.

She was dressed in tight jeans and a neon-pink T-shirt that read Straight Shooter in sparkly sequins on the back. On the sleeve of each arm was a revolver outline in more sequins. When she turned from the oven where she was scrambling some eggs, she flashed a smile.

Her hair was pulled back to reveal bright green cactus earrings, and she’d put on makeup. Dark eyes, bright lips.

The fact she’d made herself up, looked like she could step on stage in the snap of her fingers, he assumed she was hiding a rough night under all that polish.

But the polish helped him pretend, too.

“Want some?” she asked, tipping the pan toward him.

“Sure, if you’ve got enough.” He dropped the laptop off on the table and then moved toward her to get plates, but she waved him away.

“You waited on me yesterday. My turn. Besides, I familiarized myself this morning. Thanks for making coffee, by the way. Good stuff.”

“Programmable machine,” he returned, not sure what to do with himself while she took care of breakfast. He opted for getting himself a cup of coffee.

He didn’t want to loom behind her, so he took a seat at the table and opened his laptop. He booted up his email to see if there were any more reports from Ranger Cooper, but nothing.

She slid a plate in front of him, then took the seat opposite him with her own plate.

“So, what’s the deal? Play house in here until they figure out who did it?” she asked with just a tad too much cheer in her voice—clearly trying to compensate for the edge she felt.

“Partially. We’re working on a protected outdoor area, but staying inside for now is best.” He tapped his computer. “It gives us time to work through who might be after you.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Believe it or not, sifting through who might hate me enough to hurt me isn’t high on my want-to-do list.”

“But I assume going home, getting back to your family and your career is. Lesser of two evils.”

She ate, frowning. But she didn’t try to argue, and he was going to do his job today. Nightmares and vulnerability couldn’t stop the job.

“I want to talk about your ex.”

“So does everyone,” she muttered.

“Your divorce was news?” he asked, even though he’d known it was. Much as he didn’t keep up with pop culture, he’d seen enough magazines at the checkout counter with her face and her ex’s.

“Yeah. I mean, maybe not if you don’t pay attention to country music, but Jordan had really started to make a name for himself with crossovers. So the story got big. And I got crucified.”

“Why didn’t he?” Zach asked casually, taking a bite of the eggs, which were perfectly cooked.

“Because he’s perfect?”

“You wanted to divorce him,” he pointed out. “He can’t be perfect. No one is.”

“Or that’s exactly why I wanted to divorce him.”

He studied her. The lifted chin, the challenge in her eyes. “Yeah, I don’t buy that.”

Her shoulders slumped. “Yeah, our families didn’t, either. Neither did he, for that matter. I don’t know how to explain... Do we really have to discuss my very public divorce?”

“Yeah. We really do. The more I understand, the better I can find the pattern.”

“And if it’s not him?”

“Then the pattern won’t say it is.”

“People aren’t patterns, Zach. They’re not always rational, or sane.”

“Yeah, I’m well aware, but routine stalkers are methodical. It’s not a moment of rage. It’s not knee-jerk or impulse. It’s planned terrorizing. Murder of your bodyguard? There was no struggle. It was planned. This person is methodical, which means if I can figure out their methodology, I can figure this out.”

She heaved out a sigh. “You believe that.”

“I know that.”

“Fine. Fine. Why did I file for divorce against Jordan? I don’t know. It’s complicated. It’s all emotions and... Did your parents love each other?”

Unconcerned with the abrupt change, because every thread led him somewhere, he nodded. “Very much.”

“Mine didn’t. Or maybe they did, but it was warped. It hurt.”

He thought about his brother, alone in a psych ward, still lost to whatever had taken a hold of his mind. “Love often does.”

“You got someone?”

“Not romantically.”

“Family, then?”

He nodded.

“I used to think loving my brother didn’t hurt, not even a little—not the way loving my father did, or even my mom. Vaughn was perfect, and always did the right thing. He protected me and loved me unconditionally. But this hurts, thinking he could be in danger because of me.”

“He’s a Texas Ranger.”

“That doesn’t make him invincible. He also has a wife and two little girls and...” She swallowed, looking away from him. “I can’t...”

“The best thing for ‘I can’t’ is figuring this out. Looking at the patterns, and finding who’s at the center.”

“You really think you can do that?”

“I do. With your help.”

She nodded. “Okay. Okay. Well, sit back and relax, cowboy. The story of Daisy Delaney and Jordan Jones is a long one.”

He lifted the coffee mug to his lips to try and hide his smile. “We’ve got nothing but time, Daisy.”