Читать книгу Someone To Protect Her - Patricia Rosemoor - Страница 12

“Gran told me you’re originally from South Dakota, not Montana. How come you didn’t say so? What about your family?” Jewel McMurty asked in her rapid-fire style. “You don’t have a wife and kids, do you?”

The twelve-year-old’s bright green eyes pinned Frank Connolly as he washed the dust from a chestnut quarter horse named Sierra Sunrise, who’d topped his racing career at more than a million dollars in winnings. Now the lucky devil would be standing at stud, getting his chance with a different vixen or two on a daily basis.

“Just a brother. He’s the one with the wife and kids. And his own ranch.”

“So why aren’t you there?”

“Got a job to do.” Ostensibly to work with the horses on Lonesome Pony, though his real job as a Montana Confidential agent was equally vital and a lot more dangerous. He’d barely had time to stow his gear before he was put to work when he’d arrived several days before. “Which you’re keeping me from doing.”

Lonesome Pony. He knew all about being lonesome. Figured the girl did, too. Her parents were divorced, and she’d been bundled off to live with her grandparents for a while—no one her own age to hang with. Desperate for attention, she’d been following him around like a lost puppy ever since he’d arrived, and he hadn’t been hardhearted enough to discourage her. Like all kids, she had a million questions, mostly personal, mostly about the past he didn’t want to talk about. Damned if he’d be telling her his sob story. He didn’t want to think about Bosnia, no less share the nightmare with a kid.

He gave Jewel a playful squirt with the hose. While she shrieked with laughter, she stayed put.

“I can help, you know.”

“These boys think they’re hot stuff,”

Frank said, indicating the trio of stallions that had been delivered barely an hour before. “I wouldn’t want a little thing like you to get trampled.”

“Little?” All gangly limbs, she drew herself up as tall as she could and still missed the five-foot mark. “I’m nearly a woman!”

Thinking she’d be insulted if any laughter dared escape his lips, Frank bit the inside of his cheek. “You could do me a big favor, then.”

“What?” she asked, young voice ripe with suspicion.

“Take care of Silver over there.”

He indicated the pasture across from the main house, where an old gelding that had been sent over from a nearby spread stared out at the action he couldn’t join.

He looked lonesome, too.

“Yeah, I saw him come in this morning,” Jewel said. “Why is he all by himself? And how come he limps? What’s wrong with him?”

“He got hit by a truck on a ranch road a while back. This here’s gonna be his retirement range.”

“Hit by a truck?” Jewel’s expression went solemn. “He’s going to be okay, though, right?”

As okay as a thirty-year-old, badly injured horse could be, Frank thought.

What he said was, “He’ll always have that bum hip. Can’t keep up with his pals, so he could use some human attention—lots of good grooming, tasty treats and smooth talk. You up to that?”

Jewel nodded and eyed the mottled white horse. “I’m very reliable. Ask Gran or Gramps. They’ll tell you.”

Gran and Gramps were Dale and Patrick McMurty, the elderly caretakers who lived in the main house with Daniel Austin, head of operations for Montana Confidential. Dale cooked and kept house, while Patrick was a crack handyman.

Patrick also happened to be a retired military man who knew how to keep his own counsel about what really was going on underground at Lonesome Pony—that the ranch was a cover for Montana Confidential, a division of the Department of Public Safety.

Frank dug into a pocket and pulled out a plastic bag filled with apple chunks. Sierra Sunrise nosed his arm and Frank slipped him a treat. He stored a few pieces in a vest pocket and held out the bag.

“You can start with these.”

Jewel’s smile was brilliant. Snatching the offering from his hand as eagerly as had the stallion, she whipped around, her long blond ponytail bobbing.

And, now uninterrupted, Frank quickly went to work. The horses enjoyed the spray of water and soapy scrub. And they didn’t refuse the apple chunks he’d kept back for them. He always carried treats when working around horses. And being big-money boys, these stallions were used to lots of pampering and attention.

He wondered if they’d miss the track. They’d spent their young lives running fast, being caught in the limelight. He knew a little about that, too. But he’d gladly left the limelight to others—so maybe the boys would feel the same.

Besides, Frank thought, catching sight of a pretty golden mare nosing her way through the slats of the pasture fence, they had compensations. The soft-eyed mare peered out at them and whickered flirtatiously. The stallions snorted and stomped and did their best to look studly in return. Frank grinned. The mating dance had begun. Slipping the boys into their own individual paddocks outside the barn, he checked his watch—just about time for the meeting.

Awaiting him was the fancy log house with its wide porch overlooking the pasture, and beyond that, the mountains. He could get used to living in Yellowstone country with its spectacular alpine scenery. The Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness lay to the east, the foothills of the Gallatins to the west. A man couldn’t ask for a prettier home.

Or a more unusual one.

Lonesome Pony had been a guest ranch for decades—hence a bunch of rifle and archery ranges and horseshoe pits plus a fancy circular corral for those former Friday night rodeos still lined the fine-gravel walk between the house and barn. On the other side of the property, a hut well-stocked with gear stood near the bend in Crooked Creek, which provided some of the most spectacular fly-fishing in the country. But the oddest thing to Frank was the swimming pool surrounded by cabins, providing separate living quarters for him and the other agents.

At least he would have his privacy, something he treasured after months of enforced communal living in a stinking hole.

Ahead, the McMurtys stood in the small garden to one side of the house.

Wisps of thinning white hair sticking out from the brimmed hat pulled low over his sun-leathered face, Patrick dumped a sack onto the ground. “Are you gonna stand there so you can tell me every move to make, woman?”

“Only if I want you to get it right the first time,” Dale said, fists on her ample hips.

“If you don’t like the way I do things—”

“I know. Do it myself. But if I don’t participate, you’ll think I’m ignoring you.”

“We could try it that way and see for sure,” Patrick suggested slyly.

Frank figured they’d keep things lively for his boss—if they didn’t drive the man crazy with their bickering.

Dale spotted Frank. “I don’t know why I’ve put up with this old buzzard for nearly forty years. He can’t keep a civil tongue around me.”

Patrick mimicked her. “If I did, you’d think I was ignoring you.”

“Sounds to me like true love,” Frank said, pushing back painful memories of his own.

Before the McMurtys could respond, a shrill voice came from the other direction. “No, Daddy! No!”

Carrying his cranky daughter from the cabin area, Kyle Foster, one of the other agents, spoke to her in a low, soothing voice. “Mrs. Mac is going to take good care of you for just a little while.”

The blond moppet screwed up her face and began to wail “Da-a-a-d-dy!” as she fisted his shirt. She looked so fragile pressed against her father’s broad, solid frame.

“Shh, honey. You be a big girl and I’ll let you ride your pony later. You want to ride Ribbons, don’t you?”

Molly rubbed her eyes with balled fists. Even to an old bachelor like Frank, it was evident the three-year-old needed a nap. He caught Kyle’s attention and indicated he was heading for the house. Looking as if he were about to tear out his sandy brown hair, Kyle nodded.

“You take a nice nap for me,” Dale chimed in, “and when you wake up, I’ll have some homemade oatmeal cookies with lots of raisins for you.”

Frank didn’t know if it was the promise of the pony ride or the cookies that sealed the deal, but Molly finally allowed the housekeeper to take her from her father. Kyle caught up to him at the long porch that fronted the main house.

“I don’t know if I was cut out for this—not the job, but being a single father.”

“Being a responsible parent takes more work than any profession, that’s for certain. But I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it.”

Frank knew all about Kyle Foster, bomb specialist. He’d been a hero until a bomb scare had gone wrong and his partner had died in the explosion. Guilt had plummeted Kyle out of the L.A. force, but law enforcement was obviously in his blood, for he hadn’t resisted Daniel’s recruiting tactics. Frank didn’t envy Kyle’s having to balance a dangerous job with parental responsibilities, but, unfortunately, his wife had left him no choice when she’d dumped her child as well as her husband for a Hollywood film producer.

They entered the house. The big open living area bespoke its past as “Dude Ranch Meeting Central.”

The former lounge and lobby rose two stories, as did the massive fireplace constructed from local river rock. A moose head balefully looked down at them through glass eyes. Over the middle of the room hung a chandelier of elk horn. And a cast-iron bighorn sheep challenged them from the windowed area where Daniel stood, back to them, phone to his ear.

“Yeah, Mitch, so far, so good. The locals don’t suspect anything.”

Frank knew Daniel was talking to Mitchell Forbes, who had run the Texas Confidential operation. Daniel had worked as an agent there, and though he had retired from active duty, he’d been asked to start a branch of the agency in Montana where a serious terrorist threat had the Department of Public Safety worried.

“They just figure I’m a crazy man for wanting to become a rancher at my age in this economic climate. They treat me with friendly tolerance.” Daniel turned and silently greeted his two agents. He indicated he’d only be a minute. “Uh-huh.”

Frank threw himself onto one of the club chairs upholstered in a Navajo pattern and appreciatively gazed at the framed photographs lining the opposite wall—a turn-of-the-century chronicle of the railroad, rodeos and roundups of the area.

“I’m not looking forward to baby-sitting her, that’s for certain,” Daniel was saying. “I’m only doing it as a favor to the director. Listen. Frank and Kyle are here, and I want to meet with them, fill them in and make sure that we have what we need.”

The Montana Confidential operation was just getting off the ground. So far, the men had been busy building their cover. Frank didn’t mind working with the horses—a side benefit of the job, actually—but he was eager for an assignment.

When Daniel hung up, Frank asked, “So who are you baby-sitting?”

“Whitney MacNair.”

“Of the Washington and Martha’s Vineyard MacNairs?” Kyle asked.

The nation’s second family of American politics, Frank knew. As a MacNair, Whitney had grown up privileged and pampered and in the spotlight. Her face was better-known to him than any cover girl’s.

“The same,” Daniel agreed. “Her family was furious when the press ran with the story about her accepting gifts from her boss and they quickly yanked her out of the limelight.”

Her boss being the very married Senator Ross Weston. Frank mused, “Odd that she’s being sent here, to Weston’s home state.”

“Her father asked the Director of the Department of Public Safety for a favor, and since I needed an assistant…” Daniel ran a hand through his blond hair and shrugged. “We’ll make it work somehow. Weston’s not from these parts, anyhow, so I don’t imagine him showing up on our doorstep anytime soon. Now, gentlemen, let’s get down to business.”

“Down” being a secret room built below the study.

They followed Daniel into a room off the main living area. It appeared to be a typical if spacious office with a computer desk and seating area and a spectacular view of the mountains. The walls were lined with builtin bookshelves. Daniel went to an inner wall and reached behind a book of Montana photographs. A click and the section of bookshelf swung open.

“Gentlemen…”

Frank led the way into an elevator car, Kyle following, Daniel bringing up the rear. He slid the bookshelf unit back in place and hit the down button. The machinery no more than whispered its presence as the car descended to the secret “war” room below.

“I haven’t even had time to check out the equipment,” Daniel said. “I’m sure we’ll have to shake out some bugs in the system before we’re operating smoothly.”

Computers, fax machines and telephones awaited in the communications center. The men split up and for the next hour or so thoroughly checked out the electronics.

Frank put one of the computers through its paces. Once satisfied all was as it should be, he left the area to check out the rest of the quarters. Locked cabinets—weapons and ammunition—lined one of the lowceilinged walls. Another work area held listening devices and cameras. He noted a red warning light perched over a nearby closed door. Lab for surveillance photography, he guessed. They had everything they would need to do their jobs and then some.

Daniel and Kyle caught up with him; they took seats around a large conference table where materials were already laid out. Enough for four men, Frank noted, when only the three of them were present.

He asked, “So are we it for now?”

“For however long it is until Special Agent Court Brody arrives,” Daniel agreed.

“FBI,” Kyle muttered. “Suit-and-tie law enforcement. Yeah, he’ll blend in with the locals, all right.”

“Actually, he’ll blend better than any of us.” At the far end of the table, Daniel fiddled with what looked to be one of several dossiers spread out in front of him. “Brody grew up in this neck of the mountains—a positive for us. And he’s only on loan from the FBI until I can recruit another permanent agent.”

“As long as he doesn’t think he’s in charge and doesn’t get in our way,” Frank said.

He had no fondness for special agents, not after the Bosnia debriefing.

“Don’t worry, I’ll do my best to stay out of your way.”

As one, all three men at the table turned toward the deep voice coming from the other side of the room.

Speaking of the devil…

Court Brody had sneaked up on them all. He stood at the elevator, arms crossed over his chest, eyes hidden by sunglasses undoubtedly meant to intimidate.

Daniel cleared his throat and stood. “Come in, come in. We’re just getting to know one another.”

“So I heard.”

Frank watched the big man—tall, rather than wide—stalk them. He didn’t seem too happy.

Well, neither was Frank.

He felt flushed and outside of himself. What the hell was wrong with him? Hadn’t he learned to be on guard at all times? The elevator operated almost silently, true, but what had happened to his instincts?

Without instincts, in a combat situation, a man could be dead in the blink of an eye.

A rush of adrenaline exacerbated the pounding of Frank’s heart. It pounded so loud the sound filled his ears. Surely they could all hear it. He glanced around the table, but no one was paying him any mind.

Daniel and Kyle were focused on the FBI man, who took the end seat as far from them all as he could. Only then did he remove the sunglasses to reveal cold gray eyes. If he and Kyle didn’t welcome Brody…well, the feeling was too obviously returned.

“Welcome to Montana Confidential.”

Daniel returned to his seat and made formal introductions. “Court Brody, special agent, FBI. Frank Connolly, pilot and ex-military man. Kyle Foster, chemist and former member of the L.A. bomb squad.” He took a big breath and paused, but no one else spoke. “Well, I hope you’re all ready to get to work.”

“Horses or otherwise?”

Court drawled. Daniel smiled in the face of the man’s tightly held hostility. “This morning I received information that members of a terrorist group called the Black Order have been slipping into Montana via the Canadian border.”

Court appeared skeptical. “To what end?”

“Rumor says they want to get their hands on a new biological weapon—D-5, a water-borne virus.”

“To what end?” Court asked again.

“We don’t know yet, but if they succeed and get it into a major water supply, it could mean big trouble for a lot of folks.”

Frank jumped in before Court could hold center stage. “D-5?” He’d heard about the virus. As far as he knew, “big trouble” spelled death. “Where?”

“The Quinlan Research Institute. Scientists there are working on an antidote, so they have a quantity of the virus, of course.”

“And without the D-5 at the lab, there will be no antidote,” Kyle said. “How close are they to developing one?”

“Not even in the ballpark. That’s why we’re bringing in British scientist C. J. Birch from the National Center for Aquatic Research.” Daniel turned his gaze to Frank. “Rather, you are as soon as we’re finished here. The ranch plane is online, waiting for you at the Boulder Municipal Airport.”

“What about a first officer?” Frank asked. The plane was a twin-engine DC-3, requiring two in the cockpit.

“Rent-a-pilot by the name of John Vasquez. He’ll meet you at the field tomorrow morning. Your cover is that you’re picking up some prize quarter horse mares for the ranch’s breeding program. But your real mission is getting C. J. Birch to the Quinlan Research Institute tomorrow, safely and without drawing too much attention.”

Frank didn’t voice the opinion that flying in horses would raise more than a few eyebrows. Normally the only horses transported by air rather than truck were Thoroughbreds being ferried from Europe or Japan or the Middle East, or across country to big-money races.

But rather than a fancy jet, they would use a reconditioned pre-World War II DC-3. The old tail-draggers were workhorses—no pun intended—usually put to use these days hauling cargo that didn’t move around, hence the need to palletize the horses.

The plane itself wouldn’t draw too much attention, especially since it would land on a runway already laid out on Lonesome Pony land. Lots of the bigger ranches had their own planes, Frank knew, if normally single-prop jobs. And he guessed if the locals heard about the horses, that would merely serve as proof of Daniel Austin’s madness in setting up what was sure to be a money-losing breeding ranch.

But back to the operation and the reason the scientist needed to be brought in undercover. “You’re expecting trouble?” Sweat trickled down Frank’s spine at the thought.

“Hopefully not, but just in case, I want Birch protected by the best.”

Which wasn’t necessarily him, Frank feared, though he kept his mouth shut on that score. Too late to raise questions about his capabilities at this point. He’d already committed himself.

But question himself he did as Daniel wrapped up the meeting and sent him off to pack an overnight bag before being driven to the Bozeman airport, where a charter would get him to Boulder before dark. Was he ready to be responsible for another’s life? Or had he been a fool to let Daniel sweet-talk him into Montana Confidential?

Truth was…he just didn’t know.

He only knew he had to prove himself. To make up for what he’d been unable to stop from happening…to make amends, somehow.

Maybe then the nightmares would quit him.

As the agents left the house, a dark green SUV pulled up with a screech of tires. A woman with red-gold hair slid out from behind the wheel. The moment her high-heel-clad feet touched the gravel, Frank recognized Whitney MacNair.

She pushed down her designer sunglasses and murmured, “Just what I need, some hunky men.”

Opening the back of the SUV, she revealed a pile of designer luggage. She turned her gaze on Frank.

“Sorry, ma’am, I already have an assignment.”

Undaunted, she walked right up to Court and slipped a hand around one arm. “Ooh, so strong,” she cooed. “And I can tell you’re a real gentleman.”

Frank kept going, glancing over his shoulder to watch the show. It did his heart good to see a scowling Court Brody be forced to haul the woman’s luggage inside.

Frank’s log cabin was the farthest from the swimming pool. The most isolated, the reason he’d chosen it. The living area, bedroom and bath all had been decorated by the same hand as had done the main house. Some would consider these to be small quarters, but after the hellhole that had been home for five months, Frank considered them palatial.

Quickly gathering a few articles of clothing and throwing them into an overnight bag, he set it next to the rucksack he never traveled without. Then he grabbed his Stetson, left the cabin and wended his way around the swimming pool. Waiting next to the ranch truck, Patrick McMurty was talking to Daniel and Kyle.

As he caught up to the men, Whitney stuck her head out a second-floor window. “Excuse me, but I’m desperate. I need some more muscle up here…to move the furniture around. If I’m going to be happy living here, then I need to mix things up a little.”

Frank figured she was going to mix things up a lot.

“Damn, we don’t have time for such nonsense,” Daniel muttered.

As if she expected the objection, Whitney pulled a helpless expression. “Pretty please.”

Kyle muttered, “She doesn’t seem like the kind to give up.”

“Yeah, yeah. And we wouldn’t want her to be unhappy.” Daniel held his hand out to Frank for a brisk shake. “Good luck. We’ll see you and Birch tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Frank echoed as Daniel and Kyle rushed off.

Glad for his excuse to get out of dancing to the woman’s tune, Frank shook his head and climbed into the passenger seat.

Already behind the wheel, Patrick started the truck. “That one’s gonna be something else.”

“Daniel can handle her.”

Patrick shot the truck down the driveway, spewing gravel in all directions. Frank felt himself hurtling toward a situation that could too easily spin out of his control.

Suddenly, getting to know the lovely, if spoiled, Whitney MacNair seemed far more appealing than going after some nerdy little man who could be a powder keg in disguise.

CECILIA JANE BIRCH wasn’t thrilled to be leaving for the wilds of Montana at the crack of dawn the next morning. Having lived her entire thirty years in ultra-civilized England but for the past few months, she considered Boulder, Colorado, as uncivilized as she cared to get. All those mountains in the distance…all that open sky…all those snakes, one of them with her name, she was certain.

She shivered at the thought.

But her work was her life, after all, and the Quinlan Research Institute needed her expertise, so she had no choice, really.

And how much less civilized could things get, anyway?

At least that’s what she decided to believe as she left her colleagues to their drinks at the outdoor table of the Brickwalk Café, where they’d had a dinner meeting to catch up loose threads. Not knowing how long she might be gone, she’d turned over her files to her assistant Len Miller, who would take over the project she’d been heading—for good if he had anything to say about it, she assumed.

Well, it just couldn’t be helped.

Dusk had fallen over the Pearl Street Mall, the red-bricked pedestrian-only heart and soul of the city. The area around the restaurant was sparsely populated since an outdoor concert with Cowboy Sam and the Spurs had lured university students to the other end of the mall. Now, if only they knew some civilized tunes. C.J. had always preferred the classics.

She did enjoy the short walk along historic buildings housing numerous shops, galleries, offices and sidewalk cafés—not that it could compete with London, of course. All summer, entertainers had abounded, including the Zip Code Man, who could identify towns and sometimes even describe building styles in neighborhoods, based on a visitor’s zip code. Then there was the sword swallower, contortionist, juggler and professional accordionist—all buskers who played for the hat.

As she stopped to pull a chocolate bar from her pocket, a sudden goosey feeling along her neck gave her pause. Surreptitiously, she looked around.

From a few feet away, a bronzed statue seemed to be watching her.

C.J. blinked. Not a statue, but another busker, skin and clothing like painted bronze. He leaned on his closed umbrella, his hat upended at his feet. Then he deliberately changed positions to a new pose and froze.

Performance art such as this she would never understand, C.J. thought, caught by the statue’s steady gaze on her as she backed off.

For some reason her mouth went dry and she realized she was holding her breath.

Suddenly the statue lunged for her, grabbed her arm so that she dropped her candy bar, and whirled her from the walkway toward a side street. Not knowing whether to laugh or to express outrage, C.J. attempted to be good-natured about the situation…until she realized the man wasn’t letting up.

“I say, you may stop now!”

But he didn’t.

Heart fluttering, C.J. dug in her heels and attempted to pry the man’s fingers from her arm. “Sir! What do you think you’re about?”

He wasn’t letting her go, that was for certain. Not even looking at her, he was inching her into the shadows, away from any conceivable assistance.

“Stop!” she yelled, attempting to hit at him.

Her fist glanced off his arm, not deterring him in the least, so C.J. did the only thing she could think of—she opened her mouth and screamed. Quite loudly. Before she could see if anyone noticed, her attacker jerked her and knocked the breath from her. She threw herself to the ground. He barely paused before continuing to drag her.

“Stop, please!” she gasped out as her hip hit a bump in the walkway. “Take my wallet and leave me be.”

He didn’t so much as pause.

Frantic now—what did he want if not her money and credit cards?—C.J. tried grabbing on to a litter can, but she couldn’t get ahold before he jerked her along. Her shoulder burned viciously. She cried out again, but had little hope that anyone would hear.

“What is it that you want?” she cried, fearing the worst.

Her very life?