Читать книгу Someone To Protect Her - Patricia Rosemoor - Страница 15

C.J. yawned her way to Boulder Municipal. She’d barely fallen asleep before dawn. And all too soon, Frank had been pounding at her door.

To look at him, one would think he’d had a full eight hours’ sleep. She knew better. She’d heard him roaming around the living room for at least an hour after she’d locked herself in. What had been bothering him? she wondered. Something serious—at least the nightmare had made it seem that way. He hid his exhaustion well, though. She wondered what else he was hiding and why he thought it was necessary. Not that she should expect true confessions from a stranger. His past was his past, just as hers was her own.

“Your chariot awaits,” Frank said, breaking into her thoughts. “And the trailer is already here, too.”

“What trailer?” But she swept her gaze right past the commercial vehicle and onto the adjoining aircraft, which appeared to have been built in the previous century. “What is that thing?”

“A DC-3.”

He brought the car to a stop near the hangar, and she took a better look. The plane’s lines were chunky, both propellers and wheels appeared to share a housing, and its tail practically swept the tarmac.

“Can you actually get that thing in the air and keep it there?”

“Plenty of these babies still take up airspace, hauling cargo—and they have been for the better part of six decades.”

“That’s what bothers me.”

She couldn’t help the trepidation that filled her. Too many stories of failed parts on old planes. She rubbed her arms and refocused her attention back to the trailer, where a man in dark pants and a white shirt was talking to another dressed more casually in jeans, plaid shirt and billed cap.

A special ramp already in place led from the trailer’s back end up to the rear door of the aircraft. Suddenly, from the side of the trailer, brilliant red lettering jumped out at her: Equine.

“That’s a horse trailer!” she said accusingly.

“Did I forget to tell you? Our cover is that we’re hauling the mares to Lonesome Pony.”

Doubly concerned now, she thought to protest, but before she could get a word out, Frank opened his door, slid from behind the wheel and reached in back for his gray, broad-brimmed hat. Added to the jeans, boots and multipocketed vest, it made him look more like a real Wild West cowboy than a government agent.

Though an involuntary thrill shot through her—probably due to the old American western movies that had once fascinated her long, long ago—C.J. tried not to be impressed.

He said, “Wait here while I take care of getting these girls loaded.”

“Gladly.”

Stuffing the hat on his head, Frank aimed straight for the other two men.

That they needed a cover made C.J. shudder. That horses were that cover made her shudder more. A decrepit old plane and now horses!

What had she gotten herself into?

Still wondering a few minutes later, she watched Frank stalk back to the vehicle, an expression of displeasure pulling at his mouth. She read his frustration in his jerky movements when he threw open the door and held out a hand.

“We have a problem,” he announced as he helped her out.

“Apparently.”

“How are you with horses.”

“H-horses? How am I what?”

“We don’t have a groom. He didn’t show. We can wait around for another one, but that’ll delay our departure for a couple of hours. And after what happened yesterday, I want to get you away from here and safely to Quinlan ASAP.”

“Horses?” she squeaked. “You’re asking me to groom horses?” C.J.’s stomach twirled at the thought. “I’m not good with horses.”

He shook his head. “No actual grooming involved. You just have to keep them calm. There are only four of them. But I, uh, don’t know if they’ve ever flown before.”

“Calm?” She wasn’t calm. How was she supposed to keep four horses calm? And in such a small space? Suddenly, the belly of the big plane shrank in her mind to the size of a box stall. “How?”

“Talk to ’em. Scratch ’em between the ears.”

As if the matter was both simple and settled, he opened the trunk and hauled out her two cases and his own two bags.

“And if talking and scratching doesn’t work?”

“I assume, being a research scientist, you know how to handle a syringe.”

“The rudiments, yes.”

He slipped the three smaller bags over his shoulders and hefted the larger suitcase upright. “So if one of the girls gets overly excited, you shoot her with a mild tranquilizer.”

Then he took off for the stairs at the front of the aircraft, wheeling the larger of her bags behind him.

“What if something goes wrong?” she demanded, following close on his heels. “Something I can’t handle? Really, I’m not very good with horses.”

She would refuse to go with him, would charter her own bloody plane…if not for the incident on Pearl Street.

“Then you call me and I’ll handle it.”

“You would leave the cockpit?”

“That’s why I have a co-pilot. He can take over the controls.”

Frank stopped suddenly and she nearly ran into him. C.J. gasped and stepped back, muttering, “Sorry.”

He gave her a curious look that made her mouth go dry. And a pulse ticked in her throat. She could feel it, even when she stopped breathing for a moment until she shook herself back to reality and the fact that nothing personal was happening here. Frank Connolly was merely doing his job, for heaven’s sake, which at the moment happened to be her.

Then he said, “Try not to think worst-case scenario. Everything’s going to be fine and you’ll be at the research institute before you know it.”

“From your lips to God’s ear,” she murmured, thinking again of the horses.

Once inside the belly of the plane, Frank lashed down their luggage. “Take a seat while I help bring in the mares.”

But C.J. was too jittery to just sit and wait. She tried to focus on the now, on her surroundings.

The plane appeared solidly built, so why wouldn’t this sense of trepidation leave her alone? It had to be the thought of being confined with several horses that made her feel so…so…unsettled.

And yet the jitters went beyond the fear of the known.

The unknown held far more power—a villain with no description.

Would he come after her in Montana?

Would she ever be safe?

There were four passenger seats, three in one row, then one extra from which she could easily see openings in two of the four stalls. She came closer for a better look. The double-double configuration—two stalls in the front, two in the back—was open on top. The U-shape would allow two of the horses to hang out their heads toward her.

The stalls sat on anchored pallets in the center of the cargo area, leaving aisles for humans to walk along each side. She wandered toward the rear of the aircraft. Feed and other supplies had already been brought in and secured. As had western tack—she noted saddles and other leathers. She moved up the other aisle toward the cockpit.

The clop-clop of hooves against metal drew her to a window. Frank was leading a big bay mare up the ramp—C.J. could see her tossing head and rolling eyes over the raised side. Though the driver led a small palomino that seemed perfectly calm, she felt her pulse surge and she pulled back. She had to get over her irrational fear—only a few hours and she would be free of them.

C.J. glanced down the side aisle as Frank stepped in. He held the mare’s head low to squeeze her through the opening, then walked her straight through the back stall to the one in front, where he began securing her with cargo straps.

He did all with such ease that she suspected he must have a lot of experience with horses. She had to remember that, as well as his promise to handle any difficulty.

“Spice Girl,” Frank said, as he hooked two tie-downs from the leather collar encircling her neck to holes beneath the U of the stall front.

“Pardon me?”

“Her name.” He indicated the adjoining stall where the driver was securing the palomino. “And that one’s Double Platinum.”

As if knowing their names would make this any easier on her, C.J. thought as Frank dug into one of the myriad pockets on his vest and pulled out a zipped plastic bag that appeared to be filled with apple chunks. He shook out a few pieces and offered it to the mares.

Then he handed her the rest. “Here,” he said before retreating to the exit.

C.J. held the bag of apple bits by two fingers. “What am I supposed to do with these?”

“Make friends.”

That would mean getting close….

Perhaps later if she really needed something to soothe the beasts, she thought, looking for a place to stuff the bag. The pockets of her jacket were too small, but she was wearing a pair of loose tan trousers with extra-deep pockets. One was already half filled with a handful of individually wrapped chocolate bits, so she shoved the bag of horse treats into the other.

“You must be the passenger, C. J. Birch.”

C.J. whipped around to face the neatly dressed man she’d seen from the car when they arrived. He held a clipboard in one hand and held out the other. She looked up to see his mouth curve into a friendly grin beneath a thick black mustache.

“John Vasquez, first officer on this flight.”

Glancing at his picture ID and shaking his hand, she noticed his face was deeply tanned. “Mr. Vasquez.”

“We’ll be taking off shortly, as soon as those other two horses are loaded.”

His accent was slight, making her think that while he’d been born in Mexico or elsewhere, he’d probably been in this country for many years.

“Good. I’m anxious to be in the air.”

And away from a place that had proved unsafe, even as she’d feared, if not in the manner she had expected. True, the Quinlan Research Institute was bound to be far more remote than the National Center for Aquatic Research, but that was probably good. Less likely that the villain could find her again. She could take comfort in that.

And at least her well-being would be guarded by Frank Connolly and the other Montana Confidential men.

“If you’ve never been in one of these old planes, be prepared for the noise, especially since we’re hauling cargo. No sound-proofing.”

“I don’t mind a little noise.”

“Good. Now, if you’ll excuse me, miss, I have some checks to make.”

“Go ahead, please,” she said even as she heard hooves clacking against the metal ramp.

She only hoped her work on the antidote to D-5 went well and fast. Then she would go home, C.J. thought. England. She wouldn’t be afraid there.

Frank and the van driver went through the same routine with the other two horses, a dainty chestnut named Born to Be Wild and High Note, another bay. And then they set up hay nets in front of each of the four horses.

Not that the animals were relaxed enough to eat, she noted.

“They’ll chow down when we’re in flight,” Frank assured her. “You’ll have to water them at least once.”

He indicated the large resin water container and two metal buckets lashed to the side of the cargo bay.

“Uh-huh.”

She could handle that, C.J. told herself, even as her pulse tripped a beat.

“And the tranquilizers are in that pack,” he said, pointing out a fastened-down canvas bag with lots of outer pockets. “Top zipper.”

“I’m praying for a smooth, uneventful flight,” C.J. said. She hoped to heaven she wouldn’t need to go into the bag for anything.

“I’ll take care of the ramp and stairs,” the driver said as he left with a wave.

Frank secured the door behind him. And as if they knew what was going on, the mares grew restless. One snorted, another whinnied, and all four tested their constraints.

“Talk to them,” Frank said as he made his way to the cockpit. “I’ll let you know when to buckle up.”

“Talk to them,” she echoed softly, moving so the mares could better see her, yet keeping a safe distance. “Take it easy now, ladies.”

She spoke to them in a soothing tone even as she heard Frank and his copilot begin a preflight checklist. Not that she knew locks and chocks from gear and flap selectors. She tuned out the men and concentrated on her charges. As little as she might like a job, she had always taken any responsibility given her seriously.

“These restraints are for your safety and are only temporary,” she assured the mares, thinking she sounded somewhat like a flight attendant. Which, in a way, she was. “Soon you’ll be frolicking in a big pasture.”

The actual words she chose might be lame, but to C.J.’s relief, the mares seemed to respond to the calming sound of her voice.

Suddenly the engines roared to life, as did the mare called Double Platinum. She stomped and snorted and tried throwing up her head. Dismayed at the animal’s frustration, C.J. stepped just close enough to give the velvety surface of her nose a gentle pet.

Her own stomach tumbled as she murmured, “There, there, now.”

The palomino calmed, but the chestnut in one of the rear stalls seemed equally upset. Her sense of unease growing, C.J. quickly moved around to reassure her, as well. Unfortunately, a pat on the nose didn’t do a thing. The mare’s eyes rolled wildly and the muscles in her neck bulged. C.J.’s heart accelerated when the animal began thrashing around in the confined space. And when she kicked the sides of the stall, C.J. flew back, fearful for her own safety.

And for the frightened beast’s, as well, since she knew how easily a horse could break a leg.

Getting nowhere with rudimentary calming techniques, she thought to call Frank. And yet she hesitated. He would think her a coward. But what were her options?

The awful realization suddenly set in—she’d have to drug this one.

Her hands shook as she unzipped the bag for the supplies. No sooner did she get to the syringe and set it up with the tranquilizer than she heard Frank’s voice over the intercom, his commanding tone competing with the roar of the engines.

“Time to buckle up!”

“In a minute!” she yelled back, fighting herself, trying to get near the mare, who was intent on biting her rather than accept the tranquilizer with dignity.

Or so it seemed to a frustrated C.J.

But she had to do this, she thought as the shaking of her hands spread to the rest of her. Had to. She couldn’t let Frank down. He was counting on her. She concentrated on that fact. On the man who had come out of nowhere to save her. He’d asked this one thing of her and she would do it.

Sweat popped on her brow as she made one attempt after another to get close. Her stomach threatened to empty itself. But it would have to wait, C.J. thought, until after she’d administered the injection. Every time she tried, however, the chestnut moved with her and gave her the evil eye. Then the mare would roll her eyes and bare her teeth. And the restraints were long enough to give her some latitude.

It became a dance of sorts, a matter of the mare trying to assert her will over the too weak, too humiliatingly cowardly human in charge.

About to rush to the cockpit and beg for Frank’s help, C.J. realized that she had no options when the plane began to move along the tarmac.

Too late!

She had to do this!

“Now, just settle down, Miss Wild!”

The mare sassed her back.

A desperate C.J. thrust her free hand under the animal’s head and shoved upward until the restraints tightened. The unplanned action took the chestnut by surprise—she didn’t fight for a few precious seconds, long enough for C.J. to administer the injection. And by the time the mare knew what she was about, it was all over and C.J. quickly backed out of teeth range.

“There, now you’ll feel better.”

As would she.

Born to Be Wild snorted. Her long red lashes swept over her eyes and she suddenly appeared a bit befuddled. And vulnerable. C.J. told herself to back away, to get to her seat. She herself was still shaking and unsteady on her feet.

But something deep within her responded to the mare’s fear and confusion.

Thrusting her hand in her pocket and fishing out an apple chunk from the bag, she was almost surprised when the mare took it from her palm without trying to nip her. The tranquilizer was already doing its job.

Breathing easier, C.J. fought her way forward, legs wobbly but doing the job, as the plane taxied faster. Still unsettled even though the mares were taken care of and no one was hurt, she threw herself into her seat and buckled up mere seconds before the big metal bird launched itself into the sky.

MORE THAN HALFWAY THROUGH the flight and everything was going according to plan. No panicked pleas for help from C.J., either, Frank thought.

Back in disguise from the moment she’d left her bedroom that morning—a too-large pantsuit and hair twisted and secured away from her face with a big, plain clip—she’d almost convinced him that he’d imagined the attraction he’d felt the night before. Almost. That moment of connection in the plane had brought those feelings tumbling back.

Not that she would show him her soft side after he’d left her to be terrorized by four ferocious mares.

Frank grinned and snorted to himself.

“Something wrong?” his copilot asked.

“Wrong? No.” Nothing, now that he had C.J. out of harm’s path. “Just thought of something amusing, is all.”

“Mmm.”

Which was about the extent of Vasquez’s conversational skills. He’d barely volunteered a word not related to work since the plane had taken off. Frank ignored a trickle of discomfort—he’d never been paired with such a reticent pilot. At least Vasquez was competent. And he himself was unsettled in general. Maybe he just needed to stretch.

“Think you can handle the controls for a while?”

Vasquez slid him a sideways glance. “Isn’t that why I’m here?”

A peculiar way to answer a question—with another question. Just another facet of the man’s odd nature, Frank guessed, like the zippered paratrooper boots he wore. Not that he would bother asking the man about them.

Before exiting the cockpit, Frank took stock of their position. They were about fifteen minutes from the Montana border. He wondered if Daniel had made any headway in identifying C.J.’s attacker. He’d get the answer to that one soon enough.

He turned away, his gaze sweeping over his copilot, whose concentration was on the controls. His head was bent forward slightly, and Frank noticed a dark stain along the man’s shirt collar.

As if aware of the close scrutiny, Vasquez glanced up at him in question.

Frank nodded and left the cockpit.

As he entered the cabin area, he didn’t know what to expect—certainly not C.J. curled in her seat, half turned toward her charges, who stood calmly staring at him. Spice Girl was munching the last of her hay.

And C.J. was dead asleep.

Her mouth hung open slightly. And he imagined he could hear the softness of her breath against the harsh power of the engines. Her hair was half wrested from its clip, and her glasses yet again sat crookedly on her delicate nose.

Frank couldn’t help himself. He reached over to straighten the metal frames on her face. And while his hand was there, he couldn’t stop himself from brushing knuckles over her cheek, smoothing back the loose hair.

Suddenly her eyes shot open and with a strangled breath, she sat straight up.

“The horses…what…”

“They’re fine.”

She checked her watch. “No, they’re not. I haven’t given them water—”

“I’ll do it. You’re still half asleep.”

She sat there looking a little dazed, while he filled one of the buckets and offered it to Spice Girl, who immediately dipped her nose into the water and began siphoning.

“I am awake now,” C.J. said, launching herself out of the seat. “I can do that.”

Frank crooked an eyebrow at her. “What? You want me out of here already? Surely you trust my copilot at the controls for a little while.”

She shoved her hands behind her back. “It’s just that I’m usually on top of things.”

The statement was reminiscent of Jewel telling him how responsible she was. The girl had taken the task he’d given her with Silver very seriously also.

Not that he was comparing C.J. to the twelve-year-old. She was every inch a woman. And yet…in some ways, she did seem younger than her years would indicate…and she seemed unsure of herself. Around all men?

Or did he make her feel insecure somehow?

C.J. walked around him and moved toward the back of the plane. As he switched the water bucket to the palomino, he realized she was checking on the chestnut without getting too close.

“She’s asleep, huh?”

“With some help,” C.J. said. “It’s a good thing you came prepared with that tranq.”

“That’s me. A real Boy Scout. You know our motto—Be Prepared.”

“For anything?”

“Most things,” he muttered.

For Frank realized that he wasn’t prepared for her, for the shock of being attracted to another woman so soon.

After refilling the bucket, he watered High Note, all the while surreptitiously watching C.J. A scientist of some repute, she seemed unsure of herself in her present situation, unable to look him square in the eye.

Oddly enough, he found her uncertainty charming.

Born to Be Wild woke up long enough to take a short drink, then dozed once more. He turned to find C.J. looking amused.

“I just got it. Born to Be Wild. High Note. Double Platinum. Spice Girl. Music—all their names are connected with music.”

“Their owner is a pop singer,” Frank said.

“Anyone famous?”

“Ever heard of Jill and Her Four Jacks?”

“Afraid not.”

“Then I guess not famous enough.”

Her lips quivered into a smile that lit up her face. She really was pretty when she smiled.

“So this Jill still owns the mares?” she asked.

He nodded. “They’re ladies of leisure now, retired from the racing circuit to be introduced to some good ole boys to make baby racehorses. Jill wanted Sierra Sunrise to be one of the daddies, and since we own him…”

“Ah, I see.”

Her discomfort seemingly renewed—at the turn of the conversation? he wondered—she checked her watch.

“So we’re almost there?” she asked.

“We’ll be crossing the Wyoming-Montana border any minute now. In a couple of hours, you’ll be settled into your new digs.”

“You will be staying at the research institute, as well, won’t you?”

“Actually, I’ve got a cabin on Lonesome Pony, which is up the road a piece.”

“Oh, I thought—”

“If you’re worried about safety, you’ll be guarded at all times.”

“But not by you.”

“Not unless I’m assigned.”

“Which isn’t exactly likely, is it?” she asked. “You being a pilot and all.”

Though her expression remained neutral, Frank had the distinct impression that C.J. was disappointed. She obviously saw him as some kind of knight in shining armor because of his saving her, when all he’d been was lucky.

“I’d better get back to the cockpit.”

“Right.”

Pure luck had put him on her trail at the exact time she was being attacked.

Pure luck that the attacker had given up so easily.

That fact still bothered him as he set down the bucket and moved forward.

The bastard had gone to considerable trouble to stage the attack. Why would he give up so easily? Unless he figured he’d have another shot at C.J.

Frank worried over it as he reentered the cockpit.

Vasquez didn’t seem to hear him and Frank froze for a moment as the man worked the controls and the plane adjusted slightly. Almost imperceptibly.

Changing direction?

Frank frowned. What the hell did Vasquez think he was doing? He came up behind the man, his gaze once again drawn to the stained collar. The skin there appeared a shade paler than the flesh higher on the man’s neck, as if the color had actually rubbed off…and the color was definitely a shade darker than his arms were.

Makeup?

Why the hell would a pilot be wearing makeup?

Only one reason came to mind.

Before Frank could decide how to react, the choice was taken from him.

The man who called himself Vasquez turned in his seat just enough so Frank could see the gun in his hand.