Shadow Protector. Jenna Ryan
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tipped her head from side to side in an effort to center it. One image, that’s all she needed to extract. Unfortunately, research suggested that forcing a resistant memory tended to be as effective as striking a nail with a feather.
She watched a pair of hawks glide in a wide arc beneath a cloudless stretch of sky.
“What’s that look for?” Sig asked.
“I have a look?”
“Like you’d rather be riding a cable car.”
A smile tugged on her lips. “My face isn’t that readable, Detective.”
“Hell it isn’t. You’re sleek, sophisticated and polished. You probably wear high heels to the grocery store. I don’t mean to sound patronizing, but I have to warn you, where we’re headed, the only place you’ll see five stars is in the night sky.”
Sera’s smile widened. “Putting on your bad cop hat, huh?”
“Doc, you haven’t seen anything like bad yet. When we get—aw, hell, what’s this?”
“It sounds like a siren.”
“Was I speeding?”
“Unless the limit’s upward of ninety, yes.”
“Crap.” He slowed and pulled over.
The officer who approached the car did so with long, easy strides. He rested a forearm on the roof while Sig stretched back to snag the jacket behind him.
“Is there a problem, Officer?”
“Not unless you make one. Got your license with you?”
“Got better than that.” Sig fished in the pocket, handed Sera what she assumed was his lucky rock and produced his badge with a flourish.
“San Francisco, huh?”
She caught a trace of humor in the other cop’s drawl. His surprisingly sexy drawl, she thought. As for his features, she couldn’t see them under the brim of his hat.
She knew he glanced at her before pushing off. “Out of the car, please, Detective Rayburn.”
“Have I done something wrong?”
“Depends how fast you get out of the car.”
“Don’t move,” Sig told her. He had to shove twice on the door to open it. “You’re starting to piss me off here, Officer. I’m a detective with the San Francisco Police Department, homicide division. Who are you to be ordering me around like a common criminal?”
Sera saw the flash of a surprisingly attractive smile. “I clocked you at ninety-six miles an hour as you flew past Moss Creek.”
Sig’s balled right fist drew an even wider smile. A second later, her companion went from a short punch on the other cop’s shoulder to a backslapping hug.
It figured. Sera breathed out but couldn’t bring herself to be annoyed. It was such a predictable male game.
“I’m damn glad to see you, Logan.” Sig drew back, grinned. “How’d you know? License plate give me away? “
The taller man glanced from side to side. “This isn’t a car, Sig—it’s dented metal on wheels. One of a kind.” Without looking or pausing, he asked, “Does she know?”
Sig shook his head.
That did it. Shouldering her door open, Sera slid out. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but ‘she’ has a name. It’s Sera, and the reason she doesn’t know is because the man with the San Francisco badge refuses to tell her anything.”
“It’s for your own …”
“Protection. Got that one yesterday, Sig. But six diners, five gas stations and one truly crappy motel later, I think I’ve earned the right to know not only where we’re going, but also why a police officer in another state is better informed than I am.” She sent them a placid smile over the roof of the car. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
Apart from his badge and the lights on his Explorer, nothing about the man in front of her said law enforcement officer. He wore jeans and a short-sleeved black T-shirt. His boots were dusty, his hat was decidedly more cowboy than cop and if he was carrying a gun, Sera couldn’t see it.
Sig matched her smile as he turned to his friend. “Handful,” he said.
“See that,” the man replied. He nodded forward. “Nadine’ll be serving dinner about now. Her place is on the edge of town. You can follow me.” Although his eyes were shielded, Sera felt his gaze across the top of the car. “Nadine runs her grandfather’s diner, Dr. Hudson. You can ask your questions while we eat.” Nudging his hat forward so the brim hid the entire upper portion of his face, he added, “Assuming once they’re answered, you still want to eat.”
She wouldn’t react, Sera promised herself. That would be counterproductive. Instead, she let Sig concentrate on the road that wound away from the interstate through a majestic expanse of pines, boulders the size of city buildings and a steady stream of out-of-state trucks.
Five miles in, the truck traffic thinned, the boulders softened and houses began to appear. Farmhouses at first, followed by larger, turn-of-the-century homes that ambled back from tree-lined streets.
A rustic sign with a hand-carved mountain peak rising above a lake welcomed them to Blue Ridge, Home of the Happy Mountaineer. Population five thousand, six hundred and twenty-seven.
Sig glanced in the rearview mirror. “Do you see my smokes back there?”
“No, and I’m not digging through a pile of old food wrappers and napkins to find them. You’re a rolling health hazard, Detective Rayburn. Cigar stubs, cigarette butts and God knows how many million bacteria, all alive and thriving inside your vehicle. You inhale coffee like air, pour enough grease into your arteries to kill an elephant and probably haven’t gotten eight hours of smoke-free sleep since you joined the force.”
He chuckled. “You’re a shrink, Sera. What does a head doctor know about high cholesterol, lung disease and sleep deprivation? “
She lifted the dark hair from her neck. “Among other things, my uncle does a weekend medical clinic in Haight-Ashbury. I help out when he needs it, which is often because he tends to be overrun and doesn’t like to turn anyone away. How do you know him, Sig?” she asked after a brief pause. “The cop with the …” She started to say sexy mouth but changed it to “… black hat?”
He peered into the setting sun. “Oh, Logan and me go way back.” A finger tapped the windshield. “Is he pulling off the road? All I can see is dust.”
“Gravel parking lot.” She let her hair fall. “My skin hates you.”
“Your skin’s gorgeous, as, I trust, are your manners. Five stars …”
“Yes, I know. Only in the night sky. As long as the food’s recognizable, I’m good.”
And more than ready to stop, she realized, stretching her back as she slid from the car seat.
Every article of clothing she wore, from the pale-green linen halter to the white capris stuck to some part of her body. And it was going to be an adventure navigating the unpaved, pothole-filled parking lot in strappy three-inch heels.
A collection of trucks and SUVs sat at odd angles outside the weather-beaten one-story building whose sign read Frank’s Diner.
She stopped stretching to do a humorous double take down the side. “Are those horses?”
“The bay’s Billy the Kid. The black is Jesse James.”
She suppressed an urge to jump when the cop in jeans wrapped his fingers around her arm.
“Nadine’s grandfather swears one of his ancestors was related to Jesse.”
“So he named a horse after him.”