Lone Rider Bodyguard. Harper Allen
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half shrug she’d seen him give before, as if he were unconsciously trying to adjust the weight of a burden he couldn’t rid himself of. When he spoke there was a harsh edge to his voice.
“Want to hear something funny, Suze? When I looked at you I didn’t want to be me, either. And just for a while I persuaded myself there was a chance I could change.”
He exhaled tightly. “Bannerman might have taken your disappearance more seriously if anyone but me had reported it. I should have known I couldn’t wipe the past out by coming back here. Like Greta, I’ve never believed in miracles, so I don’t know why I let myself hope I’d been handed one.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, troubled by the bleakness in his words. A moment ago the man in front of her had been holding her so closely she’d been afraid she was in danger of losing herself in him. Now he seemed once again to be separated from her by an insurmountable wall—a wall not only isolating him from her, but from everything else around him. He turned to face her, his smile humorless.
“You don’t have to understand. All you have to know is that what just happened between us was a one-time only thing. For what it’s worth, you’ve got my word I won’t cross the line again.” He scrubbed his jaw with a weary hand. “I think it’s time you filled me in on the details. Do you have any idea who those men were or what they wanted from you?”
His change of subject was briskly abrupt, but probably that was for the best, she thought. Out of some sense of responsibility for her and the baby he’d helped deliver, Tye Adams had appointed himself her temporary protector, but that was as far as their relationship could go. From the start she’d known they came from two different worlds and although some part of her had fleetingly yearned to fit into his, she was too much Lacey Bird’s granddaughter ever to attempt to be something she wasn’t.
She had no idea why he’d kissed her. She frowned at the platter of ham and reached for the carving knife beside it before answering his question.
“I’ve never known who they are. As for what they want, the man who tried to kill me tonight said it was payback.” Carefully she concentrated on evening up the hacked surface of the meat and cutting two perfect slices. “After he was killed the police told me Frank hadn’t been a photojournalist like he’d always said, but a gambler and a small-time scam artist whose real name was probably Jerry Corning—although he’d used so many different aliases over the years they weren’t even sure of that. I guess one of his scams backfired on him in the end. Obviously not all of his marks were as gullible as I was.”
On her last sentence her voice wavered and to her chagrin the knife slipped in her hand, almost nicking her. Immediately Tye took the implement.
“Forget the damned cooking, I’ll rustle us up something.” Briskly he opened one of the lower cupboards and pulled out a cast-iron frypan. “I did KP duty here in my day, and while I never was the cook Jess or Connor was, I was a hell of a lot better than Riggs.”
He shot her a glance. “That’s right, honey. I was one of Del’s hell-raisers when I was a teen. I think that might have had something to do with Bannerman’s attitude tonight, since during our year at the ranch the four of us weren’t exactly popular with him.”
The man was impossible to read, Susannah thought helplessly. He had the good looks of a movie star, but from what he’d said he’d built up a business providing physical security for celebrities instead of becoming one himself. The privileged aura he unconsciously projected could only have come from a background of money and power so well entrenched he’d grown up taking it for granted, and yet apparently he’d come close to throwing it all away when he’d been younger.
Earlier tonight he’d been put into the position of having to kill a killer. If he felt any regret for taking a life, whatever the circumstances, he’d given no sign. But just now he’d brought up the subject of his past for the sole reason, she suspected, of distracting her from her own unhappy memories.
She smiled shakily at him. “I think my sympathies are with Sheriff Bannerman. You and your bad-boy friends must have torn up the county. No, Tye—” Firmly she took the pan from him. “I’d rather have something to do while I’m telling you my story, and kitchen work’s always been more of a comfort than a chore for me. Besides, that ham needs red-eye gravy, and I’ll bet a dollar a Californian like you doesn’t know the first thing about making it.”
“You’d win that dollar.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “All right, Suze, you get to cook. Do you trust me to get Dan the Man into something a little more like a real bed?”
“Dan the—” A few minutes ago she hadn’t imagined she would be capable of laughing, but the sound bubbling up from her throat definitely was a laugh, Susannah realized. And although she’d even had foolish, first-mama nerves when Greta had asked once or twice if she could put Danny to bed, for some reason she had no qualms about Tye’s competence in tucking her baby in. Well, almost no qualms, she admitted.
“Line the dresser drawer with something padded,” she said as he lifted the carry-cot and its tiny occupant from the table. “And Tye—he likes his blanket up to his chest, no farther. But don’t cover his hands, because then he’ll wake up for sure and start fretting—”
“Wonder where he gets that from?” His question was accompanied by the slightest of smiles. “Hey, lady—don’t forget I was the first one to hold the little guy. As I recall, I didn’t give you any static when you asked me to hand him over for a while.”
“That’s true.” A second soft bubble of laughter rose up in her. With exaggerated deliberation, she turned away, reaching for the bowl of eggs as she slid the pan on the burner.
“Suze?”
At the unexpectedly tentative note in his voice her pose of unconcern fled. Glancing quickly at him, she saw that he’d paused in the doorway. His gaze met hers, the humor that had lit his eyes only a moment ago no longer in evidence.
“Were you very much in love with him?” he asked softly. Even as the words left his lips he frowned impatiently. “Sorry, stupid question. Of course you were—the man was your husband, for God’s sake.” He turned toward the hall, but before he could take a second step, Susannah spoke, her own tone as low as his had been.
“Yes, Frank Barrett was my husband. And twelve hours after I became his wife I was a widow.”
Blindly she extracted an egg from the bowl, finding its cool, spherical surface somehow comforting.
“He was killed the morning after our wedding night, while I was out walking along the beach wondering if there was any way I could undo the mistake I’d made in marrying him.”
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