A Secret In Conard County. Rachel Lee
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they are. Then the waiting game begins.”
He opened her door, and she twisted gingerly on the seat, finally putting her feet on the ground and pausing a minute. “You won’t count too much on not being found?”
“Of course not. Everyone can be found if they have an address. What we’re hoping is that this might stall him a while if he shows up. Nobody knows you’re staying with me except the sheriff and the other guys who’ll be watching over you, okay? Your ASAC was clear about not revealing your whereabouts.”
As the inevitable pain eased, she pushed out and stood. “So I’m in a safe house anyway.”
“Kinda,” he admitted. “But not exactly. I called in your ID, you told your friend about me. If this guy is halfway smart and actually comes here, sooner or later it’s going to occur to him where you might be.”
She couldn’t deny that. “We have to be ready.” Always plan for any eventuality. That had been drilled into her. The most remote possibility sometimes happened.
“We’ll be as ready as we can.”
She turned a little, looking from the snug little house to him. “Lance? Are you sure you want to take this risk?”
His blue-green eyes met hers steadily. “Isn’t this what we do, Agent?”
Hesitantly she nodded, acknowledging the truth of it.
“One cop to another, I’d do this. But oddly...” He rubbed his chin, staring past her over the prairie to the mountains. “Oddly enough, I’m developing a real need to catch this SOB. So buckle your seat belt, Erin. You’re not alone in this.”
“I never was,” she argued.
“Until you left home. But now you’re with people who have just one ax to grind. Catching this guy.”
What an odd way to phrase it, she thought. Ax to grind? Did he think someone at her field office had it in for her? That revealing her identity hadn’t just been a slipup?
But as he carried her bags inside, leaving it to her to decide when she’d follow, she ran through everyone she knew back home, and couldn’t think of a single one who might want to put her in harm’s way.
That didn’t mean there wasn’t anyone, just that she couldn’t imagine who.
Sighing, gathering herself, she headed for the porch. Two steps. She laid her hand on the rail and was relieved that she could climb without clinging to it. Getting better indeed.
* * *
Lance watched her ease into the house after he put her bags atop the dresser in his spare room. He felt an urge to wince for her, her caution and slowness giving away her discomfort even if she managed to avoid letting a grimace reach her face. He knew what a bullet could do, but clearly she had been injured by the bomb that destroyed her house, tree or no tree. Falling debris, maybe? The blast wave? He had no idea what kind of injuries she had survived and didn’t know how to ask. Seeing her move was a painful experience unto itself.
He watched her step through the door straight into his small living room, and glance around. Hardly something out of an interior design magazine, but comfortable and marked by long years. A battered chintz-covered couch, a wooden rocker with pillows, a braided rug.
“Have a seat if you want,” he suggested, “or explore. Single story, so your bedroom is in the back on the left. Kitchen is through there,” he said, pointing. “And you get your own bathroom.”
She glanced at him. “In a house this size?”
He flashed a smile. “I shared this house with my mother until she died. Two bathrooms were essential. Coffee? I can’t make you a latte, I’m afraid.”
“Coffee would be great. I need to stay awake.”
She needed more than that, he thought, and was relieved to see her at last settle into a padded rocker. It was almost like watching someone who was just learning how to use a body. “How about a pain pill to go with it?”
“You a pusher?” she asked, and he was relieved to hear the teasing note in her voice.
“Hey, if there’s any time it would be safe to stuff your brain with cotton, the next few hours are probably it.”
She just shook her head. “I’ll get some ibuprofen in a minute.”
Well, he could provide that as well as the coffee. In his kitchen—a comfortable room because his mother had made it so over the years—he started the drip coffeemaker and got a glass of water and the bottle of ibuprofen. He carried both back to her immediately, and she accepted them with thanks.
“I’m gonna step outside for a few minutes. Give me your keys and I’ll put your car in the garage. I’ll be back by the time the coffee’s ready.”
She simply nodded as she tipped two pills into her hand.
He walked out the front door and stood without moving for a while, feeling a bit like an old goat. Not that he was all that old, but that woman was raising his flagpole, as it were. He felt guilty as sin for even having such feelings when she was so clearly in recovery, but she appealed to him on the most basic level. He’d have bet the homestead that she wouldn’t like that either.
Regardless, he needed a few minutes to clear his head and get back on the real purpose of her being here. They had work to do, and no time for dalliances, even presuming she’d tolerate it.
The air held the musty, dusty, not-quite-green scent of midsummer. The world still hadn’t completely dried out from winter and spring, but it was on the way. They badly needed some rain, but he knew better than to wish for it. At this time of year, ponds were starting to dry up and only the toughest, hardiest of plants could make it. In a few weeks, dang near everything would be brown. That the mountains were still somehow managing to dump water into the creeks was amazing, but most of them wouldn’t be running for long.
But thinking about rain wasn’t helping him either. He stepped off the porch, sank into her small car and put it in his aging detached garage. Then he walked around the outside of his house, trying to make a professional judgment about what needed doing to keep Erin as safe as possible. The guys coming tonight would probably have more ideas than he, because they had more experience at this kind of thing.
But for now he looked at the windows, which no longer seemed like such a good thing to have, and the three doors, which was two doors too many right now.
He needed more information about the kind of man who was coming after her, more than that he liked to blow up women. They must have been piecing together some kind of profile, and Lance needed to know what was in it. Impossible to guard against the complete unknown.
And he was just wasting time and he knew it. Whatever demons this woman unleashed in him, he needed to bury them.
Finally giving up his search for a way to ignore his response to her, he went back inside. She was still awake, sitting in the rocker, and from the way she jerked when he came in she hadn’t quite left fear behind her. She covered quickly, however. He had to give her that.
But what kind of person wouldn’t be afraid after what she’d been through?
“I’ll get the coffee,” he said. “You want anything in it?”
“Just enough milk to lighten it a bit, if that’s okay.”
“Not a problem.” He hung his hat on the coat tree by the door, then hesitated only a moment before removing his gun belt. He doubted the guy could find the place this quickly unless he was a psychic, and Erin was armed anyway. She could probably draw fast enough if necessary, despite her wounds. He did lock the door, though, something he rarely did out here.
He filled two large mugs with coffee and carried them back to the living room. He found her sitting bolt upright in the rocker.
“Erin? What’s wrong?”
She