by Hinze, Vicki
The dog didn’t move. “He’s fine,” Della said.
Warny pulled out a red-and-white handkerchief and swiped his face and neck. “I’m gonna saddle up Thunder—he needs the exercise, right leg’s stiffening up on him—and ride the fence. Make sure no varmints have gotten in.”
“Good idea.” Paul got back into the car. “You want me to throw the beast out?”
Jake grumbled at Paul. Della bit back a smile. “No, I like him close.” She petted Jake’s scruff. He rewarded her with an arm lick. “Should Warny be riding the fence at his age on a horse named Thunder?”
Paul nodded. “Thunder’s a rescued horse. His running is a slow walk. It’s good for the horse and good for Warny. They’ll be fine.”
“So you rescue horses, too?”
“Too?”
“Vets, horses, me.”
One hand on the wheel, the other on the gearshift, Paul paused. “You want the truth?”
“Always.”
“I don’t rescue any of you. You rescue me.”
That comment echoed through Della’s mind for a long time.
* * *
Miss Addie’s North Bay Café was hopping. The lunchtime crowd was out in force, though the old lady and that stupid kid were nowhere to be found.
He sat in his car in the parking lot, the pod in his ear, and admitted that the device he’d planted inside Madison McKay’s office might have been a mistake. The woman didn’t spend much time there. He’d have been better off to plant the bug in Mrs. Renault’s office.
He tapped his blue shoe on the floorboard. There hadn’t been an opportunity while repairing the flats to make multiple insertions. Just as there hadn’t been an opportunity to do anything but ditch the mower before that kid pointed him out to Mason or Cray.
Patience. Whatever they were up to would be clear soon enough.
He grunted. The problem wasn’t patience. The problem was he’d been delayed in traffic by that stunt Paul Mason and Jimmy had pulled to ditch the cop. Now he had no idea where Della was, and that was not acceptable.
Next door at Lost, Inc., Madison whipped into the parking lot in her sleek silver Jag and Deaver pulled in behind her in his red Jeep. Apparently they were continuing the argument that had started during their phone call while she was at the hospital. Funny how nobody pays attention to a guy pushing a bucket and a mop. Della stalking herself. What a joke. Deaver was too smart to believe that, and Madison flatly rejected it. She was a smart woman. Beautiful, too. But she had moments of brilliance, and moments weren’t enough. Sequester Della at a gulf-front location? He harrumphed.
Paul Mason would never agree to that. In his intelligence days, he’d risen through the ranks on guts, brains and skill. At times, he’d been beyond brilliant and he had uncanny instincts. No way would he make a rookie mistake like that if he had any other choice. And he had plenty of choices.
“You quit?” The listening device transmitted Madison’s stunned voice. “Are you serious?”
“As a stroke.” Deaver’s voice elevated. “I don’t need this job. I wanted it because I like what you’re doing here. But I can’t do anything worth doing if you don’t trust me.”
“I can’t trust you,” she said on a rush.
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to discuss it.”
“Too bad. I do.”
“I can’t trust you because...” She paused, her voice softening “You’re getting to me, Grant.”
“Well, since it’s mutual, isn’t that a good thing?”
“No,” she insisted. “It’s an awful thing—and lousy timing.”
“What I’m feeling is rare, and in my book, that makes it a good thing anytime.”
“Rare? Really?”
“Really.”
Silence.
He was kissing her.
In the car, he smiled around the straw pressed between his lips and sipped, tapping the steering wheel.
Things couldn’t be going better. In no time he’d know exactly where Della was. Exactly.
And then he’d kill her.
EIGHT
Paul’s sprawling house wasn’t the swanky bachelor pad Della had expected to see before her first visit here. It was a two-story, white-clapboard home, perfectly maintained and well furnished in warm tones and oversized furniture that invited guests to make themselves comfortable and to feel at home.
Della walked into the living room and couldn’t help mentally comparing its welcome to her own living room’s barrenness. “It’s not human for a house to have this much stuff in it and still be this clean.” She smiled over at him.
“It’s been home for a long time. You accumulate stuff.” He blinked. “Well, most people do. It’s an unspoken rule, like the washing machine eating socks.”
“So that’s where they go. Finally the mystery is solved.” She laughed because she was supposed to do so, but her cheeks went hot. In three years, she hadn’t accumulated more than a couple of spare towels. Walking closer to the piano in the corner, she studied the photos atop it. There were dozens framed of Maggie and two of Paul, both taken when he was in his teens. Oh, there was a third one in back, buried in with Maggie’s. His military photo, the kind taken with the flag after basic training. “Where are your other photos?”
“There aren’t any.” He didn’t seem at all bothered by that. “Maggie wasn’t old enough to handle the camera.”
“What about your folks?” Their first child and they never held a camera? She’d taken hundreds of photos of Danny—and didn’t have even the one in her personal effects that had been lost in transit along with her bags when she’d returned from Afghanistan. She’d kept it in her Bible, had studied it and the Word every day. Her heart twisted. Della wrapped herself with her arms. “Didn’t they take pictures of you guys?”
“Not that I recall.” He started toward the back of the house. “I’m starving. Want some lunch?”
Her heart hitched. He seemed so unaffected, so matter-of-fact about his distant parents. He loved them, and he absolutely loved Maggie to distraction. But when he was a boy, had anyone loved him? Had anyone loved the man?
The reason having a family was so important to him grew clear. A little sad for him, and still woozy from the shot she’d been given before leaving the hospital, she followed him into the kitchen.
It was a long room. White cabinets and granite countertops littered with small appliances, a bowl of fresh fruit, a candy jar with what looked like a musical top—no snitching undetected from that one. Stainless double sink, double wall ovens and three wide windows behind the table. There was a gourmet center behind louver doors that stood open. “Your mother must have enjoyed cooking.”
“She hated it more than you do. But my grandmother loved it.”
He thought she hated cooking. Reasonable deduction, considering she ate every meal out. “So your grandmother designed this space?”
“She and my grandfather built it with lumber off the land.” He was proud of his heritage, and his family. Odd, considering. “Did you know your grandparents?”
“They died when I was little. I didn’t see them much. They loved to travel.”
“Ah.” No grandparents to love the boy, either. Della’s chest squeezed. She’d give anything for the chance to love her son and his family. His had the chance and treated him as an afterthought.
Life was strange.
Together, they made sandwiches, pulled out pickles, chunks of cheddar cheese and chips. At the fridge, Paul asked, “Soda, sweet tea or apple juice?”
“Sweet tea.” Della set the plates of food on the table. Suddenly tons of questions about him and his life fired through her mind. Being here, seeing him in his home in a way she never had before...why in the world did he bother with her?
“You’re worrying again.”
“No, not worrying. Thinking.” She sat down. “I wish we’d get this stalker thing resolved—being set up irks me—but it doesn’t feel quite as urgent on the ranch a
s it did when we were in North Bay.” She smiled. “Or is that the medicine?”
“Probably a little of both.” He set napkins near their plates, then took his seat, briefly bowed his head and looked over at her. “I’m glad you feel safe.”
“It’s wonderful out here.”
His eyes widened, his jaw dropped just a touch and his eyebrows shot up a fraction in mild surprise. “You like the ranch?”
“I’ve always loved your ranch.” She took a bite of turkey and Swiss, chewed, then swallowed. “What’s not to love? It’s gorgeous.”
“It’s isolated.” He bit into his sandwich.
She snagged a chip. “More private, I’d say.”
He swallowed. “Remote.”
“Spacious.” She bit it, relished the salty crunch.
“Not too rural?”
She laughed.
“What?”
“You think this is rural?” She shook her head. “You’re so funny, Paul.”
He dabbed at his lips. Set down his sandwich and took a sip of tea. “I am?”
“I grew up on a thousand acres of scrub brush. It was forty miles to the nearest store. We had to truck in water.” She chuckled. “That’s rural.”
“Where was this?”
“In New Mexico.”
He crunched down on a pickle spear. “I’m sure you hated it.”
“No, I loved it.” She shrugged. “It was different than this, but beautiful, too.”
He seemed shocked but pleased, and stopped chewing. “So you really think the ranch is beautiful?”
“Definitely.” Hadn’t she ever told him this? “Especially the stream. I love the stream.” He called it a creek. They’d had several group functions out there and a few picnics in the spring.
“I had no idea. I haven’t invited you out here for a while because I thought you hated it and just agreed to come out of kindness.”
“Why in the world would you think that?” The tart pickle puckered her mouth.
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I just thought you did.”
“Well, I don’t. Hmmph,” she grunted. “I guess I’d better tell you what I’m thinking more often.”
“That would be...good.” He lifted a chip. “I’m learning you’re a little hard to figure out sometimes.”
But he saw inside her far too often. “Aren’t we all?”
He gave her that lazy smile. “Yeah, I guess we are.”
She saved a bite of sandwich for Jake. “You going to fuss at me if I give this to him?”
“No. I do it myself all the time.” He grinned at the dog, sitting statue still, watching every bite they took. “That’s why the little beggar is behaving. If he acts out, he doesn’t get it.”
“I see.” She dipped her hand down and fed Jake the last bite. She reached back to her plate for a pickle spear. “Here, have a party.”
“That he probably won’t eat. He prefers sweet pickles.”
“Me, too.” Della laughed.
Paul’s eyes twinkled. “I’m humbled.”
“Are you?” Paul humbled was quite appealing. She tilted her head. “Why?”
“Della Jackson, letting me into her private world.” He reached across the table and clasped her hand. “I hadn’t given up, but I have to say I’ve wondered if it’d ever happen.”
“I’m sorry.” Shame burned inside her. “You’ve been so good to me and I’ve been so selfish with you. Why you tolerate me, I have no clue.”
“I don’t tolerate you. I appreciate you.” He dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “I respect you, Della. You’re beautiful inside and out, and I trust you.”
Her eyes burned. He was such a good man who gave so much and asked so little. “I’ve been selfish with you.” The absence of photos of him made her feel even worse. Clearly, he’d been shut out in his own family and in many ways, she’d shut him out, too. “If you want to know something, you could just ask.”
“I’ve picked up a lot.” The look in his eyes turned serious. “There are things I’d like to know, but they can wait.”
“For what?”
“You to tell me because you want me to know.” His expression went cryptic. “Warny taught me that a wise man never spurs a wounded horse. Spurring a wounded woman is even dumber. It never turns out well.”
She smiled, but the truth in his words wasn’t lost on her. In the past, she would have resented questions, been defensive and distanced herself from him. She regretted that now for both of them. “You are so wise.”
* * *
She loved his ranch. Filled his kitchen with laughter and banter and simple conversation during the typically lonely mealtime. If Paul hadn’t already been crazy about the woman, those things would have enchanted him, but her saving a bite for Jake just as Paul did...that would have knocked him over the edge.
Since he was already over the edge in love and he’d finally accepted it, she had him free-falling into what he feared would be a deep, deep heartbreak pit. Falling in love with a woman bent on never loving again wasn’t the smartest move a man could make. So much for being wise, buddy.
Unfortunately, knowing it and not doing it were two different things. Where Della Jackson was concerned, he just couldn’t seem to keep his logic and brain engaged and his sense front and center. His heart had its own ideas and it was bent on swan-diving into the pit and plunging the rest of him with it to its deepest depths.
He settled Della into a guest room next door to the master suite, and viewed it through her eyes. It was a large room, with buttery-yellow walls, white sheer curtains at the long windows and a four-poster bed that had been built by his grandfather as a wedding gift to his grandmother. In those days, they were land rich and money poor. He’d cut down the oak, planed the wood and built the entire bedroom set of furniture himself. And it was as beautiful now as it had been two generations ago.
Della loved it. She ran her fingertips along the wood, oohed and aahed, and when he told her the story of how it came to be, she got really quiet. So quiet, it worried him. “Did that story upset you?”
“No.” She looked down at the floor. “I guess I just wondered what it’d be like.”
“What what would be like?”
“Being loved that much.” She gave him a shy, weary smile. “I think I need to sleep for a while. I’m getting goofy in the head again.”
“Hurt?”
“No, no headache. Just goofy.”
Emotional, he thought. And afraid of it—or of admitting it. “You get some rest, then. I’ll go check the horses and make sure Warny is okay. He’s been gone over an hour. That’s probably pushing it a little for Thunder.”
She nodded, stepped out of her shoes and set her purse on a chair near the window. “Okay.”
“If you need me, there’s a panic button right beside the headboard on the wall. Just push it and I’ll be right here.”
“Thanks, Paul.”
He smiled, left her room and eased the door closed. Jake stood waiting in the hallway. Paul pointed to Della’s door. “Guard.”
Jake dropped onto his haunches in the center of the doorway and sat alert.
“Good boy.” Paul ruffled his scruff and then went downstairs.
In a little anteroom near the back door, he checked the surveillance cameras that filled an entire wall in the eight-by-eight room. Every inch of his land was under camera. Middle row, third camera, he spotted Warny on Thunder lumbering along the fence line. He appeared fine; so did Thunder and the fence. Scanning the other monitors, Paul didn’t spot anyone or anything out of place.
Breathing a little easier, he took a shower, changed into jeans and a fresh shirt, and then headed out to the barn. Della was warming up to him. Getting used to him. Maybe accepting him.
* * *
On Tuesday, he and Della exercised the horses. He knew she could ride, and likely had ridden as a kid in their rural area, but he didn’t know her skill level. Regardless, he insisted they take it easy. The last thing
she needed was a fall to complicate her head injury, though honestly the woman didn’t act or seem injured anymore. She wasn’t her usual sharp-witted self, more pensive and quiet, but that was a normal reaction to someone being targeted and under intense scrutiny. Actually, her reaction to all that had happened was admirable. Strength under fire and—defending Jeff, giving him the benefit of doubt—grace under fire, as well. Della might be wounded, but this stalker and setup hadn’t broken her.
Dark thoughts about that intruded. Maybe it hadn’t broken her because Danny’s death and Jeff’s blaming and abandoning her already had. Could you break the already broken?
If Paul had learned nothing else during the worst of Maggie’s ordeal, he’d learned that when you’ve been dragged through the bowels of despair, it takes a lot to take you there a second time. His parents had managed to do it, skating out on Maggie when she was clinging to life by a thread. He hadn’t expected any different, but Maggie had been devastated by their early return to Costa Rica. His fault. He shouldn’t have protected her from their indifference, acting as a buffer, making excuses. He hadn’t meant to do so. He just hadn’t wanted her to be hurt and forced to accept that they were so self-absorbed and lost in each other there wasn’t room for their kids. He’d been there and done that. No way had he wanted Maggie to feel as worthless and unwanted as he’d felt. In the end, she did anyway, except she’d had him, and she knew beyond any doubt her brother loved her unconditionally. Best investment he’d made in his life had nothing to do with money and everything to do with Maggie. She grew up sure she was loved.
But even with all that in mind, Della’s situation was different. Her being under attack, in her eyes, didn’t hold a candle to her son’s murder. Very difficult, if not impossible, to break her again on anything else after she had endured that.
On Wednesday, Madison called. No activity on the Seaside property yet. She didn’t know what to make of this, but considered it too soon to draw any conclusions about Grant Deaver or General Talbot and Colonel Dayton—though Madison did admit she was encouraged. Grant clearly was trying to earn her trust. Della’s and Miss Addie’s cottages were both fine, and Mr. Blue Shoes hadn’t come back for the lawn mower. No new attempted attacks to report.