When Danger Calls (Blackthorne, Inc.)

by Terry Odell

  The other side of the spreadsheet filled with possibilities. Bob could be stringing Mom along. Pretending they'd get married. No. Mom wasn't that easily fooled. Was she?

  Frankie told herself she was jumping to too many conclusions. Mom must know what she was doing. Bob really had a sister in California. Ryan had said so. Mom had found someone who made her happy. And when Mom and Bob got married, maybe they'd be willing to renegotiate the access rights with Angus Harper.

  Before she crawled into bed, she fetched her purse and dug for her cell phone. She plugged it into the charger and set it on the nightstand. The phone gave a quiet chirp when it began to charge, and the display light drew her in. She was exhausted, but it wasn't really that late, was it? Not even ten. Ryan wouldn't be asleep yet, would he? She told herself she was calling to let him know he didn't need to look into Bob's background anymore. No point in him wasting time on his secret hacking, or whatever he did. She owed him the call.

  Now that she'd convinced herself she wasn't calling merely to prolong the evening, she picked up the phone and punched in his number. She clicked off the lamp and settled under the covers while she waited for the call to go through. He'd smiled a lot today, and she enjoyed the memory. He'd seemed comfortable. In charge. Relaxed.

  "Harper."

  His voice sounded anything but relaxed.

  "I'm bothering you. I'm sorry. I thought…I wanted to say we got home okay and you don't have to help us anymore because Bob is going to marry my mother, and his sister had a stroke, and Mom's going to California—"

  "Frankie. Stop."

  Even in the darkened room, she knew her face glowed like a mountain sunrise. "Sorry."

  The creak of wood and the faint chirps of crickets came though the phone. "It's okay. I'm getting used to it."

  "Are you all right? You sound kind of depressed."

  "Fine."

  She knew he wasn't.

  "You're outside, aren't you? Sitting on the log bench. Wolf's lying at your feet. Can you see the moon? Any stars out?"

  His voice was husky when he answered. "Moon's a shade under half. Too many trees to make out the stars. Have to get up higher, or out to the meadow to see them."

  "I'd love to photograph that someday. Maybe when the moon is full."

  "Maybe…" His voice faded to silence.

  "Tell me what's bothering you."

  "Nothing I can't deal with."

  From the hardness in his tone, she knew he'd barricaded himself again. "When you're ready, I'll listen. I'll let you go." When he didn't respond, she said, "Good night." She had her finger over the 'end' button, but she heard him, even though the phone was away from her ear.

  "Wait. Please."

  It was the voice she'd heard at the hospital. Broken. Naked. She brought the phone back. "I'm here. What do you need?"

  "Just…just talk to me awhile, okay?" He cleared his throat.

  She curled on her side and pulled the covers over her shoulders. "Sure. What do you want to talk about?"

  "Tell me about your mom. Did you ask her about the money?" His control had returned.

  "Not yet. She said Bob wanted to marry her. I figure they probably opened a joint account. She seems to love him. I can't deny her that happiness. It's not like he's marrying her for her money—she doesn't have much."

  "Did you ask her about the land deal?"

  "We're going to talk tomorrow. There's lots to figure out."

  There was an empty silence before he spoke. "What about you? Will you stay in Broken Bow?"

  "I can't think about that yet." She tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle a yawn.

  "You're tired. I should let you go."

  "I suppose."

  "Frankie?"

  "Yes?"

  "I'm glad you called."

  His voice was a warm caress. She envisioned him smiling now, with that dimple etched in his cheek. "Me, too."

  "Oh, and I forgot. Pop said you and Molly should come out on Friday's trail ride. If you want to, that is."

  In the mountains with Ryan. Of course she wanted to. She could see him on horseback, controlling a ton of horseflesh between his legs. Good grief, what was she thinking? It wasn't smart. She wasn't looking for a relationship, she reminded herself. And not one with someone like Ryan. Relationships were forever, and she'd had her last fling years ago.

  "Molly's kind of little for a horse, isn't she? I'm not sure."

  "We have a mule she can ride—gentle as can be, and he'd be dallied to my horse."

  "Dallied?"

  "I'll have him on a rope around my saddle horn. It's safe. We do it all the time."

  If he wanted her there, why didn't he say so? Or was this a favor to his father?

  "I'll let you know tomorrow, okay?" For once, she wasn't going to jump in without thinking things through. Like she should have when he'd asked her for a ride at the hospital.

  "It would be a good way for you to see what the rides are like—how they give folks a look at the countryside. Maybe help convince your mom not to sell."

  Of course. It was all a business deal.

  "I'd already told you I'd help. You and your father don't need to convince me. It's a matter of finances."

  "Of course." His voice dropped ten degrees. "Let me know."

  "Good night." She mashed the button to end the call. Then she mashed her pillow. What was she thinking? She should have told him no as soon as he asked. Ryan was not the sort of person to get involved with. Molly needed someone stable. Someone who would be her father. Not someone who cleared a room with a gun instead of a vacuum cleaner.

  Chapter 16

  "Call it a night, son. You been staring at that screen all day. Most of last night, too. Can't be good for you."

  Ryan rubbed his eyes and closed the laptop. "You're probably right." He'd gone to the Three Elks after Frankie had called, downloading file after file for transfer to his laptop. Countless computer searches, countless dead ends, but he'd found too many coincidences. Too many times when Dalton's whereabouts coincided with the Phantom's. Finding out his best friend might be a ruthless mercenary at best, a traitor at worst, made him sick inside.

  Part of him refused to believe it. That part shrank with each new piece of the puzzle. "I'll call it a night."

  "Hit the rack—you need to be sharp tomorrow. Bunk here if you want."

  Right—leading some tourists through the mountains, playing ambassador for Mother Nature. Normally, he enjoyed showing off the land. Frankie hadn't called, though, and he realized how much he'd looked forward to sharing it with her.

  "No, I'll go to the cabin. See you tomorrow."

  Despite every intention of crashing at the cabin, he turned left instead of right at the end of the ranch drive, and found himself sitting in the parking lot outside the Three Elks again. The sight of Frankie's Cavalier was enough to accelerate his pulse.

  One look, he told himself. One look to make sure she was all right. That her cold hadn't gotten worse. He wouldn't even go in—one quick look through the half-curtained window.

  Standing in the shadows outside the saloon, he watched Frankie bend low as she served drinks, sashay her hips as she walked between tables, nod and smile as men's eyes roamed up and down her body. One extended his hand, and Frankie took it in hers as he scooted out of the booth. The man led her to the dance floor. She followed, more stable on her high-heeled shoes than when he'd first seen her.

  His fingers curled into fists in the pockets of his denim jacket. She was working. That was her job, and she needed the money. She couldn't possibly like it. The smiles she gave weren't real. Not like the ones she'd smiled for him. The ones that ignited a spark in his chest.

  He was at the door, one hand on the metal handle. It opened, pushing him backward. A middle-aged couple breezed past him, arm in arm, laughing. The warm air, scented with beer, followed them out the door. He swore he caught a whiff of Frankie's scent. Impossible. He was exhausted, that was all. Little sleep and staring at a computer m
onitor for the better part of twenty-four hours led to mild hallucinations. Like hearing Frankie's voice above the music. He could walk to the bar a few blocks away, where he might find someone looking for mindless escape. Stupid. What he should do was get into his truck, drive back to the cabin, and sleep for ten hours. Or a week.

  With a grumbled curse, he slipped inside before the door closed.

  He paused in the entry, scanning the room, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. Stubby gave him a quick nod, and the red-headed waitress approached.

  "Jack," he said and went to the padded bench against the wall where he could see the dance floor. The small tables in front of the bench were littered with empty glasses and crumb-filled snack bowls. The waitress—Belle, according to her nametag—set his drink in front of him, clearing the remnants of the previous occupants and giving the table a swipe with a damp cloth.

  She straightened the chairs. "You want to run a tab again tonight?"

  He nodded, trying to see around her to the dancers. When she withdrew, his eyes picked Frankie out of the crowd. Her partner was short and broad, with a bad comb-over and a belly that spilled over his belt. She smiled, nodded, gazed into the man's eyes. Damn, she could at least look bored.

  The man's hand strayed from Frankie's waist toward her bottom. Without breaking stride or losing her smile, she lifted it back to her waist. The man leered, the hand slid downward, and he whispered in her ear. She smiled, shook her head and once again moved it to her waist, anchoring it with her hand.

  Ryan pounded back his drink. The whiskey burned all the way down. No upgrades from Belle. He stomped to the dance floor and tapped the man on the shoulder. "May I cut in?"

  "I don't think so, bud. You can have her when the dance is over, but me and the lady are having a fine time. Isn't that right, Gladys?"

  Frankie looked up at him, her face crimson. Was there anything behind that carefully guarded expression that said she was glad he was there? He felt as if he'd spent the last fifteen years of his life mopping floors for all the good his training was doing now.

  The smile she gave him was no warmer than the one she'd been giving her customers. "Sir, no cutting is a house rule. But I'll be happy to save the next dance for you."

  He nodded and clapped the man on the shoulder. "Fine, bud, but I strongly suggest you keep your hands where they belong."

  The man met his gaze, held it for a fraction of a second, and Ryan saw the flash of fear he'd put there. Great. Now he was intimidating fat, defenseless civilians. He slunk back to his seat, where Belle had set another drink. Disgusted when he recognized his response to the man as jealousy, he shoved the glass aside and searched for hidden pictures in the scratches on the wooden tabletop. He didn't do relationships. How could he be jealous?

  For the next fifteen minutes, Frankie went about her waitress duties without so much as an acknowledging glance in his direction. When he managed to catch her eye, the daggers she shot at him made him wince. He lifted his hands, palms up in apologetic supplication. After glancing around the room, apparently satisfied that she wasn't needed, she marched to his table.

  "What was that about?" she said. "I'm at work here. I can handle myself."

  "I know. I'm sorry. Please don't be mad at me anymore." He tapped his watch. "It's been over ten minutes."

  He didn't get the smile he expected. Hoped for. Needed. The light was a little better here than on the dance floor, and he noticed the shadows under her eyes that makeup couldn't disguise. Stubby signaled from the bar.

  She nodded to the bartender, then turned back. "I have to go. Maybe you should, too."

  She approached the bar, and Stubby leaned forward, his hands on the counter. Ryan watched as Stubby glared in his direction, then spoke to Frankie. She shook her head, and her shoulders slumped. After a moment, she straightened her back, lifted her head and took a tray of drinks to a table at the other end of the room. Her dancing partner was nowhere to be seen.

  Leaving his drink and a twenty on the table, he retreated into the night air, walking to the end of the block and back. Neither the air nor the exercise untied the knots in his gut.

  Half an hour later, sitting on the hood of Frankie's Cavalier, he saw her descend the saloon's rear steps. Her head was down, and her hair hung loose, swaying as she walked. Dressed in khakis and a blue pullover sweater, she carried a denim tote, which he assumed contained her Gladys clothing. Although she'd parked her car under a light, there was none between the saloon's back door and where he stood. Even in shadow, he knew her stride, the way she carried herself.

  Five paces from the car, she stopped and pulled a small pouch from the bag. Fumbling for a moment, she extracted her keys and resumed walking. Although her gaze was on the pavement, he knew the instant she sensed him. Her head snapped up, and her eyes locked onto him.

  "Why are you here?" she said.

  Her tone was flat, but at least there was no anger. He answered with the truth. "I don't really know."

  *****

  She was doing all right with her plan to forget Ryan Harper, until she saw him. Why had he shown up tonight? And why had he waited? He could build walls to conceal his feelings. Maybe she should work on that. She steeled herself, trying to avoid the vulnerability in his eyes, a look she knew he rarely allowed to show.

  "Frankie. I'm sorry. I don't know why I did that. He had his hand on you, and something snapped."

  "Mr. Stubbs doesn't let things get out of hand." She kept her tone matter of fact. "I have to go home now. I think you should do the same. Maybe get some sleep. I don't need you interfering with my job."

  "I'd like to talk to you. What about a cup of coffee?"

  "In case you've forgotten, I have a child. The sitter's waiting, and time is money, Mr. Harper. And I might have a little more of it if someone hadn't pissed off one of my customers. He gave me a buck. Total. Rang up a sixty-five dollar tab for his table, I danced with him three times, and then you show up and I get one lousy dollar."

  He had the decency to look chagrined. He reached into his wallet and held out a twenty. "Will that make up for it"

  She refrained from grabbing the bill and ripping it in two. "It's not about the money. You can't buy my forgiveness."

  He lowered his gaze for a moment. "I wasn't trying to do that." When he looked up, his expression was contrite. "I'm not doing very well, am I?"

  She banked her anger. He held out the bill again. "Please. I cost you your tip because I was acting like an idiot."

  She couldn't hold back a smile. "I'll agree with you on that one. But I take money from customers as part of my job. I don't take money from friends."

  He gave her a lopsided grin, and the dimple it revealed melted the last remnant of her anger.

  He pocketed the bill. "Glad I fit in that category. So, how about that coffee, friend? I'll pay the sitter, okay? I assumed your mom was home."

  She shook her head. "She's not, but that's another story." One she wasn't ready to get into. Not with Ryan. She hadn't dealt with it herself yet.

  "My sitter has a curfew, and I have to get back." She cocked her head. "Think about that. I'm a mother. My time isn't my own. My life isn't my own. If you want to spend time with me, you have to share. You need to understand that right now. Please get off my car."

  He slid off the hood and took the keys from her hand. "Allow me." He unlocked the door and held it open. Before she could get in, he grasped her wrist. Turned those whiskey eyes to her.

  With a forefinger, he traced what she knew were purple shadows underneath her eyes. "Are you okay?" he asked. "Did your mom explain the money?"

  Mom. Who had been gone when Frankie awoke. Unable to talk, she shook her head. She wasn't going to cry. She never cried.

  "Will you come to the ranch tomorrow, then?"

  "Maybe." She lifted her chin and met his gaze. "If you tell me why I should."

  He opened his mouth, then closed it. Ran his thumb along her jaw line. "Because I want to see you again."
There was the slightest pause before he added, "And Molly."

  His fingers spread, cupping her chin, and he raised her face higher. Lowered his. Her heart thudded against her ribs.

  "I want one minute of only you, Frankie." His voice growled up from somewhere deep inside. His lips brushed hers, ever so gently. Nothing like the angry passion he'd shown the other day. She knew he'd release her if she pulled away. Knowing was enough.

  She parted her lips. Invited him with the tip of her tongue. She heard something between a gasp and a groan as he pulled her against him. The sound of keys jingling to the ground was like celebratory music. His hands reached behind her head, fingers ran through her hair.

  His tongue met hers in a mating dance. He tasted like whiskey. She hated whiskey, but couldn't get enough of the way it tasted mixed with Ryan. He hadn't shaved, and the stubble on his jaw scraped her cheek. His hands moved down, clutching her bottom, pulling her even closer to him. She felt his erection and ground her body against it. Their clothes seemed little more than a coat of paint between them as heat surged through her.

  She pressed her chest against his, feeling the pounding of his heart echoing hers. Her nipples begged for his touch. Reaching behind her, she clasped one of his hands and placed it on her chest. His thumb found her, through her sweater, through her bra, and she whimpered.

  Tentatively, she pressed her hand between his legs. Somewhere, very far away, there might have been laughter, footsteps, conversation, but only their ragged breathing filled her ears. He moved against her hand, and she stroked him through the denim.

  When she could no longer breathe, she broke away. His eyes were closed, and in the lamplight, she saw beads of sweat glisten above his upper lip.

  "What time tomorrow? " she whispered.

  *****

  With the sitter gone and Molly sleeping peacefully upstairs, Frankie stood at the window and gazed at the flickering shadows as the tree branches swayed in the moonlight. In her hand she clutched her mother's note. No matter how many times she'd read it, it brought tears to her eyes. Knowing Mom couldn't write left-handed didn't take the sting out of the impersonal computer printout. The previous night, Frankie had finally managed to fall asleep shortly before dawn. When she got up, the note was on the kitchen table, propped against the sugar bowl.