by Amy Jarecki
“You’re not getting out?” she asked.
Logan opened the door for her and offered his hand. “Jason lives in the caretaker’s house just over the hill.”
She nodded. She could have asked any number of questions, but that would have been prying. It also would have made her migraine unbearable.
“Come, let’s get you settled.” He held up a plastic shopping bag. “I bought you some clothes.”
She glanced down to her bathrobe and slippers. At least one of them was thinking beyond the moment.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Logan opened the front door. He stepped inside and took a deep breath, glad he’d had the wherewithal to contact Jason right after the plane left enemy airspace. Jason’s wife, Sylvia, had gone through the house with a duster and freshened up the bathrooms. Logan kept the house tidy, but the inside got a bit stale during his long stints away.
As soon as crossed the threshold, tension melted from his shoulders like it always did. Hardwood floors, plenty of antiques. He gestured to the left. “That’s the living room.” Then pointed straight ahead. “Through the entryway is the kitchen. The bedrooms are up the stairs.”
Olivia turned in place, taking it in, but said nothing.
“I’ll just put the groceries in the kitchen.”
She gave a nod.
He hastily placed the four bags of food on the counter and jogged back with the bag of clothing in his hand. He reached out to grasp her hand, but hesitated. Her expression was startled, wary. Her mind was still on the op and, though he’d done the flying, she was wound tighter than a trip wire. He opted for an awkward grin and strode past her. “I’ll show you to your room.”
“Up there?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He continued up and turned left, first flicking on the bathroom light. “There are two bathrooms. This one’s yours.”
She glanced inside and gave a hesitant nod.
He didn’t expect her to jump for joy. He might be proud of the remodel job he’d done when on leave a couple years ago, but it was still just a bathroom in a hundred-year-old farm house. Soaking tub with clawed feet, a toilet, a vanity, an antique mirror—pretty posh for a Montana rancher. “There are spare toothbrushes in the top drawer and towels in the linen cupboard behind the door.”
He beckoned her to the bedroom he’d occupied when he was a kid. It was nearly as large as the master, originally built for a family with a lot of kids who shared. Now a guest room, it had a queen-sized bed and an overstuffed reading chair, a dresser with a mirror. It was comfortable.
Opening the curtains, he gestured to the view. “This room looks out over the corral and pastureland. The mountain view is out the back.”
Olivia stood in the doorway, her eyes appearing sad and a bit lost. The expression made his heart twist. If only he could make her forget, but Logan had been there before. He knew better than to push her, to try to force her to like his place.
He put the bag of clothes on the bed. “I didn’t know what size you wore, so the clerk suggested one-size stuff.” He pulled out black leggings and a striped t-shirt, a package of medium-sized bikini underwear, a sports bra and a pair of flipflops that looked about right. “We can get you things you like when you’re feeling up to it.”
He left one garment in the bag. She wasn’t in good humor and he honestly had no idea if she’d want to wear it or not.
After giving another nod, she shuffled aside and glanced down the hallway giving a signal that could only be interpreted as a request to leave her alone.
Logan shifted his feet and splayed his fingers. “I’ll let you settle in. If you need anything, I’ll be fixing dinner.”
She didn’t smile.
“I’ll call when it’s ready.”
She grabbed the door knob, her expression growing more pained. “Do you have anything for a mega headache?”
“Sure do. I’ll be right back.” He let out a long breath. At least she’d said something. When he’d set his course for Montana, he was sure she’d love the peace and tranquility. Now he wondered.
***
Once Logan had fetched her some aspirin and finally left her alone, Olivia moved to the window. A floorboard creaked underfoot. She hesitated for a moment, her nerves still on hyper alert from the mission. Shaking off her startle, she pulled aside the curtain. Outside looked like a painting. Off to the left, the leaves of a giant oak rustled while a rope-swing hanging from a branch swayed with the breeze. Beyond the yard was the corral Logan had mentioned. The iron fence rails looked sturdy and the ground inside was well-turned as if the yard got frequent use. The lush paddocks behind stretched further than she could see, almost as green as the English countryside. Horses dallied beneath a tree, swishing their tails. She counted seven. They were all reddish-brown and large.
Majestic.
A pair stood nose to hindquarters as if they didn’t care to chat, but preferred smelling. Olivia snorted when one of them bared his teeth and bit the other on the bum.
“I suppose that’s what happens when you try to get too familiar.”
She turned her attention to the bedroom, feeling less tense than she’d been two minutes ago. Still, she didn’t like that Logan had hauled her to Montana without asking. What was he thinking?
Did she need a holiday?
Yes.
In Montana?
No.
At least he hadn’t assumed she’d want to hop in the sack with him as soon as they rolled up. Right now, she’d sooner meet him in the sparring ring with a knife hidden up her sleeve. The presumptuous cowboy.
She crossed her arms tightly across her chest. Though it wasn’t cold, she couldn’t shake the feeling of vulnerability making her skin clammy. She wanted to crawl into a hole and die. It was always like this after a mission. The memories still raw, still burning. The worst of it? For the first time in thirteen years, she’d had the opportunity for revenge and she’d blown it. Mum and Dad were still not avenged. And there she stood, her head about to explode while she crashed in godforsaken Montana. It was like going through detox. Her thoughts leapt from one terrible scene to another, resolving nothing.
On top of that, she wanted to murder Logan Rodgers. He could have killed al-Umari, too. No one had to tell her the slippery eel wouldn’t have stayed with the car—not with an Apache bearing down on him. Together, she and Rodgers could have gone after him on foot. Instead, he’d focused all his attention on getting her out safely—and saving his own ass.
Too gutted to stir up her ire, she moseyed to the bed. A stack of books below the bedside table caught her eye. She read the spines, passed over a suspense novel, a self-help book, a teen wizard tale, and opted for a romance—a historical set in Scotland.
She moved to the cushy chair, sat with her legs over the armrest and opened the book. Though she might be mad at Logan for hauling her to his hidey hole, she would face him later. She opened the book and let the story take her back in time…but scumbags existed there, too.
Fifty pages in, her head snapped up when knock came at the door.
“Dinner will be ready in five,” Logan’s deep voice rumbled through the timbers.
“Not hungry,” she said, rubbing her eyes.
“No is not an option. You gotta eat, Commander.”
Groaning, she swung her feet to the floor. “Bloody hell.” Footsteps clomped away and tapped down the stairs while Olivia sifted through the clothes Logan had left on the bed—marginally better than the robe she was wearing. She opened the package of knickers, noticing something in the shopping bag that Logan hadn’t shown her. She dumped it out. Pink. Satin. Lace.
Now that’s more like it.
She held up the negligee. The size was near enough. A pair of pink knickers, a pink negligee and green flipflops would do. After dressing, she opened the door, proceeding down the hallway and past the stairs. She glanced inside two small bedrooms, one converted into an office. At the far end, the door was closed. Curious, she turned the knob and steppe
d inside.
Logan’s room was as big as hers. The furniture was sturdy, hewn from logs like something she’d expect in the backwoods of the west. His bedspread and pillow shams had images of moose. It was a man’s room, painted white with dark green overtones—carpet, curtains, with green and navy woven through the bedclothes. Only one picture hung on the wall—a stag. On the far side, another door led to an ensuite. It looked clean. Stark. One forest-green towel swung on the rack, damp from recent use.
She wandered down the stairs, studying the photos behind antique-looking frames. Logan had been an attractive boy, and nearly every photograph was of him. In the first he was quite young, maybe three, holding a fishing pole sporting a trout half his size dangling from the hook. There was Logan in a gridiron uniform, the helmet cocked to the side and nearly as wide as his shoulders. Logan as a teen wearing a suit—some important occasion. Logan, a bit older, on the back of a horse, looking in complete control and wearing chaps. Logan as a cadet, dressed in a crisp Navy uniform, standing beside an older man who looked much like him. Dear Lord, he cleaned up nicely. He was a handsome man in a pair of boxers and a t-shirt with mussed hair, but trimmed and ready for duty? Definitely delicious.
But Olivia didn’t want to admire anyone right now, especially Rodgers.
The floor creaked beyond. “There you are,” said the man himself.
Olivia turned. Still too angry for chitchat, she didn’t ask him about the pictures.
He gave a quirky smile. “I suppose I should replace those photos. Dad put them up.”
“I thought as much.”
His gaze meandered downward as his tongue slipped out and moistened his bottom lip. “You found the…ah…”
“Negligee.”
“Yeah.”
She sniffed and headed for the smell of garlic and onions. Logan could keep his opinions to himself.
He followed. “I made a couple of ribeye steaks. I hope you don’t mind eating in the kitchen. The dining room hasn’t been used in years.”
“Fine.”
The kitchen looked like it had been remodeled, too. He hastened to the table in the bay window and pulled out a chair. Just to be snarky, Olivia took the opposite.
“You hungry?” he asked, sliding into the chair he’d pulled out.
“Mm hmm.” Smothered with fried garlic and onions, the steak was the size of her plate. She didn’t offer to switch. Besides, the steak in front of Logan was nearly the same size. She helped herself to the Caesar salad. The baked potato was already oozing with butter.
Olivia forced herself to keep her eyes from rolling to the back of her head with her first bite. She hadn’t had a decent meal since France. Logan knew how to grill a steak for certain. But she didn’t say so.
The man picked up a bottle of cabernet and poured for her and then himself. “There are a lot of things to do here.”
“Such as?”
“Horseback riding, fishing, hikes through the mountains, the blackberries out the back should be ripe.”
“Hmm.”
“Of course, there’s never a lack of farm work.”
“Of course.” She washed down her second mouthwatering bite with a sip of wine. “Do you abscond with British subjects often?”
“First time. Why?”
“Just wondering why you have a romance novel in your guest room.”
“It’s from Sylvia. She thought I needed an assortment.”
Olivia’s hands stilled while her lips thinned.
Logan seemed not to notice, shoving an enormous bite of meat in his mouth, the fat glistening on his lips.
They ate in awkward silence, nothing but silverware tapping plates and the hum of the refrigerator.
Logan’s phone rang. “Hi Sylvia.”
Olivia’s back stiffened.
“Gosh, that’s so nice of you.”
Gosh? When did he become The Beaver?
He pulled the phone away from his mouth. “Sylvia wants to know what size you wear.”
“Who the hell is Sylvia?” she sniped.
“Jason’s wife.”
“Oh.” Olivia refused to feel like a dolt. At least not for more than a second. What did she care if Logan had a girlfriend, anyway? Things would be far easier if he did. She couldn’t continue to think of him romantically. They’d taken the whole work-spouse thing much too far as it was. “US sizes are different from UK.”
“We can Google it. Give me your UK dress and shoe size.”
She rolled her eyes. “Ten dress, size five shoe.”
After looking it up on the computer, he moved the phone back to his mouth. “Size eight dress, seven-and-a-half shoe.”
A woman’s voice buzzed from the receiver, but Olivia couldn’t make out the conversation.
“Thanks. See you tomorrow.” Logan hung up and sat a bit taller. “Sylvia is going to bring you some clothes.”
“So I’ll fit in with the locals?”
“More or less.”
Olivia could only imagine the fashion sense of a rancher’s wife. She closed her eyes and wiped her hand across her forehead as the effects of the wine started to kick in. “How long has this house been in your family?”
“It was built by my grandfather near the turn of the last century. The land’s been in my family fifty years longer than that. Jason and Sylvia live in the original house.”
“Is it much smaller?”
“It’s a log cabin. Originally it had one room, but we built on a couple of bedrooms as a wedding gift.”
“That’s nice.” Olivia covered her mouth.
“So…what do you want to do tomorrow?” he asked.
She met his gaze. “Go back to Iceland.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Olivia hid in her room the rest of the night and when she awoke, sunlight streamed through the window as if it were midday. Jetlag had a way of turning her clock upside down. She looked to the bedside table for her phone—except the one Tawney was sending from ICE hadn’t arrived yet. The room didn’t have a clock either.
The bedsprings creaked when she rolled to her back and looked at the ceiling. How old was this bed, anyway? For all she knew, Logan had been conceived on that bed—his father, too. The thought made her grunt in disgust.
Unusual sounds came through the opened window. Not many words were being spoken, but from the rolling bass, it had to be Logan. He wasn’t yelling, but his voice was firm—S sounds, followed by tongue clicks, and the odd whoa.
Vaguely awake, Olivia pattered to the window. Logan held a whip in one hand and a lead line in the other, except it wasn’t really a whip. The thing had a long stick like a whip, but had a longer piece of rope attached, and Logan moved it gently. First, he made the horse back up by shaking it in a wriggling pattern. He gradually neared the enormous beast. The horse jerked his head up a few times while Logan moved the line over his back, letting it slip off. He repeated the same motion over and over, until the horse dropped his head and stood there like the whip-thing didn’t bother him. That’s when Logan quickened the pace of his flicks. The horse again acted agitated and Logan kept going until the beast relaxed.
It was an amazing exercise in patience. With each acceptance from the horse, Logan moved in closer, his audible commands softer. He had a gentle and effective knack Olivia had never seen before. Well, she’d only seen horses at the racetrack or in a paddock when she’d driven by. She’d never paid the animals much attention. To her, horses were relics of eras gone by. Smelly, unpredictable animals.
On a sigh, she turned and headed for the loo, stumbling over a pile of clothes propped against the outside of her door. Olivia sifted through them—jeans, flannel shirt, cowboy boots, thick socks and a cotton sundress. It all looked so western. The shirt even had snaps.
Compliments of Sylvia?
After a long shower, she pulled the dress over her head and slipped her feet into the flipflops. In the kitchen, she found bread, butter and a toaster. The coffee was already made. When she took her
cup and toast back upstairs, Logan was still at it. But now, he was rubbing the horse all over with his hands. Then the enormous animal just stood there while Logan actually climbed onto its back without a saddle.
Olivia expected to see some good old American bronc riding, but the horse started moving around the corral at a slow walk, his tail swishing like he hadn’t a care in the world. What else didn’t she know about the man? He was a SEAL turned spy, but before all that, his roots had grown deep in the American west.
Jesus, he even wore chaps.
***
Three days had passed and Olivia was still playing the hermit, nursing her misery. Logan didn’t buy it. He’d seen her watching him from her window. She was curious. What sane person wouldn’t love it there? Sure, it wasn’t a city, but cities were full of irritable bastards. Cities were for concerts and symphonies. The country was for living, for breathing, for refilling the tank.
And though she might not realize it, Olivia was hewn from the same cloth. She was a lone wolf, a predator, a hunter. Wolves might live in packs, but they kept to themselves. And everyone knew hunters were reclusive, solitary individuals.
Olivia often had insisted she preferred to work alone. Alone in the midst of the masses?
Logan didn’t think so. Yes, he’d seen her watching. Felt her watching, too. And that was all part of his plan. He’d even dusted off an old pair of chaps just for her.
Let the watching draw her in.
Like it or not, though, he was starting to waver on the soundness of his decision. Listening to her move around in the middle of the night had been the hardest. Every night, he lay in bed, forcing himself not to get up and check on her, willing her to come to him. But she hadn’t. Yet.
Moreover, the “royal duchess” routine was growing thin. The “holier than thou” eye rolls made his toes curl. It was as if she hated everything from America’s heartland. But she’d admitted she’d never been here before.