by Julie Miller
Hearing her fight back tears made the decision for him. She was poking at the object on the ground. “I can’t move him.”
He approached as quickly as he dared, making a wide circle around the perimeter of the clearing to ensure that they were alone, that her attacker hadn’t doubled back to finish the job. His boot crunched against something shiny and silvery in a clump of pine needles. It looked like a broken link of a miniature chain. He picked it up and slipped it in his pocket.
“Sam?”
He’d figure out if the silver gadget was anything important later. Jess needed him. He wedged his gun in the waistband of his jeans and hurried over.
“Ah, hell.” The black object was Harry. He sank to his knees beside her, piecing together the awful scene. “Are you hurt? What happened?”
Up close he could see the scratches on her back and forearms. And the mean red welt at the base of her throat. He reached out to inspect the severity of the wound but curled his outstretched fingers into his palm when she turned her pleading eyes to him. “I have to help him. I have to save him.”
She demanded action, not comfort.
He intended to get something right tonight.
“Tell me what happened,” he demanded.
The dog was bleeding from his neck, and Jess was using her shirt and belt to put together a pressure bandage. Harry’s flank stuttered in uneven breaths. Sam knew he was in serious trouble when the mutt barely whimpered at the touch of his hand against his soft, woolly chest, feeling for a heartbeat. It raced beneath his fingertips. Not good.
“He stabbed Harry.”
That damn he again. “Was it the same man? Did you recognize him?”
She didn’t even hear the questions or comprehend her own injuries. “He had me by the throat and Harry saved me.” Tears glistened in her eyes and spilled over. “He was doing his job. Protecting me.”
The devoted pet had done a hell of a lot better job at it than Sam had. “We’ll take good care of him,” he vowed, burying his questions about the attack.
Unhooking his own belt, Sam looped a makeshift muzzle around the dog’s snout. Once those teeth were secure, he stooped down beside the dog, wrapping one arm around Harry’s chest and slipping the other beneath his hind legs. The dog snapped his head and protested the movement.
“What are you doing?” she tugged against his arm as he lifted the heavyweight beast in his arms and staggered to his feet. Harry whimpered. Jess’s eyes welled with tears and she tried to pull the dog from his arms. “Stop it. You’re hurting him!”
“It has to be done! He needs more help than we can give him here.” Sam’s voice was sharper than he meant it to be. He deserved a good smack when he saw the look on Jess’s stricken face. “I’m sorry, babe. We have to keep our heads here, all right? Come here.”
She moved a step closer, and Sam bent his head and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to her trembling lips. He couldn’t tell if he’d startled her out of her panic or if that simple touch was the comfort and apology she’d needed. She pulled back and stared deeply into his eyes, as if trying to read his intent. Then she took a deep breath, and an expression of relative calm eased the fear, if not the tension, from her face.
“That’s it, sweetheart.” He wished he had a hand free to hold on to hers. “Don’t scare me like that. I won’t let the big guy die. I promise.”
“I know.” She squeezed his shoulder, offering a bit of reassurance herself. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I’m okay.”
He’d reserve judgment of that until he had a doctor check her out and could get a few answers about what had happened in that clearing. But he could feel a sticky, warm fluid he knew was Harry’s blood soaking into the sleeve of his shirt and knew time was running out. Adjusting the dog’s weight against his chest, he headed for the garage, using the longest, quickest strides he could manage without tripping. “Let’s go, then.”
Jess’s only answer was to hurry her pace to keep up.
Once the garage door was open, Sam laid Harry in the bed of Jess’s pickup. “Stay with him,” he ordered. “I’ll be right back.”
But she’d already climbed into the truck beside her pet. She cradled his head in his lap and stroked his fur, murmuring encouraging little phrases that soothed even Sam’s troubled soul.
Knowing his talents were better suited to practicality rather than tenderness, Sam dashed up the stairs to his room and grabbed his phone, punching in 911. While he identified himself and gave a brief report of the night’s events to the dispatcher, he methodically slipped on his holster and badge, gathered the blanket off his bed and the white button-down shirt he’d worn yesterday.
“Does this town have an emergency vet?” He descended the stairs two at a time. “Call him. I’m bringing in a dog who’s been stabbed in the neck.” He handed the blanket to Jess and helped her tuck it around Harry to keep him warm and shield him from the weather. “He’s in shock and losing blood, but he’s breathing on his own.” He memorized the vet’s address. “Got it.” He hung up and reached for Jess. “Let’s go.”
“I’m going to ride back here with Harry.” She couldn’t hold a baby any more tenderly than she held that dog.
Man, he hated this. “I’m sorry, babe. I need you up front to tell me how to get there as fast as we can.”
She reluctantly conceded the wisdom in his request. After situating the dog as comfortably as possible, she took his hand and stood. Sam didn’t bother asking for permission. He circled his hands around her trim waist and lifted her down from the truck. He wanted to hug her tight in his arms, wipe away the tears that had dried upon her cheeks. But her hands rested all too briefly against his shoulders as she beseeched him with those clear-blue eyes. “Hurry.”
Charged with a mission he would not fail, Sam climbed in beside her. He handed her the white shirt and drove as swiftly and safely as he could along the muddy back roads, heading for the highway.
Under any other circumstances he would enjoy watching her dress, taking note of how his oversize shirt draped and clung to her lean figure. But all he could see was the welt on her neck finally disappearing beneath the buttoned-up collar. All he could do was claim her hand once she got the sleeves rolled up past her wrists.
All he could think was that she’d cheated death twice. Once in Chicago. And tonight in the backyard of her own home. That crazy, faceless bastard had put his hands on her. Hurt her. He’d gotten by Sam for the last time.
The emotions roiling inside him weren’t pretty or politically correct. They were self-damning and territorial and humbling in their depth.
He pressed his foot harder against the accelerator.
He didn’t intend to let anyone or anything hurt her again—not in any way, shape or form.
She sat sideways in her seat, clinging to his hand with both of hers. But her gaze was fixed out the back window the entire trip into town.
Jessica Taylor could survive a lot of things. But he didn’t think losing Harry was one of them
“THAT’S OLD NEWS, Virgil. Whoever sent that e-mail was at Jess’s place last night. He put a stranglehold on her. He’s definitely trying to cover up his tracks. I already figured it had to come from somewhere in Kansas City for him to get here so fast.”
Sam had slipped outside to the parking lot of the veterinarian’s office to take this call privately. It was good to see the sun again after the natural and man-made hell of last night. Besides, the waiting room was filling up with the vet’s regular morning appointments and way too many Taylors for Sam to feel needed or welcome.
They were loud, they were loving—and there wasn’t a puny one in the bunch. He wasn’t intimidated by her family, but they presented a huge wall of resistance he’d have to fight his way through if he wanted to get close to her again. And as much as he did want to be the one providing that comfort, he didn’t think a confrontation would help her right now.
He didn’t begrudge Jess any support from her family while she was scared and hurt
ing over Harry’s prognosis. Emergency surgery had successfully mended the stab wound. But the cut had severed some of the nerves near the dog’s trachea, and he was being monitored to ensure he’d be able to breathe properly on his own.
Sam’s own lonely status as the last surviving member of his family had been brought home when Jess released his hand to hug her parents who arrived just after dawn. Her brothers and a cousin had arrived one by one after that, except for Cole. They’d traded hugs and circled around her and shielded her from the pain of facing this crisis.
Sam was already on his own by the time Virgil called.
“Please tell me you’ve got something else,” he told his partner, strolling toward the picnic tables and exercise area at the side of the building.
“I can give you the twenty-four-hour copy shop where the e-mail orignated from.” Virgil was ever the voice of reason. “But without a picture or description to give the staff, they probably won’t be able to verify which customer sent that message.”
Sam huffed out a breath in frustration. “Hell, it could be somebody on the staff.”
“Any chance your girl could identify him if she saw him at the shop?”
He hadn’t gotten around to asking any more questions about the investigation or seeing if any of last night’s events had rebooted some of her memory. Jess had been too wrapped up in her concern for the dog. “I’m not sure yet. I’ve got another name I need you to run in the meantime. Alex Templeton. Chicago investment consultant. Likes antiques, apparently.”
Virgil spoke in spurts as he jotted down the information. “Templeton…Chicago… What am I looking for?”
Sam brushed off the leaves and debris that had been blown down by the storm from the top of one of the picnic tables and rested his hip there. “Travel history. He’s an old boyfriend of Jess’s. Find out whatever you can on his wife, too. Catherine. There’s something funny going on there.”
“Checking out an old boyfriend?” Virgil teased. “You sure this isn’t personal, Irish?”
He remembered all too clearly the way Templeton had ignored Jess’s protests, and then had the gall to blame her for not welcoming him with open arms. “It’s very personal.”
Virgil blew out a long, low whistle over the phone. “You be careful, buddy. I know it all but killed you when Kerry died. I’d hate to see you get hurt like that again.”
“This one’s not gonna die.”
“I don’t mean just that. I know you better than you know yourself. You’re falling for this Taylor woman. I can hear it in your voice. Are you going to be able to walk away when this is done?”
Walk away? Hell. Sam hadn’t thought beyond the prospect of catching Kerry’s killer. It had been his whole purpose for so long. But leaving Jess didn’t sound like an option he wanted to consider right now. Maybe ever.
He laughed to cover his raw emotions. “You sure know how to spoil a mood, don’t ya, Virg.”
But his laughter didn’t fool his partner. “I can take some time off if you need me there to help you. With whatever.”
“You’re helping me right where you are.” That much was true. “Thanks for looking out for me. But I’ll just take this one day at a time, okay?”
“Say the word and I’m there.”
“You get me the word on Templeton and we’ll call it good.”
After they’d signed off and Sam tucked the phone back into his pocket, he became aware of another presence. A man—a big man—standing at the corner of the building, watching him.
Sam moved nothing but his eyes to acknowledge the man whose dark hair and clear-blue gaze labeled him a Taylor. “You’re Jess’s brother?”
“The oldest. Brett Taylor. Here.” He tossed him a bundle of material that Sam caught in one hand. He inclined his head toward Sam’s shoulder and chest. “You’re a mess.”
“Sam O’Rourke. It’s nice to meet you, too.”
Brett grinned at the sarcasm and strolled a few steps closer. Though this wasn’t an enemy—yet—Sam automatically straightened to a more defensive posture as he approached. He’d tossed him a T-shirt with the Taylor Construction Company logo on the pocket. Sam’s Fenway Park shirt was stained with Harry’s blood and caked with spatters of dried mud.
“I keep a spare in my truck,” Brett explained. “We’re about the same size.”
That was true. There weren’t too many men that Sam could look in the eye. But Brett Taylor might even have a bit of an edge on his own six feet, four inches of height.
Sam peeled off his dirty shirt and changed into the new one, not so much because he cared about his appearance but because the blood would be an upsetting reminder to Jess. “Thanks.”
“So you’re the man living with Jessie.”
Blunt and to the point, though a little misleading in its implication.
He’d wondered when the inquisition would begin. “I work for her.”
“What kind of handyman work requires a gun?” Sam let the unspoken accusation that he had somehow been responsible for last night seep in and join the rest of his guilt. “The vet tech said you were wearing one when you carried the dog in last night.”
“I’ve got a license for it.” He’d locked up the Sig Sauer in the glove compartment at Jess’s request. Against his better judgment, she wanted her family to think that nothing more dangerous than vandals had been on her property, and that Harry had been wounded chasing them away. She wanted no mention of gunshots and strangulation. But he refused to lie about everything. “I’m with the FBI. I work out of Boston. I’m on a leave of absence right now.”
Brett processed the information without losing his smile. “So, basically you’re an off-duty cop?”
“Basically.”
Brett extended his hand. “Well, I’m glad you were around. Jessie said you saved Harry’s life. Hell, you might as well have saved her, the way she feels about that dog. Thanks.”
A peace offering? Sam cautiously reached out to shake his hand. “I’m glad I was there, too.”
But big brother had a warning for him, after all. “Are you anything more than a hired hand or off-duty cop to her?”
Sam pulled back and splayed his fingers at his hips, meeting Brett’s challenge. “You’d have to ask her what she feels.”
“I’m asking you.” Brett wasn’t smiling now. “My sister’s been pretty vulnerable lately. I’d hate to see anyone take advantage of that.”
“She’s stronger than any of you give her credit for.” He wanted to add more in her defense, tell her family just how far she’d come mentally and emotionally, not to mention the physical healing from injuries too personal to describe. But he’d promised to keep her secret. “I don’t intend to hurt her.”
“Good.” Brett flashed a smile again, apparently satisfied with that answer. “Let’s keep it that way.”
JESSICA WALKED her mother out to her parents’ van, double-checking the parking lot to see that her own red truck was still parked where it had been last night. She was tired, she was sore—but she and Harry were in one piece. She wasn’t so sure they would be if Sam hadn’t been there for them yesterday.
But where was he now?
Sam had disappeared from the waiting room nearly an hour ago. So had Brett. She hoped that didn’t mean trouble.
“Is everything all right, hon?” Martha asked, laying a comforting hand on Jessica’s arm. Concern that her grand-doggie’s condition might have worsened was evident in her tone. “Dr. Girard said she was keeping Harry here a few days just for observation, right?”
Jessica quickly summoned a smile, unaware that her worries had been etched so clearly on her face. “She said he’ll be fine.” Though Harry’s long runs in the country and intensive training days were over because of the limited oxygen flow to his lungs, he was still going to lead a long, spoiled-rotten life as her favorite pet. “I can visit him every day and probably take him home Thursday or Friday.”
Martha patted her heart and breathed out a sigh of relief. �
�Oh, good. You must be worried about Sam, then.”
“Ma.” Though her instinct was to deny any preoccupation with the tall, dark and distracting agent, her mother was right on the money. Scary. Maybe by the time she reached sixty-three, she’d have developed as good an intuition about people.
Having lost a lot of faith in her own ability to judge men, Jessica reluctantly sought out her mother’s sage opinion. She glanced at the other side of the van, where her father and brothers were making plans that included hoagies and football, then spoke in a raspy whisper. “Sam doesn’t scare easily. But—”
“We can be pretty intimidating en masse like this.” Martha admitted, understanding Jessica’s concern. “But I think your Irishman can hold his own with us.”
“He’s not my Irishman.”
“Wouldn’t you like him to be?” Martha leaned in, dropping her volume to a matching hush. “That fabulous voice and yummy body aside, I think he’s a solid, dependable kind of guy. There isn’t much that’s going to ruffle his feathers.”
Though she had to work through the idea of her mother using a phrase like “yummy body,” Jessica agreed. “But he’s just doing his job, isn’t he?” Whether as law enforcement or the hired hand, he’d be a formidable protector. “Do you think there’s any kind of like, you know—a relationship?”
Martha pulled back, her eyes wide with a mixture of sorrow and surprise. “You don’t see it?”
“See what?”
“The way he stands apart but never takes his eyes off you. Sam has been here all through the night. He’s politely staying out of your family’s way now because he wants us to focus on you and Harry, not you and him.” Martha’s smile of approval was usually saved for daughters-in-law and grandchildren. She smiled that way now. “He’s still here. There’s nothing quite like a man who stands by you when you need him most. It’s one of the things I love best about your father.”
Though she’d never doubted her parents commitment to each other, it was heartening to still hear the word love thrown out after forty years of marriage. This brief discussion was turning out to be as profound as any lengthy heart-to-heart she’d shared with her mother growing up.