Angel of Mercy & Standoff at Mustang Ridge

by Heather Graham

  He arched a brow. She smiled as sweetly as she could. “Well, McKenna,” she said softly, seductively, “I think my heart is safe. Quite safe.”

  He was quick, she noted, but not quite quick enough to hide his surprise at her words. His hands fell from her cheeks and he sat back, watching her. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  Then he laughed, and she found herself laughing, too.

  “I must be slipping,” he teased.

  “Happens to the best of us,” she agreed consolingly.

  He picked up his beer and took a swallow, still watching her. Wendy kept her eyes evenly set with his, though she couldn’t control the small, wicked grin that continued to ghost her lips.

  He leaned forward once again. “I’ll have to try harder next time.”

  “You’re really going to have to be careful,” Wendy warned him, her eyes growing innocently large. “If you have to try so very hard, you might find yourself tripping and falling on your own effort. Could be dangerous.”

  “I’m a big boy, Mrs. Hawk. I do know how to take care of myself.”

  Wendy smiled flatly. “And I’m a big girl. Far better able to take care of myself in the present circumstances, I think.”

  “Next time, Wendy,” he warned with a devil’s grin.

  He had passed the first forbidden door; he had touched her. Now he flexed his fingers to stop the tense tremors that had claimed them.

  “Is there going to be a next time?” There was nothing coy to the words, nothing demure. It was a blunt, direct question, voiced with an open, amused interest. She was still smiling, and the smile lighted up her eyes to a silver-blue so bright and alluring that Brad felt himself begin to tremble all over again. His muscles were hot and tight—everything was hot and tight—and he found himself grateful that denim jeans could hide a multitude of sins.

  “You bet,” he promised her pleasantly through gritted teeth.

  Just then, his pole dipped in the water and dug into his buttocks where he sat upon it.

  “You’ve got something!” Wendy cried delightedly.

  He had something, all right, Brad decided.

  He wasn’t a bad fisherman. Although these rods were a bit different, he’d grown up near Lake Erie and had done his share of fishing.

  He gave the fighting fish a little space, then reeled it back. Once more, he gave the fish a little line to play itself out, then he reeled in. Meanwhile, Wendy reached for a net.

  “Do we need that?” he asked her.

  “You get stuck by a catfish, and it hurts like hell,” she warned him. “We don’t have to have it, but it would be kind of foolish to need medical care now for something stupid.” She offered him a rueful grin. “I got stuck once and needed ten stitches.”

  He smiled. “By all means, haul out that net. I’ll play macho some other time.”

  “Oh. Like ‘next time’?” Wendy taunted, but then she bowed her head quickly, wondering what on earth was goading her.

  Finally, Brad caught the line, and Wendy thrust the net out over the water. He deposited his squirming catch in the net, letting out a pleased holler. It was a hefty catfish, which would definitely rate as a dinner fish. They could even invite company over and have plenty to spare.

  “A pretty damned good fish, huh?” he demanded triumphantly.

  Wendy nodded serenely. “Yeah. Pretty damned good,” she acknowledged. But she couldn’t resist adding, “For a city slicker.”

  Brad conceded the point. He sat back, watching supremely as Wendy put on a glove, then carefully freed the hook and line from the fish’s mouth. He enjoyed watching her. She still seemed like an angel with those silver-mist eyes and all that near-platinum hair and her slim, fragile form. But she was capable, lithe and quietly self-assured.

  But like hell his touch hadn’t affected her!

  She tossed the fish into a bucket in the rear of the canoe.

  He reached into the cooler and offered her a new beer. “You deserve it,” he assured her solemnly.

  “What a sport.”

  “Yeah, I’m a sport. I’m going to do all the paddling back, just like I did all the paddling here. And, my dear lady, you will recall, I am the one who caught the fish.”

  “The first fish,” Wendy said.

  But she never did catch anything. When the second beer made her dizzy, she decided it was time to cut up some of the cheese.

  To her chagrin, Brad caught another fish, a second catfish, bigger than the first. To console her, he assured her that he had gone fishing many times before.

  Sunset was coming when they headed back. The canoe streaked through the water in silence, and Brad found himself mesmerized by the beautiful surroundings once again. Gold and pink highlights fell upon the soft white of a crane, giving the bird the hues of a rainbow. The water reflected the glow of the dying light, and the waves of grass dipped to the soft, cooler breeze of the coming night.

  As Wendy sat facing him, she did not see the alligator when Brad first sighted the creature. It was so still, he thought that it was a log at first.

  And then he realized that it was a giant reptile.

  An enormous, grotesque creature. About twelve or thirteen feet long, with a snout full of evil teeth that seemed to be a third of the length of the body.

  It was ugly, incredibly ugly, Brad thought. His body tensed as he stared at the prehistoric creature.

  But he wasn’t going to give her another chance to call him a city slicker. He had to start getting accustomed to the creatures that roamed here. He’d been ready to battle the big cat with his bare hands, only to discover that the panther was a beloved pet named Baby.

  What did she call the alligator? he wondered dryly. Junior, maybe? Spot? Rover?

  He swallowed and tried to relax. When they drifted by the alligator, Brad was going to be casual—even if it killed him.

  He slid the canoe up on the embankment, shoving his paddle into the muck to bring the canoe up high and secure. He started to rise, but Wendy caught his hand.

  “Wait!” she said tensely.

  “Wait for what?” he drawled laconically. “Oh—the gator? I saw it already.”

  “You saw it!” Her eyes flew to his, rounded. She grabbed his hand and pulled him back down to the seat. “Then sit still and let him go first, you idiot!”

  “What?”

  Wendy stood, carefully. There was a small fallen branch nearby. She picked it up and threw it hard at the alligator. The monster with the evil yellow eyes just stared at her. She tossed another one. It plunked the alligator right on the head, and the animal slunk back into the water and glided away. A moment later, it disappeared into the darkness.

  Brad stared at Wendy. “You mean it isn’t a pet?”

  She shook her head, frowning at him as if he had lost his mind. “Who in God’s name would want one of those monsters for a pet? That thing was about twelve feet long. He could have consumed both of us in one gulp. They’re dangerous. I mean, you’re all right if you avoid them. But I’d sure as hell never want to befriend one. They’re vicious in the water if they’re hungry, and bear in mind, they can move about forty miles an hour on land, too.”

  She smiled and rose, grabbing the pail with their fresh catch of the day. Brad remained in the canoe, watching the fluid, languid sway of her buttocks as she strode toward the house.

  He smiled. Okay, so only that TV cop kept an alligator for a pet. Panthers were surely more popular. He’d learn. Surely, he’d learn.

  Brad rose, collecting their gear. He’d seen a hose outside. He found it again and rinsed off the fishing gear. Then he brought the gear back into the house.

  Wendy had been a quick worker, too. The catfish were already headless and well on their way to becoming fillets. She smiled up at him, then finished he
r task, dropping the fillets into a bowl of marinade when she was done.

  “I’m going to hop in the shower. Turn on the television, have some wine, make yourself at home. I’ll be right out.”

  He leaned against the refrigerator, popping open another beer. “Want company?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Brad shook his head sadly. “Couldn’t handle it, huh?”

  She paused, rising to the taunt. “I think that time will tell, city slicker, just who can handle what around here.”

  He lifted his beer can to her in a toast. Wendy saw that his lashes fell lazily over his eyes, and that beneath, he surveyed her in a long and leisurely fashion.

  She’d seen Baby look at birds in much the same way.

  But the look warmed her, causing a hot flush to rise and tint her cheeks. Maybe he was right. Maybe she was out of her league. Maybe she couldn’t handle anything that was happening to her at all. He’d given her every chance to retreat. He’d warned her that she couldn’t be anything more than a friend. She didn’t want to end up like the redhead in the photo; he’d remember the color of her hair, but he wouldn’t remember her name.

  Wendy spun around. “I’ll be out shortly,” she murmured.

  Brad stared after her, wondering what had caused the change in her.

  In the bathroom, Wendy stood beneath a warm spray and trembled with the chill that had seized her.

  Perhaps she didn’t want him remembering her name. She just wanted him to touch her, because she had been so lonely, and because it would feel so good to be touched again. But darkness and anonymity held a certain appeal.

  The water cascaded around her. The sound cocooned her.

  She wondered how he would feel if he really knew the truth. Yes, she wanted him. The chemistry was right; the attraction was strong. They had both felt it. And there had been more. They’d had the chance to know that they both delivered in certain values in life, maybe in a certain sense of honor. They didn’t know much about each other, but they knew the important things.

  And so maybe it would be all right.

  Except that he just wasn’t the kind of man to stand in for another. Wendy was quite certain that if Brad McKenna even guessed that she wanted him only in darkness, as a substitute for another man, his smile would fade and his sensual suggestions would fall silent.

  There was just something about him... Even if he intended to have a woman only once, he’d want her to know damned clearly just who she was with.

  Wendy bit her lip. Yes, there was just something about him. And that unusual quality was drawing her closer and closer to the edge.

  She jumped suddenly, hearing the bathroom door open quietly, then close.

  “Brad?” she whispered. “Brad!”

  There was no answer. The sound of the water cascading over her naked form and onto the tile was all that filled the room.

  5

  “Brad!” Panic rose high in her voice.

  “Shush!”

  There was a heated whisper at last. Wendy didn’t have much time to worry about the fact that the man had interrupted her shower. She pulled the curtain against her body and looked out. Brad wasn’t even glancing her way; he was standing at the small window over the commode, looking out into the right side of the yard.

  “What is it?” Wendy whispered. He stood at the window, tense and silent as a wraith. “Brad, what is it!” she insisted softly.

  At last she had his attention. He stared at her pensively, then strode toward her. He didn’t touch her but came close, so that their eyes met amid the steam that poured around them.

  “There’s someone out there.”

  “If you heard something,” Wendy said with a relieved smile, “I’m sure it’s just Baby.”

  “No, no it’s not.”

  “Really, Brad, I understand your circumstances, but we are tucked so far into the swampland. I’m sure you’re just imagining—”

  “I don’t imagine,” he said, cutting her off bluntly.

  Wendy tightened her hold on the shower curtain and swallowed uneasily. He was, after all, still a stranger. He’d entered her shower without the decent grace of a quiet tap against the door. And right now he was so solidly implacable and assured that it was like talking to a rock. He had changed. He was a bundle of tension. She could see it in his eyes, in his stance, in the constriction of his muscles.

  And it was frightening.

  “Can you shoot?” he asked her tensely.

  “Come on now, Brad—”

  “I asked you if you can shoot!”

  “Yes.”

  “Stay inside, but load that shotgun of yours and be prepared to defend yourself. Do you hear me? Stay here, and if something should go wrong, have the shotgun in your hand.”

  He spun around and left her. The bathroom door closed quietly in his wake.

  Wendy turned off the water and hopped out of the tub, longing to call him back. There wasn’t any danger out there—there just couldn’t be! She had to catch him.

  But she couldn’t go running after him stark naked. She dried off with a lick and a promise and stumbled into her clothes. She came charging out, then paused. There was nothing out there, but maybe, just maybe, she should load the shotgun.

  She raced to get it down from the wall, then she panicked when she couldn’t find the shells for the gun in the box in the closet. Pushing things around, she finally found a second box. She loaded both barrels and started down the hall. Brad, she knew, was already outside somewhere. But where? There seemed to be an eerie silence about the place.

  But then that silence was shattered. “There you are, you son of a bitch!” a male voice grunted out.

  “I’ve got you now!” a second man swore.

  “Oh, no!” Wendy breathed, recognizing both male voices and realizing what must have happened. She ran down the hall to the front door and threw it open. “Stop!” she screamed. “Stop!”

  She was ignored, so she raised the shotgun, and barely aiming, she squeezed the trigger. The kickback of the shotgun nearly sent her sprawling as the explosive sound filled the night—to be followed by complete, stark silence.

  * * *

  Brad didn’t know how he knew that someone was outside, he just knew. He hadn’t really heard anything, just the whisper of the breeze, the rustle of foliage, all natural things.

  And yet he had felt it, sensed it.

  They were being watched. Someone was watching them, watching them carefully, in stealth and silence.

  That surprised Brad. Michaelson was the type to come striding right in. If he had made it to a place like this, he could quickly ascertain that he was far more powerful in terms of manpower and ammunition. And he didn’t make it a habit to tease, taunt or torture—he assessed things quickly, and just as quickly he relieved himself of excess baggage.

  No, this didn’t feel like Michaelson.

  But then, who the hell else could it be?

  Dusk had fallen when he finally slipped out the front door. He locked it behind him, intending to buy Wendy a little more time to get prepared just in case the trouble turned out to be serious.

  Shadows fell all around him, and the lights from inside the house made them all the worse. Brad flattened himself against the wall, straining to see against the darkness. He could hear the sounds of the night, the chirps of crickets, the occasional grunt of a frog, the wind, slight and rustling in the trees, in the long grasses that bowed low before it. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

  But someone, he knew, was near.

  Brad began to move around the house. He probably should have taken the shotgun himself, but then he didn’t know where she kept the ammunition, and he had wanted the element of surprise to be on his side.

  Puzzled, Brad realized that alth
ough he was still certain that someone was on the hammock with them, he didn’t know how he had gotten there. The airboat was still secured where they had left it that morning, and when he came around the house, he saw that the canoe, too, was exactly where they had left it. There were no other boats of any kind on the land, nor out in the nearby water.

  He heard something, and he froze. He didn’t know what it was, or where it had come from, but he had heard something. He came around the corner, squinting, flexed and ready, poised on the balls of his feet. He kept moving, certain that his quarry was just ahead of him. At last he reached the front of the house again.

  Suddenly, he felt a whoosh of motion. He looked up just as a heavy weight fell on him from atop the roof. Falling and tumbling beneath his attacker, Brad swore at him, and the man instantly responded.

  “I’ve got you now!” the man returned.

  And he did, Brad thought. The man was straddled over him, and he was agile and powerful. His hold was nearly merciless. Brad strained with all his might, shifting his weight, throwing his attacker.

  But the man was fast—damned fast. He spun around in the darkness, a fist flying. It caught Brad cleanly in the jaw.

  He responded, slamming into the man’s stomach. It was like shoving against steel.

  A blow struck his shoulder; Brad responded by ducking his head and butting into the stranger, a move that brought them both careening and rolling and bitterly wrestling on the ground again. Poised over his attacker for a brief moment, Brad stared down and gasped in surprise.

  The guy had green eyes, but his hair was pitch-black and long against his neck. A headband kept it from falling into his eyes. He was wearing jeans and a denim shirt, but his features were strikingly bold.

  Just as another blow reached his chin, Brad swore and slugged back. No, it wasn’t Michaelson. It sure as hell wasn’t Michaelson. He was being attacked by an Indian.

  “Son of a bitch—” Brad began, but then he was thrown, and he had to gasp for air to strain against the new hold on him.

  “Stop!”

  Vaguely, Brad heard Wendy’s voice. “Stop!” It didn’t really mean anything—not to him, not to the tight-lipped man above him. Somehow they had gotten too involved in their exchange of blows. The fight had become too serious.