The Hitman's Mistake

by Sally Brandle

  “After I call Corrin and find my hat.”

  He swung up behind her and settled his arms around her waist before gathering the reins.

  The mule’s hooves thumped into soft snow.

  An intense battle raged deep inside while he fought to maintain a detached exterior. Her physical appeal became painful at times, the growing respect was worse.

  He had to face it. A woman who’d made him laugh and enjoy life again existed between her pushbutton panic mode and her emotional pain. When the feisty woman surfaced, it scared the hell out of him.

  “I’ve never been on a night ride in the woods.” Her back nestled perfectly into his chest. “The floating snowflakes fade out to present a peaceful, moonlit wonderland.”

  Poetic words of what he’d been thinking. No one except the Morleys used their cabin, yet Miranda fit in as if she belonged. Especially tucked in his arms, in the quiet forest. He took an easy breath. “You hair smells nice.” Damn, he’d spoken aloud. “As compared to your—”

  Red snorted, and his ears went upright to alert mode.

  Grant’s hand shot to his gun.

  An owl hooted from high in a tree.

  He released his grip on the Glock. “You’d think a Montana mule would be used to nighttime noises.”

  “He’s my guardian mule. Always on duty.”

  Did he want to be more than her guardian agent? He opened his mouth, then closed it. The cost would be high.

  The woods offered silence until they reached the pointed rock where they had a chance of reception. The odd shape threw off a foreboding, jagged shadow. Venom could be hiding behind it.

  He continued to scan the ground for prints in the snow or broken branches.

  Miranda wriggled. “I smell nice as compared to what?”

  “The mule.”

  “If you’re too embarrassed to be seen with me, I think I can pull a teenage mutant warrior trick.” She slunk into the coat, imitating a turtle pulling into its shell.

  Grant laughed. “Wasn’t expecting that.” He tightened the reins. “Whoa there, big guy. First call’s to the bureau.” He tapped on the tiny screen. “Hey, Sam. I’ll bring Ms. Whitley down the mountain tomorrow. I booked us on the next flight.”

  “Sorry you’re alone protecting the witness,” Sam said. “Not protocol, but between your location and what’s going on here, you need to stay put until further notice. Street chatter implies Maneski’s put a six-figure bounty on Judge Gilson’s head, probably on Ms. Whitley, too.”

  “I understand your concerns. I’ll book a Three Falls hotel for tomorrow night.”

  Sam let out a long breath. “Best to keep her at your place. Can’t explain right now.”

  “Got it. Any information from Karpenito?”

  “Humph.” Sam grunted. “Local cops exhibiting little man syndrome are the worst.”

  Grant moved the phone to his outside ear. “Explain your syndrome statement.”

  “I remembered him. The guy’s a fireplug. Maybe five-four and pudgy. The Whitley woman’s description didn’t match up. No one’s ever seen him wearing a beard.”

  He clenched the reins. “Repeat, please.”

  “Short guy. Clean shaven, pasty jowls.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow from my home. We’ve had a bit of a fishy day.”

  “Maybe time to charm your way into her confidence,” Sam said.

  Judas Priest, another unexpected twist to her tale. “I’ll consider your suggestion.” Grant hung up, and scowled. Wait, she’d described an odd walk, and glue by the beard. The cop wore a disguise.

  “Your turn. Please keep it short.” He handed his phone to Miranda.

  She tapped in numbers. “Corrin, change of plans . . . Grant’s phone. The agent. How’d you know where to call? . . . The number on my wrist, of course. Anyway, I went on a trail ride and got shot . . . No, I’m okay. He’s trustworthy. The mule who saved me and the bureau boy.”

  Grant cleared his throat.

  She leaned forward and patted Red. “We’re heading back tomorrow to have a doctor check my wound . . . In his folk’s mountain cabin. Don’t worry, I’m fine.”

  His ears were trained for details, and his bullshit radar pinged. Corrin didn’t trust him, either.

  “Thanks for checking on Shirley. Hey, I keep a list of commercial accounts on my desk. Maybe you can find someone to water plants Tuesday?” Miranda asked. Her body relaxed. “Thanks, I don’t know what I’d do without you. Miss you.”

  “I need to speak to her.” He took the phone. “Agent Morley here. Please stay out of your apartment building until we clear access.”

  “I live next door and need to replenish my wardrobe and get the list, sir. Miranda will kill me if her plants wilt,” she challenged.

  “Agent Sam Coswell will contact you regarding an escort. We’re not taking risks, ma’am,” he shot back.

  “Listen up, Mr. FBI agent. I’ll comply on one condition.”

  “Which would be?”

  “Miranda’s family to me, so if you’ve got any ideas, they better have good intentions, or I’ll track down your government regulated ass and pound the daylights out of you. I don’t care who you work for.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Corrin hung up on him.

  Whoa. Her friend was a piece of work. He jammed the phone in his pocket.

  “Something wrong?” Miranda asked.

  He carried the badge, and he’d sure as hell done nothing to deserve Corrin’s threat. Had a guy burned Miranda? His hands clenched the reins. “Nope. Friend check complete.” He squeezed his left leg, and Red turned around.

  “I wouldn’t get by without Corrin coaxing me to push on.”

  Nothing beats a deranged drill sergeant. “She sounds nice.”

  “She’s been a lifesaver more than once.”

  Another statement he’d investigate. “You’ll see her soon. Now we head back to the cabin.”

  “The woods are lovely in shimmery moonlight. I wish Corrin could see it. Oh, crap. I forgot to give her my flight number.”

  “I’ll handle it.”

  Red stopped, front feet splayed.

  “Come on mule, we’re freez—”

  A sharp crack broke the stillness.

  Grant drew his gun as Miranda’s shoulders jolted into his chest.

  A dead limb crashed onto the trail, its branches laden with snow. It dropped where they would’ve been in a few steps.

  He released his tightened hold on her waist. “Good call, Red.” He rubbed a circle near the mule’s withers. “You’re one smart boy.”

  “I knew the noise wasn’t a gun.” She frowned at the broken limb. “You think Venom’s out there, don’t you?” Her body trembled.

  The less she knew the better. “Agent reaction. Can’t imagine anyone staying on the mountain in the snow.”

  “I wonder if I’ll ever sleep a full night again.”

  “Your normal Seattle routine will help.”

  Another lame response. She needed to be scared until Venom and Karpenito wore cuffs. “Walk on,” he said.

  Red’s steps gained speed the closer they got to the cabin.

  A deep-set need implored him to hold her nestled tight and keep riding into the night.

  During Maneski’s trial, she might land in witness protection, or be out of his jurisdiction. Still . . .

  The bent tree jutted out. His focus shifted to a branch hanging at an angle a few feet down the trail.

  Had it been broken when they’d left? He’d been too preoccupied getting a Miranda fix to notice.

  He nudged Red’s belly to turn him toward the cabin. Scrunching needles resounded in the still night.

  As soon as they passed through
the fir trees, light shone through the window like a beacon. He stopped where the animals were tied and searched for fresh footprints.

  “Wait here a minute,” he whispered before he slid off and checked the cabin. “Nothing out of place.”

  “Good boy,” she crooned to Red.

  He strode back and grabbed for the reins. While their bare fingers collided, jolts shot through him.

  He shoved his hands into his deep front pockets. “I apologize. I didn’t ask your permission to carry you earlier. My manners are rusty. Please don’t hold it against me.”

  Her long sigh puffed into frosty air. “I’m cold and tired. I won’t hold it against you if you’ll hold me against you.”

  Without a reply, he scooped her up and pulled her closer than earlier. Her arm jammed his phone into his chest.

  What would Sam think of his growing attraction? He tried to ignore her soft lavender-scented hair tickling his chin. Locking his arms and shifting her weight proved useless.

  He’d dated a few street-smart women, who’d never ignited yearnings deep in his chest. If he let her in any closer, she’d be scorched by the flames. No matter what his heart wanted, he had to cut off the visions of a rosy future.

  She couldn’t hold a gun steady and talked of her little brother like she enjoyed kids. Parenting hadn’t made his to-do list.

  Who was he kidding? Tamping the increasing appreciation of every quality Miranda possessed had become as futile as muting a flashbang.

  His damned luck he’d met her under the worst circumstances. One misstep and her credibility as a witness would be ruined, the case compromised, and the promise to his father to reach SAC shattered. A vow he’d made sporting a black eye and a split lip, a vow to clean the streets of bullies. Words said long ago and far away from the last three days of realizing Miranda brought his compassion back.

  The short trek to the cabin seemed endless.

  He lowered her legs until her boots reached the porch. “I’ll chop a few logs.” He grabbed the ax. “See if you can get the fire going.”

  With a few swift strokes, he had enough stacked for the next three fires. He peeled off a piece of bark and ran his hand over the smooth golden wood. No knots. The grain would be straight and even. It would’ve been beautiful varnished, maybe made into a headboard using silvery teak accents.

  He gathered the logs and headed into the cabin, chilly but not cooled down.

  Any touch from Miranda struck flint to steel, and the fire burned deep.

  ~ ~ ~

  Just Hours, the cabin’s name, had been carved on a varnished plank hanging above the door. Miranda glanced around. Candles, pillows and other hints of sensual promises filled the cozy room, the kind used for a rustic setting in a romantic play.

  When he’d carried her after the phone call, he’d pulled her closer to his chest than necessary. She wasn’t a total twit. He’d angled his chin to caress her neck with his breath.

  Her mind continued to revisit his muscled forearms, and the embrace sparked the fantasy of a shared life, not inconspicuous, but bold.

  The trip through the woods had been magical, even counting the branch scare. His dorky wisecracks added a different dimension to his character. Too bad the fun Grant rarely surfaced, or maybe just as well he didn’t.

  He relied on a gun as his constant companion. A lump of deadly metal he grabbed out of habit, and a huge part of his life.

  Tiny threads of tenderness appeared infrequently. Anger or distrust he couldn’t always hide.

  She sat on a backless bench and stuck her feet close to the fire. Her fingers began yanking out tangles. It wasn’t good timing to start a romance, no matter how tempting those biceps were. Not with Venom hunting her.

  The door opened, sending a frigid draft against her back. “It’s me.”

  A loud thunk indicated he’d dropped a load of wood into a bin.

  Hesitant footsteps came closer. He reached over her and his hip brushed her shoulder, sending tingles through her, awakening unwanted urges.

  “Want me to detangle your hair?” he asked.

  The room stilled, energy crackling between them. He’d have to tug out snarls, which wasn’t sexy. “Sure. Have at it.”

  He lifted a wooden box from the mantle and took out a carved, wide-toothed comb. The chair scraped across the floor. It groaned from his weight, and his knee brushed her hip from behind.

  Grant generated heat stronger than a blast furnace, and strength from him seeped into her. “Forests are peaceful,” she said.

  “Poppy used to say, ‘quiet as a plow laid aside at the furrow’s end.’”

  With competent strokes, he methodically worked from the bottom, teasing out knots.

  Damn Grant Morley and his magical petal-soft touch!

  Gentle pulls sent chills through her body and made her insides as soft as a pool of melted caramel. His fingers brushing her skin sent shivery sensations deep.

  She’d been wrong again. His way of untangling her snarls was so, so sexy. An inner glow wrapped her in a warm cloud of pale peony pink, while every female component of hers ached for attention. His attention.

  Sparks shot into the chimney.

  Sensibility kicked in. If she wasn’t on a mountain, held together by stitches, she’d imagine falling against his muscled torso. The one bearing the gun holstered at his hip.

  Still, what harm in enjoying a little cat and mouse sparring? After she’d gotten one matter cleared up.

  She rotated her head. “So, you appear to know what you’re doing. Does your wife have long hair?”

  “No, can’t say she does.”

  Miranda jerked to upright.

  “Don’t strain my stitching. No wife, or girlfriend. My dad used to make me comb out horse tails before he’d show them at the Spring Round-Up each year. I’ve practiced on long tangles, but yours is the silkiest I’ve worked on.”

  His voice had deepened to a low, husky tone.

  By the soft tugs, he’d begun gliding his fingers down the length of her hair. “It’s like holding a perfect sunset.”

  Perfectly sinful. So the armor holding tough-guy Grant in place did bend. The thought brought a wicked smile while she rubbed her fingertips over her thumb, planning retaliation.

  He massaged her neck and onto her scalp. She slumped, letting her head wobble like a rag doll. Coral petals brushed her heart. Yes indeed, he’d colored her world again.

  “You’ll sleep better tonight.” His fingers slowed to a stop, but remained in place, touching her skin, warm and solid.

  Time to stoke the forge. “Tonight we trade,” she announced. “I’ll sleep on the mat.” She closed her eyes, prepared for a fight and then make up time.

  Her turn to melt steel.

  ~ ~ ~

  A twisting knot formed in Grant’s stomach. No way he’d allow her unobstructed access to the door, even if he could justify demanding a bed from an injured woman. “Not happening.”

  Her shoulders tensed again.

  “I’m not done yet, princess.” He placed his fingertips on either side of her temples, searching for a pressure point. “Try deep breaths.” He rolled her head one way, then the other.

  He cradled her cheek in his hand and stroked the length of her graceful neck, then massaged the tops of each shoulder.

  Damn. He shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be getting close enough to interpret her guilt-driven declarations.

  He pressed into her firm upper arms, kneading each muscle, needing her to believe he wanted to guard her from harm.

  Finally, she unwound.

  “Amazing,” she whispered. “Nevertheless, I get the floor.”

  He brought her head back to center, letting his fingers glide for a final time through the tangle-free russet c
oil in his hand.

  Fire danced around the cast iron swing Poppy had fashioned for cooking. He’d officially become the fourth generation to bring a woman to the Just Hours cabin. Too bad it wasn’t for the right reasons.

  “Poppy and Dad would ride here tonight and whup my butt if they suspected I had any intention of allowing m’lady to sleep on the floor. Nope, you’ll stay put. Tomorrow night we’ll both have beds.”

  She shook her head. “Nope, not if I had a front row seat to the butt whupping.” Her cheeks had definitely become rosier. “It’s a big bed, which we can share platonically. I assume you’re over eighteen.”

  He’d have to be comatose. “I’m twenty-nine at present.” He shifted his knee away from touching her hip. “Request denied.”

  Her spine stiffened. “Not a request. Corrin would tan my hide and fly here from Seattle if she had to, knowing I let a knight in shining armor sleep on the floor after he’d saved me, sutured me, and spent hours combing rat’s nests out of my hair.”

  What he wouldn’t give to be Miranda’s knight, to win her devotion in a joust, and have her plant a strawberry-scented kiss on him. He brushed his fingers across his lips and moved to the bookshelf. “Sacrifices to comfort are part of an agent’s day.”

  “It’s nighttime,” she scoffed.

  Corrin would demand his hide get the scrape and acid treatment if she knew his recurring thoughts. “Are you a reader?” He waved a tattered volume at her.

  “My nose remains stuck in a book if I’m not working. Dad read me volumes of stories. To this day, it’s his voice I hear in my own head while I read.”

  At least one of them had a sweet childhood memory regarding reading. Special time spent by his dad’s side involved throwing clay pigeons to shoot. “Odd, every book I’m finding is poetry.” He grabbed three and moved to the table. Flipping one open, he skimmed an ancient Egyptian poem. ‘My heart desires to go down to bathe myself before you.’ “Whoa, kind of private stuff.” He shut the book, and pushed his thermal shirt sleeves above his biceps. “Temp’s warm in here, you comfortable?”