The Hitman's Mistake

by Sally Brandle

  “Yes, am I crowding you?”

  Crowding, while she sat on his lap? Hardly. Focus on anything else. Like ‘Grant Morley—SAC,’ inscribed on a brass plate or lying in a freezer, naked.

  Sensations of desire versus duty rolled through his body. Her curves fit his contours too damn well, from her head to her calves resting against his shins. “No crowding, ma’am. Your legs are longer than I realized.”

  “Can’t help it. I’m from a family of crowd toppers.”

  Another cruel twist of nature. Most women he’d dated weren’t tall enough to kiss without a neck ache.

  He pulled a blanket from behind the saddle and draped it across her lap and onto her boots.

  “Not a speck of you shows. Next, I need to find the deer trail I explored when I gathered kindling.”

  “Don’t forget my blue cap.”

  “I won’t” His eyes flicked bush to bush, searching for the path which cut on a diagonal to the lake. A slower route to cross the gulley, but thick trees would conceal them from a gunman with a scope.

  “I found it,” he whispered.

  “My hat?”

  “No. The path.” Her body slumped as he reined onto a foot-wide break in the undergrowth.

  Brasso dodged pine limbs to follow the trail. The farther they walked, the narrower it became.

  Miranda’s head swayed back and forth in time to the movements, while soft kitten snores came from under their coat. What he’d give to gather her up and tuck her into his pocket for safe keeping.

  Would she move away from her friends in Seattle for his next job assignment and subsequent ones?

  A branch broke nearby. Grant grabbed the Winchester.

  A damn squirrel ran up a tree.

  The longer they rode, the more his mind conjured Venom and his viper tattoo in increasingly gruesome scenarios. An agent had to play by the rules. The crooks didn’t.

  Movement caught his eye across the ravine. Light reflected off a smooth surface. His heart raced.

  Chapter 9

  Grant slid out his Winchester.

  Shiny, giant antler paddles attached to a Shiras moose poked out of the tree line, then disappeared.

  He eased the gun into the scabbard and let out a deep breath. This time it wasn’t Venom.

  Miranda stirred. “Home?”

  “A little longer. Go back to sleep.”

  “Okay.”

  He’d gained her hard won trust. The warmth from her body penetrated into every fatigued muscle.

  Wake up, Morley. A leg wound wouldn’t stop Venom, and there could be other thugs by now.

  Why the hell had Sam ordered them to stay at his Montana house without a team? Seattle posed a worse threat due to the mole? Maneski had unlimited manpower on his own turf. Where could they be safe in Seattle? He ducked under a canopy of branches.

  John’s secluded house on nearby Vashon Island required boat access. His college buddy would put them up in a heartbeat.

  Brasso slipped on icy shale, jostling the three of them down a steep slope.

  His grip tightened on Miranda’s swaying body. He’d hold her tight, through anything.

  “Easy boy.” He scratched Brasso’s shoulder. “Mastered a tough hill, and you did fine,” he whispered.

  Miranda stretched her shoulders back and winced. “Guess I conked out. My side hurts. Are we close now?”

  That was an understatement. Her movements went too damn deep to ignore. Whatever he fell into with her wouldn’t be a fling. Just like every commitment he made, he made it with his whole being. He was wired that way. “We’ll travel another half hour. Do you feel feverish?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Doc Kyle will be waiting at my house tonight. Hopefully we won’t need a trip to the hospital from infection.”

  Brasso plodded on, the extra weight and a long ride on a game trail taxing to a horse used to being a yard ornament. He swallowed hard. His horse deserved to be ridden more.

  Smoke rose into a gray sky from the far side of a small hill. He let out a long breath. “Almost home, Brasso.”

  They topped the hill, and his home’s golden logs stood out.

  He shifted Miranda’s slack weight. “Hey, we’ve arrived.”

  She poked a fingertip out the hole to widen it. “That’s your house?” Her spine stiffened.

  He swung his shoulders to give her a better view. “Yup, logs from Idaho, sealed to stay golden. Mom preferred the turquoise color for the metal roof. Dad and I picked the river rocks for the half wall in front.”

  Her body strained against the coat.

  “What’s wrong?” He scanned the meadow.

  “Nothing. Years ago I cut out a photo of a similar house from a magazine.”

  “Wait until you see the inside, including the fretwork furniture we made. The technique combines dark and light wood into patterns. Everyone likes my home, except potential buyers.”

  Her form shrunk inside the coat.

  What now? Did she think they produced a bunch of rickety sticks? “The furniture’s upholstered with fabric from a local weaver. Real comfy.”

  “I bet,” she whispered.

  He aimed Brasso to his back porch.

  Kyle had parked his Jeep as instructed, blocking a view from the woods.

  “Whoa.” Grant scowled at the two steps. He loosened the reins, and Brasso lowered his head to dive into tufts of overgrown dead grass.

  “Miranda, we’ll need to do a neck dismount. I’ll kick out of the stirrup and lift my right leg over Brasso’s neck, I need you to lift your right leg at the same time. We’ll be sitting side-saddle for a moment before I hold you against me to slide off together.”

  “I jumped off that way a lot as a kid.”

  “On three.” Grant counted, and eased them both off the saddle. “Stay put Brasso, you did good.”

  “Me, too,” she muttered.

  “Now the tougher part—climbing a couple stairs in tandem. I’m going to throw the blanket over my shoulder to cover the front of the duster. After I unbutton the top, turn around and wrap your good arm around my neck and your legs around my waist. I’ll carry you inside. Okay?”

  “Sure, whatever.”

  His heart pounded while he adjusted the blanket and clasped his hands together under her butt. “You’re still covered.”

  “With your hands.” She grabbed his neck and held tight while he took the first step.

  The back door creaked open.

  Miranda viced her legs tighter around his waist.

  “It’s Doc. We’re almost inside,” he assured her, and took the next step onto the landing.

  Kyle stood in the doorway to the mudroom, then stepped inside.

  Grant put his finger to his lips.

  When they passed by, Kyle raised his eyebrows. “Clever way to cover your witness,” he whispered. “I observed you riding alone and wondered.”

  “Needed to hide her.” Grant kicked the door shut behind him. “Throw on the deadbolt.” He took a few steps inside, tugged off the bandanna and tossed the blanket. “You can drop your feet, Miranda. We’re safe.”

  She stood facing him, her breath pulsing against his throat.

  Kyle locked the door. “You’re grimier than when we go camping.” He wore pressed Dockers and a white dress shirt.

  “I’ve been busy.” Grant rubbed his bristly chin. Damn. When he warmed up, he’d stink worse than a bum. Unlike the smiling doctor who’d always portrayed the trustable boy-next-door image.

  “Hey, relax.” Kyle said. “You sutured her, didn’t you?” His eyes flashed alarm. “Does she have a fever, redness around her stitches?”

  “Hope not. I’ve done my best.” Grant kicked his heavy,
beetle-shaped boot jack out of their path.

  Once the trial finished, Kyle’d be perfect for a fragile woman like Miranda.

  Not going to happen.

  ~ ~ ~

  Miranda struggled to turn around, pinned by tough fabric and Grant’s solid chest—hunted by Venom, now caged by Grant. “Can I get out now?”

  “My back door has a window.” Grant shuffled them forward a few steps, holding his hands at her waist. He stopped and undid the remaining buttons.

  Her eyes blinked.

  They stood in a narrow room. A closet took up one wall and a row of pegs holding keys dotted the other.

  Directly in front of her, a McSteamy hunk’s piercing cobalt eyes traveled from her head to her worn boots. He smiled and brushed back a hank of blond hair.

  Grant rested his hand on her shoulder. “Miss Miranda Whitley, please allow me to introduce to you the illustrious, I mean industrious, old Doc, I mean Dr. Kyle Werner.”

  Nothing old in sight. Dr. Werner resembled a beachcomber transported to the middle of frozen Montana. She met his eyes. “Thank you for driving out here in this storm.”

  “You must be an out of towner, Miss Whitley. This dusting’s a mere preview before the snow hits. Let’s get you beside the fireplace in the living room.” He glanced at Grant. “No blinds to drop.”

  Grant’s hand moved to support her elbow. “Shades get dusty. I had a window coating put on last year to keep sun out that John recommended. It’s mirrored from outside.”

  She stepped away from him.

  Furniture inlaid with dark and light shades of wood harmonized with an open-beamed great room off the entry. Stones of different colors and textures surrounded a fireplace on one end.

  She stopped and stared. Fireplace right, kitchen left, unobstructed living room and dining area in between with a stairway alongside a wall.

  The perfect layout for a log house. She brought her fingers to her lips and whispered, “So beautiful.”

  Nothing blocked a spectacular view on either side. A pond lay in the foreground on one side, shadowed by forest. Mt. Hanlen took center position from the opposite window.

  Sunset began to cast a shadow across the mountain.

  “Not fancy, but all mine for the time being,” Grant stated.

  Was he nuts? She could be standing inside the glossy photo of the house she kept taped on her refrigerator. Corrin called it her dream fort.

  “What’s the matter?” Grant tightened his hold, ready to tote her again.

  A real life rendering of her photo-how could it be? Goosebumps rose on her arm. “The layout’s perfect. It’s common for Montana?”

  “Nope. My own design.”

  “You design homes?”

  “Nah. Sketched the idea and handed it off to an architect friend. John nailed every feature.”

  Her legs wobbled. “I need to sit.”

  Grant grabbed her arm. “Rest on my couch. I’ll get the furnace on.” He got her settled and draped a knitted afghan around her shoulders.

  Her chills weren’t from the outside temperature. “Thanks.”

  “Your For Sale sign’s a ragged blight on the landscape.” Kyle approached, carrying a black satchel. “You’ve finally brought a woman home, have you given up selling?”

  No other girlfriends came here? She sunk into the couch, waiting for more info.

  “Are you channeling my mother?” Grant adjusted his Glock. “That’s exactly what she’d say.”

  “And Pat’s a very wise lady,” Kyle countered.

  “Actually, I’ve been thinking I should hire a realtor. No surprise there hasn’t been a single offer in nearly a year. Everyone ambitious wants to leave Emma Springs, not move in.” He slapped Kyle on the back. “No offense. I should find Brasso a rider, too. If you have any clients who might take good care of my pony, let me know. Dad’s getting too old to exercise him.”

  Kyle’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah, you haven’t been here much. I put your requested grain and bales of hay in the barn.”

  “You’re the best, bro,” Grant said.

  “No job would make me sell this home,” she stated and tugged off a boot.

  “He’s never dreamed of leaping sheep,” Kyle said. “Only a brass plate with SAC engraved beside his name.”

  “My house shouldn’t sit empty. Times change.” Grant picked up her ankle and removed her remaining boot. “Please, put your feet up. I’ll feed the horses while Doc checks out my hatchet job.” He turned to Kyle. “I used sterilized instruments. Infection concerns me, too.”

  Kyle shooed him out. “The doctor’s on duty.” He gave Miranda a kindly smile.

  “Grant’s got family here, friends, and this house. And he wants to sell?” She yanked her arm out of the loose sweater.

  “Here, let me help.” Kyle bent over her and maneuvered the bulky garment off her head. “We all have different aspirations.”

  Grant’s scent released while she adjusted his T-shirt to expose her injury. “Yeah. How far’s Emma Springs?”

  “Under five miles. I work out of a home office and attached clinic located in the center of town.”

  “I bet it’s a beautiful place to live.”

  “It suits me perfectly.” He opened his case and tugged on gloves. “You’ve acquired a classic FBI field bandage, Miss Whitley.”

  “Not by choice. Please call me Miranda, Dr. Werner.”

  “Fair enough. My friends call me Kyle.” He gently lifted the edges of the tape and removed the bandage. “I understand a stray bullet caught you near Crystal Ridge.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He pressed each stitch. “I planned to become an agent until reading the FBI’s use of force manual. I opted to study medicine. Once a year we play poker, and I hear his stories.”

  “I bet those are exciting.”

  “Depends on your perspective.” He dabbed antiseptic on her wound before securing a fresh bandage. “You’re healing properly, and the pain should continue to decrease. I need to examine the bump on your head.”

  “I could use a head exam.” She pulled her shirt down. “How much did he tell you about me?”

  “Mentioned you witnessed a botched murder attempt and fled for your life.” His fingers barely touched her forehead.

  “Abbreviated, but accurate. You must be good friends.”

  “Closer than most brothers. Let’s check those pupils with my scope.” He pulled a slim case from his bag. “You must’ve cut through a fair amount of forest on your mule. The Lazy K’s on the other side of Sunrise Lake.”

  “Red bolted after the shot, and I held on. Those magnificent mule ears heard Grant.” She bowed her head. “I shouldn’t have brought my trouble to Grant and Emma Springs.”

  “We do what’s best at the time.” He lifted her chin and shone a pin-point of light into each of her eyes. “So you enjoy horses?”

  “I never grew out of being a pony girl. I’d love to have the freedom to ride through meadows and mountains.”

  “If only Grant felt the same. I always assumed he did.” He shut off the light.

  If only Grant had been a school teacher or a handy man. If only her life hadn’t been shattered by violence. If only her plans didn’t include baby carriages and his an FBI career ladder.

  If only would equal lonely in this scenario, unless she reshaped her dreams. Could she?

  ~ ~ ~

  Grant returned from the barn, washed up, and began dusting dinner plates he’d left in the drying rack months ago. Miranda spoke his name, her tone anxious. He stepped to the edge of the kitchen and strained to hear the reason.

  “I never should’ve come here,” she repeated to Kyle. “I brought a horrible killer to your town.”

  Her regret struck him
worse than a blow. How could she feel guilty getting help from a trained agent? Normal witnesses wanted one thing, for him to save their lives. Miranda Whitley wasn’t normal in any way, shape, or form.

  Had an infection made her bewildered? He clenched the dishtowel. “Is she okay, Doc? Do we need to get her to Mercy Hospital tonight?” he called from the kitchen.

  “Nope. She’s got little more than a flesh wound. Your stitches come out in four or five days.”

  “Her forehead bump a concern?”

  “No signs of a concussion.” Kyle continued to engage Miranda in conversation using his patient-soothing voice.

  Grant walked in and tucked a pillow behind her. “Slide into the corner and lean back. I’ll see what Mom stashed in my freezer for dinner.”

  He walked to the kitchen window. He’d missed his chance to immobilize Venom—could she be doubting his capabilities to protect her?

  He turned in time to see Kyle place supplies back in his satchel and snap it shut. “I bet your family’s worried sick.” He remained sitting at the other end of the couch.

  “They’re gone.”

  “Out of the country?” Kyle asked.

  “Murdered in a drive-by shooting five years ago,” she said.

  Grant’s stomach lurched. How could she possibly be responsible? Sam had researched her family’s murder. The brutal scene had made headlines, but there was nothing regarding the grieving, orphaned daughter.

  “Oh, my sincerest sympathy.” Kyle said. “Were you there?”

  “No. Jacob, a guy I’d broken up with, drove my parents and little brother to surprise me at college on my birthday.”

  Grant stepped closer, then stopped.

  “So they never made it to see you?” Kyle folded his hands in his lap, his body still.

  “We had a nice visit.” Her face tightened with pain. “Before they left, Dad mentioned he’d prefer to ride the train home.”

  “Did they?” Kyle gently probed.