Quinn Security

by Dee Bridgnorth

  When she’d finally gotten her dad out of the cabin, having appeased him with half-hearted assurances that she wasn’t about to get mixed up with Shane—she hadn’t even invited him over, technically—she’d sat in a stupor on the couch, trying to seriously analyze if she was overreacting in terms of Delilah standing her up.

  She’d gone to bed unsettled and had woken up disturbed. After a few more calls and text messages to Delilah’s cell phone, which were equally fruitless as they had been the night before, she’d had no choice but to jump in the shower and get ready for Yellowstone.

  Sunlight cut across her eyes, nearly blinding her, as she led the group to the first lookout point, and she was jarred from dark thoughts about what she’d come to learn about Delilah’s secret life—was she really some kind of prostitute, what kinds of questionable characters had she associated with?—so she decided she would take measures to look for the exotic beauty as soon as she got off work. She could ask around town, maybe stop by Delilah’s apartment, there were things she could do, she promised herself, that would help put her mind at ease.

  “Y’all can tie-off your horses right here!” she informed them, as she came to a wooden railing meant to rein horses. She dismounted demonstratively and roped Buttons’ leather reins around the railing then helped the others to do the same. “Five minutes, guys!”

  As she joined the tourists at the cliffs edge where a sturdy metal guardrail ran the length of the scenic point, an eerie feeling cut down her spine.

  She was being watched.

  She could feel it.

  But when she glanced around and looked back towards the trail they’d departed from, there wasn’t a soul in sight. Not a single hiker or bird watcher. There were only her five tourists and none of them had their eyes on her. Instead, they were taking a wealth of photos and selfies at the guardrail.

  “Ms. Abernathy?” Jessica asked as she offered her iPhone. “Would you mind taking our photo?”

  Whitney took the cell phone and waited for Jessica and her son to pose with the majestic view behind them. She took a number of photos, all the while feeling eyes on her—she couldn’t shake the chilling feeling, but was starting to wonder if she was crazy—and then handed the cell phone back to Jessica.

  Four scenic views and two hours later, Whitney was back at the corral stables, having collected all five horses and tucked them into their stalls. The eerie feeling of being watched—icy eyes she never caught sight of that chilled her from behind—came and went, but when she started brushing Buttons’ flank inside one of the stables, the dark sense that she was being watched—no, stalked!—finally subsided.

  “Hey, Ronnie!” she said, good-naturedly when another corral employee entered the stables with a bale of hay.

  Ronnie was a wiry, young man who was due to return to community college over in Jackson Hole for his senior year as soon as the summer ended. He had an air of relaxed optimism about him, a mentality that only college kids could fully possess. She remembered the feeling and hoped he wouldn’t take it for granted.

  “What’s up, Whitney?” he asked as he muscled the hay bale into a trough for the horses.

  “Have you seen Delilah?”

  He thought about it, then said, “Not since yesterday, why?”

  “Wasn’t she due in today?” she asked immediately.

  Ronnie shot her a sideways grin and admitted, “I’m not that into Delilah.”

  Whitney was too concerned to catch his remark. Ronnie had responded as though she was angling to figure out just how badly Ronnie was pining for Delilah. He certainly was, but nothing could’ve been further from her worried mind.

  “But wasn’t she supposed to come in to work today?” she pressed.

  “Yeah, but I haven’t seen her.”

  “Damn.”

  “Damn is right,” Ronnie agreed. “The last time she ran off, she nearly got full-on fired. Remember that?”

  “Yeah, I remember,” she said absently.

  “Give her a call.”

  “You think I haven’t done that?” she shot back defensively.

  Ronnie was taken aback and threw both of his hands up in mock surrender. “Whoa, it was just a suggestion. I don’t know what to tell you. I haven’t seen her.”

  “Not even last night?”

  “At the parade, you mean?” he asked. “No, I was with friends.”

  “No, I mean after the parade,” she pushed.

  “Whitney, calm down. I haven’t seen her. At all,” he said as though he didn’t much appreciate being interrogated.

  Well, Whitney didn’t much appreciate the fact that she felt compelled to interrogate him or anyone, but that’s where things stood.

  “Sorry, Ronnie.”

  “No worries,” he told her, lightening up. “I’ll let you know if I run into her.”

  As he started off, she felt a hot flare of irritation and called out, “Do you have my number?”

  He turned back, “Guess not.”

  “Then how would you let me know?” she challenged as she pulled her own cell phone from her pocket, cuing up a new contact.

  “Damn, you really need to find her, don’t you? What’d she do?”

  First, Whitney got his number and plugged it into her phone then, after she shot him a text message so that he’d have her cell number as well, she said, “She didn’t do anything. I’m just worried about her.”

  Ronnie screwed his face up some and informed her, “I wouldn’t waste feeling worried about Delilah Dane, if I were you.”

  The way he said it made it seem like Ronnie might know something about Delilah that hadn’t occurred to Whitney, so she asked, “What exactly do you mean by that?”

  “I mean…” he hesitated to state, “that I heard she got tangled up with some guy who lives out on the plains, east of the Fist.”

  “Who?” she asked urgently.

  “Don’t know his name,” said Ronnie. “I never met him officially. Just saw him around some. Man, if he snapped his fingers, Delilah would go off running. Has some kind of hold on her, like I’ve never seen.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “You think I know his address?”

  “What does he look like?” she pressed.

  “Ah,” he stammered, as a far-away look filled his light eyes. “Maybe six feet. Normal build, not overweight or anything. Dark hair. Sort of non-descript, I guess.”

  “Thanks,” she said dryly.

  Ronnie shrugged and offered, “Really, Whitney, try not to worry about her. Delilah is known for disappearing.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” she snapped.

  He gave her a wave as he walked away and Whitney was left to fret some more, alone in the stable.

  How come no one but Whitney cared? Why was no one taking her concern seriously? She would think, given Delilah’s track record for walking on the wild side, that people would be sooner to jump to the conclusion that Delilah might be in serious trouble. But instead, everyone seemed resigned to shrug and ignore the situation, as if the girl had been asking for it and if she got into dangerous trouble then it was her own damn fault.

  Well, Whitney didn’t agree. Not one bit. So once she urged Buttons back into his stall, she started off towards the parking area where she’d left her Jeep in the shade of an evergreen.

  But before she reached it, she saw Shane emerging from one of the trails into the grassy area up ahead.

  She froze. Their eyes locked and if she wasn’t mistaken, he slightly slowed his stomping step.

  A thrilling wave of excitement crashed through her until she realized he didn’t look all that pleased to see her.

  Did he have doubts? Did he regret their sudden and unexpected make-out last night? Had he hoped to avoid her and let the urgent, sexual surge that had magnetized them gradually die out until they were nothing more than strangers all over again?

  Trying not to be a weirdo, she smiled and gave him a little wave, but he didn’t return either as he cros
sed the grass, nearing the parking area.

  She met him at the edge of the parking lot, feeling hesitant but knowing that it would only get more painfully awkward if she didn’t execute some degree of conversation.

  “So, my dad’s a real psycho,” she commented light-heartedly.

  She nervously shoved her hands deep into her Yellowstone-issued khaki shorts and felt a terrible slouch coming on. God, he made her nervous. But in a good way. Of course, it wasn’t helping that there was absolutely nothing friendly about his current mood. He seemed to be scowling.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he managed to offer.

  “He never does that, I promise,” she insisted. “I can’t believe he just walked right into my cabin like that.”

  Shane straightened his spine, broadening his shoulders, and looked down his nose at her in a way that made her shrink. Darn, he was not going to make this easy for her, and though she felt the urge to address what had happened between them last night, she was too intimidated.

  “You haven’t seen Delilah?” she asked, changing the subject.

  The light behind his dark eyes shifted with… Was that concern? Paranoia? Recognition? God, he was guarded.

  “No,” he finally told her.

  “Well, I’m worried about her so I’m going to stop off at her place in town,” she said casually.

  She did not expect him to bark out, “Leave it alone, Whitney.”

  “What?”

  “You’re about to go off on some big crusade—”

  “I’m concerned—”

  “Don’t be. I’m handling it,” he asserted.

  “You’re handling it?” she questioned. “So, there’s something to handle,” she surmised.

  He didn’t look pleased that she’d cornered him with his back against the cold, hard truth.

  “What’s there to handle?” she pushed.

  “Nothing,” he told her. “Just leave it alone.”

  “You’ve piqued my interest now,” she pointed out. “There’s no way I’m going to leave it alone.”

  “Look, I’ve already stopped by her apartment. She isn’t there.”

  Whitney felt her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. What did Shane know about Delilah that would’ve compelled him to stop by her apartment above Devil’s Advocate? Whitney had assumed that Delilah Dane was more or less a stranger to Shane, but now she had to wonder.

  “So, you’re looking for her, too,” she concluded, narrowing her eyes on him.

  She usually liked a little mystery in the man she was interested in, but not in this case. In this case it just unnerved her even worse than she already felt.

  “You got me concerned so I decided to look into it,” he said, but it didn’t strike her as entirely true. His concern about the situation seemed far more personal than it being the result of some kind of empathy he had for Whitney and her own worry. What was he hiding? “Why are you staring at me like that?”

  “Because no one else seems too shaken up about the fact that Delilah stood me up last night. If anything, everyone I’ve mentioned it to has made me feel like a crazy person for even questioning that something might be wrong. Except for you. Why is that?”

  “Maybe because I’m the only person who’s made out with you in a while?”

  She hadn’t expected that. Not at all. The mere reminder had her grinning, but she fought to suppress her smile. It wasn’t easy.

  “Let me get this straight, you’re taking my concern for Delilah seriously because we made out a little last night?”

  He narrowed his eyes right back at her as though he knew if he confirmed as much it would be like stepping into some kind of female-set trap.

  Regardless, he managed to say, “Something like that.”

  “Then let’s look for her together,” she suggested.

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  “Shane,” she asserted, feeling her stomach drop. “What the hell do you know about Delilah that I don’t?”

  He held his tongue for way too long and when he finally breathed, “Nothing,” Whitney knew that Shane was lying.

  ***

  At about the time Whitney was climbing into her Jeep, having worked herself up into a frustrated tizzy at Shane’s refusal to clue her in to the secrets he obviously knew about Delilah—secrets that would help Whitney find the girl—over on the northeast side of the Fist, just outside of Yellowstone, Jack Quagmire pulled his dusty, old pickup truck up in front of Troy Quinn’s cabin.

  He killed the engine and stared out at the quaint, two-story home.

  Jack had never been one to show up unannounced. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever demanded anything of Troy, and more so than any other werewolf in the pack, Jack had been patient and loyal towards his newly crowned king.

  But enough was enough. Jack had been hanging onto his last thread of patience where his king was concerned. He needed answers and he needed them now. He needed direction and approval and to move on with his life with Angel without looking over his shoulder for the rogue werewolf who had turned her, who owned her, who might come back to steal her away.

  Stepping out into the heat of the brutal Wyoming sun—man, summer had slammed through the Fist seemingly overnight—he drew in a deep, fortifying breath, anchored his nervousness in the conviction of his righteous effort, and made his way up to the front door of the cabin.

  Troy’s pickup was parked out front. Jack knew he was home. Reece was likely at the library. There were no other Quinn brothers’ vehicles around. Nothing would distract Troy from finally delivering his verdict.

  And with that in mind, Jack pounded on the front door.

  It eased open under the weight of his heavy knock.

  Jack listened out for the sounds of footfall in case Troy had heard him knocking and was on his way to answer the door. But he heard nothing.

  He eased the door open a bit further and peeked his head into the dimly lit foyer. There didn’t appear to be any lights on, only sunlight streaming through the windows illuminated the foyer and living room beyond it, he realized as he edged his way inside.

  Curious, he called out, “Troy?”

  He listened.

  Nothing.

  “It’s Jack!”

  Again, nothing.

  Cautiously, he started through the cabin. When he came into the living room, he noticed all of Reece’s feminine touches around the otherwise masculine decorum, but Troy wasn’t there.

  He was about to dare to go up the stairs and hunt around the second floor when he heard the sound of sustained humming that immediately reminded him of a meditating monk.

  “Troy?”

  The humming sound, low and long, was emanating from a room set off from the back of the living room. He neared the door and pressed his ear against it.

  The humming stopped and Jack then heard the sound of someone drawing in a long, deep breath, and a moment later, the sustained humming blared again.

  He opened the door.

  Sitting crossed-legged and surrounded by a circle of candles and crystals was Troy. His eyes were closed and his hands were resting, palms up, on his folded knees.

  It looked like he was meditating.

  A swell of awkwardness bloomed in Jack’s chest. This seemed highly private and he hated to interrupt, but Jack had come here for a reason. He refused to leave unfulfilled.

  “Psst! Troy?” he whisper-shouted, trying not to feel like an ass.

  Troy’s eyes popped open and he immediately scowled, barking, “Jack! What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I—”

  “I was just getting somewhere!” he complained in a burst of frustration as he sprang to his feet and paced out of the ring of candles and crystals. “I’d nearly honed in on a clear vision!”

  Jack didn’t want to get his head bitten off—figuratively or literally—so he stayed in the open doorway, at a safe distance, and sheepishly mentioned, “Angel and I can’t wait forever.”

  “You�
��ve been together for less than a month,” Troy reminded him, “and you’re both destined to live hundreds of years given your werewolf blood. It’s hardly been forever.”

  Jack straightened his spine and promised himself he wouldn’t back down. “Can I turn her? I need to know if you’ll permit it.”

  “Turn her? She’s already been turned, Jack.”

  “I realize that,” he allowed. “But I was thinking, what if I proceeded with the blood ritual. What if we mixed blood? That would have to help, right?”

  Troy had to think on it, but Jack had run out of patience.

  “I don’t even know why I keep craving your permission,” he complained as he locked eyes with Troy. “I’m loyal to a fault and it’s gotten me nowhere.”

  “Now, just hold on a minute.”

  “Why can’t you give me this one thing, Troy?”

  “It’s not about me giving it to you or withholding something you want,” he explained hotly. “I have to be able to see it, don’t you get that?”

  Jack eyed the many flickering candles around the room.

  To which Troy immediately commented, “I thought it would help.”

  At the risk of offending his king, Jack felt compelled to voice a brand-new thought that had just come to mind. “Lucy Cooper can see things.”

  Troy’s eyes darkened and narrowed on him.

  “She has powers.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he confronted.

  “It’s supposed to mean,” Jack shot right back, “that maybe I should go to her for answers.”

  “You would dare go against your king?” he challenged.

  Jack glared at him and spat, “What king?”

  ***

  Whitney had never tailed another vehicle in her life.

  It was a damn challenge given the fact that there weren’t that many drivers on the road. The glare of the early evening sun through the front windshield of her Jeep wasn’t exactly helping as she drove along the Highland Highway at a ridiculous distance behind Shane’s pickup truck.

  She’d decided to follow him after he’d climbed into his truck at Yellowstone.

  He was going to handle things?