When Danger Calls (Blackthorne, Inc.)

by Terry Odell

  "Thanks again," she whispered. "Good dog."

  He yawned and lowered his head.

  She found Jack in the kitchen, pouring a drink. He turned when she entered.

  "Want a nightcap?"

  She lowered the basket to the table. "No, thanks. I'm not much of a drinker." At his hesitation, she hurried to add, "But go ahead. I have nothing against people having a drink."

  Lifting the glass, he said, "Cheers." He downed it and poured another. "Sure you don't want one?"

  She shook her head. "I want to thank you again. Molly's out like a rock."

  He raised his glass again. "To the innocence of youth. May you sleep as well." He tilted his head back and drained the glass before grabbing some clothes from the basket. "I won't be long. Make yourself at home."

  She pondered his toast as she roamed the living room. Remembering his father's accident, she decided sleep hadn't come easy for him lately. Worry would do that.

  A padded leather photo album on the bottom of the entertainment center caught her eye. Hesitating a scant second, she carried it to the couch and started leafing through it. Instead of family photos, however, she saw unsettling, yet familiar images. The desolation of war. Hungry children. Before she could figure out where she might have seen them, Jack came back, barefoot, dressed in loose fitting black cargo pants, towel drying his hair.

  It was much easier to look at him, lean, muscular and bare-chested, if she thought of him as a subject to photograph. For the first time, she took notice of the newly-revealed angular planes of his clean-shaven face. There was a warrior look to him. Strength and confidence—qualities he'd kept hidden before. She could already see him, posed against a tree, Wolf at his side.

  Then he smiled and the warrior disappeared. Warriors didn't have dimples.

  "What are you looking at?" He gestured to the album and went toward the kitchen.

  "Some photos. I hope you don't mind."

  "Nah—unless you're going to make fun of the way I looked as a kid. I was awfully scrawny until high school." He pulled a sweatshirt over his head.

  "No, these aren't those kind of pictures." She turned a few pages. Recognition set in. She looked, and looked again. Her pulse quickened. She flipped to the back of the album, then raised her eyes to study him.

  "Who are you? What are you doing with an album of Joshua Harper's pictures? Not cut from magazines. Originals. With proof sheets."

  As if he'd pulled on a mask, Jack's face hardened. A jaw muscle twitched. "How do you know those were taken by Joshua Harper?"

  "I took photography in high school. We discussed his work. I admired it. For a while, I wanted to be that kind of a photographer—a photojournalist, showing everyone the truth. It seemed like such an adventurous life. Nothing like my dull Broken Bow existence. But that was a long time ago."

  "Why did you give it up?" He relaxed a little, but his tone remained guarded. Forced neutrality.

  She pushed away the memories. She'd long since stopped regretting her decisions. "Things don't always go the way you want. You know how it is. Life is what happens while you're making other plans."

  He nodded. The pain in his eyes was the same pain she'd seen in the bar. It had nothing to do with his knee. But tonight, without the scruffy beard, he seemed vulnerable. Like he needed something beyond tomato soup and grilled cheese.

  No doubt he did, but despite the twinge below her belly, it wasn't her. She clasped her hands in her lap, resisting the urge to go to him. She had her own problems, and didn't need anyone else's.

  "You're not Joshua Harper. I've seen him on the news. I know your name isn't Jack Daniels. So, who are you?"

  He sank into the chair across from her and rested his elbows on his knees, his head lowered, for several long moments before he looked up. "Ryan. Josh is my older brother. But I wish you'd forget you know that."

  "Why? Why is knowing you're Joshua Harper's brother a big deal?"

  "It's not. But knowing me might be. Ryan Harper's not a very nice person. Definitely not the sort of person you want to be involved with."

  She stared into his whiskey-gold eyes, seeing the pain. "Depends on what you mean by involved. I happen to like the person I met. I don't think Ryan Harper is that much different from Jack. I think we could be friends."

  "Ryan can never be Jack." His voice was a husky growl. He got up and took the photo album from her, closed it and put it back on the shelf. He stood there, his back to her, hands balled into fists at his side. Without turning, he said, "Go to bed, Frankie."

  For the first time since she'd met him, he frightened her, and she didn't understand why. She'd assumed he'd respond like a friend—which was all she ever wanted from anyone. He'd been acting like a friend, and now, when things seemed safe, with the pieces of her life ready to be picked up, she was trembling inside.

  She mumbled a good night and went to the bedroom. Wolf looked at her, then jumped from the bed and trotted out the door. She closed it behind him. "He's all yours," she whispered.

  Moving Molly away from the center of the bed, Frankie snuggled in beside her. She'd seen heat in Ryan's eyes, had almost allowed herself to feel some in return. And then he'd shut her out.

  Men. They hit on you, but when they found out you came as a set, they ran for cover. Or assumed you'd leap at the chance to jump into the sack, because, obviously, you'd done it before. Or worse, they brought your child presents, thinking they'd score points, but they were pretending. Nobody wanted a ready-made family. They wanted a roll in the hay, and she'd learned the hard way it was not worth it. She listened to the soft sounds of breathing beside her. Except for Molly. She'd been worth it.

  For a short time, she'd allowed herself to think Ryan was different. Then he'd dismissed her. Sent her away. Well, gruff and rude as he'd been, at least he was enough of a gentleman not to shove himself at her once Molly'd gone to bed.

  Molly. Frankie replayed the afternoon. Ryan had rescued Molly without a thought as to who she was. He'd taken care of her, made sure she was all right. That they were both all right. But not once did she remember him calling Molly by name. He was no different from any of the other men she'd met. To them, a child was a nuisance. A thing. An obstacle to be shoved aside to clear the route to Mommy's bed.

  Sleep came in fits and starts. Jack—no, Ryan—invaded her dreams, and they were most definitely not nightmares. She'd read about having sexual feelings after a life-threatening experience. That must be what was happening. She stared at the ceiling, trying not to disturb Molly.

  By four a.m., she gave up. Tiptoeing to the window, she pulled back the curtain. The snow had stopped. She found her clothes, dry enough to wear, and wriggled into them. Warrior fantasies were one thing. Ryan Harper had no place in her ordinary existence.

  Leaving Molly asleep for the moment, Frankie crept to the living room. Ryan lay on his back on the couch, snoring softly, the whiskey bottle on the floor beside him. In the kitchen, she found a tablet of paper and a pen. Crumpling three false starts, she decided a simple thank you would have to cover it. She propped the note by the coffee maker.

  Frankie gathered her belongings, found her car keys in the tote, and eased the front door open. After putting her things in the car, she went back into the house and shook Molly awake.

  "Time to go, Peanut. Be super quiet."

  Molly lifted her arms, and Frankie picked her up, inhaling the sleepy-child smell that balanced her world.

  "It's dark."

  "Yes, we need to get a very early start. No talking until we get in the car, okay?"

  From the dead weight in her arms, she knew Molly had fallen back to sleep. If she'd ever really awakened.

  She buckled Molly into her seat and turned the key in the ignition, staring at the house, praying the car would start on the first try. When it did, she breathed a sigh of relief.

  She peered into the rearview mirror. The faint glow of the closet light illuminated the bedroom window. The rest of the house remained dark. That was
what she wanted, she told herself.

  Ryan didn't want her around, and she certainly didn't need his negativity.

  Chapter 10

  Ryan clutched his temples, afraid his head would burst. Shit, he hadn't gotten blind, stinking drunk in years. When he needed to, he could usually pace himself to keep a nice, numbing buzz on. And he never got drunk because of a woman. Never. Hell and damnation. A perky woman who scheduled her anger. A woman with a kid. No, it wasn't Frankie. She was the final shove that sent him over the edge. He pulled himself off the couch, trying to convince himself.

  The bedroom was empty, his sweats neatly folded at the foot of the bed. He checked for her camera and tote. Both gone. Good riddance. He staggered toward the bathroom. Standing under the shower's blast, he lowered the temperature until his head cleared. While toweling off, he decided a vague dream about sitting on the porch with the dog in the middle of the night must not have been a dream.

  "Wolf?" No response. Pop should have named him Ghost. He groaned and stumbled into the kitchen for coffee.

  "Thanks for everything. Frankie & Molly."

  He shoved the note away from the coffee maker. You're welcome. Careful not to move his head, he managed to get the filter, water and coffee into the right places and flipped the brew switch.

  Lust, he told himself. That's all it was. If he'd pressed, she would have given in. She'd been vulnerable, he'd been celibate a long time. He'd done the right thing. She didn't seem like a one night stand sort of woman, and he wasn't a relationship man.

  The pounding in his head started again, and it took a moment to figure out it was coming from the door.

  "It's open," he shouted, regretting it as soon as the words left his mouth. Where the hell did Josh keep the aspirin? He braced himself against the counter, riding out a wave of nausea.

  "Drink water." His father's voice floated through the haze.

  Ryan started to straighten, decided it was impossible, and besides, his father undoubtedly knew exactly what was wrong with him.

  "Morning, Pop."

  "More like afternoon. You know what day it is?"

  Shit. "It better be Monday."

  "Yep." He set a cardboard box on the counter.

  Ryan looked at it, looked to his father, who had retreated into the living room. He pried up the lid and peered inside. His heart stopped. The room spun, blood rushed in his ears, and it wasn't from last night's booze. Gingerly, he reached in, lifting first one picture, then another. Some still framed as he remembered them on the walls. Others loose in the box. A stack of pale yellow envelopes tied with a white ribbon, still emitting a faint lavender scent. His mother's handwriting, clear and bold. He blinked. Swallowed. Pinched the bridge of his nose. Cleared his throat.

  "Pop…I…"

  "Hurt too much to see her," came Pop's voice, gruff with emotion. "Thought you might want one or two of them. Help yourself."

  Ryan leafed through the snapshots while he waited for the earth to start revolving again. He knew which one he wanted as soon as he saw it. He remembered the day it had been taken, right after he'd won third prize at the fair with Dynamite, his pony. He'd been so sure he'd get the blue ribbon and hadn't wanted to pose for the family picture his grandfather insisted on taking. He was eight, Josh was eleven, and Lindy was barely out of toddlerhood, holding a wand of cotton candy. He saw the look in his mother's eyes, as she looked at him, not the ribbon, not the camera. So proud, she'd made him feel like he'd won first prize after all.

  "Could use some help." Pop's voice from over his shoulder broke the spell. Ryan set the picture on the counter.

  "Name it, Pop," he said, keeping his face averted.

  "How about some coffee?"

  "It'll be another couple of minutes."

  His father edged around him and filled a glass with water. "Drink."

  Ryan eyed the glass as if it were an implement of torture. Considering how his stomach felt, he didn't think the thought unwarranted. Pop's eyes bored through him. He drank. His stomach churned, but he thought he'd be all right.

  "Go sit," Pop said. "I'll bring the coffee."

  Ryan walked across the room as if it were covered in eggshells. He lowered himself to the couch. Pop rummaged in drawers, then came over and set another glass of water and a bottle of ibuprofen on the coffee table.

  "Anything you want to tell me?" Pop asked.

  "Rough day."

  "Looks like the night was rougher."

  "I wouldn't know." He swallowed three tablets and downed the water. "What do you need?"

  His father got up, went to the kitchen, and returned with two mugs of coffee. "It can wait."

  A new churning roiled in Ryan's stomach. Pop never asked for help unless it was to mend a fence, herd the stock or some ranch-related chore. But if all he needed was a hand around the place, he'd have come out with it, probably before he'd said good morning.

  "No, tell me now." A flash of panic jump-started his pulse. "Did the doctors—they didn't find anything—I mean, you're okay?" Dammit, he was babbling like Frankie.

  "I'm fine. Too ornery to kick off just yet." He reached into a back pocket and dropped an envelope onto the table.

  Ryan sipped his coffee, letting the hot brew sit in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. "For me?"

  When his father remained silent, Ryan picked up the envelope. Heavyweight paper, addressed to Pop, a bank's return address. He reached inside and removed the pages.

  Ryan skimmed the contents, his hangover forgotten for the moment. "Shit, Pop. Can they do this? Take away your access rights?"

  "Apparently so. I talked to the lawyers this morning. I got no claim to the land."

  "Can you buy them out?"

  "Hell, no. I make a comfortable living, but ain't got that kind of cash."

  "Without access to that stretch of land, the tours can't—is there another route?"

  "Would either have to be half or twice as long—and not sure there'd be many takers. Two-hour ride was perfect for the city folks. The four-hour one was never a big draw—only did one or two a week." He grimaced. "That chunk of land's got some of the best vistas."

  Ryan glanced back at the pages. "Six weeks? Can't they wait until after the season?"

  "Could, I expect. Won't."

  "Can't you work out the same sort of arrangement?"

  "I figured you might have some ideas—I'm a hick rancher, you know. No way I can afford that spread, not worth it for access rights."

  "Shit, Pop, you're no hick." He snapped the papers back onto the table. "What can I do that you can't?" The anger in Pop's eyes was new to Ryan.

  "I don't know—thought you might have some idea—your life being a tad more…creative…than mine."

  "Pop, I don't know. My field of expertise is a bit more…physical. Let me think about it for a bit." He worked past the throbbing in his head. "You have an Internet connection?"

  "See—told ya you thought I was a hick. Broadband. And a website. How d'you think we snag the tourists these days?"

  "I should have known."

  There was a prolonged silence. "Could use you at the house, too."

  Ryan studied his father. Pop hadn't sat down, and his stance was awkward. Cracked ribs, he remembered. And a concussion. He held up the bottle of ibuprofen. "You need some of these pills?"

  A hint of a smile creased his weathered face. "Got some better ones at home."

  "I'll be there."

  "Truck's outside." He swiveled toward the door.

  Ryan stood. The room swirled. He swallowed. "Be with you right after I puke."

  *****

  Holding a tiny blue satin evening gown, Frankie trudged up the stairs toward Molly's room, shaking her head at the resiliency of kids. Molly had been up at dawn with a to-do list that started with French toast, moved on to French braids, help with a jigsaw puzzle and a search for the perfect outfit Barbie would wear on her upcoming date with Ken.

  Frankie, on the other hand, ached all over, had barely
slept, and hoped she wasn't coming down with something. When she was halfway up the stairs, the phone rang. Deciding whether to go back down to the kitchen or continue up seemed an impossible choice. Up. She grabbed the phone before Molly's hand hit the receiver. Molly snatched Barbie's dress and raced back to her room.

  "Mom. How's Lolo? Are you having a good time? Any aftereffects from your fall?" She refrained from asking about Bob.

  "Slow down, for goodness sake. Everything is wonderful. I tried calling last night, but you weren't home. Did you get my message?"

  "Sorry. I forgot to check the machine. What's up?" Frankie heard country music in the background, muffled conversation and laughter. "Where are you?"

  "We're still in Lolo—I wanted to let you know we're staying a little longer."

  Thoughts of another accident crashed into her already aching head. "Mom, is anything wrong? You didn't have another dizzy spell, did you?"

  "No, nothing like that. Bob's a bit of a history buff, and he's enjoying the Lewis and Clark trail sites. We lost time because of the weather, but since it's cleared up, we thought we'd extend our stay. I hope you don't mind."

  It dawned on Frankie that her mother wasn't asking permission. "Of course not." Her hands got cold and her cheeks got hot. Maybe she was coming down with something at that. "Have fun. Molly and I will hold down the fort." She gritted her teeth and added, "Say hi to Bob."

  Good grief. At sixty-eight, her mother had a better social life than she did. Heck, merely having a social life was better than what she had. She did not want to think about that. But when she stopped envisioning her mother and Bob, all she saw was Ryan Harper. She rubbed her temples and went in search of some painkillers.

  Two hours later, standing at the checkout counter at the drug store, Frankie accepted the fact that she had a cold. A mild cold, she told herself. Nothing major. Armed with a sack full of cough drops, decongestants and nasal spray, she pulled Molly down the block to the camera store.