by Terry Odell
He worked his way out from under his coffee table desk, surprised that his knee hadn't stiffened. Damn it to hell, if all it had needed was a stupid elastic bandage…
He peered into the fridge, trying to decide what he wanted to eat. When his cell rang, he rushed to the bedroom, finding his jeans where the phone hung from its case on his belt. Could it be Dalton with an update?
"Harper," he snapped into the phone. "Go."
"Ryan? It's Frankie. Am I disturbing you? I'm sorry to bother you—"
His resolve to dismiss her from his life vaporized at the sound of her voice. "Slow down. No, you're not bothering me." He took the phone to the couch, his head and stomach all of a sudden replaced by another demanding part of him. "What can I do for you?"
When ten seconds of silence elapsed, he said, "Are you still there?"
"Yes. It's…I don't know exactly…maybe I shouldn't have called."
Frankie at a loss for words? Instead of being amused, a thread of concern wove through his chest. "Whatever it is, Frankie, if I can help, I will."
"Before. When you said you were a SEAL, and then that other job. I wondered. Can you find things out about people? I mean, it sounded like you might know all that secret agent stuff."
He ran his fingers through his hair. Her voice had trembled. Something was very, very wrong. "Not really secret agent stuff. Tell me what you need."
"It's Bob—Mom's…boyfriend, if that's what you call it for…mature people. They were away, and then he left her, and her savings account…it's almost all gone."
"Okay, Frankie. Deep breath. Come on. For me." He was pacing the room now, his unoccupied hand clenching and unclenching until he heard her exhale. "Did you ask your mom about the money? Maybe the bank made a mistake. Or she transferred it to another account."
"I can't. Not yet. She thinks I'm trying to run her life. We had this talk, and things were looking good, and I wanted us to be equals, and—"
"Okay, okay. Do you want me to come there? I can be at your place in under an hour."
"Yes. No. I don't know. I need to know all about Bob first, but Mom can't know I'm looking. Do you know how to do that?"
"If you give me some basic information, maybe. But wouldn't it make sense to talk to your mother?"
"I told you, I can't. Not until I have more information. I can't say, 'Mom, I think Bob's a crook.' What if he isn't? And she doesn't know I'm looking at her finances. She'd never forgive me. Never trust me. You have to understand the way our family worked. Castors don't interfere. We were always free to make our own decisions. Our own mistakes. I always respected that. It doesn't seem right to question her choices."
His mind raced. He could try to sneak into Blackthorne's system. "Can you come here? To the ranch, I mean. I can't promise anything. But I'll try." He hesitated, but only for an instant. "Molly's welcome, too."
He waited out an uncomfortable silence. Was she trying to pigeonhole him into her categories of men? And if so, where did she put him?
When she came back on the line, her voice was less tremulous. Basic Frankie. "I'll have to take care of a few things first. Is three o'clock too late?"
He glanced at his watch. One-thirty. "That's fine. Get me as much as you can about Bob. Full name, age, where he lives, was born—anything you can find out. Social Security number would be ideal." He gave her directions to Pop's ranch and hung up.
Once he realized he was wandering aimlessly around the cabin thinking about seeing Frankie, he went to the coffee table and popped the CD out of his laptop. He pulled the real Blade Runner disc from the drawer where he'd stored it and put it in its original case. Browsing the row of cases, he ran his finger along them, stopping at Blazing Saddles. No, if Josh came home unexpectedly, that would be one he'd likely watch. He moved down the row to Gone With the Wind. Taking a Sharpie, he wrote GWTW on his disk and swapped it out, yanking a hair from his head and tucking it in place.
He fixed a sandwich, gulped it down and told himself it was perfectly normal to shower and shave in the middle of the day, and what was wrong with borrowing a little of Josh's aftershave? He put the elastic brace back over his knee, found a clean pair of jeans, changed his mind, and put on some khakis and a dark blue chambray shirt. God, he reminded himself of his sister getting ready for her first date.
But visions of him sitting in front of a computer terminal with Frankie leaning over him, her hair cascading over his shoulder, smelling like fruit, her breath warm against his neck—okay, enough of that, or he'd need another shower. A cold one.
At two-thirty, he packed his laptop into Pop's truck and tried to keep what he knew was a stupid grin off his face as he drove to the ranch.
Chapter 14
"Sit down, boy. You're driving me nuts. Whatever it is you're waiting for won't get here any sooner for all your fidgeting."
Ryan stepped away from the window and turned to face his father, who sat reading in his recliner. So much for telling Pop he'd come to keep him company.
"How're your ribs?" Ryan asked.
"'Bout the same as they were ten minutes ago. Is she pretty?"
Ryan's face flamed. He turned back to the window. He hadn't said anything to Pop about Frankie's connection to the access rights issue, and wasn't sure he should—not until he'd done his homework. Pop hadn't asked, and Ryan knew he wouldn't. Information was something to be dispensed when you had answers, not questions.
"She's got some trouble. I told her I'd try to help. You met her at the hospital. She's the one who took me in that night." At the sound of the recliner's footrest clicking into place, Ryan stepped across the room. "Let me help. What do you need?"
"Nothing. I'm going upstairs and I don't need help. Between you and Rosa, I'm fed up with hovering. Don't forget to call me when supper's ready. I've been smelling her pot roast all day."
His father's eyes twinkled, and one corner of his mouth lifted a fraction. Pop would make a great Blackthorne operative. Nothing escaped him.
The doorbell rang. Ryan's pulse quickened. Chiding himself for his schoolboy reaction, he controlled his pace and strolled to the front door. A quick glance over his shoulder told him Pop had gone upstairs. But he'd bet his father was lingering on the landing.
Ryan pulled the door open. Frankie stood there, dressed in black denims and a cream-colored blouse. Her hair hung loose around her face. A parka was draped over one arm. Her other hand rested on Molly's shoulder. When Frankie lifted her eyes, he swore they got bluer every time he saw her.
"Come in," he said, stepping back.
Molly, surprisingly quiet, followed two paces behind her mother. She clutched a backpack to her chest like a protective shield. She gazed around the room, then leaned into Frankie.
"Hi, Molly," he said. "I'm glad to see you again. Did you have fun on your picnic?"
Her nod said yes, but her solemn expression denied it. She yanked on Frankie's hand. Frankie lowered her head and Molly whispered into her ear.
"Peanut, I told you I didn't know if Wolf was here. You have your backpack full of things to do." Frankie looked at him. "Is there a spot where Molly can sit and read. Or color? She knows she has to behave while the grownups have their time."
"Do we have guests?" Rosa's voice, bright and cheerful, told him she must have been watching and listening. "Ay, que linda. What a lovely child." She crouched in front of Molly. "What's your name, little one?"
He saw the nudge from Frankie.
"Molly," she mumbled into her backpack.
"Well, Molly, in the kitchen I have a big table. Master Ryan used to color there. But maybe you want to help me. Do you cook?"
Molly looked up, her eyes wide. She shook her head.
"No? I need a helper. These two grownups will be no good. You come with Rosa, okay? We make chocolate cake."
When Molly got Frankie's nod of approval, the grin that spread across the youngster's face lit the room. As he watched her trot to the kitchen, hand in hand with Rosa, a spark lit in his chest as well.
He felt Frankie's eyes on him and faced her. She dropped her gaze as soon as he did. "She's in good hands," he said.
"I can tell." After an uncharacteristic silence, she said, "How's your father doing?"
"Fine. Grumbling about the enforced rest."
She nodded. "Did you tell him anything about what we talked about?"
He shook his head. "No point until we know something. Did you ask your mom?"
"No. I tried, but she wanted to rest. Pain pill."
"Yeah, same for Pop."
Damn, they might as well be talking about the weather. Frankie was obviously uncomfortable, but she wasn't babbling. That was a new one, and he ached to offer comfort.
He stepped closer. She stepped back. He waited. She looked almost as frightened as she had when Molly had fallen into the stream. Of him?
He cleared his throat. "I guess we should get started. The computer's in Pop's office. Upstairs."
"Right."
Lord, he wanted to wrap her in his arms. Tell her everything would be fine. She'd crumble if he did. To have her last shred of control ripped away would be more than she could bear. To be the one responsible would be more than he could. He managed a smile.
"Look, if you want, you can give me everything you have, and I'll go to work. It'll probably bore you to death. You can stay down here with Molly and Rosa. They're going to be having a lot more fun."
She sniffed, then reached into the pocket of her parka for a tissue. She wiped her nose. "My cold," she said.
Giggles came from the kitchen. She turned her head, then smiled at him. "I'm okay," she said. "I've got the papers in my purse." She moved toward the front door, and he saw a black leather shoulder bag on the floor where she must have dropped it when she came in. "Mom was groggy, and I didn't want to push—she'd wonder why I was asking. Everything I have is here. I couldn't find his Social Security Number." She handed him a large manila envelope. "If Bob ran off with Mom's savings, I don't know what I'll do."
He took the envelope, his fingers brushing against hers. He doubted a timer set for ten minutes would be part of her plan. "Let's not worry about that yet." He walked toward the stairs, sensing her following him all the way up.
"Take a seat," he said, pointing to the loveseat against the wall of Pop's office. He went behind the desk and spread the papers out.
"It was her savings account." She came up behind him, smelling altogether too good, and pulled out some pages. "Here."
"Okay. Let me see what you've got." Both disappointed and relieved when she left his side, he studied the transaction records. "Do you know anything about BLD Enterprises?"
Frankie shook her head. "Doesn't ring a bell." Her eyes snapped open. "BLD. Bob Dwyer? I mean, his name's probably Robert, and I don't know his middle initial, but…
"It occurred to me. I'll check. Was your mother in the habit of using her savings account for making payments?"
"I don't know. I only started looking a few days ago, when I noticed some overdue bills in the mail. And then, with your land problem, I wanted to see if I could work out a budget, so I could tell Mom not to sell." Her voice grew softer. "Mom was proud of taking care of her own finances. Maybe I should have confronted her sooner."
If she had, they might not be sitting here right now. He didn't want to admit he could be that petty. "I need your mother's bank logon and password." He pushed away from the desk. "Why don't you enter them, and I'll see if I can track down BLD on her payee list."
"It was automatic—she had it saved. You go to the personal banking site."
She looked so eager, so confident. He did his damnedest to let her down gently. "That information doesn't carry over from one computer to another. We'd have to be at your place to use it that way."
He might as well have yelled, the way her face fell. A blush covered her cheeks. "I…I didn't think of that. I'm really not good for much here, am I?"
"Don't worry about it. Your hard copies give us current information. Besides, banks have tight security. I'm not sure I could hack in, even with your mother's information."
He found a tablet of paper and clicked open a ballpoint pen.
"Okay, Frankie. What can you tell me about Bob?"
*****
Frankie sank into the brushed corduroy of the loveseat. For the first time since her mother had called her this morning, she relaxed. Tension dripped from her neck, down her shoulders, her back, and out her toes. The steel cable that had wound itself around her insides loosened.
Within moments, Ryan was busy at the keyboard, his gaze shifting between the papers and the monitor. She answered his questions the best she could, but beyond Bob's name, his age and that he might have a sister in California, she didn't know much about him. Every now and then Ryan jotted a note. Sometimes he'd smile, sometimes he'd shake his head. When he finally glanced in her direction, she dared to interrupt.
"Is what you're doing…illegal? I mean, I don't want you to get into trouble."
He grinned. Like he was having fun. "Not exactly. I sort of borrowed a login from a buddy. His fault—I kept telling Grinch to pick a smarter password than his kid's name and birthday."
The way she did. She felt herself blushing. She wasn't as bad as her mother, leaving logins in the computer's memory, but anyone could probably break in. She made a mental note to change all her passwords once this was over.
"So, what can you find out?"
"I can use databases from my old job, and can get into a few…private ones. I wasn't the computer specialist, but I picked up a few tricks. I've run Bob through a criminal database, and I can't find a record."
"That's good, isn't it?"
"Means he hasn't been arrested is all. But, yeah, that's probably a good thing."
She studied his expression—there was something he wasn't saying. "Tell me what you're thinking."
He swiveled so he was facing her. "I can't tell you much yet. Why get worried for nothing? Let me work a little longer. You can go downstairs if you want."
"No. I'd rather stay. That is, if you think Rosa won't mind keeping an eye on Molly. Maybe I should go." Part of her wanted to relinquish motherhood for a little while. To watch this man at work, deep in concentration. She wished she had a camera. Another part felt guilty at imposing on both him and Rosa for her own selfish needs.
"Rosa loves kids. Trust me, having Molly around for an hour or two will make her day."
That was all she needed. "Thanks. I appreciate this. Really."
His smile made her forget all about Bob.
The warmth of a nearby presence and a scent of aftershave drifted through her consciousness, and she realized she'd dozed off. She opened her eyes and blinked at Ryan's form hovering above her.
"Oh, my. I guess I fell asleep. I didn't get much last night." She rubbed her eyes, then lifted her hair off her shoulders while she got her bearings. A smile played across his lips, and she remembered what she was doing here. "Did you find Bob? The money?"
He shook his head and tipped his head toward the cushion beside her. Asking permission, not demanding. "I've got a search running. It might take a while."
She made room for him, but his thigh brushed hers on the small loveseat. She tried to ignore the way even that faint pressure aroused her. Her nipples puckered and she wished she'd worn a bulky sweater instead of a silk blouse. "How long was I out?"
"Not long. Ten, fifteen minutes, maybe."
She sighed and leaned into his chest. His arm reached around her, rested on her shoulder and she snuggled closer, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. For a moment, she could borrow someone's strength.
His fingers brushed along her shoulder. Not even enough to call a caress. Certainly not enough to warrant the heat that surged through her.
He spoke, his voice gentle. "Tell me about yourself, Frankie Castor. What do you do when you're not serving drinks or taking pictures?"
Small talk. She could handle that. "For now, I'm a long-term sub at the e
lementary school in Broken Bow. Art. Mom pulled some strings, I'm sure. She used to be principal."
She felt, rather than heard, his chuckle.
"What's funny about that? I enjoy it."
"No, I was remembering the night we met. At Three Elks. You smelled like Elmer's glue."
She drew back, but he held her against him. "Don't go away. I liked it. Tell me more."
"There's not much more. I have a degree in art, and I was a decorator in Boston before I moved, but there's not much call for that here. In Broken Bow, interior design means a trip to the building supply center and a couple of hours with HGTV. I moved back to help Mom when my sister left." The contented, safe feeling flew away, replaced by the too-familiar anxiety. "I'm not doing very well, am I?"
"Hey, none of this is your fault. From what you've told me, your mother is an independent woman. None of what happened—and we don't know for sure anything bad really did happen—was your fault."
"But if she's broke—what am I going to do?"
"I'm sure it's going to work out. She's undoubtedly got other accounts in other places. Investments, retirement—most likely, she was simply moving money."
She shook her head. "I don't know. My teaching job doesn't bring in that much, and I don't want to be away more than three nights—Mom still doesn't know about my Three Elks job. And I got a hundred dollars for that picture, but I can't rely on that kind of income. I've tried, but there's no bright side this time."
"There is for me." He lifted her chin so that she had to meet his eyes. Oh, she knew that look. The half-lowered eyelids—why hadn't she noticed those long eyelashes before? The slight tilt to his head. His lips parted, just a fraction. Her feminine instincts weren't that rusty. He wanted to kiss her. And she wanted to kiss him, too. Not smart.
