Protector for Hire

by Tawna Fenske

  “No shit.”

  He sounded annoyed by that, and Janelle figured they weren’t talking about the dog anymore. Better remedy that.

  “So how did you and Sherman meet?”

  “I was in this dimly lit saloon, and I’d had a couple drinks, and—”

  She laughed. “Come on, be serious. Enough with the bestiality humor.”

  “I was being serious. And you’re the one who brought up bestiality. Anyone ever tell you that you have a very dirty mind?”

  “Constantly.”

  He looked pained, but she ignored him and began using the point of her sock-clad toes to massage the sweet spot behind Sherman’s scruff. She’d discovered earlier how much he loved it, and the big creature groaned with pleasure and closed his eyes.

  “So you met Sherman in a bar?” she prompted.

  “No, that’s just how I started the story before I was rudely interrupted by a woman with her mind in the gutter.”

  “You’re one to talk, Mr.-Let-Me-Show-You-My-Log.”

  “Touché.” He drummed his fingers on the edge of his desk and looked out the window. “I’d gone to town to pick up supplies and have a beer or two. I don’t like to drive if I’ve had anything to drink, and that’s especially true when a blizzard moves in.”

  “And that’s what happened?”

  “Yep.”

  “So you shacked up with one of your lonely female ski instructors or ranch hands or river guides?” She kept her tone light and tried not to notice the jealous pang in her chest.

  “No, I went to the little B&B across the street. It’s a place I stay sometimes when bad weather sets in before I can get back here.”

  “So then what happened?” This whole story was the longest string of words she’d ever heard Schwartz utter, and she wanted to keep him talking. She was enjoying the glimmer of nostalgia in his eyes, the animation in his face as he told a story she imagined he hadn’t shared with too many people.

  “Sometime around four in the morning, I heard something yipping outside,” he said. “At first I thought it was coyotes off in the distance. Then I realized it was right outside my door. I looked out the window and didn’t see anything, so I opened the door and this little ball of fluff came tumbling inside.”

  “Sherman?”

  “Sherman.” He nodded. “He was no more than six weeks old. Half frozen and half starved and walking kinda funny. I figured out pretty quick he had a broken leg.”

  “That’s horrible! What did you do?”

  Schwartz leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs out in front of him, and Janelle tried not to stare at that massive chest and massive hands and massive—

  “I brought him in and dried him off and got him warmed up by the fireplace. I had some leftover meat loaf I’d brought back from dinner, so I broke it up into little pieces and watched him gobble it up like he’d never seen food in his life. By that time, it was getting to be daylight, so I went back to the saloon and found the vet.”

  “How on earth did you know there’d be a veterinarian at a saloon?” Janelle asked. “And that early in the morning?”

  “Well, he lives there, for one thing. The town is tiny, and the saloon’s not really a saloon. It’s basically just a room in the basement of a house where people go to drink sometimes.”

  “You’re kidding me,” she said, thinking of the trendy cocktail bars and craft beer pubs and snooty bistros back home. “So the town’s veterinarian runs a bar in his basement.”

  “Yep. And the town accountant does tax returns in his hardware store. And the town dentist also owns the only restaurant in town, which probably explains why he makes the most sugar-filled blueberry pie you’ve ever tasted.”

  Beneath her toes, Sherman rolled over, then nudged her with his paw until she started rubbing circles on his belly. She smiled as she complied with his demands.

  “So the vet took a look at Sherman and said he’d been abused,” Schwartz continued. “No shit, right?”

  “Right.”

  “He set the leg and gave me some meds and some special food for him. Turned out Sherman was a cross between a husky and a wolf, which isn’t all that common. Didn’t take me long to figure out who he belonged to.”

  “Who?”

  “Auto mechanic. He’d just started breeding them, thought he could make a bunch of money selling wolf hybrids on the internet.”

  “Why on earth—”

  “But it turned out to be harder than he thought. A lot of states have laws about wolf hybrids, so his out-of-state buyers started sending the pups back. Sherman was one of those, and he had the added disadvantage of a bum leg. Made it pretty much impossible to sell him again.”

  “How did you learn all of this?” She was trying to wrap her brain around this new version of Schwartz. The one that had a wide social circle of friends in this cozy little town only an hour away. Something about it seemed comforting.

  “The vet told me about the mechanic,” Schwartz said. “First time I’d ever talked to the guy. Either one of ’em, actually. Probably the last time, too.”

  “Wait, you mean you aren’t buddies with all of them? The accountant? The dentist? The mechanic? The vet?”

  “’Fraid not. I mean, they might recognize me if they see me around, but I’m not one for a lot of chitchat.”

  Okay, maybe he didn’t have a social circle. “Why on earth not? Everyone needs friends.”

  “Sure,” Schwartz said, glancing down at his dog with an expression of fondness that nearly broke Janelle’s heart. “That’s why I have Sherman.”

  Janelle shook her head, still making toe circles on Sherman’s belly. The beast groaned and closed his eyes, clearly in canine nirvana.

  “How long ago was that?” she asked. “I mean, how old is Sherman?”

  Schwartz thought about it a minute, closing one eye as he counted something out in his mind. “Eight years.”

  “Eight years,” she repeated. “So you lived out here all alone for two years, had some brief social interaction with a veterinarian eight years ago, enjoy periodic hookups with women passing through town, and have avoided friendships and connections beyond that.”

  He raised an eyebrow at her. “Thank you for the recap of my social life. I trust this is going on Page Six?”

  She shook her head, not sure whether to throttle him, feel sorry for him, or admire the hell out of him.

  She settled for interrogating him again. “So what happened to the mechanic?”

  “The one who left Sherman to die?”

  “Yes. Did you find him?”

  “I had a few words with him.”

  “Words? That’s good. I mean, I guess that’s one more conversation to add to your roster.”

  “Sure. If you count my fist to his face as conversation.”

  Janelle felt her jaw drop. “You punched him?”

  “Of course I punched him. He left a puppy to die in a blizzard. He’s lucky that’s all I did.” Schwartz stood up, apparently done with the conversation. “I’m grabbing another Pop-Tart. You want one?”

  “No thank you,” she murmured, her brain still reeling with the idea of this mountain man who’d spend ten years avoiding contact with his family and friends and all other humans, but came to the rescue of an injured pup, and devoured Pop-Tarts with the glee of a little boy.

  Who the hell was this guy?

  And why did she suddenly care so much?

  …

  Schwartz slammed the door behind him as he stalked away from the cabin like a man running for his life. He had to get out of there.

  He’d muttered some excuse to Janelle about grabbing firewood, though he’d already stocked the rack next to the door with more wood than they’d need all week.

  He didn’t need firewood. He just needed to get away.

  His breath was coming hard by the time he’d stomped to the top of the hill and turned to look back on the little cabin. The doors were locked tight, and he could reach the place in tw
o minutes if she needed him.

  But for now, he needed something else. Space. Fresh air. Peace of mind. A single moment where he wasn’t going quietly insane at the sight of Janelle sitting at the end of his desk with her hair falling over her eyes and the tip of a pen sliding back and forth between those perfect pink lips.

  Dammit. He could still smell her. He lifted the front of his faded flannel shirt and drew it to his nose, breathing in the sweet, flowery scent of her. His heart twisted, and he closed his eyes, his brain echoing the sound of some cheerful pop song she’d been humming while she worked.

  She probably thought he was insane. When her leg had brushed his under the desk, he’d bolted up so fast he’d knocked over his chair.

  “Christ,” he muttered now as he kicked a tree and yanked his phone out of his pocket.

  He hit the speed-dial number for Grant and waited, annoyed to realize how eager he was to hear his brother’s voice.

  Grant picked up on the first ring. “Hey, how’s it going?”

  “Fine.”

  “She’s settling in okay? Not too homesick or scared or—”

  “I said she’s fine. Jesus, you want a minute-by-minute account of her bathroom habits?”

  “Paying that close attention, are you?”

  “Fuck off.”

  Grant just laughed. “Seriously, everything’s okay?”

  “Sure. Any word on her asshole ex?”

  “Yeah. Mac’s been pretty intense with the surveillance. Sounds like Jacques and his guys are still going nuts trying to track her down. No luck, obviously.”

  “Good. That’s good.”

  “For now. You’re not letting her online or anything, are you?”

  “Hell, no. No email, no phone, no outside contact of any kind.”

  “That’s gotta be driving her nuts.”

  “Not my problem.”

  “She’s a social girl. You’re at least talking to her, right?”

  “Sure. We sit around all day sipping espresso and discussing our feelings.”

  Grant laughed again, and Schwartz resisted the urge to kick the tree.

  “Just don’t ignore her, Schwartz.”

  “Ignore her?”

  “Right. I know you don’t need anyone else for company, but she’s different.”

  “Yeah, she is.”

  The words left his mouth before he had a chance to think them through, and he wanted to kick himself instead of the damn tree. Luckily, Grant didn’t seem to notice.

  Hell, that wasn’t true. Grant noticed everything. The guy was a counterintelligence expert, for crying out loud. A fly could take a shit with its left rear leg lifted and Grant would notice it lifted the right one last time.

  Which meant Grant was just being kind. Schwartz tried to decide whether to be annoyed or touched.

  “I really appreciate you doing this, man,” Grant said. “Seriously, I sleep better at night knowing you’re looking out for her.”

  “No problem.”

  “You’re sure I can’t do more to help? It only takes a day to reach your place from Fort Lewis. I could drive over on the weekend and—”

  “No.”

  “What about Sheri? Or Mac? Or Mom offered to—”

  “No.” His voice was more forceful this time, and he hated snapping at his brother like that. But dammit, he needed to stop this now. He had to keep his distance from the family. “Look, I gotta go.”

  “Okay.” Grant cleared his throat. “We’re all here for you, Schwartz. The whole family, you know. If you need anything—”

  “I don’t.”

  Lie. Fucking stupid lie. He swallowed hard and looked back at the curl of smoke drifting from the cabin’s chimney. He thought about smoke and ashes and fire and mangled metal and closed his eyes against the onslaught of memories.

  “If you change your mind, we’re here,” Grant said. “Always.”

  “Got it.”

  “Tell Janelle hi, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “And Schwartz? Don’t ignore her.”

  Schwartz grunted and disconnected the call. Then he stared at the phone, wondering what delusional world his brother lived in if he thought there was any way he could possibly ignore Janelle Rebecca Keebler.

  …

  It was after midnight again, and Schwartz lay sleepless in bed.

  Again.

  The sleeplessness was nothing new.

  What was new were the thoughts now keeping him awake. Instead of twisted metal and the screams of dying men, he was picturing Janelle’s face over dinner. She’d insisted on doing her share of the meal prep, so he’d let her boil spaghetti while he opened the jar of sauce.

  Real fuckin’ gourmet. Hardly the sort of thing she was used to eating in the cafés and fancy restaurants in San Francisco, but she gobbled it up like a champ and asked for seconds.

  “Glad you’re not picky about food,” he’d said as she practically licked the plate clean.

  “No, but I am picky about coffee. Seriously, Schwartz—that stuff tastes like someone soaked rusty nails in muddy water.”

  “That’s a familiar flavor profile for you?”

  “Come on—when can we go to that town you were talking about and get some real coffee?”

  “We’ll see,” he’d told her, fighting to keep his expression stern as she’d pantomimed choking and gagging on another sip of the potent brew.

  Schwartz rolled over in bed and tried not to think about her easy smile or smell the floral notes in her hair or hear the lilt of her voice as she said his name. God, how long had it been since a woman had said it aloud like that? Or moaned it? Or screamed it?

  A long time. Too long.

  He rolled over again and punched the pillow. No. That wasn’t going to happen.

  Protecting someone meant not getting involved. Not like that, anyway. More than anything—certainly more than sex—he needed to be someone people could count on to do a job. Not to fuck things up with people’s lives at risk.

  He closed his eyes and listened to the swish of tamarack branches outside his window. It was a soothing sound, something he’d grown used to. A lullaby of sorts.

  He was almost asleep when he heard the scream.

  Chapter Four

  Schwartz’s heart pounded in his throat as he threw back the covers and leaped out of bed. He grabbed the pistol from where he’d stashed it in the cupboard above his bed, his gut clenching as the scream sounded again.

  “No! Stop, please! Don’t do this!”

  Janelle. Oh God, what was happening?

  He rounded the corner into the office, raising the pistol to annihilate the threat. He remembered how to do that, even now.

  But there was no threat.

  Not real, anyway, though he damn well knew how real the imaginary ones could feel.

  “No!” she screamed again, and thrashed beneath the covers on the rollaway bed. A nightmare. Her eyes were shut tight and she was fighting an invisible attacker, her battle cries fierce and tortured and so goddamn real he wanted to fight them for her.

  “Janelle,” he whispered.

  She didn’t stir, but her face creased into a nightmare grimace as she fisted the sheet in her hands. She was sweaty and wild and flushed in the moonlight.

  Schwartz set the gun on his desk, far out of reach. Then he knelt beside the rollaway and touched the side of her face.

  “Janelle,” he whispered again. “Wake up. You’re having a—”

  Pow!

  The punch was so swift and so fierce, he never saw it coming. Christ almighty, the woman had a mean right hook.

  He caught her wrist before she could swing again, pinning both her hands to her sides. “Janelle,” he said, more loudly this time. “Wake up. You’re dreaming. A nightmare.”

  She opened her eyes and blinked at him. “Schwartz?”

  “It’s just me.”

  “Oh my God, I was having a bad dream.”

  “No shit. Where’d you learn to punch like that?
”

  She struggled to sit up, and he dropped his hands to his sides as she fumbled to hold the sheets against her chest. “I punched you?” She touched a fingertip to his cheekbone, and he felt himself wince.

  “Ow.”

  “I’m so sorry! Here, let me go get you some ice.”

  “Stay put,” he said, ready to pin her down on the bed again if he needed to. “I’m fine. I’ll probably have a black eye, but it doesn’t hurt. Seriously, who taught you to hit like that?”

  “Your mother.”

  “No kidding?” He felt himself starting to grin. “That sounds about right. Stella was teaching us hand-to-hand combat before we were potty-trained.”

  “I don’t think she meant for me to use it on you.”

  “Actually, I’m pretty sure she’d approve.” Schwartz sat back on his heels, wanting to put a little space between them. Her hair was disheveled and sweaty, and her face was flushed in the moonlight.

  He’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

  “Want to tell me about the dream?”

  She shrugged, looking down at her hands. “It was about Jacques. About what I saw him do.”

  Schwartz nodded. He’d read the report, of course, but seeing it firsthand would have been a whole different ball game. “I read the details, so you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

  “Good. I’d just as soon not relive it.”

  “It was the first time you’d seen him do something like that?”

  “Of course! You don’t think I would have run like hell at the first clue he was capable of something like that? I had no idea—”

  “Okay, okay. I believe you. It’s just hard for me to imagine going from thinking someone’s the sort of person you want to spend the rest of your life with, to realizing he’s a homicidal drug lord.”

  “Yeah. Well, clearly my judgment is a little fucked up.”

  The darkness in her voice was something he hadn’t heard before, and he drew back a little more. “Hey,” he said, trying to keep his tone soft. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “No, it’s true.” She looked up at him, and his heart nearly split in two at the sight of tears pooling in her eyes. “My inability to assess someone’s true character is the stuff of legends.”