by Jodie Bailey
Tate had been silent all the way to the farmhouse, and past experience said it best. He’d stay silent. They would never discuss the death they’d seen today. Each would deal with it their own way, their mutual silence the one way to keep the images from etching in deeper.
Meghan dug into the railing, itching to take sandpaper to the weathered wood, to make something beautiful out of the faded, splintered mess. The ache that much sanding would drag across her shoulders and back would be preferable to the one eating away at her insides.
It would be fabulous if she could scrub away today’s images and her past the same way she could get rid of the old paint clinging to bare wood.
Sighing, she sipped her too-hot coffee and let the bitter brew burn its way down, then rested her forehead against the porch post. She definitely wasn’t cut out for this anymore. She should have fired sooner, incapacitating him, but she’d held back for answers, a hesitation she’d never have made in the past.
Meghan pressed her palms against her eyes and watched the swirls of color that played in the pressure. There was nothing to do about it now. In a little while, Tate would come downstairs from where he was probably unsuccessfully trying to sleep, and he’d want answers from her since he couldn’t get them from their dead suspect.
Dread fused with the sick knot in her stomach. She needed to move, to forget, even for a few minutes. When she’d choked down her coffee, she’d finish painting the window trim. Then, when Phoebe arrived, they could paint the living room and maybe get the front door hung. By the time Phoebe left, Tate should be awake and Meghan could face whatever condemnation he doled out.
Condemnation that might trash every bit of the work she was doing here. Phoebe Snyder might be one of Meghan’s only real friends—especially since Yvonne had stepped off the tracks—but even she couldn’t override the board of her own foundation. Once they got wind of the danger Meghan was in now and the things she’d done in the past, they would never trust her. And then where would she go?
The floorboards in the house creaked a rhythm indicating Tate was awake and wandering. And like most good soldiers, he was following the smell of strong coffee.
She glanced at her watch. If he’d slept, it had been for twenty minutes. Probably, he’d stared at the ceiling, then conceded defeat. Well, he should have slept longer, because as soon as he found Meghan, they’d have to discuss her past, and a well-rested Tate would handle her transgressions better than one running on leaded coffee and sheer willpower.
It was a couple of minutes before he stepped out with his own steaming mug. He took a position at the rail about six feet away and stared at the woods. After a moment, he yawned and scrubbed his hand back and forth across the top of his head, standing his dark hair on end.
A familiar gesture if she’d ever seen one, and it brought Meghan a moment of peace. Whenever he was tired, he’d do that, and the muss he left behind had, near the end, left Meghan wanting to reach over and smooth it all into place.
She bit down on a smile, more of her heart giving way to him. Right now, she was too tired to care her thoughts were dangerous.
Until he looked at her. Her cheeks flushed, and she took a sip of coffee and turned away, hoping he wouldn’t notice. She swallowed hard, scalding her throat. Desires like these were the reasons she’d let Ethan talk her into walking away from the job. Getting too close to your partner could get you both killed.
Getting too close to anyone was dangerous. Meghan had watched love grow and die too many times, and she wasn’t about to risk her heart the same way she’d watched her mother do over and over. The same way she’d watched other kids in the system do and then be left broken, pregnant...or worse.
Tate leaned on the porch rail and watched Meghan over his coffee cup. He took a long sip, then smiled. “I see some things never change.”
Meghan jerked, sloshing hot coffee onto her wrist. Surely he hadn’t developed the ability to read her mind. “What?”
“You still make coffee thick as mud and strong as an ox.”
“Oh.” She sat her mug on the railing and swiped hot coffee off her arm with the hem of her T-shirt. She kept her gaze on the faint pink burn.
“What did you think I meant?”
She shrugged. This subject needed to change. Fast. She definitely did not need him to figure out her imagination was tripping down the aisle with him. “What’s your plan?”
“For the moment?” He pointed to the small lawn that ran from the rear of the house to the tree line, his amusement fading. “Mow the grass.”
“Excuse me?”
“I need to move, to do something before I drown in my own thoughts.” He dragged his hand along the porch railing and studied the paint chips stuck to his fingertips. “It sorts out the mess and lets me think.”
She’d forgotten his quirky way of dealing with life’s puzzles. In times past, he’d often wandered to the motor pool after a mission to see if he could find something to work on with his hands while his brain downshifted and his subconscious toyed with their immediate problems.
“I’ve got a lot to sort out.” He watched her, the meaning a whole lot heavier than it sounded. “We’re going to have to play this one slow. I’m warning you, Meg. You have to second-guess everything with this guy. He wields a lot of power if he can make a killer take his own life rather than talk.”
True. “So for now...”
“We regroup, wait for your program to give us a hit on our hacker’s location.” He tapped his thumb on his coffee mug. “Not to reopen a sore subject, but you really should send your software to Ashley and let her give it a once-over. She’s got a similar program running, but I’m sure she’d love to see yours, if you’re willing. Maybe the two of you together can hit on some results.”
Meghan shrugged. She still had plenty to say to Ethan, but she couldn’t hold his hypocrisy against Ashley or her former teammates. “I’ll upload it from the secure server upstairs in a little bit.”
“I’ll let her know it’s coming.” He stopped, but he looked as though he approved of the fact she was still using her talents and not letting them lapse. Then, just as quickly, he was back to business. “Anyone know you’re out here?”
“Yvonne knows I’m working on the house for the foundation, but she has no address.” She waved off the warning he had yet to speak. “She’s safe. I’ve known her since high school. And until today...” She fought the hurt once again, the same hurt she’d felt every time her mom vanished. “She’s been in my life way too long to be the one you need to worry about.”
“I worry about everybody in your life right now.”
The low rumble in his voice was probably more intimate than he’d meant it to be, but Meghan held on to the sentiment, wrapping the promise of protection around herself. She only relaxed into it for a moment, though. If Yvonne’s behavior had done nothing else, it had reinforced the belief no one stayed around very long. Even Tate would move on soon enough, and the sooner she remembered people would always disappoint her, the better off her heart would be.
She forced her attention to his original question, to the mission. “The only other person is Phoebe Snyder. She comes out most weekends to work on the house with me. She’s the chair of the Snyder Foundation. In fact, she’s the one who hired me. And who might have to fire me.” Her thoughts darkened like a cloud blocking the sun.
“Meg, listen.” Tate’s voice shifted, and he stepped closer until the heat of him brushed her skin. “You were young, you were scared and you were blackmailed. You’ve done everything you could to make it right. You’ve got a stellar military career behind you, and I think your work for the country will outweigh anything else.” He exhaled loudly. “You should know without me having to say it that it doesn’t change what I think of you. It won’t change what anyone who knows you thinks, either. As far as I’m concerned, it never ha
s to go beyond this unit, and they need to know because it’s pertinent to this mission.”
His meaning took a moment to sink in. He wasn’t condemning her, wasn’t showering her with scathing distrust. It was more than she could handle, especially after two days of heavy-duty body blows. “Thank you.” The gratitude came out soft, but he must have heard it because he lifted his hand, brushing his thumb against her cheek and watching her as though he had something more to say.
His touch jolted through her, vibrating beneath her skin. Whatever was softening his eyes right now, Meghan wanted to sink into it and never come up for air again.
She needed a change of subject or else her heart was in greater danger than Phoenix could ever conceive. Stepping away, she tried to will her pulse into a normal rhythm. “You might not know what to do next, but I can give you a plan for the immediate future.”
For a second, Tate acted as though he wasn’t going to let her go easily, but then he slipped away and reached for his coffee. “What’s the plan?” His voice was deeper than usual, a husky tone that swept over her soul.
A tone she had to ignore to save herself when he inevitably took off on another mission. “I’ve got to hang a new front door, which is a two-person job. After you finish your mower-powered thinking, you can help me.”
Tilting his mug, Tate drained coffee that had to be scalding. He didn’t even wince. “Work would be good.”
Truer words were never spoken. If Meghan didn’t get moving soon, she’d spend way too much time in her imagination. And if Tate kept talking, he might take up permanent residence in her heart.
* * *
The hum of the old push mower drifted over the house from the backyard as Meghan dragged another coat of paint across a window frame. Tate had spent a large chunk of the morning tinkering with the machine in the shed, trying to get it to run.
Meghan had left him alone. He needed manual labor to get his mind straight the same way she’d needed to slap paint onto wood until some of the confusion and pain ebbed. She’d tethered her computer to Tate’s secure satellite phone and uploaded her program to the address he’d given her, resisting the urge to pepper Ethan’s wife with questions about what had changed to make him turn his back on his own code.
She smacked the brush against the trim again with a little too much force, splattering paint on the window. After grabbing a rag off the porch floor, she scrubbed at the spots. When this was over, Ethan had a lot of answers to give her about why he’d steered her away from Tate while popping the question to Ashley.
Meghan rolled her shoulders, trying to shake off the tension, then slipped her brush into the pail to reload. She paused at the smooth purr of an engine. Setting the brush aside, she turned slowly, not touching her gun but mentally measuring how long it would take to reach it. The thought of using it again curled her insides.
Phoebe Snyder’s silver luxury sedan glided to a stop near the porch.
Meghan relaxed. So far, no one had shown any indication that they knew Tate and Meghan were here, so it was safe for Phoebe to drop by. Telling her not to come would raise more red flags than letting her follow her routine as usual.
Besides, Phoebe was a safe intrusion who brought some much-needed distraction. The pair had been close since they’d met freshman year at Michigan State, and Meghan had stood by Phoebe when her marine brother was killed in a friendly fire incident overseas. Phoebe had drifted for a while, grieving for her brother with fierce anger that had divided their friendship, but they’d reunited almost two years ago when Phoebe found her bearings and started the foundation to foster kids through difficult times in memory of her brother.
Meghan counted Phoebe as the sister she’d never had. Her father owned a plant that made engine components for the auto industry. Through some savvy business practices, Snyder Industries had weathered the migration of factories to other countries, remaining profitable enough to fund the foundation Phoebe had started. Relieved to see his daughter overcome her grief, Clinton Snyder had been more than willing to finance her dream.
Phoebe slid out of the car, decked out in paint-stained blue jeans and a shirt from a college fun run, her ponytail straggling blond tendrils around her makeup-free face. Her presence was what Meghan needed to soothe the last of her pain. She’d embrace Phoebe’s friendship for as long as the other girl offered it.
Phoebe tossed her a wave as she pulled two huge plastic bags from the trunk, hefting her home improvement haul to the porch. “You’ve been busy this morning.”
A galactic understatement. “Decided to get moving on the outside. The sooner we get done, the faster we get the kids here.”
“You got that right. The trim turned out amazing. I’ll dump this inside, and we can start on the living room. Or we can finish out here. I’m ready for anything.” Phoebe stopped at the steps and tilted her head, arching one perfect eyebrow. “Is someone mowing the grass?”
Meghan took one of the bags from Phoebe and accepted a side-armed hug. “An old army buddy showed up to help for a day or two.” No need for specifics. When Phoebe had come back into her life, Meghan had spilled her heart over late-night Chinese food, pouring out her feelings about Tate, the man she’d believed to be long buried. Explaining to Phoebe why a dead man was mowing the grass would be complicated at best and would violate national security at worst. Instead, she shoved hair out of her eyes with her forearm and opened the front door. “If you come in the kitchen, I’ve got coffee ready and I’ll show you what I did last weekend.”
“Tell me you didn’t lay all of the tile by yourself.”
Meghan grinned and dropped the bag by the door. “I won’t.”
“I told you to wait for me to help. How long did it take you?” Following Meghan’s lead, she propped her bag beside the other and rotated her wrist.
“The whole weekend. I needed physical labor after closing out the year at the school. Sitting behind a computer too long makes me long for construction.” Stopping at the kitchen door, Meghan swept her arm into the room, proud of her work on the faux redbrick tile.
Phoebe clapped her hands. “I love it. I wasn’t sure when you first suggested it, but with the huge stone fireplace in the corner, the kids are going to think they live in a pizzeria.” She grinned at the floor, then walked to the window to peek out. “Maybe we should paint the walls red or something.”
Meghan tried to see the room through a different lens. The kitchen did kind of remind her of an old-school pizza parlor. “Might be fun to do something a little bit different, give the kids something to make them feel special.”
“It’s a thought.” Phoebe’s voice was distracted, as if she hadn’t heard a word. She glanced at Meghan over her shoulder. “That’s your army buddy? When you said someone was here, I assumed a woman. He’s no woman. And he’s cute, if you’re fond of the type.” She turned to the window. “And by type I mean built. Wow.”
Meghan peeked over Phoebe’s shoulder and tried to see Tate through the other woman’s lens. He was toned, like a guy who’d spent his life using his muscles for manual labor. She’d always thought of him as the outdoor type, the kind who earned his build through hard work, not sweating it out in an armless T-shirt at the gym. “If you say so.” Although she really wished Phoebe wouldn’t say so.
She swiped the sheer white curtain out of Phoebe’s grasp, swinging it over the window, the desire to talk dying in a green haze. Tate wasn’t just any guy to be ogling. He was...Tate. And in some bizarre way, he was hers. She’d never had to share him.
Well, obviously, he’d once belonged to someone else, a fact that still sat oddly. But the idea of anyone sizing him up as if he were Mr. January? It seemed wrong. In about six hundred different ways.
Phoebe watched her, amused gaze bouncing from Meghan to the curtained window. “Is there a story here I’ve never heard? And it must be a good one, because I’
m pretty sure I’ve heard all of your stories, and other than what you told me about the guy who died, none of them involved a man like the one mowing our grass right now.”
Meghan fingered the hem of her T-shirt. She wasn’t going to lie, but she also wasn’t going to blow Tate’s cover, not even to Phoebe. “No story. It was the army. I worked with a lot of guys. He was a buddy a long time ago.”
“Who showed up out of nowhere all of a sudden.” Phoebe’s look was knowing, teasing. “Did he come after you or did you track him down?”
A headache throbbed behind Meghan’s right temple, a combination of exhaustion and the twisted stories she had to keep straight. “We ran into each other yesterday, and he needed a place to crash. There’s nothing more to it.”
Phoebe hip-checked Meghan, her grin widening. “Don’t worry, hon. I have no interest in him. I was merely pointing out what you already saw.” She winked and headed through the den. “Know what? Let’s paint. You can introduce me to your friend later. Or maybe I should give you a makeover and let him see—”
“He’s here for a day. Get your mind out of those romance novels you bury your nose in. He’s not the drifter who’s going to come in and sweep me off my feet.” No, he’d done the sweeping a long time ago. Then he’d died, led an entire other life. The usual stuff that got in the way of true love.
Meghan needed to remember her place, anyway. She was here for the kids, not to trap a husband. “Let’s grab the paint and get started on the living room.”
“Fine.” Phoebe’s sigh was as long suffering as they came. “Where is it?”
Meghan stopped short, reading her to-do list in her mind. Paint wasn’t her task. It was Phoebe’s. “I assumed it was in your car. Paint was your job. When you got the supplies you were supposed to get the paint we preordered?”
