Conard County Spy

by Rachel Lee

  “My parents,” she said as she filled two mugs and returned with them. “They retired to Florida, but by July they’re tired of the heat and come to visit for about three months.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  She laughed. “Of course not. They have a lot of friends up here and spend a lot of time visiting. It’s not like they take over my life or anything. So you’ve got until July to figure out your mess.”

  “It had better not take that long.” He scanned the room, taking in the small desk and computer, the clutter of school papers on both desk and coffee table, the decent-looking cranberry-colored sofa and two matching chairs, one of which appeared to be an upholstered rocker. “Pretty place,” he remarked.

  “Pick whatever seat looks most comfortable to you,” she answered. “Because I’m going to get very nervous if you hover over me.”

  He allowed himself to relax a little as he realized that he wasn’t going to spend a whole lot of time wondering what Julie was thinking because she was naturally blunt. That was a plus. This whole situation was awkward enough; he didn’t need to be wondering if she was just being polite.

  He set his coffee on the end table beside the chair he thought would be easiest for him to get out of, then started to pull his jacket off. He tried to do it without jarring his hand or arm too much, but rarely succeeded. The nature of the beast.

  Surprising him, without a word Julie came around behind him and started easing it off his shoulders. She seemed to intuitively understand that his arm was a problem, and when she slid the jacket down all the way, she didn’t jar him.

  “Thanks,” he said, hating the fact that he needed the help but grateful for it anyway. At least the meat grinder didn’t rev up any.

  “No problem,” she said casually. “You want a problem, try to help a five-year-old into snow pants, boots and jacket. I do that all winter long.”

  As he sat on the chair, she hung his jacket on the peg by the door. “What happened to your arm?”

  “Gunshot,” he said. “Hand, actually.”

  She perched on the edge of the couch, still wearing the green sweater and slacks she’d had on earlier. “They can’t fix it?”

  “They did what they could, but there’s a whole lot of nerve damage.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It happens. Life happens. As I’m sure you know.”

  She pulled a band off her wrist, grabbed her hair all together, then wrapped it into a ponytail, pulling it away from her face except for a fringe of bangs. Now she looked a lot younger, and he felt a lot guiltier.

  “It’s nice of you to do this,” he said presently. “Not wise, but very nice.”

  She leaned back on the couch, picking up her mug, then crossing her legs at the ankles. “You can thank me when this is over for all of us. And don’t judge my wisdom. I can figure out what’s going on.”

  He started a bit. “What do you mean?”

  “Ryker,” she said shortly.

  “Meaning?”

  She sipped her coffee, regarding him steadily. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned about that man in the last six months, it’s that he’d die to protect his wife and baby. But he’s not prepared to send you on your way to do that.”

  “So?”

  “So, he’d die to protect you, too. I don’t know why, and you probably wouldn’t even tell me, but I get it. If he’s willing to take this risk for you, then there’s only one thing for me to do. Because I’d die to protect Marisa, too. Ryker’s a man who feels very strong loyalties. Well, I have my own loyalties. That’s why you’re here.”

  He nodded, accepting it and respecting it. He was also very glad to know that this wasn’t just a spot of excitement for her. But as soon as he had the thought, she shocked him again.

  She smiled. “Besides, I could do with some adventure. I’d prefer it to be a little tamer, but that’s not what’s happening. Anyway, I wasn’t kidding about Marisa. I will do whatever it takes to protect her and her family. Period. So get used to it, spy guy.”

  He stiffened, then wished he hadn’t because his arm let out a shriek. “Why’d you call me that?”

  “Because I wasn’t born yesterday, Trace. I may live in a small town, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know anything about the larger world. State Department, my foot.”

  He didn’t answer because he couldn’t. One thing was becoming increasingly clear: for all Julie appeared to live in a world of foil stars and smiley faces, she faced reality square on, and she didn’t buy into illusions. One smart, savvy lady.

  Silence filled the apartment until he began to wonder if he was being rude. “So you knew Johnny Hayes?” he asked of Marisa’s late husband.

  “Most of my life.”

  “What did you think of him?”

  “Unexpurgated or published version?”

  He felt an unexpected desire to laugh. “Unexpurgated.”

  Her mouth twisted. “He was a charming daredevil. He loved his adrenaline. He loved Marisa insofar as he was capable of loving. But he kept walking right out that door and leaving her alone for endless months at a time. So my opinion of Johnny? Selfish. But don’t tell anyone. I’d hate for Marisa to know what I really thought of him.”

  “I have no reason to tell anyone. I just wondered.” Frankly, that would have been his assessment of Johnny, too. Always ready to take a chance until he took one chance too many. Taking risks was unavoidable in their line of work, but there was a difference between taking calculated risks and taking risks for the hell of it. Johnny hadn’t been with the agency that long, but from the one job they had worked together, Trace had concluded Johnny would be sidelined before too long. There were cannons, and then there were loose cannons.

  “He had a lot of years in with the rangers,” Trace remarked.

  “I know.” Julie shook her head. “Somehow I think being part of a unit kept a leash on him. But what do I know? Nothing. Everything was secret. Anyway, Marisa never knew a thing about what he did. All she could do was keep the faith. What I do know is that when he died, she wanted to die with him. So excuse me if I intend to see that doesn’t happen again.”

  Trace decided Julie Ardlow was one amazing woman. Love, loyalty, determination, beauty and intelligence wrapped into a single package. Women like her didn’t come along every day. Or if they did, he hadn’t met them. “Believe it or not,” he said, “I’m on your side in this.”

  She smiled faintly. “I do believe you are, Trace Whoever. I do believe you are.”

  She put her coffee down. “I’m heading to bed. Your bedroom is that way.” She pointed. “You have your own bath. I’ll see you in the morning and then we’ll figure out how to disguise you. Sleep well.”

  He might actually do that, he thought, as he pulled out his bottle of pain meds and popped two more. Fortunately, before they’d sent him on the road, they’d given him plenty, so he wouldn’t need a pharmacy for quite a while yet, and thus wouldn’t betray his whereabouts. And addiction, they’d assured him, wouldn’t be a problem, as long as he took them only for pain.

  But tonight, at least, he figured he could safely relax. If anyone was tracking him, they’d be looking in the vicinity of Denver. Only when they were sure they’d lost him would they even consider backtracking his route.

  Slowly, he rose from the chair and headed for the bedroom she had pointed out. A few hours. He needed a few hours.

  * * *

  Julie didn’t even have to open her eyes to know the threatened blizzard had arrived. She could hear it in the rattling windows and keening wind, in a world that otherwise held no sounds. She was glad she’d gone to the store yesterday evening instead of waiting for her usual Saturday trip.

  Trace. Suddenly remembering he was in the other bedroom, she popped her eyes open and stared at the ceiling. Her heart
slammed as she faced what she might have gotten herself into. Danger? She believed it.

  But she hadn’t been kidding herself or Trace when she had told him she’d die to protect Marisa. They had been friends since early childhood, inseparable through everything, and if anyone meant as much to Julie as her own life, it was Marisa. Caring that much for Marisa by extension meant caring for those Marisa loved, like Ryker and the baby. Her friend had already suffered one of life’s greatest losses when her husband Johnny died, and Julie would have done anything to prevent Marisa from enduring that again.

  So here she was, involved in a web she knew nothing about, except that both Ryker and Trace had tried to warn her away, had made no secret of how deadly this game could be.

  Well, she thought with sudden wryness, that was probably the only thing they hadn’t kept secret. A first. Maybe she ought to acknowledge the strange experience of getting the truth out of one of those guys. Because she’d sure never gotten a lick of it out of Johnny and then Ryker. Those men swam in secrets, and Trace was evidently another one.

  Rising, she promised herself she was going to get a few answers. She deserved them, after all. She’d just offered her own neck as part of their plan, and while her reasons might be different, if she was going to be at risk along with them, then she had a right to know at least something.

  After her shower she dressed in a hunter-green jogging suit and pinned her wet hair to the back of her head. Storm or no storm, she was amazingly eager to begin this day. She had to work on Trace’s disguise, and while she was at it she intended to pry some more information out of him. Carefully, of course. She suspected that if she pressed too hard he’d bolt like a horse headed for the stable.

  She made more coffee, studied what she had on hand, and finally decided to make French toast. It was a perfect snowstorm breakfast, a favorite from her childhood. Warm, sweet and syrupy. While she wouldn’t recommend it as a great way to start the day to her students, none of them was watching right now. A smile danced around her mouth. Do as I say and all that.

  She had just started heating her electric griddle and whipping some eggs with milk when Trace emerged from his room. He wore a black flannel shirt, sweatpants and socks, and the black leather glove on his right hand. He glanced toward her living room window and remarked, “Great weather.”

  “I always loved snow days,” she replied. “French toast?”

  “Sounds wonderful.”

  “Good, because that’s what I’m making. How many slices?”

  “Four.”

  “Help yourself to coffee.” She watched from the corner of her eye after she pointed out the cupboard where she had the mugs stashed and noted how very careful he was not to move his right arm. That must be some agony he was trying to avoid.

  He sat on one of the bar stools, facing her across the counter, and appeared to wander off in his thoughts. She let him. Not everyone awoke quickly the way she did, and she knew an awful lot of people who didn’t want to talk until they had sufficient caffeine running in their systems.

  “How long is this weather going to stay?” he asked as she dipped the bread in the mixture and threw it on the buttered griddle.

  She reached for the cinnamon and started sprinkling it on the browning toast. “I’ll turn on the weather just as soon as I get this going. Why? You planning on hitting the road?”

  That drew a reluctant laugh from him. “Does that look likely? By the way, thanks for the room. It’s pleasant, far nicer than anywhere I’ve stayed in a while.”

  “Why do I imagine that’s not a high bar?”

  He laughed again. “You’d be right. But seriously, it’s very nice and the bed is comfortable. So thank you.”

  She washed her hands quickly, then went to turn on the flat-screen TV viewable from both living room and kitchen. The weather forecaster took great delight in telling them the next two days were going to be miserable. Snow, blowing snow, low visibility, but hey, it wasn’t going to get that cold, only in the upper teens.

  She loved that guy. He could make a catastrophe sound like a trip to the circus, and this was no catastrophe. The ranchers needed the water this snow would bring, and nobody else really had to go anywhere.

  While she enjoyed the luxury of a second bedroom and bath, the builders had economized by not giving her enough room for a dining area, so they ate at the bar. Trace wanted to help with the dishes, but she waved him away, pointing out that she had a dishwasher. The truth was, she hated the way pain flickered over his face when he moved, and she couldn’t see any point in letting him overdo it. But when all that was done, she could tell he was getting antsy. Apparently he wasn’t a man accustomed to having time hang heavy on his hands, and she didn’t know what to do about it. He was, after all, supposed to be in hiding.

  So she addressed the matter of his disguise.

  “I picked up some of those cheap reading glasses for you to wear,” she announced.

  He turned to her, clearly making some kind of mental shift. “Glasses? Oh, the disguise.”

  “Yeah. I got them at medium strength, so I don’t think they’ll give you much trouble. I mean, all they do is magnify, and your eyes will look bigger, so you’ll look different. Are you going to stop shaving, or do we need to change your face somehow?”

  “Growing a beard would be the easiest answer,” he admitted. “I’ve already missed two days, if you can’t tell.”

  Well, she could, but she wasn’t going to say anything about it. She kind of liked the growth anyway. In her opinion, a clean-shaven man only meant beard burn for her tender skin if she got into any heavy kissing. She flushed a little, wondering why her thoughts insisted on heading in that direction with Trace. He was attractive, yes, but as soon as his problem was solved, he’d be gone. Maybe sooner, from the way he’d been talking just last night.

  She gave herself a mental shake and reminded herself she had more important concerns. They had more important concerns.

  “You wanna give a sling a try?” she asked. “I have one left from when I broke my arm eight years ago.”

  “Skiing accident?” he asked.

  “Nothing so romantic,” she admitted. “I slipped on ice. No interesting story to tell, just an admission of idiocy.”

  That at least brought a charming smile to his face. “I’d have to be stupid myself to think you’re any kind of idiot. Well, let’s try that sling. Maybe I’ll be able to stand it.”

  She paused after taking a step toward her bedroom. “So it’s not just your hand?”

  “It’s mostly my hand. That’s where the bullet hit and shattered everything. I’m not sure why my whole arm hurts, though. The doc said something about referred pain.”

  “Does the glove help?”

  “All it does is keep me from disturbing strangers.”

  Now that was freaking sad, she thought as she continued to her bedroom. She found the sling on the shelf in her closet, way in the back. It was one of those things she hoped she’d never need again, but it had cost too much to ditch. Once, she’d lent it to a friend.

  She hoped he could wear it, because it would help with the cover story. And who was she to be thinking in terms of cover stories? She shook her head at herself and tried not to think about how abruptly her life had changed in just twenty-four short hours. She was simply doing what needed doing.

  The sling was big, more than enough to cover his arm from above the elbow past his hand. She loosened it completely and let him work it onto his arm. Once it was on, it was impossible to tell if his arm was in a cast or wrapped. Then she lifted the strap over his head and shoulder and began to tighten it. Soon they had his arm against his chest.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “It doesn’t feel any worse,” he answered. “That’s the most I can ask for. It’ll do. Great idea, Julie.”

 
She smiled. “Good. I thought about lightening your hair, but you have too much red in yours. I’d make you look like a carrottop, and that would look so weird with your skin tone.” There was a hint of olive in his complexion. “You’d look like someone needed to put a clown nose on you.”

  He laughed at that. “Talk about drawing attention.”

  “Exactly. There are other things we can do later if you want. A little putty to change your jaw. Maybe some glue to add lines to your face. Your decision. I think the beard and the glasses will be the biggest thing. That, and the fact that nobody’s going to give a damn that I have an old friend visiting.”

  He was still moving around her small living room, as if confinement didn’t suit him. She settled on one edge of the couch and let him pace. “Will Ryker be able to keep you informed if he learns anything?”

  “I’m sure he will. He’ll probably have to call your phone, though. Mine’s somewhere around Denver, dying.”

  “Denver?” He had her full attention now. “Why? Or can’t you tell me?”

  He stopped pacing, hesitating visibly. After a moment, he sat down. “I guess you deserve to be filled in as much as I can. You’re in it up to your neck now.”

  “That would definitely be appreciated.”

  One corner of his mouth lifted. “I always hated being in the dark. Unfortunately, I often was. And right now I’m pretty much in the dark, so I can’t offer you much. Suffice it to say, Ryker put my phone on a truck heading to Denver yesterday, then some friends of your sheriff crashed my car somewhere along the same road.”

  She drew a sharp breath. “You think someone’s tracking you electronically? Who would...” She trailed off as more lights went on in her mind. “Oh God. I don’t like what I’m thinking.” The kind of organization that could track one man that way? It couldn’t be just anyone.

  “Neither do I,” he said frankly. “We don’t know for sure—it’s only a possibility, but one we can’t afford to ignore.”

  “That’s what put Ryker in high gear, isn’t it? What he suspects?”