by Diana Palmer
“Give us time,” Brannon said. He hesitated. “There was a photo of him in the file I accessed on my computer. He sure looked familiar.”
“You were at Jennings’s funeral yesterday, weren’t you?” the deputy asked. “Yes.”
“Remember the minister?” he mused.
Brannon took a sharp breath. “Damn! And I thought the minister was just new and nervous. What the hell was he doing there?”
“At a guess, getting a good look at someone he’s been hired to shoot” came the reply. “God knows who.”
Brannon shoved his hands into the pockets of his khaki slacks. He was thinking. If the little man was a hired killer, and he was at the funeral, the murderer had already picked his next target. If he and Josette hadn’t played a hunch and decided to pay York a visit this morning, he might have succeeded. But, if the deputy was right, who was the target? And why?
He was still no closer to answers when he helped Josette into the SUV and drove back to his apartment.
She was too groggy and sick to want to talk. He carried her up the steps into the apartment building, into the elevator despite curious glances from other passengers, and got out on his floor.
On the way to his apartment, he met one of the security people. “Hey, Bill, how about taking my key and unlocking the door for me?”
“Sure thing,” the other man replied, with a curious look at Brannon’s burden.
“We just came from the hospital,” Brannon began.
“Hell of a place to pick up women, Brannon,” the other man mused. “But if that’s the only way you can get one…”
“Put a sock in it,” Brannon said with a chuckle. “She’s been shot. I can’t leave her alone and she has no family.”
“Shot?” The other man unlocked the door, opened it and handed Brannon back his keys. That was when he noticed the white bandage on Josette’s arm, where that sleeve of her jacket was off. “Shouldn’t she be in the hospital?”
“S’only a flesh wound,” she murmured, with her cheek tight against the hard beat of Brannon’s heart under his shirt. The Ranger badge was uncomfortable, but it seemed to be everywhere she moved her face, cold and hard. “He didn’t mean to…” she added in a slur. “Now, you’re shooting women?” the security man asked with wide eyes.
“I didn’t shoot her, you idiot! A suspect got her. But I got him,” he added with a gleam of triumph. “And he’s in surgery right now.”
“Sorry, kid,” Bill told Josette, who was watching him with eyes barely open. “Maybe when you’re better, they’ll give you five minutes alone with him.”
“Don’t I wish,” she murmured. “And two stun guns, one for each hand… I’m so sleepy, Brannon.”
“Okay. I’ll have you inside in a jiffy. Thanks, Bill.”
“Anytime.” Bill opened the door and put the keys in the hand that was supporting Josette’s rib cage. He smiled at Josette and then lifted amused eyes back to Brannon’s. “But the next one you get from the hospital’s mine. Some luck, Brannon. I never find giveaways like her!” He walked off before Brannon could think of a snappy comeback.
Brannon carried Josette into the spare bedroom and laid her gently on the brown-and-beige geometric pattern of the coverlet while he took off her shoes and skirt. They were followed by her jacket and the ruined blouse under it, leaving her in a full slip, bra and panties. He tried not to pay too much attention to her very nice figure while he was doing what was necessary.
He lifted her long enough to uncover the sheets before he put her back down on them and pulled the covers over her, noting the faint smell of roses that clung to her creamy skin.
He propped his hands beside her head on the pillow and studied her. Her long blond hair was half in, half out of a bun, hanging in strands all around her oval face. He took her glasses from their perch on her nose and laid them on the bedside table. He smoothed back her hair and then, impulsively, pulled out all the hairpins that kept it in place. The wealth of golden hair came cascading down into his hands.
“It will tangle while I’m asleep,” she murmured.
“Let it. You have the most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen.” His hands speared through it, arranging it around her face on the pillow. He smiled gently. “Tired?”
“Very.” She drew a long breath. “Sorry to be so much trouble.”
“You aren’t. I’ll have to go back to work, but I’ll be here about five-thirty. Just sleep. You need to get better before we go any deeper into this investigation.”
“Okay.” She searched his eyes slowly. “It wasn’t your fault.”
His face set in harsh lines. “I should have known you’d try to play hero.”
“Don’t blame yourself.”
“You’re the one who got shot. It should have been me.”
She managed a smile. “You’re only jealous. It’s bullet envy.”
“There’s a genuine delusion!”
“I’ll be fine,” she added drowsily.
“Of course you will. But for a couple of days, you need to rest that arm and let your body get over the shock. You lost a lot of blood.” He bent down impulsively and brushed his hard mouth over her soft one. “Get some sleep, honey. I’ll see you this afternoon. Want me to put something to drink by the bed?”
Had he called her “honey?” Surely not. “Could you? Something cold?”
“Orange juice?” he asked, remembering how much she liked it while they were dating.
Her eyes lit up. “Yes, please.”
He went to get it. By the time he came back and set it on the bedside table, she was sound asleep.
He stood watching her for a long time with a strange expression. He’d never brought a woman home with him before. He couldn’t explain what impulse had led him to make himself responsible for Josette. But she did look so right there, in that bed, asleep. She needed nurturing, taking care of. It touched him to realize that he was needed, on a very personal basis. Since his mother’s death and his sister’s marriage, he hadn’t had anyone to take care of. He missed that. He liked being needed. Not, he added silently, that he was going to tell Josette that!
She didn’t wake up for several hours. She was aware of pain in her arm, a fullness and throbbing that were decidedly unpleasant. She sat up with an effort and looked on the bedside table. Brannon had left her a carafe of orange juice and two bottles of pills, one for pain and the other a powerful antibiotic. She took both and swallowed them with the cold, delicious juice. It felt good going down. She put the glass next to her forehead and drank in the cooling contact. She must have a fever, she decided, and wondered if Brannon had anything she could take for that.
She made her way into the master bathroom and looked in the medicine cabinet for an analgesic. Finding it, she shook two tablets into her hand and went back to the bedroom.
She laid down for a few more minutes, but she was far too restless to sleep. She got up and looked around for something to put on. She’d have to get Brannon to go by her hotel and get her clothes, or she wouldn’t have anything to wear. She thought about some of Brannon’s colleagues walking into the room and finding her in her slip. That wouldn’t do his reputation much good.
In the end, she drew out a worn old pair of clean denim jeans, Brannon’s of course, and a tan-and-white checked long-sleeved shirt with a pocket missing. She left her hair loose because she couldn’t find her hairpins, using Brannon’s combs to try to get some order out of the tangles. Then she went to the kitchen, her arm still in its sling, and began to look for food.
Evidently he could cook, because he had a nicely stocked refrigerator. She made biscuits from scratch and put them in the oven to bake. While they were cooking, she put a small chicken on to cook in the oven with them, and busied herself preparing beans and potatoes on the burners.
The biscuits came out perfect. The chicken took longer. By exactly five-thirty, she had everything ready on the stove and two places set at the kitchen table.
Brannon walked in carryi
ng a bucket of chicken. He stopped at the kitchen doorway, his eyes on the table. He took a whiff. Something smelled delicious.
“Is that chicken?” he asked, indicating a casserole. “It smells fabulous!”
“I cook it with rosemary,” she told him shyly. “Sorry the chicken is redundant.”
“And you made biscuits.” He put the bucket of chicken on the counter and went to the stove to look at the meal she’d prepared. “You shouldn’t have gone to this much trouble, but I do love homemade biscuits,” he murmured with a gentle smile. “I haven’t had a decent one since we were dating. I used to stop by for breakfast some mornings, because you always cooked them at home.”
“Yes.” The memory made her sad. She’d thought they were going to have a future together back then.
He’d even teased her about moving in with him so that he could have fresh biscuits every morning.
“That was an idiot comment,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to bring back unpleasant memories.”
“They weren’t all unpleasant,” she remarked. “Here, sit down and butter a biscuit before they get cold.”
He seated her, and then himself, but he noticed that she only took a little taste of chicken and a single biscuit. “Aren’t you hungry?” he asked, concerned.
“Not really. I’m a little nauseous still. I hope the biscuits are okay,” she added. “I had to make them with one hand, and I couldn’t roll them out.”
He took a nibble of one. “They’re delicious.”
She smiled. “I’m glad. You never used to eat proper meals. You were forever snacking, because something always came up when you were working.”
“That goes with the turf,” he reminded her. “I can’t remember the last time I had a single uninterrupted meal.” He took a forkful of chicken to his lips and savored it.
“Are you happy, now that you’re back with the Rangers again?” she asked conversationally.
“I love the Rangers,” he replied. “I always have. I suppose I’ll keep working for them until I’m old enough to retire with a pension. But I’ll still have the ranch. It brings in a nice profit. I put the money right back into livestock and mechanical improvements. What’s left over, I invest. I’ve made some good choices. So good, in fact, that I could probably quit working whenever I felt like it.”
She smiled. “You aren’t cut out to sit around on a ranch and let everyone else do the work.”
“You’ve got that right. At least drink some more juice,” he chided when she left her glass and started to stand up. “And don’t even think about doing the dishes. That’s my job. Tomorrow night, I’ll cook.”
“Can you?” she asked.
“I’m no gourmet chef, but I make a mean meat loaf.”
“My favorite!” she exclaimed.
He gave her a speaking look. “One of the only two restaurants you’d let me take you to had meat loaf on the menu. I haven’t forgotten.”
“I love it.”
“Meat loaf and peach cobbler,” he murmured, smiling reminiscently. “And crepes and chocolate malt shakes.” The smile faded. “I wish we could go back in time. I’ve made serious mistakes. I don’t suppose I’ll ever be able to make up for them.”
She avoided his eyes. “The past is best left alone. What did you find out about the shooter?”
He told her, adding the bit about York being the nervous minister at the funeral of Dale Jennings.
“I thought he looked very nervous for a minister, but I assumed he was just new at the job! What was he doing there?” she exclaimed.
“Probably,” he said flatly, “getting a good look at his next target.”
CHAPTER TEN
Josette felt her heart drop. “Do you think he killed Dale?” she asked bluntly.
“I don’t know. It’s possible. But what connection could Jennings have had to York, or to Jake Marsh, for that matter? Were they in on some blackmail scheme with him? Or are they in cahoots with somebody else? Despite all the investigating we’ve done, we haven’t answered many questions.”
“I know.” She looked at him worriedly. “York’s in custody now, though. He can’t hurt anybody else.”
“York is like Marsh—he’s slippery,” he replied. “York got loose once and he can do it again. Apparently he’s being paid well enough to make the risks worthwhile. He probably has a new identity and a plane ticket hidden and ready to use, once he gets rid of the target. Or targets.” He grimaced. “This whole damned case is like a well. You go down an inch and discover you’ve got several yards below to explore. Somebody has a lot to lose, and is willing to kill however many people it takes to keep a secret.”
“Mrs. Jennings has been targeted once already,” she pointed out. “If the perpetrator thinks she knows more than she’s telling—and I think that myself—she’s still in danger. Maybe not from York, but from somebody else.”
His gray eyes narrowed as he watched her across the table. “You shouldn’t have done so much,” he said gently. “Go to bed. I’ll clean up in here.”
“I do feel a little woozy,” she murmured, smiling faintly as she got to her feet. “I’ll be better tomorrow.”
He made a noise, but it didn’t sound like he was agreeing. She went back into the room he’d given her and sat down heavily on the bed, feeling weak and shaky. A minute later, he came in with a pajama top and tossed it to her. It was brand-new and looked as if it had never been worn.
“I keep a pair in case I get shot and have to go to the hospital,” he murmured dryly. “Otherwise, I don’t wear any.”
She flushed, looking at the top, which would probably come down to her knees.
“I’ll wear the bottoms while you’re here,” he added. “Tomorrow, I’ll go by your hotel and pick up some things for you. And tell the clerk to hold your room.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem. Try to get some sleep. Good night.”
“Good night.”
He closed the door. She changed into the pajama top and climbed under the covers. In scant minutes, she was dead to the world. But it didn’t last long. She woke in the night, feverish and frightened.
Brannon opened the door and moved to the bed, feeling the fever with a cool hand against her forehead.
“Hot,” she whispered hoarsely. “So hot!”
He turned on the bedside light and went to get a wet cloth. He bathed her face and hands with it and lifted her head so that she could swallow the analgesic to take the fever down. Then, afraid to leave her alone in a room, he got under the covers and pulled her close, holding her while she shivered with the fever.
“Oh, Marc,” she whispered in her delirium. “Marc, why did you leave?”
His teeth ground together as she relived that last, disastrous date with him that had put an end to their relationship. She wept and shivered until the analgesic finally kicked in, and she slept, her face bathed in tears.
By the time she woke, Brannon was already up and dressed. She didn’t even realize he’d stayed with her all night. But with morning, she didn’t feel better. Her arm throbbed, no matter how she held it or rested it, and she was still feverish. All that long day, Brannon didn’t leave her. He bathed her heated face and her hands, dispensed aspirins and antibiotics and painkillers to her, and finally stretched out on the cover and pillowed her head on his chest while she wept from the misery of it all.
“I guess you’ve been shot,” she said wearily when the pain had eased a little.
“Twice,” he said. “Once in the leg—missed the bone, fortunately—and once in the shoulder.”
“Who looked after you?” she asked absently.
There was a pause. “I looked after myself,” he said.
“Did Gretchen know?”
“I don’t tell my sister things that will upset her,” he said stiffly. “She had enough responsibility, looking after our mother and the ranch. Mother’s cancer was rough on Gretchen. That’s why she went on holiday overseas after our mother died, and it’
s how she met her husband.”
“I always liked Gretchen,” she sighed.
“She liked you, too.”
“How’s the hit man?”
He chuckled, surprised at the reference. “In a room, under heavy guard, being relentlessly questioned by Grier. I wouldn’t wish him on my worst enemy.”
“I haven’t met him yet.”
“You haven’t missed much. He probably has a badge sewn on his underwear and a tattoo on his butt. He’s the type.”
“Not a Ranger badge, though,” she murmured drowsily.
“Those are hard to get. But actually, he had one, until two years ago.”
Her eyes closed. “I’ll be better tomorrow.”
He smoothed her disheveled hair, liking the faint scent of roses that clung to it. She was warm and vulnerable in his arms. He felt peace. Odd, when he’d never felt it with anyone else. He liked holding her while she slept. But he wasn’t going to tell her that he’d spent the previous night with her, or what she’d whispered in the grip of fever.
“Go back to sleep,” he said softly.
She felt him move and her fingers clung to his shirt. “Don’t go,” she whispered, too weak from pain to pretend she didn’t mind being left alone.
His chest rose and fell heavily, but he sank back down and her body relaxed against him. Seconds later, she was asleep again and, like the night before when she lay so close in his arms in the darkness, he was fighting once again a two-year-old hunger that had never diminished. Only when the first light broke through the window did he leave her and go back to his own bed. It was best for now if she didn’t know that she had company at night.
The next morning, she was up before Brannon. She dressed and began making breakfast. It was ready when he came out of his bedroom, wearing jeans and nothing else, yawning.
