by Cassie Miles
“Get ready for more,” he said.
“There’s more?”
“I also want to catch the Militia.”
Catching the Militia? How was that related to making love? “So, you want to be with me because you think Boone Fowler and his merry band of jerks might come after me?”
Trevor gave a quick nod. “Right.”
“I get it,” she said. “You want to use me as bait.”
“If I had a choice, I’d hide you away where you’d be safe. I’d give you enough money to get back to your family in Brooklyn.” He shook his head. “But you won’t let that happen. You’re too stubborn. Too proud.”
She wasn’t sure which of his statements was the most infuriating. That he thought she’d invite him into her bed? That she was too stubborn? That he wanted to dangle her like a worm on a hook in front of the Militia?
Thank God she hadn’t told him about the call from Boone Fowler. She wouldn’t trust Trevor with her grocery list.
She raised her arm and pointed toward the door. “Get out of my life. Now.”
Chapter Five
Driving hard and fast on the narrow roads leading to Big Sky Bounty Hunters headquarters, Trevor listened to the surveillance bug he’d planted in Sierra’s duplex. The sound of her television mingled with common household noises. There was the scrape of a chair leg against the worn wood floor in her kitchen, the rush of water in the sink, the clank of a pot being placed on the stovetop.
Apparently, she was preparing dinner. Some kind of nonmeat food. Pasta or rice or something. “Vegetarian,” he muttered.
When he’d had her in the interrogation room and under the influence of the TD, he should have asked about her eating habits. Instead, he’d gone out and bought a mountain of red meat that he presented to her with the chest-thumping pride of a caveman who had just clubbed his first brontosaurus. Idiot! Trevor had never been good with women, but this meeting with Sierra ranked among the worst.
His headlights slashed through the night, illuminating the thick conifers, as he whipped into a sharp right turn.
Over the bug, he heard a tuneless humming from Sierra. Too easily, he visualized her lush, beautiful body. In his mind’s eye, he saw her reaching up to a high shelf with her arm arched and her wrist turned gracefully.
He heard her chuckle softly and remembered the adorable way her nose crinkled when she laughed. Damn! The woman had rejected him, and he still couldn’t stop thinking about her, imagining her every move. Did he want to spend the night in her bed? Hell, yes.
He turned off the sound on the listening device. Later, he’d return to her duplex for an all-night stake-out. Right now, he needed to put some distance between himself and Sierra Collins.
He parked at headquarters, went around to the back of his Jeep and grabbed two boxes of fine Angus steaks, which he carried up the stairs to the pantry behind the kitchen. He yanked open the freezer and stored the beef inside.
“Blackhaw?” Tony Lombardi poked his head into the pantry. “What’s up?”
“I was in Helena today and bought a side of beef. Help me get the rest of it.”
Lombardi followed him outside. “What were you doing in Helena?”
“Surveillance on Sierra Collins. She works there. At the Galleria mall.”
Between them, they hauled the rest of the beef inside. Trevor couldn’t close the door to the freezer fast enough. It was embarrassing to look at those boxes he’d thought would make a perfect gift for Sierra. “You’re from New York, Lombardi. Tell me about cannolis.”
“Italian pastry. A flaky shell wrapped around creamy, sugary frosting.” He licked his lips. “So sweet it makes your teeth ache.”
“Is there anyplace around here where I can get one?”
Lombardi scoffed. “Not a chance. Nobody makes cannolis like you get in the Bronx or Brooklyn.”
Together, they went into the large front room, where Riley Watson sprawled in front of the fireplace, reading a newspaper. Watson’s usually dark hair was dyed blond and he looked younger than his thirty-six years.
Trevor wasn’t surprised by the unusual appearance. Watson was a master of disguise who switched identities quicker than most men changed shirts.
“Hey, Blackhaw,” Watson drawled.
Trevor nodded. “Anything new?”
Watson glanced at the headlines. “Prince Nikolai of Lukinburg made a big speech about terrorism. Ever since the Petrov royal family showed up in Montana, the local news can’t get enough of them.”
Trevor couldn’t care less about politics, local or international. “Anything new on the Militia?”
“I spent most of the day shoveling a lot of dirt to see if I could uncover a lead. I talked to people all over Ponderosa.”
“I bet,” Lombardi said. “And you charmed the pants off the females. All the chicks love that Texas drawl.”
“There’s this cute little checker at the supermarket.” Watson grinned. “She told me that some guy came in this afternoon and bought twelve gallons of ammonia. From her description, it could have been Raymond Fleming.”
Though the information didn’t seem to be particularly useful, Trevor was eager to hear more. Their leads had been few and far between. “Why ammonia?”
“I don’t think it’s because the Militia is planning to start a housecleaning service,” Watson drawled. “Ammonia can be used in bomb making.”
Another bomb. Definitely bad news. “We need to check the purchase of other components.”
“Already being done. We’re going through computer records in case they’re dumb enough to use a credit card. Tomorrow, we’ll stake out hardware stores and hobby shops.” Watson rose from his chair, stretched and yawned. “How about you, Blackhaw? What are you up to?”
Lombardi provided the answer. “He’s been keeping an eye on Lyle Nelson’s girlfriend.”
“Is Sierra Collins as pretty as her photo?” Watson asked.
Trevor made a quick pivot and headed toward the door. “I’m going out to the barn to—”
“Whoa, there,” Watson said. “I’m sensing something here. Blackhaw, have you got a thing for Miss Sierra Collins?”
Lombardi pounced. “That’s why you were asking me about cannolis. She’s from Brooklyn. I bet she wants a cannoli. Am I right?”
Trevor continued toward the back door. “I’m going to check on the horses.”
Though he hadn’t invited Watson or Lombardi along, they were on his heels as he unlatched the door to the well-maintained barn, where half a dozen horses were kept. Trevor went first to the stall occupied by his favorite mustang stallion, Smokey.
The horse nickered a greeting, and Trevor reached up to scratch behind his ears. “Hey, boy.”
“Hey yourself,” Watson said. “What’s going on with you and Sierra?”
Though Trevor would have preferred to spend his time tending to the horses—a chore he always found relaxing—there was nothing to do. The barn had already been mucked out and the horses neatly bedded down for the night.
He turned to face his two co-workers. He’d worked with these guys for years, and they knew him too well for him to keep a secret. Trevor shrugged. “Maybe I see something special in Sierra.”
Watson leaned his lanky frame against the wood slats of a stall. “You’re going to have to give us more than that.”
“I wouldn’t expect you two to understand. You’re both slick when it comes to getting a date.”
“You do okay.” Lombardi bent down to pick up a piece of straw, which he twisted around his forefinger. “I know what happens when I walk into a bar with you. All those pretty little women turn around and stare. At you, Blackhaw. You’re a chick magnet.”
“True,” Watson said. “You can score anytime.”
“This is different,” Trevor said.
With other women, he was aware of holding back, never sharing the deeper part of himself. With Sierra, he had an unexplainable urge to tell her everything about his life. His pain. His frust
rations. His moments of greatest joy and deepest sorrow. “I can’t explain it.”
“Give it a try,” Watson urged. “Not that I’m interrogating you or anything.”
Trevor shot him a cold glare. “Don’t go there. I never use interrogation techniques in everyday life, and you don’t want me to start.”
Watson wasn’t the least bit intimidated. “What happened between you and Sierra?”
“I wanted to get her something nice. You know, a gift. But she’s a practical woman and…”
“What?”
“I got her a side of beef.”
Watson exchanged a glance with Lombardi. “Not a real romantic gift.”
“Seemed like the right thing to do.” During the time he’d spent at the Cherokee nation, he’d learned that a gift of meat was a special honor, symbolic of commitment. That thought might have subconsciously influenced his choice.
“But she didn’t like the beef,” Watson said.
“She’s a vegetarian.”
Lombardi groaned. “Talk about a giant screwup.”
“Then,” Trevor said, “she asked me point-blank if I was trying to get her into bed.”
“Let me guess,” Watson said. “You said yes.”
“I was being honest.”
“Bad idea,” Lombardi said. “But here’s how you can make it up to her. I’ve got an address in the Bronx where you can order air express cannolis.”
It was worth a try, but Trevor expected that it would take more than Italian pastry to impress a woman who pretty much hated his guts.
ON WEDNESDAY MORNING, Trevor’s second day of full-time surveillance on Sierra, he sat by the window in a diner on Spruce Street. Sipping his third mug of thick black coffee, he stared across the road at the office of Ponderosa Tree Nursery, where Sierra worked two days a week. In her tight little jeans, she bounced down the three stairs from the office and headed toward the enclosed greenhouse. She’d started the day wearing an overlarge flannel shirt, but had now stripped down to a navy-blue tee. Her thick, honey-blond curls were pulled up in a ponytail that stuck out the back of a New York Yankees baseball cap.
She was damn cute, but Trevor couldn’t help wondering if watching her was a waste of time. After scouting the perimeter of the twenty-acre nursery, and lurking around on side streets and coming to this homely little diner for every meal, he had observed nothing that made him think the Militia was interested in her.
The only tangible result of his constant observation of Sierra Collins was Trevor turning into a drooling lunatic. He wasn’t the type of man who liked to watch, and it was driving him crazy not to touch her. From afar, he had memorized her shape as she did physical labor—bending, digging, transplanting and unloading trucks. She was strong, but with that perfect hourglass figure, she was not in the least bit masculine. Her delectable curves, he decided, were second to none.
With a morose sigh, he looked up from his coffee as Cameron Murphy entered the diner and slid into the booth opposite him. He placed an air express package on the tabletop. “How’s it going, Blackhaw?”
“It’s pretty damn slow, sir.”
His former commanding officer gave him a sympathetic grin, and Trevor wondered if Lombardi and Watson had blabbed about his attraction to Sierra. Trevor hoped not. He didn’t want to be pegged among the bounty hunters as a lovesick fool.
“You need to continue surveillance on the tree nursery,” Murphy said as he signaled the waitress for coffee. “You’re doing more than keeping an eye on Sierra.”
In an instant, Trevor went from gloomy lethargy to full alert. Something was up. Murphy had taken the trouble of coming here physically rather than contacting him on the cell phone.
“As you know,” Murphy continued, “we suspect the Militia are assembling the components for a bomb. There was an unusually large purchase of ethyl alcohol from a hardware store. Yesterday, a hobby shop in Helena sold the material necessary to make fuses.”
Murphy paused as the waitress placed his coffee mug on the table. She snapped her gum. “Cream?” she asked.
“Thank you, no.” Murphy smiled up at her.
She turned and winked at Trevor. “How about you, honey? Want a blueberry muffin? It’s on the house.”
He’d been spending so much time here that he’d developed a relationship with the waitress. He knew that she dyed her hair blond to cover the gray and that her gum-chewing was supposed to help her quit smoking. “Not right now, Ginny.”
“If you boys want anything at all, give me a shout.”
“You bet,” Trevor said. He leaned toward Murphy. “Go on.”
“This morning,” he stated, “we learned about the theft of potassium cyanide from a metal processing and welding shop. That substance is used in the electroplating process.”
“What else is it used for?”
“Potassium cyanide is a lethal nerve agent.”
Tension shot through Trevor’s body. “What happens when someone is exposed to it?”
“It’s nasty stuff. If breathed in or passed through the skin, there’s an immediate irritation, especially to the eyes. Possible blindness. Then nosebleed and a pounding headache. The final result is irreparable damage to the central nervous system, thyroid enlargement, possible heart attack. And death.”
“And you believe the Militia has this substance?”
“I do.” Murphy raised his coffee mug to his lips. “And I believe they’ll use it.”
The churning in Trevor’s gut had nothing to do with the amount of caffeine he’d consumed in the past hour. It seemed that the Militia was on the verge of returning to their former terrorist ways.”
“We’ll stop them,” Trevor said.
“I want to believe that.” Murphy reached up and rubbed his bum shoulder, which Trevor knew had been injured in a confrontation with Boone Fowler. “I thought when the Militia were locked up in the Fortress with no chance for parole, this battle was won.”
No battle was truly ended until the enemy was dead. Even then, according to Cherokee belief, the ghost of a lifelong adversary might return. “Have you notified law enforcement about the bomb components?”
“State, local and federal,” Murphy said. “They’ve placed extra guards in all government buildings.”
But he sounded doubtful. At the edge of his strength and determination, Trevor sensed a wavering apprehension. It wasn’t fear. Cameron Murphy wasn’t afraid of anything, but much had changed for him in five years. He was married now and had a child.
“The security at government buildings is better now than it used to be,” Trevor said. “Everything tightened up after 9-11. The Militia won’t get through.”
“They could strike anywhere. On a bus in Helena. During a high school football game. At a preschool.”
Murphy’s voice faded. His gaze turned inward, and Trevor knew he was thinking of his beautiful four-year-old daughter, Olivia.
“Sir,” Trevor said, “we won’t let that happen. What do you want me to do?”
“Continue surveillance on the tree nursery. Other components for bomb making are sulfur and sodium nitrate. Both are used in fertilizers.”
“Fertilizer,” Trevor grumbled. “You want me to stay here and keep an eye on the mulch?”
“And Sierra,” he said. “I know you think she’s innocent as a newborn lamb, but she does have access to the chemicals needed by the Militia. She might still be working with them.”
“No, sir. She hates the Militia.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I interrogated her.” Inwardly, Trevor winced at the painful memory. “I broke her down. She’s not involved with the Militia. Not in any way.”
Murphy finished off his coffee and rose from the booth. He tapped the air express package he’d placed on the table when he first arrived. “Lombardi said you should open this right away.”
As Murphy sauntered toward the exit, Trevor noticed Ginny studying him with admiring eyes. She bustled over to the table to freshen
Trevor’s coffee. “Your friend,” she said, “is he married?”
“Very much so.”
“Doggone it! All the good ones are taken.”
“I’m hurt.” Trevor clutched his chest. “I’m not married.”
“You might as well be. Trevor, honey, you can’t take your eyes off that cute gal who works at the tree nursery. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you staring at her and sighing like a lovesick calf.”
He scoffed. “I don’t sigh.”
“Fooled me.” She stepped back from the table and nodded toward the window. “And it looks like you’re in luck, because she’s on her way over here right now.”
He hadn’t been watching. While he’d been preoccupied, Sierra had crossed the road from the nursery. She was at the door to the diner.
Fine. It was time they came face-to-face. For a day and a half, he’d respected her wish to have him out of her life. He hadn’t approached her or spoken to her. But his surveillance on her home and workplace hadn’t been a covert operation. If she’d been even halfway alert, she would have noticed his Jeep.
She strolled into the diner. Her pace was casual, but her dark-eyed gaze flicked from table to counter to booth until she was looking directly at him. With her lush hips swinging, she came toward him and slid into the booth, filling the space that had been occupied moments ago by Cameron Murphy.
“Trevor,” she said.
“Sierra.”
A long moment of silence stretched between them. He noticed a smudge of fresh dirt on her chin. In spite of the brimmed Yankees’ cap, she had a touch of sunburn on her cheeks. “You’ve been following me,” she said.
“I told you before—I’m concerned about your safety.”
Ginny came to the table. “What can I get you?”
“A strawberry milkshake with whipped cream on top.”
“Coming right up.”
Sierra turned her attention to Trevor again. “Don’t expect a thank-you for protecting me. As I’m sure you realize by now, it wasn’t necessary.”
“It’s still possible that the Militia will contact you.”
