Undercover Bodyguard

by Shirlee McCoy

  Especially not anyone named Ryder.

  Ryder, who’d arrived at the hospital every night at six. Who’d snuck her pizza when she’d moaned about being hungry for real food. Who’d sat by her side during the worst moments of pain.

  Ryder, who made her insides shake and her brain turn to mush and who made her forget that she’d sworn off men.

  No. She wouldn’t call to ask for a ride even though Ryder had told her she could call for anything.

  She was going to do this herself. Man up and face the fear. That’s what Grandmother Beulah would have expected from the granddaughter she’d willed the Cadillac to.

  Of course, Grandmother Beulah had never been shot in the back.

  Shelby took a deep breath, opened the door.

  Bright sunlight splashed across the lawn the neighbor’s son had mowed for her the previous day. Tulips peeked up from the dark soil of the flowerbeds she’d planted last spring. Everything was as it should be on her quiet street. No stealthy movement or unusual noise. Nothing alarming. The police had assured her that she was safe. That the man with the green eyes couldn’t possibly be the guy she’d seen running from Maureen’s street. He’d demanded cash, after all. Made it clear he was there to rob Shelby.

  A robbery gone wrong.

  Nothing at all to do with Maureen’s murder.

  But Shelby didn’t feel safe.

  She hadn’t felt safe in days.

  She hurried to Old Blue, her body screaming in pain as she jumped into the car, slammed the door and locked it. Mazy whined and panted in the passenger seat as she drove the ten miles to the funeral home.

  Empty parking lot.

  Nothing to indicate a funeral was about to take place.

  Had Shelby come on the wrong date?

  The way her week had been going, that wouldn’t be surprising. She got out of the car anyway, leading Mazy across the parking lot and into the silent building.

  An usher stood at a podium beside the door, and he smiled as Shelby approached.

  “You’re here for the Lewis funeral?”

  “Yes.”

  “First door on the left, but I’m afraid you’ll have to leave the dog in your car.”

  “She’s Maureen’s dog.”

  “You’ll still have to leave her in the car.”

  “But—”

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but that’s our rule. Some people are allergic to dogs, and we don’t want to make this time any more stressful than it needs to be.”

  He had a point, and Shelby would have given in quickly if she weren’t so terrified of going back outside.

  “Maureen would have wanted her here.”

  “The deceased left no indication of that, so I’m afraid we’ll have to follow policy.” His smile had tightened, but he managed to keep it intact. Good for him.

  Shelby’s smile had failed four days ago.

  It didn’t seem ready to return.

  Fear hummed along her nerves as she walked Mazy back to the car, her eyes scanning the street, the trees that sheltered the lush lawn, the people who strolled along the sidewalk. He could be there. He might be there. She’d never know it, either. Not until the bullet slammed into her body, carried her along its trajectory.

  Killed her.

  It would be quite an irony to die in the parking lot of a funeral home.

  That kind of dramatic, over-the-top end was exactly what Grandmother Beulah would have preferred to having a heart attack in her sleep.

  Shelby, on the other hand, was hoping for exactly the type of end her grandmother had gotten. Peaceful. Quiet. Slipping easily into the next part of her journey at the ripe old age of ninety-seven.

  “Get in, Mazy.” She patted the seat of the Caddy, but Mazy dug in her paws and refused to budge.

  “Mazy, really. I’m not supposed to lift you, so hop in.” She leaned down and nudged the dog. Pain edged in over the fear, churning in her stomach. She felt sick and dizzy, her skin clammy, her heart chugging too fast and hard.

  So, maybe she wouldn’t die in the parking lot.

  Maybe she’d just pass out.

  “Please, Mazy. Cooperate.” She slid her hands under the dog’s belly, lifted her, felt the burn of stitched skin stretching as she tried to get to her feet.

  “You’re not supposed to be lifting anything.” Ryder’s voice spilled into the quiet afternoon, and she looked up, nearly fell over as she tried to see his face.

  “Where did you come from?”

  “My apartment.” He grabbed her arm, tugged her to her feet, somehow pulling Mazy from her hands and setting her on the Caddy’s seat at the same time.

  “That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” she grumbled, closing the door on Mazy’s excited yaps.

  “Grumpy, Shelby Ann?” He watched her through deep brown eyes, his dark suit perfectly tailored to his muscular frame, and Shelby’s whole being sighed with longing. She wanted to step into his arms, tell him how scared she was, how glad that he’d shown up.

  “I’m tired, and I’m in pain, and I don’t feel like dealing with Mazy.” She turned from his dark gaze, wobbled across the parking lot. She should have worn sneakers. They’d have made for a more dignified retreat.

  “You’re tired and in pain, because you’re supposed to be home in bed recovering. What you’re not supposed to be doing is driving. Fortunately, my apartment is close enough to walk here, so I can drive us both to the cemetery in your car.” Ryder opened the door, the spicy, masculine scent of his cologne drifting around Shelby. She resisted the urge to inhale deeply, pull in his scent and make a memory of it.

  “You’ve been talking to Dottie.”

  “She called because she was sure you’d show up here. I was sure you’d use a little common sense and stay home.”

  “How could I? Today is Maureen’s funeral. We were friends.”

  “She has other friends.” Ryder offered a curt nod in the direction of the usher, nudged Shelby into the viewing room.

  “I know,” Shelby whispered, because she felt compelled to keep her voice down as people trickled in, walked by the closed casket and stared at the flower arrangements.

  “Anyone here you know?” Ryder asked, and Shelby shook her head.

  “Maureen and I didn’t run in the same social circles.”

  “How’d you meet, then?” He walked her to a row of chairs and urged her to sit.

  “She came into the bakery the day I opened and bought every one of my cheese Danishes. They were her favorite. She came in every week after that. Five years, and she never missed a Monday Danish run.” Shelby blinked back tears as she stood and walked to the mahogany coffin. Flowers cascaded over the dark wood. Beautiful lily of the valley and gorgeous white roses.

  Shelby touched a velvety bloom, her fingers caressing the silken petal. “I’m so sorry that I couldn’t save you, Maureen,” she whispered, and Ryder slid his arm around her waist, his touch light and gentle.

  “Come on. Let’s sit back down before you fall down.”

  “I’m not going to fall.” But her legs were shaky, and she let Ryder lead her back to the chair, leaned her head down on her knees, the stitches in her back pulling, her muscles protesting.

  “You really should have followed doctor’s orders and stayed home, Shelby Ann.” He pressed a cool palm to the back of her neck, his rough, callused skin comforting.

  The touch of a very good and very old friend.

  But he wasn’t even really a friend at all. He was…

  Ryder, and she couldn’t put a label to him.

  Wasn’t sure she dared try.

  “You’re looking at me like I’ve grown two heads,” he said, and she realized she was staring straight
into his dark eyes.

  “Just wondering why you’re here.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You didn’t know Maureen.”

  “I know you,” he said, taking the seat beside her, his long legs stretched out, his thigh muscles pressing against his dark slacks.

  “Ryder—” She wanted to tell him that he needed to stop whatever he was doing. Stop the caring and the concern and the sweet words. Stop convincing her heart of something that could never be true, but the service began, music swelling from a piano near the back of the room, a few of Maureen’s friends speaking fondly of her, a pastor speaking of eternity. Fifty years of life summed up in twenty minutes. The music swelled again, people spilling out to head for the cemetery. Tears dripped down Shelby’s cheeks, and suddenly, she was leaning into Ryder’s chest, his suit jacket muffling the sound of her quiet sobs.

  Had she gone to him?

  Had he come to her?

  It didn’t matter, because she was there, in his arms, his hand making small circles on her shoulder, his quiet murmurs filling her ear. “She would want you to celebrate what she was, Shelby. Not mourn for what she can’t be.”

  “I know.”

  “Then stop crying.” He brushed tears from her cheeks, his palm rough and warm against her cool skin, his dark eyes filled with sadness.

  “Have you ever lost someone you cared about, Ryder?” she asked, because she wanted to know what made his eyes so dark and bleak.

  “Four of my military buddies. We were SEALs together. Ten of us. Six of us survived the explosion that took their lives. I was one of the lucky ones. Come on. We need to get to the cemetery.”

  “Ryder, wait.” She grabbed his arm, felt tension in his muscles, but his voice was gentle, his gaze soft as he answered.

  “It was six years ago, Shelby Ann. I’m over the worst of it, but I do know what it feels like to lose someone you respect, admire and care deeply about. Come on.” He tugged her to Old Blue and helped her into the passenger seat. She didn’t bother arguing about who was going to drive. She was too tired, too sad. Because of Maureen. Because of Ryder’s comrades. Because she wanted to reach out and touch Ryder’s hand, tell him how sorry she was, but her throat was too clogged with tears, and she wasn’t nearly brave enough to risk everything that reaching out might mean.

  Hadn’t she learned anything from her thrice-married-and-divorced mother? From her globe-trotting, heartbreaker sister? From her tough-as-nails grandmother? From scarred and tattered Dottie?

  From her own experiences with the men that she’d wanted desperately to believe in and who had proven just how foolish believing in anyone was?

  Of course she had.

  Rely on yourself, because men will only disappoint you.

  That was the Simons family’s motto, but she’d never really believed it. Not even when her college sweetheart had broken up with her because he wanted to date her roommate. Finally, though, she did believe it.

  Andrew had convinced her.

  She’d tried.

  She’d failed.

  She wouldn’t try again.

  Coward, her heart seemed to whisper as Ryder turned the key in the ignition and Old Blue roared to life. Coward, it whispered again as he met her gaze, smiled into her eyes. She ignored him, because she was a coward, and every minute she spent near Ryder just proved it more. She turned to stare out the window as he followed the funeral processional to the grave site.

  EIGHT

  Ryder surveyed the cemetery as the pastor bestowed a few last words on Maureen. He saw no sign that unexpected guests were watching the proceedings, but that didn’t mean none were.

  Maureen’s name was synonymous with titillating true-crime tales, and there was no doubt some of the hundreds of mourners were fans anxious to see how the bestselling author’s final chapter would play out rather than mourners sad to say goodbye. Fans weren’t who Ryder was worried about, though.

  Maureen’s murderer was.

  The person who’d bludgeoned her to death. Aside from the skull fracture, the medical examiner had found multiple broken bones. Forearm, ribs, cheek, jaw and nose. Ryder hadn’t had the heart to tell Shelby that. Not when she was still recovering, but eventually someone would. If not Ryder, the sheriff or deputy sheriff. Both men hovered at the edge of the grave site, shifting restlessly as they eyed the mourners. Like Ryder, they expected the killer to show, and they were desperate to catch him.

  More than likely, he was in the crowd, relishing the tears that were being shed. Ryder’s chest tightened at the thought, anger gnawing at him. The perp needed to be caught before he hurt someone else.

  Before he hurt Shelby.

  Again.

  Blue eyes, green eyes, brown eyes. None of it mattered, because Ryder was absolutely sure the man Shelby had seen the morning of Maureen’s death was the man who’d staged a robbery at Just Desserts and shot her in the back.

  He followed her as she placed a white rose on Maureen’s coffin.

  “Goodbye for now, my friend,” she said quietly and moved to the edge of the canopied area. Sunlight poured over her, bathing her dark hair in red and gold and highlighting the deep hollows beneath her cheekbones. Dressed in a simple dress that hugged her curves, she looked beautiful and heartbroken. She hadn’t been sleeping well, hadn’t been eating well. She didn’t need to say it for Ryder to know the truth.

  “You okay?” he asked, sliding both arms around her waist and tugging her a step closer. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t protest or try to move away.

  “I will be. I saw the sheriff and deputy sheriff. Are they hoping Maureen’s murderer will show up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think he will?”

  “I hope he will.”

  “He’s not here now. At least, the guy I saw jogging that morning isn’t here.” She stepped away, breaking the contact between them.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive. I’ve been looking, too.” She shivered, rubbing her arms against a chill Ryder couldn’t feel.

  “Here.” He started to pull off his jacket, but Shelby grabbed his arm.

  “Don’t. The last thing this crowd needs is to see a bulked-up Hercules wearing a gun and holster.”

  “‘Bulked-up Hercules’? I’m not sure if I should be flattered or insulted by that, Shelby Ann.”

  “Neither.” She blushed, the pink tinge in her cheeks only adding to her beauty.

  “Then what should I be?”

  “Impressed that I came up with such a clever description? Look, there’s Maureen’s son.” She quickly changed the subject, gesturing to the casket and a tall, dark-haired man that stood before it, his head bowed, his eyes hidden by dark glasses. Early to midthirties. Close to six feet. Maybe a hundred and eighty pounds. He looked too old to be a fifty-year-old woman’s son.

  “She must have had him young.”

  “She was seventeen. His father was her first and only marriage. She had Hunter six months later. A big mistake, she said.”

  “The marriage or her son?”

  “The marriage mostly. Although things were strained between Maureen and Hunter. She wasn’t a very maternal person, and I think she caused some damage to their relationship when he was younger. She never told me the details, though.”

  “Maybe we should ask Hunter.” He took a step toward the man, but Shelby grabbed his arm.

  “You can’t ask a man why he didn’t get along with his mother while he’s at her funeral,” she hissed, and Ryder almost told her she was wrong. He could ask anyone anything if it meant keeping Shelby safe.

  Maureen had been killed.

  Someone knew why.

  Someone knew who.

  Maybe
Maureen’s son was the key.

  “Come on. I need to get home and get changed. I want to go to the bakery to check—”

  “You’re not going to the bakery, Shelby,” he said.

  “Of course I am.”

  “Dottie and the rest of your staff have everything under control, and you’ll only be in the way.”

  “Is that what Dottie told you to say?”

  “Only if you insisted on going back to work before you were ready.”

  “I am ready. Maybe not physically,” she admitted reluctantly. “But mentally.”

  “You need to be both.”

  “You don’t understand, Ryder.” She started walking back to Old Blue, her movements stiff with pain.

  “Then explain it to me.”

  “I’m afraid. When I’m awake, I think I see the guy who shot me around every corner and lurking in every shadow. When I’m asleep, he’s there, too. Always at the bakery, rushing at me with a gun. Every day I don’t go back and prove to myself that he’s gone, the fear builds. Eventually, it will be so big that I won’t be able to go back, no matter how much I want to.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay what?” She leaned against Blue’s door, her eyes shadowed and wary.

  “I’ll take you to the bakery. Dottie will probably cut off my doughnut supply for life, but I’ll take you.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t need you to take me. I can manage on my own. It’s what I’ve been doing for years.” She offered her first real smile of the day, her eyes crinkling at the corners, a dimple flashing in her left cheek. He ran a finger over it, watching as her pupils dilated.

  “You’re beautiful when you smile.”

  “You’ve been using that word a lot today,” she responded, getting in Blue’s passenger seat, wincing as she settled in.

  “Beautiful? What’s wrong with that?”

  “I’m not beautiful, Ryder. Cute, maybe. Pretty, sometimes. Beautiful, never.”

  “Who told you that?” he asked as he got into driver’s seat and started Blue’s engine.