so expertly perforated before he’d been able to hurt Stacy Giordano.
Nick looked up, watching Nolan pace back and forth as he talked to the team member assigned to guard Trevor Lewis, their only suspect in the war someone had instituted against Governor Lila Lockhart and her bid for the U.S. presidency.
“Who’s watching Lewis today?” Nick asked Harlan.
“Matteo. I take over at five.”
“Is Lewis still on a ventilator?” Nick turned in his chair to face his fellow team member.
“Yeah, but the doc is going to wake him up around four this afternoon. Nolan wants us there so we can persuade him to give up the name of the shooter who infiltrated the party at Twin Harts Ranch wearing a stolen deputy’s uniform. We need to nab the guy before he tries again.”
Nick couldn’t agree more, but he’d been an outsider on the case from the start. Forced instead to focus on his special assignment for the governor.
Nolan closed his phone and headed toward them. “Let’s go. The doctor told Matteo that Lewis is stable enough to breathe on his own. He’s going to remove the tube. He’ll give us five minutes to get some answers before they prep him for medical transport to the hospital in Amarillo.”
Anticipation clung to Nick’s nerves as he taped the lab request to the evidence bag and stood up, then on a whim, he picked up his pen and put an X next to the fingerprint-lift request, as well. Maybe Grace’s prints on the water glass could lead him to the holes in her life story if he decided to run them.
CSaI receptionist Amelia Bond glanced up from behind her desk near the front entrance, catching wind of the hustle being stirred up as Nolan hurried for the door.
On the way out, Nick put the evidence bag on Amelia’s desk for processing. He knew her efficiency would have the sample out today and the results back to him before he could stop thinking about Grace Marshall’s perfect lip impression on the edge of the glass.
Chapter Two
Nick pulled his vehicle in next to Nolan Law’s sleek black Mercedes. He’d never cared much for hospitals, cared even less for them now. He’d seen too many men perish in them and had come close to being a casualty himself not too long ago—before CSaI founder Bart Bellows gave him a reason to breathe again.
The hair on the back of his neck bristled as he climbed out and locked his pickup. He took a quick scan of the parking lot, searching for the source of the hinky feeling climbing all over his nerves. They were being watched. He’d bet his best horse on it.
A pair of nurses chatted as they walked toward the main entrance to Holy Cross Hospital. A single male dressed in green scrubs was in the process of getting into his car while he held a cell phone plastered to his ear and spoke into it at just below a yell.
Nick’s stare locked on Grace Marshall’s beat-up silver Camry parked in a slot near the front doors. He hadn’t anticipated coming in contact with her here. Still, he wasn’t sure he could attribute her presence as the source of his agitation.
He fell in behind Nolan and Harlan, keeping his senses on high alert as they headed for the main entrance. Trevor Lewis hadn’t acted alone, and Nick couldn’t help but feel no one was safe in Freedom until his accomplice was identified and captured. He wouldn’t relax until they were inside the hospital and out of the open.
The double set of extra-wide automatic doors ground open and Nick’s gaze connected with Grace Marshall’s on the other side of the gap. A moment of recognition passed between them and she smiled.
Nolan and Harlan walked past her, headed for the elevator bank on the opposite side of the hospital’s lobby. A wave of attraction swelled inside of Nick as he approached Grace and stopped.
“Grace.” He focused a degree of surprise in his voice. He was glad that Harlan had ditched the black hoodie and sweats. He was convinced that along with her level of caution there was no doubt a level of observation she practiced on a regular basis.
“Nick Cavanaugh. I had no idea you were following me.”
A stream of guilt flooded his insides, but he forded it with a grin. The elevator bell chimed in the background and he glanced up to where Nolan and Harlan waited for him. Making eye contact with Harlan, he nodded slightly, certain that Harlan had recognized his purse-snatching target from earlier in the afternoon and was more than happy to duck for cover inside the elevator.
“I’m checking in on someone. Visiting hours and all.” He took the opportunity to look down at the little boy sitting in the wheelchair that Grace had been pushing to the exit, and now clung to.
Her sweet smile faded as she reached down to brush her hand across the top of the little boy’s head. “Caleb, this is Mr. Nick Cavanaugh. Nick, this is my son, Caleb.”
“Hey, buddy.” He bent over, reached out and grasped the little boy’s hand, giving it a gentle shake. The child’s line of sight started at his boot-clad feet, went up his jean-encased legs and eventually ended with Caleb staring up at him with eyes the same heavenly blue as his mother’s.
“Are you a cowboy, Mister Nick?”
Nick straightened, amused by the little boy’s power of observation. “Hmm. Yeah. You could say I’m a cowboy.”
“Gotta horse?”
“A few.”
“Can I ride one? My friend Zachary-G says it’s fun. He rides horses all the time.”
Caution raked over Nick’s nerves. He hadn’t considered the connection that might exist between Zachary Giordano and Caleb Marshall. They did both attend Cradles to Crayons, and Grace did work there part-time as a preschool teacher. Maybe he should have enlisted another team member besides Harlan McClain to pull off the ruse, but hindsight was always twenty-twenty.
“Maybe sometime your mom will bring you out to the ranch and I’ll saddle one up for you.”
“Really?” Caleb’s eyes widened to the size of silver dollars. “Wait till I tell Zachary-G!”
The air was suddenly charged with vibes Nick could almost feel. He straightened, dialing in on Grace’s face, on the way she pressed her lips together as if she were about to cry. His heart twisted in his chest. Instinctively he reached out and brushed his hand against her upper arm—a mistake, he realized, when a jolt of heat passed between them. She pulled away.
“Let me.” He was glad when she stepped aside and allowed him to take the handles of the wheelchair. “Where’s your car?”
She pointed to the Camry and fell in next to him as they pushed through the sliding doors, across the breezeway and out into the parking lot.
Caleb began to hum, his tiny voice picking up the vibrations from the asphalt as the wheelchair wheels bumped over the uneven surface.
Nick swallowed hard, sucked into the emotion coming from the woman next to him. Caleb Marshall was a very sick little boy. How sick? He didn’t know. But he intended to find out.
“Here we are, tiger.”
Grace moved past them to unlock the car, then pulled the
