Susannah knew they were both thinking. Whatever Del could or couldn’t tell the sheriff wouldn’t matter, if her own interview with the lawman was anything to go by. It had been as fruitless as had all the previous interviews with the police in the past nine months—more so, in fact, since Sheriff Bannerman hadn’t even wanted to hear what she had to say. He’d taken one look at the spent shells and bullet casings littering the portale and his expression had closed.
“A partnership gone sour, that’s what I’m putting my money on. Only a drug war generates this kind of firepower,” he’d declared, rubbing his jaw. “Hassell used to be a model, didn’t she? They live a pretty fast life, from what I hear. Maybe her past caught up with her, or maybe those trips she’s always making to New York and L.A. are about selling something other than paintings.”
Beside him Tye had started to protest, and Bannerman had turned on him. “Hell, Adams, I’ve seen those daubs she calls art. Don’t tell me people are crazy enough to shell out big money for something that doesn’t even look like a real picture. I’ll arrange protection for you while we’re looking for the two shooters who got away, Miz Barrett, but I’ll wager you weren’t their primary target.”
Susannah had been close enough to Tye to see the anger in his eyes as he spoke, his words measured. “Couple things, Sheriff.” His tone had been ominously mild. “First and foremost, Susannah’s my responsibility. That’s what I do for a living, as I’ve told you.” Before Bannerman could respond he went on. “Secondly, if she wasn’t being targeted tonight why did a hit man come within seconds of taking her out, for God’s sake?”
“Miz Barrett was in the wrong place at the wrong time. When she tried to run they probably thought she was trying to get away with whatever it was they’d come for.” Bannerman’s grunt had been dismissive. “Save the convoluted deductions for those movie detectives you rub shoulders with in Hollywood, Adams. Like I told you last week when you came to me insisting I investigate Miz Barrett’s so-called abduction, things are usually a whole lot less complicated in the real world. When we get the results back on the dead man’s prints I’ll wager it turns out he worked for one of the big dealers.”
At that the older man had turned on a booted heel and strode off, the subject obviously closed as far as he was concerned. Tye hadn’t gone after him but had helped Susannah gather up a few essentials for herself and Daniel before informing a deputy that they could be reached at the Double B if Bannerman needed them.
“If we’re talking miracles you might want to send up a prayer of thanks that Del’s latest crop of bad boys left a few days ago and the next batch isn’t due till next month.”
Recalled to the present by his words, Susannah saw Tye had crossed to the old-fashioned sink, a battered tin coffeepot in his hand. “Livestock I can handle. A dozen or so juvenile delinquents with chips on their shoulders would be too much for anyone to take.” He twisted the cold-water tap and shrugged. “Anyone but Del, that is,” he added, his back to her.
Earlier this evening when he’d hustled her and Danny out of the garage and away from the body of the man he’d shot, he’d kept his arm protectively around her shoulders, as if he was afraid of letting her get too far away from him. Even when the helicopter Del had requested had touched down just beyond the devastated patio’s walls and an unconscious Greta had been carefully lifted onto a stretcher—not by hospital paramedics, Susannah had realized numbly at the time, but by figures in military uniform—Tye had left her side only long enough to exchange a few hurried sentences with Del and an officer whom she’d seen salute Hawkins as the men had loaded their precious cargo. It wasn’t until the chopper was lifting off and a wail of sirens had pierced the desert night, signalling the arrival in force of the local law, that he’d detached himself from her.
And detached was the right word, she thought unhappily now, taking in the straight line of his back and his precise movements as he set the coffeepot on the ancient cast-iron cook stove. She’d told Greta tonight—had it really been just a few hours ago? she wondered in tired amazement—that she’d done Tyler Adams a wrong. It was time to put that wrong right, if she could.
“Sugar-cured ham and sunny-side-up okay with you?” He threw the query over his shoulder as he opened the restaurant-size refrigerator and pulled out a bowl of brown eggs. “There’s not much point in going to bed now if I’m starting chores in a few hours, so I might as well make us some breakfast. Give me a second here and I’ll show you the spare first-floor bedroom. No cribs in the place as far as I know, but maybe we can rig something up with a dresser drawer for Danny to sleep in.”
“I’ll cook.” Rising from the table, she went to a hook on the wall and took down the striped cotton teacloth she’d noticed hanging there. It was big enough to serve as an apron and deftly she wrapped it around her waist, securing it with a neat knot. As Tye set a platter holding half a huge ham on the counter, she put a restraining hand on his arm.
Beneath her fingers was solid muscle. Warmth flooded through her before she tamped down the inappropriate reaction.
“Bannerman said you reported me missing. I—I’m sorry you were worried about us, Tye.” Her hand was still resting on his arm and she let it slip to her side. “I hoped you’d just put us out of your mind and continue on your way, I guess.”
This time the rush of warmth in her cheeks was shame. As her guilty gaze met his skeptical one, she shook her head.
“Oh, that’s a lie, and not even a white one,” she said, sliding her palms against the tea towel. “Granny Lacey used to say Mr. Scratch started with a body’s tongue first when he was trying to take over, and she was right. I knew you’d probably be looking for us, but when Greta showed up the way she did all I could think of was keeping Danny safe. It was like the story of baby Moses in the rush basket floating downstream out of danger,” she ended inadequately.
“Sorry, honey.” Under the once-white and now begrimed T-shirt he wore, broad shoulders lifted in a controlled shrug. “I’m far from being the Bible scholar you seem to be, so you lost me at the end there. But I’ll accept what you said about lying just now. You didn’t hope I’d forgotten you, Suze. You knew damn well I wouldn’t, just like I knew damn well you weren’t about to forget me anytime soon. Who the hell’s Mr. Scratch?”
“You swear too much.” Even as the automatic comment left her lips Susannah knew it was more of a defense than a reproof. Was it was her imagination or had the space between them, slight as it had been in the first place, lessened somehow? She took a step away from him, all her earlier misgivings suddenly flooding back.
Could you call a man beautiful? she asked herself, forcing a deep breath into her lungs in an attempt to dispel the unfamiliar edginess that was electrifying all her nerve endings. But breathing was a mistake. As she inhaled, the very scent of him seemed to rush into her—a scent compounded of cordite and skin salt and the faintest trace of the soap he’d presumably used earlier this evening.
He was beautiful. He was beautiful the way a stallion was beautiful, beautiful the way a timber wolf standing over its prey could be beautiful, beautiful because he was a perfectly built male animal.
And that overpowering maleness could make even someone like her forget everything else except the basic fact that she was a female.
“Mr. Scratch is the devil,” she said, making herself turn back to face him. “Bible scholar or not, you must have heard of him.”
“Red tail and horns, pointed beard?” He hacked off a couple of slices of ham, his question disinterested, and something about the careless tone of his voice roused a tiny spark of anger in her.
“I
