studying his face with a tiny frown. “And you’re the exact opposite.” She raised her eyebrows. “You say you’re Rick’s brother, but frankly you don’t look like him. How do I know you’re telling me the truth? You could be a reporter snooping out a story, for all I know.”
Was there a story to snoop out? he wanted to ask. Instead, and without a word, he yanked his wallet from his back pocket and flipped it open onto the narrow area of examination table between them. She lifted her head to peer down at it.
He knew what it said. Jonathan Andrew Cahill. Toronto Police Services.
She slumped back on the bed. Oh, mercy. A police officer in search of the truth about his murdered brother.
Could it get any worse?
“You’re a cop?”
“Like our father, before a drug pusher ambushed him.”
Ambushed? Sylvie rubbed her arms, hoping the sudden goose bumps would disappear. She didn’t need to be an expert in psychology to know that telling Jon his only brother had died in nearly the same fashion wouldn’t be a good thing. Not while this man still carried a frustrated anger so big that she could practically see it roosting on his shoulder like a gargoyle.
“I’m sorry. I remember Rick telling me about him.”
“He was a good police officer. Then some bastard killed him. And two years later that bastard walked out of court a free man.”
What could she say? His bitter tone resounded through the room, bouncing off the walls and bombarding her, over and over. A free man. When his father lay dead.
She silently prayed he’d suggest they meet someplace, at a future date….
Something she could prepare for—or maybe even avoid.
The man heaved a burdened sigh as he picked up his wallet to pocket it. “Look, to say the least, the military has been vague about Rick’s death. I have yet to receive anything in writing. I spoke to Rick’s—and your—commanding officer, and…” He paused, quite distinctly, too, leaving the impression he was tailoring his words carefully. “…all he said was Rick was on a detail with you. Delivering rations to an outpost. The accident occurred in the mountains. Right?”
She studied the ceiling. Delivering rations to an outpost that didn’t exist. Driving around the wrong mountain. “Yes.” She couldn’t look at him and focus on his words at the same time. “I’m sorry Rick died. He was a good soldier.”
Frustration surged inside of him. Damn it, that was it? A short apology for losing a good soldier? He hadn’t come halfway across the country to hear that trite compliment. He hadn’t been told by the chief of police to take all the time he needed to deal with Rick’s death—even if it took all summer—just to hear what a good soldier Rick had been.
And he wouldn’t ignore the suspicion gripping his gut at her brush-off. No blasted way.
His mouth thinned. “Rick was a hell of a lot more than just a good soldier.”
He watched her blink, fear in the gaze she suddenly couldn’t level on him. Fear again? It had to be something else.
“You were with him when he died, weren’t you?”
She said nothing. Jon crushed the urge to grab her and shake her and demand the whole damn, blasted truth once and for all. But, checking his fury, he clenched his fists and stalked to the window.
Finally she spoke, her voice so barely above a whisper he had to hold his breath to hear her. “I’m so sorry. We’d driven—” She checked her words, for what reason, he couldn’t guess. “We’d done similar details before. Got stuck together overnight more often than not because of mudslides or bad weather. Never once had we been ambushed.”
He whirled, his heart pounding, his throat suddenly dry. It took him a minute to find his voice. “Ambushed? No one said anything about an ambush! What the hell are you talking about?”
Horrified, she fell silent again and looked away.
Ambush? Was that what the military was keeping from him? Rick had been attacked, in a country purporting to be at peace.
No. Even ambushes make the news, especially in these troubled times.
He stalked over to her and pressed a fist on either side of the black vinyl table, not caring if he towered over her like a madman. “I want to know about this ambush. Now.”
She wouldn’t even look at him. Swearing internally, he pulled back and raked his fingers through his hair. So close to the truth! So close he could feel it teasing him. How could she shut up now? “Look, Ms. Mitchell. Sylvie. My only living relative has died and no one will give me any details. Do you think that’s fair? Do you think Rick deserves to be forgotten so easily?” He sucked in a long breath in a desperate attempt to control his growing frustration.
Her hand strayed to her belly. The sunlight streaming in the window behind him caught a narrow, glimmering trail of a tear as it escaped her eye. She furtively swiped it away and pushed herself up, this time meeting his glare with equal intensity. “Rick isn’t forgotten, all right? I was there. I tried to keep him alive, but I couldn’t.” She paled, then sagged. Was she going to pass out again? “Now, could you please leave me alone?”
The door swung open and in strolled the doctor. He carried a clipboard and smiled at Sylvie. “Good morning. I hear you’ve fainted.”
Jon glanced at Sylvie. She lay back down and closed her eyes. “Yes, I did.”
The doctor directed his attention to Jon. “Could you please leave us for a few minutes? I won’t be long.”
Jon looked to Sylvie, hoping that somehow she might ask him to stay. But of course she wouldn’t. They were strangers, regardless of the fact she’d been with his only relative up until the moment—
Unable to form the words in his mind, Jon stormed out of the room. He might as well write off talking to Sylvie Mitchell today. But she’d mentioned a ranch outside of town. It wouldn’t be hard to find, despite there being nearly as many ranches here as Stetsons. Maybe talking on her own turf would make her feel less intimidated. And, hopefully, she’d have eaten by then and couldn’t use the excuse of fainting to avoid conversation.
For a tall, strong woman, she didn’t look the type to faint for lack of food. In fact, she looked pretty damn good, period. When he’d spotted her across the street, her creamy complexion had looked healthy, her body toned. Her short, blond hair gleamed with good health.
Her skin soft like warm peaches against his.
Whoa, Cahill. That’s pushing it, don’t you think?
Suspicion still curdling inside of him, Jon stalked down the corridor to the receptionist’s desk. He’d ask for a phone book there. He’d find her ranch.
“Excuse me?”
He turned at the sound of the voice. The receptionist bustled past him and behind the counter, throwing a smile at him as she went. “Don’t worry about her. She’ll be fine. Soon she’ll be outside, enjoying this lovely day. Best way to start the summer, isn’t it, with a great weekend ahead, weatherwise. Do you
