Now she remembered. Rick had told her that lung cancer from too many cigarettes had killed his mother.
“You don’t smoke, I hope,” Jon said, as if reading her thoughts yet again.
“No.”
“Good.”
The traffic lessened as they put the town behind them and brought the foothills closer. Sylvie forced herself to relax, but the effort was in vain. The man beside her radiated the tension of a coiled spring. One sudden shift of the unknown force that held him together, and that spring would fly out like a destructive missile.
Ridiculous idea. He was a grieving man, not a loose cannon. Besides, she could handle loose cannons if she had to. She’d taken leadership courses. She knew—and had practiced—all the styles of leadership. She’d been good at soldiering.
Leaders were made, not born, the military touted, and she’d always believed that. But this man? He would have aced any of those courses. Leadership seemed as sculpted to him as the smooth, tanned skin he wore.
“Turn right here,” she told him, glad she could occupy them both with her directions. Because as soon as they reached her ranch, she’d offer her thanks, her condolences and then ask him to leave.
Jon turned the car when Sylvie pointed to a sign at the start of a long driveway. “Mountainview Ranch Campgrounds,” he read out loud. He didn’t understand. “A campground? I thought you said this was a ranch?”
“It was. And still is. When ranching bottomed out a few years ago, my father cut way back on the number of cattle and decided to diversify. A campground was one of the ideas he came up with. You know, campers wanting to experience ranch life the easy way, with motor homes and wagon rides?”
Jon peered out the side window to his left, noticing the small barn and corral that filled the center of the circular driveway. “And he’s raising exotic animals, too?”
Sylvie let out a short laugh. “Andrea’s contribution was a small petting zoo for the kids. She had to justify bringing a pot-bellied pig into their marriage. Since then, we’ve acquired a mule deer, two llamas and six foul-tempered Canada Geese who never want to fly south in the fall. But the kids love them.”
Jon touched the brakes when he spied a small group of children, who, ignoring the sign not to feed the animals, chucked handfuls of grass over the fence to the llamas.
“You can’t work this ranch alone. You’ve just retired, and now you’re expecting,” he stated the obvious.
“I have some hands. Lawrence is my biggest help, and I had three others, though one quit in the spring. They’re all expected to work both the campground and the ranch.”
“Big ranch?” In one easy sweep, he assessed the house where his nephew or niece would call home. Not a bad location. What kid wouldn’t love a ranch-cum-campground with zoo animals and wide-open spaces? He and Rick had spent their childhood in a postage-stamp-size home in middle-class Toronto.
“Not like it used to be. Only forty-two breeding cows on less than 100 acres, twenty of which are now used for camping.”
“Not much to graze on.”
“No, it isn’t. We grow some silage, but thankfully, because we’re small, we’re entitled to lease a certain portion of federal land. It works out well for us, the government land being el-shaped and connected to our land by a good trail. I used to ride out there all the time.”
“A lot of work?”
She shrugged, trying to make it appear everything was fine. She failed. And he knew it. It was a hell of a lot more work than she was making it out to be. “We manage okay. Most of the work’s in the late fall, anyway.”
Jon drove up to the main house, following Sylvie’s directions, his eyes focusing on the sprawling bungalow. The house was set apart from the campground office, which sat over to his right. He eased to a stop just as Sylvie threw open her door.
“Thanks for the ride. I feel better already.”
He snapped his attention back to her, scrambling out of the car before she could bolt into the house. “How are you going to get your car back?”
She stopped at his front bumper. “I’ll send the men in later. It’s no big deal. We make trips into town all the time.” After a pause she added, “Like I said, thanks for the lift.”
“That’s it?” Jeez, she couldn’t just expect to cut him loose. “Just thanks?” He clenched his jaw to check his rising temper. “I came here to find out what happened the night Rick died. No one will tell me. Even the death certificate didn’t say one damn thing. Just ‘death as a result of an accident.’ No one’s at liberty to say. I even had to wait to bury him, and I’ll be damned if I’m waiting any longer to find out how he died.”
Her face impassive, Sylvie stared at him while he vented his fury. He took another seething breath and added, “Put yourself in my shoes. After all of that, I find out my brother’s warrant officer is carrying his baby, and you want me to walk away with just a ‘thanks for the lift’?”
He tightened his fingers into painful fists, trying to force his body to stop shaking. When it refused, he stalked up close to Sylvie. Only when she stepped back in an attempt to retake her comfort zone, did he realize how far he was willing to push the issue.
He’d push it all the way, if he had to. He would stay here as long as it took to find out the truth. Hadn’t his chief suggested as much?
He looked down at Sylvie’s face. So clear, with features so fine and smooth it was hard to believe she’d made a career in the army. “How did my brother die? How long had you two been intimate? Was this baby planned between you two? Or did it just happen? Were you planning to marry?”
She went white. Cursing, he grabbed her arm and steered her past the wild tangle of weeds and up the crooked steps of her verandah. Damn, he should have waited before he lost his cool. But she seemed as likely to brush him off as her commanding officer had, as the escort officer had when Jon had driven up to Ottawa to meet the Hercules aircraft that had carried Rick’s remains back to Canada. That man informed him that an autopsy had been scheduled. Jon had even had to wait to bury him. To grieve properly.
At the front door he steeled himself, wondering briefly if he should push himself into her home. “Let’s get you inside. I’ll find you something to eat, all right?”
She jerked her arm back, her eyes wary yet unwilling to meet his. “I’m fine. Look, I’m sorry Rick died. I really am. Good grief, I’m carrying his baby. I wish I could, but I can’t tell you anything about his death. I signed a nondisclosure agreement, and the investigation—”
With a frown and lips that snapped shut, she stopped. He waited, silently urging her on. “That’s all I can say,” she added.
Too hurriedly, he thought.
She shook her head, finally blurting out, “Bosnia isn’t a placid little country, as much as the Bosnian government wants it to be. It’s a war zone, Jon. Soldiers die in war zones. Rick died in the line of duty. You should try to find some comfort in that.”
“Do you?”
She
