word seemed to hit her like a blast. “The explosion wasn’t an accident?”
Kyle shook his head.
“I didn’t know,” she murmured. “I thought maybe it was a leak in a natural-gas line…”
For several minutes she remained so still, eyes closed, he thought she’d drifted back to sleep. He started to rise from the side of the bed, but she gripped his hand and opened her eyes. He could see her fighting against confusion and the effects of the drugs she’d been given.
“My father was murdered.”
She’d stated a fact, not asked a question, so Kyle said nothing.
“Did the secretary identify the policeman who told them to stay?” she asked.
“Haskel’s secretary, your father and a policeman doing a final sweep to clear the building were the only fatalities.”
This time she’d didn’t contradict him about her father. She was either in shock or finally coming to grips with his death.
She raised her face and fixed her tear-filled, periwinkle-blue gaze on him. “Why…how could the governor survive and not Daddy?”
Another good question. Even in the depths of grief and the haze of tranquilizers, she exhibited a remarkable grasp of what was important.
“According to the governor’s account,” Kyle explained, “he was leaning down to remove something from the bottom drawer of his desk when the blast occurred. The massive piece of mahogany furniture between him and the direction of the blast absorbed most of the impact.”
Tears overflowed her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. Her full bottom lip quivered. “And Daddy was on the other side of the desk.”
“I’m sorry.”
She swiped away the tears with the back of her hand. “Thank you for telling me. I had to know, no matter how awful…”
He marveled at her poise. Even under the most horrific circumstances, she was thoughtful and kind, considerate of others in spite of her grief. If, as she’d said, Josiah Quinlan had raised her on his own, the man had done a damn good job.
He thought of Molly, abandoned by her mother, with only Kyle to take care of her. Molly would be counting on him for everything. He hoped he could do half as good a job as Josiah had with his daughter.
Laura turned her head on the pillow toward the table where he’d emptied his hands when he’d entered the room. Following her gaze, he picked up the bouquet of pink roses he’d left there. “I’ll have the nurse put these in some water.”
“Thank you.” A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips. “And the science fiction video game?”
“For Jeremy. He’s in the pediatric wing on the next floor. I thought I’d check on him before heading back to the ranch.”
“You are a remarkable man, Kyle.”
Embarrassed by her praise, he shook his head.
“Please, one more question?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Why am I here? I don’t have any injuries, do I?”
“No physical injuries, but you’ve suffered severe emotional trauma. They’re just keeping you for observation.” He didn’t add how Daniel Austin had pulled strings to have her admitted, to make sure she had someone to watch out for her until C.J. arrived. Laura had no relatives, and Daniel had made certain she wasn’t left alone to deal with her father’s death. “You’ll be released in the morning, and C.J. can take you home.”
He heard footsteps and glanced into the hallway to see Frank and C.J. waiting outside the door. “I have to go.”
Laura still reminded him of an angel—a grief-stricken angel. “You’ve been very kind,” she said.
This time he couldn’t resist the impulse to touch her. He cupped the side of her face in his hand. “Get some sleep.”
He wished he could assure her that everything would be all right in the morning, but he couldn’t. With her father dead, it would be a long time before things would feel all right again for Laura Quinlan.
She leaned against his hand and closed her eyes. He waited, cradling her face until he was certain she’d fallen asleep. Then he slipped quietly from the room.
Motioning to Frank and C.J., he led them to the visitors’ lounge at the end of the corridor, thinking as he always did when he saw them together what a handsome couple they made, Frank with his dark hair and military bearing and C.J. with her honey-blond hair and curvaceous figure—and both with minds as sharp as steel traps.
“How is she?” C.J. asked in her clipped British accent.
“Taking it hard, but she’s sleeping now.” Kyle glanced at Frank and noted the tension in his expression. “What’s happened?”
Frank, his exhaustion showing, ran his hand over his short, military-cut hair. “There was a break-in at the Quinlan Research Institute this afternoon.”
“And?” Kyle asked, sensing the worst.
C.J.’s light-brown eyes telegraphed her anxiety. “Someone’s stolen enough D-5 to poison every city water system in Montana.”
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