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“I did buy a gun.”
“But you can’t use it, right?”
“Right.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
Jessica’s stark blue eyes narrowed on her friend. “You’re not making this any easier, you know?”
Veronica shrugged. “I know, and I’m sorry. But you’re scaring the you-know-what out of me.”
“I’ve had every intention of learning, but with things in such turmoil at the office, I just haven’t had the time.”
“Learning to fire a gun is fine, but you have to alert the police. You need round-the-clock protection.”
Jessica shook her head. “I’m not prepared to go that far. I still think this too shall pass.”
“That’s just wishful thinking, and you know that.”
Jessica released another pent-up sigh, her mind seeming to splinter off in a million different directions, which made her crazy. She was used to her life running according to plan and on schedule. Suddenly her well-oiled machine had careened off course, just like it had after Porter died, making her feel out of control, a feeling that didn’t sit well with her.
Since her father’s desertion at an early age, she had ceased to be a child. With her mother’s strong, albeit bitter, influence, she had become a savvy, self-assured person who had learned to care for herself, to protect herself, especially from emotional traumas. And while she had indeed relied on Porter for many things, she had never lost that fierce sense of self and independence.
“Jessie.”
Veronica’s use of her pet name drew her out of her musings, and Jessica swallowed hard.
“You were thinking about Porter, weren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“He’s been dead four years now,” Veronica pointed out gently. “He can’t take care of you any longer.”
“He never took care of me in the sense you mean,” Jessica said, feeling she had no choice but to defend herself. “He was just always there.” Jessica stood. “Hold your thought. I’m going to dash upstairs for a sec. I’ll be right back.”
The instant she strode into her bedroom, Jessica pulled up short. She just managed to clasp her hand on her mouth to smother the gasp. A dead rose lay across her pillow. For a long moment she was too dumbstruck to move. A sick feeling settling in the pit of her stomach, she whirled and practically ran back downstairs.
“That was quick,” Veronica said, the twinkle back in her eyes, then suddenly turned sober. “What happened?”
“There’s…there’s a dead rose on my pillow.”
Without saying a word, Veronica tore toward the bedroom, then back with equal speed. “That does it. You can’t afford to mess with this sicko any longer, regardless of how he got in. The fact that someone did is all that counts.”
Jessica eased back onto the sofa, that sick feeling still churning her stomach. “You’re right. Push has come to shove.”
“So let’s start by pushing the police into action. Under the circumstances, I know you’re reluctant to do that, having clearly decided not to involve them. But now you have no choice.”
Jessica rose again. “I’ll make the call.”
A short time later two officers had come and gone, with little to show for their actions. The person or persons had left no trace, though they’d dusted for finger-prints, as well as checking for method of entry. Apparently they’d jimmied the door, which had been easy due to stupidity on her part. She’d left without setting her alarm, something she’d often done in the past with no consequences. This time it had been costly.
“The pervert could be any guy off the street,” Veronica said. “Or it could be a direct result of you cleaning house at the precinct. Someone with a grudge.”
Jessica reached for her coffee and took a sip, only to make a face. The coffee was now tepid. “Possibly, though I have my doubts,” she pointed out. “I think it’s just some crazy off the streets.”
“I wish I could be that sure. What about that land deal that’s been making headlines lately?”
“There’s nothing there to incite an attack.”
“Something has and you…we have to get to the bottom of it ASAP. Thurmon will know what to do.”
Thurmon was Veronica’s husband, a retired Secret Service agent, now in business for himself as the owner of a highly successful security firm.
“You’re thinking of a bodyguard, right?”
“Absolutely, and I know who Thurmon will suggest.”
“Just who might that be?” Jessica asked in a tone tainted with sarcasm. Having someone underfoot all the time didn’t bear thinking about. This entire scenario seemed too preposterous for words.
“Brant Harding, an old friend, who worked with Thurmon in the Secret Service. However, convincing Brant to take the job will be difficult.”
“Then why bother?”
“Because he’s the best, even better than Thurmon. But he’s become a recluse for reasons we won’t go into now. Still, there’s hope, because he owes Thurmon big time—his life actually. We also have another thing in our favor. His teenage son, from whom he’s estranged, lives in this area. Since Brant wants to mend fences, I’m thinking that will be our ace in the hole.”
Jessica crossed her arms over her breasts. “I don’t know, Veronica. That —he— doesn’t sound like a good idea to me.”
“You let Thurmon be the judge of that. You just sit tight while I call my better half.”
Jessica kept silent while her insides continued to churn and her thoughts reverted to that lifeless rose on the pillow. She shuddered and crossed her arms tighter.
Two
Too bad the fishing was lousy.
Today of all days. When he needed to unwind.
Brant Harding reeled in his line, then peered at the lake, noticing again how perfect the water was. Blue and spring clear, so clear he could see the colors in the polished rocks underneath. Still, he couldn’t get a bite no matter what kind of bait, live or artificial, he used.
Letting out a sigh, Brant shoved his battered Stetson back and squinted up at the sun. Maybe it was too hot. Even though it was just the beginning of May, the sun had already sprouted a mean stinger.
A hot spring and summer were predicted for Arkansas and the rest of the South. So what if that messed up the fishing? He would get over it in due time, he told himself, shaping his mouth into a sarcastic twist. If only that were all he had to worry about, he’d be one lucky bastard. Only it wasn’t, not by any stretch of the imagination.
Wary of where his thoughts were heading, Brant gathered his gear and made tracks for the cabin at the top of the hill that overlooked the hundred acres he’d inherited when his parents had died several years ago, killed instantly in a head-on car collision.
He’d built this place himself and knew he’d made the right decision. He’d chosen the best site on the choice land, opting for an umbrella of tall pines and oaks. He called it a cabin, but it was hardly that, though it was rustic and uncluttered. Still, it had all the amenities he or anyone else could want.
Except a woman.
Not interested.
Brant’s gut tightened, and his lean, well-chiseled features hardened. Definitely not in the market. Those days were over. He’d been down the marriage road once, and that was enough to last him a lifetime. What he needed was another dog, he told himself as he walked into the cool, airy great room and tossed his hat on the back of a chair.
The interior reflected a relaxed atmosphere. Deep, rich colors, natural wood finishes and comfortable furnishings created a warm feeling.
However, something was missing. Butch, the old hound that had been with him for years, had died. Until then, he hadn’t felt lonely in his isolated domain. Now he did, which didn’t sit too well with him. He was here by choice not by chance. Hounds were a dime a dozen at the local pound in the nearest town, Mountain Home. Next time he went in for groceries and other supplies, he would see what he could do.
Meanwhile, he had a much more pressing and important issue to resolve—what to do about his son, Elliot. Feeling the urge for a cold beer, Brant made his way into the kitchen, an offshoot of the great room, and opened the fridge.
After downing several swigs, he peered at the clock. Five. No problem. Since his isolation, he’d made it a point not to indulge himself before late in the afternoon and then only sparingly. It would be so easy to drown his troubles in booze, but he wasn’t about to fall into that trap. He’d seen too many of the guys he’d worked with do that to no good end.
Yet it felt damn good to feel the edge dull somewhat after having gone another round earlier with his ex-wife, leaving him furious and frustrated. She seemed determined to throw monkey wrenches into his plans to see his seventeen-year-old son.
Once he’d plopped down on the sofa and crossed his legs on the coffee table, Brant finished the beer, then set the bottle down. He needed a shower, but he wasn’t in the mood, not when his thoughts were cluttered with his ex.
Marsha Harding Bishop knew just which strings to jerk to get him riled, especially when it came to money and their kid. Since she’d finally married the man with whom she’d had an affair and who had become more of a father to Elliot than he himself had ever been, the money issue had resolved itself. Preston Bishop owned an accounting firm and made big bucks.
More power to him.
Brant couldn’t give a rip about the money. He had plenty of his own, mostly inherited from his parents, but what the hell—money was money. He didn’t need much of the green stuff, anyway, not to live the way he lived. Most of it was in trust for his son, and Marsha knew that. Yet it hadn’t made one whit of difference in her attitude toward him.
When he’d called and asked to speak to Elliot, she hadn’t had to say a word for him to sense her hostile attitude. He’d envisioned her otherwise attractive features tightening and her slender shoulders stiffening.
“He’s not here.”
“Are you sure?”
That comment had turned the hostility in her voice to ice. “I don’t lie, contrary to what you think.”
“Come on, Marsha, who do you think you’re talking to? You’ve lied, all right, but that’s water under the bridge. I’m through arguing with you. Right now, all I care about is talking to my son.”
“I told you, he’s not here.”
Brant controlled his rising temper with an effort. “Will you give him a message?”
Silence.
“Dammit, Marsha, when are you going to stop using Elliot as a weapon to get back at me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said, the ice in her voice thickening.
Again, Brant controlled his temper and words. He was treading in a current he couldn’t master, at least not over the phone. He hated the damn things, anyway. He would much rather be looking her in the face when he talked to her. Maybe then she could see the sincerity laced with the desperation in his eyes.
At the moment, however, he had no recourse but to back down. “Forget it. I’ll call him back later.”
“Was there anything in particular you wanted?”
“Yeah,” he said in a clipped tone. “I want to see him.”
“I don’t—”
“You might as well stop fighting me, Marsha. I’ve made up my mind that Elliot’s going to be a part of my life.”
“We’ll see about that,” she countered before the dial tone abused his ear.
Releasing his pent-up temper, Brant followed suit and slammed the receiver down.
Just thinking about that conversation made his blood boil again. Damn her. Cool it, buddy, he cautioned himself, taking deep breaths. He couldn’t totally blame her for the quagmire he was in with his only child. He’d gotten himself into it, and it was up to him to get out.
Trouble was, he didn’t know how. He needed Marsha’s help and cooperation. But apparently he was never going to get it, which meant he would have to depend on himself.
Feeling as if his insides were in a meat grinder, Brant walked onto the deck and, leaning the bulk of his weight on the handrails, stared at the lake and wooded hills beyond. The sun was beginning to set, and the picture before him was awesome. But this evening, the beauty and calmness of his sanctuary failed to soothe his seething mind and heart.
Would he be forced to pay for his sins forever?
Maybe coming here had been a mistake. Maybe he should’ve headed to Texas, to the Metroplex area, right off. By now he might have established a new relationship with his son instead of awkward phone conversations in between playing telephone tag.
He’d been forced into early retirement due to gunshot wounds he’d received during his long tenure as a Secret Service agent. It was while he’d been protecting the First Lady three years ago that the life-altering incident had occurred. He’d taken a bullet in the stomach and another in the right leg. Both wounds had been severe, and he’d nearly died, especially from the gut shot.
Since then, he’d become more or less a recluse, trying to recover in mind and body. But instead of healing, he found himself often lonely and discontented. Both stemmed from the burning need to bridge the growing estrangement from his son. For his own sanity, he had to find a way to become a part of Elliot’s life again. A sad commentary was that he hadn’t ever been the hands-on dad he should have been. Marsha’s beef against him on that score was right on target.
Facing that brutal truth had been the first big hurdle he’d had to jump. Admitting he was wrong came hard for him. Since he’d come here, he’d realized where he’d gone wrong, especially when it came to Elliot.
Following his divorce from Marsha eight years ago, the breach between him and Elliot had widened. At age forty-two he had no plans to remarry and add to his family, so the need to regain his son’s love and trust had become a frantic effort of the soul.
Now he feared he might have to venture away from his safe compound and uncomplicated way of life. He was reluctant to make such a bold move, since his mind still had a long way to go before recovering from the trauma it had suffered.
Yet he couldn’t rule that out, though the thought made him break out in a cold sweat. He no longer sought people out for their company. He craved the space and solitude of the mountains. The thought of returning to city life with all its hustle and bustle was repugnant to him. He had to figure out a way to get Elliot here, to the cabin, for a lengthy visit.
Now that he could maneuver without a cane, he would just have to come up with a workable plan.
“What the hell?” he muttered suddenly, as the noise coming from behind finally penetrated his beleaguered senses. On striding back into the living room, he realized someone was pounding on the front door. For some reason it was locked. When had he done that?
“Hold your horses,” he muttered, wondering who the hell his unwanted visitor was. He had neighbors, but they weren’t close ones and rarely came calling. A chill shot through him. Had something happened to Elliot? Of course not, he rationalized. If it had, he would be the last to know.
By the time he reached the door and jerked it open, sweat saturated his forehead and upper lip.
“Knocked your dick in the dirt, didn’t I, old friend?”
Brant’s only response to his long-time friend Thurmon Nash’s caustic comment was shocked silence.
Thurmon grinned, slapped him on the shoulder, then strode past him into the living room. There he whirled, his grin gaining strength by the second. He was tall and slightly overweight, with a bushy mustache that added to his strong features. His prematurely gray hair and blue eyes enhanced his commanding presence. Shrewd intelligence made him a friend and businessman for whom Brant had the greatest respect.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Brant demanded when he finally found his voice.
“How ’bout a cold one before we get down to the nitty gritty?”
Wordlessly Brant headed for the kitchen and returned with two beers. He handed one to Thurmon, who then made himself comfortable in the nearest leather chair.
