His Touch. Mary Baxter Lynn

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СКАЧАТЬ 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, СКАЧАТЬ