Code Name: Baby. Christina Skye

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      “You’re sleeping in a bed, understood?” Her voice was tight. “It’s the least I can do.”

      Turning, she collected the leftover bottles and bandages. When her gaze fell on the dogs, who were watching the byplay quietly, she frowned. “Do you hear that?”

      “I don’t hear anything.”

      “That’s my point. The dogs didn’t bark at you. What’s going on here?”

      Baby’s tail thumped on the floor, and Diesel gave a happy little yelp.

      Kit glared at both of them. “What kind of guard work is that, you two?”

      Baby’s tail thumped harder.

      “Something’s wrong.” Kit rounded on Wolfe. “Have you been here before? Is that why my dogs know you? There’s no way they would let a stranger in here without a fuss.”

      Wolfe cut a new piece of gauze and covered the wound loosely. The easiest thing to do now would be to brush away her memories, painting out all the unwanted details that would make her ask difficult questions. But he couldn’t make her forget. He needed to stay inside the house. That would be the best way to keep her safe while he took a closer look at her dogs.

      “What’s going on?” she demanded, standing stubbornly in front of him.

      “Just a friendly visit, like I told you. When I came in the dogs growled a little. Then they smelled my hands for a long time, but they didn’t seem upset. Maybe they could sense that I’m not hostile.”

      “Mind reading isn’t one of their skills, Wolfe. I don’t buy any of this.”

      “You must be sleepy. I’ll finish up down here and take care of the window,” he said quietly. “Go on to bed.”

      Kit shook her head. “Not until you explain.”

      “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

      “You bet we will. If I weren’t exhausted, I’d make you talk now.” She winced a little, rubbing her hip. “The dogs don’t sleep in the house.” She yawned. “They need to go outside to the kennel.”

      “I’ll take care of it.”

      She didn’t move.

      “Go on. Get some sleep, Kit.”

      “I always hated it when you gave me orders. I see you’re still doing it.” She looked away. “You’re not going to tell me why you’re really here, are you?”

      “I already told you. Trace asked me to—”

      “Skip it.” She took an irritated breath. “You know the bad part? Part of me really wants to believe you. But that’s my problem, not yours.” Her back stiffened. “The bed will be ready for you upstairs.”

      Wolfe could see the muscles tighten in her neck. “Thank you.”

      “Don’t thank me yet. Tomorrow you’d better go. It will be easier that way.” She turned away, the dogs close behind her.

      He felt as if she’d pulled all the warmth from the room when she left.

      CHAPTER SIX

      HE DIDN’T DO WINDOWS.

      He knew how all right, but it wasn’t in the job description.

      Wolfe glared down at the mess at his feet and shook his head. Apparently there was a time and a place for everything. If he didn’t clean up the glass all over the kitchen floor and replace the pane, one of the dogs could get hurt.

      He rubbed his neck, remembering that Kit’s frugal father always kept panels of uncut glass for repairs. Unless she’d changed things, they would be neatly stacked, separated by particleboard, out in the shed near the kennels.

      Ten minutes later, glass crunched beneath his feet. Baby whined, watching him from across the room while he worked.

      The dogs sniffed the broken glass, but didn’t come closer. Was that normal, Wolfe wondered? He didn’t have a clue, so he’d list it in his report, along with everything else.

      After he dug the remaining fragments out of the window frame, Wolfe ran his fingers over the inside pocket of his shirt, where the map was now carefully stowed until he could get it analyzed. Why had Emmett been carrying a diagram of the ranch, especially one that looked new?

      The simple answer was that the map stemmed from the old local belief that a treasure was buried somewhere on the O’Halloran ranch. Every few months Kit’s father used to catch someone prowling around, digging in the deserted washes near the house.

      But why a new map?

      He stopped as Kit’s phone echoed somewhere down the hall. After two rings, her answering machine clicked in, and Wolfe went back to work lining the clean window frame with putty. The dogs watched him, absorbing every move, while the moon’s silver eye rose above the mesa.

      Carefully he lifted a six-foot pane of glass over the frame and checked the placement. As a teenager he’d worked as a handyman for extra money, and one summer he’d learned the glazier’s trade. Now the techniques came back to him, putty moving smoothly under his knife. It felt good to watch something take shape beneath his hands for a change.

      Not like running surveillance out of a filthy shack in the jungles of Paraguay while you tried to track a money trail that led to Mexico or Burma or downtown Chicago.

      As he laid down the last line of putty, Wolfe saw his reflection, cool and silver against the new glass. There were deep shadows at his cheeks, and his eyes were the color of bitter coffee. He looked tough and aloof, as if he’d seen too much too fast—and he had. Those memories were carved into his face, leaving a distance that could not be crossed.

      But Kit had crossed it. He didn’t frighten her in the slightest. He thought about how she had nearly decked him, then threatened him with her rifle, and a faint half smile crept over his face. No, she wasn’t the kind of woman who ran from hard problems.

      He feathered his knife along the frame, sealing the glass with long, deft strokes. When he was finally done, he faced his own reflection once again.

      He was a hard man, trained to have the hands and mind of a killer, but there in the moon’s cool light, Wolfe was reminded that he could also be surprisingly gentle.

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      THE WAITRESS AT the Blue Coyote Truck Stop looked as if her feet hurt and she needed a smoke.

      But there was no mistaking the interest in her eyes or the way she bent over the counter to expose the front of her low-cut uniform. “Want anything else with your coffee, honey?” She put one hand on her hip. As if she learned it in the movies, Cruz thought. “Anything at all, you just tell me right out.”

      “More coffee will be fine, thanks.” The soup had been hot and filling, all he really needed. The coffee was an unthinkable luxury.

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