Enemy Infiltration. Carol Ericson
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Название: Enemy Infiltration
Автор: Carol Ericson
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
isbn: 9781474094474
isbn:
The thought of a husband lurking beyond the gate up ahead socked him in the gut, but he brushed it aside. If Lana Moreno had a husband, she wouldn’t be running around on her own trying to get closure on Gil. And if she had a husband and he allowed her to do this on her own, the guy didn’t deserve her.
As Lana’s truck approached the main gate to the ranch, Logan threw his car into Park and jumped out. He jogged to the gate, unhitched it and swung it wide.
Lana waved as she drove through and then waited for him while he followed with his car. He pulled up behind her, left his car idling, closed the gate and slid back into his rental.
He kept after her as she wound up the road past a horse riding ring and a pasture. Her truck rattled past the big house that had a later-model truck than hers and a minivan parked in the front.
He didn’t take her for a minivan type, anyway. She kept driving toward a stand of trees and then curved around them, pulling alongside a much-smaller house than the one in front and hidden from the view of the road.
He left his rental car several feet behind her truck. When he got out, she was halfway to the porch.
“I think it’s here.” Her boots clattered on the wooden steps of the front porch.
By the time he joined her, she’d sunk beside a box by the front door and had slid a knife along the taped seam.
As she made a grab for one loose flap, he said, “Let me get it inside for you first.”
She scrambled to her feet, as he wrapped his arms around the box and hoisted it against his chest. With hands that could barely hold on to her key chain, she fumbled at the lock before he heard a click and the door swung open.
She stood to the side. “Put it in the middle of the floor.”
His boots clumped against the hardwood floor as he made his way to a throw rug in the middle of the room. Crouching, he allowed the box to slip from his grasp until it settled on the floor.
Lana fell to her knees beside it, knife clutched in her hand. She ran it along the other seam and peeled back the lid. She stopped, gripping either side of the box, her eyes closed.
“Are you all right?” Logan touched her hand. “Do you want to do this on your own? I can step outside.”
Her eyelids flew open and one tear glistened on the edge of her long lashes. “It’s okay. It’s the smell, you know? It came at me all at once—his smell.”
Logan inhaled deeply. Lana smelled her brother, but another scent hit him and resonated deep in his core. “It’s the smell of war.”
Hunching over the box, she buried both of her hands inside and pulled out some clothing. She placed a stack of clothes on the floor, smoothing her hands over the shirt folded on top. She dived in again and again, withdrawing toiletries, books and personal items.
As the pile of Gil’s things grew around her, her movements grew more and more frantic until she withdrew the final item from the box—Gil’s beret.
She collapsed against the base of the couch, clutching the hat to her chest, her eyes dark slits. “They stole it. Somebody took Gil’s journal.”
Lana kicked the empty box with her foot, flipping it over. She should’ve known someone would snatch Gil’s journal. Maybe if she hadn’t blabbed to anyone who would listen about what she knew and how, Gil’s journal wouldn’t have come under any scrutiny. She’d led them right to it—and the only proof she had that the attack on the outpost wasn’t random.
“You’re sure it’s not in one of these smaller pouches?” Logan poked at Gil’s stuff with his finger, toppling one of the piles.
“I looked in each one as I pulled it out, but you’re welcome to do it again.” She folded her arms over Gil’s beret and dipped her head, the scratchy wool tickling her chin. “I messed up. I shouldn’t have mentioned that journal to anyone.”
“Maybe there’s another box on its way. Maybe the mail person delivered the second box to the house in the front. Does that ever happen?” Logan righted the empty box and placed his hands inside, as if he thought there might be a false bottom.
“The mail person doesn’t make mistakes but my stuff does have a habit of winding up at the big house.” Lana clenched her teeth at the thought of Bruce pawing through Gil’s belongings.
Logan sprang to his feet and extended his hand to her. “Do you want to ask them?”
“You’re coming with me?”
He cocked his head. “If you want me to.”
She couldn’t wait to parade Captain Logan Hess in front of Bruce, even though she couldn’t pass off Logan as anything more than a friend, not even that, really, but she’d relish the expression on Bruce’s face when he got a look at Logan and his rippling muscles. Not that she could see those muscles under his shirt—but she could imagine them and she had a wild imagination.
“Of course I want you to. You don’t want to stay here by yourself, do you?” She grabbed his hand, and he pulled her to her feet.
She dropped the beret on the couch, but didn’t drop Logan’s hand—not yet. The strength and warmth of his fingers sent a zap of courage through her body, and she sorely needed some of that right now.
This must be how it feels to have someone on your side.
He squeezed her hand. “Are you okay? That had to be rough going through your brother’s personal effects.”
“I’m all right. I’ll feel better once I get my hands on his journal.”
Logan had taken off his jacket when they’d walked into the house and he grabbed it from the back of the chair. She hadn’t bothered shedding hers but zipped it up now to meet the cold—and Bruce McGowan.
As they tromped down her driveway toward the main house, Logan said, “I’m assuming the people in the big house own this ranch.”
“They do.”
“And you do…what?”
“I train horses here. My father worked for the current owner’s father, Douglas McGowan, who kept me on after my father went to the restaurant. Douglas died just a few months after my father’s death.”
“So, you’ve been here two years on your own. You’re lucky. You must like it to have stayed on.”
A muscle twitched in her jaw, and she rubbed it away. “It’s a job and I need a job. I’m sending money to my mom in Mexico, so she can take care of abuelita.”
“You’re saying you don’t like it?”
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