Her Hero in Hiding. Rachel Lee

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      Which ordinarily would have been fine, but Kay discovered her own thoughts scared her. She didn’t want to be alone inside her own head. But how could you converse with a man who was doing a passable imitation of a brick wall?

      A native caution when dealing with men kept her silent. She didn’t want to irritate this man. From his size and strength, he could present an even bigger threat than Kevin, even though he hadn’t done a thing to indicate he might be that kind of person.

      She sipped her ginger ale, and a sigh escaped her. At once he spoke.

      “Are you all right?”

      “Just unhappy with my thoughts.”

      “I can understand.”

      Maybe he could. She dared to look at him again and found he had set the book aside.

      “I guess I should apologize,” he said finally, his tone level, his face unchanging. “I’ve been a hermit for a while. By choice. I seem to have lost the social graces.”

      “I’m not asking for social graces,” she said truthfully. “You’ve been very kind to a stranger. I don’t want to intrude more than necessary. It’s just that my thoughts keep running in circles. Unhappy circles.”

      “You’ve certainly got enough to be unhappy about.”

      It might have been a question, a suggestion or an end to the subject. From what she had seen of him so far, she guessed it was probably a signal to end the discussion. So she took another sip of ginger ale and focused her attention on the fire. She could take a hint. In fact, she was probably hyper-alert to hints, thanks to Kevin.

      But Clint surprised her by not returning to his book. “I suggest you plan to stay here for a couple of days.” The invitation sounded grudging, and she looked askance at him.

      “Why? You said you’re a hermit by choice.”

      “Maybe so, but it seems to me you need some time, some safe time, to make plans and figure out your next move. You can’t just run out of here the instant the storm ends. And I can provide the safety you need.”

      He said the last with such calm confidence that she wondered who the hell he was. Or what he had been before becoming a hermit. Not even the most sympathetic cop had ever promised her that much. No, they had been full of warnings and advice, most of which included getting as far away as possible as fast as possible.

      “Kevin,” she said finally, “is like a bomb. There’s no telling when he’ll go off, and anyone in the vicinity is probably at risk.”

      “I’ve dealt with bombs, and I’ve dealt with worse than Kevin.” A frown dragged at the corners of his mouth but didn’t quite form. “Trust me, I can keep you safe.”

      “The cops couldn’t keep me safe.”

      “They couldn’t be there round the clock,” he said flatly. “And cops don’t have my training.”

      She hesitated, then just blurted it out. “Who are you? What are you?”

      His gaze grew distant, as if he could see through the walls and well past the blizzard beyond. A shiver ran through her. “I was special ops for nearly twenty years. And I was good at it. Very good.”

      She didn’t know how to respond to that. Should she congratulate him? Admire him? But no. Something in that rigid face told a very different story. “I don’t want you to have to go back to that. To relive it.”

      At that the facade cracked, and he looked startled. Then the stone returned. “Sometimes,” he said after a moment, “you don’t have a choice.”

Chapter 3

      The night passed without further conversation. Either weariness or the concussion, or a combination of both, kept causing her to nod off. Every half hour or so, he woke her, then let her fall back to sleep.

      Then, finally, she knew it had to be morning because she awoke to the smell of frying bacon. The aroma made her mouth water, and she realized she was ravenous. When she pushed herself cautiously upright, she was delighted to realize the room no longer spun. The crazy carousel was gone.

      Her head still ached, but not as badly, and most of the pain she felt now was in her cheek and around her black eye. There were aches and pains from running in the cold, from the other blows Kevin had heaped on her, but nothing she couldn’t ignore.

      Moving carefully, pulling the legs of the sweatpants up as she walked, she made her way to the bathroom and freshened up a bit. Then, upon returning to the living room, she pulled one of the heavy curtains back and looked out on the still-raging blizzard.

      It was early yet, still dark outside, but even so, she could tell visibility probably didn’t extend much past the porch railing she could barely see, buried as it was in snowy drifts and further concealed by wildly blowing snow. Even after the storm passed, just getting out the front door would probably prove to be a challenge.

      “Good morning.”

      Startled, she almost jumped but managed to remember her unsteadiness in time. Gripping the window frame, she turned to see Clint standing in the doorway of his kitchen. “Good morning.”

      He gave a half-smile. “Glad to see you can get around. Are you hungry?”

      “That bacon smells wonderful.”

      “I thought it might. Do you want eggs and toast with it?”

      “Please. Eggs any way you like.”

      “Can do.”

      He turned and vanished back into the kitchen. “Coffee?” she heard him call.

      “Please. Black.”

      Apparently she wasn’t quite back up to snuff. Realizing she had begun to feel shaky, she made her way back to the sofa and sat. At least now she could sit upright. Last night’s ginger ale still sat on the coffee table. It had gone flat, but that didn’t keep her from drinking it down in one long draft. Heavens, she was thirsty.

      Clint returned just long enough to set a mug of steaming coffee in front of her, then vanished back into the kitchen. He’d added a couple of logs to the fire, and the flames leapt high again, making the room toasty. The fire also cast enough light that she didn’t feel any desire to turn on one of the lamps.

      It was like being in a warm, cozy cave, she thought. Surrounded by thick walls, safe from predators. But as she’d learned all too painfully, safety was an illusion, one that, in her life, rarely lasted for long.

      There was a wooden table with three chairs in one corner of the room, and it was there Clint served their breakfast. He waited for her to get there on her own, watching her as if measuring her steadiness, but not intervening. She didn’t want to admit, even to herself, how ready she was to sag into the chair by the time she got there. It wasn’t that far, but never before in her life had she felt so weak.

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