Free Twice A Target (Task Force Eagle) by Susan Vaughan Page B

photographer could afford to
hang out indefinitely in the mountains of Colorado? She remarked in an offhand
way the other day that she’d talked to her agent. That made sense, but she was
hiding something. Made him want to protect her, dammit.
    For a man who’d left official inquiries behind with
the DEA, he was up to his hat band in two unofficial ones. Sorting out Maddy’s
mysteries was creeping up a close second to solving Rob’s murder. Tough part in
the meantime was dousing his hots for her.
    He worked his jaw to loosen the cramping muscle there.
Then he started on the next chore of making sure the penned-up animals had
plenty of hay and water before he headed inside to clean the stalls.
     
    *****
     
    “Here you go, Bobby. It’s all right, love.” Maddy
stopped his squalling with the bottle. She sighed with the return of peace and
strolled to the nursery window with the infant in her arms. Bobby guzzled his meal
noisily, his chubby fingers curled into fists.
    Caring for him gave her joy, and she amused herself by
snapping pictures with her Nikon—frames of him, of Bronc mending fence, of the
wobbly calves, of the surrounding mountains, of the lonely family graves,
everything. What she wouldn’t give for a darkroom.
    The days passed easily enough, but it was false
security.
    When Bobby finished the bottle, she walked to the
kitchen with him at her shoulder. She patted his back to coax a burp from his
tummy. “Attaboy. You like that stuff now, don’t you, pumpkin?”
    She cuddled him, absorbing his sweet scent, then
bundled him into a blue footed romper and a quilted red jacket with a matching
cap. Her denim jacket over her favorite Guatemalan shirt and she was ready.
Carrying Bobby in his infant seat, she strolled out to the barn.
    “I’ll bet the stalls need cleaning. Do you think the
horses need fresh hay? Maybe some oats?”
    His fist in his mouth, Bobby replied, “B-b-brt.” He
waved his chubby hands as if cheering her on.
    Once inside, the massive barn intoxicated her. In the
low light of the bare overhead bulbs, the old wood of the stalls and posts
gleamed like a sorrel cow pony’s coat. The crisp, cold air wrinkled her nose.
Tangy scents of horses, grain, and leather threaded the air.
    On the roof old shingles sagged like molting feathers,
but inside new boards stood out among the old. New slats on the stalls. A new
beam. In his eagerness to pretty up the house, Rob had let more important
things go, so Holt had to pay for the neglect. That explained the lack of funds
to hire a real nanny.
    “Eau de manure. No one has touched those stalls this
morning.” She set the infant seat securely on two bales. Hay crunched beneath
her boots as she tucked a yellow blanket around Bobby’s feet. “You like me
talking to you this way, don’t you, pumpkin? Unless Espie’s here, you’re the
only one I have to discuss things with. Your uncle Holt sure avoids my company
like I’m contagious.”
    Bobby’s bright blue eyes followed her smallest
movement with apparent fascination. “Ga-ah,” he said in rebuke of his uncle.
    She couldn’t stay much longer, but she couldn’t leave
without transportation. And Bobby needed her. She gazed out the barn door at
the distant solid presence of Pikes Peak, its bare crest the only gray eminence
she could consult. “I wish you could tell me what to do.”
    Like tell Holt about her real reasons for staying so
long. Keeping her secrets made sense at first, but ten days later, disclosure
seemed awkward and deceptive. And Holt had too much to deal with. Helping him
solve Rob’s murder was the least she could do until her next contract forced
her to leave.
    Leave Holt. And Bobby.
    A stony ache gripped her. What about her tenuous
relationship with Holt? For days he’d avoided her even more than before. Their
awkward midnight encounter had scared him off. Her too. If she and Holt gave in
to the heat sizzling between them, he would feel like a traitor and hate
himself.