Wyoming Cowboy Bodyguard

Chapter Two

What Daisy really wanted to do was call her brother and ask him if he’d lost his mind. Call Jaime and ask if she was sure this guy was sane. Call anyone to take her home.

But inside the wallet the man had so casually handed her was a driver’s license with the name Jaime had given her. The picture matched the man currently standing in front of the horror-movie house outside the car. There were also all sorts of security licenses and weapon certifications.

Vaughn had said this place was isolated, even more isolated than their old family cabin in the Guadalupe Mountains. But she hadn’t been able to picture how that was possible.

Oh, was it possible. Possible and horrifying.

She flipped the wallet closed and then looked at the giant, falling-apart building. If she didn’t die because a stalker was after her, she’d die because this building was going to fall in on her.

It had to be infested with rats. And probably all other manner of vermin.

She couldn’t get her body to move from the safety of this car, and still, the man whom she’d been assured would keep her safe stood outside, grinning at the dilapidated building in front of him.

He wasn’t sane. He couldn’t be. She was stuck in the middle of nowhere Wyoming with an insane person.

But Vaughn would never let that happen. So she forced herself to get out of the car and slung the duffel bag over her shoulder. She tried not to mourn that she hadn’t been able to bring her guitar. This wasn’t a musical writing escape. It was literally running for her life.

She stepped next to Zach. She still didn’t trust him, but she trusted her brother. She looked up at the building like Zach Simmons did, though not with nearly the amount of reverence he had in his expression.

“I know it looks intimidating from the outside, but that’s kind of the point.”

“The point?” Daisy asked, studying a board that hung haphazardly from a bent nail.

“From the outside, no one would guess anyone’s been here for decades.”

“Try centuries,” she muttered.

He motioned her forward and she followed him up a cracked and sunken rock pathway to the front door.

“Watch the hole,” he announced cheerfully, pointing at the gaping hole in the floorboards of the porch. He shoved a key into the front door and pushed open the creaky, uneven entry. “Even if someone started poking around, all they’d see is decay.”

Yes, that is all I see. She looked around. She had to admit that although everything appeared to be in a state of decay, there were some important things missing. She didn’t see any dust or spiderwebs. Debris, sure. Peeling wallpaper and warped floorboards, check, but it didn’t smell like she’d expected it to. There was the faint hint of paint on the air.

He led her over the uneven flooring, then pushed a key into another lock. When this door opened she actually gasped.

The room on the other side was beautiful. Clean and furnished, and though there were no windows, somehow the light he switched on bounced off the colors of the walls and filled the room enough that it didn’t feel dank and interior.

“This is the common area,” Zach said. And maybe he wasn’t totally insane. “Then over there past the sitting area is the kitchen. You’re free to use it and anything inside as much as you like. Once we ascertain that you weren’t followed on any leg of your trip, you’ll be able to venture out more freely, but for now you’ll have to stay put.”

Daisy could only nod dumbly. Was this real? Maybe she’d gone insane. A break with reality following a stressful tragedy.

He locked the door behind them, which was enough to jolt Daisy back to the reality of being in a strange ghost town with a man she didn’t know.

But he simply moved forward to a set of two doors. “Your bedroom and bathroom are through here.” He unlocked the one on the right.

“What’s that one?” she asked, pointing to the door on the left as he pushed the unlocked door open.

“That’s where I’ll stay.”

“You’ll... Right.” He’d be right next door. This stranger. Hired to protect her, and yet she didn’t know him. Even Vaughn didn’t know him, and Jaime hadn’t known him since they’d trained together in the FBI. Why were they all so trusting?

He handed her the key he’d just used to unlock the door. “This is yours. I don’t have a copy. The outside doors are always locked up in multiple places, so how and when you want to lock your room is up to you.”

She knew he was trying to set her at ease, but she could only think of a million ways he could get into the room even without a key. Or anyone could.

People could always get to you if they wanted to badly enough.

He studied her for a moment, then gestured her inside. “You can settle in. Make yourself at home however you need to. Rest, if you’d like.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“You’ve been through an ordeal. Take your time to get acquainted with the place. I’m going to do a routine double check to make sure you weren’t followed from Austin. If you need me...” He moved over to the wall, motioned her over.

Hesitantly, she stepped closer, still clutching her bag on her shoulder. He tapped a spot on the wallpaper. “See how this flower has a green bloom and a green stem instead of a blue flower like the rest?”

She nodded wearily.

He pushed on the green flower and a little panel popped out of the wall. Inside was a speaker with a button below it. “Simple speaker to speaker. You need something, you can just buzz me through here. I can either answer, or come over, depending.”

He closed the panel and it snapped shut, seamless with the wallpaper once again. How on earth had her life become some kind of...spy movie? “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”

He smiled briefly—something like pride and affection lighting up the blank, bland expression. Just a little flash of personality, and for one surprising moment all she could really think was gee, he’s hot.

“That’s what they pay me for.” Then the blankness was back and whatever had sparkled in his blue eyes was gone. Everything about him screamed cop again, or, she supposed in his case, FBI. It was all the same to her. Law and order didn’t suit her the way it had her brother, but she’d be grateful for it in the midst of her current situation.

She studied the room around her. Gleaming hardwood with pretty blue rugs here and there. Floral wallpaper and shabby-chic fixtures. The furniture looked antique—old and a little scarred but well polished. The quilt over the bed looked like it belonged in a pretty farmhouse with billowing lace curtains.

It was calming and comforting, and in a better state of mind she might even be able to ignore all the facades and locks and intercoms and the lack of windows. But she wasn’t in the state of mind to forget that Tom, who’d been paid to protect her, was dead.

“Settle in, Ms. Delaney. You’re safe here. I promise you that.”

She carefully placed her duffel bag on the shiny hardwood floor. Exhaustion made her body feel as heavy as lead, and she went ahead and lowered herself onto the bed with its pretty quilt. “I’m not safe anywhere, Mr. Simmons.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but she wasn’t in the mood, so she waved him toward the door. “But I feel safe enough to take a nice long nap, if you’ll excuse me.”

He raised an eyebrow, presumably at her regal tone and the way she waved him off, but she was too tired to care.

He moved to the door, twisted the lock on the interior knob, then closed the door behind him as he exited.

Daisy took off the wig and then let herself fall into sleep.

* * *

ZACH SPENT THE afternoon going over the information he’d been given about Daisy’s stalking, and the information he’d gathered himself in anticipation of her arrival.

The murder of her bodyguard while she’d been on stage was certainly the tipping point. The formal investigation had been lax up to that point. Except for the private one her brother had launched.

Zach appreciated the detail of Ranger Cooper’s intel, and since he knew too well the stress and helplessness of trying to keep a sibling safe, Zach was grateful for his willingness to share.

Still, there were things that had been missed—well, maybe not missed. Overlooked. Probably still not fair. One of the things that had allowed Zach to do so well in the FBI was his ability to work out patterns, to find threads and connect them in ways other people couldn’t.

The stellar way he’d handled himself as an agent prior to his brother’s involvement in a case and Zach going rogue was what had kept him from having a splashier, more painful termination from the FBI.

He shrugged away the tension in his shoulders. He hated that it still bothered him, because even if he could rewind time, he’d do most things the same.

Daisy’s doorknob turned, and she took one tentative step out. She’d finally ditched the heavy black wig, and her straight blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She’d done something to her face—it’d take him a little more time to get to know her face well enough to know exactly what. If he had to guess, though, he’d say she’d freshened her makeup.

She’d changed out of the sleek black outfit into a long baggy shirt the color of a midsummer sky and black leggings. On her feet she wore thick bright purple socks.

She’d been in there for five hours, and from the looks of it, she’d spent most of the time sleeping—unless her makeup magically fixed the pallor of her skin and the dark circles under her eyes.

“Got any food in this joint?”

He stood and walked over to the side of the common area that acted as a kitchen. “Fully stocked kitchen, which of course you’re welcome to. Tell me what you want to make and I’ll show you where everything is and how to work everything.”

“Coffee. Scratch that. Coffee hasn’t been settling lately.” She sighed, some of that weary exhaustion in her voice even if it didn’t show in her face.

“My suggestion? Hot chocolate and a doughnut.”

A smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. “That’s enough sugar to fell a horse.”

He scoffed. “Amateur hour.”

She sighed. “It sounds good. I guess if I’m stuck with a crazed psychopath ready to kill those who protect me, I shouldn’t worry about a few extra calories.”

“I think you’ll live.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’ve never read the comments on photos of women online, have you? Still.” She waved a hand to encompass the kitchen. “Lead the way.”

“You sit. I’ll make it. We’ll go over where everything is in the kitchen tomorrow. You get a pass today.”

“Gee, thanks.” But she didn’t argue. She sat and poked at his stacks of notes. “That’s a lot of paperwork for keeping me out of trouble.”

“Investigating things takes some paperwork,” he returned, collecting ingredients for hot chocolate.

“I thought you were just supposed to keep me safe while Vaughn and the police figured it all out.”

He slid the mug into the microwave hidden in a cabinet and put a doughnut onto a plate. “I could, but that’s not what CD Corp is all about.”

“CD Corp sounds like the lamest comic villain organization ever.”

“It’s meant to be bland, boring and inconspicuous.” He walked over and set the plate in front of her.

She smiled up at him. “Mission accomplished.”

“And this mission,” he said, tapping the papers, “is keeping you safe by understanding the threat against you.” Not noticing the little dimple that winked in her cheek or the way her blue eyes reminded him of summer. “Anything I can do to profile or find a pattern allows me to better keep you secure.”

“Can I help?”

He turned away, back to hot chocolate prep and to shake off that weird and unfortunate bolt of attraction. Still, his voice was easy and bland when he spoke. “I’m counting on it.” He stirred the hot chocolate and then set that next to her before taking his seat in front of his computer.

“Have you noticed the pattern of incidents?” he asked, studying her reaction to the question.

With a nap under her belt, she didn’t seem as cold and detached as she had on the ride over. But she also didn’t seem as ready to break as she had when he’d shown her her room hours ago. As they’d walked through the safe house earlier, he’d finally seen some signs of exhaustion, suspicion and fear.

Now all those things were still evident, but she seemed to have better control over them. He supposed singers, being performers, had to have a little actor in them, as well. She was good at it, but it had frayed at the edges when he’d told her she was safe.

She’d shored up those edges, but there was a wariness and an exhaustion, not sleep related, haunting her eyes.

“The pattern that they always happen when I’m on stage? Yes, my brother pointed that out, but as I pointed out to him, that’s just means and opportunity or whatever phrase you guys use. They know exactly where I’ll be and for how long.”

“Sure, but I’m talking about the connection to your songs.”

She frowned, taking a sip of the hot chocolate.

“The incidents, including the murder of your security guard, always crop up in the few weeks after one of your singles drops on the radio. Not all of them, but I compiled a list of titles.”

“Let me guess. The drinking, cheating and swearing songs?”

“No. There’s not a thematic connection that I can find.” Though he’d look, and would keep considering that angle. “But the connection right now seems to be that things escalate when the songs you wrote yourself do well.”

She put down the doughnut she’d lifted to her lips without taking a bite. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Not yet. I figure if we pull on it, it will.”

“How did you...”

He shrugged. “I’m good with patterns.”

“Good with or genius with?”

He smiled at her, couldn’t help it. He’d been trained as an undercover FBI agent. Took on whatever role he had to. He’d learned to hide himself underneath a million masks, but his personal attachment to this job and the safe world he’d created made it hard to do here. “Hate to bandy a word like genius around.”

She laughed and for a brief second her eyes lit with humor instead of worry. He wanted to be able to give that to her permanently, so she could laugh and relax and feel safe here.

Because that was his job, his duty, what he was good at. Completely irrelevant to the specific woman he was helping.

He looked down at his computer, frowning at the uncomfortable and unreasonable pull of emotion inside him. Emotions were what had gotten him booted from the FBI in the first place. He didn’t regret it—couldn’t—but it was a dangerous line to walk when your emotions got involved.

“So, I think we can rule out crazed fan. It’s more personal than that.”

“Fans create a personal connection to you, though. They think they know you through your music—whether it was written by me or someone else doesn’t matter to them.”

“It matters to someone,” Zach returned. “Or the incidents wouldn’t align so perfectly with the songs you wrote.”

She pushed out of her chair, doughnut untouched, only a few sips of the hot chocolate taken. She paced. He waited. When she seemed to accept he wasn’t going to say anything, she whirled toward him.

“Look, I don’t know how to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Hide and cower and...” She gave the chair she’d popped out of a violent shove, then raked shaking hands through her hair. “A good man is dead because of me. I can’t stand it.”

The naked emotion, brief though it was, hit him a little hard, so he kept his tone brusque. “A good man is dead because good men die in the pursuit of doing good and because there are forces and people out there who aren’t so good. Guilt’s normal, but you’ll need to work it out.”

“Oh, will I?”

“I’d recommend therapy, once this is sorted.”

“Therapy,” she echoed, like he was speaking a foreign language.

“Stalking is basically a personal form of terrorism. You don’t generally get through it unscathed. Right now the concern is your physical safety, but when it’s over you can’t overlook your emotional well-being.”

“You spend a lot of time evaluating your emotional well-being, Zach?”

“Believe it or not, they don’t let you in or out of the FBI without a psych eval. Same goes for in and out of undercover work—and a few of those messed me up enough to require some therapy. Talking to someone doesn’t scare me, and it shouldn’t scare you.”

“That hardly scares me.”

But the way she scoffed, he wasn’t so sure. Still, it was none of his business. Her recovery was not part of keeping her safe, and the latter was all he was supposed to care about.

“Let’s talk about the people on this list,” Zach said, pushing the computer screen toward her. On the screen was a list of people she’d told her brother she thought might want to hurt her.

Daisy rubbed her temples. “Vaughn gave you this?”

He rose, retrieved some aspirin from the cabinet above the sink and set it next to her elbow. “Your brother gave me copies of everything pertaining to the stalking.”

Daisy frowned at the aspirin bottle, then up at him. “Am I supposed to tip you?”

“Full service security and investigation, Ms. Delaney. Speaking of that, Delaney’s a stage name, isn’t it?”

“What? You don’t have a full dossier on my real name and everything else?” She smirked at him.

He shook his head. The Delaney connection wasn’t important. As unimportant as the way that smirk made his gut tighten with a desire he would never, ever act on.

What was important was her take on the list and what kind of patterns and conclusions he could draw. So he turned the conversation back to the case and made sure it stayed there.

Chapter Three

Sleep was a welcome relief from worry, except when the dreams came. They didn’t always make sense, but Tom’s lifeless body always appeared.

Even hiking up the mountains at sunset. It was peaceful, and Zach was with her, smiling. She liked his smile, and she liked the riot of sunset colors in the sky. She wanted to write a song, itched to.

Suddenly, she had a notebook and a pen, but when she started to write it became a picture of Tom, and then she tripped and it was Tom’s body. She reached out for Zach’s help, but it was only Tom’s lifeless eyes staring back from Zach’s face.

She didn’t know whether she was screaming or crying, maybe it was both, and then she fell with a jolt. Her eyes flew open, face wet and breath coming so fast it hurt her lungs.

Somehow, she knew Zach was standing there. It didn’t even give her a start. It seemed right and steadying that he was standing in her doorway in nothing but a pair of sweatpants, a dim glow from the room behind him.

Later, she’d give some considerable thought to just how cut Zach was, all strong arms and abs. Something else he hid quite well, and she was sure quite purposefully.

“You screamed and you didn’t lock your door,” he offered, slowly lowering the gun to his side. He looked up at the ceiling, and gestured toward her. “You might want to...”

He trailed off and in her jumble of emotions and dream confusion, it took her a good minute to realize the strap of her tank top had fallen off her arm and she was all but flashing him.

She wasn’t embarrassed so much as tired. Bone-deep tired of how this whole thing was ruining her life. “Sorry,” she grumbled, fixing the shirt and pulling the sheet up around her.

“No. That’s not...” He cleared his throat. “You should lock that door.”

She wished she could find amusement in his obvious discomfort over being flashed a little breast, but she was too tired. “Lock the door to shield myself from lunatics with guns?” she asked, nodding at the pistol he carried.

“To take precautions,” he said firmly.

“Are you telling me if I’d screamed and the door had been locked you wouldn’t have busted in here, guns blazing?”

“They were hardly blazing,” he returned, ignoring the question.

But she knew the answer. She might not know or understand Zach Simmons, but he had that same thing her brother did. A dedication to whatever he saw as his mission.

Currently, she was Zach Simmons’s mission. She wished it gave her any comfort, but with Tom’s dead face flashing in her mind, she didn’t think anything could.

“You want a drink?” he asked, and despite that bland tone he used with such effectiveness, the offer was kind.

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

He nodded. “I’ll see what I can scrounge up. You can meet me out there.”

She took that as a clear hint to put on some decent clothes. On a sigh, she got out of bed and rifled through her duffel bag. She pulled out her big, fluffy robe in bright yellow. It made her feel a little like Big Bird, which always made her smile.

Tonight was an exception, but it at least gave her something sunny to hold on to as she stepped out of the room. Zach was pouring whiskey into a shot glass. He’d pulled on a T-shirt, but it wasn’t the kind of shirt he’d worn yesterday that hid all that surprisingly solid muscle. No, it fit him well, and allowed her another bolt of surprisingly intense attraction.

He set the shot glass on the table and gestured her into the seat. She slid into it, staring at the amber liquid somewhat dubiously. “Thanks.” But she didn’t shoot it. She just stared at it. “Got anything to put it in? I may love a song about shooting whiskey, but honestly shots make me gag.”

His mouth quirked, but he nodded, pulling a can of pop out of the fridge.

“No diet?”

“I’ll put it on the grocery list.”

“And where does one get groceries in the middle of nowhere Wyoming?”

“Believe it or not, even Wyomingites need to eat. I’ve got an assistant who’ll take care of errands. If you make a list, we’ll supply.”

She sipped the drink he put in front of her. The mix of sugar and whiskey was a comforting familiarity in the midst of all this...upheaval.

“You don’t shoot whiskey.”

She quirked a smile at him. “Not all my songs are autobiographical, friend. Truth be told, I’d prefer a beer, but it doesn’t give you quite the same buzz, does it?”

“No, but I’d think more things would rhyme with beer than whiskey.”

“Songs also don’t have to rhyme. Fancy yourself a country music expert? Or just a Daisy Delaney expert?”

“No expertise claimed. I studied up on your work, not that I hadn’t heard it before. Some of your songs make a decent showing on the radio.”

“Decent. Don’t get that Jordan Jones airtime, but who does? Certainly no one with breasts.” This time she didn’t sip. She took a good, long pull. Silly thing to be peeved about Jordan’s career taking off while hers seemed to level. Bigger things at hand. Nightmares, dead bodyguards, empty Wyoming towns.

“The police don’t suspect him.”

She took another long drink. “No, they don’t.”

“Do you?”

She stared at the bubbles popping at the surface of her soda. Did she think the man she’d married with vows of faith and love and certainty was now stalking her? That he killed the person in charge of keeping her safe?

“I don’t want to.”

“But you think he could be responsible?” Zach pressed. Clearly, he didn’t care if he was pressing on an open, gaping wound.

“I doubt it. But I wouldn’t put it past one of his people. After I filed for divorce they did a number on me. Fake stories about cheating and drinking and unstable behavior, and before you point it out, no, my songs did not help me in that regard. Funny how my daddy was revered for those types of songs, even when he left Mama high and dry, but me? I’m a crazy floozy who deserves what she gets.”