“Your-knife?” he asked, still panting and coughing.
Breathing hard, Jill nodded. She’d let go of the knife the instant Lane was free. Bouncing around in the rapids with a lethal blade wasn’t smart.
“Sharp-sucker,” Lane said. “Glad it-wasn’t any-longer.”
Jill threw back her head and laughed. Then she hugged him hard. He hugged her the same way.
Faroe watched and wished Lane was old enough for Jill. She was one of the good ones. Smart, quick, cool under pressure, strong in the best sense of the word. She reminded him in some ways of Mary, St. Kilda Consulting’s long-gun expert.
He steadied the raft while Lane and Jill levered themselves aboard. Lane sprawled in the bow, coughing occasionally, but breathing just fine.
Before Jill took up the oars again, Faroe said simply, “Thank you.”
She flashed him a smile. “Just trying to cut down on the paperwork. We hate losing clients.”
Faroe smiled back. “My boss is the same way. Where’s your waterproof ditty bag?”
Jill blinked at the change of subject. “Um, under my seat.”
He unfastened the waterproof belly pack around his waist, searched for a few seconds, and pulled out a laminated business card. “Put this in it.”
Automatically she took the card, glanced at it. A telephone number and a few words: st. kilda consulting, joe faroe. She looked at him, puzzled.
“If you ever have a problem that worries you-any problem-call that number,” Faroe said.
“Problem?”
“Stalkers, a pissed-off boyfriend, something that frightens you, no one to talk to, no money for bills. Anything, Jill. Any time. Call that number, ask for me. You’ll get help immediately.”
“Well, thank you, but…”
Faroe smiled at her confused look. “I know, you have everything under control. I used to feel the same way. Then I found out how many wicked curves life can throw. Keep the card with you always, and hope you never need it.”
LATE AFTERNOON
SEPTEMBER 3
Zachary Balfour tried not to look bored, which he was.
Or irritated.
Which he definitely was.
Nothing chapped him quite as much as a client who wanted to wear a “bodyguard” as an accessory when what she really needed was a muzzle and a rabies shot.
Not that he had any particular fondness for dodging bullets. He supposed he should be grateful this job could have been phoned in. But he wasn’t thankful to be doing no-brain work at combat rates.
Seven days with DeeDee Breitling made a bullet look good.
You owe me for this one, Faroe. Little Ms. D-cup and dirt-for-brains might be the beloved niece of a D.C. official St. Kilda Consulting wants to please, but she’s wasting my time. The only stalker she has is in her dreams.
She needs me like a snake needs stilts.
The D.C. official knew it. The client had just wanted to have a tall, dark, and safe escort for her niece while DeeDee did Hollywood.
At least the gig would pay for a few weeks of roaming the West, looking for collectible old cars forgotten in even older barns or wrecking yards. That search was both Zach’s passion and a way to keep food on the table, some of the time. The rest of the time he took contracts with St. Kilda.
But not as a nanny, for the love of God. What was Faroe thinking?
Maybe the boss was still sore about Zach cleaning him out in poker.
“Isn’t that right, darling?” DeeDee Breitling asked.
She cooed, actually, but Zach was trying not to notice. Having four older sisters had taught him way too much about females for him to fall for this lip-licking idiot’s act.
Too bad the surgeon didn’t expand her brain along with her breasts. Or sew her mouth shut.
The idea made Zach smile.
DeeDee took that as agreement. She turned to the art dealer waiting expectantly. “It’s perfect for my living room. Have it wrapped and sent to my Manhattan address.”
Zach looked at the art she’d just bought and decided it was a match made in heaven. The two tiny gray splotches on the black background at the bottom left of the canvas represented her two brain cells groping for each other in the dark. The horse’s butt outlined in gold in the upper right-hand corner of the frame needed no explanation. It represented the buyer.
At least the artist had a sense of humor, as well as a fine understanding of flow and line. Evoking an equine ass with a few spare strokes of the brush wasn’t easy. Like creating a fine haiku, it took a lot of training, work, talent, and intelligence to pull off. Painting a whole horse and making it work took all that, plus technique.
Making the horse transcend the canvas took genius.
But DeeDee only liked the kind of art that other people told her she should. The great painters of the American West didn’t have much traction in Manhattan. If you painted Paris scenes in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, it was art. If you painted Wild West scenes in America during the same time, it was called genre painting and generally ignored by East Coast museums and collectors. Thomas Moran-and lately, Frederic Remington-was the exception that proved the rule.
“Now, what about dinner?” she asked Zach.
What about it? Three leaves of lettuce and a carrot shaving doesn’t take much discussion.
“This isn’t Manhattan, of course,” she said, frowning, “but there are still some decent restaurants.”
“Sure you don’t want to try Tommy’s Burgers?” he asked hopefully. What was the point of getting close to L.A. if you didn’t eat at the original Tommy’s?
She shuddered. “No. I thought our last night in Hollywood should be special.”
Zach told himself she was making a joke. But he knew DeeDee didn’t have any sense of humor. He’d found that out within the first five minutes of his week-long assignment.
How do you owe me, Faroe? Let me count the ways.
SEPTEMBER 11
LATE AFTERNOON
Jill drove past the ruins of the ranch house and the burned skeleton of the barn. She didn’t stop. She would later, when she’d had more time to absorb the reality of her great-aunt’s death. Modesty Breck had seemed to be one of those people who just got harder and leaner, not old so much as ageless. Like the land itself, spare and unrelenting. Something you always respected yet always took for granted.
No guilt trip, Jill told herself firmly. After Mom died, the old witch barely put up with having me live in the original homestead cabin over the ridge from the ranch house.
Modesty was a woman who liked her own space. A lot of it. Solitude and hard work were her chosen gods.
She died the way she wanted to live. Alone. So lose the guilt.
Easier said than done.
Dust and grit flew beneath the little Honda SUV’s tires as the eight-year-old vehicle bounced and rattled over the rough dirt road. No one had been here since the last monsoon rains had pounded the dry land. There wasn’t any other sign of life except for the occasional coyote and rabbit tracks preserved in dried mud on the road’s low spots. Water had washed away everything else, even the tire tracks leading to the ranch house where Modesty had died.