Keeping Her Safe. Barbara Phinney
could get claustrophobic if he didn’t have experience dealing with small spaces.
Before the evening air could chill the room, Hunter shut the door. To his left, under the window, stood a small fridge and a two-burner propane cooktop, with a tiny sink and cupboard. Between all that and the bathroom was a chest of drawers. On top sat a small television.
He opened the tiny fridge to set the food inside, and spied a thick T-bone steak through the plastic door to the freezer. Catching sight of his name, he grabbed the note taped to it.
Hunter, welcome home. Take care of Rae. Remember what we talked about. Don’t let them trick her.
The note was signed “R.B.”
Hunter sank onto the bed. If Benton had collapsed at the doctor’s office the day he’d visited Hunter in prison, he must have bought this before, hoping to explain everything on the way home.
Too late now. The flimsy clues penned here weren’t much help. What were the threats? Who were the people hoping to trick Rae?
Still frowning, Hunter looked around. This small room had been built for him, and having been backed into a corner by her father’s will, Rae had let him use it.
With gritted teeth, he unpacked the few things he owned. Then, with a silent prayer of thanks, he grabbed the steak, plus a pan he found in the cupboard, and fired up the stovetop.
He didn’t remember ever eating a decent steak like this one. While it cooked, he reached for a date square, thankful that Rae had noticed he was hungry. But it just hadn’t seemed right to eat the food delivered to her by well-meaning mourners.
Still, the snacks and the steak were long gone by the time he crashed on the bed.
He was still asleep, Rae noted. He hadn’t heard her soft knock, or the door open when she twisted the knob a minute later. The draft of cool morning air that rolled in hadn’t disturbed him, either.
“Hunter!” she whispered as she peeked in.
The guy slept like the dead. Rae didn’t want to step into the small room, but they had work to do. A quick glance around showed he’d settled it. Her father had taken her grandmother’s quilt for the bed, plus warm fleece sheets. Her inspection returned to Hunter’s face. This was his first full day of freedom. She shouldn’t deny him one sleep-in.
With a feeling of guilt, she noted the small garbage can holding the remains of a steak and its wrapper and tray.
Plus a note with Hunter’s name on it, in her father’s handwriting, though the words were smeared.
Dad had bought Hunter a steak? They could barely afford groceries right now, and her father had purchased a top quality, twenty-dollar steak?
Irritation rolled over her. Here she’d risen early, eaten leftovers and prepared for a day that would begin her healing and earn some much-needed money, while Hunter, full of steak, slept in….
Louder than before, she called his name for a third time.
When he still didn’t move, she knew something was dangerously wrong.
FOUR
“Hunter!”
His eyes shot open. “What’s wrong?”
Rae blew out a sigh. “I couldn’t wake you. It’s time to get up. We have work to do.”
He closed his eyes, looking pained. “In a minute.”
Sympathy washed over her as he lay there. He wasn’t sick. He was just tired, something she felt herself.
Embarrassed by the sudden intimacy, she backed away, bumping into the door.
He opened his eyes again, giving her a full measure of the cobalt blue of his irises. “Wait! What’s that scent you wear? You had it on yesterday.”
She hesitated, surprised by his question. “There’s no point wearing perfume when I spend all day in a workshop. It’s just a lotion.”
“What’s it scented with?”
“Roses.” She shrugged self-consciously. “I…I like it.”
“I can see why. It’s soft. A good choice for you.”
She cleared her throat. This conversation was becoming a little too personal. She reached behind her to grab the knob of the still-open door. “Why do you ask?”
The pained frown returned. “I once knew someone who wore a scent like that.”
“Your mother?”
“Hardly. She smelled like cigarette smoke. No, it was my first foster mother.”
“First?” Rae knew Hunter had spent time in a foster home, but more than one? “Why didn’t you stay with her?”
“She and her husband were killed in a domestic dispute with another foster kid’s parents.” He shifted, as if hoping to terminate the conversation.
Rae bit her lip. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave you to get up, then. Meet me in the workshop.” She made a hasty exit, finding herself pulling the cool morning air into her lungs as she headed into the shop. Then she straightened. Her father had bought Hunter a steak. He’d built that annex with him in mind, even written him a welcome note, hoping Hunter would help him find a threat, as if only he could do that. Why?
For that matter, why had Dad given him half of the estate? As incentive for him to stay? Walking toward her desk, Rae thrust aside her questions. She didn’t have the time or the energy to waste on them. Dad was gone—oh, how it hurt to admit that—and she had things to do. She sat down and stared at the paperwork in front of her.
Then she remembered the call she’d made early this morning. Dad’s insurance broker had been kind enough to squeeze her in today at noon, promising he’d have everything ready for her. She’d settle the life insurance policy and hopefully, in a few days, be able to offer Hunter a fair price for his half. Her disquieting feelings would leave with him.
Encouraged by that thought, she picked up a note her father had put in the contracts file. The door to the workshop opened and she stiffened her spine. On the threshold stood Hunter, silhouetted against the bright morning light. He’d grown into a husky, powerful man, but today he looked tired, his shoulders hunched and his head lowered as he reached to rub his right temple.
She stood, unable to deny her growing sympathy. “You want some coffee? Dad keeps—kept—a pot and a small fridge here.” Without waiting, she walked behind the desk to the pint-size refrigerator, upon which stood a coffee machine and some cups. She quickly set about brewing a pot, finding she needed a strong cup herself. When Hunter approached, she threw him a glance over her shoulder.
He looked worse close up. What had he indulged in last night, besides the steak, on his first night of freedom?
“You look awful. What’d you have? A one-man party last evening?”
He shot her a cool look. “The only thing I did was eat a steak, which was very good, then those desserts you gave me. I don’t drink, smoke or do any sort of drugs.”
“So all you did was eat and sleep?”
“And read my Bible. The prison chaplain gave me a study guide to Job, and I was doing that before I was released, so I continued.”
The memory of the funeral, and of seeing Hunter offer up a prayer, returned. She didn’t want to hear how he had found God, asked for forgiveness, and—as much as she didn’t like the truth right now—been forgiven.
He grabbed a mug and poured coffee from the pot before it had even stopped dripping. The steaming liquid sizzled onto the burner underneath. He took a sip from his mug and winced slightly.
Rae blew out a sigh. “You’ve picked up a bug.”
“I’ll