Wyoming Cowboy Bodyguard. Nicole Helm
“There’s a psychology to undercover work. Your work deals with the heart more than the brain.”
Because he cut to the quick of her entire life’s vocation a little too easily, and it smoothed over jagged edges in a way she didn’t understand, she chose to focus on the other part of the sentence.
“You went undercover? Yeah, I can see that. Bring down any big guns?”
He shrugged. “Here and there.”
“What’s the point if you’re not going to brag about it?”
He pondered that, then gave his answer with utter conviction. “Justice. Satisfaction.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I’d prefer a little limelight.”
“I suppose that’s why I’m in security, and you’re in entertainment.”
“I suppose.” She finished the drink. She wasn’t really sure what had mellowed her mood more—the buzz or Zach’s conversation. She had a sinking suspicion it was both, and that he was aware of that. “I guess I’ll try to sleep now. I appreciate the...” She didn’t know what to call it—from responding to her distress to a simple drink and conversation—it was more than she’d been given in...a long time.
Well, if she was fair, more than she’d allowed herself. And that had started a heck of a lot longer ago than the stalking.
She stood, never finishing her sentence. Zach stood, as well, cleaning up her mess. For some reason that didn’t sit right, but she didn’t do anything to remedy it. She opened the door to her bedroom, took one last glance back at him.
He was heading for his own door. A strange mystery of a man with a very good heart under all that blankness.
He paused at his door. He didn’t look at her, but she had no doubt he knew she was looking at him.
“Daisy.” It might have been the first time he’d said her name, or maybe it was just the first time he’d said her name where it sounded human to human. So she waited, breath held for who knew what reason.
“You’ve been through a lot. It isn’t just losing someone you feel responsible for losing. You’ve uprooted your life, changed everything around you. You might be used to life on the road, but this is different. You don’t have your singing outlet. So give yourself a break.”
With that, he stepped into his room, the door closing and locking behind him.
* * *
ZACH DIDN’T NEED much sleep on a normal day, but even with the usual four hours under his belt, he felt a little rough around the edges the next morning. He supposed it had to do with them being interrupted by Daisy’s screaming.
It had damn near scared a year off his life.
Any questions or doubts he’d had were gone, though. Someone or something was terrorizing her. Didn’t mean he wouldn’t look at cold, hard facts. Hadn’t he learned what getting too emotionally involved in a case got you?
Yeah, he was susceptible to vulnerability. He could admit that now. Being plagued by dreams, by guilt over the man who’d died only for taking a job protecting her, it all added up to vulnerable.
And he was not thinking about the slip of her top because that had nothing to do with anything.
He grunted his way through push-ups, sit-ups, lunges and squats. He’d need to bring a few more things from home. Maybe just move it all. He wasn’t planning on spending much time back in Cheyenne with his business here.
His room still needed a lot of work, and he’d get to it once this case was shored up—as long as he didn’t immediately have another one. Still, he had a floor, a rudimentary bathroom and a bed. What more did a guy need?
He knew his mother worried about him throwing too much into his job, whether because she feared he’d suffer the same fate as his father—murdered in revenge for the work he’d done as an ATF agent—or because she just worried about him having more of a life than work, it didn’t matter.
He liked his work. It fulfilled him. Besides, he had friends. Cousins, actually. Finding his long-lost sister meant finding his mother’s family, and he might get along more with the people they’d married, but it was still camaraderie.
He had a full life.
But he sat there on the floor of a ramshackle room, sweating from the brief workout, and wondered at the odd pang of longing for something he couldn’t name. Something he’d never had until he’d met his sister—of course that had coincided with being officially fired from the FBI, so maybe it was more that than the other.
It didn’t matter. Because not only was he fine, he also had a job to do.
He could hear Daisy stirring out in the common room. Coffee or breakfast or both, if he had to guess.
He’d hoped she’d sleep longer because there were some areas he wanted to press on today, and he’d likely back off if she looked tired.
Or he could suck it up and be a hard-ass, which was what this job called for, wasn’t it? He knew what being soft got him, so he needed to steel his determination to be hard.
He ran through a cold shower, got dressed, grabbed his computer and stepped out to find Daisy in the kitchen.
She was dressed in tight jeans and a neon-pink T-shirt that read Straight Shooter in sparkly sequins on the back. On the sleeve of each arm was a revolver outline in more sequins. When she turned from the oven where she was scrambling some eggs, she flashed a smile.
Her hair was pulled back to reveal bright green cactus earrings, and she’d put on makeup. Dark eyes, bright lips.
The fact she’d made herself up, looked like she could step on stage in the snap of her fingers, he assumed she was hiding a rough night under all that polish.
But the polish helped him pretend, too.
“Want some?” she asked, tipping the pan toward him.
“Sure, if you’ve got enough.” He dropped the laptop off on the table and then moved toward her to get plates, but she waved him away.
“You waited on me yesterday. My turn. Besides, I familiarized myself this morning. Thanks for making coffee, by the way. Good stuff.”
“Programmable machine,” he returned, not sure what to do with himself while she took care of breakfast. He opted for getting himself a cup of coffee.
He didn’t want to loom behind her, so he took a seat at the table and opened his laptop. He booted up his email to see if there were any more reports from Ranger Cooper, but nothing.
She slid a plate in front of him, then took the seat opposite him with her own plate.
“So, what’s the deal? Play house in here until they figure out who did it?” she asked with just a tad too much cheer in her voice—clearly trying to compensate for the edge she felt.
“Partially. We’re working on a protected outdoor area, but staying inside for now is best.” He tapped his computer. “It gives us time to work through who might be after you.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Believe it or not, sifting through who might hate me enough to hurt me isn’t high on my want-to-do list.”
“But I assume going home, getting back to your family and your career is. Lesser of two evils.”
She ate, frowning. But she didn’t try to argue, and he was going to do his job today. Nightmares and vulnerability couldn’t stop the job.
“I want to talk about your ex.”
“So does everyone,” she muttered.
“Your divorce was news?” he asked, even though he’d known it was. Much as he didn’t keep up with pop culture, he’d seen enough magazines