Hidden Truth. Danica Winters
he was the bearer of bad news once again.
If he were being honest, pulling the trigger and tearing down an enemy combatant was a hell of a lot easier than what he was going to have to do. He spun the motorcycle around in the dirt, kicking up dust as he screwed around and tried to focus on something he loved instead of something he was going to hate.
After a few more doughnuts, he got off his Harley and pushed the kickstand into place with his foot. Taking off his helmet, he set it on the seat, though a part of him wondered if it wouldn’t have been better for him to wear it as some kind of shield from the battle that was likely to ensue.
Running his hand over his too-long locks, he pushed them out of his eyes and tucked them behind his ears.
There were times, just like this one, that he wished he were back in a war zone and had a staff of people under him who could handle this kind of thing.
All he had to do was say his piece, give them the letter, and he could get the hell out of there. He just had to go in and do his duty. The moment he and his brothers and his sister had purchased the land, they agreed that this would be a part of the work that would need to be done. Unfortunately, he had drawn the short straw.
He had never seen a picture of the house in question, but the shack in front of him was a squatter’s paradise and far from what he and his family had imagined. The roof was a collection of corrugated steel in a jumble of different colors, and the siding, what was left of it, had started to rot and several pieces were only half-attached. Even the front door was cockeyed, listing to the left so far that there was at least a two-inch gap at the top.
Whoever resided there must be hard up. Maybe they had been hoping they were far enough out of the way at the farthest reaches of the ranch that they would go completely unnoticed. Thanks to the neglect of his cousins, the Johansens, whoever was living in this place had pretty much free rein—and their plan for disappearing in plain sight had worked. And from the state of the house, it was clear it had been working for a long time.
The forest around the house was filled with junk, everything from antique wringer-style washing machines to the rusted-out shells of farming equipment. From the state of disrepair, it seemed likely that this had once been the dumping ground for the ranchers of years past.
He walked toward the door. Behind him a twig snapped and the sound was answered by the chatter of a pine squirrel high up in one of the trees.
He wasn’t alone.
If he turned around now, it would give away that he was aware he was being watched. For all he knew, the inhabitants of the shanty had taken to the woods at the sound of his bike as he’d made his way down the makeshift road that led up to this place. If he just kept walking, it would give him time.
He started again, looking for a window or something he could use to catch a glimpse of whoever was lurking in the shadows around him.
They couldn’t get the drop on him; he wouldn’t allow it. He’d made it through years of toeing the line between danger and death, and he wasn’t about to get tripped up and find himself on the losing side now. Not when he’d come here to make a real home and a real life for himself.
He stopped at the front door of the squatters’ shack and started to knock.
“They’re not home,” a woman said from somewhere in the distance, her voice echoing off the timber stands around them and making the source of the sound impossible to pinpoint. “And they would have been long gone regardless, thanks to your crappy driving.”
He turned in the direction the voice had come from and relaxed a bit. She probably wasn’t going to try to shoot him—if she had wanted, she already could have drawn on him—but some habits died hard, and he lowered his hand to the gun that was always strapped on his thigh.
Standing in the shadows at twelve o’clock, her back against the buckskin-colored pine, was a blonde. She was leaning back, her arms over her chest like she had been there for hours getting bored. Even feigning boredom, she was sexy as hell. She had the kind of curves he had spent more than one lonely night dreaming about. And the way her white T-shirt pulled tight over her leopard-print bra… His body quivered to life as he tried to repress the desire that welled within him.
“You know where they went?” he asked, trying to be a gentleman and look at anything besides the little polka dots that were almost pulsing beneath her shirt.
She smiled as though she could see the battle that was raging inside him between lust and professional distance. “Have you met the Cussler boys before?”
“How many are there?”
She pushed herself off the tree. “If you stop thumbing that SIG Sauer at your side, maybe we can talk about it. Men playing with their guns make me nervous.”
“You around men and guns a lot?” he asked, but the question was laced with a provocative tone he hadn’t intended.
She walked toward him, and from the way she moved her hips even he, a man who had slept with only a handful of women, could tell that she had heard the inflection in his words as well…and she intended to do something about it.
He raised his hands in surrender. That’s not what he’d come here for, not that he would have minded kissing those pink lips, not with the way they gently curved in a smile but hinted at something dangerous if they were allowed free rein. With the raising of his hands, she stopped and her smile faded. There was a small cleft in her chin, and damn if it didn’t make her look even cuter than she had before.
Once, when he’d been young, his mother had told him, “Dimple in the chin, devil within.” From the look in her eyes when she was staring at him and that damn bra she was wearing, there was plenty of devil within her.
“Are you Trevor?” she asked, not moving any closer.
He took a step back, surprised that the woman had any idea who he was. “Who are you?”
This time, she was the one to wave him off. “Your brother hired me to keep house—starting here. He didn’t tell me that I was going to need a backhoe and a dump truck.”
Either she had accidently forgotten to supply him with her name, or there was a reason she was keeping it from him.
It hardly seemed fair she should know anything about him when this was the first he was hearing about her.
“You from around here?” he asked, motioning vaguely in the direction of Mystery in hopes she would loosen up with a little bit of small talk.
“Actually, I’m kinda new. Was looking for a slower pace of life.”
“Well, it doesn’t get a whole lot slower than here,” he said, a darkness flecking his words. He hoped she didn’t read anything into his tone. He didn’t need to get into some deep discussion with a stranger about the merits or pitfalls of a place where he doubted he was going to stay.
“If you think it’s slow in town then you haven’t spent enough time in the mountains. These mountain men are about as fast as cold molasses and a little less intelligent. If you ask me, their family tree is more of a twig.”
He laughed. “So where are you from…and hey, what’s your name again?” he asked, trying to play it off like she had told him and he had simply failed to remember it.
She gave him an impish smile, and he could have almost sworn that she fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Sabrina. And I’m from all over. Kind of an army brat, but my last stop was Schofield.”
Instinctively, he glanced down at her arms. She was pale and far from the buttery color of someone who had spent their days in the Hawaiian sun. She had to be lying.
On the other hand, maybe he was reading far too much into her and her answer. Maybe she just valued her privacy like he valued his. Besides, if he was going to transfer into the civilian world, he would need to stop thinking everyone was out to conceal the truth from him—not everyone was his enemy, especially a housekeeper in the little town of Mystery, Montana.