Someone To Protect Her. Patricia RosemoorЧитать онлайн книгу.
Jewel nodded and eyed the mottled white horse. “I’m very reliable. Ask Gran or Gramps. They’ll tell you.”
Gran and Gramps were Dale and Patrick McMurty, the elderly caretakers who lived in the main house with Daniel Austin, head of operations for Montana Confidential. Dale cooked and kept house, while Patrick was a crack handyman.
Patrick also happened to be a retired military man who knew how to keep his own counsel about what really was going on underground at Lonesome Pony—that the ranch was a cover for Montana Confidential, a division of the Department of Public Safety.
Frank dug into a pocket and pulled out a plastic bag filled with apple chunks. Sierra Sunrise nosed his arm and Frank slipped him a treat. He stored a few pieces in a vest pocket and held out the bag.
“You can start with these.”
Jewel’s smile was brilliant. Snatching the offering from his hand as eagerly as had the stallion, she whipped around, her long blond ponytail bobbing.
And, now uninterrupted, Frank quickly went to work. The horses enjoyed the spray of water and soapy scrub. And they didn’t refuse the apple chunks he’d kept back for them. He always carried treats when working around horses. And being big-money boys, these stallions were used to lots of pampering and attention.
He wondered if they’d miss the track. They’d spent their young lives running fast, being caught in the limelight. He knew a little about that, too. But he’d gladly left the limelight to others—so maybe the boys would feel the same.
Besides, Frank thought, catching sight of a pretty golden mare nosing her way through the slats of the pasture fence, they had compensations. The soft-eyed mare peered out at them and whickered flirtatiously. The stallions snorted and stomped and did their best to look studly in return. Frank grinned. The mating dance had begun. Slipping the boys into their own individual paddocks outside the barn, he checked his watch—just about time for the meeting.
Awaiting him was the fancy log house with its wide porch overlooking the pasture, and beyond that, the mountains. He could get used to living in Yellowstone country with its spectacular alpine scenery. The Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness lay to the east, the foothills of the Gallatins to the west. A man couldn’t ask for a prettier home.
Or a more unusual one.
Lonesome Pony had been a guest ranch for decades—hence a bunch of rifle and archery ranges and horseshoe pits plus a fancy circular corral for those former Friday night rodeos still lined the fine-gravel walk between the house and barn. On the other side of the property, a hut well-stocked with gear stood near the bend in Crooked Creek, which provided some of the most spectacular fly-fishing in the country. But the oddest thing to Frank was the swimming pool surrounded by cabins, providing separate living quarters for him and the other agents.
At least he would have his privacy, something he treasured after months of enforced communal living in a stinking hole.
Ahead, the McMurtys stood in the small garden to one side of the house.
Wisps of thinning white hair sticking out from the brimmed hat pulled low over his sun-leathered face, Patrick dumped a sack onto the ground. “Are you gonna stand there so you can tell me every move to make, woman?”
“Only if I want you to get it right the first time,” Dale said, fists on her ample hips.
“If you don’t like the way I do things—”
“I know. Do it myself. But if I don’t participate, you’ll think I’m ignoring you.”
“We could try it that way and see for sure,” Patrick suggested slyly.
Frank figured they’d keep things lively for his boss—if they didn’t drive the man crazy with their bickering.
Dale spotted Frank. “I don’t know why I’ve put up with this old buzzard for nearly forty years. He can’t keep a civil tongue around me.”
Patrick mimicked her. “If I did, you’d think I was ignoring you.”
“Sounds to me like true love,” Frank said, pushing back painful memories of his own.
Before the McMurtys could respond, a shrill voice came from the other direction. “No, Daddy! No!”
Carrying his cranky daughter from the cabin area, Kyle Foster, one of the other agents, spoke to her in a low, soothing voice. “Mrs. Mac is going to take good care of you for just a little while.”
The blond moppet screwed up her face and began to wail “Da-a-a-d-dy!” as she fisted his shirt. She looked so fragile pressed against her father’s broad, solid frame.
“Shh, honey. You be a big girl and I’ll let you ride your pony later. You want to ride Ribbons, don’t you?”
Molly rubbed her eyes with balled fists. Even to an old bachelor like Frank, it was evident the three-year-old needed a nap. He caught Kyle’s attention and indicated he was heading for the house. Looking as if he were about to tear out his sandy brown hair, Kyle nodded.
“You take a nice nap for me,” Dale chimed in, “and when you wake up, I’ll have some homemade oatmeal cookies with lots of raisins for you.”
Frank didn’t know if it was the promise of the pony ride or the cookies that sealed the deal, but Molly finally allowed the housekeeper to take her from her father. Kyle caught up to him at the long porch that fronted the main house.
“I don’t know if I was cut out for this—not the job, but being a single father.”
“Being a responsible parent takes more work than any profession, that’s for certain. But I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it.”
Frank knew all about Kyle Foster, bomb specialist. He’d been a hero until a bomb scare had gone wrong and his partner had died in the explosion. Guilt had plummeted Kyle out of the L.A. force, but law enforcement was obviously in his blood, for he hadn’t resisted Daniel’s recruiting tactics. Frank didn’t envy Kyle’s having to balance a dangerous job with parental responsibilities, but, unfortunately, his wife had left him no choice when she’d dumped her child as well as her husband for a Hollywood film producer.
They entered the house. The big open living area bespoke its past as “Dude Ranch Meeting Central.”
The former lounge and lobby rose two stories, as did the massive fireplace constructed from local river rock. A moose head balefully looked down at them through glass eyes. Over the middle of the room hung a chandelier of elk horn. And a cast-iron bighorn sheep challenged them from the windowed area where Daniel stood, back to them, phone to his ear.
“Yeah, Mitch, so far, so good. The locals don’t suspect anything.”
Frank knew Daniel was talking to Mitchell Forbes, who had run the Texas Confidential operation. Daniel had worked as an agent there, and though he had retired from active duty, he’d been asked to start a branch of the agency in Montana where a serious terrorist threat had the Department of Public Safety worried.
“They just figure I’m a crazy man for wanting to become a rancher at my age in this economic climate. They treat me with friendly tolerance.” Daniel turned and silently greeted his two agents. He indicated he’d only be a minute. “Uh-huh.”
Frank threw himself onto one of the club chairs upholstered in a Navajo pattern and appreciatively gazed at the framed photographs lining the opposite wall—a turn-of-the-century chronicle of the railroad, rodeos and roundups of the area.
“I’m not looking forward to baby-sitting her, that’s for certain,” Daniel was saying. “I’m only doing it as a favor to the director. Listen. Frank and Kyle are here, and I want to meet with them, fill them in and make sure that we have what we need.”
The Montana Confidential operation was just getting off the ground. So far, the men had been busy building their cover. Frank didn’t mind working with the horses—a side benefit of the job, actually—but he