Troublemaker

  No doubt about it: she’d had all the company she could stand for one day.

  CHAPTER 6

  MORGAN WOKE AND DIDN’T IMMEDIATELY KNOW WHERE he was; he lay very still, instinctively reaching out with his senses to locate any danger, anything wrong. Then the particular scent of his surroundings registered, and everything clicked into place.

  He was at Isabeau Maran’s place. The scent was great, a mixture of wood from the barn structure, the leather of the sofa he lay on, some sort of perfumey stuff in a bowl . . . what was it . . . yeah, potpourri. Silly-ass name. But most of all he could smell her. This was her place, and the scent of her was everywhere. He’d gotten up close and personal with that scent when she’d helped him into the house . . . barn . . . whatever it was. He’d been so exhausted yesterday that now he’d be hard put to physically describe her, other than attractive, skinny, with long dark hair, but she smelled great—not because she smelled like a woman, which he guessed she did, but because she smelled nothing like disinfectant.

  If he never smelled that particular hospital scent again, he’d be deeply grateful. The whole past month was tied up in a nightmare ball of pain, drugs, uncertainty, fear, anger, a disconnect from reality, and he didn’t want to be reminded of it in any way.

  He blew out a breath. He needed to take a piss, and the hell of it was he had to assess the situation. He hated it, hated every second of feeling this weak, but it was his new reality. He could make the trip on his own, or he could call her. She’d already had to help him to the bathroom twice; everything in him rebelled at the idea of asking her for help again. It wasn’t as if she were a warm and fuzzy person who made offering aid seem like nothing, the way his nurses had. She seemed to like her dog much better than she did people, which, okay, given that she’d dealt with Mac at any early age wasn’t so unreasonable. He still needed to piss. For a few minutes he lay there dreading the effort it would take to accomplish that simple task, but damned if he was going to call her for help. Even if he had to crawl, he’d get to the bathroom under his own steam.

  The house wasn’t dark. The TV was still on, though the sound was turned off because the noise had annoyed the hell out of him. A lot of things annoyed the hell out of him now because nothing was normal. He eased to a sitting position, relieved that the ache in his chest was nothing more than that. Pneumonia had been a bitch; the coughing had nearly killed him figuratively, while the pneumonia had almost done the job literally. He sat for a minute to make sure he wasn’t dizzy, then braced his right hand on the arm of the sofa and levered himself up.

  Okay. Not too bad. He was a little light-headed, but as he stood there the sensation faded.

  His steps as he crossed the open space were slow. He couldn’t do his normal confident stride; the best he could do was kind of shuffle his feet along. His body had always been a powerful machine that did his bidding, and now he didn’t recognize himself in this weak, aching shell. Maybe the worst part of this whole shitty situation was the uncertainty that he’d ever get back physically to what he had been before being shot.

  He took the time to look around, noticing details that he hadn’t before. There was a keypad beside the door, and a red dot glowing on that told him she had a security system, and at some point had activated it. Guess it was a good thing he didn’t need to go out to the Tahoe to retrieve anything.

  The barn was uncluttered, except for the dog’s toys strewn around. There was furniture—the living room area, the kitchen area, the dining area, and what looked like a small office space—in the whole open space that was the downstairs, but the furniture was only what was needed. The whole vibe was kind of barn mixed with industrial, which was weird for a woman. He didn’t know shit about decorating, but he knew women and how they liked to surround themselves with stuff. Isabeau Maran evidently either didn’t have a lot of stuff, or didn’t like stuff.

  He was relieved that, however slow he might be, he made it to the bathroom without any real problem. At least he could walk it under his own steam. Driving all day had knocked him flat for a while, which was humiliating in and of itself. Before being shot, he could and had swum and/or run for miles, but now just sitting upright for a few hours had done him in. That last hour of driving had been accomplished by sheer determination, and he’d made it by the skin of his teeth. By the time he’d parked in the driveway in front of the barn, he’d been glad no one was there because the best he could do right then was lay his head back and take a nap. He’d been there about forty-five minutes before his hostess arrived.

  Mac had neglected to mention that his ex-stepsister was a crazy dog lady, which Morgan supposed was better than a crazy cat lady. At least there was just one dog, and dogs were easier to corral than cats. He liked animals in general, just not right now. He didn’t have the energy to play, pet, or fend off an overly friendly retriever. Ms. Maran had made it plain where the dog was in the pecking order, and that was above him.

  Okay, he got that. His presence was an unpleasant surprise. He was a stranger, and an imposition. He was as uncomfortable in this situation as she was.

  They’d get through it though; he because he didn’t have any choice in the matter right now, and she because she needed the money. Despite the fact that she was being paid well to house him, he was grateful she’d accepted. From what he’d overheard when she was talking to Mac, she’d been on the verge of refusing even after the money had been offered. She’d been adamant that no one here be endangered by his presence. Morgan was fairly certain no one would be, but he couldn’t swear to it. Even the best of plans tended to get hiccups, or fall apart entirely when something unforeseen fucked up everything. He’d keep that to himself, though, or he’d likely find himself on the road in the morning, with nowhere to go and unable to get there under his own steam anyway.

  He made it back to the sofa, stared without interest at the silent TV for a while, then got the remote and clicked the off button. The room went dark, a dark he found soothing. A hospital room—even one that was makeshift—was never dark. Once he had regained consciousness, the constant light, even a dim one, had become so annoying he’d have shut off every machine, smashed every light, and sealed the door . . . if he’d been able. He hadn’t been, but now he could certainly turn off the damn TV. He knew that once his eyes adjusted, he wouldn’t be in complete darkness; clocks on the microwave and the oven in the kitchen would be pinpoints of light, but normal pinpoints, not on machines that were hooked up to him. It hadn’t been only the light that had bothered him; the unceasing noise had too, the sounds of the machines running, conversations outside his room, people walking.

  He drew a deep, cautious breath—everything in his chest still protested the expansion of muscles and rib cage—and felt something in him relax at the silence, the darkness.

  Bo didn’t sleep well because she knew there was a stranger in the house. Sharing space wasn’t something she liked or was accustomed to. Her bedroom door was closed, and Tricks was accustomed to having the run of the house so she was restless. Tricks got up on the bed, she got down on the rug beside the bed, she went to the door, she nosed around the bedroom. Finally Bo sat up and said, “Get up here and go to sleep.” Tricks made the throat noises she did when she was arguing, but she jumped up on the bed and finally settled down. Bo thumped her pillow and tried to settle down herself.

  She did finally go to sleep, but woke up annoyed—with herself, with Axel, with the man downstairs for getting shot in the first place. If he’d been more careful, he wouldn’t be in this shape. On the other hand, neither would she be making a hundred and fifty thousand—!!!—for taking care of him, so from that point of view, she was grateful he’d been careless.

  As she threw back the covers, Tricks jumped up as bright eyed as ever, ready for her first trip outside. She dashed to the door and stood there with her tail wagging, looking expectantly from Bo to the doorknob, as if trying to show her how to open the door.

  Normally Bo didn’t bother getting dressed, bu
t now she did. She hit the bathroom herself, stopped to drag a brush through her hair and drink a glass of water. By the time she was dressed, Tricks was going back and forth between her and the door, letting her know this delay was unacceptable. Bo forcibly shoved her annoyance away. This was the way things would be for a while, she’d agreed to it, so she’d damn well be an adult about the situation. She wouldn’t blame Morgan Yancy for being careless; instead she would do her level best to take care of him and actually earn the money Axel was paying her.

  She thought of his gray, exhausted face, and her conscience twinged. She’d let her massive dislike for Axel color her interactions with a man who was barely hanging on.

  With that in mind, she’d have clipped a leash to Tricks’s collar if she’d had it with her, but the leash was downstairs. All she could do was do her best to keep Tricks from bounding up in his lap and generally making a nuisance of herself. Bracing for whatever Tricks might do, she opened the bedroom door and said, “Let’s go outside.”

  No matter what, watching Tricks greet the morning always made Bo smile. Tricks never just walked. She pranced, she danced, she all but skipped. She was overjoyed with the prospect of going outside, of having her breakfast, at life in general. Bo also suspected Tricks got up every morning plotting a world takeover, because she never stopped trying to arrange everything to her liking.

  The broad, industrial-type stairs were open to the floor level, and she could see that Morgan was still stretched out on the sofa, though the blanket that had covered him was now on the floor. Poor guy, as tall as he was, the sofa couldn’t be all that comfortable. Until he could make it up the stairs under his own power, though, the options were limited.

  Tricks immediately started for him, of course, and Bo said again, “Let’s go outside,” and grabbed the tennis ball from the floor. Immediately distracted, Tricks began bouncing in anticipation. Bo detoured through the kitchen to hit the magic button on the K-cup coffeemaker and slide a cup into place, grateful that the cup would be full when she returned. After disarming the alarm, she opened the door, and Tricks shot through the opening.

  The ground was white but it hadn’t been a heavy snowfall, probably no more than an inch. That was good because the sun was trying to break through the low gray clouds and the snow should melt quickly. For now, the day was cold but not icy. All in all, not bad. The year before, they’d been hit with a big snow in the middle of April, and that had been such a downer because it had seemed as if winter would never let go.

  She had to throw the tennis ball for Tricks a few times before the dog settled down to do her business. Then Tricks ran around sniffing things, as if checking whether or not any strange creatures had invaded her territory during the night. She found a stick and romped in the snow with it, twisting and jumping and prancing. Finally Bo called her in with “Ready for breakfast?” Tricks was always ready for breakfast, or any other meal; she immediately came trotting over, a look of canine glee sparkling in her eyes. Bo retrieved the tennis ball from the yard—who, exactly, was the retriever here, and who was boss? She didn’t care. She and Tricks had their routine, and they were both happy with it.

  As they entered the door, she smelled the delicious scent of coffee at the same time she noticed Morgan was now awake and sitting up. He looked marginally better than he had yesterday, despite the growth of beard darkening his jaw. At least he didn’t look as if he were about to die.

  His gaze was blank and guarded as he looked up at her. Considering how welcoming—not!—she’d been the day before, Bo didn’t blame him. She hung her jacket on the hook beside the door and asked, “Are you a coffee drinker, or would you like something else?”

  Relief flashed across his face and was gone before she was certain she’d read him correctly. “Coffee,” he said immediately.

  “Cream or sugar?”

  “No, just black.”

  She really, really wanted that first cup of coffee, but she thought he probably wanted it more. She did take the time to slide another K-cup into the machine and another mug under the dispenser, and press the button before taking the steaming hot coffee to him. His blue eyes focused on the cup as if she were bringing him ambrosia. “Thanks,” he said, reaching out with both hands. He had big, rough-looking hands, scarred in places, bruised from needles and thin from the ordeal he’d been through, but she knew for a fact how strong they still were because she’d felt one clamped around her throat.

  She watched his eyes close briefly as he took that first sip—she knew how that felt—and asked, “Didn’t they let you have coffee in the hospital?”

  “Once I could eat, yeah, but this is the first cup today. I was afraid I’d have to settle for skim milk.” His voice was still thin and kind of scratchy, his eyes swollen from sleep, but she got a sense of increased energy from him. Not a lot, but anything was an improvement.

  “I’ll pick you up some he-man milk today. My pantry is empty even for me,” she admitted. “I haven’t had time to do much food shopping lately.” Between her chief-of-police duties and the technical-writing projects, she’d been hustling, which was good for her bottom line but hell on her schedule. Going back into the kitchen, she got her own coffee and took a few blissful sips before setting it aside to dip some dog food into Tricks’s bowl, and put out fresh water for her. Tricks rushed over; she never had to be enticed to eat first thing in the morning; that routine was only for dinner, when she wasn’t as hungry.

  Feeding the dog was easy; feeding the man was a problem.

  “I’m at a loss for breakfast,” she confessed. “I have the aforementioned skim milk and cereal—Grape-Nuts, if you’re interested.” She knew she wasn’t. In her mind, cereal was for when there was nothing else in the house. “I also have instant oatmeal, and I can throw in some raisins to make it more hearty. Other than that, we’re back to the PB&J, or another smoothie. Or—” Thinking of something, she quickly opened the refrigerator door and checked the contents. Yes, she had cheese. “—a grilled cheese sandwich.”

  “I’m fine with just coffee,” he said. “I’m not hungry.”

  “We went through this yesterday. You have to eat.”

  “Sandwich,” he said grudgingly. “Peanut butter.”

  “I’m sorry for the pitiful selection, but like I said, I haven’t been shopping.” She felt chagrined by her lack of options, even though she hadn’t had any warning. “What would you like while I’m shopping? Eggs, sausage, pancakes?” She pulled a notepad toward her and began scribbling down a list. Eggs, breakfast ham, salsa, fresh fruit, whole milk—

  “Yes,” he said, evidently to everything.

  The enormity of feeding him dawned on her. It wasn’t just breakfast; it was three meals a day, every day, for an unspecified length of time. Her scribbling got faster. Steaks, though maybe he wasn’t up to that yet. She could put them in the freezer until he was. Salad fixings. Hamburgers, potatoes, frozen hash browns.

  This was going to cost a fortune. Good thing Axel was paying her well.

  Food wasn’t the only problem. She couldn’t hide him away out here for any length of time. For one thing, her grocery bill would give her away, and Hamrickville was small enough that things like that got noticed. For another, she didn’t intend to hide him. That was a scandal waiting to happen. She’d tell Jesse that Morgan was out here, and the basic truth that he’d had open-heart surgery and needed a place to recover.

  She couldn’t tell Morgan’s real name, though, given that he was in hiding and Internet searches were like taking out an electronic billboard.

  She thought about that as she slapped peanut butter and jelly between two slices of bread—he got a whole sandwich this time—and when she took the sandwich to him, she said, “What name will you be using?”

  Evidently he and Axel had already covered that base because he said, “I have a second ID that’ll past muster in case anyone checks.”

  “Oh, it’ll be checked. As soon as my chief deputy finds out you’re here, he’ll be
all over it.”

  He showed no surprise at her having a chief deputy, which told her that he already knew her circumstances here, and the setup she had with Hamrickville. She cocked her head, eyeing him. If he so readily had a fake ID, how did she know he’d shown her his real one? On the other hand, did it really matter?

  “Yes, I told you my real name,” he said tersely, correctly reading her expression.

  She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter if you did or not, because I wouldn’t know either way. I don’t know you. All I know is that Axel sent you, you’re in sorry shape and obviously need help, and a big payment is supposed to be deposited in my bank account today. You can call yourself Lady Gaga, for all I care.”

  “I’ll stick with Morgan,” he said drily. “My second ID is for Morgan Rees, R-E-E-S.” He didn’t pronounce it Reece, but rather the way it was spelled. “Middle name Allen.”

  “Is Allen your real middle name?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Morgan Rees. I got it. And if Jesse asks, I don’t know your middle name, because it isn’t as if we hooked up in the past or anything.”

  “Jesse is your chief deputy?”

  “He is. Jesse Tucker. You’ll be meeting him, probably some time this afternoon.”

  “Why?”

  “Because when I tell him you’re here, he’ll have to check you out himself.”

  “Is he your boyfriend?” The blue eyes narrowed, his gaze drilling into her and the intensity in his gaze taking her aback.

  “Lord, no!” she said, startled. What had made him ask that, unless he was weighing the possible complications of jealousy and prolonged contact? She supposed that was reason enough, given his circumstances.