The Protector (7 page)

Winston bounded into the yard, found a patch of buttercups and started rolling in it.
 
As far as he was concerned, they’d arrived in heaven.
 

“You
coming?”
Ike called, heading for the house.

Eryn
hiked her purse higher. Shutting the truck door, she willed her legs to carry her toward the listing front porch.
Please, God, let this place have indoor plumbing.

Ike stood at the open screen door, watching her progress through narrowed eyes. Unlocking the inner door, he shoved it open. “I never expected company,” he admitted.

She clutched the porch rail for support. “Then why am I here?” Not to knock her father’s choice for a champion, but Ike was about as welcoming as a hangman, and this place was just a bit remote for her taste.

“Been asking myself the same question,” he gritted, telling her nothing. With a jerk of his head, he gestured for her to enter.
   

Eryn
called her dog for protection before venturing into the shadowy interior.
 

The dwelling was woefully primitive, without a hint of the rustic charm for which it had the potential. Its furnishings belonged to a past era. A brown sofa set, crude coffee table, and a woodstove took up most of the large room. A field-table stood adjacent to the front window, flanked by ladder-back chairs. Drab cabinets and ancient appliances lined the far wall, creating what was meant to be a kitchen.

Welcome to the mountains.
 

On the other hand, the place couldn’t be cleaner, she had to admit. Every surface was free of clutter, not a speck of dust in sight. Even the worn hardwood floor shone with a dull luster. She felt secure enough to release her dog.
 

“You’ll sleep upstairs,” Ike said, inferring that the tightly shut door behind him led to his bedroom. “Bathroom’s under the stairs over there.”
 

Glimpsing white-washed paneling behind a half-closed door,
Eryn
started toward it. Thank you!

“There’s no TV,” he continued, stalling her progress. “No radio, nothing but books. So if you’re expecting entertainment, you came to the wrong place,” he added, unnecessarily.

Going rigid, she glared back at him.
Wow.
Two whole sentences this time.
“I didn’t come here,” she reminded him. “You brought me, remember?”

With a hard look, he headed up the flight of stairs in front of them, taking two steps at a time. She guessed she was supposed to follow.
Darn it!

Putting off her bladder,
Eryn
chased him to the low door at the height of the stairs and stepped into a child-sized room with a slanted ceiling and a dormered window. The flaking paint was vaguely yellow in hue. The mattress on the antique frame looked like it had been in use for decades. The single dresser was missing two drawers.

“It’s pretty basic.” The chagrin in Ike’s voice made him seem less heartless.

“
It’s
fine,” she assured him. She’d seen worse while living overseas.

“I’ll help you make the bed,” he offered, pulling open the remaining dresser drawers to produce sheets and a blanket.

They worked in silence to dress the bed together. Ike made quick work of the job, tugging and tucking with the same ruthless efficiency he’d demonstrated while snatching her from the FBI.

Eryn
sheathed her pillow and set it at the head of the bed. “I, uh, I need to use the restroom,” she added, hurrying for the stairs.
  

The absence of a railing made her wary. So did the weakness in her legs. She’d made it halfway down the steps when her knees abruptly folded, causing her to ride the remainder of the treads on her bottom, just like at the safe house—only Ike’s wooden steps were more slippery.
And harder.

By the time she caught herself near the last step, her purse had fallen off her shoulder, spilling its contents all along the steps, including her pill bottle, which rolled clear to the door.

With a whimper of humility,
Eryn
checked to see if her tailbone was broken. Miraculously, she hadn’t peed in her pants. She was conscious of Ike stepping gingerly around her. He dropped into a crouch at her feet and caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“You hurt?” he demanded, angling her head so he could see her face.
      

His touch made her nerves jangle. “No.” She jerked her chin from his warm grasp. Ignoring his outstretched hand, she rose under her own steam and swept all her stuff back into her purse, including a tampon with a worn wrapper. Pushing wordlessly past her host, she fled, red-faced, to the bathroom.

Chapter Four

Eryn
had to flip the light switch to confirm what her fingers were telling her. No, the door did not have a lock. With a strangled moan, she turned to eye the bare facilities.
 

The sink and tub were stained by mineral deposits that told her the water came from a well. The room was as stark as the rest of the house, with the exception of the claw-footed bathtub, adding a hint of vintage charm. But as basic as the amenities were, at least they worked.
  

She went to wash her hands at the sink and realized there was just one spigot.
Cold water.
The only towel was government-issued, with the name CALHOUN printed on it. Heck if she would touch that. Maybe there were more towels in the closet?

Only it wasn’t a closet, she realized, shutting the door abruptly. A glimpse of Spartan furnishings and a whiff of her host’s woodsy scent told her there were two ways to access his bedroom.

Turning back to use the towel, she caught sight of her reflection in the speckled mirror.
Gads.
The morning had taken its toll on her. Setting her purse on the sink, she grubbed inside it for her bronzing powder.

A knock at the door nearly startled her into dropping it. “Yes?”
  

“I’m coming in,” came the gruff warning, and the door swung inward.
  

Baffled,
Eryn
stepped back. Ike Calhoun’s disapproving gaze went straight to the compact in her hands. “What are you taking?” he demanded.
  

She showed it to him.
“Nothing.
I’m putting on make-up.”

“I meant earlier. What’s in the pill bottle?”

“What’s it to you?” The rude rejoinder appalled her but, really, was it any of his business?

His eyes narrowed and he put out a hand. “Give it over.” He looked like he’d wait till Christmas or next Easter, but, by God, she’d give up the goods.

With an exclamation of disgust,
Eryn
took the bottle from her purse and thrust it at him. “Fine, have a look. The FBI’s psychologist prescribed it to me for anxiety.”
 

Angling the bottle toward the light, he read the label. Then, with an inscrutable glance, he twisted off the cap, stepped over to the toilet, and upended the little blue pills into the bowl.
  

“No!”
Eryn
cried in horror. “What did you just do?” She couldn’t believe what her eyes were telling her.

“You don’t need those,” he insisted, sliding the empty container into his pants pocket.

Blood rushed to
Eryn’s
head, pushed by a heart that had started galloping. “Are you crazy?” The thought of being without her pills terrified her. Images of
Itzak
with his neck slit open made her prickle all over. “How am I supposed to sleep?” she demanded.

“You’ll be fine,” he insisted.

“Fine?”
Her fears manifested into fury. That was the same damn word Jackson had used within hours of the safe house blowing up. “You call hiding in this hovel out in the middle of nowhere fine?” She was aghast at her own rudeness but unable to help herself.

Ike folded massive arms across his chest. “I don’t give a damn what you think of this place,” he retorted in a voice that could freeze water. “My job is to protect you—from yourself, if necessary. Right now, you’re so strung out, you can barely stand up.”

“Strung out?” Her mouth popped open. “You think I’m a drug addict?” She could barely spit the words out.
 

He shrugged impassively. “You tell me.”

“I already told you!” You asshole! “Those pills were for anxiety. I need them to sleep. You have no idea what I’ve been through!”

“I don’t care about what you’ve been through. I’m not your therapist.”

She gasped. His callousness was a slap in the face. She tried again. “You don’t know what
it’s
like—”

“To know someone died because of you? To think you could have stopped it?
To want your goddamn life back?”
Each word brought him an inch closer. A ruddy stain crept out of his collar and up his neck to stand on his cheekbones.

She stared at him, speechless, not altogether certain if he was talking about her or something that had happened to
him
. This wasn’t the time to ask, either, not when he loomed over her, his breath rasping in the volatile silence.

He visibly reigned himself in. “You’ll thank me later,” he muttered, turning away.

The pompous statement brought her anger roaring back. “The hell I will!” With no control over her impulses,
Eryn
shoved him toward the door.

He turned back with a look of incredulity.

She wanted him gone—all six-foot-something, 200-some-odd pounds of him. “Get out!” She knew she was seconds away from a meltdown. She could feel it gaining momentum inside of her. In desperation, she shoved him a second time.
 

All her shove accomplished was to make him widen his stance and drop his arms. The extent of her absolute helplessness broke over her. Mortified,
Eryn
whirled around and pressed her hands to her burning eyes, fighting down the geyser rising up her throat.

Awkward silence filled the small space.

A tortured sob escaped her. Her lungs convulsed. She couldn’t contain it. Ike’s hostility coming on top of the fear she’d lived with these past weeks—the thought of Itzak’s last horrifying moments, her near run-in with a bomb this morning—coalesced into a storm breaking over her with fury.

It sounded like someone else sobbing as she succumbed to the deluge. And Ike had thrown away her only comfort, dooming her to nightmares in which she envisioned her own violent death at the hands of a faceless terrorist. How could he have done that to her, the heartless bastard?

Over her gut-wrenching sobs, she discerned a longsuffering sigh.

In the next instant, firm hands settled on her shoulders, drawing her around. Begrudgingly, she let him pull her to the rigid but warm wall of his body. A thick arm banded her shoulders, holding her securely.

“It’s okay,” he muttered, sounding subdued. “You’ll feel better once it’s out of your system.”
  

He meant the medicine, she realized, with a surge of resentment. How could he even think for a moment that she was a drug user! With a moan of outrage, she gripped his jacket to shake sense into him, only to cling to him, instead.
 

Trying to draw comfort from such a hardened man was lesson in futility. Then again, nothing about the past two weeks made any sense. At the very most, he was an anchor holding her fast, as muddied waters threatened to sweep her away.