A Promise at Bluebell Hill (13 page)

“I don't know anything else for you to question. Look, I gotta go. My break is up. Hope this is nothing.”

The line went dead. Travis stared at the hotel phone, then put it back in its cradle. He pulled up his computer file with all the ex-­military living in the area. One of them was Adam Desantis, whom he'd met at the calendar photo shoot. Adam was engaged to Monica's best friend, Brooke Thalberg. He probably knew where Adam would be that night—­at Tony's Tavern, with Dom Shaw and . . . what had he called their poker group? Robbers' Roost?

Friday night at a tavern might be the easiest way for him to pick Adam's brain about any fellow vets.

And maybe he'd see Monica . . .

T
ravis and Royce arrived at Tony's Tavern Friday night and headed into the back room. He spotted Dom, Nate, and Adam. Adam had sandy hair not exactly worn like a jarhead anymore. Travis ran a hand through his own short cut and knew he'd stayed much closer. The military image helped with the job.

Dom turned his poker hand down on the table and grinned as he stood up. “Agent Beaumont, glad you could join us.”

“Travis is fine. This is Royce Ames.”

Royce shook hands all around. He could be a menacing man, but when he wore his big grin, it was hard to take him seriously.

“So you boys must be used to towns ‘dressing up' for the president,” Adam said, as they all sat back down at the table. His brown eyes were intelligent and shrewd as they studied Travis. “We must all look like a bunch of greenies to you.”

Travis smiled at the reference to new Marines. “I noticed all the red, white, and blue,” he said. “It happens, usually in the smaller towns.” He sort of liked the pride of a small town, didn't even mind the nosiness.

“They don't get much smaller than this,” Royce said. “At least not where presidents are concerned.”

“Unless it's campaign time,” Travis retorted, nodding.

“So do you two walk around with the president?” Dom asked.

“No, we're on different teams,” Travis said. “We can't discuss much.”

“The
Valentine Gazette
certainly wants you to open up,” Nate said. “A reporter interviewed my wife, Emily—­she's worried she might have said something to offend you.”

“Not at all,” Travis said. “The article was pretty harmless.”

Adam shot a glance at Dom. “It mentioned Dom's sister quite a bit.”

Dom frowned. “I hope she's not bothering you.”

“Bothering us?” Royce said before Travis could. “Monica's a fine woman—­we're not bothered in the least.”

Travis wanted to roll his eyes. “Subtle” was not in Royce's vocabulary. “How would Monica bother us?” Travis asked curiously.

But Dom was either being loyal or embarrassed about his sister's past because he shrugged. “She was interviewed by that reporter, too. She was mentioned more than Emily.”

“Probably because I've met with her more,” Travis said.

Both Nate and Adam studied him as if they sensed something unspoken, but Dom seemed too caught up in whatever beef he had with his sister.

Adam rose. “We need more drinks, and I don't see Nicole. I'll go order some.”

“I'll help,” Travis said.

Together, they walked back to the main room and stood side by side at the bar. The owner, Tony, held up a finger that said he'd be a minute. The bar was pretty jammed, and he was the only bartender.

“So are there a lot of ex-­Marines in the Secret Ser­vice?” Adam asked.

“You know what the deadliest weapon on earth is.”

Together they said, “A Marine and his rifle,” then both grinned.

They spent a few moments getting acquainted, discussing what platoon they'd each served in, some of the action they'd seen.

“So now you're working on the Silver Creek Ranch?” Travis asked.

“I went from a Marine to a cowboy. Good thing I was used to hard work and long hours,” Adam said, shaking his head. “But I like the life, I like being outdoors.”

“And the woman who comes with the ranch?”

Adam grinned. “I like her enough to marry her one of these days.”

“Do you know a lot of the other vets in the area?”

“I didn't think I'd want to be around other guys as messed up as I was for a while, but an old Vietnam vet named George McKee talked me into helping remodel houses for disabled vets. He was my high-­school football coach, the guy who straightened me out when I was a teenager.”

“Have you heard of Deke Hutcheson?” Travis asked.

“Sure. He's another rancher, a friend of Brooke's dad. I've only met him once or twice. Seems like a gruff but good guy.”

Adam eyed him but didn't question his curiosity.

“I hope he came out of that war better than some other guys did,” Travis said.

“From what I hear, Vietnam changed him to a man who wanted nothing to do with guns and killing things. He doesn't hunt at all, which is rare among some of these old-­timers. Kill a coyote hassling his herd? Well, that's different, of course, and I heard his ranch is having problems with them recently.”

They were interrupted by a harried Tony, who took their order and retreated back down the bar. Cool mountain air blew past them, and Travis looked up to see a group of ­people come in the front door, Monica among them. He immediately zeroed in on the skirt she wore, so short that her legs looked mile-­high and sexy. Her shirt was sheer and clingy over a spaghetti-­strap top underneath. She was accompanied by her usual group of friends, Emily, Brooke, Whitney, and her protective husband, Josh, and some other ­people Travis had seen in passing. They walked the length of the bar toward the back room, and Monica could have been walking down a runway, the way the high heels made her strut. They might be small-­town girls, but they were confident in their down-­home charm and sexiness.

Adam was watching Travis's face, his eyes full of amusement, until Brooke called in a voice meant to be heard, “Hi, Travis! Did you know my fiancé there used to date Monica in high school?”

Monica rolled her eyes and just kept walking, while Adam sent Brooke a grin but didn't follow her.

Then Adam eyed Travis. “I barely got to first base, if you're wondering. But you probably don't care who Monica dated in high school.”

“You obviously couldn't keep up with her,” Travis said lightly.

“No, I couldn't,” Adam agreed, taking a sip of the beer Tony placed in front of them.

Tony saw the group heading into the back room. “Should I order a round for the newcomers?”

“Yeah, we'll wait,” Adam said.

Adam glanced through the open door, and Travis thought he was watching Josh help Whitney into a comfortable chair.

“Brooke likes to tease,” Adam began slowly, “but we're both starting to feel the pressure of setting a wedding date one of these days. Josh is younger than Brooke, and now he's about to be a dad. Gotta feel strange to her. Brooke says we can wait, that she'd rather focus on the new baby for a while, but I'm not sure I believe her.” His expression turned serious. “I never had a decent dad, and after all we saw in Afghanistan, how do I know I'll be good enough at whatever gentleness is required? Do you have kids?”

“No, just an ex-­wife. But I had a dad who felt the pressure of his dad and grandpa to join the military, just like all our ancestors did. And then he couldn't join himself because of medical issues. Don't get me wrong, he never tried to persuade me, never made me feel like I let him down by not renewing my enlistment.”

“But you're Secret Ser­vice,” Adam said, disbelief in his voice. “How much more ser­vice to your country can you give?”

For some reason, that question made Travis pause, but he didn't know why. He shrugged. “But about being a dad, my own taught me to let my kid make his own choices, just like he gave me the freedom to do. Sometimes I think we learn from our dads what
not
to do, you know? That's what my dad said he learned.”

“I did learn that,” Adam said ruefully. “I joined up to get a chance to start over, to make something of myself—­like my dad never did—­but the pain of my buddies' dying was hard for me to take. I spent ten years doing my duty, and then . . . had to start over again. Thank God my grandma Palmer tricked me into returning to Valentine Valley.”

“Tricked you?” Travis knew Mrs. Palmer was one of the widows actively involved in the protest. What else had she done?

“It's a long story, and she had good intentions. I didn't think of Valentine as home even though I grew up here. Grandma Palmer is in some ways the only real mom I ever had, and I'd do anything for her.”

And probably not be objective either, Travis thought, deciding there was no point in questioning Adam about his grandma. Travis would just have to question the widows about a possible protest himself since Monica wasn't talking.

Travis leaned both forearms on the bar. “Sometimes I think it's harder to watch other ­people suffer than it is to feel it ourselves. My sister, Kelly, also a Marine, was wounded and almost died. I swear it tore something inside me. Even though I knew I couldn't protect her forever, she'd gone into the Marines because I did.”

He heard a sound behind him and saw Monica standing there, watching him with wide, sympathetic eyes.

 

Chapter Twelve

M
onica hadn't meant to eavesdrop. She'd come out to the bar to help the guys carry all the trays since poor Nicole looked swamped. But to hear that Travis's sister had been wounded . . . she could only imagine what that had done to a protective man like Travis.

But a sense of remoteness overtook his expression when he saw her, and she guessed it wasn't something he'd wanted to discuss. So, pretending she hadn't heard, she said brightly, “Can I help with the trays? We're thirsty back there.”

Tony slid one across the bar toward her. “Thanks, Monica.”

She gave Travis and Adam a saucy grin, then turned to take her tray into the back room, hoping that Travis was watching her walk.

She handed out the beer like a waitressing pro, eluding Will Sweet's teasing attempt to tip her with a kiss for her ser­vice. Emily's one brother was a lighthearted tease, and the other, Daniel, tended to be the loner of the group. He was playing pinball in a corner and was grateful for the beer she brought him. She returned for another tray and distributed it while Travis and Adam continued to talk. She knew they had a lot in common, both being Marines. Maybe it would be good for Travis to have someone to talk to.

Emily and Heather were seated with Whitney and the guys at the table, while Brooke came to stand beside Monica.

“What do you think Adam and Travis were talking about?” Brooke asked.

Monica shrugged, not wanting to reveal what she'd heard about something so close to Travis's heart. “They're vets.”

Brooke leaned closer so her soft voice could be heard over the music. “You know Adam won't say anything about the protest.”

Monica frowned. “How much does he know?”

“Some. Mrs. Palmer
is
his grandma, after all, even though she thinks she's keeping it from him.”

“And you're his fiancée.”

“Yeah, and I talk in my sleep.”

They both laughed.

Brooke's smile faded. “You and Travis are closer now. Are you still going through with this protest on his watch?”

Monica nodded and took a deep breath. “And we need your help. It's going to be strange and inconvenient, but I thought it might appeal to you. Can we borrow your indoor riding arena Thursday and Friday of the wedding weekend? And we'd need twenty-­four hours of secrecy.”

“Secrecy? You know my dad isn't big on Grandma's past protests.”

“I know. But can you change your schedule around to help us out? Maybe reschedule lessons so no one will be snooping around?”

“Well, yeah, of course I'll help. But you need to clue me in.”

They were deep in discussion for ten minutes until Brooke's eyes went wide, and she finished in a whisper. “Don't say anything. He's coming this way.”

Monica turned to face out and put her elbows back on the long bar-­height shelf built into the wall. She really enjoyed the opportunity to watch Travis walk, tall and broad-­shouldered, with that perfect posture that came from his years in the Marines. Tonight, he was wearing a tight t-­shirt and jeans, and she could have gotten weak in the knees at how sexy casual he looked. All he needed were cowboy boots.

He nodded at Brooke, then said to Monica, “Want to dance?”

She exchanged a surprised look with Brooke before saying, “Sure.” She saw Royce shake his head regretfully and turn away. And then she realized the song had turned slow, and she felt a quickening hunger of desire flicker to life deep in her belly. He took one of her hands in his and put his arm around her waist, bringing her close. They'd kissed, yes, but nothing had touched but their lips. The brush of his thighs against hers now made her breath go shallow, and his hard, callused, masculine palm made her feel all dainty, something she definitely wasn't. She let her other hand slide up his arm to his shoulder, and the hard muscles rippled beneath her touch.

He was staring down at her, his expression as sober as always, but there was a light in those blue eyes that made her think that, deep inside, something was on fire.

Did he burn for her? Just the thought was intoxicating. Unable to stop herself, she moved a little closer, let her breasts brush his chest once, and the resultant shiver was so overwhelming, she realized she couldn't do that in public again, certainly not with everyone she knew watching openly.

She smiled up at him instead. “So this is a surprise.”

“I've been to Tony's before.”

“But you haven't asked me to dance. Although maybe you intend to take a spin with all the women here.”

“Probably not. That would defeat the purpose of fake-­dating.”

“Fake-­dating?” She blinked her eyes innocently. “I thought we were letting ­people believe whatever they wanted, to protect your secret identity. Now we all know who you are, Clark Kent.”

She loved the way the corner of his mouth quirked when she made him want to smile. She swore she'd get the real thing out of him eventually.

“But I use you for information,” he said. “If we're not fake-­dating, ­people will think you've gone over to the enemy.”

“Ah, you're protecting my reputation. I appreciate that.”

They moved slowly together, their bodies well matched. It was far too distracting.

“You know, I didn't mean to eavesdrop at the bar,” she said at last.

He exhaled slowly. “I know.”

She couldn't make herself intrude on something he hadn't confided in her.

“You're curious about my sister?”

She glanced up at him swiftly. “Only if you want to tell me. You didn't mention she'd been wounded when we talked about our families before.”

“It's not a secret, just not something that's easy to bring up. You could Google her and find out she was injured when her truck ran over an IED—­a roadside bomb.”

Monica's stomach clenched. “Oh, Travis, how terrible. She must have been glad you were in the same country to be with her.”

“Not close enough to help, though, was I?” he asked with a trace of bitterness. “And they airlifted her to Germany pretty fast. She lost a leg below the knee.”

Monica pressed her lips together to keep from gasping in horror. “Oh, Travis,” she whispered. She knew his little sister had followed him into the military. She could only hope he didn't somehow blame himself.

“You don't have to look so sad. You can't believe how well she's coping.”

The pride in his voice wasn't surprising; the faint smile was.

“She wears a prosthetic, goes for long runs, and she insisted on staying in the Marines although that was difficult to do. There was a lot of resistance. But she proved she could do her job, since most of it's now behind a desk.”

“Wow, you have a brave little sister.”

“I do.”

The song ended, and he stepped back, leaving her with the feeling that he was relieved. Whether it was because he didn't want to talk about his sister any more or didn't want to dance with her, Monica didn't know. Instead, when Dom motioned for him to come play poker, he left her and joined the guys and Brooke, who also enjoyed a good game.

“Pool anyone?” Whitney said from the two chairs she occupied, one for her butt, and the other for her feet.

Monica laughed and sat down beside her.

“Maybe you'll be needing my lingerie soon,” Whitney murmured, eyeing Travis.

“Very funny.”

But to her surprise, a ­couple hours and one more dance later, Travis was standing beside her when it was time to head home.

“Well, I have to work tomorrow,” she said.

“Me, too.”

She eyed him with speculation, then said for his ears only, “I think if we're going to fake-­date, you have to offer to give me a ride home, and I'm going to be forced to accept.”

“Sounds difficult for you. Sorry to put you in this position.”

“Thanks for your understanding.”

They said their good-­byes, and, as they walked toward the main bar, Monica could feel many pairs of curious eyes on them both.

“Well, that was awkward,” she said, when they stepped outside into the cool night air.

“Which part? The dancing I forced you into?”

She smiled. “You're really getting into this, aren't you? No, the part where all my friends wonder what we'll be doing tonight.”

His pleasant expression grew shuttered. “I know this is sort of a joke between us, but I don't mean to make your friends think badly of you.”

“Oh, they're not thinking badly. Whitney thought I might need lingerie—­but then she thinks that about everyone, so don't panic. And, of course, none of them know that the last time you escorted me outside Tony's, I was lucky to have you.”

“You didn't tell anyone about the attack?” he asked curiously.

She shrugged. “I didn't want everyone to worry. If I thought the guy was a hard-­core menace, I'd have let the police know. But I really do just think he was a drunk idiot. Doesn't mean I don't realize you were the reason he probably sobered up fast.”

She wished she could see his face, but once again, the shadows left him a mystery. “So tell me, Agent Beaumont, have you had to do that sort of thing a lot since you joined the Secret Ser­vice?”

He leaned his shoulder against the brick wall. “Not a lot, no. And, of course, I can't officially mention any protectee by name.”

“I'm not asking for names,” she cajoled, “but I'd love to hear some exploits.”

She saw the faint gleam of his teeth as he smiled. “Exploits, huh? We train so those exploits don't happen. We have a tactical ‘village' of sorts, where we run courses as things actually blow up around us, including simulated gas or chemical attacks. We go over it so many times until we react, not think. But that's not all of our mission—­much of it is determining the actual threat to the president, for example, breaking down letters to find the villain's identity. You pretty much can't threaten a president by mail and not be discovered. Even the ink can be traced—­we have the world's largest collection of samples, dating back to the turn of the
last
century.”

“These are all the things you do to prepare, I get that. But what about on the job?” She softened her voice and touched his chest. “Have you ever been hurt?”

“You know I can't talk specifics,” he said, lightly touching her hand where it rested on him.

“I don't think that's totally true—­I think you don't
want
to tell me details. I'm a delicate woman who needs to be protected, right?”

He cupped her cheek. “Much as I think you're sexily feminine, Monica, I wouldn't call you delicate or fragile. But . . . I honestly don't believe anyone should know about the rare times things go wrong.”

She felt disappointed but not surprised. He obviously didn't brag, but he was also
very
protective. It came with the job. And that meant protecting her—­as he'd already shown not too long ago.

And he was loyal, too, dedicated to the agency, dedicated to the ­people he protected. She admired everything about him.

With a sigh, she said, “Come on, fake boyfriend, drive me the ­couple blocks home.”

When he pulled into the alley behind her flower shop, she hesitated as if she couldn't quite unbuckle the seat belt. The tension of being alone in a dark, enclosed place was thick between them. He sat still for a moment, just breathing, but, to her consternation, he finally got out and came around to open her door.

She slid out of the SUV. “Does this mean you're coming in to examine the apartment again?”

“No, just walking you to the door.”

Monica slipped her keys from her purse. She expected Travis to stay close to his getaway car, but when she turned around, he was standing right there, a step down from her, so their eyes were nearly level.

“Fake dates should get kissed, too,” he said in a rough voice as he drew her against him. “What do you think?”

They stared at each other from an inch away, both breathing heavily, her breasts pressed against the hard wall of his chest, his hands at her waist.

She lowered her mouth and kissed him. He gathered her hard against him until her toes only brushed the stairs. His mouth slanted over hers, and she opened to him, to the taste of beer and man, and the exquisite excitement of his desire for her.

And pressed so hard against him, she couldn't miss the obvious signs of his erection against her stomach.

Their tongues joined the play, and she slid her fingers into his short hair and along his warm scalp, holding him against her. His hands slid down to cup her ass, to knead and press her even tighter. Her toes lost their purchase on the top stair, and he held her against his body as she gradually slid to the ground. God, it was incredible to feel him, the heat of him, the hardness. She wanted to wrap her legs around his body and hold on tight.

Instead, he lifted his head and stared down at her, taking several deep breaths as if to calm himself down. She let her hands slide down his shoulders to his chest, where she could feel his racing heart.

As he stared into her eyes, the corner of his lip quirked, and this time she let her fingers touch it. He turned his head and captured her finger gently between his teeth. She shuddered in helpless arousal.

He released her finger, as well as the grip on her waist. “Good night, Monica.”

She hugged herself around the waist and watched him climb back in the SUV and drive away.

Damn, but she liked kissing him. She was trying to understand him, to find the more relaxed man he might once have been, but now he was surprising her, changing things between them. And she didn't know what to think.

A
fter spending Saturday morning working, Monica picked up her mother and drove them both to the Widows' Boardinghouse. Brenda Hutcheson brought the big box that held three ghillie suits, and the Double Ds dug in to examine them.