Big Sky, Loyal Heart Read online

  “No, not even your brother.”

  Patrick thought about having something on his older brother even if he could never tell him. “Excellent! I’m good with that.”

  Mark got it, of course, and snorted out a laugh before thumping him on the shoulder.

  “Lauren,” Emily rolled her eyes and sighed before turning back to Lauren. “I have a contract that I can’t fulfill. At least not without you.”

  “A contract?” Lauren was still trying to get over Mack leaving her his father’s rifle. Whatever this new thing was, she wasn’t getting it. “What are you talking about, Emily?”

  “I’m a specialist in air tactics and air security. I need someone who can get me the same thing on the ground. I mentioned the idea a long time ago to Michael, then forgot about it. I guess he didn’t. He brought me you.”

  “Colonel Gibson brought me to meet you?” The fog of the day wasn’t lifting.

  Emily nodded, but didn’t speak.

  Lauren groaned. “I can see in your eyes this is another test. Haven’t I been through enough of those today?”

  “You’re right. Sorry,” Emily looked chagrined. “I—”

  “No,” Lauren stopped her, finally intrigued.

  And Emily nodded. Emily. The chance to work with her and learn from her was enough to fire Lauren’s imagination any time, any place.

  “Tac Room. Ground tactics and security.” She began ticking off the connecting pieces on her fingers. “You and Michael going on the elk hunt with me, then making sure I was on point for the tracking. I know you couldn’t have planned the bear, but that must have fed into your decision. Even the muddy tracks across the porch.”

  “What muddy tracks?” Patrick would of course be a step behind, but only because he lacked the military training. “Oh, ours up at the cabin? What do they have to do with anything?” Okay, not very far behind. It was easy to forget that behind his content and outward complacency, he was also a highly skilled guide.

  “And then this afternoon. Michael said it was a live-action test.”

  “What happened today?” Patrick asked.

  But Emily shook her head. “This is the part that will suck, Patrick. There are some things that she can’t discuss with you. We’ll see about getting you enough security clearance, but for the moment just know that she saved a lot of lives today, not just by who she knew but also by how she thinks.”

  “Planning scenarios that haven’t happened yet, just in case they do.” Lauren now understood that part of the test as well. Her planning the La Koubba tactic with Georges just to pass the time had been a key factor in Emily’s invitation.

  “Exactly,” Emily agreed, proving her assumption.

  “So how long is this for?” This. This! was something that Lauren could dig her teeth into.

  Guiding was an interesting challenge. Be even more interesting with Rip’s sensitive nose at her side. He’d have sniffed the bear earlier, perhaps in time to still scare it off.

  And training the dogs was something she’d always enjoyed. She’d wager that, with time, she could again.

  But ground tactics for protection and security… That was just freaking cool!

  “Open-ended contract. It’s a new concept. If it works, we’ll act as oversight for an indefinite time.” Government work, without being trapped in the grind that was the military service. Even Delta Force took its mental toll over time, often far beyond the heavy wear and tear on the body.

  “How high are the stakes?”

  “They don’t get any higher.”

  That stopped her and made her blink.

  “In or out?” Emily asked.

  “You don’t tell me anything else until I agree?”

  Emily nodded.

  She slipped her hand into Patrick’s and he squeezed hers so hard it almost hurt. Her decision, but his grip was support, not warning.

  “One more question.”

  Emily shrugged a maybe.

  “Are we based here? At the ranch?” Lauren could feel Patrick’s body go galvanic with shock. He’d missed that one.

  Emily’s smile grew until it shone brilliantly.

  The wedding, which seemed to have gone quiet in the background, burst back to life with a fast dance number.

  “One hundred percent from the ranch. Why do you think I had them build me that crazy room?”

  Lauren could see it. Could see the two of them working side by side. And she would have more to hang on the wall beside the second command station than dog photos and an old leash that had probably cut into her for long enough. There would be a photo of the man she loved.

  “The ranch,” she turned to Patrick, trying to understand what had just happened. “Maybe even the high cabin.”

  Mark’s nod confirmed that as well.

  “A chance to do something you already excel at,” Patrick put in his vote.

  “With you.”

  “With you,” he echoed.

  Rip poked his head up to see if there were any more scraps.

  “And you,” Lauren tickled the tip of his nose and he sneezed on Mark’s shiny boots.

  Patrick was working his mouth but couldn’t seem to find any words to go with it.

  She rested a finger across his lips, then removed it to kiss him lightly.

  “When you figure out how to speak, Patrick, the answer is yes. Okay?”

  He nodded fiercely, then crushed her against him, which was the only answer she needed. Mark pounded him on the other shoulder—again. He was going to be black and blue.

  Emily pulled her from Patrick’s arms for a big hug.

  “We’re going to be awesome together,” Emily whispered in her ear.

  Lauren nodded in agreement. This was going to be amazing. “What are we going to be doing?” Lauren whispered back.

  “Setting up a secret security team, without even the next President knowing about it.”

  “A what?” Lauren pulled back, but kept her face close so that they could whisper while Mark and Patrick were busy congratulating each other about both being men, or whatever men did with each other at moments like this.

  “A security team,” Emily explained. “One charged with maintaining the security of the United States no matter what the politics or who’s in charge. The outgoing President has mandated it.”

  “Your childhood friend Peter?”

  Emily nodded. “But he’s not telling Zachary. Truly apolitical.”

  “Where is it based?”

  This time Emily’s smile was enormous. “I’m going to call it the White House Protection Force. It’s run by the White House librarian.”

  Lauren couldn’t help but laugh. The joy was just too big to keep inside.

  She and Patrick and Rip and her new friend Emily were going to absolutely be awesome together.

  Heart of the Cotswolds: England (excerpt)

  If you’re read the rest of the Henderson’s Ranch series, you’ll love the first book in the Love Abroad series.

  Excerpt

  Aaron struck gold. His favorite table, tucked deep in the corner past the big stone fireplace that dominated The Queen’s Guard pub, freed up just as he came in.

  Extra bonus—he’d question the height of his standards some other day—the departing local had left behind a copy of the Daily Mirror. Not the most scurrilous of the English scandal sheets, but not exactly The Times either. It offered the perfect amount of camp for a Friday afternoon. A pint of the local Donnington ale and he was content.

  Bridget would know that he’d not be ready for his beef-and-mustard ale pie until he was at least halfway down the pint.

  As always, he toasted the owner’s old dog before taking the first sip. After three months here, Snoop—short for Snoop Doggy Dogg, a knee-high Cavalier King Charles Spaniel—barely bothered to acknowledge Aaron’s arrival from his pillow close by the fire-warm hearth. It was a nice change. For most of his first month here, Snoop had delivered a sharp reprimand every time Aaron entered the pub.
/>   After a long day of work, the Queen’s Guard had become Aaron’s retreat of choice and not only because they rented him a cheap room close under the third floor eaves and served a fine breakfast.

  The pub itself dated back two hundred years before the Puritans had landed on Plymouth Rock in Massachusetts, yet it was far from the oldest building in the village of Fosse-on-the-Wold. The trademark yellow Cotswold limestone was dusted gray by its centuries as a pub. The massive beams always made him duck, even though experience had taught him they were several inches clear of his six-foot-one, except the one by the back corner table—something he never managed to remember when crowding forced him to sit so far from his favorite spot by the hearth.

  The tables and chairs were by far the newest element of the furnishings, and they predated the American Civil War. The pub was abuzz with casual afternoon chatter. Not a single massive flat-screen TV in sight. Though that didn’t keep the Brits from their sports talk.

  “Oy, did you hear what they’re paying those blokes what play for Manchester United? It’s just kickin’ a ball up and down the field. Me and the lads done that plenty ’urselves.”

  Yeah, the three blokes with beer guts were going to show David Beckham and Bobby Charlton a move or two.

  The phrase “…that mess in Afghanistan…” caught his attention and he did his best to slam that door closed. He used to care, but didn’t any longer. Honestly, he didn’t. He forced himself to listen to another table.

  “I heard tell that Nelly is going out with that bloke from Bourton.”

  “Naw, she’s taken up with that gypsy she met at the Stow horse fair last November. She’s been seeing him on the sly all along don’t y’know.”

  Good luck to Nelly. The local gypsies were a rough lot. Their biannual horse fair and gathering—especially of those of marriageable age—typically shut down Stow-on-the-Wold for several days. He’d been warned to avoid it and, after a brief afternoon of seeing for himself, decided that the locals weren’t having him on. The Horse Fair was a good time to not be in Stow.

  A man came in, haggard, burned-out homeless. Blank eyes, clothes that even the dump wouldn’t want, looking like a stray breeze would take the beggar down. Bridget zeroed in to shoo him off—except she didn’t.

  “Manfred, it’s so good to see you getting out again at long last. We’re so sorry for your loss of Matilda. She was always one of our favorites.”

  He teared up and patted her hand as she escorted him to a table on the far side of the pub. Hal had come out from the bar and was there to offer his condolences as well. Even Snoop went over for a visit.

  Aaron didn’t feel put out when Hal actually delivered the pint to the man’s table rather than expecting him come up to the bar. Aaron had forgotten about small towns during his decade in the military. God but he loved them. They were places where people knew each other. That chance had led him to Fosse-on-the-Wold still amazed him.

  Page Two of the Daily Mail had a brilliant piece about the Corgi spy dogs that had been infiltrated into the Queen’s entourage during the Cold War by Margaret Thatcher during one of her off-again periods with the Royals. The paper was the perfect excuse for clandestine observation of the local birds flocking through.

  British English had its uses. Maybe only rude blokes thought of English women as “birds” anymore, but they appeared in such a wonderful variety of leggy brunettes and blondes, especially the blondes. England had trended back to long hair while America was still deeply ensconced in bobs and severe jawline cuts. British women let it grow long, flowing down their backs in soft waves that were truly a joy to watch go by. He’d always been partial to long hair.

  He almost missed the blonde’s entrance because he was deep in an article on the documented ghosts of Nether Swell Manor, which lay just over the hill and down in the next valley from Fosse-on-the-Wold. He noticed her because of her stillness. Bridget crisscrossed to deliver meals and kindness in equal proportions. A family of Germans moved awkwardly around her still form to either side.

  Aaron took a sip of his beer as an excuse to keep watching while she surveyed the room.

  She didn’t walk like a Brit. Brits had a laziness…no, an ease to their walk. Out here in the country, hurry simply wasn’t a part of the daily routine. Even a Londoner down on a whirlwind holiday didn’t move with the sharp alacrity of an American. And even among Americans, few moved the way this one did.

  Tall, he liked tall. Blonde, no complaints from him. Unlike the soft cascades of British hair, hers lay in a smooth sheet as perfectly controlled as her dancer’s posture. Her dress—he still wasn’t used to the word frock—was made of fine material and far too fancy for The Queen’s Guard. The afternoon sunlight shone through the door from behind, which hid her face in shadow and left it up to the imagination. But it cast just enough light to silhouette without revealing through her summery clothes. Very trim. Aaron definitely liked trim.

  For a moment, he was afraid that she’d change her mind and duck away, but she visibly stiffened her already fortified spine and forged ahead. She scanned the room once, her gaze barely pausing as it passed over him, then she moved to the small table just one closer to the fire from his own. She’d dismissed him as neither important nor threatening—sadly, both true.

  For a cold winter’s night, hers would be his first choice of a table, but on a warm spring day, he preferred to be out of the direct blast of the fire’s heat.

  Snoop raised his head from his dog pillow to inspect her carefully. Usually he barked at foreigners, more at Americans than continentals. But he inspected the woman in calm silence with his slightly bulging eyes. Even after he settled his head back down on his paws, he watched the woman and Aaron didn’t blame him one bit.

  She didn’t sit facing the pub, which would have placed her back to him, but rather facing the fire. Once his eyes adjusted, he could see her fine features by the fire’s light. The face revealed in firelight didn’t disappoint in the slightest.

  “Elizabeth,” it just came out of him.

  She turned to face him; her eyes were green and distinctly cool despite the fire’s warmth. “No, Jane.”

  “Sorry,” he shot for a British accent but knew he’d missed it along with his chance to pretend he was the least bit exotic. “You are the spitting image of the portrait of Elizabeth the First there,” he pointed at the portrait on the pub’s far wall.

  She turned away to glance at it for only a moment. Her neck was long and elegant, perhaps the best feature on a beautiful woman.

  Even more than the portrait, she might be Cate Blanchett when she played Elizabeth in the films. He’d seen almost every film Cate had done—even the romancy things.

  “Jane Tully,” she repeated flatly, not giving him enough to place any accent. She turned away, offering up her profile for further study.

  If he were to shape her face in stone, it would have to be a warm stone to go with the cool features. But the ruddiness of the western Cotswold limestone wouldn’t suit her any better than the gold of the eastern. Maybe she would be served well by the cool white of an alabaster marble that—

  “Don’t you have a paper to read?” She didn’t even turn from the fire to speak to him.

  He looked down. He still held it open. The words were a blur, as if the light was suddenly too dim to read by after looking at Ms. Jane Tully.

  Bridget came over to take her order. She was such a sharp contrast to Ms. Jane Tully that it was almost as if they weren’t the same species. Bridget was taller than the average woman—Jane was taller still. The waitress was generously built in all the right places, fit without being either slim or heavy—Jane was sleek as a fighter jet. And Jane’s immaculate blonde waterfall outshone Bridget’s pleasantly tangled brunette.

  “Something strong.”

  “We have some Guinness, love. Would that do for ya?”

  Aaron often wondered if Bridget camped up her Yorkshire accent for the tourists—a long way north of this central Gloucesters
hire pub. If so, he’d never caught her out on it, so it was hard to tell. Like her age. She was either eighteen but looked twenty-five, or she was living proof that fifty was the new thirty. It seemed to switch from one moment to the next. At present—in fluorescent green sneakers and aiming her bright smile like a weapon—she was somewhere in between, making sport of gently teasing Americans.

  “Yes,” Jane’s tone stayed flat. “A Guinness is fine.”

  “Would ya be wanting a pint or a half?” Bridget was enjoying this far too much.

  It was the first time he’d seen any uncertainty in the newcomer. She glanced at the waitress and then briefly toward him. He let go of an edge of the paper to reach for his own glass.

  Before he could raise it and say, “This is a pint. You probably are after a half,” the center section of the newspaper fluttered away and scattered on the floor. He set his glass down quickly, grabbed for the falling section and missed, then banged his elbow on an unforgiving knob of stone sticking out of the old wall. Jerking upright, he knocked the table and almost lost his pint to the floor.

  At Snoop’s bark he rapped his elbow hard again.

  Jane’s still, blue eyes simply watched him dissolve into a state of total ineptitude.

  “I’ll have the size glass he’s having,” she gave no reaction to the sad state of affairs that was Aaron Mason. Her voice had just the softest gracing of Southern, probably from one of the Carolinas, only added to her air of perfect sophistication. Finally Jane unleashed a hint of a smile, which focused all his attention on her lips. Good, full lips without any lipstick, but that hint was the first bit of emotion he’d seen from her. Humor beneath the chill exterior was almost a shock.

  Bridget looked at him as if he’d lost his mind while he continued to fumble about—which wouldn’t surprise anyone, neither his family nor his old Army unit. “Well, for a beer, you’ve got to go up to the bar, love. I’ll just leave you a menu.”

  When Bridget was gone, Jane turned to him. A slight furrow of brow was all she showed.