smiling. She liked his smile, and she liked the riot of sunset colors in the sky. She wanted to write a song, itched to.
Suddenly, she had a notebook and a pen, but when she started to write it became a picture of Tom, and then she tripped and it was Tom’s body. She reached out for Zach’s help, but it was only Tom’s lifeless eyes staring back from Zach’s face.
She didn’t know whether she was screaming or crying, maybe it was both, and then she fell with a jolt. Her eyes flew open, face wet and breath coming so fast it hurt her lungs.
Somehow, she knew Zach was standing there. It didn’t even give her a start. It seemed right and steadying that he was standing in her doorway in nothing but a pair of sweatpants, a dim glow from the room behind him.
Later, she’d give some considerable thought to just how cut Zach was, all strong arms and abs. Something else he hid quite well, and she was sure quite purposefully.
“You screamed and you didn’t lock your door,” he offered, slowly lowering the gun to his side. He looked up at the ceiling, and gestured toward her. “You might want to...”
He trailed off and in her jumble of emotions and dream confusion, it took her a good minute to realize the strap of her tank top had fallen off her arm and she was all but flashing him.
She wasn’t embarrassed so much as tired. Bone-deep tired of how this whole thing was ruining her life. “Sorry,” she grumbled, fixing the shirt and pulling the sheet up around her.
“No. That’s not...” He cleared his throat. “You should lock that door.”
She wished she could find amusement in his obvious discomfort over being flashed a little breast, but she was too tired. “Lock the door to shield myself from lunatics with guns?” she asked, nodding at the pistol he carried.
“To take precautions,” he said firmly.
“Are you telling me if I’d screamed and the door had been locked you wouldn’t have busted in here, guns blazing?”
“They were hardly blazing,” he returned, ignoring the question.
But she knew the answer. She might not know or understand Zach Simmons, but he had that same thing her brother did. A dedication to whatever he saw as his mission.
Currently, she was Zach Simmons’s mission. She wished it gave her any comfort, but with Tom’s dead face flashing in her mind, she didn’t think anything could.
“You want a drink?” he asked, and despite that bland tone he used with such effectiveness, the offer was kind.
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
He nodded. “I’ll see what I can scrounge up. You can meet me out there.”
She took that as a clear hint to put on some decent clothes. On a sigh, she got out of bed and rifled through her duffel bag. She pulled out her big, fluffy robe in bright yellow. It made her feel a little like Big Bird, which always made her smile.
Tonight was an exception, but it at least gave her something sunny to hold on to as she stepped out of the room. Zach was pouring whiskey into a shot glass. He’d pulled on a T-shirt, but it wasn’t the kind of shirt he’d worn yesterday that hid all that surprisingly solid muscle. No, it fit him well, and allowed her another bolt of surprisingly intense attraction.
He set the shot glass on the table and gestured her into the seat. She slid into it, staring at the amber liquid somewhat dubiously. “Thanks.” But she didn’t shoot it. She just stared at it. “Got anything to put it in? I may love a song about shooting whiskey, but honestly shots make me gag.”
His mouth quirked, but he nodded, pulling a can of pop out of the fridge.
“No diet?”
“I’ll put it on the grocery list.”
“And where does one get groceries in the middle of nowhere Wyoming?”
“Believe it or not, even Wyomingites need to eat. I’ve got an assistant who’ll take care of errands. If you make a list, we’ll supply.”
She sipped the drink he put in front of her. The mix of sugar and whiskey was a comforting familiarity in the midst of all this...upheaval.
“You don’t shoot whiskey.”
She quirked a smile at him. “Not all my songs are autobiographical, friend. Truth be told, I’d prefer a beer, but it doesn’t give you quite the same buzz, does it?”
“No, but I’d think more things would rhyme with beer than whiskey.”
“Songs also don’t have to rhyme. Fancy yourself a country music expert? Or just a Daisy Delaney expert?”
“No expertise claimed. I studied up on your work, not that I hadn’t heard it before. Some of your songs make a decent showing on the radio.”
“Decent. Don’t get that Jordan Jones airtime, but who does? Certainly no one with breasts.” This time she didn’t sip. She took a good, long pull. Silly thing to be peeved about Jordan’s career taking off while hers seemed to level. Bigger things at hand. Nightmares, dead bodyguards, empty Wyoming towns.
“The police don’t suspect him.”
She took another long drink. “No, they don’t.”
“Do you?”
She stared at the bubbles popping at the surface of her soda. Did she think the man she’d married with vows of faith and love and certainty was now stalking her? That he killed the person in charge of keeping her safe?
“I don’t want to.”
“But you think he could be responsible?” Zach pressed. Clearly, he didn’t care if he was pressing on an open, gaping wound.
“I doubt it. But I wouldn’t put it past one of his people. After I filed for divorce they did a number on me. Fake stories about cheating and drinking and unstable behavior, and before you point it out, no, my songs did not help me in that regard. Funny how my daddy was revered for those types of songs, even when he left Mama high and dry, but me? I’m a crazy floozy who deserves what she gets.”
Zach’s gaze was placid and blank, lacking all judgment. She didn’t have a clue why that pissed her off, but it did. So she drank deeply, waiting for that warm tingle to spread. Hopefully slow down the whirring in her brain a little bit. “I don’t want to have a debate about feminism or gender equality. I want to be safe home in my own bed. And I want Tom to be alive.”
“I’m working on one of those. I’m sorry I can’t fix the rest.”
He said it so blankly. No emotion behind it at all, and yet this time it soothed her. Because she believed those words so much more without someone trying to act sincere.
“What did you dream about?” he asked as casual and devoid of emotion as he’d been this whole time.
Except when he’d been uncomfortable about her wandering breast. She held on to the fact that Mr. Ex-FBI man could be a little thrown off.
“Hiking. You. Tom. It’s a jumble of nonsense, and not all that uncommon for me. I’ve always had vivid dreams, bad ones when I’m...well, bad. They’ve just never been so connected or relentless.”
“I imagine your life has never been so relentless and threatening.”
“Fair.”
“The dreams aren’t fun, but they’ll be there. Meditation works for some. Alcohol for others, though I wouldn’t make that one a habit. Exercise and wearing yourself out works, too.”
“Let me guess, that’s your trick?”
He shrugged. “I’ve done all three.”
“Your job gave you dreams?”
“Yeah. Dreams are your subconscious, the things you