Middle East, or across country to big-money races.
But rather than a fancy jet, they would use a reconditioned pre-World War II DC-3. The old tail-draggers were workhorses—no pun intended—usually put to use these days hauling cargo that didn’t move around, hence the need to palletize the horses.
The plane itself wouldn’t draw too much attention, especially since it would land on a runway already laid out on Lonesome Pony land. Lots of the bigger ranches had their own planes, Frank knew, if normally single-prop jobs. And he guessed if the locals heard about the horses, that would merely serve as proof of Daniel Austin’s madness in setting up what was sure to be a money-losing breeding ranch.
But back to the operation and the reason the scientist needed to be brought in undercover. “You’re expecting trouble?” Sweat trickled down Frank’s spine at the thought.
“Hopefully not, but just in case, I want Birch protected by the best.”
Which wasn’t necessarily him, Frank feared, though he kept his mouth shut on that score. Too late to raise questions about his capabilities at this point. He’d already committed himself.
But question himself he did as Daniel wrapped up the meeting and sent him off to pack an overnight bag before being driven to the Bozeman airport, where a charter would get him to Boulder before dark. Was he ready to be responsible for another’s life? Or had he been a fool to let Daniel sweet-talk him into Montana Confidential?
Truth was…he just didn’t know.
He only knew he had to prove himself. To make up for what he’d been unable to stop from happening…to make amends, somehow.
Maybe then the nightmares would quit him.
As the agents left the house, a dark green SUV pulled up with a screech of tires. A woman with red-gold hair slid out from behind the wheel. The moment her high-heel-clad feet touched the gravel, Frank recognized Whitney MacNair.
She pushed down her designer sunglasses and murmured, “Just what I need, some hunky men.”
Opening the back of the SUV, she revealed a pile of designer luggage. She turned her gaze on Frank.
“Sorry, ma’am, I already have an assignment.”
Undaunted, she walked right up to Court and slipped a hand around one arm. “Ooh, so strong,” she cooed. “And I can tell you’re a real gentleman.”
Frank kept going, glancing over his shoulder to watch the show. It did his heart good to see a scowling Court Brody be forced to haul the woman’s luggage inside.
Frank’s log cabin was the farthest from the swimming pool. The most isolated, the reason he’d chosen it. The living area, bedroom and bath all had been decorated by the same hand as had done the main house. Some would consider these to be small quarters, but after the hellhole that had been home for five months, Frank considered them palatial.
Quickly gathering a few articles of clothing and throwing them into an overnight bag, he set it next to the rucksack he never traveled without. Then he grabbed his Stetson, left the cabin and wended his way around the swimming pool. Waiting next to the ranch truck, Patrick McMurty was talking to Daniel and Kyle.
As he caught up to the men, Whitney stuck her head out a second-floor window. “Excuse me, but I’m desperate. I need some more muscle up here…to move the furniture around. If I’m going to be happy living here, then I need to mix things up a little.”
Frank figured she was going to mix things up a lot.
“Damn, we don’t have time for such nonsense,” Daniel muttered.
As if she expected the objection, Whitney pulled a helpless expression. “Pretty please.”
Kyle muttered, “She doesn’t seem like the kind to give up.”
“Yeah, yeah. And we wouldn’t want her to be unhappy.” Daniel held his hand out to Frank for a brisk shake. “Good luck. We’ll see you and Birch tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” Frank echoed as Daniel and Kyle rushed off.
Glad for his excuse to get out of dancing to the woman’s tune, Frank shook his head and climbed into the passenger seat.
Already behind the wheel, Patrick started the truck. “That one’s gonna be something else.”
“Daniel can handle her.”
Patrick shot the truck down the driveway, spewing gravel in all directions. Frank felt himself hurtling toward a situation that could too easily spin out of his control.
Suddenly, getting to know the lovely, if spoiled, Whitney MacNair seemed far more appealing than going after some nerdy little man who could be a powder keg in disguise.
CECILIA JANE BIRCH wasn’t thrilled to be leaving for the wilds of Montana at the crack of dawn the next morning. Having lived her entire thirty years in ultra-civilized England but for the past few months, she considered Boulder, Colorado, as uncivilized as she cared to get. All those mountains in the distance…all that open sky…all those snakes, one of them with her name, she was certain.
She shivered at the thought.
But her work was her life, after all, and the Quinlan Research Institute needed her expertise, so she had no choice, really.
And how much less civilized could things get, anyway?
At least that’s what she decided to believe as she left her colleagues to their drinks at the outdoor table of the Brickwalk Café, where they’d had a dinner meeting to catch up loose threads. Not knowing how long she might be gone, she’d turned over her files to her assistant Len Miller, who would take over the project she’d been heading—for good if he had anything to say about it, she assumed.
Well, it just couldn’t be helped.
Dusk had fallen over the Pearl Street Mall, the red-bricked pedestrian-only heart and soul of the city. The area around the restaurant was sparsely populated since an outdoor concert with Cowboy Sam and the Spurs had lured university students to the other end of the mall. Now, if only they knew some civilized tunes. C.J. had always preferred the classics.
She did enjoy the short walk along historic buildings housing numerous shops, galleries, offices and sidewalk cafés—not that it could compete with London, of course. All summer, entertainers had abounded, including the Zip Code Man, who could identify towns and sometimes even describe building styles in neighborhoods, based on a visitor’s zip code. Then there was the sword swallower, contortionist, juggler and professional accordionist—all buskers who played for the hat.
As she stopped to pull a chocolate bar from her pocket, a sudden goosey feeling along her neck gave her pause. Surreptitiously, she looked around.
From a few feet away, a bronzed statue seemed to be watching her.
C.J. blinked. Not a statue, but another busker, skin and clothing like painted bronze. He leaned on his closed umbrella, his hat upended at his feet. Then he deliberately changed positions to a new pose and froze.
Performance art such as this she would never understand, C.J. thought, caught by the statue’s steady gaze on her as she backed off.
For some reason her mouth went dry and she realized she was holding her breath.
Suddenly the statue lunged for her, grabbed her arm so that she dropped her candy bar, and whirled her from the walkway toward a side street. Not knowing whether to laugh or to express outrage, C.J. attempted to be good-natured about the situation…until she realized the man wasn’t letting up.
“I say, you may stop now!”
But he didn’t.
Heart fluttering, C.J. dug in her heels and attempted to pry the man’s fingers from her arm. “Sir! What do you think you’re about?”
He wasn’t letting her go, that was for certain. Not even looking at her, he was inching her into the