Page 41 of Shane

“She must have a good personal assistant.”

“Yeah, she does. Also has a nanny and two bodyguards with her. Plus” —he shrugged— “she’s Jess.”

Everlee took that to mean Jess knew how to take care of herself. Jessie West, the widely acclaimed supermodel, was no weakling. She’d once lived with her parents and brother on the ranch east of Smoke’s place. They’d been childhood sweethearts, had even competed in rodeo events until the never-ending war in Afghanistan came along and stole Smoke from his family. By then, Jessie had already made it big in the fashion world. They’d lost touch. Then along came the F5 tornado that brought them both back home and together again. But only because the twister had taken Smoke’s parents, Caleb and Caroline Montoya, as well as Ethan West, Jessie’s brother and Smoke’s best friend.

Smoke and Jessie now owned quite a chunk of property that included his parents’ ranch, the Lost Chaparral, the West’s family ranch to the east, as well as what had once been Clem and Betty Hardy’s ranch to the west. Last Everlee knew, Smoke’s wife Jessie was breeding champion Appaloosa horses and Texas longhorns, in between photo shoots for her teen cosmetic line,Western Stars. An odd combination of interests, but hey. Smoke certainly had enough room for Jessie to do whatever she wanted.

If you asked Smoke how he was doing, he’d always say, “Good.” Just like every other American warrior on the planet. Didn’t matter if they were shot to hell, half-dead, or bleeding out, special operators were all the same. They were good, at least good enough to fight until they couldn’t. Course, by then, they might also be good and dead.

Everlee had never been in combat, but she respected the hell out of men and women who had. They were the heroes. Unknown, underpaid, and trashed by the press, but tried and true. You didn’t see reporters or politicians getting medals of honor. Just warriors, the men and women on the front lines, the ones who’d actually sacrificed blood and limbs and friends. Firemen, nurses, doctors, EMTs, teachers, and warriors, those were the other real heroes in America.

She turned a sober smile to the silver-haired gentleman kicked back in a corner of the dark leather couch beneath the curtained, now secured behind metal armor, picture window. “Hey, Jared. How’s Sunnyvale treating you?”

“Damned if I know or care, Agent Yeager. Not a big friend of city folk drama, so I don’t get into Sunnyvale much. But out here where the air’s clean, I’m still kicking butt. How’s my best girl?” Jared Powers was an older, wiser, and yet still flirtatious gentleman. He’d been Caleb’s foreman until Caleb died and was Smoke’s foreman now. A stern-faced cowboy with a mustache that matched the shade of his shaggy, silvery-gray hair, Jared managed the ranch, while Smoke handled the sixteen oil rigs scattered across the southernmost portion of the ranch.

“I’m good, you old snake charmer,” she replied, then gestured to Shane, who still had a good grip on their prisoner’s arm. “Smoke, Jared, meet my partner, our latest and greatest, former USMC Corporal, now Agent Shane Hayes, scout sniper extraordinaire.”

Ms. Smart’s eyes widened at that sensational intro. Good. Everlee meant to surprise their pretty little killer. Which was all Everlee saw. This woman was guilty. Her innocent act was just that, an act, damn it.

“Ha,” Shane grunted, but leaned over and grabbed Smoke’s hand. “Not sure about all that crap, but I am at your disposal for as long as I’m here. Damned good to meet you, Mr. Mon—”

“Smoke. Just Smoke.”

Everlee had to smile. Smoke Montoya was quiet, yet as deadly and to the point as ever. He might look like a sexed-up playboy with his deeply-tanned skin, a by-product of his proud Mexican heritage, and all that lush, black hair, cut short on the sides and left longer on top. But he was still a former Navy SEAL and one of America’s most lethal snipers.

Seeing these two men shake hands felt like watching matched bookends coming together. Both were the same height, damned near the same heft and confidence, both tall, dark, heavily muscled through their shoulders and chests, and handsome as hell. Only difference was Smoke’s eyes were deep, dark brown, and Shane’s were midnight blue. Smoke was obviously of Mexican descent. His skin was naturally dark. Shane’s was not; he was just tanned in all the right places. Not like that made them different where it counted. The same haunted shadows still stalked behind their eyes.

Everlee wished she knew Shane’s story and what put those shadows there. But she also sensed the instant brotherhood these men shared that she never would. It was an exclusive club combined only of special forces operators and men who’d survived combat. Not a sisterhood, but a rock-solid brothers-in-arms thing that defied politics, distance, or public opinion. There was no safer place for Ms. Tuesday Bremmer, aka Ms. Tuesday Smart, aka Ms. Whoever, than right here on the Lost Chaparral.

“Smoke, then,” Shane said gruffly, nodding his respect.

Smoke crossed his arms over his chest, his obsidian black eyes as dark as his jeans. “Afghanistan?”

As if responding to some unspoken guy code, Shane released Smart’s arm and assumed the same position as Smoke, his feet spread, his arms crossed over his chest. “Laos and Chile, too. Heard you were in Cambodia a while back.”

Between the two of them, there was a wealth of nonverbal communication going on. Was this a contest or something?

Smoke lifted one shoulder. “Cambodia. Thailand. Vietnam. Wherever the bastards sent me.”

Just that fast, the competition was over. Shane ran a quick hand over his head. “Shit, this is insane, me being here. Never guessed Alex was sending us to your place. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to meet you. Best damned thing I’ve ever done. You ranch horses or cattle?”

“Both. You ride?”

“Oh, hell, no. I’m one of those awkward city boys zipping around town on rented scooters. Never been on horseback. Wouldn’t know where to start.”

“We can take care of that while you’re here,” Jared cut in. He stretched over the coffee table to shake Shane’s hand. “If you’re anything like this guy here, and I know you are, I’m damned proud to know you, son,” he said as he gave Shane’s hand a solid shake. “Take a chance on one of our horses while you’re here. Even got a couple sturdy mules if you’d rather. Big man like you might like them better.”

Emotion flared across Shane’s face, like a wicked flash of lightning against the pitch-black backdrop of an approaching thundercloud. It vanished as quickly as it came, but Everlee wanted to know the reason behind that flare. She’d seen him crash and burn, knew PTSD pretty much trashed the person you were before you went to war. Shane was exactly like Smoke, a war hero with relentless demons locked inside. Maybe something ordinary like a horseback ride in the country would do him good. Fresh air wouldn’t hurt, either. She intended to make that happen, somehow. But not now. Maybe later.

“Thanks, another time,” Shane replied. And there it was again, that disquieting tone in his answer.

Everlee changed the subject. “And this—” she turned to their too-quiet, too pretty to be a real prisoner— “is alleged murderer, Ms. Tuesday Smart, also known as Tuesday Bremmer. She’s a wanted fugitive, which is why we’re here.”

“She’s not restrained,” Smoke said matter-of-factly.

“Couldn’t keep her cuffed as fast as we switched vehicles getting here,” Shane answered, then added, “but she’s not armed. Ev already patted her down. You wouldn’t happen to have a spare pair of tennis shoes she could borrow?”

“Ma’am,” Smoke said politely to Smart. Not friendly like he’d greeted Shane, and he didn’t appear to be smitten by Smart’s dewy, doe-eyed looks like Shane, either. Without a second glance at Smart, Smoke looked back to Shane. “Jess has a shit ton of shoes. I’ll see what I can find.”

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