Page 31 of Trapped with the Covert Ops Soldier

“No wonder you’re blowing stuff up,” the Sheriff said, shaking his head.

“Does this mean I can play with dynamite unsupervised again?”

“No.”

“Well, damn, Sheriff, you’re no fun at all.”

He frowned at her. “Abby, maybe you should be staying with your folks.” His tone was the one people used when talking to someone in a blind panic—oh, so careful. “They’ve plenty of space, and I really think you need to be around people who care for you.”

She hated hearing that tone. “Are you saying no one gives a shit about me here in town?”

“No, but family is family.”

“And the fact that my parents live on a ranch thirty minutes from anything has no bearing on your suggestion.”

“Not a one,” he said without blinking.

“No thanks, I’d go stir crazy at their place in about an hour.”

“It might come up in conversation,” he said, staring at his fingernails. “Your dad and I have coffee at least once a week.”

Now he was playing dirty. “Sheriff, I never did like threats much. I like ‘em even less now. I’d rather go back to Syria than go home.”

He stared at her with the biggest frown she’d ever seen on his face as he demanded in an aggrieved tone, “Why?”

“Because if I learned one thing while over there it’s that life is for living, not hiding. Not running away.”

“Honey, youarerunning now.”

“Then I’ll stop.” She pushed away from the table and stood.

“Where are you going? We haven’t even had lunch yet.”

“I’m going to find the asshole who took a shot at me and find out what the hell is going on.”

“No, you’re not.” Smitty approached their table with a tiger’s stride, so casual you knew he was dangerous. “Sit down, doc, and have some lunch.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Great, the two of you are going to gang up on me, aren’t you?”

“If you’re thinking of doing what I think I just heard, yes.” He took a seat and pointedly looked at hers until she sat in it.

The waitress took their order, soup and sandwiches all around. The two men eyed each other like a couple of boxers before a fight.

“Stop glaring at each other,” Abby said. “Smitty, I told the Sheriff about the attack. The Sheriff told me the bullet that nearly killed me was a .50 caliber match-grade round.”

Smitty’s response was short and to the point. “Fuck.”

“You know anything about this?” the Sheriff asked him.

“No, but I made a few calls this morning to some friends. If anyone’s been talking about hunting in this neck of the woods, I’ll hear about it.”

“Shooting me doesn’t make any sense,” Abby said.

The waitress delivered their food, and they all ate silently for a couple of minutes.

“Could this be an old score someone wants to settle?” Smitty asked. “You’ve lived here most of your life, right?”

“Yes, but again, I can’t think of anyone annoyed enough with me to want to shoot me.”

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