Page 32 of The Soldier and the Cowboy

“Okay, and if anyone asks, Cal and I fought for you, and I won.”

She smiled up at him. “The first rule of telling a lie is to keep it believable, Sully. Let’s say you fought, and I beat you both.”

“The longer I know you, the more believable that sounds,” he said. He opened the door for her and allowed her to precede him inside.

Chapter 13

The next morning Bailey woke at dawn to go for a run, as was her normal routine. Unlike normal, Cal jogged up beside her and kept an easy pace at her side. They ran what she guessed to be about two miles and then turned back toward the house, still without speaking. About the last mile or so, she picked up her speed, and so did he. She pushed it harder, and he followed suit. They sprinted neck and neck until, the last hundred feet to the house, he overtook her, bounded up the steps, and touched the door first.

She joined him a few seconds later and doubled over, sucking oxygen. Cal lay flat on his back, doing the same.

“Can’t win them all, little bit,” he said.

“I’m leaving,” she said, and he sat up.

“What?”

She stood upright. “Things are in good shape here. The men know better what to do, how to handle themselves. I’ve established a security plan for them, and they’re more aware of the danger, as well as their surroundings. You have Sully if there’s a problem or emergency. I think my work here is about done.”

“What will you do?” he asked.

“Jinx’s mom had one of those blood pressure cuffs he’s beenletting me borrow. I’ve been checking it every day, and it’s been perfect. If I get it documented and verified by a doctor, I can go back. I can be a marine again.”

He hugged his knees to his chest, wrapping his long arms around them. “I’m not ready for you to go.”

She took his left hand, the one still wearing his ring. “Darlin’, you’re not ready for me to stay.” She gave his hand a squeeze, bypassed him, and went to take a shower.

When she emerged, Cal was nowhere to be seen. Bailey put the coffee he’d left for her in a travel mug and hightailed it outside to avoid another encounter with him. She hopped in the plane and took off for her morning patrol. She followed her own advice, mixing up her patrols so she didn’t keep the same routine each day. It took conscious effort because she was the sort of person who thrived on routine.

She had completed her first turn when she saw smoke rising from below. Wildfires were a real concern in such a dry, hot environment. Bailey circled once more and set the plane down, intending to investigate.

She withdrew the plane’s fire extinguisher and stepped out into the blazing sunshine. Even wearing her sunglasses she had to shade her eyes in order to see anything. She scanned the horizon and saw nothing but a small brush fire, one that was already trying to leap its confines and blaze out of control. She used the extinguisher on it, pouring foam on the surrounding area to try and dissuade any sparks from getting further ideas. When she was satisfied, she made as if to pivot back to the plane when suddenly an iron grip surrounded her from behind. A vice-like arm wrapped around her neck, cutting off her air.

“Let’s have some fun,” a man whispered in Spanish. From the hard feel of his chest, Bailey could tell he was wearing Kevlar. He was bigger than her, stronger, and wearing abullet-proof vest. There was no way she could out-muscle him so she’d have to outfight him. She went slack, forcing him to take her full weight or drop her. He chose to take her weight, leaning in to get a better grip. As he bent forward, she reared her head back, bashing her skull into his face. It was enough to make him lose his grip on her completely.

She was little, lithe, and fast. Those would be her only advantages so she used them as best she could, spinning out of his grasp and reaching for the tactical stick on her belt. The Kevlar wasn’t the only thing that kept her from reaching for the gun. His size was a factor. If he overpowered her, got the gun away from her, she’d have zero chance. Her best bet was to take him by surprise, to disable him before he was ready for it.

He lunged for her with his right hand but, like a lot of large men, he relied on his size and physique with no real idea how to use them. They would work well on someone who wasn’t a trained fighter, who didn’t know how to fight back. Lucky for Bailey she did.

She brought the stick down hard on his right forearm while shoving his wrist in the opposite direction. There was a satisfying crack of bone, and he screamed. For good measure, she broke a few of his fingers, disabling his dominant hand and arm completely.

He wore a helmet, she now saw, and it would need to come off. She bashed the butt of the stick into the center of his face. He screamed again as his nose and lip exploded with blood and ruined cartilage. He flailed at her blindly, his left hand connecting hard with her face. She felt her own lip split as her eye began to throb, but she ignored it, her fingers scrambling for the strap of his helmet as she yanked it off and tossed it away.

His hands went protectively to his head, afraid she wasabout to hit him there. Instead she reached for the vest, yanking hard at the Velcro until it pulled free. When that was finished, she brought the club up between his legs. He bent forward, retching, moaning, not sure what to cover next. Bailey connected the stick with his kneecap and shoved his back. He went down like a dead tree, lumbering to his stomach in a ungraceful heap. She sat on his back, reached for a ziptie from her pants and started to truss. He fought her. She clutched the stick and gave a glancing blow to his forehead, knocking him unconscious.

When he was out, she tied his hands and bound his feet. She stood, panting, scanning the horizon for more of his friends. For now, they were alone. She would have to haul him into the plane, and she was dangerously low on energy. Clutching his vest and helmet in one hand, she opened the plane’s passenger door with the other. After setting the gear on the seat, she reached for her attacker and began hauling him unceremoniously into the cab of the plane.

He must have weighed close to two hundred pounds. There was no way to get him onto the seat, but then she didn’t much care to. She dragged his torso onto the floor of the plane, hauled his feet onto the seat, and buckled them with the safety belt in case he came to and tried to kick her.

After giving the fire one last spray of foam, she tossed the empty canister back into the cockpit, hopped inside, and took off.

Cal was waiting for her when she landed. He opened the door and extended a hand to help her out. “We need to talk.”

“Could you call Sully?” she asked. She was so tired now the words felt as if they were wrenched from somewhere deep and painful.

Cal tilted his head at her. “What’s wrong?”

She motioned with her thumb to the plane behind her. He stuck his head inside and said a word that, though indiscernible to her, did not sound like a prayer of thanksgiving.

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