Page 21 of Wyoming Cowboy Undercover

What had she been thinking to get so close to Rocco? What if her father had seen them together, her body pressed up against his, lost in the feel of him, that manly musky scent of his curled around her right along with his arms?

She hadn’t been thinking at all. Just feeling.

Feeling reckless and sensual. Hungry for his touch.

Well, she had been thinking a little, enough to assume this was a good spot where they wouldn’t be seen. Someone must have watched them come here after they left the quad. She couldn’t even get ten minutes alone with him in a black walnut grove when she wanted a solid hour behind a locked door in a bedroom. Which would never happen here on the compound.

But this was more than lust or hormones or chemistry, whatever she called it. He was able to soothe her. She could take care of herself, so used to hiding her unhappiness and unease. It was nice not to have to with him. Nice to have strong arms around her when she was shaken. To have someone to really talk to. They’d shared so much. Talked about their childhoods, their disappointments, their dreams. She wanted the Shining Light to branch out. To open a store in town that she’d manage, selling their honey, soaps, artwork. She wanted to make candles, too.

That was what was so powerful about what she had with Rocco. She trusted him with her story, with her pain, with her hopes, and he trusted her enough to do the same.

She’d thought being on the compound with him would bring them closer together, but everyone was conspiring to keep them apart.

Shawn was almost within earshot.

“I haven’t had a minute to myself,” Rocco whispered, with his back to the inbound rider. “I could really use some time to process all the lessons, try to open my chakras.”

She wanted to respond, but Shawn was already on top of them.

He reined in his horse and slid off his mount. “They need some help at the barn, Rocco, cleaning out stalls.”

“I can go to the barn,” Mercy said. “I’ve already asked him to take care of something else.”

“No,” Shawn said, shaking his head. “That won’t be necessary. I don’t think Empyrean would want you to do that.”

“Could you go handle that issue for me?” Mercy tipped her head to the side, giving Rocco the go-ahead to get out of there, and he didn’t hesitate to leave. “Since I have you here, Shawn, I’d like to go over some security concerns that I have.”

“With me?” His horse neighed. “Shouldn’t you talk to Alex or your father?”

“I see such promise in you.” Mercy smiled. “I’d rather talk to you.” She shifted her gaze, watching Rocco hurrying away. She loved the way he moved—the long, impatient strides tempered by a sort of sauntering grace. She appreciated everything about him, down to the way he wore his jeans, low on his hips, the faded fabric washed to a softness that outlined the sinewy muscles of his legs. “Unless you don’t think you’re up for the task,” she said to Shawn, unable to take her eyes off Rocco, excitement still rippling over her skin from touching him and being touched by him.

“Of course I am. Whatever I can do to be of service,” Shawn said.

Smiling, Mercy refocused on the man in front of her to give the man she was completely falling for a chance to catch his breath alone.

ROCCOSLIPPEDINSIDEthe security building.

His timing was perfect. The others were patrolling the grounds and practicing at the firing range on the far end of the compound. That was probably why they either had him on lockdown with Harvey or out at the barn shoveling manure around now.

He darted through the building, passing the offices, lounge and bay of computers, heading straight for the restricted area. Reaching the locked door, he pulled out his kit that was strapped to his ankle.

Rocco opened the set of lock-picking tools and attacked the pin tumbler. He slipped the L-shaped part into the cylinder to keep pressure on the pins. Next, he slid the straight piece into place and searched for the right angle to access the locking mechanism. He had tackled this kind of lock before and estimated it would take him thirty seconds tops.

One tumbler clicked into place, then a second and third. He worked on the next two. Finally, the last pin gave way and the tumbler fell into place.

He opened the door and ducked inside, closing it behind him.

The breath whooshed out of him at what he saw. Racks of assault rifles—M16s, HK416s, SIG 550s, semiautomatic sniper rifles with scopes, a variety of pistols, cases of ammo, bulletproof vests. Hundreds upon hundreds of weapons.

He hurried through the space, mentally cataloging what he could. His primary focus was on the type of ammo they had beyond caliber: full metal jacket, hollow point, soft point.

No armor-piercing. At least not here.

No sign of any destructive devices. No grenades, no RPGs, no explosives.

There was one unopened wooden case in the back with a lightning bolt burned into the wood. He thought of the stickers on the bumper of the truck that had run Dr. Tiggs off the road. A white lightning bolt on a red background. This mark was black.

He’d seen the white bolt while thumbing through their books in the sanctum as he listened to Empyrean’s homily.

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