The Heart of Christmas

Maybe not. He’d been fighting the same battle for years; he’d thought things had finally settled down—until he heard otherwise from an old friend. In a different time, a different place, he would’ve closed down his business, sold his house and moved. Anything less was gambling with his life.

But he wasn’t about to sacrifice everything he’d created now that he’d hit his stride. At thirty-six, he was getting too old to be constantly starting over. Not only that, but he was afraid of what another uprooting would do to him. Afraid he’d no longer have the determination or the energy to keep plowing forward.

No way could he allow the gang he’d joined in prison to cost him the ground he’d already gained. He just had to lie low for a while, make sure The Crew never found him. With luck, he’d stay one step ahead, and they’d never get the revenge they were after.

“I’m hoping for the best,” he said.

She sent him a “give me a break” look, what he guessed her adult sons saw when they tried to put one over on her. “I wish that assured me,” she said, but then concern pushed aside the skepticism. “I know you won’t tell me what’s going on, but I’m getting the impression you’re really in a mess this time.”

He’d been in a mess since long before he knew her. It’d started when he’d been a lost and confused teenager and then spiraled out of control. But the men who wanted him dead also had a business to run—several businesses. Prostitution. Gun and drug smuggling. Money laundering. Theft. Whatever would make them a buck. Although killing him would give the banger who did it ultimate bragging rights, chasing him around didn’t net The Crew any money. If he continued to elude them, they’d eventually quit, wouldn’t they?

It was possible. But the opposite was more likely. The longer he lived, the more of a legend he became, and that only increased their desire to put him in a body bag. As far as they were concerned, he and his best friend, Virgil Skinner, had done the unpardonable when they defected and then assisted the authorities—and that demanded retribution. The member who accomplished it would be a hero, at least in their small, sordid world.

“Depends,” he said. “Has anyone come by the office, asking for me? Any strange calls?”

“There are always strange calls,” she said. “You own a personal security firm. Some of our clients are delusional as well as paranoid.”

“So nothing out of the ordinary.”

She studied him for several seconds. “It would help if I understood what you were dealing with. Maybe then I could figure out what to look for.”

“You know I can’t tell you. Some people are after me. That’s all.”

“There’ve been no red flags on my end.”

He took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds and let it go. He’d stay away from his usual haunts for another week, see if there was any sign of his former “brothers.” If all remained quiet, he’d head home. Mona Livingston, the friend who’d warned him that several members of The Crew claimed to have new information on his whereabouts, was still using drugs, so he wasn’t sure her information was all that reliable. She could’ve imagined what she’d heard. Or maybe it was nothing but a bunch of street soldiers trying to impress everyone else by vowing they were going to bring him down. There was always that chance, since putting a bullet in him or Virgil, who now lived on the east coast with his wife and kids, would make them the envy of all they admired.

“So how’d it go with Frick?” he asked.

“That’s Jason, right? For the job? Physically, he’s perfect. He’s an absolute Goliath! But mentally?” She made a clicking sound with her tongue. “He seems a little trigger-happy to me. I’d worry about him shooting someone without a legitimate reason.”

Rex had sensed that same reckless element when they’d chatted briefly on the phone, but he’d wanted to give the guy the benefit of the doubt. It wasn’t easy to come by someone who was six-six and built like a Mack truck. “What about the others? Anyone else a good fit?”

“Peter Viselli seems like he has the right temperament.”

He grimaced. “Peter’s what...five-eleven?”

“Yes, but that’s just a couple of inches shorter than you. You also weigh less than every other man in our company—and yet no one’s better at security than you are.”

Size wasn’t a man’s only weapon. Rex found speed, agility, experience and intelligence to be more important. But appearance counted, too. Size gave All About Security, Inc., the intimidation factor, and enough of an intimidation factor could head off problems before they started. Being surrounded by a couple of muscle-bound giants also helped foster client confidence.

Still...

“I don’t want any loose cannons on my team.” Besides the moral implications of having someone use a firearm without sufficient provocation, there were liability issues. Rex preferred to avoid both. “Set up a second interview with Peter for when I get back next week—say, Friday?”

“You think you might be back that soon?”

“Yes. I’ll call you if anything changes.”

Lips pursed, she slipped the checks he’d signed into a file and put them in her oversize bag. “We definitely need you. You’re what makes us successful.”

“I’ll be back soon.”

“The question is...will you be safe?”

He nodded to placate her, but he hadn’t been safe in years.

* * *

Brent Taylor didn’t have much luggage. A leather satchel lay open on the bed. From what Eve could tell without digging through it, he’d packed jeans, T-shirts and at least one sweatshirt.

The bed was made, as she’d known it would be. The shower was damp. She also found wet towels in the bathroom, where she could smell his deodorant and the shampoo she provided for her guests.

Now that she was here, she felt silly taking careful note of such mundane things—the same things she saw when she cleaned other clients’ rooms. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected to learn or why any of it would matter. If he hadn’t been so secretive and standoffish, she probably wouldn’t have bothered.

There was nothing that revealed a great deal about him, but a few clues gave her more information than she’d had. The type of pan used for prospecting sat on his nightstand. That told her what he was likely doing in Gold Country. On the small desk by the window overlooking the backyard was a laptop, and on the Little Mary’s writing pad by the phone, he’d jotted down some names and numbers.

He wrote like a typical guy, she decided. He printed, but it wasn’t particularly legible. The name Jason Frick topped the short list. His area code suggested he was from the Bay Area, which was just a couple of hours away. She recognized it because so many of her patrons came from there.

Was Frick a friend of Mr. Taylor’s, or a business associate? The other names were male, too, also from the Bay Area. Peter Viselli and Dom Chandler—although Dom’s name was crossed out.

Eve “accidentally” ran her finger over the mouse section of the laptop while dusting, hoping his screensaver would dissolve into whatever he’d been working on, but it didn’t. The demand for a password popped up instead.

She didn’t protect her own computers with a password, even the one she worked on here at the B and B. But there was hardly any crime in Whiskey Creek, and she had nothing to hide.

So who was this Mr. Taylor?

Obviously someone who lived in the city.

Knowing she didn’t have long before Cheyenne or Deb came to find her—or Brent Taylor returned—she replaced his towels and minicontainers of soap, shampoo and conditioner and threw away the ones he’d used. Then she ran a vacuum over the carpet.

When she was finished, she could hear Deb speaking to some guests in the hall. The usual morning sounds made her feel a bit embarrassed for poking around Mr. Taylor’s room. Had she crossed the line? Was she acting like a stalker?

She really needed to get a life, she told herself, and, for the first time ever, considered hiring someone to run the inn for a few months so she could try something else before settling down for good and letting her life harden like cement.

Maybe last night was a sign that she needed to broaden her horizons, embrace change, try new things.

Maybe if she didn’t, she’d regret it later. Cheyenne would be having her baby soon. It wasn’t as if they’d get to work together after that, anyway. Or at least not for a while—

“Hey.”

Eve jumped and turned to see the very person she’d been thinking about standing at the door. “What are you doing up here?” she asked. “You’re not supposed to be climbing the stairs.”

“Who said? The exercise is good for me, as long as I don’t fall.”

“Falling’s what I’m worried about.” After trying for two years to get this baby, and resorting to what she’d resorted to, Cheyenne would be devastated if she lost it.

“I’m being careful. I just wanted to let you know...” She winced as if what she had to say wouldn’t be welcome news.