Wyoming Cowboy Bodyguard

“You spend a lot of time evaluating your emotional well-being, Zach?”

“Believe it or not, they don’t let you in or out of the FBI without a psych eval. Same goes for in and out of undercover work—and a few of those messed me up enough to require some therapy. Talking to someone doesn’t scare me, and it shouldn’t scare you.”

“That hardly scares me.”

But the way she scoffed, he wasn’t so sure. Still, it was none of his business. Her recovery was not part of keeping her safe, and the latter was all he was supposed to care about.

“Let’s talk about the people on this list,” Zach said, pushing the computer screen toward her. On the screen was a list of people she’d told her brother she thought might want to hurt her.

Daisy rubbed her temples. “Vaughn gave you this?”

He rose, retrieved some aspirin from the cabinet above the sink and set it next to her elbow. “Your brother gave me copies of everything pertaining to the stalking.”

Daisy frowned at the aspirin bottle, then up at him. “Am I supposed to tip you?”

“Full service security and investigation, Ms. Delaney. Speaking of that, Delaney’s a stage name, isn’t it?”

“What? You don’t have a full dossier on my real name and everything else?” She smirked at him.

He shook his head. The Delaney connection wasn’t important. As unimportant as the way that smirk made his gut tighten with a desire he would never, ever act on.

What was important was her take on the list and what kind of patterns and conclusions he could draw. So he turned the conversation back to the case and made sure it stayed there.

Chapter Three (#uc870f4cf-38a7-5ab8-929d-cd1e776c95e5)

Sleep was a welcome relief from worry, except when the dreams came. They didn’t always make sense, but Tom’s lifeless body always appeared.

Even hiking up the mountains at sunset. It was peaceful, and Zach was with her, smiling. She liked his smile, and she liked the riot of sunset colors in the sky. She wanted to write a song, itched to.

Suddenly, she had a notebook and a pen, but when she started to write it became a picture of Tom, and then she tripped and it was Tom’s body. She reached out for Zach’s help, but it was only Tom’s lifeless eyes staring back from Zach’s face.

She didn’t know whether she was screaming or crying, maybe it was both, and then she fell with a jolt. Her eyes flew open, face wet and breath coming so fast it hurt her lungs.

Somehow, she knew Zach was standing there. It didn’t even give her a start. It seemed right and steadying that he was standing in her doorway in nothing but a pair of sweatpants, a dim glow from the room behind him.

Later, she’d give some considerable thought to just how cut Zach was, all strong arms and abs. Something else he hid quite well, and she was sure quite purposefully.

“You screamed and you didn’t lock your door,” he offered, slowly lowering the gun to his side. He looked up at the ceiling, and gestured toward her. “You might want to...”

He trailed off and in her jumble of emotions and dream confusion, it took her a good minute to realize the strap of her tank top had fallen off her arm and she was all but flashing him.

She wasn’t embarrassed so much as tired. Bone-deep tired of how this whole thing was ruining her life. “Sorry,” she grumbled, fixing the shirt and pulling the sheet up around her.

“No. That’s not...” He cleared his throat. “You should lock that door.”

She wished she could find amusement in his obvious discomfort over being flashed a little breast, but she was too tired. “Lock the door to shield myself from lunatics with guns?” she asked, nodding at the pistol he carried.

“To take precautions,” he said firmly.

“Are you telling me if I’d screamed and the door had been locked you wouldn’t have busted in here, guns blazing?”

“They were hardly blazing,” he returned, ignoring the question.

But she knew the answer. She might not know or understand Zach Simmons, but he had that same thing her brother did. A dedication to whatever he saw as his mission.

Currently, she was Zach Simmons’s mission. She wished it gave her any comfort, but with Tom’s dead face flashing in her mind, she didn’t think anything could.

“You want a drink?” he asked, and despite that bland tone he used with such effectiveness, the offer was kind.

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

He nodded. “I’ll see what I can scrounge up. You can meet me out there.”

She took that as a clear hint to put on some decent clothes. On a sigh, she got out of bed and rifled through her duffel bag. She pulled out her big, fluffy robe in bright yellow. It made her feel a little like Big Bird, which always made her smile.

Tonight was an exception, but it at least gave her something sunny to hold on to as she stepped out of the room. Zach was pouring whiskey into a shot glass. He’d pulled on a T-shirt, but it wasn’t the kind of shirt he’d worn yesterday that hid all that surprisingly solid muscle. No, it fit him well, and allowed her another bolt of surprisingly intense attraction.

He set the shot glass on the table and gestured her into the seat. She slid into it, staring at the amber liquid somewhat dubiously. “Thanks.” But she didn’t shoot it. She just stared at it. “Got anything to put it in? I may love a song about shooting whiskey, but honestly shots make me gag.”

His mouth quirked, but he nodded, pulling a can of pop out of the fridge.

“No diet?”

“I’ll put it on the grocery list.”

“And where does one get groceries in the middle of nowhere Wyoming?”

“Believe it or not, even Wyomingites need to eat. I’ve got an assistant who’ll take care of errands. If you make a list, we’ll supply.”

She sipped the drink he put in front of her. The mix of sugar and whiskey was a comforting familiarity in the midst of all this...upheaval.

“You don’t shoot whiskey.”

She quirked a smile at him. “Not all my songs are autobiographical, friend. Truth be told, I’d prefer a beer, but it doesn’t give you quite the same buzz, does it?”

“No, but I’d think more things would rhyme with beer than whiskey.”

“Songs also don’t have to rhyme. Fancy yourself a country music expert? Or just a Daisy Delaney expert?”

“No expertise claimed. I studied up on your work, not that I hadn’t heard it before. Some of your songs make a decent showing on the radio.”

“Decent. Don’t get that Jordan Jones airtime, but who does? Certainly no one with breasts.” This time she didn’t sip. She took a good, long pull. Silly thing to be peeved about Jordan’s career taking off while hers seemed to level. Bigger things at hand. Nightmares, dead bodyguards, empty Wyoming towns.

“The police don’t suspect him.”

She took another long drink. “No, they don’t.”

“Do you?”