Was he a cop? FBI? He had the look. All hard lean muscle and lithe movements.
“Catherine? Do you want me to drive you to the hospital?” he asked again, his hand brushing her shoulder, his touch so light she barely felt it.
“No. I’m fine. Thanks for all your help. You can leave.” There. She’d said it. Easy as pie.
“I’ll wait until you get this beast out of the garage. Think it’ll start?” He patted the hood of her grandmother’s rusty old car.
“It should.” But just like everything else around the farm, the car had seen better days. She got in the driver’s seat, turned the key in the ignition and heard nothing but a quiet click. She tried again and again with the same results.
Just once.
Just once, she wanted things to go her way.
She turned the key one more time, wrenching it hard.
“Sounds like you need a new battery or a new starter. Breaking the key in the ignition won’t change either of those things.” Darius reached in and pulled the key from the ignition.
“It started fine this morning,” she muttered, grabbing her purse and getting out of the car. Time was ticking, and Eileen was waiting. She couldn’t spend any more time fighting with the car.
“She’s an old car. She needs a little TLC.”
“Everything around this place does,” she responded, following him back out into the bright sunlight.
“My place is the same way, but I do have a truck that’s reliable. Come on. I’ll give you a ride to the hospital.” He led the way back across the yard, a hitch to his stride that she hadn’t noticed before. Slight, but definitely there. Had he been hurt while he hunted the guy who’d attacked her?
She wanted to ask, but the words caught in her throat as he tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans.
It had been a long time since she’d made small talk.
She wasn’t sure if she still knew how to do it.
“Something wrong?” he asked, his eyes such a pure light green, she wondered if he wore contacts.
“You hurt your leg,” she said, finally managing to loosen her tongue and get the words out.
“Not recently.”
“You’re limping.”
“That happens when the lower part of a person’s leg is amputated.” He responded so casually, she almost missed what he was saying.
“You’re an amputee?”
“My leg was blown off by a booby-trapped weapon cache. That’s why I’m stateside instead of with my buddies in Afghanistan.” Darius offered the information, knowing it would distract Catherine, ease some of the tension from her face and shoulders.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m alive. Some of my buddies weren’t so fortunate.”
“Then, I guess I’m even more sorry,” she responded, surprising him. Most people who heard the story missed the part where he mentioned the bigger loss he’d suffered. Not his leg. His comrades. He’d give the other leg and both his arms to have any of them back.
“It was rough.”
“What happ—?”
“How about we save the question-and-answer session for another day?” He cut her off. Sharing some information to take her mind off what had happened was one thing. Talking in depth about his loss, that was something else.
“I thought you were heading to the hospital,” Logan called from the porch, and Catherine stiffened, her tension flooding back.
“The Buick wouldn’t start.”
“Not surprising. You need to trade that rust bucket in for something reliable.”
“The car is fine, Logan.” She sounded weary, and Darius had the urge to slide an arm around her waist, let her lean on him. He doubted she ever leaned on anyone, though, and he kept his distance, watching as she brushed dirt from her faded jeans and avoided Logan’s eyes.
“I noticed you had some vandalism on the porch. When did it happen?”
“Sometime after I left to bring Eileen to the hospital. The siding was vandalized, too, but I was able to cover that before...” She didn’t finish, and Darius imagined her out on the porch, covering paint with paint while danger stalked her.
“You didn’t report it,” Logan said, and Catherine shrugged.
“I reported the broken windows three weeks ago. I reported the slashed tire before that. I reported crank calls and people driving by the house at all hours of the night. It didn’t do me any good. I figured calling the sheriff about this was going to be just as useless.”
“I’m sorry you felt that way, Catherine. We’ve been working hard to identify the perpetrators of those crimes. It just takes time,” Logan responded with more gentleness than Darius had ever seen in him. Did he feel guilty for his part in Catherine’s conviction and incarceration? No doubt, he’d been with the sheriff’s department when she’d been accused of murdering eleven patients at the convalescent center where she’d worked.
“I know that, and I’m not blaming your office, Logan. It’s just...I don’t have time. Eileen is really sick, and I can’t have her stressed out and upset every other week. I figured I’d just clean things up before she got home and pretend nothing had happened.”
“Pretending won’t make trouble go away.”
“I know.” She touched the bruise on her jaw. “Look, I know you have a bunch of questions, and I’ll answer them. But I really have to get to the hospital. I don’t want Eileen waiting and wondering if something has happened to me.”
“Something did happen to you,” Darius cut in, and she frowned.
“Nothing permanent. We’ll talk when I get back, Logan,”
“We’ll be here. I called in a K-9 unit, and I’m hoping they’ll catch the perp’s trail. Want me to have an officer give you a ride to the hospital?”
“I don’t think I want to be seen in a police car, but thank you,” she responded, a hint of irony in her words.
“We can have an unmarked car—”
“I’m going to give her a ride, and I’ll make sure she doesn’t run into any more trouble on the way to or from the hospital.” Darius cut into the conversation again, and Catherine wanted to tell him that she’d be the one to make sure that she didn’t run into more trouble. That she’d take care of herself and her grandmother the same way she had for most of her life, but saying anything would take time and effort she didn’t want to waste.
“I guess having a bodyguard as a neighbor is going to pay off for you, today, Catherine,” Logan commented as he snapped several pictures of the porch and the red paint.
“Bodyguard?” Catherine shouldn’t have been surprised. She’d guessed Darius to be police or FBI. A bodyguard seemed an extension of those things. Somehow, she was surprised, though. She couldn’t imagine him escorting high-profile clients to high-profile events.
Or maybe she could.
Dress him in tux, slick back his hair and he’d easily pass for someone with money and looks to spare.
“Security contractor,” he corrected, and then turned to Logan. “You’ve got my cell phone number, Randal. Give me a call if the K-9 unit sniffs anything out.”
“I don’t recall you being part of this case, Osborne.”
“Catherine