Silent Sabotage. Susan Sleeman

into the space.

      Good. Archer could get rid of this animal, too. He rushed forward, maybe too fast for the bird, and made it nervous as it deposited a big splotch of white-and-brown gunk on his shirt.

      “Ack,” he shouted and held out the chicken.

      Emily watched him for a moment, then started laughing.

      “It’s not funny,” he warned sternly. “This is my uniform, and I don’t want it ruined even more than it already is from the mall.”

      “You’re right. The shirt isn’t funny, and I’m sorry this happened.” Her grin widened. “But you stared down a guy with a bomb not more than an hour ago with hardly a hint of what you were feeling, and now? Now the horror on your face is from a chicken. That’s priceless.”

      “I’m not a country guy, all right?” He shoved the bird at her.

      “That goes without saying.” She cradled the chicken and settled it in the building. “If she was making an egg, the way you held her would surely be the end of that.”

      Archer didn’t care about an egg. He looked down on his shirt and gagged. He quickly undid the buttons and rubbed the offending gook onto the grass. He wore a khaki-colored T-shirt to match his uniform shirt, but it had a moist spot as well so he held it away from his body.

      Emily turned and when her gaze landed on him, she stopped in her tracks and peered at him. The humor was long gone in her expression, and she stared at him with a clear look of interest.

      If he wasn’t so creeped out about the goo on his shirt, he suspected he’d be returning the gaze, but this mess outweighed most everything else. “Is there somewhere I can clean up? I’ve got clothes in my trunk, but I’m not putting them on until I wash up.”

      “I can wash your shirt.” She held out her hand.

      He gladly turned it over. “I’ll grab my clothes.”

      He sensed her watching him as he walked back to his car and could just imagine what she was thinking. He was a deputy. Could carry a gun and shoot people. Was trained in defensive combat and worked out to keep in top physical shape, and yet, a little bit of bird poop and he’d acted like a big sissy.

      He didn’t like it any more than she did, but he was raised with overly strict cleanliness standards and, try as he might, he’d never been able to relax them. His pants and shirts were pressed at all times. If he got a spot on them, even a small one, he changed. Sure, it was prissy, but it was ingrained, and he made no apologies.

      He grabbed his duffel bag and met Emily on the front porch. Without a word, but the remaining hint of a smile on her face, she escorted him straight to an upstairs bathroom.

      “Do you need a full shower or will a washcloth with soap and water suffice?” Her eyes creased with unspoken laughter.

      “No shower necessary,” he retorted and didn’t mind one bit that she gave him a knowing look as she shut the bathroom door.

      In fact, he kind of found her teasing cute and endearing.

      Odd.

      He sure didn’t react that way when the team razzed him about his cleanliness obsession. Although he didn’t like it coming from them, for some reason this was different. He was sure that if he examined his feelings, he might discover the underlying cause, but in his mind, this situation was best left unexplored.

      He ripped off his undershirt and scrubbed his stomach clean before putting on the fresh FRS uniform of a black polo shirt and tactical pants that he always kept at the ready. When he stepped back into the hallway, Emily was waiting for him.

      She held out her hand. “I can add the undershirt to the washer, too.”

      For a moment, he froze as it seemed so personal to be handing an undershirt to a near stranger, but like it or not, he’d rather the stain be removed.

      “I can help,” he offered.

      “You want to help because you don’t trust me to get it clean enough.” She grinned up at him.

      “Busted,” he said and found himself smiling back at her. “Also, I came here to help, not add to your workload.”

      “Please.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s taking us longer to talk about this than it will take to do it.”

      “Then would you mind if I have a look around the place while you put it in the washer? I want to check out the security.”

      Her smile fell. “Security. Why?”

      “I promised to make sure you remained safe, and I always keep my promises.”

      “Oh, I heard you all right when you said that. You also said you’d keep an eye on me all night, but that’s not going to happen.”

      “I meant that figuratively, but make no mistake, Ms. Graves, I’ll be staying here all night.”

      She narrowed her eyes. “On the couch.”

      He refrained from dropping his mouth open at her innuendo. “I’m here to protect you and nothing more.”

      “I didn’t...” She shook her head and ran her fingers through long, chocolate-brown waves. “Do you really think one of Delmar’s friends is going to come after me?”

      “It’s too early to tell,” he said to keep from heightening her apprehension. “But threats have been issued and we have to take them seriously until we can prove them false.”

      “Understood,” she said, suddenly looking distracted. “I’ll get the laundry started, then meet you on the porch when you finish your tour.”

      “Are there any rooms off-limits?”

      “We don’t have guests right now, but I suspect Birdie might be napping. Her room is on the third floor in the front. If the door is closed she’s asleep, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t disturb her.”

      “You got it.”

      She looked at him as if pondering something, then turned and started down the hallway. Maybe he wasn’t able to read all of her expressions, but one thing was clear. She was uneasy around him, and she didn’t try to hide it. He’d tried to be compassionate and understanding so he wasn’t giving off a tough-deputy vibe, but there was obviously something else that bothered her.

      Maybe he wasn’t doing a very good job of hiding the way she piqued his curiosity. Or maybe, she was just out of her element with everything that had happened.

      Archer watched her disappear in the stairwell. He’d read in her statement that she was an accountant and he tried to imagine her in that position. With his MBA, he understood the duties in an accounting job, and he honestly couldn’t see her spending her days inside, bent over a desk in a small cubicle.

      Problem was, he wanted to know more about her so he could figure out where she belonged.

      “Get a grip,” he mumbled as he started his tour. “Remember why you’re here.”

      He searched five guest rooms and three bathrooms, all decorated in a traditional style to match the age of the house. The windows and locks were original, and it wouldn’t take much to jimmy them open. Hopefully, the first-floor windows had better locks.

      Archer climbed creaky stairs to the third floor, where the temperatures spiked and any attempt at decorating stopped. He suspected these were once servants’ quarters.

      One door was closed, and he heard a fan running from inside. Birdie’s room, he supposed. He walked through a small sitting room with a table holding a reading lamp and piled high with books. He went into the other bedroom, and the wildly colored clothing hanging on a portable clothes rack, much like the bright hue of Emily’s shirt today, told him it was her room. The furniture was period and all looked original, especially the worn sofa against the far wall and the tall highboy in the corner. Water stained the upper portion of the plaster