Someone To Protect Her. Patricia Rosemoor

a few minutes later, she watched Frank stalk back to the vehicle, an expression of displeasure pulling at his mouth. She read his frustration in his jerky movements when he threw open the door and held out a hand.

      “We have a problem,” he announced as he helped her out.

      “Apparently.”

      “How are you with horses.”

      “H-horses? How am I what?”

      “We don’t have a groom. He didn’t show. We can wait around for another one, but that’ll delay our departure for a couple of hours. And after what happened yesterday, I want to get you away from here and safely to Quinlan ASAP.”

      “Horses?” she squeaked. “You’re asking me to groom horses?” C.J.’s stomach twirled at the thought. “I’m not good with horses.”

      He shook his head. “No actual grooming involved. You just have to keep them calm. There are only four of them. But I, uh, don’t know if they’ve ever flown before.”

      “Calm?” She wasn’t calm. How was she supposed to keep four horses calm? And in such a small space? Suddenly, the belly of the big plane shrank in her mind to the size of a box stall. “How?”

      “Talk to ’em. Scratch ’em between the ears.”

      As if the matter was both simple and settled, he opened the trunk and hauled out her two cases and his own two bags.

      “And if talking and scratching doesn’t work?”

      “I assume, being a research scientist, you know how to handle a syringe.”

      “The rudiments, yes.”

      He slipped the three smaller bags over his shoulders and hefted the larger suitcase upright. “So if one of the girls gets overly excited, you shoot her with a mild tranquilizer.”

      Then he took off for the stairs at the front of the aircraft, wheeling the larger of her bags behind him.

      “What if something goes wrong?” she demanded, following close on his heels. “Something I can’t handle? Really, I’m not very good with horses.”

      She would refuse to go with him, would charter her own bloody plane…if not for the incident on Pearl Street.

      “Then you call me and I’ll handle it.”

      “You would leave the cockpit?”

      “That’s why I have a co-pilot. He can take over the controls.”

      Frank stopped suddenly and she nearly ran into him. C.J. gasped and stepped back, muttering, “Sorry.”

      He gave her a curious look that made her mouth go dry. And a pulse ticked in her throat. She could feel it, even when she stopped breathing for a moment until she shook herself back to reality and the fact that nothing personal was happening here. Frank Connolly was merely doing his job, for heaven’s sake, which at the moment happened to be her.

      Then he said, “Try not to think worst-case scenario. Everything’s going to be fine and you’ll be at the research institute before you know it.”

      “From your lips to God’s ear,” she murmured, thinking again of the horses.

      Once inside the belly of the plane, Frank lashed down their luggage. “Take a seat while I help bring in the mares.”

      But C.J. was too jittery to just sit and wait. She tried to focus on the now, on her surroundings.

      The plane appeared solidly built, so why wouldn’t this sense of trepidation leave her alone? It had to be the thought of being confined with several horses that made her feel so…so…unsettled.

      And yet the jitters went beyond the fear of the known.

      The unknown held far more power—a villain with no description.

      Would he come after her in Montana?

      Would she ever be safe?

      There were four passenger seats, three in one row, then one extra from which she could easily see openings in two of the four stalls. She came closer for a better look. The double-double configuration—two stalls in the front, two in the back—was open on top. The U-shape would allow two of the horses to hang out their heads toward her.

      The stalls sat on anchored pallets in the center of the cargo area, leaving aisles for humans to walk along each side. She wandered toward the rear of the aircraft. Feed and other supplies had already been brought in and secured. As had western tack—she noted saddles and other leathers. She moved up the other aisle toward the cockpit.

      The clop-clop of hooves against metal drew her to a window. Frank was leading a big bay mare up the ramp—C.J. could see her tossing head and rolling eyes over the raised side. Though the driver led a small palomino that seemed perfectly calm, she felt her pulse surge and she pulled back. She had to get over her irrational fear—only a few hours and she would be free of them.

      C.J. glanced down the side aisle as Frank stepped in. He held the mare’s head low to squeeze her through the opening, then walked her straight through the back stall to the one in front, where he began securing her with cargo straps.

      He did all with such ease that she suspected he must have a lot of experience with horses. She had to remember that, as well as his promise to handle any difficulty.

      “Spice Girl,” Frank said, as he hooked two tie-downs from the leather collar encircling her neck to holes beneath the U of the stall front.

      “Pardon me?”

      “Her name.” He indicated the adjoining stall where the driver was securing the palomino. “And that one’s Double Platinum.”

      As if knowing their names would make this any easier on her, C.J. thought as Frank dug into one of the myriad pockets on his vest and pulled out a zipped plastic bag that appeared to be filled with apple chunks. He shook out a few pieces and offered it to the mares.

      Then he handed her the rest. “Here,” he said before retreating to the exit.

      C.J. held the bag of apple bits by two fingers. “What am I supposed to do with these?”

      “Make friends.”

      That would mean getting close….

      Perhaps later if she really needed something to soothe the beasts, she thought, looking for a place to stuff the bag. The pockets of her jacket were too small, but she was wearing a pair of loose tan trousers with extra-deep pockets. One was already half filled with a handful of individually wrapped chocolate bits, so she shoved the bag of horse treats into the other.

      “You must be the passenger, C. J. Birch.”

      C.J. whipped around to face the neatly dressed man she’d seen from the car when they arrived. He held a clipboard in one hand and held out the other. She looked up to see his mouth curve into a friendly grin beneath a thick black mustache.

      “John Vasquez, first officer on this flight.”

      Glancing at his picture ID and shaking his hand, she noticed his face was deeply tanned. “Mr. Vasquez.”

      “We’ll be taking off shortly, as soon as those other two horses are loaded.”

      His accent was slight, making her think that while he’d been born in Mexico or elsewhere, he’d probably been in this country for many years.

      “Good. I’m anxious to be in the air.”

      And away from a place that had proved unsafe, even as she’d feared, if not in the manner she had expected. True, the Quinlan Research Institute was bound to be far more remote than the National Center for Aquatic Research, but that was probably good. Less likely that the villain could find her again. She could take comfort in that.

      And at least her well-being would be guarded by Frank Connolly and the other Montana Confidential men.

      “If