The Guardian's Mission

“He said you were asking about my injury.” He flashed white teeth, but Marti wouldn’t exactly call the expression a smile. “He also said you lived off the beaten path at the end of a dead-end street. Not the most secure house in the world. He was right.”

He was telling the truth. She knew it. What she didn’t know was why he was in her house and not in jail. She hung up the phone. “Who are you? And I don’t mean your name.”

“Tristan Sinclair. ATF agent. I was working undercover the day we ran into each other.”

ATF? It made sense. A sick, crazy kind of sense. “Ran into each other? You kidnapped me and pulled me into the biggest illegal firearms raid in a decade.” Something the newscasters had made mention of over and over again as they’d covered the story. Something everyone but Marti seemed to find fascinating.

“I kept you safe until reinforcements could come in and bring you out.”

And he’d saved her life. He didn’t point that out. Brian would have. He would have been announcing his feat to the world, making appointments with television shows and radio programs, planning a book and movie deal, telling Marti again and again how fortunate she was to have him.

“Sorry if I sounded ungrateful. You saved my life, and I really do appreciate it. Thanks.”

“You saved yourself, Sunshine. I just helped a little.”

“And got shot doing it. How’s your arm?”

“Better.”

“Than?”

“Than being dead.” He smiled, but Martha didn’t think Tristan’s potential death was amusing.

“That’s not funny.”

“No, but I’m celebrating survival, so I’m trying to find a lot to smile about.” He smiled again, and some of the tension that had been coiled inside Martha eased. It felt good to be talking to someone who knew what had happened to her and didn’t need to ask questions about it. Someone who had shared her experience and could show her how to put it in perspective.

“I guess if you can smile about it, I can, too.”

“And you should. You’ve got a beautiful smile.” His gaze dropped to her lips, lingered there for a moment before he met her eyes again.

Her cheeks flamed, her heart jumped, and she resisted the urge to smooth her hair, fidget with her dress. She did not need to look good for Tristan Sinclair. Sure, he’d saved her life, but he was still a man. And men were something she’d decided less than a week ago that she could do without.

She needed to keep that in mind, or she might end up exactly where she didn’t want to be—nursing a broken heart and mourning the death of her dreams. Again. It was time to put some distance between herself and Tristan.

“Look, I hate to shove you out, but I’ve got to be at church in less than thirty minutes.”

“Good. Let’s go.” He took her arm, started walking toward the door.

That was easy. A lot easier than Martha had expected it to be. Relieved, she allowed herself to be ushered out the door and down the porch steps.

A cool breeze carried the scent of Tristan’s aftershave. Pine needles and campfire smoke, crisp fall air and winter wind. Everything outdoorsy and good. All the things Marti loved most about God’s creation.

“Thanks again for saving my life, Tristan. I know you said I saved myself, but we both know it’s not true.”

“Do we?” He took the keys from her hand, unlocked the door and carried the key chain with him as he rounded the car.

“Hey! I need those if I’m going to get to church.”

“I know. I’ll give them back to you in a second.” He opened the passenger door, slid into the car and held the keys out to her, a grin easing the hard angles of his face.

Her heart leaped, her brain froze. He was in her car. In. Her. Car. And she had absolutely no idea what to do about it. She leaned in the open door, stared him in the eye, hoping she looked less flustered than she felt. “What are you doing?”

“Making sure you get to church in one piece.”

“I’ve been driving to church on my own for years. I’m sure I can manage it today.”

“Unless you run into Johnson.”

“He won’t try anything in the middle of broad daylight when anyone might see him.” At least, she didn’t think he would.

“Sunshine, you don’t know much about men like Johnson. He’s not going to just forget that you saw him Friday, that you heard his name, that you could sit in court and identify him. He and I both saw your name on the card inside your pack. There’s no way he forgot it. He’s going to come after you and he’s not going to wait until it’s dark, or you’re alone, or until some time when it’s convenient for you. He’ll strike when he’s good and ready. For all either of us know, he’s ready now. Until he’s caught, you need to be careful.”

“I know I need to be careful. And I will, but that doesn’t mean having a personal bodyguard.”

“I think it does.” He grabbed her hand, tugged her farther into the car. “And since I took a bullet for you, I think I should have some say in these things.”

“I can’t believe you’re using that against me after you said I saved my own life.”

“Whatever works, Sunshine.” He tugged hard, and she almost tumbled across the seat and into his lap.

“It’s Marti, not Sunshine.” She muttered the words as she pulled away from his grip and settled into the driver’s seat.

“Right. Martha Darlene Gabler. Born September 18. Twenty-eight years old. Two and a half years of college. Working as a veterinary technician at Lakeview Veterinary Clinic. Recently engaged. Even more recently no longer engaged.”

“I’m not even surprised you know all that about me.”

“There’s more.”

“Of course there’s more. Since I know myself pretty well, and you now seem to know everything about me, let’s save some time and not rehash all the details of my boring life.”

“Who said anything about boring?”

“Compared to yours—”

“Why would you? Compare your life to mine, I mean?” He watched her with those striking eyes, leaning toward her, his body language, his posture saying he was really listening. That he really wanted to hear what she had to say.

Which was, of course, part of the courting game and meant absolutely nothing.

Courting?

As if.

Men like Tristan Sinclair did not notice women like Marti, let alone court them.

“I’m not comparing. I’m just saying that my life is pretty mundane and yours…well, yours isn’t.”

“I’ve got news for you, Marti. Your life is anything but mundane right now. And, by the time this is all over, you’re going to be wishing for boring.” The words were a grim reminder that Gordon Johnson was free, and Marti’s hands tightened into fists around the steering wheel.