Sniper Fire (Love in the Crosshairs) (16 page)

She knocked. “Kyle?” And waited.

Nothing. No muffled sound of steps, no grouchy voice. And no un-nerving sounds of breaking glass this time, thank God.

Instead of knocking again, she walked around to the two-car garage and peeked in the window like she had yesterday. Rats! The shrouded shape that was Kyle’s custom truck beneath a car cover sat all alone. The rental was gone.

Farrah turned around and stared out over the valley, the first whispers of worry edging into her mind. She hadn’t given it much thought yesterday, but Kyle driving these roads with that injured leg suddenly seemed like a very bad idea. Worse case scenarios—images of him unable to switch his right foot from gas to brake in time, crowded her brain. Situations like a deer or bear wandering into the road and Kyle being unable to keep from hitting the animal. Impacts fast and hard enough could send the truck into a deadly spin. Or what if he was unable to slow down quick enough to make a hairpin turn and crashed into a tree? Or unable to stop at all and sailed off a cliff? Maybe that was why he hadn’t shown up at the clinic. Not because he refused to come, but because he couldn’t. Because he was injured…or worse.

She squeezed her eyes closed. No, no panic. She refused to give in to such a useless emotion. Panic solved nothing, benefited no one. Calm and methodical, that’s what her instructors had drilled into her in medical school. Doctors had to be islands of calm in the midst of whatever chaos surrounded them. Only then could they be effective. She’d learned that was true back in Cairo, hadn’t she?

But, darn it, this was Kyle.

She sucked in a deep breath through her nose, held it, and then slowly released the air through her mouth. All the more reason to stay calm. Find Kyle first, assess his situation, then take action. That’s what she’d do.

****

Her first action would be to strangle him, Farrah decided, narrowing her eyes on the figure barely visible in the back corner of the dim, busy bar room.

It had taken her several hours of driving every scary road in the valley before she located Kyle—in town. Lounging in a corner booth of the local bar. Drinking. Again.

She was going to have to do something about that before it became a problem. As far as she knew, neither Kyle nor Joshua drank excessively as a rule. Both men had wills of iron and a tendency to avoid crutches of any kind. According to his records, Kyle had even refused the hard-core pain killers the doctors at the VA hospital had prescribed. Considering some of the other things she’d read today, however, she wasn’t surprised by Kyle’s need for a little extra artificial support. Constant pain had a way of wearing down even iron wills.

Farrah didn’t march straight to Kyle’s booth, but made her way to the bar. It was nearly seven o’clock. She was tired, hungry, and the day was still hot. So was her temper. It wouldn’t hurt to cool off a bit before tackling her recalcitrant patient. Not to mention, her throat was dry.

She caught the attention of the barkeeper, a pretty young girl who looked barely out of her teens much less old enough to serve alcohol. “A diet cola, please. Large, with lots of ice.”

“Sure thing,” the girl said.

Young, pretty, but efficient, Farrah decided. A tall, frosty mug of soda slid in front of her a handful of seconds later. She reached in her purse for her wallet. “How much?”

The girl grinned. “No charge. Compliments of the guy in the corner.” She tipped her head to indicate direction.

Farrah didn’t have to look to see who the girl meant. Without glancing at Kyle, she asked, “How do you know? I mean, he’s way over there.” And he certainly hadn’t yelled out over the noise that Farrah’s drink was on him.

The girl winked. “Barkeep’s secret.” She turned away, hands already reaching for empty glasses to fill another order.

Farrah stripped the plastic cover off her straw and took a long sip of soda. She hadn’t even known Kyle was aware of her presence. The bar room wasn’t huge, but it was crowded with Friday night patrons. Servers moved back and forth with their trays of glasses and bottles, slipping easily between occupied chairs. Canned music—a touch too loud in her opinion—blared from speakers in the ceiling, adding to the general din of dozens of conversations punctuated by the clink of glass and the crack of pool balls coming from the two tables off to the side. The whole atmosphere held a note of barely suppressed rowdiness that made Farrah a little uncomfortable.

She’d never been inside Harley’s Bar before. Never been in any bar, for that matter. Not that she had anything against such establishments. It just didn’t make sense for her to patronize a bar since she didn’t drink alcohol. Farrah sighed, wishing for once that the term “liquid courage” actually meant what it said. She could use a little extra oomph to get through the impending battle with Kyle. It had been a long day and she was exhausted from treating patients and mentally wading through Kyle’s file. Not to mention the emotional drain of searching for him while trying not to freak out. She just wanted the confrontation to be over so she could go home, get clean, and relax in her nice quiet house.

Wishing never got her anywhere, however, so she might as well get on with it.

Farrah grabbed a napkin from a stack on the counter and started for Kyle’s booth. The short walk turned into a long trip as some of the bar’s customers recognized her. She had to stop and exchange a few words with each person before easing again in Kyle’s direction. She was almost to his table when a hand landed heavily on her shoulder and spun her around. Cold soda and ice sloshed out of her mug, splashing her hand and arm. Farrah sucked in a breath. She reached out to steady herself, her empty hand landing on a bare forearm marred by a long scar that looked vaguely familiar. A second hand grabbed her other shoulder.

“Whoa, doc, steady there,” the man said.

“Let her go, Chet.”

Farrah snapped her mouth closed on her own request for freedom. Was that growly voice, coming from over her shoulder, really Kyle’s? She dared a glance to be sure. Yes, it was his. He stood so close she could feel the heat from his body. How had he gotten there so fast?

The man holding her shoulders sneered. She recognized him at once. Chet Wassile, the oldest of a trio of trouble-making brothers. She’d stitched him up several weeks ago, his arm a casualty of a fight in this very bar. All three Wassiles had a bad habit of starting fights they couldn’t finish by themselves, the other two joining in to gang up on the unfortunate victim.

Chet’s hands tightened a bit on her shoulders. “Back off, Fagan. I just want to talk to the doc here. Thought she might like to dance.”

He leaned slightly to his left, looking around her, his gaze dropping down before slowly raising again. “I mean, it’s not like she’s going to be doing any dancing with you, now is it?”

Kyle’s arm came around her waist. The action shocked her as much as the touch itself. The firm hold felt possessive, and far too intimate for the middle of a crowded bar room. Goose bumps broke into a party on her skin. “I said, let go of her.”

Farrah could feel Kyle’s muscles tensing up. Chet’s were too, his grip on her tightening a fraction more, becoming almost painful. Behind him, she could see his brothers, Franklin and Arney, closing in. She had to do something. She had stop this before it got out of hand. Even with his weak leg, she didn’t doubt Kyle could handle one brother. But all three?

She forced a smile. “Thank you, Chet, but I’m too tired to dance tonight. Maybe another time.” She casually, but firmly, pushed at one of his arms, trying to get him to release her. His resistance lasted only a moment before both hands dropped away.

“No problem, Doc.” His gaze stayed locked over her head. “I’ll take that rain check.”

Kyle shifted to the side, planting the tip of his cane almost on Chet’s foot. Farrah moved, too, blocking him, leaning her body against his. His arm tightened, pressure from his hand trying to ease her aside. She put her own hand over his and leaned into him harder. He wasn’t getting rid of her that easily.

Chet’s gaze slid past them both. His hands came up in a calming gesture. “Nothing doin’ here, Harley. Everything’s cool.”

The bar’s owner, Harley Bentley, stepped up beside Kyle. He was a good looking, neatly dressed man in his mid-thirties who looked like he’d be more at home in a corporate office than running a bar. “I warned you, Chet. You or your brothers get into another fight in here again and you’re all three banned for good.”

“Shit, Harley, I remember. But this ain’t on me. I was just asking Farrah here to dance and Fagan pops up like a jackass telling me to back off. Last I checked, she don’t belong to him.”

“That might be true,” Harley said. “But she doesn’t belong to you either. You know the rules, Chet. I run a clean establishment. No drunks, no fights, no drugs, and especially no unwanted groping. Keep your hands to yourself.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know the damn rules. But come on Harley.” Chet grinned, leaning closer to the bar owner as if sharing a secret. He pointed a thumb at Kyle. “Can you imagine any woman choosing a cripple like him over a hunk of a man like me?’

Farrah tensed. She could just imagine Kyle reaching around her to snatch Chet off his feet. When the man behind her didn’t move, she glanced over her shoulder at him again. The expression on Kyle’s face—or rather, lack thereof—chilled her to the bone. He looked like a figure carved from ice. No heat in his eyes, no softness. No emotion whatsoever. It was as if the playful, slightly cynical Kyle she’d known for years wasn’t there anymore. In his place was a hard rock of a man, someone intimately familiar with violence in all its forms, someone who could kill without thinking twice.

Farrah shivered. For the first time, he actually scared her.

Harley’s cultured voice, thick with disgust, snagged Farrah’s attention. “That’s it, Chet. Leave now. You’re done for the day. I don’t need you picking fights.”

The idiot had the nerve to laugh. “All right, old man, I’m going. The boys and I were headed out anyway.” Chet’s smug gaze left Kyle and settled on her. Still angry at his deliberate insult to Kyle, Farrah found herself with the uncharacteristic urge to do violence.

“I’ll see you around, Farrah.” He winked at her and left with his brothers in tow.

Farrah decided she now had another reason for a nice long shower: washing off Chet Wassile’s touch.

“Sorry about that,” Harley said.

“Not your fault. Assholes are what they are,” Kyle said, his arm leaving her as he turned back to his table. “Someone ought to cull them out of the gene pool.”

Farrah shivered again, not sure if it was the coldness of his words or lack of his body heat that was the cause. Harley’s eyes widened a little behind his wire-rimmed glasses. He shot her a worried glance.

“It’s okay,” she assured him, though she wasn’t at all sure that was true. “He didn’t mean it. He’s just…well, he’s in a lot of pain.”

The bar owner cleared his throat. “Yes, well, any other drinks you two order tonight are on me. I don’t like my customers being harassed.”

“Thanks Harley,” she said.

The man gave her a wave as he moved off. The noise level of the bar having lowered considerably during the tense exchange, returned to its previous level. Farrah reached the corner booth without further interference, though she felt speculative gazes on her the whole way. Inside, she cringed a little. She could just see the headline in tomorrow’s town paper.

“Local Doctor’s First Visit to Bar Results in Heated Confrontation”

Oh yes, that would do wonders for her practice.

And the real confrontation hadn’t even started yet.

****

Kyle didn’t give Farrah a chance to do more than set her drink down. “What are you doing here?”

She glanced at him, that annoyingly provocative eyebrow of hers arching up before she switched her attention to the napkin dispenser. “I thought that would be obvious,” she said, pulling several paper napkins free and wiping at the spilled drink on her arm. “You missed your three o’clock appointment. I’m here to find out why. It’s not my fault Chet chose tonight to be a jerk.”

“I don’t need you making excuses for me.” Okay, that had slipped out. There were a lot of things he could have said besides that.
Do you always track down patients who don’t make their appointments? Chet’s always a jerk.
Or even the clichéd,
Do you come here often?
Though he was pretty sure he knew the answer to that one. He’d never known little Miss Straight-laced to step one foot inside a bar.

That’s why he was here. Hiding like the scared three-year-old she’d called him yesterday.

Great, now he was insulting himself. His inner bastard needed to shut the hell up so he could concentrate. Getting Farrah to go away and leave him alone without hurting her feelings wasn’t going to be easy. And damn him if he ever hurt her on purpose, emotionally or otherwise.

“I didn’t.”

Her terse reply jerked his attention back to her. “Didn’t what?” What part of the conversation had he missed?

“I didn’t make excuses for you.”

Kyle ground his teeth. “You did. I heard what you said to Harley.”

“What you heard,” she said, sounding so prim and proper he wanted to reach across and kiss the prissiness right out of her, “was me explaining to Harley that you’re in pain, thus your temper is short, thus your judgment is off, which explains your less than PC comment in a crowded room of people. You didn’t hear me offer an explanation coupled with a request for forgiveness for your actions. That would have made it an excuse. Despite what some philosophers may think, there is a difference.”

“Everything okay, Kyle?”

Kyle closed his mouth at the waitress’ question. He wanted to argue with Farrah just for the sake of argument. Did she know her eyes darkened when her emotions ran hot, the hazel green a perfect match for the heart of a summer forest at twilight? Damn, but he could stare into those depths all day and all night. Forever.

He gave himself a mental shake, made himself look away from the tempting woman in the booth across from him to the waitress standing by their table. “Yeah, thanks, Tally. We’re good.”