Protecting Peggy (7 page)

Rory let out a slow breath. “Neither do I.”

“How long you planning on staying in Prosperino?”

“Until I get an ID on what contaminated the water
at Hopechest. That could take a few more days, maybe a couple of weeks.”

Lummus reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulled out a business card and handed it to Rory. “I'd appreciate it if you keep your eyes open while you're here. Call me if anything doesn't seem right or if you spot someone hanging around the inn who doesn't fit. My home number's on the back of the card.”

“Sure.”

Nodding, the cop turned, strode to the door and pulled it open. Rory stared down at the business card while wondering if Peggy knew the guy had a thing for her. Wondering, too, if she had a thing for Lummus.

Footsteps coming from the dining room had Rory turning just as Charlie O'Connell stepped into the kitchen. The EPA inspector was still favoring the ankle he'd twisted during that morning's tumble down the stairs. His tan overcoat was draped over one shoulder.

“What's the patrol car doing outside?” O'Connell asked.

Rory slid Lummus's card into his back pocket. “A man attacked Mrs. Honeywell while she was working in her greenhouse.”

“
Attacked
her?” O'Connell blinked. “She okay?”

The EPA inspector was wearing the same crimson sweater and khaki slacks he'd had on that morning, Rory noted. He couldn't see any evidence of the greenhouse's dirt floor on the light-colored slacks.

“Shaken up. To be on the safe side, Dr. Colton is coming over to take a look at her.”

“That's probably a good idea.”

Rory angled his chin. “Mind telling me where you were around three o'clock this afternoon?”

O'Connell's mouth tightened. “I take it that's when she got jumped?”

“Yes.” Rory raised a shoulder. “No offense. The cop who took the report asked me to check some things out. That's what I'm doing.”

“I was at the res.”

“Crooked Arrow?”

“Yeah, Crooked Arrow Reservation. There's a new water well being dug there, near where the res borders Hopechest Ranch property. I've been out there before, but I wanted to have another look at that well. Plenty of people saw me.”

“In that case, you're in the clear.” Although Rory had no real reason to think that O'Connell had been the man who assaulted Peggy, he planned to check his alibi. “Find anything of interest at the well?”

O'Connell's mouth curved. “Remember what I told you this morning, Sinclair? I'm not doing your work for you. You go take a look at that well, then let me know what you find.”

Rory shook his head. “Far be it for us to cooperate.”

“We aren't cooperating, I keep telling you that.” O'Connell glanced around the kitchen, then frowned.

“Something wrong?”

“The two art biddies drove into the parking lot right behind me. They always make a point to be back here in time for wine and cheese in the study, unlike those honeymooners who never show their faces. Peggy al
ways lights the fire and puts on music. I came through the study—no cheese, no fire, no nothing.”

Rory lifted a brow. “So you decided to come in here and see why?”

“That's right.” O'Connell stuck a hitchhiker-like thumb in the direction of the study. “Between them, those two dames must wear a hundred bracelets. The clacking noise drives me nuts. Checking on this evening's snack was the quickest way for me to get away from them.”

More like give yourself another opportunity to hustle the landlady, Rory thought. Sorry, pal, not tonight.

O'Connell shrugged. “I'll go tell them about Peggy's accident and that they should just go on out to dinner.”

“No, you don't.” If Rory knew anything about Peggy, it was that she prided herself on seeing to the needs of her guests. That she hadn't yet remembered to serve that evening's wine and cheese spoke volumes about how shaken the attack had left her. The minute she remembered, she'd be on her feet, scurrying around. He closed his eyes for a brief instant. He hadn't forgotten how impossibly pale her skin had been, the absolute fear in her eyes. The knowledge of what the bastard could have done to her twisted in Rory's gut.

He blew out a breath, pulled open the door of the refrigerator. “I don't know about you, O'Connell, but I learned a long time ago how to open a package of cheese.”

“Guess it doesn't take a rocket scientist,” O'Connell observed while Rory pulled open drawers
filled with fresh produce and vegetables with such deep color they looked like they were still hanging on the vine.

“Just a mere scientist.” Rory snatched two blocks of plastic-wrapped cheese out of the third drawer he tried. “Grab a plate. And a knife.” He nudged the refrigerator door shut with an elbow, moved to the center island. “Where does Mrs. Honeywell keep the wine?”

“There's a rack in the study. Glasses are in a cabinet there.”

“Perfect.” Rory unwrapped both blocks of cheese then plopped them on the plate O'Connell had pulled out of a cabinet. For the finishing touch, Rory stabbed a knife into the center of one of the blocks. “When you get to the study, pick out a bottle of wine. Serve yourself and the art ladies.” As he spoke, Rory shoved the plate into the man's hands. “Have a great happy hour.”

O'Connell gave the plate a disparaging look. “Anyone ever tell you that you leave a lot to be desired when it comes to aesthetics, Sinclair?”

“Yeah, and it broke my heart.”

“I'll bet,” O'Connell muttered as he limped out the door.

Rory checked his watch. It was nearly six. Jason Colton had promised he would drop by the inn after he finished his rounds at the hospital—probably around six-thirty.

“I can't believe I forgot!”

Rory turned in time to see Peggy walk stiffly out of
the rear hallway. He scowled. “You're supposed to be on the couch.”

“I can't be on the couch,” she said as she moved toward the refrigerator. “Not when I have guests to serve.”

He reached the refrigerator before she did and leaned a shoulder against its door where magnets anchored a myriad of crayon drawings. “You don't need to serve your guests.”

“Says who?”

“Me.”

She lifted her chin. “Look, Sinclair, I've gone after you once today with a sharp implement. Don't make me do it again.”

Chuckling, he ran a fingertip down her cheek. “You're tough, Ireland.”

“I'm not trying to be tough. I'm trying to operate a business. You're not helping.”

“A lot you know. Your guests are already taken care of.” He inclined his head in the direction of the study. “They've got a cheese plate. Wine.” At that instant, a soft stirring of classical music drifted in on the air. He gave her a self-satisfied grin. “Music. They're fine.”

A crease formed between her brows. “You fixed a cheese plate?”

“To tell you the truth, I can't take all the credit. O'Connell helped.”

“Are you serious?”

“Totally. He's also in charge of lighting a fire.”

“But—”

“No buts.” Placing his hands on her shoulders,
Rory steered her toward the small table in the alcove just off the kitchen. “Don't act so shocked, Ireland. Some men are perfectly capable of getting around a kitchen.”

“And there are some who won't lift a finger and depend on their wives to do everything.”

“Well, there is no Mrs. Sinclair. That means I have to fend for myself. Like unwrapping a hunk of cheese and cutting off a couple of slices. It's not a big deal.”

When he pulled a chair out from the table, she hesitated. “Oh.”

“Oh, what?”

“Nothing.” She settled stiffly into the chair.

“I still owe you that second cup of tea.”

“You don't owe me anything, Mr. Sinclair. In fact, I owe you.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “What exactly do you think you owe me, Mrs. Honeywell?”

“For one thing, my thanks. For rescuing me in the greenhouse. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he said smoothly. “Although, by the time I got there, you didn't need rescuing.”

“I also owe you dessert tonight.”

Rory stared down at her, saw the shadows beneath her eyes. “I figure you've had a full day already.”

“A deal's a deal.”

“True.” Turning, he walked back to the center island. There, he filled the cup with water, slid in a tea bag, put the cup in the microwave and punched its controls. “Tell you what. I'll trade tonight's dessert for lunch tomorrow.”

“Lunch.”

“Right. I plan to work in my room most of the day, running preliminary tests on the water samples I collected at Hopechest Ranch.”

“Speaking of that.” Peggy patted a manila envelope lying beside her on the table. “Suzanne Jorgenson brought this by. She said they're the toxicology reports you asked for.”

“Good. Add those to the list of things I need to take a look at tomorrow. With all the work I've got ahead of me, it would be a real inconvenience to have to go somewhere and pick up lunch.”

Peggy ran a fingertip across the envelope. “It's a deal, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Rory.”

“Momma!” Samantha burst through the back door, then swung it shut with a clatter. “Guess what Gracie 'n' me baked?”

Clad in a powder-blue thermal jacket and gripping a paper plate covered with foil, the little girl rushed across the kitchen to her mother's side.

“Gracie and
I,
sweetheart,” Peggy said, deftly accepting the plate tilted precariously toward her lap. “Let's see what we've got here.”

“It's cookies!” Samantha announced, dancing from foot to foot in anticipation before Peggy had a chance to pull off the foil.

“They look delicious.”

“Yeah, they taste real good.” Samantha shoved a tumble of dark curls behind one shoulder. “Mrs. Warren let me put the frosting on all by myself.”

Rory arched a brow. From where he stood, it looked
as if at least an inch-deep glob of chocolate frosting covered the top of each cookie.

“And you did a wonderful job.” Smiling, Peggy slid the plate onto the table, then unzipped Samantha's jacket and tugged it off. Rory saw a flicker of pain in Peggy's eyes when Samantha bumped against her hip.

A hard knot formed in his throat. He remembered the desperation in her eyes, the absolute fear in her voice when she'd looked up at him in the greenhouse and said,
Samantha. All I could think about was Samantha. How alone she'd be if I died.

He knew too well what happened to a child when it lost the only parent who loved them.

“You can have a cookie, too, Mr. Rory.”

His chin lifted. Peggy sat at the table, giving him a mild look while taking the first bite from the frosting-laden cookie balanced on her fingertips. Samantha, still clad in the hot-pink romper from that morning, looked at him, eagerness glowing in her dark eyes.

“Just one?”

“Well, one at a time,” Samantha said, giving him a stern look.

“Use both hands,” Peggy cautioned as her daughter retrieved the paper plate off the table.

Rory walked around the island, crouching when Samantha reached him. “Thanks.” He flicked a meaningful look at Peggy. “There's nothing better than having a beautiful woman make me dessert.”

Samantha giggled. “I'm not a woman.”

“No, but you're a looker.”

“What's a looker?”

“You.” Rory tweaked her nose, took the plate, then
rose and placed it on the island. He selected a hopelessly deformed cookie, then bit it. He blinked as his system absorbed the punch of sugar.

“What's in there?”

He glanced down. Samantha was now standing on sneaker-clad tiptoes, peering over the edge of the counter into the sack he'd carried home from the hospital's gift shop. He had intended to check with Peggy before giving Samantha the gift. Too late now.

“It's a present for you.” Reaching into the bag, he pulled out the fuzzy pink rabbit, then stooped down until he and Samantha were eye to eye. “I spotted her in the window of the hospital's gift shop. She looked lonesome. I decided you were the right person to keep her company.”

“A new Bugs!” Samantha squealed as she engulfed the rabbit in her arms. “Momma, Mr. Rory bought me a new Bugs!”

Peggy's eyes were warm when they met his. “I see.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rory!” Samantha threw herself at him, wrapping a thin arm around his neck. The hug went straight to Rory's heart.

With a stranglehold on the rabbit, Samantha dashed back to Peggy. “Now Bugs has a friend. Her name's Bugsy. Momma, can I take them to the arts festival tomorrow night?”

“I think they'll both fit in your backpack.”

“'N Mr. Rory, too?”

With a laugh, Peggy ruffled her daughter's dark curls. “I don't think he'll fit in your backpack.”

“I know,” Samantha said with exasperation. “Can we take him with us to the festival?”

Peggy looked up, met his gaze. She had a beautifully expressive face. He could read every emotion. He knew without a doubt she was as uneasy as he was about the attraction that drew them like divining rods to water.

“Mr. Sinclair was just telling me about all the work he has to do tomorrow. I doubt he has time to go to the festival.”

“I'll make time,” Rory said quietly. Folded in his pocket was Blake Fallon's list with the names of everyone who stood to gain if he lost his job as director of Hopechest Ranch. On a second list were the names of people who might take revenge on Blake for his father having made two attempts on Joe Colton's life. Not only would attending the festival give Rory a chance to meet some of those people, he would also get a flavor for Prosperino and a lay of the land. That might come in handy later if it turned out someone had purposely contaminated the ranch's water.