Here’s a little taste from early in this
story of the challenge “retired” Rescue agent Rafe Gordon faces when he must
hide his legendary father Del from alien assassins—in the last place anyone
would look, a small town on Earth.
Rafe stood awkwardly in the kitchen,
trying to stay out of the way while Charlie put things on a tray for Del. He
didn’t dare leave her to her thoughts about what Del had said about the psoros. But how to approach it? Damn it,
he was no freaking diplomat.
Just before she picked up the tray, Rafe
put a hand on her forearm. “I, uh, I heard what Del said as I was coming
in—about the things—whatever he calls ’em?” He wouldn’t reinforce the alien
word in her mind; he hoped she’d forget it.
“Yeah,
what was that all about?”
The bright, curious look she got on her
face did something to him. The way she held her head slightly to one side,
causing her hair to fall over one shoulder. That long, silky hair.
Shalssit! Focus, asshole. “Don’t pay any attention to him. He gets like that.
God knows where he gets half the stuff he says.”
Her brows came together. “That’s what
worries me, Rafe. The usual dementia patient doesn’t just make stuff up. Their
delusions are based somewhere in their memories or experience. If he’s truly
inventing creatures we’ve never seen before and making up names in his own
languages for them, he might have been misdiagnosed.”
Crap—now he’d opened up a leaky photon tube. Rafe
fought to keep his voice level, his demeanor calm. He had to manage this before
things got out of hand. Rayna had apparently gone out of her way to find the
smartest—and sexiest—nurse on the damn planet.
Rafe gave her his most disarming grin. “Or
it could be all those crazy science fiction shows he used to watch on
television. He’d still be watching every space adventure and mad scientist
flick he could get his eyes on if I’d let him. I put a stop to it. Gives him
ideas.”
Her mouth opened to reply, then closed,
and a blush crept up her neck to her cheeks. Her gaze met his for a moment
longer than was strictly appropriate—the blue of her planet’s seas, roiled now
with an emotion he didn’t quite understand. Maybe he should try smiling more
often.
“Um, okay, yes, maybe,” she said at last. She
picked up the tray and took it out to the little round table between the
kitchen and the open living room that served as their dining room. She set Del
up there with his food and gave him his meds. Del took them from her without
complaint and started in on the sandwich. At his side, the dog sat waiting for
anything that might accidentally fall to the floor.
Rafe’s anxiety dissolved. This was good,
better than he could have hoped, and well worth dodging a few questions now and
again. The Old Man was calm. Content. Rafe might even get used to the
dog—eventually.
If he could just stop thinking of Charlie that way, things would be perfect.
He sighed and turned back to the kitchen
to make himself some food. But what he found on the counter was not entirely
recognizable, even if it had come out of his own refrigerator. The advance team
had done the provisioning, and beyond cooking up some eggs this morning he
hadn’t examined what was to be had.
“Need help?” Charlie smiled at him, as if
she saw his confusion.
She was standing too close, putting his
body at war with his pride. “I, uh, I don’t spend much time in a kitchen.” He
could only hope what was generally true of men in his rough-and-tumble universe
was also true of men on Earth. Though he suspected most of them could probably accomplish lunch.
Her eyebrows shot up. “Um, okay. Why don’t
you keep your dad company while I make you a sandwich? Mind if I join you?”
“What? Oh, sure, help yourself.” It hadn’t
occurred to him that she might be
hungry. Though her dog was certainly making it clear he was eager for a taste
of the Old Man’s lunch.
Charlie
noticed, too. “Happy! Quit begging. Lie down.”
The dog huffed and lay down. He put his
head on his paws and pretended to take no more interest in the human
proceedings.
Rafe smiled. “You spoiled his fun.”
“He’d eat constantly if I let him.”
“You seem . . . attached.” The
relationship was a mystery. He’d seen people who were fond of their pet cats
(or ships, or home planets), but he’d never understood it. It seemed like a
waste of emotional energy to him, and he had none to spare.
“I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
Her voice had dropped; he had to lean in to hear her. “He’s a rescue dog—got
him from the pound down in Masey—but I always say he’s the one that rescued
me.” She lifted her chin and smiled. “And you see how he is with people like
your dad. They all love him, and he loves them back. He makes my work so much
easier.”
He caught the attempt to divert him. “He
rescued you? From what?”
She let go a breath. “Huh. Well, that’s a
long story for another time.” She handed him a plate with two “sandwiches”—meat
and vegetables between two slices of bread, with two kinds of sauce on it, one
white, one yellow. He realized again how hungry he was.
“Thank you.” He met her gaze. “For
everything. I guess you’ve decided to take the job.”
She glanced at the table, where Del was
feeding the last of his sandwich meat to the dog, and laughed. “Yes. I don’t
think Happy would allow me to say no.”
Cheers,
Donna
