The Rogue (3 page)

Cold anger wound through Killian as he thought about the mission. "Picking on a defenseless woman tells you the kind of slime we're dealing with."

Morgan gave Killian a probing look. "So will you take this assignment?"

Morgan knew that Killian's weakness, his Achilles' heel, was the underdog in any situation.

"One more thing," Morgan warned as he saw Killian's eyes thaw slightly. "Susannah isn't very emotionally stable right now. Her parents are Kentucky hill people. They're simple, hardworking folks. Sam owns a two-hundred-acre fruit farm, and that's their livelihood. Susannah ought to be in therapy to help her cope with what happened to her. I've offered to pay for it, but she's refusing all help."

"Frightened of
her own
shadow?" Killian asked, the face of his sister, Meg, floating into his memory.

Morgan nodded. "I want you to take care of Susannah. I know it's against your guidelines for a job,
but my instincts say you're the right person to handle this situation—and her."

His own haunted past resurfacing, tugging at his emotions, Killian felt his heart bleed silently for this woman and her trauma. Avoiding Morgan's searching gaze, he sat silently for a long time, mulling over his options. Finally he heaved a sigh and muttered,
"I
just can't do it."

"
Dammit
!" Morgan leaned forward, fighting to keep his voice under tight control. "I
need
you, Killian. I'm not
asking
you to take this
assignment,
I'm
ordering
you to take it."

Anger leaped into Killian's narrowed eyes, and his fist clenched on the table's Formica top as he stared at Morgan. "And if I don't take this assignment?"

"Then, whether I like it or not, I'll release you from any obligation to
Perseus
. I'm sorry, Killian. I didn't want the mission to come down to this. You're the best at what we do. But Susannah is part of my family." His voice grew emotional with pleading. "Whatever your problem with women
is,
put it aside. I'm begging you to help Susannah."

Killian glared at Morgan, tension radiating from him, every joint in his usually relaxed body stiff with denial. He
couldn't
protect a woman! Yet, as he stared at Morgan, he knew that if he didn't take the assignment his boss would release him from his duties with
Perseus
, and the money he made was enough to keep Meg reasonably well-off. If he hadn't come to work for
Perseus
, he'd never have been able to free her from the financial obligations brought on by her tragedy.

His need to help his sister outweighed the risk of his own pain. The words came out harshly, bitten off: "I'll do the best I can."

Relief showed on Morgan's taut features. "Good. My conscience is eating me alive on this situation, Killian. But this is the only way I can make amends to Susannah for what's happened. She was innocent—in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"I'll leave right away," Killian rasped as he took the voucher and airline ticket Morgan proffered. No use putting off the inevitable. He'd pick up his luggage at the motel across from the restaurant and get under way. No longer hungry, he rose from the booth. Morgan appeared grateful, but that didn't do anything for him. Still angry over Morgan's threat to fire him, Killian made his way outside without a word. Walking quickly, he crossed the street to the motel, his senses as always
hyperalert
to everything around him.

What kind of person was this Susannah Anderson? Killian wondered. He'd noticed Morgan's voice lower with feeling when he'd spoken about her. Was she young?
Old?
Married?
Apparently not, if she was staying with her parents.
A large part of him, the part that suffered and grieved over Meg, still warned him not to go to Kentucky.
His soft spot for a woman in trouble was the one chink in his carefully tended armor against the pain this world inflicted on the unwary.

Yet, as he approached the motel on this hot Montana summer morning, Killian felt an oblique spark of interest that he hated to admit.
Susannah was a melodic name, suggestive of someone with sensitivity. Was she? What color was her hair? What color were
her eyes? Killian could read a person's soul through the eyes. That ability to delve into people, to know them inside out, was his greatest strength. On the flip side, he allowed no one to know him. Even Morgan
Trayhern
, who had one of the most sophisticated security companies in America, had only a very thin background dossier on him. And Killian wanted it kept that way. He wanted no one to know the extent of the pain he carried within him—or what he'd done about it. That kind of information could be ammunition for his enemies—and could mean danger to anyone close to him. Still, his mind dwelled on the enigmatic Susannah Anderson. She could be in more danger with Killian around than from any potential hit man. Why couldn't Morgan understand that? Killian hadn't wanted to tell Morgan his reasons for refusing to take assignments involving women; he'd never told anyone. A frown worked its way across his brow. Susannah had been a victim of violence, just like Meg. More than likely, she was afraid of everything.

Arriving at his motel room, Killian methodically packed the essentials he traveled with: a long, wicked- looking hunting knife, the nine-millimeter Beretta that he wore beneath his left armpit in a shoulder holster, and his dark brown leather coat.

When he'd placed a few other necessary items in a beat-up leather satchel, Killian was ready for his next assignment. He'd never been to Kentucky, so he'd have a new area to explore. But whether he wanted to or not, he had to meet Susannah Anderson. The thought tied his gut into painful knots. Damn
Mor
gan's
stubbornness! The woman was better off without Killian around. How in the hell was he going to handle his highly volatile emotions, not to mention her?

"
We
're
so glad you've come," Pansy Anderson gushed as she handed Killian a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table across from him.

Killian gave the woman a curt nod. The trip to Glen, Kentucky, and from there to the fruit
farm,
had passed all too quickly. However, the Andersons' warm welcome had dulled some of his apprehension. Ordinarily, Killian spoke little, but this woman's kindness made his natural reticence seem rude. Leathery-looking Sam Anderson sat at his elbow, work-worn hands clutching a chipped ceramic mug of hot black coffee. Pansy, who appeared to be in her sixties, was thin, with a face that spoke of a harsh outdoor life.

As much as Killian wanted to be angry at everyone, he knew these people didn't deserve his personal frustration. Struggling with emotions he didn't dare ex
plore
,
Killian whispered tautly, "I'm glad
io
be here,
Mrs
, Anderson." It was an utter lie, but still, when he looked into Pansy's worn features he saw relief and
hope
in her eyes. He scowled inwardly at her reaction. He couldn't offer hope to them or to their daughter. More likely, he presented a danger equal to the possibility of the murderer's coming after Susannah. Oh, God, what was he going to do? Killian's gut clenched with anxiety.

"Call me Pansy." She got up, wiping her hands on her red apron. "I think it's so nice of Morgan to send you here for a rest. To tell you the truth, we could sure use company like yours after what happened to our Susannah." She went to the kitchen counter and began peeling potatoes for the evening meal. "Pa, you think Susannah might like the company?"

"
Dunno
, Ma.
Maybe."
Sam's eyes became hooded, and he stared down at his coffee, pondering her question. "My boy, Dennis, served with Morgan. Did he tell you that?"

"No, he didn't."

"That's right—in Vietnam. Dennis died up there on that hill with everyone else. My son sent glowing letters back about Captain
Trayhern
." Sam looked up. "To this day, I've kept those letters. It helps ease the pain I feel when I miss Denny."

Pansy sighed, "We call Susannah our love baby, Killian. She was born shortly after Denny was killed. She sure plugged up a hole in our hearts. She was such a beautiful baby
   
"

"Now, Ma," Sam warned gruffly, "
don't
go getting teary-eyed on us. Susannah's here and,
thank
the good Lord above, she's alive." Sam turned his atten
tion to Killian. "We need to warn you about our daughter. Since she came back to us from the coma, she's been
actin
' awful strange."

"Before the tragedy," Pansy added, "Susannah was always such a lively, outgoing young woman. She's a teacher over at the local grade school in Glen. The mentally and physically handicapped children are her first love. She used to laugh, dance, and play beautiful music." Pansy gestured toward the living room of the large farmhouse. "There's a piano in there, and Susannah can play well. Now she never touches it. If she hears music, she runs out of the house crying."

"And she
don't
want anything to do with anyone. Not even us, much of the time," Sam whispered. He gripped the cup hard, his voice low with feeling. "Susannah is the kindest, most loving daughter on the face of this earth, Killian. She wouldn't harm a fly. She cries if one of Ma's baby chicks dies. When you meet her, you'll see what we're saying."

"The violence has left her disfigured in a kind of invisible way," Pansy said. "She has nasty headaches, the kind that make her throw up. They come on when she's under stress. She hasn't gone back to teach, because she hasn't found her voice yet. The doctors say the loss of her voice isn't due to the blow on her head."

"It's mental," Sam added sadly.

"Yes. . . I suppose it is. . . .
          
" Pansy
admitted softly.

"It's emotional," Killian rasped, "not mental." He was instantly sorry he'd spoken, as both of them gave him a strange look. Shifting in his chair, Killian muttered, "I know someone who experienced something similar." Meg had never lost her voice, but he'd suffered with her, learning plenty about emotional wounds. He saw the relief in their faces, and the shared hope.
Dammit
, they shouldn't hope! Killian clamped his mouth shut and scowled deeply, refusing to meet their eyes.

Pansy rattled on, blotting tears from her eyes. "You understand, then."

Pansy gave him a wobbly smile and wiped her hands off on the towel hanging up on a hook next to the sink. "We just don't know, Killian. Susannah writes us notes so we can talk with her that way. But if we try and ask her about the shooting she runs away, and we don't see her for a day or two."

"She's out in the old dilapidated farmhouse on the other side of the orchard—but not by our choice," Sam offered unhappily. "That was the old family homestead for over a hundred years 'fore my daddy built this place. When Susannah came home from the hospital last month, she insisted on moving into that old, broken-down house. No one's lived there for twenty years or more! It's about half a mile across the hill from where we live now. We had to move her bed and fetch stuff out to her. Sometimes, on a good day, she'll come join us for supper. Otherwise, she makes her own meals and stays alone over there. It's as if she wants to hide from the world—even from us. . . ."

Killian nodded, feeling the pain that Pansy and Sam carried for their daughter. As the silence in the kitchen became stilted, Killian forced himself to ask a few preliminary questions. "How old is Susannah?"

Sam roused himself.
"Going on twenty-seven."

"And you say she's a teacher?"

A proud smile wreathed Pansy's features as she washed dishes in the sink. "Yes, she's a wonderful teacher! Do you know
,
she's the only member of either of our families that got a college degree? The handicapped children love her so much. She taught art class." With a sigh, Pansy added, "
Lordy
, she won't paint or draw anymore, either."

"Nope," Sam said. "All she does is work in the orchard, garden and tend the animals—mostly the sick ones. That's what seems to make her feel safe."

"And she goes for long walks alone," Pansy added. "I worry. She knows these hills well, but there's this glassy look that comes into her eyes, Killian, and I sometimes wonder if she realizes where she's at."

"Have there been any strangers around, asking about Susannah?" Killian asked offhandedly. Now he understood why Morgan didn't want to tell these gentle, simple people the truth of the situation. But how the hell was he going to balance everything and keep a professional attitude?

"Oh," Pansy said with a laugh, "we get lots of folks up here to buy our fruits, nuts and fresh garden vegetables. And I'm known for my
healin
' abilities, so we always have folks
stoppin
' by. That's
somethin
' Susannah took to—using herbs to heal people with. She's a good healer, and the hill folk, if they can't get to me because I'm busy, they'll go to Susannah. We have a huge herb garden over by the old homestead, and she's making our medicines for this year as the herbs are ready for
pickin
'."