Page 49 of The Bodyguard's Fall

Tate: Time’s up.

Will: What’s your plan?

Tate: I’m going to teach her how to fight.

Will: I already taught her how to shoot.

Tate: And she refuses to use her gun. Nice work though.

Will: Shut up. And keep your hands to yourself.

Will: What else are you thinking?

Tate: I was thinking I’d get her flowers first, then maybe I’d take her to a nice dinner…

Will: Don’t touch my sister.

“You ready to stop for lunch?” Tate asked as he drove a tractor pulling a large baler behind us.

I looked up at Tate from where I sat on the floor in front of him, his butt pillow and my computer situated carefully on my lap. The cab of this particular tractor was smaller, but if I sat just right, I could lean back against the window and bend my legs.

“Yeah,” I answered, my stomach growling as Tate maneuvered the tractor to a stop. I checked my phone for a message or missed call from Will but found nothing. The week deadline was up. I was certain he’d be making plans to bring me home. I didn’t like to think about leaving. But I couldn’t stay here forever, and I shouldn’t want to. I would not overstay my welcome, no matter how much I liked being here. But Will was either avoiding my calls because he didn’t know what to do with me now, or they’d captured Leroy and he hadn’t had time to call me yet.

The latter was highly doubtful…but not impossible.

I had been stalled on a scene and was happy to take a break. There were too many gaps in my manuscript that needed filling, and it was tripping me up. You’d think I’d be able to recall past instances of roaming the woods of the maple farm. Or the hours of my life spent attending and participating in the fall festival, but it was as if my entire memory of either had vanished. I was dead inside.

I spent an inordinate amount of time staring out the window. The strips of hay we’d mowed down in the field with the swather were now being sucked up into the baler, magically turning it into bales of hay. Complete with twine tied around each.

The baling process was fascinating.

And distracting.

Or maybe that was something else.

Like the way Tate would occasionally stop the baler and hop out to fix something on the machine. It was the backward hat and the muscles peeking out from underneath the sleeves of his shirt, filling me with such a wholesome pioneer vibe that I suddenly found myself fighting the urge to rush back home and fix him some supper on the stove.

But today, instead of driving us back home for lunch as usual, Tate pulled us to a stop in the middle of the hayfield. He reached behind him, pulled two paper sacks from behind his seat, and handed one to me. Inside the bag, I found a partially smooshed peanut butter sandwich, a bag of chips, a Dr. Pepper, and a couple of his mom’s pumpkin cookies. I immediately dove into the cookies and sighed in ecstasy. His mother was a wizard with all things pumpkin.

“Is this a lunch date, honey?” The teasing words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. Though my stomach tensed, I pushed forward with a smart-mouthed smile.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he said, unfazed, as he took a large bite of his sandwich.

I scowled up at him, which he seemed to enjoy, if the irritating smirk on his face meant anything.

When we were finished eating, he motioned for me to come outside. The late-September sun felt good on my face, and I took a moment to bend and stretch out my sore, cramped muscles.

“What are we doing?” I asked.

“I’ve got a proposition for you, Rawlins.” He stood with his hands in his pockets, leaning casually against the tractor.

I rubbed my hands down my arms, ignoring the chills suddenly racing up my spine.

“Your guy never showed. There’s been zero attempt at contact. Unless he’s just gone away on a trip somewhere, he knows you're gone.”

The words brought a pang in my gut.

“I want to draw this guy out.”