What Doesn't Kill Her (Cape Charade #2)(13)

Maybe he didn’t care what happened to Kellen. But probably he did, and maybe he was angry the way everything was falling out. And not that she didn’t feel the same way, but—damn.

She didn’t know how to make this work. As far as she knew, there wasn’t a manual that explained how, while in a coma, to push a baby out of her loins and seven years later bond with it. She felt so stupid. Cows produced calves and bonded with them. She had unknowingly produced a child and couldn’t bond. Was she less than a notoriously dumb barnyard animal?

Maybe.

No wonder Max was kicking and punching.

Across the miles, Birdie must have sensed the tangle of Kellen’s emotions. She texted, Everything okay?

I’ve got a job. So yes. Everything’s okay. It’s good to be busy.
What kind of job?
Security.
A pause.

Last time you worked security, you almost got killed.
Shouldn’t happen this time.
Make sure it doesn’t!
Kellen headed back to her bedroom in the old farmhouse and pulled her duffel bag out of the depths of the closet. She stared into the dark interior.

The clothing basics: underwear, toiletries, poncho, three pairs of socks—a change of socks made every day better—and a change of clothes for rugged terrain. Her hiking boots. A cap.

Emergency basics: compass, flashlight, waterproof matches, nylon rope, knife, nylon zip ties.

Those items were always in there.

She needed more. She added ammunition, her sleeping bag and an all-weather blanket. She assumed this would be at most two nights, but one thing the military had taught her—things go wrong, people lie, and a mission schedule wavers according to those two things.

Okay, that was three things the military had taught her.

She unlocked her weapons safe, the tall thin steel safe that kept her firearms out of the way of small curious hands. She stashed a thin sharp knife in a nylon holster up her sleeve. She removed her favorite pistol, a Glock 21 SF, and placed it in a nifty little holster that hid inside her pants below her belt. Tug on the loop, the holster slid up and placed the grip into her hand. She’d found that tricky little devil while she was recovering in the hospital, cruising the internet out of sheer boredom. She hadn’t expected to try it out so soon, though.

She showered and dressed in layers, tough clothes that would hold up against trouble. Not that she expected trouble. But. She thought it was General MacArthur, or maybe Jimmy Kimmel, who said, “Shit happens, especially when a mummy’s head is involved.”

She was as ready as she’d ever be, so she went out and sat on the front porch step like a kid waiting for the school bus.

In less than a minute, she saw Rita Grapplee hurrying out of the tasting room and toward her.

RITA GRAPPLEE:
FEMALE, RUSSIAN ANCESTRY, MIDDLE-AGED, BROWN HAIR, PALE SKIN, PALE EYES, 5'10". EXUBERANT, INTELLIGENT, TOO ENTHUSIASTIC. WORKED FOR MAX FOR THREE MONTHS AFTER RELEASE FROM DRUG REHAB; ANSWERS PHONE, STOCKS SHELVES.
As soon as Rita got in earshot, she asked, “Kellen, I saw you sitting there—are you all right?”

Funny. The men and women who had served with Kellen frequently called her “Captain.” She never asked them to; they were welcome to call her by her first name. Bank tellers, waitstaff, all kinds of service people called her “Kellen”; she thought nothing of it. But the familiar way Rita said her name made her want to snap out an order to stand at attention and salute. Rita was one of those; the people who got by doing as little as possible while wanting everything. The other employees hated her, and Kellen had been through too much in her twenty-eight years to admire that lack of initiative.

Yet today, Rita had done nothing except express concern, so Kellen took a patient breath. “I’m fine, why?”

“You were hurt just a few weeks ago, and you called me, remember?”

“I didn’t call you in particular, I called the winery’s emergency number, and you were on duty. In any case, I’m simply waiting for a ride.”

Rita smirked. “How nice. Is Max coming to take you for a drive?”

Kellen didn’t understand how one woman, a near stranger, could be so presumptuous. “No.”

“Another suitor?” Rita sounded shocked.

It was on the tip of Kellen’s tongue to tell Rita to mind her own business. But she knew that Max and Rae and Kellen and their situation was the source of rampant speculation among the employees and she didn’t want to cause Max more grief, or imagine Rae being pulled aside and pestered with vulgar questions. So Kellen contained her impatience. “No, Max found me a job. I’ll probably be gone for a day or two.”

A white Ford van with dark tinted windows turned up the drive. It veered toward the winery, so she stood and waved. The driver waved back and headed toward the farmhouse. “There’s my ride now.” As the van pulled to a stop, Kellen saw the discreet monogram, RM, on the door.

“RM? What does that stand for?” Rita didn’t wait for an answer. She pulled out her phone and looked it up. “Richart Movers? You’re going to work for a moving company?”

“Apparently.”

Rita continued to read from her phone. “Ohhh. They move fancy art stuff. Rich. Art. Get it?”

“Yes. I get it.”

“That’s a weird job for you. Where are you going?”

A man slid out of the driver’s seat, came around and offered his hand.