The satisfaction of a tight grouping in the ten ring on
her shooting qualification was fading as Alexandra
Forsythe sat cleaning her new Glock on her grandfather's
front porch.
Charles Bennington Forsythe was rarely jittery. That he
was now acting as if he'd been mainlining double espressos
for hours was a fact not lost on his granddaughter. When
he resorted to pacing the farmhouse porch, she couldn't
hold back any longer.
"G.C.?"
Alexandra Forsythe used the nickname with affection and
concern. As a child she'd made it up for this beloved man,
who was more a father to her than her real one had been,
even before his untimely death. "Grandfather" had seemed
too distant, and "Charles" far too lacking in respect. The
fact that G.C., her shortening of Grandfather Charles, had
made her mother wince was merely a side benefit.
He kept pacing as if she'd not spoken, which began to make
her jittery in turn. Normally she would not push him,
having learned in her years as a forensic scientist for
the FBI that patience usually paid off. But this was so
uncharacteristic of him that she found she couldn't just
ignore his mood.
The afternoon breeze swirled her hair, and she shoved red-
gold curls back from her face. Determined now, she quickly
finished up on the Glock, put it back in the case, then
got up from the cushioned wicker chair that sat near the
porch railing. She leaned forward onto the rail, taking in
the expansive view of Forsythe Farms.
This was the place she loved most, the place she
considered home, and of late the only place she found
peace. But peace was obviously not within her grand-
father's grasp this afternoon, and neither, apparently,
was patience within hers. Not when G.C. was this edgy.
"You have two choices," she said without preamble.
"You can either tell me what's chewing on you or I can go
saddle Twill and he can beat it out of you."
She'd finally gotten his attention. He turned to look at
her, one corner of his mouth quirking. "So, you'd like to
see your old grandfather groveling in the mud, would you?"
As she knew from personal experience, the big bay hunter
was a handful, by turns all heart or all contrariness as
the spirit moved him on any given day. But her grandfather
had been a horseman for decades, and there were few he
couldn't handle.
"As if even Twill would have the nerve to toss you," she
said, in exaggerated outrage.
He gave her that smile that had always made her feel as if
she could conquer the world. "Only because you've taught
him to trust."
"True. Now, if I could only get you to trust me with
whatever it is that's bothering you," she said, looking at
him steadily.
Her grandfather sighed. "I trust you," he said. "You know
that I always have."
"But?"
"I'm not sure that what's bothering me matters after all
these years."
She studied his face for a moment, saw the troubled look
in his eyes and the furrow between silver brows that
matched his still-thick mane of hair.
"It matters to you," she said softly. "So it matters to
me."
His expression softened. "Inside with you, then. I'll tell
you over lunch."
Their weekly lunch was a tradition Alex worked hard to
maintain whenever she was at home. She'd gone through
thinking she was going to lose her grandfather once
before, and the awareness that he wasn't getting any
younger rarely left her mind. She didn't like thinking
about it, but there it was.
The only thing she thought about more was Justin. And that
in itself bothered her. She wasn't sure how she felt about
her fellow FBI agent, wasn't sure she wanted to feel about
him at all. That he'd already assumed such importance in
her mind was disconcerting enough.
But she couldn't deny she was tremendously attracted to
him; he was good-looking without being pretty, confident
without being cocky, and smart without being a smart-ass.
He also seemed determined to make their relationship
exclusive, and she didn't know if she was ready for that.
She wished she could get him out of her head, at least for
a while.
As was his wont, G.C. flipped on the noon news for
background as they ate. No new disasters had struck the
world, no one they knew had died, and the stock market had
held steady. Alex had hopes this would cheer him, but then
a clip of a politician flinging some charges G.C. strongly
disagreed with set him off on a rant.
"He's an idiot. Most of them are, anymore. Hasn't been a
decent senator elected since Marion," he muttered as long-
time cook and housekeeper Sylvia Barrett set bowls of her
homemade sorbet in front of them. "Speaking of Marion,"
her grandfather began, then stopped. Finally he reached
into his pocket and pulled out an envelope. Again he
hesitated, enough unlike him to make Alex's concern rise
again. But finally he handed it across the table to her.
"And this is?" she asked, still focused on him rather than
the envelope she'd taken from him.
"I'd like you to read it yourself and tell me what you
think."
Something in his tone and manner told her he was speaking
to his granddaughter the FBI agent. This relieved her;
she'd been afraid what he'd handed her was some sort of
medical report she wasn't going to like.
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