Chapter Eleven
Eleanor continued to set up her office space, unpacking the crate of books that were rescued from her totaled car. Besides books about horses, equine-assisted therapy, hippotherapy, and social welfare was a book about Harriet Tubman and the Underground Railway. It was a gift from Phyllis West, the woman who became her adoptive mother at age fourteen. Inside was a photograph of two curly-headed girls. She rubbed her heart, still mourning for her sister Belinda, whom she left behind when she escaped.
“Ellie, get over it,” she pleaded with herself. She opened her desk drawer and explored it to find the decorator thought of everything. Inside was a note,thought you’d like the enclosed accessories. If not, let the handsome cowboy know, and he can order something else. Owen Errol, Interior Designer.
She unwrapped a box containing professional stationery, a datebook, a business card holder, a pencil cup, pads, assorted colored markers, colored pencils, and a pad of drawing paper. A second box sat beneath it. Atop was another note.Ellie,welcome aboard. Wes.She gasped when she opened the box. Inside was an e-reader filled with a credit balance, a blank journal with her name engraved on it, and a sepia photograph with a tiny nameplate.Wrangler Jane.
“When did you do this?” She shook her head. She still had no idea what to do. Her analytical mind went over things. Could she take a chance? Would he hurt her? Could he possibly like her? Men like him could have a model on their arm.
The kiss? It felt good. “You’re thirty and, until Wes, never been kissed. Argh. Well, now you have.”
She tucked everything back in her drawer and locked up. Buttoning her coat, she walked up to the main building. The wind picked up, and she jumped at the shadows. Her pace increased. She wanted to be near Wes as fast as she could.
* * *
“Ready to do this?” Wes asked his friend of twenty years, Kip.
“I’m too old for this,” Kip chuckled, sitting on a bench in the fieldhouse locker room.
“Both of us are younger than Zach, Julian and Ian. Both of them requalified easily last week.”
Christian joined them. “You both look constipated.”
“And you can be reassigned as a gate guard,” Wes said, slamming his locker.
“Tango Team is stretching out. And you have an audience; Ellie West is here. We go in fifteen minutes,” Christian said.
“We will be ready.” Kip’s lips turned up. “What are you going to do?”
“Once she finds out what I know…” Wes shook his head.
“Talk to her,” Kip urged.
“I plan to. I won’t play games with her.” Tension ran across his shoulders.
Though as founders, they would not be reduced in rank because of their inability to meet the levels, both men wanted to set positive examples for the younger Eagle’s Talon membership. And none of them wanted to be beat by the young blood clamoring at their heels.
Wes and Kip walked out onto the pool area. The members of Tango Team, noting their presence, began to mumble among themselves. Their executive officer cleared her throat and silenced the group before walking over to greet the two senior executives. This was Kip’s first requalification since being shot in the thigh in September.
“Mr. Brennan, Mr. Crockett.” Gwen “Witch” North, a statuesque brunette wearing a swim cap topped by goggles, extended her hand as she spoke. “Qualifying with us today?”
“We figured you could cheer us old men along,” Kip said.
“We’d be honored.” Gwen, dressed in a navy blue training swimsuit, turned back to her squad.
“Gwen, could you stop by my office tomorrow morning? I’d like to speak with you.” Wes had a plan.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
Wes and Kip stretched. “You feel okay?” Wes asked. His wound was still red.
“Good to go.” Kip stood. Both men ran and swam as well as lifted weights to stay in shape.
Mike and Eleanor were sitting with Christian, who was animatedly speaking to her. Wes watched Christian stand and point in his direction. Mike continued to speak with Eleanor.
Six other instructors were positioned around the deck for safety purposes as Christian walked onto the deck and blew a whistle. “Alright, we will begin with the five-hundred-yard swim; that’s ten laps followed by a ten-minute rest,” he announced. “Eight lanes, eight at a time. When the swimmer ahead of you hits the wall, the next swimmer goes. First group, step up. On my mark: one, two, three.” He fired a starter’s pistol.
Wes and Kip started side by side, both men pushing the other to reach advanced-level performance. The maximum time requirement was ten minutes. Their presence in the pool pushed the men and women swimming with them. Years of experience, both on missions and in life, taught them to use their surroundings. Wes turned his head and could see Kip slowing. He rolled onto his side and yelled over the echoes in the pool, “Acrobat, shark.”
