On The Run by Iris Johansen Page B

She turned to Kilmer. “I haven’t seen any security.”
    “They’re flying in tonight.” He glanced down at Frankie and smiled. “You’ll have a lot of cowboys wandering around tomorrow.”
    She smiled back at him. “But no cows. I didn’t see any cows.”
    “I’d bet a few of those cowboys have never even been on a horse,” Dillon said with a grin. “I hope so. I don’t want to be the only one.” He pulled up in front of the two-story brick house and jumped out of the car. “I’ll get the bags. At least I’m good as a pack mule.”
    “I’ll help you.” Robert grabbed a duffel and two suitcases and followed Dillon up the steps. “What bedrooms, Kilmer?”
    “Frankie and Grace have the first one at the top of the stairs. The others are up for grabs. After you finish, will the two of you check out the stable? Don’t forget the hayloft.”
    “Sure.” Robert disappeared into the house.
    Frankie got out of the car and ran to stand on the porch. “Pretty,” she murmured. “And listen to the wind. It . . . sings.”
    “Does it?” Kilmer squatted down beside her. “And what’s the song?”
    “I don’t know.” She gazed dreamily out at the mountains. “But I like it. . . .” She sat down on the steps. “May I stay out here for a little while, Mom?”
    “If you don’t wander off.” Grace rumpled her curls as she passed her. “Thirty minutes.”
    “Okay.”
    “If you like, we’ll go take a look at the horses as soon as the stable’s checked out,” Kilmer offered as he took Frankie’s keyboard out of the backseat, where she’d insisted on keeping it, and climbed the porch steps.
    Frankie shook her head. “Not now.” She leaned against the porch rail, her gaze on the mountains. “I just want to sit out here and listen. . . .”
    “By all means,” Kilmer said as he held open the door for Grace. “Getting acquainted with the horses can wait.”
    The decor of the interior of the house was more mellow, fine-hewn craftsman than western, Grace thought. A huge stone fireplace occupied one wall, fronted by a comfortable beige corduroy-covered couch. Several leather easy chairs were scattered about the room, and a splendid Tiffany floor lamp loomed over one of them. “Nice.”
    “I’m glad you approve.” He was heading up the stairs with Frankie’s keyboard case. “There are four bedrooms. I’ve put you and Frankie in the first one.”
    “You might as well leave the keyboard down here. She’s going to want it pretty soon.”
    He looked back at her. “The wind singing?”
    “Maybe.” She shrugged. “Or maybe it’s about something else. She was talking about needing the piano the night before last, even before we knew about Charlie.”
    “It’s the first time I’ve seen this side of her.” He glanced thoughtfully back at the door. “It’s interesting. One minute a horse-crazy kid and the next . . . interesting.”
    “It’s all Frankie. I’ve tried to make sure one side of her doesn’t unbalance the other.” She started up the stairs. “For instance, she’s not allowed to shirk her chores just because she’s toying with a melody.”
    “Heaven forbid.”
    She glared at him. “It’s important. Yes, she has to be encouraged, but building a strong character is just as vital.”
    “I’d say she has a damn strong character.” He held up his hand. “I’m not criticizing you. You’ve done an incredible job and I’ve no right to interfere.”
    “That’s the truth.”
    He smiled. “But may I say I feel a certain amount of pride that my share of genes gave you the material to work with?”
    “You can say it to me. As long as you don’t say it to Frankie.” She passed him and continued up the stairs. “Is Donavan coming tomorrow too?”
    “No, I have him staking out Marvot. He’s the one who tipped me about Kersoff being one of the players who showed up at Marvot’s compound. I won’t pull him until I need him here.”
    “And who else was invited by Marvot