BEVERLY BARTON - Jack's Christmas Mission

Jack shoved his Stetson aside on the bed, then lifted his duffel bag, laid it on the spread and unzipped it. He removed a video tape of Peggy Jo’s show, Self-Made Woman, a paperback copy of her latest book, Putting Yourself First, and a file folder of information about the woman herself.

Good thing he’d eaten on the drive over from Atlanta. He’d picked up a couple of barbecue sandwiches and a bag of chips. That would tide him over until breakfast. He’d be up past midnight going over the information, skimming the book and studying the video. The more he knew about Peggy Jo, her lifestyle and her daily routine, the better able he’d be to protect her and to hopefully figure out who was harassing her. With her attitude, she had probably pissed off half the men in the state, but only a real nut case would become a stalker and pose a threat to her.

After taking off his denim jacket, Jack sat on the edge of the bed to remove his black boots. As he massaged his feet, he thought about why he’d asked Ellen, Dundee’s CEO, to give this case to another agent. Could he be totally honest with himself? He sure hadn’t been up front with Ellen. What he should have said was, “I don’t want to have to guard some man-hating feminist twenty-four/seven because her attitude sticks in my craw.” Because Jack knew better than anyone that a woman could be just as guilty of mistreating a man as a man could of mistreating a woman. As a boy he had watched his mother slowly but surely drive his father to suicide. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the ladies; on the contrary, he loved the ladies and they loved him. But because he understood the dangers of commitment, nobody owned Jack Parker. No woman would ever rope and tie him and put her personal brand on his backside. Love ’em and leave ’em had been his philosophy since he’d been a teenager. And so far, that motto had served him well.

Jack realized that he and Peggy Jo Riley would mix like oil and water. When he had pointed out to Ellen that a female agent would probably be more to Ms. Riley’s liking, Ellen had laughed.

“She requested a female agent, but unfortunately Lucie, J.J. and Kate are all on assignments,” Ellen had said. “And you’re my only experienced agent who’s free, so you’re taking this assignment. Get your gear together and head for Chattanooga pronto.”

Jack padded barefoot across the carpeted floor, switched channels and inserted the tape into the video machine. By the time he had unbuttoned his shirt and unbuckled his belt, the theme music for Self-Made Woman reverberated throughout the hotel room. A jazzy instrumental rendition of a once-popular song by Helen Reddy that he recognized immediately. “I Am Woman.” The announcer introduced the hostess of the show to resounding applause from her audience. Jack plopped down in a chair in front of the TV and studied his new client as she marched front and center.

Peggy Jo Riley was no ordinary woman. One look told him that she was tough, self-confident and aggressive. He was a pretty good judge of women. He’d known more than his share and could usually size up a filly immediately and never be proven wrong. Ms. Riley spoke with a soft, country Southern accent that could easily melt the polar ice cap. As he listened to her rhetoric, he surmised several things—that she was intelligent, charming and had a fairy godmother complex. She wanted to help all the women of the world to fix their problems, be it problems with men, with work, with feelings of inadequacy or incompetence. No wonder the media was comparing her to Oprah.

As he watched and listened, Jack automatically began sizing her up, checking out her physical attributes or lack thereof. He’d never preferred a specific type. He liked ’em all. Blondes, brunettes and redheads. Short, tall, thin, plump. The bimbo type as well as the brainy type. So why was it that he knew instantly that Miss Peggy Jo wasn’t his type?

Hell, what difference did it make? He wasn’t going to be wooing her into his bed. She was a client, an assignment, just like any other. But he couldn’t remember when he’d dreaded taking on a case as much as he did this one.

As he watched Peggy Jo speaking, laughing and commiserating with her female guests, he did an immediate reevaluation. On this particular show she didn’t come across as a man hater, despite the fact that one of her guests was a male therapist who specialized in treating men who abused their wives and children.

Jack noticed the way her eyes glazed with tears when she spoke with a victim and the firmness of her handshake when she thanked the therapist for his valuable input. This was a woman who cared—genuinely cared.

When a knock sounded at the door, Jack paused the video, then stood and traipsed across the room. He opened the door, took the bottle of whisky from the bellhop and thanked him. After pouring himself half a glass of liquor, he picked up the file folder and carried it with him to the chair before restarting the video. Alternately he glanced at the TV screen and read a few pages of data on his client. He just couldn’t connect the high school drop-out and abused teenage wife he was reading about with the self-confident television hostess he saw on screen.

Peggy Jo was no raving beauty, but with her green eyes and freckles she possessed a healthy, clean-cut vibrance. She wore her long, dark-red hair pulled away from her full cheeks and square jaw, but allowed it to hang freely halfway down her back. A neat yet feminine style. She was plump, by today’s standards, not that he heeded today’s standards. Probably five-five, with an ample bosom, small waist and broad hips. Not a large woman, but Rubenesque. She dressed conservatively, in a classic camel tan jacket and black slacks and wore gold jewelry that glistened in the harsh studio lighting.

“Well, Jacky-boy,” he said aloud, “you’re going to have your hands full with this one. She sure is a contradiction. She looks like the type of woman made for loving, but her bio reads like a woman who’d sooner jump into a box of rattlesnakes than into bed with a man.”

He had a sinking feeling that his good-ole-boy charm wouldn’t work on this woman. He knew before even meeting her that this was going to be the most difficult bodyguard case he’d ever handled for Dundee.

Hetty met Peggy Jo at the front door, a concerned look on her wrinkled face and a sad gleam in her brown eyes. Peggy Jo had found a prize in Wendy’s nanny, who also served as her housekeeper. Hetty Ballard was a childless widow who had worked with children all her life, first as a grade school teacher and after retirement, as a baby-sitter. Hetty loved children and in the six years she had been with Peggy Jo and Wendy, the woman had become family; a substitute mother to Peggy Jo and a grandmother to Wendy.

After taking Peggy Jo’s coat the moment she removed it, Hetty hung the black wool garment in the hall closet. “That man called here a few minutes ago. He said to tell you that he’s at the Reed House and he’ll meet you at the station first thing in the morning.”

“Jack Parker is already in Chattanooga?” Peggy Jo headed down the hallway toward her daughter’s room.

“He sounded like a real nice man,” Hetty said. “Got a good Texas accent and was real charming.”

Peggy Jo stopped abruptly, glanced over her shoulder and frowned at Hetty. “We’ve hired the man to be my bodyguard. Our relationship will be completely professional. So, if you have any ideas of trying to put any kind of romantic spin on his living here at the house, you can forget it right now.”

“You’re accusing me unjustly.” Hetty followed Peggy Jo down the hall. “I promised you, after my last attempt at matchmaking, that I would stay out of your love life.” Hetty lowered her voice to a whisper. “Or lack thereof.”

Although she had heard it quite clearly, Peggy Jo ignored the last comment as she opened the door to Wendy’s room.

“She’s supposed to be asleep, but my guess is that she’s been trying to stay awake until you got home,” Hetty said.

Only a soft pink night-light illuminated the darkness in Wendy’s bedroom, an area of pastel colors that created a perfect vision of a little girl’s haven. Peggy Jo had decorated the room from memories of the room she had always wanted as a child but never had. White French Provincial furniture. A canopy bed. Frilly pink curtains and bedspread. A Victorian dollhouse. One wall filled with shelves containing a doll collector’s dream come true. And stuffed animals of every size and variety. And inside the walk-in closet were enough clothes to dress half a dozen six-year-olds.

“Mommy?” Lifting her head from the lace-adorned pillow, the raven-haired child smiled the moment she saw her mother.

Peggy Jo rushed over and sat on the side of the bed. “You’re supposed to be asleep. It’s after nine.”

Wendy scooted out from beneath the covers and threw her arms around Peggy Jo’s neck. “I couldn’t go to sleep until you got home. I wanted to tell you that Missy’s got the flu and Mrs. Carson’s going to let me be an angel in the play. You’ve got to call Missy’s mother and see if we can use her costume.”

Peggy Jo hugged her daughter to her, savoring the bliss of being loved and needed by this special child. She had decided years ago to never remarry, so for an old-fashioned woman like she was, that meant never having children. But when her friend Ginny had died in a car accident, along with her husband, Wendy had been left an orphan at six months old. Adopting Wendy had been an easy decision. Peggy Jo’s maternal yearnings could be fulfilled without compromising her moral standards and without risking a second marriage. She had given Wendy all the love in her heart and everything that money could buy, including a private school. But recently Wendy had begun asking why Peggy Jo couldn’t get her a daddy.

“I’ll call Missy’s mother first thing tomorrow,” Peggy Jo said. “Right now, I have something to tell you.”

On the drive home from the station, she had thought about how she would explain to Wendy that a man would be moving into their home tomorrow. The last thing she wanted Wendy to do was become attached to a hired bodyguard. But for the past several months Wendy had become as obsessed as Hetty with finding her mother a mate. Every man Peggy Jo dated became a potential daddy candidate.

“Sweetie, we’re going to have a houseguest.” Peggy Jo eased Wendy onto her lap. Wendy’s big blue eyes rounded in surprise. “His name is Jack Parker, and he’s a bodyguard. Since Mommy’s TV show is going to be seen all over the United States and Mommy is going to be famous, Aunt Jill thinks I need someone to look after me.”

God, she hoped that explanation made sense to a six-year-old. She had gone over several different versions, and this one seemed simple and honest, without being frightening.

“Oh, Mommy, we’re going to have a man around the house,” Wendy mimicked Hetty’s repetitive declaration that what they needed was a man around the house. “He’s going to take care of you and me, and I can tell Missy and Jennifer and Martha Jane that I do so have a daddy.”

“No, Wendy.” Peggy Jo clasped her daughter’s chin gently. “Mr. Parker isn’t going to be your daddy and he isn’t going to take care of us. What have I told you about us girls?”

Wendy’s smile quickly turned into a frown. Her rosebud mouth became a pout. “That we don’t need a man to take care of us. That we can take care of ourselves.”

“That’s right.”

“But you said he was going to look after you,” Wendy whined. “Daddies look after mommies and little girls, don’t they?”