“Okay,” Clay told her. “I think they’re far enough away that we can go.” He pushed off and stood, bracing against her shoulder again in a way that caused Sandy Lynn to doubt his stability.
“How? Where?”
“First, we need to see if my bike will run. If it starts, we can take this side road to my condo, assuming the snow isn’t too deep.” He began to stomp through the high drift, following the trail they had blazed getting there.
Sticking close behind him, she kept her arms extended so she’d be ready to steady him if necessary. There were several missteps on both their parts before they reached the slick roadway.
Sandy Lynn went to the rear of the buried motorcycle and brushed snow off the seat and fender so she could get a good grip. Clay did the same to the front. A faint smell of gasoline wafted on the frigid air. “Is it leaking fuel?”
“I don’t think so.” Clay began to tug on the handlebars. “Let’s see if we can pull it free. I won’t know if we broke anything until I get her standing.”
“Her?” Although Sandy Lynn was panting and fogging up the inside of her face shield, she was able to tease a little.
“A figure of speech. I was thinking of ships and planes. We call them women.”
“Because they’re needed and reliable?” she quipped.
Clay gave a mighty, backward tug, throwing his whole body into the effort and dislodging most of the front end, from the forks at the hub to the instrument panel. “More like because they’re temperamental and unpredictable.”
“Says you.” It was her primary aim to keep him talking and assess his condition. He might claim he was all right, might even believe it himself, but she wasn’t comfortable trusting him to drive at the moment. Whether or not she demanded that right was still undecided, but she was leaning toward taking control.
Together, they got the bike up and balanced long enough for Clay to set the kickstand. Sandy Lynn kept hold of the right hand grip while he raised his face shield, bent and inspected the engine and its surroundings.
“There’s a dent in the muffler, but the chain’s okay,” Clay announced as he worked.
“How’s the drive sprocket underneath it?”
Arching his brows, he looked over at her. “You really do know a few things about motorcycles, don’t you?”
“I told you Charles insisted I learn. I think he got a kick out of showing off my skills to his buddies.”
“You actually do ride?”
She fisted her hands on her hips. “Don’t act so surprised. I placed third at a rodeo once. If the judges hadn’t been so biased I might have won.”
Watching his face, she could tell he was deep in thought. Rather than let him reason for too long she spoke up. “I’ve seen you wobbling pretty badly since you laid the bike down. I think I should ride in front and you be my passenger, at least until you get your full balance back.”
“No way.
“I’m not trying to start an argument. All I ask is that you be honest with yourself. You aren’t as stable as you were. Letting me drive is the only sensible choice.”
Instead of answering her, Clay circled the rear fender and crouched to inspect the opposite side. Sandy Lynn couldn’t tell whether he was stalling or actually doing something useful while he pondered her opinion, so she waited.
A shadow passed over them. Turkey vultures were circling, gliding effortlessly through the gray sky on updrafts. “Better get a move on, Danforth. Look alive. We don’t want those vultures to think we’re their dinner.”
When he abruptly straightened, she was about to tease him until she saw him remove his helmet and cock his head. “Listen.”
“I don’t hear anything.”
Clay reached for the handlebars. “You would if your ears weren’t covered. Help me push this over the rise so we have more time.”
“For what?”
“To get it running. Sounds like our friends are coming back.”
Now she heard it. The muted roar of distant motors. Their pursuers must have eventually realized they’d missed them and decided to backtrack. And this time, Clay’s bike was upright in the middle of the side road, black and silver against the white of the snow and ice. There was no way anybody could overlook it. Not even if snow was falling, which it was not.
As soon as Clay shifted into Neutral and released the brake, they both began to push. Progress was painfully slow in the slush and dirty snow. Several times Sandy Lynn’s feet slid out from under her and she had to lean on the motorcycle to regain her footing.
They topped the rise together and she let the bike roll far enough to be hidden from the main road. Then she gave Clay a meaningful look. “Steady it while I mount.”
“You’re sure about this?”
“Positive,” Sandy Lynn snapped back. “Do it.”
The element that surprised her was not his compliance—it was the speed with which he acted. Clearly his mind had been made up. Good. That was comforting proof of his trust. Now all she had to do was live up to the reputation she’d bragged about.
Silent prayer for God’s help went up as she labored to balance and hit the electronic starter. If Clay’s bike had not been equipped with an easy method of ignition, she might have had to ask his help.
The engine coughed a few times, then caught. She throttled back so they would be less likely to be heard. It stood to reason that if they could hear the other riders in the distance, those men might also hear them, even at three to one.
Clay donned his helmet and swung on behind her. Although she had expected him to reach forward and cover her gloved hands to usurp control, he did not. When his strong arms slid around her waist, the sense of comfort was so strong she nearly lost concentration.
“Straight ahead until I tell you to turn,” he said into the radio. “Take it easy.”
“I can’t balance well if we go too slow,” she reminded him.
“I know. Just keep the wheels under us as best you can and don’t dump it like I did.”
Sandy Lynn considered admitting to having had a part in their spill and thought better of it. Chances were that Clay already knew she had contributed to the skid by leaning incorrectly, and right now her full concentration had to be on the road ahead.
One thing did bother her enough to mention. “They’ll be able to track us if they ever find the corner where we turned.”
“I’ve thought of that,” he said as the radio crackled with static.
“What? It’s hard to understand you.”
“Yeah.” More static. “I may have...when I...”
“Damaged the radio?” she filled in.
“Yes.”
Although she did get his last word, nothing else came through. Even the static had ended.
Signaling him the same way he had her when he’d directed her to turn on the radio in her helmet, Sandy Lynn felt his arms tighten around her waist and took that as his reply of understanding. Losing a clear connection was not in their best interests. Still, people had ridden double for as long as there had been motorcycles, most of that time without helmet radios, so she knew they could cope.
She felt him loosen one arm and assumed he was lifting the face shield on his helmet. A tap of knuckles on the top of hers proved it. So did his shout. “Right turn coming up in about half a mile.”
Sandy Lynn nodded. Where? She didn’t see any openings in the piles of snow that had been left by a snowplow. It didn’t help that the rays of the setting sun were shining right in her eyes.
Decelerating, she waited for some sign from Clay. He did point, but the show blended into a solid sheet of sunlit white so she wasn’t clear on the exact place to turn.
Finally he grasped the handlebars and took over, his larger hands covering hers, and she lost focus for an instant.
The corner was upon them. She relinquished full
control and they made the turn smoothly and successfully. Her relief vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving despair behind.
Directly ahead, in the middle of the side road, a pickup truck sat half-buried in plowed-up snow, totally blocking their path.
Sandy Lynn applied the rear brakes.
Clay backed off the throttle.
They came to a stop mere inches from a collision with the stalled vehicle. Clay ensured their balance by lowering both feet to the ground. All Sandy Lynn could do to help was add her tiptoes.
She raised her face shield and shouted, “Now what?”
TWELVE
“We’ll never be able to ride through or around this,” Clay said.
“What if we’d kept on going straight instead of turning the last time? Where would that have taken us?”
He was so disgusted with himself he didn’t answer. Stalling for time to think, he balanced the bike and dismounted. “Get off.”
“We’re turning around?”
He knew she expected him to say yes, but there was more to their dilemma than she knew. Worst of all, finding that side road blocked had put them in a terrible bind—and it was all his fault.
As soon as Sandy Lynn was standing, looking at him as if she expected a clever plan, he started to explain. “This route was supposed to take us safely all the way. The only choices we have at this point are backtracking or going ahead on foot.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Never been more serious in my life,” Clay said.
Her sigh was plenty telling without the ability to broadcast over the broken radios. “We can’t walk unless we’re very close to some place to get warm and dry. You’re still shaking and icing up.”
“I know.”
“So what’s our best chance?”
“Heading back and praying we make the highway before our friends decide to turn around again.”
Nodding, Sandy Lynn made a wry face. “Let’s hope they’re too lazy or too dumb to figure it out. Help me get this monster of yours pointing in the right direction so we can get out of here.”
A certain amount of manhandling was needed to turn the motorcycle in such a narrow place. Clay managed better once he’d ordered Sandy Lynn to stand aside and let him work alone. She didn’t look pleased, but at least she complied.
He swung a leg over and took the front position without asking. To his relief she climbed on behind him. It was too bad about their loss of radio communication; however, in retrospect he was glad he wouldn’t have to listen or respond to her queries as they rode.
The hardest thing for Clay to control was his shivering. Parts of his legs and arms were already numb. If he didn’t get warmed up soon, there was the possibility of hypothermia or frostbite, although his boots were keeping his feet warm enough to be functional. Judging by the way Sandy Lynn was snuggled up to his back and hanging on, she’d be all right. That was some comfort, at least.
A route that had seemed to take forever came to an end before he knew it. The four-lane offered them some cover due to traffic, and he was tempted to park long enough to seek shelter in a coffee shop. Anything to get a few degrees warmer before finishing their trip.
“How much longer?” Sandy Lynn asked in a shout.
“Fifteen minutes, give or take.”
“Okay. I think I can last that long.”
Clay almost laughed. He wanted to say, If you can, I can, but stopped himself. Fortitude would carry him through. It would have been nicer if he’d been able to feel his fingers but at least his hands worked well enough to handle the bike. That was something.
A stop for a red light temporarily quieted the motorcycle. Clay yearned to reassure his passenger, yet he didn’t. Becoming complacent wouldn’t do either of them any good, and considering the way cold tended to shut down thought processes, he’d need to stay as sharp as possible. So would she.
Temporary lots selling live Christmas trees lined the main roads through downtown Springfield and reminded Clay how close they were to the day of celebration. He hadn’t made a big fuss over Christmas himself for years, but at least he acknowledged the holiday and used it as a reminder to keep in touch with friends and family. Since Sandy Lynn essentially had no family left he supposed he could understand her reluctance. Nevertheless, she surely had friends who would help her find joy if she wished to. What struck him as sad was her reluctance to even discuss the possibility.
Would she want to go to church, at least? It would be good for her if the threats had ended by then. Given the unknown qualities of their pursuers and the fact that they seemed to have insider knowledge of his efforts to hide her away, Clay strongly doubted either of them would be safe anywhere, even in church.
Logic insisted that his condo wouldn’t be much better. So how else could he help her? They couldn’t keep riding around on a bike. It was too cold, too dangerous in and of itself. He desperately needed his car back. And they needed to warm up. Dry off. Find shelter.
It took another twenty minutes to reach his destination. Slowing, he wheeled his bike into the parking lot behind his condo complex and brought it to a stop.
“Is this it?”
Clay nodded. “Yes. We’ll go inside, warm up, get something to eat and talk.”
“I thought we were going to stay here.”
“You might, especially once Enid is discharged. Right now we need to concentrate on recovering from that ride.”
“And then what?”
As Clay led the way past snow-blanketed bushes and up the walkway to his door, he wondered what his answer should be. Would be. Under normal circumstances he’d have stayed with her. But these weren’t normal circumstances. Not by any stretch of his imagination. This was Sandy Lynn Forrester, the one woman who had managed to find her way through his considerable emotional defenses and pierce his heart. If he ever hoped to change their relationship for the better, he must make no mistakes. None. And that included confessing his growing feelings for her.
Clay unlocked the door and stepped through ahead of her to check the premises before they got too comfortable. “Stay by the door,” he ordered.
“There weren’t any footprints outside,” she countered.
He couldn’t argue. Passing through the kitchen to check the rear entrance he grabbed a broom and handed it to her. “See what you can do to cover our prints.”
Sandy Lynn laughed lightly. “There’s a big, black motorcycle parked out there. How are footprints going to matter?”
Wresting the broom from her, he headed for the door with it. “Never mind. I’ll take care of the tracks after I stash my bike. You light the fireplace. It’s gas so you won’t need wood.”
Without waiting for an answer, Clay burst out the door, slammed it behind him and went to work. This method of travel had worked only because of divine providence, not because he was smarter or more capable than the men who were after Sandy Lynn. There was no way he was going to take her out on the streets like that again. If he couldn’t get one of their cars released he’d have to rent one, which might be for the best, anyway.
After opening a narrow side gate, he pushed the motorcycle through, took Sandy Lynn’s pillowcases out of the saddlebags, then fetched the stiff broom and set to work obliterating their footprints and tire tracks. The task wasn’t difficult in the powdery snow.
Thank you, God, it hasn’t iced over, Clay prayed silently.
He backed toward the front door, sweeping over his steps as he went. It wasn’t perfect camouflage, but it was better than leaving the tracks as they were.
Instinct kept insisting they were not safe anywhere near Springfield. Common sense countered with reassurances that nobody associated with Charles Hood would know about this condo.
So, how had Hood found Sandy Lynn in the first place? Her name wasn’t on the lease or the mailboxes at her apartment complex,
even if she did get mail delivered there.
The first thing Clay needed to do, he concluded, was a computer search of her name to see how big a cyber presence she had. If it was small or nonexistent, perhaps she could stay at the condo while he provided a diversion.
“After I get warm,” he muttered to himself, shivering as he closed the door behind him and propped the broom against an interior wall.
Sandy Lynn was hunkered down in front of the gas fireplace, leaning forward and rubbing her hands together. “All set?”
“Yes.” He dropped the pillowcases on the nearest chair. “Dry clothes.”
“What about you? You’re colder than I am.”
“I’ll live. Just take care of yourself while I see what I can find in the pantry. I think there’s some soup I didn’t take with me when I moved.”
“Sit by the fire and warm up first,” Sandy Lynn suggested. “The soup will wait. You have to get dry.” She was halfway to the hallway when she turned. “What about your clothes? I don’t have anything that even comes close to fitting you.”
“Don’t worry about me. I think I left a load of work clothes in the dryer. I’ll be fine.”
Although she looked skeptical she didn’t argue. Now that he thought about it, he actually might have left some sweats behind. If not, he’d make do by drying his jeans near the fire while wearing them. The important thing was taking care of Sandy.
As she disappeared down the hall, he called a friend at the station. Abe answered. “Matthews.”
“It’s me,” Clay said.
“About time. I was going nuts worrying about you. Where are you?”
“My old place. I need my car. Will you see what you can do about getting it released? Talk to Detective Jim Johansen. He sounded like he was on my side when I met him at the hospital.”
“Will do. Anything else?”
“Yeah. I’ll need cash. Lots of it so I don’t have to use credit cards.”
“Whoa. For what? I thought you were planning on hunkering down till we caught Sandy Lynn’s ex.”
“I just want to be ready for any emergency,” Clay said.
Christmas Vendetta Page 11
