by Gayle Wilson
Not me, sweetheart. Believe me, I’m nobody’s idea of a hero. Not even someone like you.
SINCE HE HADN’T BEEN able to sleep after the phone conversation with his sister, he had decided that tonight was as good a time as any to do a little reconnaissance around the place. There was a half moon and plenty of drifting clouds, the kind that provide shadows to disguise and distort movement.
He had skirted behind the row of trailers, which were spaced equidistant from one another on a wide semicircle along the outward perimeter of the compound. He knew, because he had asked her, that Nicki occupied the one directly in front of the cabin, although several hundred yards up the ridge.
She had also been able to provide the names of the hands who lived in the others. Not that it seemed necessary for him to know that tonight. There wasn’t a soul stirring in the postmidnight stillness.
Somewhere in the distance a coyote howled, the sound far more mournful than that made by its domesticated cousin. Mating or hunting? With clouds periodically obscuring the moon, it was the perfect night for predators.
Even for has-been predators, he thought with a smile. So far, however…
Maybe because he had still been concentrating on the distant yowl, only gradually did he become aware of another sound, fainter than the first and more foreign to this environment. As he listened, the distant pop of rotor blades grew louder.
After a few seconds it became obvious that the chopper was heading in this direction. Maybe a military flight or a rescue operation. Whatever it was, the thing sounded as if it would pass right over the ranch.
As that thought formed, the helicopter appeared atop the south ridge. It flew over the cabin in the center of the compound, a solid black shape against the lesser darkness of the sky. If it bore any identifying markings, Michael couldn’t see them from here.
His eyes followed the chopper as it passed above his head. He half expected the inhabitants of the trailers to come outside, but the helicopter was fairly high. If they were asleep, they probably wouldn’t be disturbed by the low thrum of its blades.
Only when it disappeared behind the opposite ridge did Michael begin to move again. He had intended to explore the area behind the trailers simply to familiarize himself with the terrain. He had had no opportunity to do that during the daytime. Besides, betraying an interest in the topography would almost certainly make Quarrels suspicious.
He could still hear the sound of the chopper as he made his way behind the trailer Nicki had indicated belonged to Ralph Mapes. And the one after that—
He realized suddenly that the sound of the rotor had stopped. It hadn’t faded into silence—it had been cut off. As if someone had shut down the power.
He strained to filter out the other night noises and focus solely on that one, but the distinctive sound the chopper had made was completely gone. Since it hadn’t faded off into the distance, the helicopter must have set down. Somewhere on the other side of the ridge behind him.
He needed to know what it was doing there. And as much as he hated to think about the prospect, there was really only one way he was going to find out.
He turned in the direction of the trailer where Nicola was sleeping. She would be able to climb more quickly than he to a vantage point from which the other side of the ridge could be seen. However, because of what Colleen had intimated, he was reluctant to wake her and ask for her help.
After he knew more, maybe, but not now. Not yet. This was his job. An assignment he’d accepted. For all the wrong reasons, he admitted, but accepted nonetheless.
If he could get up there before the chopper took off, well and good. If not, then one of the troubling questions that had kept him from sleep tonight, the one about his ability to handle this job, would be answered.
THE BRIGHT SPILL of moonlight spotlighted two men working below. The clearing on the top of the escarpment where they were was small, barely large enough to hold both the helicopter and Quarrels’s pickup. It did, however, have the advantage of being relatively inaccessible. The foreman would have had to take his truck off-road to reach it.
Michael had picked his way up and across the ridge behind the trailers, moving as quickly as he could. And he knew he would pay the price for that frantic climb tomorrow.
As he crouched to watch the scene below, his legs trembled with exhaustion. His breathing was harsh and uneven, and the normal dull ache in his knee had become a fire. He must be more out of shape from the months he’d spent in the hospital and rehab than he’d realized, but at least he was here.
And so were they. Still here, despite the time it had taken him to work his way to the top of the ridge.
He wished he had night-vision goggles or even a pair of binoculars. Since he didn’t, he concentrated on anything that might allow him to identify the man who was helping Quarrels unload the truck.
From this distance it was impossible to see the man’s face, but by comparing his size to the foreman’s, Michael could make an assessment of his height and build. Shorter than Quarrels’s six feet, and slighter.
As he watched, another distinguishing feature became apparent. There was a hesitation in his stride as he crossed and recrossed the path between the pickup and the chopper. Even if Michael couldn’t identify him any other way, that distinctive limp might be important in recognizing the pilot at some later date.
If he could get closer, he might be able to read the tail numbers on the chopper. Colleen, with her contacts, could use them to identify the recipient of the blood samples they’d taken yesterday. Maybe that would give them an idea of the scope and legitimacy of the research project in which the Half Spur was involved.
Despite the continued protest from his knee, he began to make his way carefully down the side of the ridge. He selected the next boulder or outcropping or bush that could provide cover before he made his noiseless descent to it.
Periodically he paused, checking on the progress of the team below, making sure they were still working and hadn’t been alerted to his presence. So far, so good.
Then, as he moved toward his next position, his boot dislodged a stone, hardly more than a pebble, and sent it ricocheting down the rock face. Thankfully it was small, so that the noise wasn’t loud enough to reach the ears of the men loading the boxes into the chopper.
Just as he was congratulating himself on the narrow escape, he realized that theirs was not the most sensitive hearing on the mountain tonight. Quarrels had brought one of the Border collies with him, maybe for such a contingency as this. The animal, which had been lying unseen in the shadow cast by the pickup, came to life as the stone bounced off the lower slope. It sprang to its feet, hackles raised, nose pointing upward to Michael’s hiding place.
The first frenzied barks of alarm subsided into a low, throaty growl while Michael pressed himself flat against the rock he’d been attempting to leave. He waited, hardly daring to breathe.
Quarrels’s voice was raised in question, although Michael couldn’t distinguish all the words. Then there was a long, pregnant silence. All the while the collie continued to growl.
Would they come up here? Or would the foreman abandon the unloading to drive back to the compound to conduct a bed check of his employees? And if he did, could Michael get back down there before Quarrels did?
The dog had already told them something was up here. The chance they would put his warning down to some natural predator wasn’t one Michael could afford to take. He needed to move now, while they were still occupied with deciding what to do.
He began to back away from the boulder where he was hiding, careful to keep it between him and the two men. When he reached his previous place of concealment, he paused for a few seconds to listen.
The dog’s growling had stopped. There was no sound from the clearing below, which might mean they were doing the same thing he was doing—waiting and listening.
He retreated again, using the same areas of cover he’d employed on the way down. Despite the burn in his kne
e and the fact that he was climbing, he was still moving faster than he had coming down because he was being less cautious. They were either going to dismiss the dog’s warning or come up here to investigate. In either case, he couldn’t see that he had anything to gain by staying put. He needed to get back to the trailer in case Quarrels came calling. If Quarrels did decide to do that, the pickup gave him an advantage that would be hard to negate.
He reached the top of the ridge, keeping low so he wouldn’t be outlined against the moonlight. He didn’t stop to look back down at the escarpment, but hurried down the slope leading back to the semicircle of trailers.
Behind him he heard the rotor of the helicopter begin to turn. If the chopper was leaving, the foreman wouldn’t be far behind. He began to hurry even more, half-sliding and half-running, ignoring the agony each jarring step sent into the damaged muscles and bones of his knee.
Then, warned by the increasing whine of the engine, Michael threw himself flat as the helicopter roared over the top of the ridge, its ominous black shadow above him. It hovered low enough to kick up dust and debris from the ground around him, its sound deafening. Obviously they were no longer making any effort to hide the chopper’s presence from the sleeping compound.
He knew the pilot was searching for him. He could only be thankful the guy didn’t have a light.
The helicopter made a series of passes back and forth over the top of the ridge. After hovering futilely over the slope for a few minutes, the helicopter nosed down and then lifted, heading off to the south.
As its noise faded, Michael became aware of another, even more troubling. Quarrels’s pickup, its engine revved high to pull some incline, could clearly be heard from the other side of the ridge.
He scrambled up and continued his reckless descent, gritting his teeth with each hobbling step. He had no idea what the foreman would do if he discovered he wasn’t in his trailer, but it was certain his usefulness as an investigator on the Half Spur would be over.
In the time he’d spent here, the only things he’d discovered were that they flew the blood samples out—which was not exactly earth-shattering information—and that Franklin Gettys’s former intern was hiding out on the place. And he couldn’t see how either piece of information related to a kidnapped baby.
When he finally reached the bottom of the ridge, he began to sprint toward his trailer. He could no longer hear Quarrels’s truck, not over his own gasping breathing. As he ran, he kept glancing toward the center of the compound, trying to see if the pickup was parked there.
It wasn’t. Apparently, despite his leg, he’d made it down before the foreman had been able to drive the distance around the ridge.
All he had to do was get inside and take his clothes off. If Quarrels did come calling, no matter what he suspected, he would have no proof.
He stepped up on the high step that led to the trailer, opening the door he hadn’t bothered to lock when he’d left. The resultant squeak of metal against metal seemed to echo in the stillness.
He slipped in, lifting the door away from the threshold before he eased it closed. Then he stood in the darkness, straining to hear the sound of the pickup.
Instead, in the dark silence of his trailer, his own breathing suspended as he listened, what he heard was the distinct sound of someone else’s.
Chapter Eight
Nicki clicked on the penlight she’d brought, directing its beam toward the door that had just opened and then closed. Michael Wellesley put his hand up to shield his eyes.
“Did you hear it?” she asked. “A helicopter. It was so loud I thought it was going to land in the middle of the compound.”
“Shh.”
He lowered his hand, eyes still narrowed against the light. He turned his head, obviously listening for something. She waited, listening too, and heard nothing.
“Michael?”
Without answering, he made a motion with his hand, again warning her to silence. After a moment she heard what he had obviously been listening for. The sound of a car, its tires crunching over the mix of chert and gravel the ranch roads were made of.
“Quarrels,” Michael explained. “He’s probably coming here.”
“Did he see you?”
“He heard me. I was checking out the chopper. You need to go back to your trailer. He’ll probably wake everybody to see if he can figure out which of us was outside.”
She started toward the door, but he didn’t move out of her way. Instead he assumed the same position he had before. Completely intent on whatever was happening outside. This time the sound was much clearer. And much closer.
The car, or rather the truck, if this were indeed Quarrels, was obviously heading up the road that led here. Together, as if frozen, they followed the sound of its approach.
Then, like a nightmare, headlights played over the windows of the trailer, which were on the same side as the door. There was no chance she could get out unseen.
The pickup pulled up in front. Before Quarrels could shut off the engine, Michael had closed the distance between them, grabbing her shoulders and using them to propel her toward the bathroom. He put his mouth against her ear before he released her.
“Kill the light. Get into the shower enclosure and stay there no matter what happens.”
Fingers shaking, she pressed the off button on the miniature flashlight. As soon as she had, he let her go with a small shove, moving away into the darkness behind her.
She fumbled her way toward the bathroom. Behind her she could hear a series of faint thumps from the area near the bed. Michael taking off his clothing and dropping the items onto the floor, she realized, obviously to try and make it appear as if he’d been asleep.
Outside, the door of the truck slammed. It was all the impetus needed to make her take that final step. She slipped into the shower stall and silently eased the door closed behind her. The bed in the other room creaked under Michael’s weight.
She leaned back against the cool vinyl wall. She squeezed her eyelids shut, trying to control the sound of her breathing. Trying to prepare for what was about to happen.
Still, she jumped when whoever was outside began to pound on the door, the blows so strong they shook the entire trailer. She opened her eyes in the musty darkness, waiting for Michael’s response.
For what seemed an eternity there was none. Not until that forceful knocking, louder than before, sounded again. This time she heard the creak of the bed and felt the trailer vibrate as Michael walked across to the door.
“Who is it?”
A reasonable question. His voice as he asked it had betrayed nothing beyond a legitimate concern and the desire for information. The answer, muffled but intelligible, was four words.
“It’s Quarrels. Open up.”
Refuse. Tell him it’s the middle of the night. Tell him to come back in the morning. Tell him anything, but don’t let him in here.
Anxiety building, she pressed her spine against the side of the enclosure as if she could somehow melt into it. It would be one thing for Nicola Carson to be found in a man’s trailer after midnight. It would be quite another for Nate Beaumont to be discovered there.
She had been so careful all these months to do nothing that might draw attention to herself. Hiding out in the one place she believed Gettys would never in a million years think to look for her. Then tonight she had taken a foolish chance, which had brought her to this. All because Michael Wellesley had promised to help her.
She heard the sound of the outer door being opened with the same metallic squeal her own always made.
“Something wrong?” Michael’s voice, its tone again perfect. Calm. Believable.
“You been out?”
“Out?”
“Outside. You been outside tonight, McAdams?”
“I’ve been asleep tonight. What the hell’s going on?”
“Hear anything?” Quarrels demanded, ignoring Michael’s question.
“Like what?”
The
re was a telltale hesitation. Apparently Quarrels didn’t want to talk about the helicopter, especially if there was any possibility Michael hadn’t heard it.
“Somebody moving around.”
“Outside? If they were, they didn’t wake me. Want me to help you look?”
Another pause, this one slightly more prolonged.
“Probably nothing,” Quarrels said grudgingly. “I’ll ride around before I turn in. Take a look-see at everything.”
“Something I should worry about?”
“Guess I’m just jumpy. Too much empty space around here. Gets you anxious. ’Specially at night. Sorry to bother you.”
“It’s okay. Give a yell if you want some help searching.”
“I can handle it.”
Nicki wasn’t sure that the confrontation, anticlimactic as it had been, was over until she heard the truck door slam again. She waited, unmoving, until the engine caught, and then she heard the distinctive noise of the pickup’s wheels moving over the gravel.
She had already reached for the handle of the enclosure door when it was pushed inward. Instinctively, she raised the penlight and clicked it on.
Michael stood outside the shower stall, looking in at her. There was something in his expression that she didn’t understand.
“Is he gone?”
“Come on,” he said. “You’ve got to get out of here. He could be headed for your place.”
He turned and went back into the bedroom. Confused, she stepped over the edge of the stall and followed him. Without any explanation, he walked to the outside door and opened it, standing inside the threshold to look out.
She could clearly see his shape, his shoulders filling the narrow span of the opening. Using the moonlight behind him as a guide, she walked over to the door to wait for his signal that she should make her run.
She was close enough that the scent of his body surrounded her. A hint of the soap he’d used in his shower tonight. Or maybe his shampoo. It was pleasantly masculine in any case.
