THE BRIDE WORE BLUE JEANS

by Mary Anne Wilson

  His features were sharp and had been etched with a rough hand. His jaw was strong, his cheekbones high and clearly defined, his forehead broad and his eyes shaded by short, thick lashes. He had a dark complexion, but he wasn't exactly tanned, which struck her as odd since he drove a convertible and it was summer. Maybe he'd just bought the car, or maybe he didn't have the top down much. Dark hair streaked with gray was pulled straight back from his face in a low ponytail. He looked … strong, volatile. And male – almost uncomfortably male.

  Right then he glanced at her. The direct gaze from eyes that were the color of deep, rich chocolate, cut right through her. Unnerved, she looked away, but not before she saw the scar, a jagged line of paler skin cutting from his eyebrow up to his hairline. She struggled with her hair, brushing it back from her eyes and mouth. But all the while she could feel the man looking at her … hard.

  "What is it?" Annie finally asked when she couldn't take him looking at her like that. But she didn't look at him. She kept her eyes on the range land rushing past the sleek car.

  "Are you going to tell me what's going on with you?"

  She finally managed to catch her hair behind her head with one hand and hold it back from her face. "You ran me off the road. What don't you understand about that?"

  "You cut in front of me. Either you were in such a rush that you didn't take time to check the road, or you were trying to commit suicide. Either way, you've got big trouble, lady."

  She caught herself before she turned and looked behind her again. "The only trouble I have is that you put my car in a ditch and that was my only means of transportation."

  "What's your name?" he asked abruptly.

  She thought about giving him a phony name, but before she could say anything, he spoke up as if he'd read her mind. "Make one up, if you want to. I just want to be able to call you something besides, hey, you, or lady."

  "Annie." It couldn't hurt to tell him that much. When she chanced a look at him, she was thankful to find his gaze on the road ahead of them. "What are you called?"

  "A lot of things, some good, most bad," he said, fingering the steering wheel with strong, square-tipped fingers. "But most people call me Quint when they want to get my attention."

  "No last name?"

  "Not if you don't have one."

  Touché, she thought, and tried to come up with something to talk about except herself. "Nice car, Quint."

  "Thanks, Annie."

  She twisted in her seat and tried to cover taking a look at the road behind her by pretending she was giving the car the once-over. "This is the first convertible I've ridden in," she murmured as she saw a car pull out onto the road behind them. It was so far back she couldn't even make out the color, let alone if it was Trevor's Bronco.

  She turned back to face the front as Quint snapped on the headlights to cut through the growing dusk. "Once you own a convertible, you wouldn't want anything else," he said.

  "I bet it can really go fast," she said, the image of the car behind them etched with painful clarity in her mind.

  "Fast enough."

  "How fast?"

  He glanced at her, his eyes shadowed by the failing light, and she was thankful she didn't have to endure the direct gaze. "Fast enough," he murmured.

  She chanced a quick look back over her shoulder and felt overwhelming relief that the car behind them had turned off. The road was empty again. She could feel her whole body relax just a bit and, without thinking, she let go of her hair. The next instant her hair was tangling around her face, in her eyes and in her mouth.

  As she fought to get it under control, she sank lower in the seat. "You wouldn't happen to have another hair band, would you?" she asked Quint.

  He flipped open the middle console compartment and held out a band to her. "I don't suppose you're going to tell me what you're running from, are you?" he asked as she smoothed back her hair and wrapped the band around it twice to get it under control.

  She moved closer to the door, fighting a sudden urge to tell him everything. For a split second she had the wildest idea that this man could be a match for the Raines family and a crazed Trevor, that he could hold his own with anything and anyone. But the reality was that she was a terrible judge of character. It was even possible that he knew the Raines family, or at least their name.

  What would he do if he knew she was running from the heir to the family fortune, that she'd left Trevor unconscious on the stable floor? She couldn't take any chances, not when it meant the difference between getting to Sammi or being stopped and having to go up against the Raines money and power.

  "I owe you for giving me a ride, but—" He reached down beside him on the left and startled her when he pulled out the rose wreath she'd been wearing earlier. "What's this?"

  She snatched the ruined halo of roses from him. "Where did you get this from?"

  "It fell off your suitcase back there. I thought you might want it."

  She looked at the soiled, crushed roses, a perfect reflection of how she felt about the whole wedding. "I don't," she said and lifted her hand, letting the wind snatch the roses away from her. She didn't look back as they flew off behind them.

  "Not any more than you want to answer my question."

  "My personal life doesn't come under the freedom of information act."

  "Forget it," he said, making a sharp motion with his right hand. "It's none of my business."

  She felt a strange sense of loss at his words, even though she was doing her best to get him to back off. She had to remind herself that it really was just her and Sammi. Period. "You're right, it's none of your business," she said and shifted lower in the seat.

  As she settled, she realized that if she moved her head just a touch to the right, she could see the road behind in the rearview mirror. The Raineses shouldn't be back from their dinner for maybe another two hours, and Trevor… If she was lucky, he'd stay out long enough for her to put distance between herself and the Raines ranch.

  Either way, she hoped she had a few hours. That was what she had to concentrate on now – making sure she wasn't being followed and putting as much distance between herself and the ranch as possible.

  When Quint looked at Annie after she'd been quiet for what seemed a long time, he saw that with her hair pulled back, the sweep of her throat was exposed, as well as the ugly cut on her forehead. She was slouched low in the seat, obviously using the side mirror to keep the road behind them in view.

  Annie was real trouble, and not just because she was attacking his pent-up hormones. He could feel her tension, and it only reinforced the fact that he didn't want to be any part of whatever was going on with her.

  He didn't want to know about her problems. He didn't need to know. He just needed to get her out of this car as quickly as he could and let her take her trouble with her.

  When he saw the lights of a town in the distance, he slowed the car. "Is that Langston?"

  She sat up straighter in the seat. "I think so."

  He almost asked where to drop her, then he found himself saying something that he hadn't planned on saying. "Why don't I drop you at a police station in town? We can report the accident and you can get some first aid for your head, then find someone to get your car towed."

  The police were people he never wanted to see again, but before he could reconsider his offer, Annie sat up straight and said, "Don't bother. Just let me out here."

  "You're kidding?" he said as he looked at her. Her paleness was even more pronounced now and her hand was gripping the door handle. "We're at least five miles from that town."

  "I'm sure it's at least three miles," she said, her gaze meeting his without blinking. "But I want out right here."

  He wasn't going to argue when he was getting what he wanted. So he slowed and pulled onto the shoulder. As he stopped, he shifted in the seat to face Annie, but he didn't have a chance to say anything else before she grabbed her purse and scrambled out. She turned and looked at him, her face touched by t
he gentleness of the night shadows.

  "My suitcase?"

  "Sure." He got out and went around to pop the trunk and get her bag. He carried it around to where she stood with her purse clutched in one hand and put the suitcase on the dirt at her feet. "Here you go, lady."

  When she reached for her suitcase, Quint knew this was for the best. Hadn't he learned his lesson when he ended up in prison for getting involved in something he shouldn't have? Instead of telling her he had no intention of going to the police, he turned without a word and went around to get back in the car.

  He was no knight in shining armor. Never had been. Never would be. But he was a man, and he wouldn't soon forget this woman called Annie.

  But he would forget her. He pulled the car into gear, then drove out onto the road. He almost got away, a clean break. But something in him made him look in the rearview mirror, and he wished he hadn't.

  Annie looked incredibly small and vulnerable in the early evening shadows with dust drifting in the air around her, the suitcase in her hand … alone.

  "Every man for himself," he muttered. He pressed the gas pedal, making the car surge forward into the night.

  * * *

  Annie stood on the shoulder of the road as the Corvette took off raising a cloud of dust in its wake. She watched until the taillights faded into the evening shadows, then she took a deep breath and started in the same direction Quint had gone.

  The police. The moment he'd mentioned them, her stomach had clenched and hadn't eased since. She knew the Raineses had more than money. They had power, and she had no doubt that their power extended to the police in the county doing favors for them. The party they'd given to introduce her to their friends and business associates had included the chief of police in Scarlet, the mayor, someone from the state troopers and a low-level federal government official. People with power and people who wouldn't hesitate doing a favor for the Raines family.

  After what happened in the stables, she didn't doubt that Trevor would use whatever he had to use to get what he wanted. Maybe that would mean calling in the police. He could have already, and she shouldn't be walking on a main road exposed to anyone who passed by.

  She had to get out of sight, and hitchhiking wasn't the ideal position to be in. She walked faster, brushing at loose tendrils of hair at her forehead that had escaped the band Quint had given her, and she accidentally touched the cut.

  The contact made her flinch, but she could tell the blood had dried. Besides, a cut was the least of her problems. She stared into the empty night ahead, then glanced up at the dark sky where stars were just coming to life. And for a reason she couldn't fathom, she felt a sudden sense of regret that Quint had left her life as quickly as he'd come into it.

  The man had forced her old car into the ditch and left her on foot without any regret. And he asked too many questions. Questions that were almost as unsettling as the man himself, who was big and dark as the night, with strong hands controlling the powerful car. And those eyes, looking at her as if he could see into her soul. That thought made her shiver, and she picked up her pace.

  She didn't know what she was going to do now. With no car, she was a sitting duck. If she tried to catch a bus, Trevor could be having them checked, just the way he could check the airlines. If she cut onto side roads, she'd never get a ride.

  The sound of an engine came through the night behind her, and she turned to find headlights coming in her direction. Before the lights caught her in their glow, she thought of diving in the ditch to hide, but stopped herself when she realized it was a truck coming. The lights were set way too high for a car, and the engine had the unmistakable knocking sound of a diesel.

  As it got closer, she could make out a huge tractor trailer and impulsively she put out her hand and stuck up her thumb. Almost immediately she heard the hissing sound of air brakes being applied, and the truck slowed until it came to a stop just ahead of her.

  She hurried up to the front of the truck, and right then the door swung back. She looked up into the dimly lighted cab and saw the driver leaning over the seat to look out, a bulky man wearing a baseball cap and smoking a glowing cigar.

  "Need a lift, little lady?" he called out to her.

  "My car broke down."

  "Then climb on in."

  She swung her suitcase up into the cab onto the floor, then reached for the side rail and pulled herself up into the cab that smelled of cheap cigars and stale coffee. "Thanks," she breathed, as she sat on the hard seat.

  "Where're you going, honey?" the man asked.

  "West."

  "Then you picked the right truck," he said as he reached past her and grabbed the strap on the door to tug the barrier shut with a resounding slam.

  Annie felt his weight across her thighs, and the odor of unwashed body and stale smoke assailed her nostrils. As he drew back, his arm brushed her breasts lightly and she recoiled, knowing she should get out and take her chances walking.

  But before she could say anything, the man put the truck in gear and took off. Chances were that he was hauling into Texas or New Mexico. One way or the other, she'd get farther from Scarlet, and if she could get across the state border, all the better. She stayed close to the door, one hand just inches from the handle and her other hand gripping her purse. This wasn't a fancy Corvette or Quint driving, but it was a means to an end.

  The man turned to her and exhaled a cloud of cigar smoke. "Name's Bugsy. What's yours?"

  "Mary," she said, and pressed closer to the door.

  * * *

  Quint had driven into Langston, a town that was little more than a widening in the road, and found a restaurant at the far end of the main street that was open all night. Behind a Western-style facade with a huge lighted sign for The Amigo Bar and Café resided a greasy spoon restaurant. With red Formica tables and vinyl-covered booths along the front wall, the restaurant side of the building held little charm.

  A counter ran the length of the place in the back, and to its right, through an archway opening, was the bar, with tinny music, smoky air and the low din of conversations. But Quint was one of only two customers in the restaurant side.

  He sat in one of the booths that lined the side wall, nursing his second cup of coffee and ignoring the remains of his cheeseburger. He stared at the knotty pine walls that were covered by a collection of old license plates.

  When he spotted a beat-up New Mexico plate dated 1955, he thought of Annie for the hundredth time since he left her by the side of the road. He couldn't quite forget his last glimpse of her in his rearview mirror or why he'd had to fight the urge to go back and get her.

  Damn it, she was running. And whatever it was she'd kept looking for over her shoulder, he knew she wasn't about to go to the police for help. He sipped the last of his coffee, then put the cup down on the table. He hated the way a woman who was a total stranger kept nudging at his thoughts. And the way he could still feel the tightness grow in him when he thought of her standing in front of him on the road. Fool, he told himself. Stop it. Hormones were irrational. A woman was just a woman, and he couldn't do a thing for that woman. He'd found out the hard way that no one fought another's battles in this world and walked away unscathed.

  Quint ran his finger back and forth over the healed scar on his forehead and exhaled harshly. He'd felt out of step since he'd left prison, as if the world had gone into fast forward and he'd stayed in slow motion. Being in the car had helped him adjust, buffering him from the rest of the people around him. Until Annie pulled in front of him.

  As if his last thought of her worked a perverse sort of magic, he saw Annie walk into the restaurant. A large man in soiled denim overalls and a baseball cap strode into the room, the stub of a cigar in his mouth. And Annie was right beside him.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  « ^ »

  At first Annie was partially hidden by the man's bulk, then she took a step ahead of him and Quint got a good look at her. The image he'd carri
ed with him paled at the sight of the reality. Her high cheeks were flushed, her hair was loose again and tangled in rich curls around her face. Next to the giant she was with, she looked even more delicate and vulnerable.

  The man followed her to the counter, then slipped onto the stool next to the one Annie took. Quint stayed where he was, just watching, wondering if this man could be the person she was running from.

  The waitress came out of the back, said something to the two of them, then motioned toward the bar entrance and reached for the coffeepot. As she put two mugs on the counter and poured the steaming liquid, Annie stood, took her purse with her and headed toward the bar. The man with her watched her go until she was out of sight, then he reached into his pocket and took out a cigar. He wasn't going anywhere without Annie.

  The man drank coffee and smoked the cigar while he constantly checked the entrance to the bar. Then two or three minutes later, Annie came back and took her place at the bar. She laid her purse on the counter, then gripped the mug with both hands and sipped some coffee.

  When the man by her spoke, she shook her head and he moved closer, leaning toward her until he was inches from her face. His expression was intense through the haze of cigar smoke, and Annie eased back a bit and shook her head again. When she took another drink from the mug, the man slipped his arm around her shoulders and whispered something in her ear.

  Annie twisted out of the man's hold, fumbled in her purse and took out some money which she tossed onto the counter. Then she stood, but the man, despite his size, was quick and he was on his feet, blocking her path to the door. He grabbed her by her upper arm and smiled suggestively at her.

  Quint didn't have any idea what they were saying because the music from the bar was drowning them out. But he couldn't miss the way Annie was trying to pull free or the high color in her face. He'd thought she was in trouble in the car, but he knew she was here and now. And trouble was about six foot two and at least two hundred and fifty pounds.