by DiAnn Mills
“No one to call,” she said.
“I’m assuming you know which one of those wires to cut.”
She chuckled. “Does that bother you? Coach, it doesn’t matter which one. It’s a simple circuit.” She clipped the green one, then lifted the blasting cap from the clay brick.
Until Paige held the bomb in her hands, Miles had not attempted to relax. His doubts about her abilities lifted like the fog on a chilly morning.
“If this was an amateur job, then it would have been a pipe bomb.” She examined the brick from every angle before laying it on the workbench. “There are different types of bombs depending on the materials available.”
“I want to know about this one and who planted it.”
“Don’t think so.” She studied the room again, then the ceiling and floor.
“Refusing to tell me the truth doesn’t cut it. Is it can’t tell me or won’t? For that matter, who are you, and who would try to kill you?”
She slowly turned to face him, wearing a dispassionate look he’d seen more than a few times in the past. A spark of pain registered in her eyes, but it quickly vanished. She squared her shoulders. “Like I said before, you cannot ever tell anyone about this—the bomb or what I did to deactivate it.”
“Are you involved in something illegal?”
“Depends on whose side you’re on.”
Never again would he view Paige as a helpless woman. “Should I be worried?”
“Not unless you plan to tell someone about tonight.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Warning you.” Paige shook her head. “I . . . care too much to allow you to get involved. These people play for keeps.”
Miles had waited a long time to hear the words, and he had no reason to doubt her feelings. However, the evening’s events made no sense. Someone had tried to kill her, and he’d watched her deactivate a bomb. Part of him was numb, still processing it all. The rest of him floated through a surreal world. He placed his hands on her shoulders. “I can’t help you if I don’t know the problem.”
“No deal. This is my project.”
Miles opened his mouth to speak, but she touched his lips. “No more questions.”
“I know your name and Social Security number are false. I memorized it that night at the hospital.”
“You did a search on me?” Admiration flashed in her eyes, but he also saw something else. Was it fear or apprehension? “Guess I can’t blame you,” she said. “What did you learn?”
“Only that Paige Rogers with the Social you’re using doesn’t exist. Are you going to tell me what’s going on, or do I have to search more on my own? You know I have computer access to secured files.”
“Is that legal?”
“You’re one to ask me about what’s legal?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’d better leave, Miles.”
“Why? You can keep secrets, but I can’t? We have feelings for each other, whether you want to admit it or not. I have no clue what any of this is about. But you’re in danger, and I want to help. If I’m wrong and you’re some notorious crime figure hiding out in small-town Oklahoma, then the joke’s on me.”
She rubbed her palms. “Bonnie and Clyde died in a shoot-out.”
“Can’t you talk to me straight? If you’re in trouble with the law, we can deal with it. What I want is the truth.”
“I have to finish in the garage.”
“Fine. I have no place to go.” Frustration seeped through his voice, and he didn’t know how to stop it.
“I can’t explain this. But I promise you that I’m not involved with anything illegal. Can we let it stand for now?”
“Are you in the Witness Protection Program?”
“You’ve been watching too many movies again.”
“I’m assuming this is why you’ve kept your distance from me.”
Miles saw a spark of emotion. He opened his arms, and she hesitated before stepping into his embrace. He held her close, noting she didn’t tremble like when he’d kissed her. How could a woman tear her house apart and discover a bomb in her car without a quiver?
“Paige, or whatever your name is, one day soon I want every detail.”
“It’s muddy . . . bloody.”
“I can handle it. Would my access to secured files be of use to you?”
“You don’t have any access I don’t already have.”
“Are you involved in government security?”
“You’re asking questions.” She laid her head against his chest. “This started out as a celebration of your win.”
“All right. I’ll keep my questions for another day. You do your thing in the garage, and I’ll make the coffee.”
Miles ground the decaf beans while his mind whirled in time with the grinder. The clock on the microwave flashed 2:30. Anybody heading down the road past her house and seeing his truck would think he was spending the night. Great for the librarian’s and coach’s reputations. He reached into an open bag of Reese’s Pieces on the kitchen counter and pulled one out. What was he doing at this time of the morning making coffee and munching on candy as though everything was normal?
If Paige hadn’t done anything illegal, then she must be involved with law enforcement in some way. An old friend could help him with fingerprint identification. Guilt spilled over him. He’d rather she’d tell him her story, but then he’d wonder if it was the truth.
Chapter 37
Paige’s sleep-filled mind sent off an alarm. Her cell phone rang again. This time she snatched it up.
“Mikaela Olsson?” The man’s voice held a distinct African accent—Angolan Portuguese.
“Who’s calling?” she asked in the same language while switching on the light.
“Gonsalvo Ngoimgo.”
I need good news. “How can I help you?”
“I believe I can help you. I want my father’s murderer brought to justice.”
She attempted to keep her rising hope in check. “You’re willing to testify to what your father told you?”
“Yes, and I will convince my mother to do the same. My father told me that another American was working with Daniel Keary.”
“Did he give a name?”
“No. Not sure my father knew either.”
“Have you told anyone else about your decision?”
“Only my mother. She’s frightened. Casimiro Figuiera is a key figure in the Angolan government.”
“Not all killers are brought to justice.”
“I will deal with him myself . . . and take care of my family.”
“Be careful,” Paige said. “Vengeance is an awful burden. I’ll make a call now for you and your family’s protection.”
“I want this to end,” Gonsalvo said. “My mother said others have died because of Daniel Keary.”
“Men, women, and children—over oil.”
“Oil and blood are the same.”
“Thank you, Gonsalvo. You will be contacted shortly by people you can trust.”
Paige disconnected the call. Fully awake, she wiped the tears streaming down her cheeks. She didn’t know if they were tears of sadness or joy or both. Gonsalvo’s testimony could very well be discarded due to his age at the time of the killings, but not Rosa’s. But not Rosa’s. . . .
* * *
On Friday morning, Paige stepped into Shear Perfection, into the world of neon orange and yellow where a woman experienced an opportunity to enhance her beauty. Or so Miss Eleanor always claimed. Paige carried a casserole dish filled with hot apple strudel for her friends and their clients.
“You are right on time.” Voleta held out a cup of coffee for Paige. “I’ve been thinking about your apple dessert since I woke this morning.”
“Great. ’Cause there’s enough for an army.” Paige set the dish on the appointment desk and took the offered coffee. Steam swirled from the cup, as though Voleta had poured it just when she saw Paige exit her car.
“My fingers are itching for highlig
hts.”
“Use them on the next willing client.”
“I thought you might want a little extra appeal for the carnival this weekend.” Voleta inhaled the cinnamon and sugar.
“Carnies add all the color I need.”
“Morning, sweet girl,” Miss Eleanor called from the back room. “Has it been three weeks already?”
“Not yet. I brought by some apple strudel.”
“That’s what I’m smelling. Wonderful! My sugar level is okay, so I’m diving in. Say, you and Miles sure look good together.”
“Yes, ma’am. He’s a good friend.”
While Paige served up the strudel, Ginny Dalton walked in. Her clothes hung on her like the scarecrow mounted at the town square. Her once-startling blue eyes held the pain of hurt and betrayal.
Miss Eleanor left the closet and wrapped her arm around Ginny’s shoulder. “Honey, how about a cup of coffee?”
Ginny’s shoulders lifted and fell. “I’m not so sure I could keep it down.”
“Paige has one of her specialties here.” Voleta pointed with a gloved finger to the appointment desk.
Ginny shook her head. “Thanks, but my stomach is really upset. Not sure why I’m here.”
Voleta stiffened. “That husband of yours is lame. He has no business hurting you like that.”
“If I’d been a better wife, he’d—”
“Don’t you dare go blaming yourself, honey,” Miss Eleanor said. “He’ll get tired of his new toy and come on back to you.”
“He’s changed so much since he came back from Angola. I told him if he misses it, to go back. But now he has something to keep him here.”
“You don’t need him.” Voleta furiously wiped around her workstation. “Good men are rare as hens’ teeth.”
Paige studied the women around her—Ginny hurting and Miss Eleanor and Voleta doing their best to comfort her. Today would not be the day Paige sucked out more agony from Ginny by asking her about Ty’s stint in Angola.
Miss Eleanor and Ginny talked in whispers while Voleta and Paige chatted about the weekend. Paige ached for Ty’s wife. The depression in Chris’s voice had been hard enough that day in the library, but Ty’s betrayal of Ginny cut even deeper. How would Miles feel when it came his turn to learn the truth about the one he loved?
* * *
Miles brushed down his Appaloosa gelding. He’d raced the magnificent animal across the fields behind where his barn once stood, and the gelding had glistened with sweat. The insurance company was dragging its heels with the mention of arson. With a nip in the air and the thrill of winning the fifth game in the season, Miles couldn’t concentrate on anything except last night’s win and riding his favorite horse. His boys had played like college athletes. Well, okay, not exactly, but they sure had looked good. Five more games in the season, and Split Creek’s Bobcats would be heading into play-offs for the state title in 2A football. Ah, he could see the trophy in the school’s display window now. Sweet.
“Yahoo.” Miles’s horse flinched. “Sorry, Puma. Got a little carried away there.”
He checked his watch. He was supposed to pick up Paige at eleven for an afternoon at the carnival. What a weekend—a winning team and a date with his best girl. He finished with Puma and hurried inside his two-story farmhouse to shower. Someday he’d sure like to fill up this house with kids. Especially if their mother was Paige.
The house had been rewired, the plumbing updated, the hardwood floors refinished, the woodwork stripped, a new kitchen installed with those fancy granite countertops, and a ton of other updates. Much of the work he’d done himself. And, as with most older homes, each time he finished one project, another caught his attention. Too often he wanted to invite Paige to supper so she could see the house for herself. With the fall chill, he could build a fire. . . . But tongues would wag as soon as she set foot inside the front door. Of course, he had been to her house a few times, and tongues had been wagging for a long time. Admit it, old man. You’re nervous about her seeing the house.
Another thought occurred to him. He could have a party—one to celebrate a play-off win. Everyone could bring something to eat. Miles could call it a “Bobcat Bash.” Paige might even help him. He had no clue about decorating—except to have a football in the center of the table.
The thought of Paige and a possible life with her had hit a concrete wall. Miles didn’t even know her real name, who she was, or why she was keeping her life a mystery. So why did he continue to see her at every opportunity? Wasn’t he setting himself up for a crash that had the potential of shaking him as badly as his brother’s death?
* * *
Paige marveled at the small children skipping several feet beyond their parents, excitement evident in their sparkling eyes. Innocence. If only adults could shield them from the ugliness of the world’s reality.
A glance down the crowded midway almost convinced her that she could be happy living in Split Creek for the rest of her days, where the only concerns were a lack of rainfall and a bad football year. Nathan could attend the local school, get involved with the children’s group at church. It didn’t hurt to dream, did it?
She monitored the crowd, looking for the person or persons who had instructions to make her life miserable and were paid by the soon-to-be governor of Oklahoma. She noted a man in his thirties wearing an OU sweatshirt and munching on peanuts; another man around fifty years old, wearing high-dollar boots, stood by the caramel apple wagon; and a woman about forty years old wearing jeans and a rhinestone necklace moved down the midway and seemed to take interest in every booth. All fit the profile.
Up ahead she spotted Miss Eleanor and Mr. Shafer. He slipped his hand around hers, and the two exchanged looks that had “heading to the altar” written all over them. Music from the carousel stirred up feelings of nostalgia, and a long line of children waited for their turn on the ride. A few entwined couples ambled by, sharing a smile, a single bag of popcorn, or glances meant only for each other. Carnivals always attracted children and lovers—no matter what the age. And there she stood among all of them, a CIA operative determined to keep the nation secure.
Paige stole a look at Miles beside her. How long could she continue this charade? She inwardly grimaced. If he really wanted to know who she was, he could find out. He’d been on to her since the night Keary had arranged for the C-4 bomb to be wired to her car. What she couldn’t figure out was why Miles hadn’t grilled her about her identity. Unless he already knew.
Shouts of “Step this way!” broke into her thoughts. “Win the little lady a teddy bear.”
“Popcorn. Hot, buttered popcorn!”
She inhaled the delicious aroma.
Creaks and groans followed by squeals from the Ferris wheel reminded her of growing up in Wisconsin. Before they left the carnival this afternoon, she’d ask Miles for a ride. As a girl, she’d loved seeing the world below from the top of a Ferris wheel.
“Funnel cakes right here!”
A banshee shrieked from the spook house, followed by a laugh that would wake the dead.
“Have your palms read by Ma’am Rozella. Discover your future!”
No thanks. She’d rather not know.
“Are you ready for some cotton candy?” Miles asked once they stood in front of the pastel pink and green sugary clouds.
“Disgusting. Reminds me of sugared hair.”
His eyes widened. “Since when have you eaten sugared hair?”
“Probably kindergarten, but let’s not go there.” She spotted another concessions stand. “I’d love some chili fries with lots of jalapeños.”
“My kind of woman,” Miles said. “Will this be before or after the Ferris wheel and flying saucer?”
“Before. Makes the ride more exciting. Nothing like living on the edge.”
“Yeah, hanging over the side and puking our guts out.”
She’d hung on to a cliff once. “Not me. I love it.”
Miles stopped in front of the firing range, w
here a row of yellow ducks paddled across a moving target. “What do you think?”
“You’ll get beat.”
“Want to bet?”
“Sure. You name it.”
“A day trip on my Harley.”
She wiggled her shoulders. “That won’t ever happen. How about another day trip in your truck? This time to the Bartlesville Museum.”
His mouth dipped lower than a cowboy’s handlebar mustache. “It will happen on my Harley because I now have more incentive. Have you forgotten who has walked away with first place three years in a row at the county’s shooting match?”
But he hadn’t seen the stats in her file. “That’s because you weren’t up against me.”
Miles pulled his wallet from his jeans pocket and handed money for a round of tickets to the rail-thin vendor. Paige studied the six rifles laid vertically before her and selected one.
“The sight’s off on this one,” Paige said and picked up another one. “Rats, this one’s off too.” Probably how the carnival made its money. She slid Miles a silent challenge. “We’ll need to leave early the day of the Bartlesville trip. Don’t forget I love breakfast on the road.”
“My bike can manage early breakfast any day of the week.”
A twinge of warning pricked at her conscience. She should let him beat her. Play the librarian role. With a sigh she reminded herself he’d already seen a side of her that butted against Miss Dixie of Southern Charm, America. She lifted the rifle and took out three ducks in a row.
“Very impressive,” Miles said. “I’m all for healthy competition.”
“By the time we’re done here, you’ll be calling me coach.”
Miles leaned on one leg and stuck his thumbs in his belt loops. “I think you’ll be begging me for lessons.” He picked up the nearest rifle. A moment later, he knocked off three ducks in a row. Swinging his attention toward her with superiority oozing from his pores, he laid the rifle back with the others. “I’ll grant you a tie.”
