by Lisa Jackson
Casey curled up on her side of the truck and stared out the window. They were heading west now and had crossed the Idaho border. Closer to Oregon. Closer to home. And what then? Could she pick up her old life and forget about the kidnapping, or would it forever be a part of her, a dark fear that kept her awake nights and forced her into being cautious, even skittery.
She’d been ready to leave the ranch and the life she’d known there a week ago. So what about now?
As if he could read her thoughts, Sloan said, “Jenner told me you weren’t very happy at the ranch.”
She wasn’t certain she wanted to share too much of herself with him and yet she supposed it really didn’t matter. They’d be cooped up together for a day—maybe two—if the storm hit, then he’d drop her off at the Rocking M and she probably wouldn’t see him again until Jenner’s wedding, if then. He might show up for the ceremony, which was scheduled for sometime in February, and he might not. Chances were he’d disappear from her life completely. That thought was unsettling and she didn’t want to examine her feelings about it too closely. He was a stranger, for God’s sake, a man paid to find her. That was all. And he was waiting for her answer.
“I thought it was time I got my life together,” she admitted as she watched the sky turn the color of slate. “It seemed to me that I’d never really proved myself. I’d gone away to college and had a job in L.A. for a while— landed a job as an assistant in a production company. My father didn’t approve of my choice of careers, but I didn’t really care. I liked L.A. and needed a change of pace from Rimrock.”
“But you didn’t stay.”
“For a few years, then the company I worked for went under. I scrambled around looking for another job, but in the end I went home, just to kind of rethink what I wanted to do. Dad tried to talk me into working for him, but I still didn’t want to be tied to Rimrock. I thought about going to graduate school, but hadn’t really made up my mind when Dad was killed. Then everything changed. For a while, Mom was a basket case. I thought she was going to break down completely. Then there was one thing after another. The fire, Jenner’s recuperation, Beth coming back to town with Jenner’s little boy... well, you know the rest.” She drew into herself at that point and watched as the first few flakes fell from the leaden sky. There was more to the story, of course.
There was Peter.
But Peter belonged to a different world, a different time, a different city. During her rebellious period in Southern California, she’d wanted to fall in love with Peter Zeller; but she’d learned that Peter was in love with someone else: himself. He didn’t have time or room for her kind of woman in his life and they’d parted ways as soon as she was out of a job.
Peter was everything Sloan wasn’t. Lanky, with curly blond hair streaked by the sun and eyes the color of the Pacific Ocean, he was a smart dresser, seemed like a shrewd businessman and ran with a very fast crowd.
He’d spotted Casey at a trendy restaurant and asked for her phone number, and though he really wasn’t her type, she’d started dating him. She saw past the flashy exterior to a man who’d been raised dirt-poor, had helped support his alcoholic mother and made something of himself. The trouble was, she really didn’t like the something he’d become. He hid his past as best he could and made up stories about his childhood. He seemed to have regretted confiding in Casey and soon they grew apart. Their relationship lasted all of three months, and even during that time he’d been with other women, women who were easier to deal with as they looked no deeper than his expensive suits, flashy cars, famous friends and healthy bank account.
Now, Casey didn’t know what she’d seen in him. He’d appealed to her rebellious nature because she knew that her father disapproved of L.A., the film industry and slick record producers. But deep down, she’d known her interest in him had been only skin-deep. Just as his had been for her.
The snow had started coming down in earnest and was piling up on the road again, sticking on the windshield until the wipers slapped the stubborn flakes away.
It was late afternoon by the time they crossed the Idaho border and drove into Spokane, Washington where they stopped for a late lunch at a roadside diner. Sloan didn’t say much, but watched each of the patrons come and go, his eyes shifting from the doorway to the booths and back again as he ate a sandwich and bowl of soup.
“You really think we’re being followed, don’t you?” she said, smiling and shaking her head as she set down her fork and pushed her plate of half-eaten salad aside.
“Just being careful.” A bell tinkled over the door and he glanced up sharply at the sound.
Casey looked over her shoulder and swallowed a smile. A woman with a toddler bundled in a snowsuit entered. Her face was red from the cold, her smile wide, the little boy running to an empty booth and announcing to everyone in the restaurant that he wanted hot chocolate. “I don’t think she’s a hired assassin,” Casey said dryly.
“You never know.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Sloan, relax.”
“Relax?” His gaze narrowed on her and he studied the contours of her face with such intensity that she swallowed hard and had to fight the urge to lick her lips nervously. “Do you really believe that your family’s enemies will give up? That just because you’ve escaped, they’ll just roll over?”
“But Barry’s in jail.”
“We think.”
He wasn’t sure?
“And he has a partner, maybe more than one. A guy who just about now is getting pretty nervous.”
“Then why not call the FBI?”
Sloan’s mouth flattened. “You don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what?”
“I don’t trust anyone.”
“Not even the government?”
His smile was cold. “Especially not the government.”
“Who could have found us?”
“Anyone.”
“We were in the middle of nowhere, in a blizzard.”
He grimaced. “Someone besides Barry White knew where you were. Maybe more than one guy. We don’t know if his accomplice was in Rimrock. Maybe someone else in the nearest town to that cabin was in on the deal.”
“I don’t think so. Barry would have said something.”
“You think.”
“Yes.”
“But you’re not sure.” He finished his sandwich and reached for the bill the waitress had slipped onto the edge of the table.
“You’re paranoid,” she accused, not for the first time.
“Worse than paranoid.”
“I think we’re safe.”
She saw the shoulders beneath his shirt bunch as the door opened again and a solitary man entered. Long and lean, a cowboy type, with hair that had been tied back in a ponytail and a Stetson that had seen better days, the man sauntered into a booth on the other side of the diner, stretched his legs beneath him and reached into the breast pocket of his jacket for a pack of cigarettes. His face was weathered and lined, and as he lit up he glanced casually in Casey’s direction before shooting a stream of smoke from one side of his mouth and looking away.
“Know that guy?” Sloan asked.
“Never seen him before in my life.”
“Let’s go.” Sloan grabbed his jacket, which he’d slung over the back of the booth.
“You’re jumping at shadows.”
“Maybe.”
She shivered inside, but followed his lead and slid her arms through the sleeves of her coat. Sloan left a tip on the corner of the table, then paused at the register to pay the bill. Though he didn’t stare, Casey sensed that he watched every move of the stranger, from the way he let his cigarette burn unnoticed in the little tin ashtray to the way he flirted with the slim red-haired waitress who took his order.
The man didn’t look evil or malevolent or the least bit interested in Sloan or Casey. In fact, he paid them little attention and, after ordering his meal, headed into the rest room.
Once they were outside and in
the truck, Sloan glanced in the rearview mirror. “You’re sure you didn’t know him?”
“No.”
“Positive?”
“Look,” she said angrily, “I’ve already told you. Sure, he looks and dresses like most of the men in Rimrock, but I swear to you, Sloan, I’ve never seen him or anyone else in that restaurant in my life before.”
“He looked familiar to me.”
“To you? Where’d you see him? In L.A.? Riding rodeo?”
The corners of his mouth tightened a fraction. “In the Black Anvil,” he said, slowly as if he finally remembered. “Something about his boots—did you notice them?—the silver chains on the heels.”
Casey’s heart seemed to turn to stone. “In Rimrock? You’re sure?”
“That’s right. Now I remember. He was shooting pool with Jimmy Rickert.”
“Jimmy?” she repeated, and her stomach turned over. Jimmy, the town snitch, had been in more than his share of scrapes with the law. “But why? How?”
“I wish I knew,” Sloan said, his hands gripping the wheel until his knuckles showed white. “I wish to bloody hell that I knew. Let’s go.”
Sloan didn’t like leaving anything to chance. If Casey hadn’t been with him, he would have accosted the man in the diner, forced him to show his hand, but he couldn’t risk it—the man could be armed or have an accomplice lurking about.
All Sloan had to do was keep Casey safe until he got her back to the McKee ranch, which wouldn’t have been that big of a deal, if he didn’t have to fight the worst storm in the history of eastern Washington.
He drove as fast as he could, considering the conditions, and tried to remember the name of the guy with the boots. Mike? Michael? Miles? The name eluded him, but he was certain he’d seen the face, as well as the boots, before.
“What the devil?” He eased on the brakes as he saw a line of traffic forming, taillights glowing scarlet.
“Looks like an accident,” Casey said, craning her neck to look past a minivan filled with skiers.
Sloan’s back teeth ground together. They were south of Spokane, eighty miles away from the diner where he’d spied the cowboy. During the drive, Sloan had checked his rearview mirror every ten seconds, expecting the man from the diner to have followed and caught up with them. He’d been just about to relax when this accident—a jackknifed semi from what he could see—had blocked the road. Cars piled up behind their pickup while a tow truck, fire fighters and police tried to get the disabled rig off the road. It seemed to take forever. “Nothin’ to do but wait,” he said.
She looked through the windshield to the sky. “And it looks like more snow.”
“Great.” He climbed out of the truck, eyeing the crowd gathering as other motorists stretched their legs, smoked and talked among themselves while climbing on bumpers or hoods to get a better view of the accident. He didn’t see a face he recognized, and the man he’d spotted back in the diner, if he was tailing them, was lost in the serpentine of cars that stretched around the curves of the mountain pass or was hidden by the veil of snow now starting to fall.
Casey joined him and they sipped coffee and joked with a couple in a red car. The woman was eight months pregnant and her husband wanted nothing but to get her home safely. Sloan knew the feeling as there was talk among the stranded drivers that the road might be closed again.
The wind picked up as the police finally cleared one lane and everyone climbed back into their vehicles. The snow was thick and the fierce wind seemed to bring the temperature down below zero.
Maybe Casey was right, Sloan thought as he started the engine. Maybe he was just paranoid, but he didn’t want to take any unnecessary risks. Not when her life was at stake.
Night was falling by the time the state trooper waved them on with his flashlight. Sloan eased his truck around the crippled semi and followed the steady stream of taillights that wound along the road through the mountains. They drove for several miles and the traffic thinned, but still the snow fell, silent and dangerous, gorgeous to watch, deadly if someone became stranded.
“Looks like we might have to put up for the night again,” he said, frowning to himself.
“Why?”
“The storm.”
“There are always storms.”
“Not like this one.” Sloan squinted into the darkness. “One of the guys I talked to—a trucker—has a CB radio. He’s been talkin’ to rigs all over this part of the state. A couple of them said this road’s shut down for the night. Trees have fallen across it, power lines are down and the road crews can’t keep up with the weather.”
He saw her shoulders slump and knew she wanted desperately to get back to her family. He didn’t blame her. He, too, needed to see that she was safely home, and the prospect of spending another night alone with her set his nerves on edge. It had been all he could do to keep his hands off her last night. Damn it, he’d nearly kissed her, and the thought of another eight hours listening to her soft breathing, hearing her murmur in her sleep, watching her turn her head against the fan of dark hair on her pillow would be pure hell.
“Something’s wrong.” Casey’s voice snapped him out of his reverie. She was staring at him, her hazel eyes wide and curious. “Something more than the storm.”
If you only knew. He felt guilty about his thoughts; she was frightened, running for her life, and he was fantasizing about her.
“What is it?”
He didn’t bother responding, and she smiled, one side of her mouth lifting to show her dimple. “More bad guys chasing us?”
“Don’t know.” He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw headlights trailing at a distance. The muscles at the base of his skull knotted, but he told himself it wasn’t unusual to be followed, especially since the traffic had been backed up so far. But it still bothered him and his gut tightened in warning, the way it always did when he sensed danger. They’d just have to wait and see what the night brought.
“It looks like our friends with the CBs were right,” Sloan said as he put down the cellular phone and cursed under his breath.
“The road’s out.”
“For the next few hours. Until the crews can clear up the fallen trees and downed wires.”
“And snow.”
“Amen.”
“Where’s the problem?” she asked, straining to see.
“Twenty miles ahead.” He cranked the wheel for a curve in the road and the pickup’s tires locked on the ice. They spun, Casey gasped, and he eased up on the gas before the truck finally straightened. “Damn,” he growled. Four-wheel drive, so reliable in deep snow, wasn’t much good on ice, and now that the roads were busy and the temperature had plunged with the descent of darkness, the snow-covered road was deceptive. Patches of ice had formed when the snow had melted from the heat of exhaust and friction of tires, then refrozen as the traffic had thinned and the temperature plummeted. “So, we have two choices—turn back and hope that we can find another way to Rimrock, or find a place to stay.”
Her stomach nose-dived, but she didn’t argue. There really wasn’t much choice. Turning back would mean hours wasted and who knew how far they would get. Sloan had tried to listen to the radio, but the reception in the mountains had been spotty, the static so harsh it was hard to hear. However, there were storm warnings posted, travel in the mountains was restricted, roads blocked and closed.
He stopped at the next town and Casey smiled as she saw Christmas lights strung along the porch of the general store. With a pang, she thought of her family and wondered what they were doing. Were Skye and Max busy planning their wedding? Was Jenner shopping for the perfect gift for the son he’d only recently met? Was her mother coping with the fact that this was her first holiday season as a widow? Was Kiki, the cook, elbow-deep in Christmas-cookie dough? Or were they all just sitting around the phone, waiting for news, sick with worry over her?
She tried not to think of what was happening on the Rocking M. This was usually a time of merrymaking when the h
ands would hitch up the old sleigh to some of the horses, and even dour-faced Kiki indulged in a little cup of Christmas cheer. Since he was twelve, Jenner had always kept a sprig of mistletoe in his back pocket. This year he’d reserve it for Beth. She sighed. This Christmas was certainly different, and soon, if things went well, she’d be home in time to share it with the rest of the McKees.
Rather than dwell on her family, she concentrated on the tiny little town that looked as if it had been built during the heyday of gold and silver mining. A smattering of false-fronted buildings lined the street; many were empty, their siding bleached gray, the doors bolted and windows boarded over as if they’d been abandoned for years. There was one hotel in town, which looked as if it had been built around the turn of the century. With a western facade and even a hitching post still in evidence near the front porch, the building was lit by kerosene lanterns placed on tables near the windows.
Inside, the main floor was divided into a registration area for the hotel and a dining room. A huge fir tree, strung with tiny white lights and tinsel, stood guard near the staircase, and clusters of mistletoe had been hung from the brass chandeliers with red bows. The clerk was wearing a Santa hat that jingled as she registered Mr. and Mrs. Sloan Redhawk. Casey slid him a glance when she saw the registration card, but knew that he was just being careful.
Mrs. Sloan Redhawk, she thought, turning the name over in her mind. She couldn’t imagine being married to this rugged man, and yet a part of her found the idea appealing. She wondered how many other women had posed as his wife in the lobby of some out-of-the-way motel, then decided it wasn’t worth considering. He was her bodyguard for all practical purposes, just doing a job the best way he knew how. There was nothing more between them.
