by D'Ann Lindun
“Quiet,” Derrick ordered softly.
“I think someone’s out there,” Laramie whispered, sounding wide-awake. Had she been letting him feel her up?
“Shit,” he groaned. Rolling across her, he jerked on his boots.
Laramie sat up and tied her shoelaces. “Do you think it’s Lawrence?”
Grabbing the rifle, Derrick looked over his shoulder. “Don’t know. Hopefully whoever it is will go away.”
Heavy footsteps tromped up the steps.
Laramie covered her mouth with both hands. Derrick understood her fear. If Lawrence stood on the other side of the door, they were trapped like rats. Unless Derrick shot him, they had no other way out. The windows were covered with shutters, the back door locked on the outside.
The intruder pounded on the door. “I know someone’s in there. Open up.”
“Who is it?” Derrick yelled. “Identify yourself.”
“Myrtle Banks,” the person shouted back. “Now open up.”
With a quick glance at Laramie, Derrick flipped on the light and swung open the door. A small woman wearing a floppy hat, green plaid coat, and fisherman’s hip waders stood on the doorstep. She held a shotgun aimed at Derrick. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”
Derrick slowly lowered his own rifle. “It’s kind of a long story.”
“Start talking,” she ordered, moving into the cabin. “I know you don’t belong here because Marty and Linda would’ve called me and told me if you did.”
“You’re right,” Derrick said calmly. This woman and the cabin’s owners must be just a few of the summer people who lived along the river. “We don’t belong here, but we had an accident, and we needed shelter.”
“What kind of accident?” Myrtle turned skeptical eyes and her gun on Laramie.
Laramie hesitated. Derrick wondered if she’d go into the whole story with this stranger. Would she believe them? What if she didn’t? “My name’s Laramie Porter.” She gestured toward Derrick. “And he’s Derrick Garrison. He fell and hit his head.”
“We were camping, got lost,” Derrick interjected, “and somehow found our way to this cabin. There’s no phone so we planned to stay until morning, then hike out of here.”
“How’d you get in?” Myrtle wanted to know, still looking suspicious.
“I found the key in the bird feeder,” Laramie admitted.
“I told Marty and Linda not to leave it there,” Myrtle grumbled. “No matter. I’m turning you in.”
“Turning us in?” Laramie asked, shooting Derrick a horrified look. “For trespassing?”
“Nope. That nice young sheriff was good enough to warn me about you two. He said you were on the lam and to be on the lookout. Told me how you two killed that sweet girl so you could be together.” Myrtle pointed the shotgun at Derrick. “Hand over the rifle, son. Nice and easy like.” Turbo growled and Myrtle gestured toward him. “The policeman told me about the dog, too. Keep him under control or I’ll shoot him dead.”
Derrick frowned and handed her the gun. “Turbo won’t bother you. We’re not criminals, ma’am. The sheriff lied.”
“Save your breath, sonny. Now march out there and climb in my buggy. That reward the sheriff mentioned will go a long ways toward helping stretch my social security.”
Together, Derrick and Laramie left the cabin with dragging feet; Myrtle following with her shotgun aimed at their backs.
Chapter Eleven
“The coffee pot’s still on!” At the bottom step, Laramie whirled around without thinking. Myrtle stumbled back, tripped over the step and fell on her bottom. The shotgun went off, exploding toward the sky. The gun flew out from her hands and landed on the deck.
While Laramie stood frozen, Derrick reacted like a lightning bolt. Lunging off the step, he dragged Laramie with him. “Get in the car,” he instructed. “Now!”
She didn’t have to be told twice. Racing to the SUV, she jumped in the driver’s seat, and slid across the vinyl like a baseball player crossing home plate. Turbo landed in her lap. Derrick jumped in right after them. “I hope Myrtle left her keys.” He cranked the key and the car sputtered. On the second try, the SUV roared to life.
Spinning the car around, Derrick floored the accelerator and tore out of the driveway. In the rearview mirror, Laramie saw Myrtle jumping and waving the gun their direction. Her face was red, and the words coming out of her mouth weren’t nice.
“I can’t believe we stole that old lady’s car,” Laramie gasped.
“I can’t believe that old woman held us at gunpoint.” Derrick shot a look in the rear view mirror. “Craziness seems to be catching.”
Laramie giggled, nerves getting the better of her now that they were safe. “I feel like Alice in Wonderland, trapped in a nightmare.”
Derrick snorted. “I feel like the guy who’s been through a fire and chased by not one, but two nutcases.”
Sobering instantly, Laramie nodded. “What are we going to do?”
“For starters, send someone back for Myrtle as soon as we get to Cliffside.” He slowed a bit. “After we go to the police.”
“Derrick, no.” Laramie grabbed his sleeve. “We can’t. Lawrence is the police. He might even be in his office. You heard what Myrtle said. He’s telling people we killed Julie. What if everyone believes him? We’ll be locked up, not my brother.”
“We stay on the run until Lawrence trips himself up,” Derrick said. “So, instead of going to the Cliffside police, we’ll go to the Santa Anita force.”
She hadn’t thought of that. “Maybe they’ll believe us.”
Derrick didn’t tell her he thought their plan was a waste of time. When he had turned to the Santa Anita PD for help in finding his missing wife, they had told him they didn’t have time to spend on every adult who wanted to take a vacation. Derrick tried telling them his wife must be in danger because he believed them to be madly in love. He still couldn’t believe she played him for a fool. Realizing what she had done stung his pride to this day.
If it hadn’t been for Lawrence Porter taking him seriously and tracking down Cheryl, he might still think his wife had been taken from him, and not deserted him. If he hadn’t seen Lawrence’s madness firsthand, he would still have trouble believing Laramie’s story, too. What was wrong with people? Derrick had been raised to be a straight shooter. To tell it the way it was, to honor his word. He just didn’t fit in anymore. Best if he kept to himself.
• • •
The female dispatcher at the Santa Anita police station didn’t attempt to hide her disbelief. “You’re telling me Sheriff Porter murdered his own wife? And tried to kill you two, as well?”
“That’s what I said.” Derrick tried not to grit his teeth. This was the same kind of response he’d gotten last time. Half bored — half disinterested. “We need you to put an APB out on him.”
The woman shook her head. “No can do. All of our people are helping with the fire. We’re evacuating everyone on the west side of the Big Misty. The sheriff and the other deputies are too busy with that to go on a wild goose chase. You can go to Cliffside. That side of the mountain isn’t burning.”
“This man murdered someone.” Derrick wanted to shake the woman to get it through her thick head. “He will kill — ” he gestured to Laramie “ — us if he gets the chance.”
“There’s no one here to help you, and as I said, this is out of our jurisdiction,” the dispatcher said firmly. “You’ll have to report this to the Cliffside police.”
“My brother is the Cliffside police,” Laramie said.
“Then call the DA or FBI.” The woman stared at them without blinking. “We’ve got our hands full with the fire.”
When Derrick would have continued to argue, Laramie tugged his hand. “Come on. Let’s go.”
He stomped out of the building, Laramie holding his hand. “This is the same kind of runaround I got before.”
“Before?”
He opened the Jeep door for her. “Yeah.
My wife ran off and cleaned out my bank account. I stupidly believed she had been taken against her will. I came here for help, and they told me they couldn’t do anything. And like today, they told me to go to the Cliffside cops. Sound familiar? I took their advice, and your brother found Cheryl partying it up in Vegas with my money. Along with her legal husband.”
“Oh, man. That’s terrible,” Laramie said. “That’s why you didn’t believe me. I guess we have to turn to the FBI like the woman suggested.” Laramie climbed in the Jeep. “But where do you even find the FBI? In the Yellow Pages?”
Derrick joined her in the vehicle. “I don’t know, but I think we need to get cleaned up and have a hot meal before we do anything else. Let’s go to my house.”
“A hot shower sounds great, but I don’t have any clean clothes,” Laramie said.
“My ex-wife left some of her things. Something of hers might fit you.” Derrick studied Laramie for a minute. Cheryl was smaller, except in the chest. Laramie was natural, not shaped by a surgeon. He diverted his gaze. Better not to think too much about Laramie’s breasts. Or her curvy rear.
“I need to go home at some point,” Laramie said. “I have horses to take care of. At least I think I do. Who knows what Lawrence did to them.”
“We’re close to my place.” Derrick pointed toward the mountains. “Let’s go there first, clean up, and make a plan. Then we’ll go see about your horses. And find someone to pick up Myrtle.”
Laramie nodded. “Okay.”
• • •
Although only thirty miles separated Santa Anita and Cliffside, they were worlds apart in attitude. While Santa Anita held onto its ranching roots, with only one grocery store and a few businesses, Cliffside had been taken over by subdivisions and golf courses. Several chain stores lined Main Street. Laramie rarely visited Santa Anita. But as they left the town limits behind, she enjoyed the view. Set in a larger valley than Cliffside, the sloping hillsides held ranches, many rimmed with rustic log fences.
Derrick drove steadily, making several turns. Laramie began to see more old ranch houses and pastures fenced with barbed wire. Places that she identified with. Before her dad got sick, they had run a small herd of Herefords. But when her dad’s illness prevented him from working anymore, and her parents moved to Denver, Laramie sold the cattle to concentrate on her business.
After this was all over would she still have a business? She knew she didn’t want to go home right now. But what would she do instead? Mom and Dad had asked her several times to move to Denver. Maybe she’d take them up on it. When they heard what Lawrence had done, they would need her.
Derrick turned down a long lane lined with pole fences. In other years, the pastures would be green. This year due to the drought, the land looked brown and scarred. She looked to her right. A cloud of black smoke obscured the mountaintops. Her throat tightened. Julie’s body lay up there in a watery grave. Why hadn’t the police dispatcher taken them seriously?
Her thoughts were broken by their arrival at Derrick’s home. A small log house faced the valley, circled by weeping willows. A big barn and corrals sat off to the side with several tidy sheds lining it. “Nice place,” Laramie said, impressed.
“Thanks.” Derrick smiled, and she was struck by how handsome he was. She looked away before she stared too long and made a fool out of herself.
He parked near the house and came around to let her out. Turbo bounded out of the Jeep with a loud bark. Laramie followed a little slower. The smell of smoke hung in the air, and she wrinkled her nose. Derrick frowned. “Something wrong?”
“The smoke.”
His face cleared, and she realized he thought she didn’t like his home. “Truly, it’s gorgeous here.”
“I like it.”
“But your wife didn’t?”
He frowned. “No.”
Laramie didn’t reply. To have a man like Derrick, to live in a place like this. Women dreamed of it. But it was not for her. Falling in love with him could only end badly. He’d saved her life three or four times, but love? Simply not possible. Lawrence had taught her love was fleeting.
“Come in,” he invited. He followed her up the walk, and she moved aside so he could unlock the front door.
• • •
He swung the door open and she stepped inside. Two leather couches framed a bay window facing the mountains, an old-fashioned roll top desk filled a corner, Navajo rugs scattered across a gleaming hardwood floor. She could see the kitchen, and Turbo raced for it, skidding as he went around the corner.
Laramie laughed. “I think he’s hungry.”
Derrick chuckled. “He’s not the only one. I’m starving.”
Her stomach growled. “Me three.”
“Let’s find some food, then.” Derrick started for the kitchen and then stopped. “I’ll cook while you take a shower.”
Laramie could barely keep from clapping her hands. “Being clean would be heaven.”
“I’ll rustle up some clothes for you.” He pointed. “The bathroom’s through there. Go on in, and I’ll leave some clothes on the bed. When you’re ready, we’ll eat.”
Walking through a bedroom decorated with heavy pine pieces, Laramie resisted snooping. It was all too easy to picture Derrick stretched out in the bed with her curled up in his arms. Laramie shook off the image. She’d become much too dependent on Derrick. Going to bed with him wouldn’t help.
“There’s girly shampoo and stuff under the sink,” he called from the living room, “help yourself.”
Laramie shut the door and shucked her clothes, planning to burn them as soon as possible. Under the sink she found, as promised, flowery shampoo, matching conditioner, body wash and two kinds of facial scrub, none opened. In the bottom of the basket containing it all, she found a loofah, a pack of razors and a toothbrush. She shoved aside unopened makeup and a manicure set, and with a happy sigh took the other products into the roomy shower with her.
Hot water cascaded over her, carrying away the stench of smoke and sweat. Her sore muscles loosened, and she began to feel like herself again. How had Derrick stood being around her for the last couple of days? The fresh scent of grapefruit soothed her skin as she lathered. Her long hair was her one vanity, and she washed and conditioned it twice. Only when she could run her fingers through it without tangling up in knots was she satisfied. She shaved, loofahed, and stood under the hot water as long as she thought she could and still leave Derrick some.
After drying off on a big, fluffy towel, she went into the bedroom to see what Derrick found for her to wear. Lying across the blue and green bedspread was a fuchsia satin camisole, a pair of men’s gray sweats, and a pink thong. She picked up the thong with her fingertips and a price tag dangled off the side. At least the skimpy undies hadn’t been worn.
Stepping into the scrap of lace, Laramie fought a wave of unease. The patch of lace barely covered her personals. Had Derrick preferred his ex-wife in this kind of clothing? Cheryl had obviously been a girly-girl. While Laramie liked nice lingerie as much as anyone, she couldn’t see herself parading around in thongs and push-up bras on a regular basis. She preferred cotton tanks and boy shorts with a little lace on the edges.
The camisole fit well, although her nipples clearly showed through the slinky material, which she supposed was the idea. Thankfully, the tag was still on this garment, too. Wearing someone else’s underthings made her squeamish. The sweats were about a foot too long, and she rolled down the waistband to make them fit. Under the pile, she found a new pair of socks, and she pulled them on with gratitude. Clean socks felt so good.
Derrick had thoughtfully left a hairbrush on the dresser, and she brushed her hair until it gleamed. Finally, satisfied with the reflection of her shining hair and glowing skin in the round mirror over the dresser, she took a deep breath and entered the living room. The scent of grilling steak made her stomach growl.
Derrick stood with his back to her, looking for something in the fridge.
F
or a minute, she stood still and admired the strength of his back and the way his jeans fit his rear and long, muscular legs. She coughed, and he turned around and took in her appearance. His eyes lingered on her breasts before moving to her borrowed pants and socks. Her nipples pebbled in response to the heat in his eyes and voice, and she resisted crossing her arms over her chest. Instead, she asked, “Need help?”
He blinked. “Sure. Want to make a salad while I clean up?”
“Love to.” She moved by him, hoping her sudden shyness didn’t show.
“Everything’s there on the counter. I’ll be back in time to get the steaks off the grill.” Did his voice sound huskier than normal?
“Hurry. I’m starving.” But it wasn’t food her body craved.
Chapter Twelve
Laramie hung up the phone and did a little dance. In the middle of a twirl, she spotted something out of the corner of her eye, and she screamed. “Oh, you scared me.”
Derrick held up his hands, palms out. “I’m sorry. I should’ve said something.”
She stared at him. With the ends of his walnut-colored hair still damp, his western shirt untucked and thigh-hugging Levis, he looked good. Real good. Fresh shaven, he seemed younger. He recovered well, unlike her. The last few days had permanently aged her. Recovery would take more than a hot shower and clean clothes.
“Something wrong?” He swiped a hand across his chin.
“No.” She shook her head. “How’s your cut?”
He touched it and grimaced. “Shampoo hurt like hell, but it’s okay. What were you dancing around for?”
“I called Joe, the kid who does odds and ends for me, and he said my dogs are fine! He also told me Lawrence told him Julie and I went to Denver to visit my parents.”
“That’s great about your dogs.” A genuine smile crossed his face, then shadowed. “Your brother is — ”
“I don’t want to talk about him right now,” she interrupted. “Hungry?”
“Yeah.” He moved toward her, and she stood frozen.
When he reached around her for a carrot on the counter, she came out of her trance. “I think everything’s ready.”
