Unforgettable

by Cassie Miles

  With her eyes closed, she pressed her face into the crook of his neck. His musky scent teased her nostrils. After a day on the run, he definitely didn’t smell like cologne. But she didn’t mind the earthy odor; it was masculine and somehow attractive. Heat radiated from his pores. His chest rose and fell as he breathed, and even that action was sexy. If she relaxed and allowed her body to melt into his, she knew she’d be overwhelmed.

  Mentally, she distanced herself from him. More than once, she’d asked herself why she was so invested in Jack’s rescue. The big reason was utterly apparent. He was a good man, trying to do the right thing, and he didn’t deserve to be threatened, especially not by the men who were assigned to protect him. She had to fight for Jack because it was the right thing to do. Her motivations were based on truth, justice and the American way.

  And it didn’t hurt that he was hot. Being close to him set off a fiery chemistry that was anything but high-minded. She didn’t want to lose him, didn’t want this feeling of passion to dissipate into nothingness.

  Trying to get comfortable, she wriggled her legs, and he reacted with a twitch. They needed to be careful. If the Ford Fairlane started bouncing, they’d be found for sure.

  The voices came closer. She thought she heard Patterson shouting angry orders. Car doors creaked open and slammed shut, but she didn’t hear anyone driving away. Were they searching the cars? Someone bumped into the fender of the Fairlane, and she caught her breath to keep from making noise.

  Until now, she’d been too busy planning and thinking to acknowledge the undercurrent of fear that started earlier today. If they were found, the consequences would be disastrous. She never should have gotten all these other people involved. Danny could lose his job for helping Jack escape. There might be legal charges against Heather and Woodley. As for Jack? If the marshals took him, they’d kill him. She trembled. What have I done?

  Jack whispered in her ear, “Scared?”

  Though he couldn’t see her in the dark, she nodded.

  “Think of something else,” he said. “Something good.”

  That was a childish solution, like whistling in a graveyard to show the ghosts you weren’t afraid. Tension squeezed her lungs. She felt a scream rising in the back of her throat.

  “You have some good memories.” His voice was one step up from silence. “Think of your childhood.”

  She remembered a summer afternoon. She was sixteen and had just gotten her driver’s license. Her mom asked her to deliver a basket of muffins to Mr. Woodley’s house.

  Determined not to have an accident, she drove very carefully past the Circle L and went to Mr. Woodley’s house. He sat on a rocker on the front porch, waiting for her. Most of her parents’ friends ignored her or regarded her with the sort of suspicion and disdain adults reserved for teenagers. Mr. Woodley was different—a high school English teacher who actually enjoyed his students.

  He accepted the muffins and told her to thank her mom. “Now let’s get to the real reason you came to visit.”

  He escorted her to the computer in his spare bedroom. While they were staying at the cabin, her parents banned all use of electronics, especially the internet. Her brother and she were supposed to spend the summer appreciating nature, but she had more on her mind than gathering pinecones and wading in creeks.

  A few days before, she had been at the Circle L when a mare birthed her foal. She needed to write about the experience. While she waited for the computer to boot up, she pulled a small spiral notebook from her back pocket. The pages were densely scribbled with notes, which she held up for Mr. Woodley to see. “I interviewed the veterinarian.”

  “That will give some depth to your story.”

  “And I want to talk to the ranch hands so I can get an idea of what life is going to hold for the baby horse.”

  “I thought you had the makings of a poet, but I see I was wrong.” Mr. Woodley placed his hand on her shoulder. “Someday, you’re going to be a fine journalist.”

  Her memory soothed the panic that had threatened to overwhelm her. Her breathing settled into a regular pattern. Caitlyn was a long way from calm, but she wasn’t about to explode.

  When she felt someone yanking on the door handle of the Fairlane, she was jerked back to the present. Whoever had been tugging let go with a string of curses.

  Woodley’s voice boomed from nearby. “Be careful, Patterson. This is a classic vehicle.”

  “Unlock it.” Patterson’s voice was terse.

  “Sure thing,” Woodley said. “But nobody’s in there. I always keep my car locked. It’s a habit.”

  She heard the door open. The car rocked, and she assumed that Patterson had climbed inside to look into the backseat. Silently, she prayed that he’d move on. Their hiding place in the trunk seemed as obvious as a wrapped birthday present with a big red bow.

  Patterson growled, “You’ve caused me a lot of trouble, old man.”

  “Let’s talk it over with my friend from the FBI. He ought to be here any minute.”

  “I don’t have time to waste with the FBI.” He raised his voice. “Bryant, I’m over here.”

  In a breathless rush, the Texan said, “I was in the barn. Think we got a trail to follow. There’s a couple of horses gone from their stalls.”

  “I should have known,” Patterson muttered. “He took off on horseback. Again.”

  A moment passed. The sounds of the searchers became more distant. The door of the Ford Fairlane opened. The car jostled as someone got behind the steering wheel. The engine started. As the car went in reverse, she heard Mr. Woodley say, “On our way. Over the river and through the woods.”

  They’d pulled it off. A clean getaway.

  HIDING IN THE TRUNK of a car wasn’t the most manly way to escape, but Jack didn’t mind. The ancient suspension system in the old Ford bounced Caitlyn against him with every bump they hit, and there were a lot of bumps on the graded gravel roads. They probably hadn’t traveled a mile before her clenched arms loosened up, and she accidentally smacked him with the handcuffs she still held.

  “Give me those,” he said.

  “Can’t see where you are. I’ll stick them in the pocket of this lovely blue jacket that’s probably going to be filthy by the time I get out of the trunk.”

  “That’d be a shame.” He hadn’t been lying when he told her she looked pretty.

  After one huge jolt, she started to giggle. Her unbridled laughter was as bright as the inside of the trunk was dark. Her legs tangled with his, accidentally rubbing against his thighs and groin. They were bumping apart and grinding together. It was like making love in a blender.

  On a relatively smooth stretch of road, he asked, “Do you mind telling me where we’re going?”

  “I considered riding all the way to Denver,” she said. “But there’s too much going on in this area. The manhunt for Rojas is massive. The police have heavy-duty surveillance and roadblocks. The car could be stopped and searched.”

  And he didn’t dare turn himself over to anyone in law enforcement. No matter what they thought, they’d be obliged to take him into custody and turn him over to Patterson. “I don’t expect the cops are going to be happy about my escape from the Circle L.”

  She bumped against his chest. “Probably not.”

  “You never answered my question.”

  “Do you really want to know where we’re going?” she teased. “Wouldn’t you rather sit back and let me take care of every little thing?”

  He had to admit that she’d done a good job of springing him from Patterson’s custody. She was a problem solver, smart and competent. But he liked being the one in charge. “Tell me.”

  “Or else? How are you going to make me talk?”

  He knew what he’d like to do. With her body rubbing up against him in many inappropriate places, there was one predominant thought in his mind. He held her tight.

  “Here’s what I’ll do to you, babe. First, I’m going to kiss you until your lips are numb. The
n I’m going to take off that blue jacket and unbutton your shirt. And I’m going to grab you here.” He lowered his hand and squeezed her butt. “You’re going to be putty. You’ll tell me everything I want to know.”

  “Bob Woodley’s house,” she peeped. “That’s where we’re headed.”

  “Woodley? The guy who owns this car?” If the Ford Fairlane was any indication, he didn’t think Woodley’s house would be safe. People who lived in the past tended to be less than vigilant when it came to the present.

  “He told me that he was robbed last year, and he put in a state-of-the-art security system.”

  Jack doubted that good old Bob Woodley could guarantee their safety, but he needed a place to rest, recuperate and eat something more substantial than energy bars. Since last night, he’d caught only a few hours’ sleep in the cavern. His body still ached with old bruises. Whenever he recalled the wound on the back of his head, it answered him with a quiet throb.

  The car stopped and the engine went quiet. He heard the sound of a mechanical garage door closing.

  The trunk opened. After being in darkness, the overhead bulb in the two-car garage glared like a klieg light. Untangling himself from Caitlyn took a moment and unleashed another burst of giggles from her.

  Finally, Jack was on his feet. The first thing he noticed was that the second car in the garage was a Land Rover that couldn’t have been more than two or three years old—a sensible vehicle for someone who lived in the mountains. A tool bench at the back of the garage displayed a neat array of power tools. Apparently, the old man had an organized side to his personality. Caitlyn had spoken fondly of Woodley. A retired English teacher. A friend of her parents.

  He faced the rangy, white-haired stranger who had played a pivotal role in his rescue. Though there weren’t sufficient words to thank him, Jack said, “I appreciate what you’ve done.”

  Woodley assessed him with a stern gaze. “You’re the fellow who caused all this trouble.”

  Jack held out his hand. “Call me Jack.”

  “That’s not your real name.” With a firm grip, Woodley shook his hand. “I don’t cotton to men who hide behind aliases. Let’s use your real name. Nick Racine.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jack wasn’t often caught off guard. His natural wariness kept him on his toes, ready to react to any threat. The name Nick Racine was dangerous. As soon as Woodley spoke it, Jack thought of plausible excuses for the alias. Deception was second nature to him, but he couldn’t look this good man in the eye and lie to him. More important, Jack wanted—no, needed—to be truthful with Caitlyn.

  She eyed him suspiciously then focused on Woodley. “Where did you hear that name?”

  “From my friend in the FBI. He’s one of my former students, and he doesn’t have any reason to lie to me.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He spoke to the marshal on the phone.” Woodley scowled. “By the way, that Patterson fellow is rude and unpleasant. I try to see the best in people, but that guy was shifty.”

  “Agreed,” Caitlyn said briskly. “And then?”

  “My young FBI friend warned me that there wasn’t much he could do to stop the marshals. That was when he mentioned the name Nick Racine.” He stared hard at Jack. “I thought it strange because Caitlyn called you something else.”

  When she turned her gaze on Jack, she’d switched into her journalist persona. Her eyes were clear. Her attitude, cool. She was nothing like the soft woman who had been giggling in the trunk of the Ford Fairlane and rubbing up against him. “Have you ever heard the name Nick Racine before?”

  He didn’t connect with that identity and he sure as hell didn’t believe the stories Bryant had been spouting about his supposedly legendary deeds. If he truly was a one-man strike force, shouldn’t he be able to remember? “Bryant and Patterson said I was Nick Racine.”

  “I thought you were Tony Perez.”

  So did I. He shrugged. There wasn’t anything he could say to clarify his identity.

  “We need to look into this.” She pivoted and marched toward the side door in the garage. “I’ll need to use the computer.”

  “Hold on,” Woodley said. “Who’s Tony Perez? Why in blazes doesn’t this man know his own name?”

  She came back and stood before him. “The important thing for you to know is that this man—I’m going to call him Jack—is a decent human being. He risked his life to rescue Danny, and he saved me from a gang of men with guns.” She took both of Woodley’s hands in hers. “I trust Jack. And I’m asking you to do the same.”

  The way he looked at Caitlyn reminded Jack of an affectionate uncle with his fair-haired niece. The old man was proud of her accomplishments. “You’ve grown up to be quite a woman. I always knew you’d turn out okay.”

  “You were one of the first people who believed in me. You encouraged me to be a journalist.”

  “It’s not hard to pick out a diamond in a bowl of sand.” He gave her a wink and turned to Jack. “All right, young man. If Caitlyn vouches for you, I’ve got to accept you. With all your fake names.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Now,” she said, “lead me to the computer.”

  Woodley circled around the car and went to the door. “Are you two hungry?”

  “Starved,” Caitlyn said. “You know what I really want? When you used to come over to our cabin and play Scrabble with Mom and Dad, you always made grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup for me and my brother. Comfort food.”

  “Coming right up,” he said, “but I don’t want you two in the kitchen with me. There are too many lights, too many windows and too many people looking for you.”

  Jack appreciated Woodley’s caution. Rojas was still at large. And Patterson might decide to come here after he was done with his wild goose chase. Jack followed Caitlyn and Woodley through the door that led directly into the house.

  Woodley said, “I don’t want to turn on any lights.”

  Again, Jack approved. Moonlight through the windows provided enough illumination to find their way through a living room and down a hallway. In a small bedroom, Woodley turned on the overhead light.

  The windows were covered with shades and curtains. The decor was a mixture of antique and high-tech. A laptop computer rested on a carved oak, rolltop desk with a matching office chair. Wooden bookshelves held the eclectic collection of an avid reader, ranging from poetry to electronics manuals. A patchwork quilt covered the double bed with a curlicue brass frame. One corner was devoted to surveillance and security.

  “Here’s where you’ll be sleeping, Jack.” The old man went to the security equipment and flipped a couple of switches. “These four infrared screens show the outdoor views of my property. The garage, front door, northern side and western. The back of the house butts up to a hillside and is inaccessible. I’ve activated the motion sensors at a twenty-yard perimeter around the house and the burglar alarm in case anybody jiggles the door or busts a window.”

  In the unformed memories of his past, Jack knew he’d seen similar security arrangements. “This is a sophisticated system. Did you install it yourself?”

  “It’s overkill,” Woodley admitted. “When I got robbed, I was so ticked off that I set this place up as a fortress, mostly because I enjoyed fiddling around with the electronics.”

  “He’s always been that way,” Caitlyn said. She’d already positioned herself at the desk where she opened the laptop. “If he hadn’t been an English teacher, Mr. Woodley would have been a mechanic.”

  “And a damn good one—good enough to keep my 1957 Ford Fairlane in running condition.”

  Jack liked the old guy—a man who could work with his hands and with his mind. “I’m impressed.”

  “And you’re going to be even more excited by my grilled cheese sandwiches. Before I head out to the kitchen, there’s one more thing I need to show you.” He stepped into the hallway and pointed at a closed door. “This is going to be Caitlyn’s bedroom. Understand?
”

  “Yes, sir.” Jack had been hoping they’d have to sleep in the same room, preferably in the same bed. No such luck.

  He closed the door behind Woodley and went to the rolltop desk, where Caitlyn sat hunched over the computer. Her fingers skipped across the keyboard as she started her identity search. “Should I look for Nicholas Racine or Nick?”

  “Neither. I’m not Nick Racine.”

  “Other people seem to think you are. We need to research the possibilities.”

  Buried deep in the back of his mind was something akin to dread; he didn’t want to be Nick Racine. Uncovering that identity would cause no end of pain. “I have a better idea. Look up Tony Perez.”

  In a couple of minutes, she’d accessed a site that showed his mug shot. His hair was longer, as were his sideburns, and he had a soul patch on his chin.

  “That’s you,” Caitlyn said. “Love the facial hair.”

  He massaged the spot between his lower lip and his chin that was now rough with stubble. “That settles it. We know my real identity.”

  “Do you remember being Tony Perez?”

  He had a crystal clear memory of watching Mark Santoro die and of being shot. “I remember some things.”

  She pointed to the computer screen. “This is your address in Chicago. Tell me about the place where you lived.”

  Her voice was firm and demanding. Bossy, in fact. And he wasn’t inclined to take orders. “Are you interviewing me?”

  “I’m looking for answers, yes.”

  “What’s the point? We know Rojas wants to kill me to keep me from testifying. He paid off the marshals, and they need me dead so they can keep their jobs. Those are the facts. My name isn’t going to change them.”

  She rose from the desk chair and faced him. Curiosity shone in her eyes. The color of her jacket emphasized the deep blue of her irises. “Don’t you want to know who you are?”

  “I like being Jack Dalton.” A man without a past had no regrets.