Also by Nancy Herkness
Take Me Home
Shower of Stars
A Bridge to Love
Music of the Night
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2013 Nancy Herkness
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake Romance
PO Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN-13: 9781477807699
ISBN-10: 1477807691
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013904922
To Maxine Kumin, who made me feel like a real writer
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Discussion Questions for Country Roads
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter 1
JULIA CASTILLO HURLED the lug wrench into the tall, dusty weeds by the side of Interstate 64. The odor of tar being cooked out of the asphalt by the midday sun made her cough. Wasn’t it supposed to be cooler up here in the misty blue mountains of West Virginia? She kicked the flat tire on the rusty old Chevy Suburban. Twice.
If her uncle Carlos could see her now, he would frown and shake his head, since this just proved his conviction she wasn’t safe out in the real world.
Thank God he wasn’t here.
Before she could prevent herself, she focused her gaze on a nearby pine tree, checking for any waviness in her vision. “Stop it!” she muttered. She had driven all the way here without any sign of trouble despite the stress. She didn’t need to start doubting herself just because she had a flat tire.
Julia raked her fingers through the tangled mass of her red hair, trying to think of what to do next. Her prepaid cell phone had run down its battery while searching for a signal en route. She’d left the one her uncle had given her in her studio, because she was pretty sure it was possible to track people through their cell phones. Or that might be one of those things you saw on television that wasn’t true. Either way, she wasn’t taking any chances, because she didn’t want her uncle knowing where she was. As frustrated as she was with him, she preferred not to hurt him unnecessarily, and he would be very wounded by her current mission.
Squinting at the green-and-white sign at the top of the long uphill slope of the highway, she tried to read how many miles it was to Sanctuary. It was a single digit, but she couldn’t tell if it was a three or an eight.
She could walk three, but not eight. Not in this heat.
The problem was her junk heap of an SUV had one door that wouldn’t lock, and her paintings were too big to carry that far. She didn’t care if thieves helped themselves to everything else in the car, but it would kill her to lose those paintings.
Scanning the landscape around her, she searched for a house or a store. All she could see was a river snaking under the bridge just behind her and a lot of green trees marching up the mountainsides. Four vehicles sped past her in loud rushes of hot, gritty air. She wasn’t sure whether to be grateful not to have to worry about accepting help from a potentially murderous stranger or annoyed that chivalry seemed to be dead.
Another vehicle whooshed past, then flashed red brake lights and pulled over to the side of the highway well in front of her. Now that she had a possible rescuer, all the warnings about what happened to unprotected women with broken-down cars flashed through her brain. As the black, low-slung car reversed toward her, she wished she hadn’t tossed the wrench; hefting it would have made her look a little threatening. Instead she had to settle for arranging her keys between her fingers so their ends stuck out as she made a fist, another tidbit she’d picked up from television.
The car’s door swung open, and a man in a pale-blue shirt, red tie, and navy slacks emerged, unfolding his long legs as he stepped out onto the gravel.
“A tie seems pretty upstanding,” she muttered, loosening her grip on the keys. “Serial killers probably don’t wear ties on a regular basis.”
She planted her feet wide apart and crossed her arms as the good Samaritan approached with a fluid, ground-eating stride. She guessed he was in his early thirties, and her artist’s sensibility quivered with the urge to paint the planes and shadows of a face that was too strong for classic handsomeness but far more interesting. He had hair like an ancient Greek portrait: thick, dark waves you wanted to bury your fingers in. As he approached, his silver-gray eyes almost glowed in contrast against his olive skin. He would be a perfect model for one of those half-immortal, half-human offspring the Greek gods were always fathering. What were they called? Demigods.
His cool silvery gaze skimmed over her, making her aware of the dirt on the knees of her jeans from her futile attempt to change the tire. And the sweat that glued her white gauze peasant blouse to her shoulder blades. And who knew how crazed her long, curly hair looked after being blown around by the passing vehicles?
“Got a flat?” he said, stopping a few feet away as he shifted his survey to the limp pile of rubber nearly falling off the wheel rim.
She shook off her flight of whimsy. “That’s an understatement,” she said. “Could you call someone to come fix it? I’d be very grateful. My cell phone died.”
She could have sworn he sighed. “If you have a spare, I’ll put it on for you. No sense in paying for a tow if you don’t have to.”
He must have noticed the swaths of rust and multiple dents in her car and concluded she couldn’t afford a tow truck. Which was true at the moment. She just needed to get to the Gallery at Sanctuary and things would improve. She hoped.
“My lug wrench is somewhere over there,” she said, gesturing toward the weeds while a flush of embarrassment crept up her cheeks. “I think the nuts have rusted onto the bolts. I couldn’t get them to budge, so the wrench seemed useless.”
She had also been careful not to overexert herself, just as a precaution.
The corners of the demigod’s mouth twitched slightly, but he said nothing as he squatted down to inspect the wheel. He picked up a rock and scraped at the rust on the lug nuts. She admired the stretch of blue cotton over a pair of distinctly godlike shoulders. Now she wanted to paint him in the nude.
“You may be right about that,” he said, “but let me get my wrench and give it a try.”
As he straightened to his full height, Julia felt a little frisson of nerves. He was a lot bigger than she was and still a total stranger. Maybe she should get back in her car and hope he didn’t realize one lock didn’t function.
“Be right back,” he said, walking away before she bolted for the dubious safety of the SUV.
It was broad dayli
ght, and plenty of vehicles whizzed past. Someone would notice if he grabbed her and dragged her off into the weeds, wouldn’t they? She tightened her grip on her keys as he approached with a gleaming silver wrench in his hand.
“What’s your name?” If worse came to worst, at least she’d know who had killed her.
“Sorry, ma’am, I should have introduced myself sooner. Paul Taggart.” The sudden flash of his smile vaporized her fear as he held out his hand to her.
She had made a tactical error. She couldn’t tell him her last name. “I’m Julia.” His handshake was perfect: firm, warm, and not at all damp. He should be in politics with a smile and a handshake like that.
“I see.” That clear gaze roamed over her face for a long moment before he released her hand and bent to fit the wrench onto one of the lug nuts. The muscles in his shoulders pulled at the shirt’s fabric and he grunted with effort, but the nut didn’t budge. He stood and braced his foot on the wrench, throwing his weight onto it. Still no movement. He turned to her with a shrug of regret as he pulled a slim phone out of his trouser pocket. “I’m afraid it’s going to take more than human muscle to get this changed.”
Damn! She was going to have to use her credit card. And then her uncle would be able to find out where she was.
She blew out a breath of frustration and examined Paul Taggart closely. His tie held the sheen of fine silk, and his trousers showed the drape of expensive wool. The vehicle parked in front of hers was some sort of sleek, powerful sports car. He looked like a man of substance. She screwed up her courage and did her best to project an air of honesty. “Er, I don’t suppose you could float me a loan for the tow. I swear I’ll pay you back. I just need to get to Sanctuary, and it’s right up the road. Please.” She injected a note of pleading into the last word.
He muttered something that sounded like, “How do they always find me?” She caught an undercurrent of resignation in his breezy tone as he said, “Sure. Happy to do it.”
He didn’t believe she would pay him back. Julia pressed her lips together so she wouldn’t tell him to go to hell. She needed to get to the gallery. Then she’d show him she could return his loan.
If they liked the paintings.
Julia shoved the thought to the darkest recesses of her mind and pasted a grateful smile on her face. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome. Let me call Bud to come get your car.” She thought she saw a touch of guilt darken his eyes before he lowered his gaze to his cell.
“Bud?”
“He’s the owner of the service station in Sanctuary. That’s where you’re headed, right?” He was already putting the phone to his ear.
“Are you from Sanctuary?”
He nodded. “Born and raised.”
She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. It would make it more satisfying to pay him back if she could see his face when she did it. On the other hand, she preferred to have the minimum number of people know she was in Sanctuary. The more she was seen, the more likely it was her uncle would find out she’d been there. She shrugged mentally. There was nothing she could do about it now.
Just then Paul spoke into the phone. He greeted whoever was on the other end of the call casually, yet it was clear he expected to have his request acted upon promptly. Her uncle worked the same way.
“The tow truck will be here in fifteen minutes,” Paul Taggart said.
“Wow, that’s quick.” When it struck her that she was going to have to make conversation with him for those minutes, they suddenly stretched out to infinity.
“Why don’t we go wait in my car, where it’s quiet and air-conditioned?” he said.
She hesitated, fear tightening her spine. He didn’t look like a rapist or a mass murderer, but neither had Ted Bundy. She flicked a glance at his car, discovering a slightly sinister cast in its dark, sleek lines. If she got in, he could lock all the doors and whisk her away to some isolated shack where she’d never be heard from again.
“You go ahead,” she said, keeping her gaze on him as she edged toward the Suburban. “I need to rearrange a few things in my car so they don’t shift when it gets towed.”
She watched his shoulders lift and lower in another sigh before he fished a business card out of his shirt pocket and held it out to her. “Will this convince you it’s safe to sit comfortably in my car?”
It was thick cream vellum with “Paul Taggart, Esquire” printed in block letters in the center. Below it was an address in Sanctuary, West Virginia, as well as phone, fax, and e-mail information. Along the bottom, it read, “Admitted to the bar in: West Virginia, Virginia, Ohio, Kentucky, Maryland, Georgia.”
It was absurd, but the little piece of paper dispelled most of her nervousness. She slashed the card through the air like a miniature sword. “I guess this could inflict some really lethal paper cuts, if I needed to defend myself.”
“At least you didn’t make a crack about preferring a criminal to a lawyer,” he said, gesturing for her to go ahead of him along the shoulder of the highway.
She felt like a mess next to his clean, pressed tailoring. She plucked at the back of her blouse, trying to peel it away from her skin before he saw how damp it was. She chuckled as she considered she had gone from worrying he was going to assault her to being concerned about what he thought of her appearance.
“Care to share the joke?” His voice came from close behind her and she swore she could feel the stir of his breath on her overheated skin. It was not an unpleasant sensation.
“Just laughing at myself.” She tossed the comment over her shoulder and kept walking.
“I like that in a person.”
They had reached the passenger side of his car, and he stretched his arm around her to open the door. As she slid onto the cool, smooth leather of the seat, she sighed with pleasure. Her trash heap’s air-conditioning had died a hundred miles ago.
“It will get even better when I turn the engine back on.” Startled, she looked up to find him leaning down so his face was nearly level with hers. She had to stop herself from lifting a hand to trace the strong bone structure.
“Watch your elbow,” he said, closing the door as soon as she tucked her arm into her side.
He walked around the car’s long hood, his stride claiming the space around him with the confidence of a man who controls his world. She envied him that. Her world had been taken out of her control since that terrible day she’d fallen off Papi’s horse when she was six. And that was more than twenty years ago.
The driver’s door opened, and he swung himself into the seat with a hand hooked on the roof. Inserting his long legs under the steering wheel, he punched the ignition on, bringing the engine to life with a roar of horsepower.
“Isn’t this car kind of uncomfortable for someone as tall as you?”
“Do you ever wear high heels?”
Baffled, she nodded. “Sometimes.”
“Are they comfortable?”
“Not particularly.”
“So why do you wear them?” he asked.
“Because they look good. Okay, I get your point.” His self-deprecation relaxed her just a bit.
He adjusted something on the climate-control panel and a waft of cool air brushed her face.
“Ah, that feels wonderful.” She twisted the heavy mass of her hair up on top of her head and held it there so the delicious chill could reach her neck.
“So,” he said, as he slewed sideways in the seat to settle his back against the door, his arm draped over the steering wheel. “What brings you to Sanctuary?”
Paul was just making conversation, but her eyes went wide and she hissed in a breath, dropping the bundle of vivid red hair back down over the smooth, exposed skin of her neck and shoulders.
“Er, business,” she said, looking down at her fingers as she locked them together in her lap.
That caught his interest. The truth was he had tried hard to drive right by when he saw her standing beside the road. He was wearing his one
and only Armani suit, bought on sale on a trip to Washington, DC, when he had taken the bar exam for Maryland. He had worn it for luck to the meeting at the Laurels, and he really didn’t want to ruin it while changing a tire.
But he had never been able to ignore a damsel in distress, as his friend Tim always ribbed him. So he’d resigned himself to getting dirty, only to have his rescued damsel cadge a loan, give him the evil eye when he offered her the comfort of his car, and now look like he had accused her of scheming to rob a bank.
“If you’d rather not tell me, that’s fine. It’s your business,” he said, but he suddenly wanted to know what sort of dealings this redheaded sprite, driving the worst piece of automotive junk he’d ever seen, could possibly have in Sanctuary.
“It’s not that.” She looked up at him, her green eyes clouded with guilt. “I’m kind of trying to keep it a secret that I’m here.”
“Your secret is safe with me, but a lot of folks are going to notice that car being towed into town.”
He watched the rise and fall of her breasts under the thin white material of her blouse.
“Yeah, I made a mistake buying that disaster, but it was the only thing big enough to hold my paintings.”
“Paintings?”
She opened her mouth and closed it again as panic flickered in her eyes.
“Don’t join the CIA,” he said, trying to inject a little humor to ease her tension. “If you got caught by the enemy, you wouldn’t make it through the first question of an interrogation.”
“What? Oh.” Her smile was shaky. “I’ve never tried to do something like this before.”
“I don’t know what ‘this’ is.” He held up his hand as the smile fled from her face. “And you don’t need to tell me, but I suggest you come up with a cover story before Bud’s truck gets here.”
“Why?”
“Well, people around here are naturally friendly, and they’re likely to ask you the same thing I did. They might be offended if you refuse to answer them.”
“Are you? Offended, I mean?”
“No, but I’m a lawyer, so I’ve developed a thick skin.”
Country Roads Page 1
