Yes, Janie was a top-notch waitress. Well, she was unless that guy…what was his name?…he used initials. Yeah, J. D. Cade…came into the café.
Kurt chuckled softly.
He’d been there one morning when J. D. Cade had come in, slid onto a stool at the counter and ordered a cup of coffee. Janie had lost it. The guy was only a wrangler at the Kincaid ranch, but the way Janie acted, you’d have thought he was a movie star. No one watching her would ever have known that she was an efficient better-than-most waitress.
That Janie Carson had a crush on J. D. Cade had been no newsflash, after what Kurt witnessed that morning. She’d filled J.D.’s coffee cup until it overflowed into the saucer, then followed that by knocking his water glass into his lap.
Kurt had to give J. D. Cade, whoever he was, credit for the way he’d handled the situation, though. Janie had obviously been about to burst into embarrassed tears, but J.D. had waved off the cold dunking, saying a little water never hurt a pair of dusty ranch jeans.
“Enjoy,” Janie said, placing a platter-size plate in front of Kurt and bringing him out of his thoughts. “The usual, sir…pancakes, two eggs over easy, hash browns, bacon and toast.” She topped off his coffee cup.
“Should hold me till lunch,” Kurt said, picking up his fork.
Janie laughed, then moved on to the next booth.
Kurt devoted his full attention to his enormous breakfast.
Dana drove slowly along the main street of Whitehorn, being extremely careful to stay well within the speed limit. The last thing in the world she needed was to be stopped by a police officer for speeding. The image in her mind of that scenario was chilling.
She spotted a convenience store with an Open sign on the door and parked in front.
A larger grocery store would be less expensive, Dana mused, but she’d already discovered that businesses in small towns hadn’t gotten with the program of opening early to accommodate people on the way to work.
She got out of the car, locked it, then stretched, stifling a yawn. As she walked slowly toward the curb, her glance fell on her Illinois license plate.
She was lousy at being a fugitive, she thought. She had bolted in her own car, was using her own name and credit cards, was probably leaving a trail as bright as a neon sign.
But there hadn’t been time to think things through, to plan. She’d thrown clothes into suitcases, grabbed her purse and run.
As the days passed, she’d been afraid to stop and rent a car, for fear that the rental agencies had been alerted to be on the watch for her. Besides, she would have had to use her own credit card to rent the vehicle.
Yes, indeed, she was a crummy criminal, she thought, attempting to lighten her bleak frame of mind. She needed a training course in being on the lam from the law.
Dana rolled her eyes heavenward at her own dark humor, then quickened her step and entered the store. Nodding politely at the elderly gentleman behind the counter, she lifted a small plastic basket from the stack by the door and made her way down the first aisle.
She dropped a bottle of shampoo into the basket, having found out that the small, off-the-beaten-track motels she stayed in did not offer amenities like pretty sample-size shampoos and lotions.
A package of disposable razors followed the shampoo, then a jar of moisturizing cream. Her attention was caught by a selection of magazines and books, and she treated herself to a copy of a bestseller now out in paperback.
Maybe, just maybe, she thought, she could escape from her own real-life drama for a few hours by reading someone else’s fictitious one.
About to start toward the checkout counter, Dana decided a cold soda with plenty of sugar and caffeine was just what she needed to sip on as she drove out of Whitehorn.
She retraced her steps to the back wall, removed a can of soda from the refrigerated section, then walked quickly in the direction of the checkout, the soda can still in her hand.
“Nobody move!” a male voice shouted.
Dana halted dead in her tracks, her eyes widening with horror when she saw a man pointing a gun at the elderly gentleman behind the counter.
“Stay right there, lady,” the man with the gun said to Dana.
She nodded jerkily, her heart racing with fear.
“You,” the man said to the clerk. “Empty the register into this bag. Hurry it up.”
“Yes,” the older man said, his voice trembling. “Yes, yes.”
The clerk scooped out the money, dropping some on the counter, as his hands shook uncontrollably.
“Hurry up!” the man yelled.
“There,” the clerk said. “That’s all there is.”
“You’re lying, old man. Where’s the safe?”
“There’s no safe. This is a small town. We don’t have a lot of cash to—”
“You’re lying,” the man hollered, his finger tightening on the trigger to the gun.
Kurt left the Hip Hop Café and stood for a moment on the sidewalk, savoring the feeling of having been well fed on a cool, clear Montana morning.
Glancing at his watch, he decided he had time to stop at the convenience store to replenish the stash of hard candy he kept in his desk at the police station.
He set off down the street at a leisurely pace, finally arriving at the store. Just as he looked at the Illinois license plate on the car in front of the store, he heard the unmistakable roar of a gun being fired.
The holdup man pulled the trigger, and the elderly man fell out of sight, to the floor behind the counter.
In the next instant, three things happened at exactly the same time.
The gunman swung the gun around in Dana’s direction.
Dana Bailey flung the can of soda at him and hit him squarely between the eyes.
And Kurt Noble came barreling through the door, crouching low, gun held in both hands, just as the man dropped like a rock at Kurt’s feet.
Two
J. D. Cade hoisted the last one-hundred-pound sack of feed into the bed of the pickup truck, then closed the tailgate.
Horton’s Hardware and Feed Store opened early to cater to the ranchers in the area, making it possible for errands to be done shortly after dawn, so as not to disrupt a busy workday on the land.
J.D. tugged his Stetson lower, then decided a hot cup of coffee was in order before the drive back to the Kincaid ranch. He went to the passenger-side window of the truck, where a rather nondescript dog was watching him intently.
“Stay put, Freeway,” J.D. said. “I won’t be gone long. Stay.”
The dog whined once in disapproval of the command, then flopped down on the seat, his chin on his paws.
“You can pout,” J.D. said, “but you still have to stay in the truck. We’ll head back to the ranch in about ten minutes.”
Freeway refused to look at him. J.D. smiled for a moment at the dog’s performance, then started down the sidewalk.
Head back to the ranch, his mind told him. The Kincaid ranch. He was a Kincaid, but no one in Whitehorn knew who he was, no one knew that Wayne Kincaid had not been killed in Vietnam, as they all believed.
He’d planned to just stay a few days in Whitehorn to visit his mother’s grave, look the town over and attempt to put some of the ghosts of his past to rest at long last.
But now here he was, a hired hand on the spread, masquerading as J. D. Cade and trying to help out the foreman, Rand Harding, who was struggling to keep the ranch operating.
J.D. swept his gaze over the row of businesses within his view.
There had sure been a lot of changes in Whitehorn in the past twenty-five years, he mused. There were new stores, new people. And there were old memories. His parents and brother were dead and buried.
But Kate was very much alive.
Kate Randall. They had been so in love, so filled with plans for a glorious future together. They had been so damn young, honestly believing that their dreams would come true, one by one, just like they were picking apples from a tree.
But then the Vietnam war had come, and in a heartbeat everything had changed, and had never been the same again. Wayne Kincaid was believed to have died long ago in that chaos on the other side of the world, taking with him the plans for the future he and Kate dreamed about.
“So be it,” J.D. said, under his breath.
Kate was married now, his mind wandered on. She was Kate Randall Walker, the wife of his best friend, Ethan. There was no point in revealing his true identity to them, or anyone else. He looked far different from the young man who had marched off to war, and no one had recognized him all these years later. It would only disrupt their lives to announce that Wayne Kincaid was living and breathing in the body he’d temporarily named J. D. Cade.
J.D. stopped on the sidewalk and frowned.
He’d been headed for the Hip Hop, but Janie Carson would no doubt be working there this morning. She was a nice young woman, very pretty, but, cripes, she fell all over him every time he entered the café.
He sure didn’t want to hurt Janie’s feelings, had managed to be polite, casual and very careful not to be overly friendly, hadn’t given her any reason to think he was as interested in her as she obviously was in him.
Janie had a harmless, girlish crush on him, that was all, but he wasn’t in the mood to deal with her this morning. He’d make do with a cold soda from the convenience store, instead of hot Hip Hop coffee.
J.D. smiled.
Old Clem Simmons was working part-time at the convenience store these days, for something to do with his idle hours, having long since retired from teaching. Clem had no idea that J. D. Cade, who stopped in the store now and again, was actually Wayne Kincaid, who had soaped the windows of his house one Halloween, with his ten-year-old partner-in-crime, Travis Bains.
J.D. was pulled from his memories as he saw Kurt Noble approaching the convenience store from the opposite direction. As J.D. was about to nod a greeting, Kurt switched his attention to the license plate of a compact car parked in front of the store.
In the next instant, the sound of a gunshot reverberated through the air, shattering the peacefulness of the morning. Kurt drew his gun and barreled into the convenience store. J.D. took off at a run, arriving at the store seconds later.
She’d killed the robber, Dana thought, feeling hysteria building within her. She hadn’t thought about throwing that can of soda, she’d just suddenly done it, her missile hitting the man squarely between the eyes. Dear heaven, he was dead, and she had killed him.
And look at that. The robber had a partner, who was all fancied up in a sport coat, and now he was pointing a gun at her. He’d shoot her, of course, because he was undoubtedly upset that she’d killed his buddy.
Oh, who was this? A cowboy? That was an authentic touch of Montana. She was in Montana, wasn’t she? Yes, Montana, but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember the name of this town.
A strange-sounding little giggle escaped from Dana’s lips.
How sad, she thought. She was going to be shot to death in No Name, Montana.
Kurt took in the details of the scene with a quick, experienced scrutiny, then turned his head to see J. D. Cade entering the store.
“Check behind the counter,” Kurt said to him. J.D. hurried to do as instructed, as Kurt picked up the robber’s gun from the floor. The man, who was lying on his stomach, moaned.
“Move and you won’t see lunchtime,” Kurt said, pointing his own gun at him.
“I’m not moving,” the man said. “I’m bleeding here, cop. That damn woman broke my nose.”
“Shut up,” Kurt said.
“Clem is shot,” J.D. said. “Looks bad.” He lifted the receiver of the wall telephone behind the counter. “I’ll call for an ambulance.”
“Get a patrol car over here, too,” Kurt said. J.D. nodded.
Kurt pocketed the man’s gun, replaced his own in its holster and unclipped the handcuffs. He pulled the man’s arms behind him and clicked the cuffs into place.
“I’m bleeding to death here!” the man yelled.
“I hope so,” Kurt said.
He straightened and started toward the woman, who had apparently been the one to hurl the soda can at the would-be thief.
Nice-looking lady, Kurt thought. Tall, slender, silky-looking blond hair that came to the top of her shoulders, and the biggest blue eyes he’d ever seen.
She also had a rather faraway, bemused look on her pretty face that announced she was a tad shook up over what had just happened. He’d seen that expression many times before, and he knew he had to go easy, treat her gently, talk to her quietly, until he could determine how deep her state of shock was.
“Hello,” he said, smiling as he stopped in front of the woman. “I’m Kurt Noble.”
“You forgot to shoot me,” Dana said, then drew a wobbly breath.
Oh, boy, Kurt thought, she was right on the edge. She would either snap out of it, faint, or start to cry. Dandy. Just great.
“What’s your name?” he said, still smiling.
“Me? I’m Dana Bailey. I would appreciate it, Mr. Noble, if you didn’t shoot me. I certainly didn’t intend to kill your partner with the soda can I threw at him. It was an accident…of sorts.”
Kurt chuckled, despite his effort not to.
“Ms. Bailey…Dana…” he said, “I’m a police officer. I’m not going to shoot you. You didn’t kill that sleaze, you just knocked him down. You’re a heroine.”
The sound of approaching vehicles with sirens wailing grew increasingly louder.
“Help is on the way,” Kurt went on, “and everything is fine. Are you with me here?” He leaned forward slightly. “Dana? Hello?”
Goodness, this man, this Kurt Noble, was handsome, Dana thought foggily. Well, no, not exactly handsome, more like…ruggedly…um…compelling. Yes, that was a much better description.
His face had a lived-in look, if there was such a thing, a testament to his having been in more than one fight. But it had character, was most definitely masculine and extremely attractive. Kurt. It was a strong name, fit him to a tee. He was tall, well built, his body topped off by that intriguing face, and…
He wasn’t going to shoot her? He was a police officer? Well, fancy that. She wasn’t going to die in Whitehorn, Montana, after all. And she’d even remembered the name of the town she wasn’t going to die in. Things were definitely looking up.
Dana took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then blinked several times.
“Well,” she said, “there are mornings, and there are mornings. This one certainly wasn’t run-of-the-mill, I must say.”
“Welcome back,” Kurt said.
“Pardon me?” Dana said.
“Never mind. Stay put, all right? I’ll need to ask you some questions.”
Dana nodded as Kurt strode away. She was suddenly aware that she was still holding the plastic basket containing the items she’d intended to purchase.
It seemed like a decade since she’d dropped the bottle of shampoo into the basket, she thought. How quickly and dramatically a person’s life could change. Unfortunately, she’d discovered that before she ever entered the little store in Whitehorn, Montana.
An ambulance screeched to a halt outside, and seconds later a police patrol car pulled to a halt, bubble lights whirling. People began to stream into the store, the volume of noise increasing steadily.
Dana moved back, out of the way, and watched, ignoring her trembling knees and still-racing heart.
That pleasant old man had been shot, she thought. He’d come to work that morning, as he no doubt did each day, and now he was being lifted onto a stretcher, while the cowboy continued to press a blood-soaked towel to the head of the still form being buckled securely into place.
A crowd was gathering on the sidewalk, she observed, and Kurt Noble was talking to a uniformed police officer, while pointing to the people, probably giving instructions to keep everyone back.
Kurt Noble, Dana thought. She vaguely remembered taking a ver
y thorough inventory of the man’s attributes and giving him a high score out of ten. What an asinine thing to have done, in the midst of what took place there.
Dana sighed, feeing totally exhausted, as though the last ounce of energy she possessed was seeping slowly from her body, as if she were a deflating balloon.
She walked to the rear of the store, placed her basket on the floor, then leaned back against the wall. Closing her eyes, she shut out the cacophony beating against her now throbbing head.
Kurt Noble had instructed her to stay put, she thought. Okay, fine. She watched enough television to know that she’d have to give a statement to the police regarding what she had witnessed during the attempted robbery.
As a corporate attorney, she knew how to deliver a crisp, concise report, which she would do. Then she was leaving Whitehorn and the ever-increasing number of police officers around her, as quickly as possible.
Forget what her mother had taught her when she was a little girl. Dana Bailey, at twenty-eight and in the midst of her living nightmare, did not consider police officers her friends. Far from it.
She had to get out of Whitehorn before she drew any more unwanted attention to herself.
Dana opened her eyes, to see the ambulance pulling away, the siren wailing. Kurt was shaking the hand of the cowboy, whose shirt was spattered with blood. The cowboy nodded and left the store.
Here’s my chance, Dana realized. She had to get out of there, stay on the move. In the midst of all this confusion, could she just stroll out the door and drive away? It wouldn’t require an official statement from her to document what had taken place in that convenience store.
Dana stood on tiptoe to see out the front window and inwardly groaned in frustration. Her vehicle was hemmed in by a police patrol car.
So much for the great escape.
She closed her eyes again and sighed in defeat.
“Take him in and book him,” Kurt said to a uniformed officer. “Judd is in Billings today. Leave instructions at the office that he’s to be told what happened if he calls in. I’ll be over there shortly with the witness to have her statement taken.”
Wife Most Wanted Page 2
