“You didn’t, I presume?”
“You kidding? I’m a pariah. I was Phi Beta Kappa—since that’s an honors fraternity, it made me too much of a pointy-headed intellectual type.”
No, just too ethical, she thought. Despite all the crimes she had seen—even helped—him commit, there was an almost boyish integrity to him.
“So you locked horns with the old-boy network, huh?” she asked. “It exists in real estate, too. I’m just lucky Hazel is the big chief in Mystery, she—oh my God, Quinn!”
She already had her right foot covering the brake. She practically stood on it now, halting their forward progress.
Quinn, too saw it clearly in the pale white moonlight. They had just emerged from the thickly wooded lower slope overlooking the snow-blanketed berm of East County Line Road.
Parked on the shoulder, waiting patiently like a cat beside a mouse hole, was a silver Ford SUV.
“They must have spotted us leave the hay barn,” she almost wailed. “They somehow figured it out. What do we—”
“Calm down and keep it together. I don’t think they’ve spotted or heard us yet,” Quinn said, cutting her off.
His voice stayed calm, but urgent, thus helping her not to panic. “It’s too cold, so they’re staying in the vehicle with the engine and heater running. Back up, Connie, nice and easy. Go back into the trees.”
She shifted the transmission into reverse. But as luck would have it, her nervously trembling left leg made her foot slip off the clutch. The Jeep bucked once, stalled. Caught in a momentary fluster, she made the mistake of depressing the clutch while she restarted the motor.
They rolled forward again, and this time their luck ran out. Perhaps moonlight reflected off the windshield—at any rate, she heard a muffled shout from below, then two shadowy forms tumbled out of the SUV.
“Back, Connie!” Quinn ordered, his tense voice finally showing the pressure. “I mean haul ass in reverse!”
This time she responded expertly. The Jeep chewed up the trail as it flitted back into the trees, safe for the moment.
Almost immediately, however, she realized they were trapped. The snow-powdered trail was too steep to climb, and already they were scraping forward again as the spinning wheels lost the battle with gravity. In moments they would be exposed again.
“You drive just fine,” Quinn told her as he suddenly took over, stretching across her to depress the parking brake and halt their forward slide. “But let me face the bullets. It’s my turn to drive. Get in back.”
“What do you think you—?”
He ignored her protests and released her shoulder harness, practically stuffing her into the back seat.
“Stay down, way down!” he ordered as he swung into the driver’s bucket and started revving the engine. She saw him cram the gearshift into first gear.
“Quinn! What are you doing?”
“Hey, why lock the stable door after the horse has been stolen? Hell, they’ve seen us—now let’s show these bad boys we can get in their faces, too. Stay down, Connie!”
Whatever the men below were expecting, it wasn’t Quinn’s next move. He turned on the headlights, flicked them to high beams, then floored the accelerator as he sidestepped the clutch.
Constance felt herself thrown powerfully backward. Then she was being tossed about violently as Quinn deliberately swerved wildly to right and left.
She heard an abrupt hammering of gunfire, several bullets thonking into the Jeep. Despite the danger, and her bone-numbing fear, she peeked up high enough to see that Quinn had aimed the Jeep directly at the two men.
At the very last moment, both men leaped aside. One of the gunmen loosed a bray of rage or pain, she wasn’t sure which.
But Quinn wasn’t done just yet. Out in the roadway now, he deliberately backed up fast against the left side of the SUV. It was at a precarious angle on the shoulder—one good hit toppled it onto its side.
He shifted again and tore off toward the east as more gunfire erupted behind them. Again Quinn drove in a reckless swerving pattern to minimize the target. She had all she could do to keep from tumbling around like clothes in a dryer.
When she realized they were safe, at least for the time being, she swallowed to find her voice again. Shaking, she climbed up into the passenger’s seat beside him, looking anxiously over her shoulder.
“Were you a Hollywood stunt man before law school?”
He flashed her a nervy grin. “No, but my summer job in college was driving a hack in New York City. What I just did back there—in the Big Apple, that’s called parallel parking.”
She laughed, more amused by his sang froid than his joke. Whatever inner demons were shaking his confidence, this man had no lack of physical courage.
“I sure do apologize for the damage to the Jeep, though,” he added. “If the government doesn’t pay for the repairs, I will.”
“Right now,” she confessed, still trembling from their close call, “I couldn’t care less about that.”
“Good. Because I can tell you for a fact it will be entered into evidence. Those bullet holes will help establish my case that flight was my only alternative.”
My God, we’re still swimming the moat, and he’s already talking like a lawyer, she thought.
Then she noticed it, just left of the rearview mirror: a neat hole in the windshield, with spider lines radiating out from it.
She looked at Quinn in the dim light, then took off her glove and touched his right cheek. Her finger came away wet with blood.
“An angel kissed me, that’s all,” he joked lightly before she could react. “It burns a little, but the bullet only grazed me. Luck of the Irish, I guess. Hey, relax.”
Relax. She very nearly passed out, dizzy and faint as she realized that death had literally brushed by them. In a way, it really was an angel’s kiss. But what if she had been driving in his place…. Death, too, was an angel.
Quinn had told her the truth, and this attempt at cold-blooded murder only lent more credence to his story. The last vestige of any doubt about his innocence vanished from her mind.
“We better wise up and take a new route pretty quick,” he told her, his eyes cutting often to the rearview mirror. “I don’t know how many goons they’ve sicced on us, but they might call ahead. Tell me when to turn.”
“I guess State Route 23,” she decided. “A lot of trucks use it even though it’s not the most direct route.”
“Good. Just tell me when to turn.”
“I don’t believe this,” she said, still light-headed from fear and adrenaline. “They shot at us!”
“Second time they’ve tried for me. No, leave that on,” he said when she started to slide the Kevlar vest off. “No telling when our trigger-happy friends might drop in again.”
Mile after mile rolled past in monotonous safety. Quinn drove now, and Constance welcomed every blessed moment of the monotony.
State Highway 23 was passable, but blowing snow reduced visibility. The steady sweep-and-thump of the wipers was pleasantly hypnotic. Despite the danger they faced, she could not quell the images and sensations she experienced when Quinn’s naked flesh had melded with hers.
Sleep remained out of the question. But gradually her tense muscles relaxed again, and she stopped holding her breath every time lights approached the rearview mirror. Twice she turned on the radio to catch state news. But the Quinn Loudon story wasn’t even mentioned.
With plenty of heat flowing through the Jeep, she had already removed her sherpa jacket and put it in the back seat. Quinn saw her fussing with the Kevlar vest.
“Know what? Now that we’re in traffic, you should put that on under your sweater, not over it. We might be seen by one of the drivers next to us. The vest is pretty distinctive. Might call unnecessary attention to us.”
“But it’s huge on me.”
“Won’t matter if you’re not moving a lot. If somebody spots you wearing it, it doesn’t exactly enhance our status as an innoce
nt, all-American couple.”
“What, put it on under my sweater right now?”
“Why not. It’s dark. No traffic is close right now.”
“You’re close.”
“That’s a problem?”
His tone was teasing and daring all at once—and she wondered if it wasn’t just her safety that had inspired his suggestion.
“No problem at all,” she retorted, her tone matching his.
She slid the vest over her head and put it on the floor. Then she grabbed the bottom of her cableknit sweater and tugged the garment off.
He glanced at her with wanting in his eyes before looking back at the road.
Heat stirred inside her, flaring up quick like a match.
“We can’t stop for a room,” he said, echoing her own thoughts. “The clock is ticking. We’ve got to make Billings.”
“Yes,” she chimed in, matching the resolve in his voice. “Billings. A room would be out of the question.”
She slid the vest on, then her sweater. The Jeep entered a long curve where the highway circumvented a big shoulder of granite. Not until they cleared the shoulder, when it was too late to stop without being seen, did they spot the flashing blue lights of the Montana State Troopers.
“Ride it till it crashes,” Quinn muttered.
Constance froze for a few moments, forgetting to breathe.
“Hey, it’s not a roadblock,” Quinn pointed out as he downshifted and tapped the brakes, slowing down. “Steady, lady, and we’ll bluff it.”
Sparking flares showed where the left lane had been blocked off ahead. But in the darkness and blowing snow, she couldn’t see around the next curve.
“Oh, my God,” she muttered. “That bullet hole in the windshield! What if he sees it?”
“Too late now, here he comes. Give him a nice, law-abiding smile, Connie. Come on—that’s it, charm the authority out of him.”
Quinn rolled down his window, and she felt cold air lick at her. A state trooper built like a granite block stepped closer and thumbed his Smoky Bear hat back.
“Got a jackknifed 18-wheeler up just ahead, folks,” he called out, eyes squinted almost shut against the blowing sleet and snow. “Slow way down and go around it in the break-down lane.”
“Thanks, officer, we sure will.”
Quinn started to roll the window back up. But suddenly the cop turned back toward them, approaching Quinn’s window again. Constance felt her heart turn over.
“Gonna be a long delay up ahead at Thompson’s Canyon Pass until daylight,” he warned them in a friendly voice. “I’d get off the highway for the night. Just a tip.”
“Another accident?”
He nodded and began flagging down the car behind them. He just shrugged before turning to the other driver.
“Either he’s just not telling us the reason for the delay,” Quinn speculated, “or maybe he doesn’t know. That’s possible if the FBI has set up a search point.”
“What if it’s a trick?” Constance suggested. “You know, they lay in wait at the next exit. See who takes the bait and turns off?”
“Yeah, you’re thinking like a gangbuster now. Damn! You know another route to Billings?”
“Off the top of my head, just this one and the Interstate. We could look at the map and work out some route by secondary roads. But they won’t be plowed yet. And anyway, we’d still have to either pass that checkpoint at Thompson’s Canyon Pass or turn off at the only exit between here and there.”
“He said until daylight,” Quinn pointed out. “If he was telling the truth, that’s maybe four hours from now. How far ahead is this pass?”
“Umm, maybe fifteen miles. If I remember correctly the last exit is about five miles before Thompson’s Canyon. It’s just a little crossroads place called Overland Station. I got water for my radiator there once.”
“Any motels there?”
She glanced over at him, but his face was inscrutable in the semidarkness. “I’m not sure. I’d guess so.”
“I don’t like the idea of any delay. Still—what’s your hunch on the trooper? I think he was being straight with us. Feds tend to push them around and insult them. I think he resents them, and they didn’t clue the state troopers in. It’s crappy duty on a crappy night, etcetera.”
“I don’t know,” she told him honestly, miserable in her indecision. She was scared, and it was hard to choose an option that wasn’t dangerous.
“I know it’s risky to lay over. But we’ll never run that search point. Even with a four-hour stop at Overland Station, we could still make it to Billings in time, right?”
“If the weather doesn’t get worse than this, yes. Easily.”
“All right. That’s two votes for a motel room.”
It wasn’t really, but she said nothing. Despite the pyrotechnics his look had caused her only minutes earlier, she suddenly felt self-conscious, even apprehensive, about the idea of sharing a motel room with Quinn. Even so, her objections weren’t enough to overcome her indecision. If she refused, that meant coming up with a better plan.
It wasn’t his guilt or innocence she cared about right now, nor even his basic honesty and character. It was herself, her vulnerability and need. She did not want to make the terrible mistake of falling in love with this man. And one more passionate interlude in his arms might be too much to resist.
No, they were not exactly “two ships that passed in the night.” But one way or another, the time would come when Quinn Loudon no longer needed her help. She had already survived one hell when Doug left her life; she would not place her heart in danger again.
Judging from his next comment, he must have sensed the direction of her thoughts.
“We’ll have a long drive ahead of us, and we’ve both been through plenty lately thanks to my screwups. What say we put in for an early wake-up call and get some sleep? In separate beds,” he added pointedly, heading off any objections.
“I second your plan,” she agreed, grateful for his insight. And a good feeling suddenly came over her—the feeling that she was resisting temptation, being responsible and mature.
It’s about time I started listening to my head, she congratulated herself.
She had come dangerously close to the precipice; now there was no choice but to leap into the scary unknown or pull back to safety.
Overland Station had sprung up in the nineteenth century when a wagonload of disgusted pioneers gave up on their journey to Oregon and settled right where the axle had busted for the last damn time. Or so claimed a sign of dubious origin in the lobby of the hamlet’s only motel, the Cheyenne Lodge.
Quinn’s face had been on TV too much lately, so Constance took care of the registration while he waited in the Jeep.
It was past midnight, but someone was watching television behind the front counter when she entered. A middle-aged man with silver hair in a ponytail rose when she entered.
“Howdy,” he greeted her, flashing a sleepy smile. “My crystal ball tells me you need a room.”
Her gaze swept the lobby in an all-encompassing pass. Not only were the Ikebana trees in wooden tubs fake, but they didn’t exactly complement the buffalo-hide shields hanging on the walls. More like the Cheyenne-Shogun Lodge.
“Actually, two rooms, if possible. Two singles?”
He winced, checking the register. “Two rooms? No can do. You caught me at a bad time, ma’am. Quite a few truckers have taken rooms to avoid a big roadblock up ahead.”
That was good news, at least, she thought. The trooper was telling the truth.
“’Fraid the best I can do is one double. All I’ve got left.”
She hesitated, and he seemed to read something in her manner.
“We save that room for parents with a child,” he confided. “So there’s two beds in the room—double and a single.”
“I’ll take it,” she told him, flushing slightly at his curious scrutiny of her.
She handed him the cash, unwilling to use a traceable
charge card. Then took her key and a remote for the TV from him and went back out to the crowded parking lot.
“Only one room left,” she told Quinn as she got in. “But there’s two beds.”
“Oh, praise the Lord,” he said with mild irony. “What number?”
“Sixteen—over there at the end.”
“That’s a good spot. Plenty of trucks will block us from the road.”
Quinn maneuvered through all the big rigs choking the lot. When they got out, he took a minute to walk around the Jeep, inspecting it.
The light, at this end of the building, was dim. But Constance saw how the rear bumper had twisted from the impact of pushing the SUV into the ditch.
“You know what?” he told her, gazing at the damaged vehicle. “I came out west to do a good job, make a name for myself in the Justice Department.” He gave her a self-deprecating grin. “Man, I sure did a bang-up job of it. Literally bang-up, if your Jeep is any proof.”
Even in despondency, his face remained ruggedly handsome. She could just make out the faint line where the bullet had creased his cheek. Thinking how close that bullet came, her arms tingled and she felt what her mom called a “truth goose.”
“That vehicle rolled off an assembly line,” she reminded him. “It can be repaired or replaced. You have my blessing for the damage you did—your demolition-derby driving saved our butts.”
“I was pretty damn cool, wasn’t I?” he boasted playfully as they approached the door of their room. “I’d say the word ‘unflappable’ comes to mind.”
“I was duly impressed,” she assured him. “Joke all you want.”
She keyed the worn-out lock and had to play with it a little before the door swung open. The first thing she noticed, after she switched on the lights, was the brightly feathered object suspended from string over the double bed.
Quinn, peeling off his coat, stepped closer to examine the light hoop made of ash. It was strung with catgut webbing and adorned with brightly dyed feathers. “Too light to be a lacrosse racket,” he said. “What in the world is it?”
The Lawman Meets His Bride Page 16
