And what if they did search the van?he wondered, watching a bunch of dried sunflowers sway in the hotter air above. What if she happened to approach a roadblock manned by cops she didn't know, strangers who couldn't care less that she was Sheriff Benedict's ex-wife? What if they wanted him so badly that they refused to overlook the slightest possibility? Not only wouldhe get caught, but the circumstances would certainly make them look closely ather. The fact that he was armed might be enough to protect her, but there was a chance that it wouldn't, a chance that they might suspect her of collaboration and not forced cooperation.
There was a chance that they might arrest her. Seeing her in handcuffs here was bad enough. Seeing her arrested, chained and taken away and knowing that he was solely responsible…That was too much.
But what choice did he have?
"Where would you go?"
"I don't know."
"Isn't there someone who could help you?"
Once before he had accepted help—from Russell Bradley. He and Russell had lived in the same poor neighborhood inAtlanta, had come from the same background and had faced the same future. They had played together, raised hell together, fought together and grown up together, only somewhere along the way Russell had straightened himself out. He had leftGeorgiafor a hitch in the navy, where he'd learned a few things about electronics. Once he got out, he'd begun working in that field, moving up every few years to a better job while Dillon had simply kept moving on to a different one. By the time they'd met again two years ago, Russell had settled inAshevilleand was running his own company and he'd offered Dillon a job.
It had seemed to Dillon at the time that his life had been on one long downhill slide, and he'd seen Russell's job as a chance to stop it, to turn things around, to quit being the failure everyone had always expected him to be and maybe make something of himself. Even though he'd known nothing about alarm systems, he had accepted the offer, moved toAshevilleand gone to work installing the alarms and learning the business. Eleven months ago he had discovered the hard way—for him, wasn't italways the hard way?—that he'd learned entirely too much about the systems…and not nearly enough about his old friend.
So was there anyone who could help? "No," he said, disliking the flatness in his voice, hearing the disappointment and the utteraloneness that formed it,hoping she missed it.
"What about your mother?"
"What about her?"
"Is she still living?"
"I suppose."
"Where?"
"I don't know.Marietta,Smyrna, Conyers—somewhere aroundAtlanta, I guess."
"When was the last time you saw her?"
He had to give the answer a moment of serious thought. He knew in an instant the last time he had talked to Carole—he had called to tell her that her father had died—but the last time he had actually seen her…"I guess it's been about ten years. I don't really remember."
It took some awkward maneuvering, but she managed to roll onto her side and face him. With the covers pulled high, most of her face was in shadow, but that was all right. He didn't need to see her dismay and censure; he could clearly read them in her voice. "How can you not remember the last time you saw yourmother?"
"When's the last time you sawyour mother?" he asked defensively.
"Christmas, three years ago. But it's a matter of logistics that keeps us apart. She lives on the other side of the country, and neither of us has the money to be traveling back and forth. But she and Daddy are coming to visit this summer, and we write at least two or three times a month, and I call her from Seth's house on all the holidays."
"Well, my mother and I are different." Hostility edged into his voice. Carole had never been an average mother. If she hadn't honestly believed that a baby on the way would force his father to make good on all the promises he'd given her, she wouldn't have chosen to everbe a mother. But instead of divorcing his wife, leaving his family and thumbing his nose at everyone in Waterston, Alexander had left Carole. He had denied paternity, had refused support and later had even denied their affair. He had led the entire town in scorning her and her illegitimate brat.
The first job Dillon had ever been given to do—bring his father together permanently with his mother—and he had failed. He smiled bitterly. Jeez, he'd been a failure from the moment of his conception.
"Do you have any brothers or sisters?"
"No."
"Will your father help you?" Her voice was softer, more subdued, as if she thought that she'd hit a nerve in talking about his mother. He considered telling her that it didn't matter, that he'd never had a mother in the real sense of the word, that he couldn't miss what he'd never had, but it wasn't true. He'd never had a woman like Ashley, either, but when he left here, he would miss her. He would regret that he had nothing to offer her but trouble, fear, inconvenience and discomfort. He would regret that there was no future for them, and he would especially regret that he wasn't the kind of man a woman like her got involved with.
"My father has never claimed me as his son. He has, however, made a fool of my mother, shamed my grandfather and made my life hell. He always said I would wind up in prison someday. If he knew the trouble I'm in now, he would no doubt subsidize the search and offer a generous reward for my capture, preferably of the dead-or-alive variety and preferably dead."
Out of the long silence came her voice, softer than ever, sweeter and with enough pity in two little words to make his jaw clench in revulsion. "I'm sorry."
"I'm not." He said it forcefully, so she would understand that, while he wanted many things from her, pity sure wasn't one of them. Then, wanting to bring the conversation to an end, he added in a brusque, strained tone, "It's late. Go to sleep."
There was a soft rustle as she rolled over, her back to him now, a long slender form under a pile of covers. Intending to follow his own advice, he slid down in the bed, seeking a position he could bear for the rest of the night. He'd just found it when she spoke again, little more than a whisper in the still night.
"Good night, Dillon."
He sighed grimly. She had just ensured, with no more than the voicing of his name, that sleep wouldn't come easily tonight.
So much for a good night's rest.
* * *
Chapter 5
«^»
Ashley had heard of cabin fever, but she had never experienced it. She always had plenty to do and had never, in her three years on the mountaintop, seen weather so bad that she couldn't make the journey between the cabin and the workshop. But this dreary, rainy Thursday morning, she was restless, edgy and fairly certain she would go crazy if she didn't get a breath of fresh air and findsomething to do with her time.
The only problem was the work that needed doing was out in the workshop. Somehow she didn't think Dillon was going to let her go out there alone, not even just to get a few projects and bring them back. She could ask that they both spend the morning over there, but it wasn't the most comfortable place for someone recuperating from the injuries he'd suffered. She didn't have even one decent chair in the place—just the tall stool she used when she was working at the table and Granny's old ladder-back chair that was just the right height for the quilt frame and the loom.
She sighed heavily. If she were home alone, on this third day of rain and fog, she would forget about work, put on her heaviest sweater, add her yellow slicker, gloves and rubber boots and go for a hike. Seth hated when she did that. What if she fell?he argued. What if she got hurt and couldn't make it back home? How slim were the chances that anyone would find her—or even miss her—before exposure took its toll?
Still, she'd been tramping around the hills in all kinds of weather ever since she was a little girl, and she loved them best in the rain. She had seen the peaks wreathed in frothy, cottony fog, had seen the trees and hillsides drenched and washed clean, had smelled the rich, refreshing scent of rain and lush earth. She had watched the thin rays of gold pierce the clouds as the sun broke through and had seen, heard, even
felt, thunderclouds rumbling in. Not even for Seth would she give up those vistas, those smells and feelings, for the dry, warm safety of her cabin.
But if Dillon wouldn't trust her alone in the workshop, he certainly wouldn't trust her to come back from a hike into the woods.
"What is it you're so anxious to do?"
She turned from the window to find his attention on her. He had been quiet most of the morning. Moody. She disliked moodiness in herself and had learned in the last months of their marriage to dread it in Seth. His moods had usually led to arguments that had left her feeling abandoned and utterly alone.
As Dillon was.
She knew he'd misinterpreted her apology last night. She hadn't meant anything by it. She had simply meant to say that she was genuinely sorry that he wasn't close to his mother and had never gotten along with his father. She certainly hadn't meant to make him feel pitied.
She couldn't imagine not being close to her parents. Even though they lived on theCaliforniacoast, they were—and always had been—the anchors in her life. They, along with her grandparents, had taught her everything important she needed to know. They had shaped her into the woman she was today.
Dillon's parents, she supposed, had shaped him into the man he was: a bank robber, an escaped criminal, facing a lifetime in prison if he was caught, a lifetime of fear and uncertainty if he managed to flee. Surely some of the blame for that lay on a mother who lost touch with her only child, on a father who always told that child that one day he would end up in prison. What great expectations the man had had for his son.
"Ashley?"
She shrugged. "I'm just bored. I'm not used to sitting around doing nothing all day."
"What would you like to do?"
"Go for a walk."
The look he gave her was scornfully dry. "Right."
"Or I could go to the workshop and work for a while."
"Uh-huh." More derision.
"You think I would make a beeline for the nearest neighbor, don't you?"
"Or the nearest search party."
"I wouldn't. If I were going to turn you in, it would be to Seth, no one else."
"Why? So he would get the credit for my apprehension?"
"No. Because he would keep you safe."
He put down the book he'd been reading the better part of the morning and leveled his gaze on her. "Safe from what?" he asked evenly.
"From angry cops who believe you shot an injured deputy." Her gaze was just as level, her voice just as even. "From whoever shot you. From whoever believes that robbing the bank is worth killingfor. " Those last were his own words, the only explanation he'd offered Tuesday evening for his own gunshot wound. She hadn't pressed him for more that night; he'd been too weakened from exposure and pain, and she had been afraid for her safety. She wasn't afraid now, though, and he was getting stronger, it seemed, with each passing minute. "Who would that be?"
He studied her for a long time before shaking his head slowly from side to side. "You don't need to know that.Nobody needs to know. Keeping my mouth shut just might keep me alive."
"Or it might mean that if they succeed in killing you, they get away scot-free. But if you tell me…"
"Then they'll kill you right along with me. I don't want to die with your death on my conscience. And, yes," he added sarcastically, "Ido have a conscience."
She tried to ignore the ominous little shiver the mention of death sent dancing up her spine. "I know. I've seen evidence of it."
"You have, have you?" He almost smiled then. It was a pretty dismal attempt, but the corners of his mouth did lift and his eyes lightened about a dozen shades. Then he seemed to remember that he wasn't supposed to be relaxed or amused or friendly, and his eyes went dark again and his mouth compressed once more into a thin line.
"Well, since you won't let me go to the workshop, I suppose I could spend the rest of the morning shaving you," she said, her voice determinedly lighter.
Giving her an owlish look, he blinked once,then scratched his chin, a habit she'd noticed for the first time this morning, one that seemed to have developed as his beard grew heavier. "Shaving me," he repeated blankly.
"You don't ordinarily wear a beard, do you?"
He shook his head.
"I didn't think so. It makes you look rather sinister, and when you're wanted by the police, the last way you want to look is sinister. I could shave it off for you."
"You and a razor and my throat? I don't think so."
"You don't trust me, do you?" She wondered what it would take to earn his trust. How many promises would she have to make and keep? How many times in how many different ways would she have to prove that she was reliable? How many months and years—if he had months and years to spare—would she have to pass how many tests before he would judge her worthy of his trust?
The answers were too depressing to even guess at.
"It's nothing personal. I told you, I don't trust anyone."
"Because of what happened with the robbery."
He looked at her for a moment,then pointedly opened the book to the page he had marked.
"What did happen, Dillon?" she persisted. "You said you didn't do it for the money but to prove a point. What point, and to whom? The people who tried to kill you?"
"The people who will killyou if they thinkit's to their advantage," he said heatedly. "Drop it, Ashley. You don't need to know more than you already do."
He was wrong. She needed to know a whole lot more. She needed to knoweverything.
And she wasn't even sure why.
What kind of point could a person prove by breaking into a bank? That he could do it. That he was smart enough. That he was capable enough. That he could outwit the security experts and the electronic systems and make it in and out without getting caught. Obviously Dillonwas smart and capable, and according to Seth, in his time with Bradley Electronics, he had become something of a whiz with the systems. The owner of the company had given him a job as a favor—they were old friends—but all he had expected, again according to Seth, was a day's work for a day's pay. He had never imagined that Dillon would have such a knack for electronics, alarms and codes. In no time at all, he had taught himself everything there was to know about the high-tech security systems Bradley Electronics installed. Including how to disarm them.
To prove a point.
To his boss and old friend?
Watching him closely, wanting—needing—to see every bit of expression that crossed his face, she asked, "Was it Russell Bradley?"
The look he gave her should have killed the last bit of curiosity she could muster. The tautly controlled anger made his eyes darken to almost black, and narrow white lines formed around his mouth. He closed the book, very carefully, very quietly, and leaned forward to lay it on the table, then he looked at her, simply looked. It was like that look two nights ago that had convinced her more thoroughly than anything else could have that he was a dangerous man…but worse.
From somewhere she found the courage to go on, but her voice shook just a bit and her hands, shoved into the hip pockets of her jeans, were curling tightly. "Itwas him, wasn't it? He was the one you were trying to prove a point to. The one who taught you not to trust anyone."
His voice was low, intense, a warning for all its softness. "This is none of your business."
She swallowed. "You said you didn't take the four hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Did he?"
"Iwas the one who was there.I was the one whose fingerprints were all over the place."
"And wereyou the one who stole nearly half a million dollars? Did you lie yesterday when you said you didn't?"
His smile was cool, unpleasant. "Funny you should ask, since you didn't believe me when I said I didn't."
Ashley shifted her weight from one foot to the other. He was right. She had reached the conclusion just yesterday that he probablyhad stolen the money, even though he'd denied it. Had she changed her mind so quickly? Had she really come to believe that, while
he might be guilty of many things including the break-in at the bank, he was truthful when he said he didn't take the cash?
Or did she simplywant to believe that because she thought he was handsome, because she was attracted to him, because she felt sorry for his lack of family, because she felt his loneliness?
"If you were setup—"
"I wasn't."
Ignoring his interruption, she went on. "Maybe Seth could help prove it."
"There's nothing to prove."
"Then what happened to the money?"
He looked away. He didn't have a lie prepared for her last question. That was what his previous two responses were: lies, short, simple but none too convincing. Hehad been set up, she believed, by Russell Bradley. There was nothing to make you lose faith in people like being betrayed by an old, good friend.
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