THE RENEGADE AND THE HEIRESS

by Judith Duncan

  His whole body on alert, Finn managed to keep his tone light. "Well, Jackson can run his own damned search. I have to attend to some urgent personal business—I'm leaving tomorrow morning. And I'm not changing my plans to suit him."

  The constable sounded sour. "Well good luck with whatever it is. I almost wish I could be called away, too. This guy is driving us nuts."

  After thanking Arnie for the warning, Finn hung up the phone, his pulse running heavy as he stared into the darkness. The last thing he needed was Ed Jackson on his doorstep. The security chief was no fool, and having him get that close to Mallory was a risk he wasn't willing to take. Especially when Ed Jackson was bent on recovering a body. Her body.

  That was bad enough, but the feeling in his gut made it even worse. Something did not feel right. And he didn't like those kinds of feelings. They made him uneasy. Very uneasy. Which meant there was only one solution, and that was to move her someplace safe.

  Turning on the light, he rolled over and shook her awake. "Come on, Red," he growled. "We've got to haul our butts out of here."

  Turning over, she squinted at him, clearly muddled by sleep. "What?"

  "We've got to clear out of here."

  Fighting back blankets, she sat up, still looking very groggy. "Why?" she demanded.

  Yanking on his jeans, Finn told her about the call. Then he shoved his arms into a clean T-shirt. "I don't like it," he stated flatly. "It just doesn't feel right. And I don't trust him. I've seen Ed Jackson at work, and he's damned good at what he does, and he doesn't miss a trick. And to make matters worse, he's a ruthless bastard. So I'm getting you out of here."

  She stared at him, alarm in her eyes. "But where are we going to go, Finn? We just can't go haring off without some sort of plan."

  Finn yanked on his socks. "Somehow or another, we have to get in touch with your father to warn him. I think this could all blow up in our faces if he gets drawn out over a phony search."

  Mallory got out of bed, her face ashen, her eyes wide with fear. Unable to handle that look in her eyes, Finn reached out and caught her wrist, pulling her to him. Tucking his head against hers, he wrapped his arms around her, trying to envelop her in some sense of security. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you, Red," he said, his voice very husky. "Not while there's breath in me. And we're going to do all we can to make sure nothing happens to your father, okay?"

  She took a deep breath and nodded. "I know I'm safe. I'm just worried about my dad."

  Her softly spoken words did unbearable things to Finn's heart and he closed his eyes and pressed his face against the wild tumble of her hair. Knowing that she believed she was safe with him was the greatest gift she could have given him.

  Allowing himself a moment to absorb the wonder of her, Finn stroked her back, sharply reminded that she was naked except for his shirt. Taking a deep breath, he reluctantly let her go. Brushing her hair back with both hands, he smiled into her eyes. "I'd like to spend a whole lot of time doing this," he said, his voice gruff, "but we've gotta get out of here."

  He felt her pull herself together, and she also took a big breath and squared her shoulders. "What do you want me to do?"

  He held her gaze, his mouth lifting. "First of all, I want you to smile."

  She stared at him, then rewarded him with an off-kilter grin. "You're nuts to get involved in this, you know."

  He rubbed his knuckles along her jaw. "Hell, I don't know anything. I'm in it to the end, Red."

  She gave him a wry, skeptical look, but he could see the flash of relief in her eyes. And for some reason the tension in his gut let go.

  Aware that they were wasting valuable time, Finn told her his plan. And the plan was to get her to Chicago—and her father.

  As soon as he mentioned Chicago, she started shaking her head. "No, Finn. We can't do that. You said it yourself that they'd never let me on a flight. And I'm worried about you getting caught if we drive across the border."

  He held her gaze, his expression intent. "That can't be helped. We're going to drive. It's much easier to cross in a car. And I have some of Sally's old papers and documents here—including her birth certificate and her social insurance card. And I've got our marriage certificate."

  The expression in Mallory's eyes changed and she stared at him with the strangest look.

  Needing to touch her, he smoothed her hair back again. "If we get stopped by U.S. customs, we'll pass you off as Sally Logan Donovan."

  The light in her eyes changed and she looked down as she did up a button on the shirt she was wearing. "All right," she said, her voice very soft.

  He grasped her hand and gave it a firm squeeze, then moved away from her. "But we've got to clear out of here, and we'll have to make damned sure there's not a single trace of you left. I don't trust Jackson. And if he got even the least bit suspicious, I wouldn't put it past him to search the house. And if for no other reason than he's got the hard, cold nerve to do it." He started tucking in his T-shirt as he headed for the door. "Get dressed. I've gotta make a phone call."

  Turning on lights as he went, Finn headed for the phone in the kitchen. Before he did anything, he had to call Old Joe. Tonight was the old bachelor's bingo night—the stockman's night to howl—and he knew that his neighbor rarely got home before midnight on bingo nights.

  Damned glad that he had done this before just taken off on the spur of the moment, Finn picked up the phone and punched in a number.

  The bachelor answered the phone on the second ring. "Jest walked in the door. Won me the jackpot tonight, boyo," he announced, pleased with himself.

  Finn congratulated him on his good luck, then got to the point. "I have to head out of town for a few days. I wondered if you'd keep an eye out for Rooney and take care of the stock while I'm gone."

  "I surely will."

  Hooking his thumb in the front pocket of his jeans, Finn stared across the room. "I'm going to be heading out early, so I'll leave Rooney here and you can collect him later. And I'll also leave your paycheck on that old table in the porch."

  "That sounds fine, too." There was a slight pause, and Finn heard the other man scold his cat; then Old Joe cackled and spoke into the phone. "Say, you wouldn't have a lady friend visiting, would you? Thought I saw someone of the female persuasion out walking down in the ravine."

  A cold sensation slithered through Finn's gut and he abruptly turned his head and stared across the room. Damn it. Now they were in big trouble. Finn hauled in a deep breath, then spoke, forcing a joking tone into his voice. "Your eyesight must be giving out on you, old man. It must have been me you saw—I went down to check on the deer."

  The old man chuckled. "Well, you need a new cook. You were looking a might slender."

  Deliberately changing the topic, Finn gave Old Joe instructions, then hung up the phone, the edgy feeling intensifying. Old Joe liked to talk and he was an inveterate storyteller, and Finn knew there was a damned good chance that his stockman might have already said something to his bingo-playing cronies. Which left Finn with one very large, dangerous loose end. His gut twisted into a cold, hard knot. He didn't like those kinds of loose ends. Not with Jackson breathing down their necks.

  Making a decision not to tell her that Old Joe had seen her, Finn headed toward the storage room. She had enough on her plate without worrying that her carelessness had jeopardized their safety.

  His expression tight, Finn collected a couple of small duffel bags from one of the shelves, then opened the gun safe and the strongbox that was sitting inside. He took out a handful of cash and Sally's old documents.

  Trying not to second-guess his strategies, he returned to the bedroom and started packing, watchful of any subtle traces that she'd been in the house. Now that he knew Old Joe had seen her, it was even more critical that he leave nothing to chance. He remembered finding the long red hair in his bed—and that was just the kind of evidence that Ed Jackson would spot if he decided to check Finn out. And if Jackson ever got wind of Old
Joe's sighting, he definitely would check Finn out.

  Yanking back the bedding, Finn began a search for trace evidence just as Mallory reentered the room. She gave him a bemused look. "What are you doing? I thought you wanted to get out of here?"

  "Your hair is pretty distinctive, Red," he said, sweeping his hand down the bottom sheet. "And I don't trust Ed Jackson."

  Using language that startled him, Mallory snatched the comforter off his bed, then began gathering up all the bedding. "See?" she snapped, wadding it all up together and heading toward the door. "If you'd let me cut it, we wouldn't have had this problem."

  Finn stared at her, irritation suddenly blooming in him. "Hey," he interjected, his tone annoyed. "This has nothing to do with the length of your hair. It's the damned color that's the problem."

  She gave him one of her looks. "Oh. So now the color of my hair is a problem. Anything else?"

  Realizing he was damned if he did, and damned if he didn't, Finn jammed both hands on his hips and stared at the ceiling. He was getting really good at counting to ten. Letting his breath go in a controlled exhalation, he looked at her. "Have you ever considered taking up wrestling as a profession?"

  She stared at him as if he'd lost his mind, then she suddenly smiled. "Ah, Finn," she cooed, her tone syrupy. "Did I take you down for the count again?" Looking smug, she marched out of the room, the bedding in her arms. "You might want to get the vacuum out."

  Finn never knew anyone could be that thorough. And bossy. He'd wanted to clear out of there as fast as possible. But not Mallory. No. Mallory was on an eradication mission. By the time they had everything packed in his SUV and set to move out, Finn was ready to strangle her. But Mallory had done such an impeccable job of housecleaning, Finn doubted if Ed Jackson could find a piece of lint, let alone even the most minute trace of her.

  Then they had a fight about the dog. Mallory said they were not leaving him behind. Finn insisted that they were. And the only reason that Finn won that argument was because he pointed out that he didn't have the required veterinary documents on hand to get the dog into the U.S.—did she want Rooney held at the border? That stopped her cold, but she made a big production of saying goodbye to the dog.

  Finn didn't realize what the big production was all about until she climbed into the passenger seat and he caught the glimmer of tears in her eyes. And it hit him that she was indeed saying goodbye to the dog. That hit him even harder, realizing she was saying goodbye forever, and it left him feeling very hollowed out inside. Placing his cell phone in the charger mounted in his console, he tried not to think about what that meant. He could not allow himself to think about what it was going to be like without her here. Not when he had to concentrate on keeping her safe.

  It was the thought of her safety that made him think of the wallet-sized documents he had stuffed in his vest pocket—the ones that would identify her as Sally Logan Donovan, should they get asked at the border. He turned on the overhead light, fished them out, checked through the three cards, and without saying anything, handed them to her.

  As if she didn't want him to know about the tears, she quickly wiped them away and shuffled through the cards. Then she folded them in her hand as if they were something precious. "Thank you," she whispered.

  Shifting in his seat, Finn reached across the cab, caught her by the chin, forcing her to look at him. "We're going to pull this off, Red," he said, his tone quiet with reassurance. "I don't want you to worry, okay?"

  Her eyes filled up again and he saw her try valiantly to swallow, such distress in her expression. And it made his heart hurt just to look at her. He wiped away a stray tear with his thumb, holding her gaze. "What's the matter?" he asked, his voice gruff.

  She stared at him, worry in her eyes. "It's not just my hair that could give us away," she whispered, her voice uneven. "It's me—Patrick O'Brien's daughter." She eased in a shaky breath, the despair in her eyes intensifying. "My face will have become public knowledge, and it scares me to death what could happen to you and my father if someone recognizes me."

  Resting his hand on the steering wheel, he held her gaze. "We'll just have to be careful to keep that kind of exposure to a minimum." He forced a smile. "So are you ready to get this show on the road? Or do you want to vacuum the barn before we go?"

  That got a husky chuckle out of her, and she reached back for the clasp of her seat belt. "I don't do barns."

  It was two minutes to five when they finally rolled out of the yard. Wanting to avoid driving through Bolton, Finn backtracked on a secondary highway, which would add a good forty-five minutes to the journey.

  Her hair stuffed into a fuzzy hat she'd bought on their shopping trip, Mallory reclined the seat and snuggled down under Finn's coat, her face turned toward the window, watching the illumination from the headlights glance across the snow-covered landscape. By the time they reached the turnoff for the road that would take them to the main highway, it was obvious by her breathing that she had fallen asleep.

  Finn drove through the early morning darkness, his gaze fixed on the road, considering the trip ahead of them. There were several border crossings, but some had restricted hours. He decided they would be less noticeable at one of the major ports of entry, and he preferred to travel in sparsely populated states like Montana and Wyoming.

  Which meant crossing at Coutts.

  The crossing went without a hitch—the standard questions about destination, how long and country of birth. And that was it. Finn made one quick stop to change his money, but as he was heading back to the vehicle, his cash turned into U.S. funds, a feeling of unease settled in his belly. It was almost as if he felt someone watching him, and it was all Finn could do not to check over his shoulder.

  The first time he ever had the feeling—that distinctive prickling up the back of his neck—he had been eight years old. He'd been out in the bush, and had had that same sensation—that he was being watched. When he turned, he'd spotted a cougar on a high ledge, watching him. From that point on, he had developed a sizeable respect for instinct. And he never ignored it. And he didn't ignore it now.

  Once back on the road, he never said anything to Mallory, who spent more time asleep than awake, but he kept an eye on his rearview mirrors. He hoped the feeling would go away, but it didn't. It remained like a persistent knot in his gut.

  They stopped only for gas, bathroom breaks and to grab drive-through food, heading right through to North Dakota. And they only stopped then because he knew that if he didn't get some sleep, they'd end up in a wreck. And he was not prepared to let Mallory drive and risk her getting stopped without a license. After another heated argument, which he won simply because he was driving, they stopped at a decent-looking motel off the interstate. There was a convenience store right across the street, and after he got Mallory safely settled in the room, he went across and bought a bagful of fruit, some nuts and some fresh-looking cellophane-wrapped sandwiches. He didn't know about her, but he had just about hit his limit of fast food.

  She was just coming out of the bathroom when he entered, her hair wrapped in a towel, wearing a dark green T-shirt thing that skimmed her knees. She looked freshly scrubbed and bright as a new penny—which figured, seeing as she'd slept more than she'd been awake.

  He handed her the bag, then dragged off his mackinaw. "Go crazy," he said.

  She responded with a grin, the grin fading when she looked up at him. Her expression softening, she reached up and touched his face. He'd had two hours of sleep the night before, he needed a shave, needed a shower and, most of all, he needed about ten hours of sleep. He was nearly dead on his feet, but that one touch sent loneliness streaking through him, and he sorely wished she were somebody else's daughter.

  His heart slamming against the wall of his chest, he stared down at her, wishing she wasn't Mallory O'Brient—hat she was just the girl from down the road—someone who could be a part of his life. But she was Mallory O'Brien, and she was not from his world, and after he got her b
ack safely to her father, he would never see her again. He wished he didn't like her so damned much—or want her the way he did. Because no matter the circumstances, she was going to leave one hell of a hole in his life when she was gone. And he knew he was going to do a whole lot of hurting for a very long time.

  Trying to smile at her, he grasped her hand and gave it a light squeeze, then brushed by her as he headed to the bathroom. "I need a shower," he said gruffly.

  He expected her to be in bed when he came out, but she wasn't. The bedside lamp was on, and she had the bedding stripped back. But she was standing by the bed, her still—damp hair curling around her face, rubbing hand lotion liberally on her hands. "Facedown," she commanded in that bossy tone.

  Tightening the towel around his waist, Finn felt obliged to argue, but he just didn't have the energy. The hot shower had depleted what little strength he had left, and more than anything, he just wanted to lie down. It was just easier to do as he was told. He stretched out and closed his eyes, giving up a groan as his body settled into the bed. Lord, he'd been sitting so long, he felt as if he'd been turned into a pretzel.

  The mattress shifted, and he abruptly opened his eyes, his pulse lurching when he felt her straddle his hips. "I'm going to give you a massage," she stated, and he felt something warm spill on his back, and a familiar scent assailed his senses. How in hell had she warmed up the hand lotion?

  "Put your arms under your head," she directed.

  He was too damned tired to argue with her—hell, all he seemed to do was argue with her. So he complied. Just being able to lie down, stretch out and close his eyes was enough. And he was so damned beat, he figured he was safe from anything happening. Besides, it wouldn't kill him to humor her.

  What he expected was a few token strokes. What he did not expect was a full-blown massage, the kind that made him groan, the kind that found muscles and sore spots he didn't even know he had, the kind that made his whole body turn to putty. He didn't know anything could feel like that.