Restless Spirit

by Cassie Miles

  “A personal grudge. Revenge.” Inside his handsome shearling jacket, his shoulders shrugged. “I can’t get over the weird setup of the crime scene.”

  “Does it really matter?” she asked.

  “I don’t like loose ends.”

  Her entire life was loose ends. She generally tried to run away before somebody tied the unconnected threads into a noose and looped it around her throat.

  “It’s like this,” he said. “If kidnappers came into the house to grab Joey, why ransack the place?”

  “They were looking for something,” she suggested.

  “But we’ve already determined that there wasn’t anything of value, except your money.”

  He was right. The crime scene didn’t make sense. “And why would the kidnappers break the window to make it look like a robbery?”

  “Good question,” he said.

  “Tell me about the bug.” She enjoyed the give-and-take of their conversation. It seemed like Mace was interested in her opinions. “You suspected right away that they’d want to listen in to our conversation. Why?”

  “That’s what I’d do,” Mace said. “I’d want to know the strategy of the opposition.”

  “It gives me the creeps to think these guys were eavesdropping on every word we said.”

  “Did you expect a sense of honor? Or respect for your privacy?”

  “Well, no.” Though she’d known some scary people, Nicole was smart enough to keep her distance. From an early age, she’d learned it was best to run away.

  “Kidnappers,” Mace said, “are scum. No better than terrorists. They hurt innocent people.”

  She remembered another clue he’d mentioned. “There were no muddy tracks on the floor in the cabin. So the kidnappers didn’t break in. Do you think they’re somebody Joey knows?”

  “There might be a simpler explanation,” he said. “Maybe they just came to the door and knocked. Would Joey open up for a stranger?”

  “Probably. And he often forgets to lock up. I have to remind him.” Nicole obsessively locked and dead-bolted both front and back doors, often checking twice to make sure she fastened the latch. “Joey’s a lot more trusting than I am.”

  “He’s not as street smart,” Mace said. “When you were a runaway, I’ll bet you picked up some keen survival skills.”

  She realized that he was subtly probing again, trying to tease out more information about her past, and the shift in his focus disappointed her. For half a second it had felt as if they were both on the same side, discussing the crime and trying to puzzle out the clues. His nudge toward her personal history reminded her that she might be riding in the front seat of the cop car, but he still regarded her as a suspect. “You don’t trust me, do you, Mace?”

  He said nothing. His eyes faced forward, concentrating on the moonlit road ahead of them.

  Though she’d never been big on sharing her life story, there was enough distance from her teen years that she didn’t mind talking about them. She decided to give the sheriff what he wanted. “Street smart is a neat, clean description for the lessons I learned as a runaway.”

  “Why did you leave your home?”

  “Long story,” she said. “My father died in an accident when I was seven, and Mom didn’t cope real well. She slid into a debilitating depression, wouldn’t eat and couldn’t sleep. Every night, I’d sit by her bed and read to her, as though she was the kid and I was the grown-up.”

  “What kind of books?” he asked.

  “Everything. The classics and mysteries and romances. Any kind of story that might cheer her up.”

  Nicole’s memory of that time was bittersweet. In a few precious instances, she and her mother had bonded at the deepest level, sharing the ache of bereavement. Most of the time, however, Nicole felt like she was groping in pitch-dark, struggling to find her real mother inside this unhappy woman. Flustered. Frightened. Furious. At least her constant reading had resulted in an excellent vocabulary.

  She continued, “We lost almost everything. Then she hooked up with my stepfather. He paid the bills and rescued us financially, but he was a total bastard, and he hated me.”

  “Abusive?” Mace asked.

  “He didn’t often hit me.” After he’d pushed her down the stairs and broken her ankle, Social Services kept an eye on him. After that, he made sure her bruises didn’t show. “Even though my mother wasn’t often in touch with reality, she’d have noticed if he regularly beat me up.”

  She remembered his big ugly face, red with rage. He looked like a demon from hell when he snarled at her. “My mother died when I was fifteen. Heart failure. She had a stroke and hung on for about a week. I read to her then, too.”

  In Nicole’s diary, her mother’s last words were recorded. Unable to speak because of the stroke, her mother scribbled notes to her daughter. Nicole wrote the responses.

  Mace said, “You ran away from your stepfather.”

  “Fast as I could. I went through a bad period when I was trying to figure out how to survive on the streets of San Francisco. Then I became a waitress.”

  “And moved to Denver,” he said.

  “There were a couple of other cities in between. But I ended up in Denver.” And met Derek. She wasn’t about to tell that part of her story.

  “And then what?” Mace asked.

  “I got tired of cities and moved here with Joey. That’s all there is to say.”

  Mace turned away from the road to look at her. In the glow of the dashboard lights, his dark eyes seemed to measure her. Quietly he said, “You don’t trust me, either.”

  A very perceptive man. Every time she sidestepped a question, he noticed.

  The cell phone in his jacket pocket trilled, and he pulled it out to answer. As he went through a series of terse yes-and-no responses, she observed their route. Before they got to the two-stoplight center of Elkhorn, Mace turned toward the mountains. This was an attractive area with a lot of open acreage for farms and ranches.

  He disconnected the call and informed her, “Barry traced the phone call from Joey to a cell phone registered to a man who passed away six months ago.”

  Mace was beginning to think these kidnappers were professional criminals. They were clever enough to use an untrackable cell phone and plant a listening device at the cabin.

  He was eager to match wits with them, to outsmart them at their own game. But he wouldn’t have the chance. Tomorrow the FBI would be here, and Mace would be relegated to the position of observer.

  Nicole asked, “Can Barry determine where the cell phone is?”

  “Not unless it’s turned on. Then he can triangulate the signal and come up with an approximate location. If Joey calls again, keep him on the phone as long as possible.”

  “How am I going to be able to take his call?” she asked.

  “Barry has the cabin phone number patched through to the private line at my house. The phone will also ring at the sheriff’s office, and your conversation will be recorded.”

  “Wow,” she said. “Barry’s good at this stuff.”

  “He’s a talented guy,” Mace agreed. Barry’s skills were wasted in Denver where politics were part of the promotion game. An introvert like Barry usually got overlooked.

  “Is he dating anybody?” she asked.

  “Don’t start,” Mace warned. Three years ago, when Barry first moved to Elkhorn, Mace’s sister had fixed him up on a disastrous series of blind dates. “Barry can find his own girlfriend. He’s a grown-up.”

  “Even a grown man needs a little shove now and then.”

  “Maybe he’s happy living by himself, doing his own thing.”

  She scoffed. “He just thinks he’s happy.”

  Mace exhaled a resigned sigh. “It’s the nature of women to be matchmakers. Always has been. Every spring, the Ute tribes perform a Bear Dance that starts with the women choosing their partners. Though the men pretend to ignore them, they’re caught. No matter how hard they try to escape, each brave ends up wit
h the squaw who picked him.”

  “A very sensible ritual,” Nicole said.

  He gave a short laugh. “All of us men might as well accept the fact that we’re helpless against your female wiles.”

  “Have you ever been married, Mace?”

  “Once. It didn’t work out. I’m told that cops make lousy husbands.”

  Though it might be considered unprofessional for him to discuss his personal life with a possible suspect, Mace was too tired to worry about indiscretion. His instincts told him that he’d made the right decision in bringing her to his home. If she was a witness who might be in danger, he’d be there to protect her. If she was involved in the crime, he could watch to see if she made contact with the kidnappers.

  “About this phone that’s patched through from the cabin,” she said. “What if Joey calls right now?”

  “Then, you’ll be able to answer,” he said as he turned at the mailbox and drove down a paved driveway to the ranch house that his father had built.

  IT WAS WELL AFTER two o’clock in the morning, not the appropriate time for a tour of the Sheridan ranch house, but Nicole liked what she saw as Mace escorted her through the kitchen and the southwestern-style living room to a long white-walled hall lined with photographs of horses. He opened the second door from the end and stepped inside a simple but charming bedroom, decorated in pastel greens. “You’ll sleep here. There’s an attached bathroom with toothpaste and shampoo and stuff. Help yourself.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “This is very nice.”

  “Right here on the nightstand is the phone,” he said. “I really don’t expect the kidnappers to contact us tonight, but if they call, this phone will ring.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Answer it. Keep them on the line.”

  She hoped he was right about no calls tonight. The intensity of the day had begun to wear on her. She felt tired and weak. Yet, at the same time, there was a spark that flickered dimly within her like the pilot light on a stove. Though she couldn’t quite identify the source of this unusual warmth, it gave her the strength to go on.

  Mace opened the top drawer of a cherry wood bureau. “There are T-shirts in here. You can use one for sleeping. And you’ll find a bathrobe in the closet.”

  “You’re better equipped than most five-star hotels.”

  “We have a lot of visitors in the summer,” he explained. “We raise horses, and my sister hosts a couple of riding camps.”

  “Sounds like fun,” she said without much enthusiasm. Nicole was a city girl who spent more time in taxis than on horseback.

  Mace strode toward the door. “My bedroom is next door. If you need anything, holler.”

  “Mace!”

  He turned back toward her, his eyebrows lifted. “What is it?”

  “Thank you for everything.”

  A smile curved his full lips, transforming his appearance from merely good-looking to amazingly handsome. “Sleep well,” he said.

  He left the room, and she exhaled a breath she hadn’t been aware of holding. Now she understood the tiny spark that glowed in the center of her heart. Being around Mace was the cause for this quickening heat. He made her breath come a little faster and caused her muscles to tense—not an unpleasant sensation.

  Though she’d be leaving Elkhorn soon, she recorded these feelings in her sensory memory. She wanted to cherish these moments with Mace, to remember every detail so she could replay them after she’d run away to another place where no one cared about her comfort or safety.

  Her gaze flitted around the room, too exhausted to fully appreciate the Navajo rug on the hardwood floor and the flowered curtains and the puffy green comforter on the double bed. First, she needed sleep.

  She tore off her clothes, slipped into a T-shirt from the bureau, then turned off the overhead light and dived under the covers. The smooth cotton sheets smelled fresh and clean.

  As she laid her head on the pillow, she heard a crinkling and felt a sheet of paper. She turned on the bedside lamp. It was a note, written in pen on lined yellow paper. It read: “Meet me at 3:00 a.m. Five fenceposts to the west of the mailbox. Don’t tell Mace. If he finds out, I’m dead. Joey.”

  Her heart constricted. They were watching. Were they listening, too? Her hand clapped over her mouth, suppressing the urge to scream or to burst into tears. If there was a bug in this room, she didn’t want them to hear. How had anyone gotten in here to leave a note? This was the sheriff’s ranch. How could the kidnappers dare to deliver this message?

  She wanted to call out to Mace, to hand him this scrap of yellow paper and let him deal with the consequences. But they might overhear. And they would kill Joey if she didn’t do as they ordered.

  She checked her wristwatch. It was 2:33 a.m. If she was going to meet the kidnappers’ demand, she had to move fast.

  Her fists clenched and she punched the pillows as hard as she could. This wasn’t fair! She wanted to stay on the right side of the law—Mace’s side. Yet, she dared not disobey the instructions in the note. Joey’s life depended upon her actions.

  She needed to be smart. Somehow, she had to find a way out of the house without Mace noticing that she had gone. How could she retrace her path through the darkened house without tripping over something? What if the doors were locked with dead bolts? She paced quickly back and forth. The window! She’d have to go out through her bedroom window!

  She yanked aside the curtains, aware that the kidnappers might be watching her right now. Unfastening the latch, she pushed the lower half of the window up. The resulting space was wide enough to slip through.

  The door to her room burst open, and Mace stood there, gun in hand. He’d been getting ready for bed, stripped to the waist. The glow from her bedside lamp cast a golden sheen across his smooth, bronzed chest and lean torso.

  Her poor battered heart yearned toward him. She didn’t want to betray him. She wanted to repay his kindness. She desperately wanted Mace to trust her.

  His expression was stern, his lips unsmiling. “What’s going on?”

  She shoved the note under the edge of the comforter. “I l-l-like to sleep with the window open.”

  He lowered his gun. In his dark eyes, she saw a glimmer of suspicion. “It’s cold tonight. Are you sure you want the window open?”

  Deliberately, she lied. “I like the fresh air.”

  He stood, staring at her. It was obvious that he didn’t believe her, but Nicole knew better than to prattle on when confronted. Stick to one story. Don’t add unneeded details. Joey’s survival depended on her ability to convince Mace that all she wanted was a little night air.

  Ignoring her rising sense of panic, she tucked her legs under the comforter and forced her lips into a teasing grin. “I like your shirtless uniform. Do you wear your gun when you sleep?”

  “Don’t con me, Nicole.”

  “I’m being completely honest about your uniform.” Truthfully, she admired his body. “I’m sure other women have told you the same thing.”

  His shoulders straightened, and the shifting of his muscles enticed her. His skin was the most incredible burnished sienna—the color of the earth itself. Though she’d meant for her smart-aleck compliment to distract him, it was having the opposite effect. She couldn’t take her eyes off his body. She wanted to touch him and have him hold her. She wanted to feel his hands upon her flesh. She felt a stirring in the pit of her stomach. Beneath her nightshirt, her nipples tightened.

  “Good night,” Mace growled.

  When the door closed behind him, she collapsed backward on the pillows. Unbelievable! After Derek, she never thought she’d be interested in sex again. But Mace turned her on. He made her think that something wonderful might happen if they made love. Unfortunately, she would never have the chance to know what a relationship with Mace might be. She couldn’t stay in Elkhorn.

  She checked her watch. Only fifteen minutes to make it to the mailbox and meet Joey. There was no more time to think. She
darted into the bathroom and turned on the water in the shower to cover the sounds of getting dressed.

  Eight minutes until three o’clock. She turned off the tap in the bathroom and made shuffling noises, bouncing on the bedsprings. Then she turned off the light and went to the window. Quickly she slid through the narrow opening.

  Outside she crouched on the ground. Waiting, listening. Would Mace charge into her room? Would he catch her trying to escape? She almost wished he would. If she were physically restrained, she couldn’t fulfill the kidnapper’s demand.

  She heard the rustling of wind through tree branches. The night was alive. From the stables near the house, the horses nickered and snorted. In the distance a dog barked. Nicole shuddered. She’d feel far more comfortable with the background noise of city traffic and police sirens to cover her clandestine and probably foolhardy behavior.

  Quickly she crept along the edge of the house. At the driveway she checked the time again. Only minutes were left. She ran down the long paved driveway to the road. Out of breath, she reached the mailbox. What had the note said? Five fenceposts to the left? Or the right?

  Staring to the right side, she saw nothing. To the left, there was a clump of pine trees. That must be where Joey would meet her. She raced toward the spot. Then she saw him.

  “Stay back,” Joey warned. “They’ll shoot me if you get too close.”

  He looked ghastly in the moonlight. All color had drained from his face. His hands were tied together. The other end of the rope was lashed to the fencepost.

  She took a step toward him.

  “Don’t come near me,” he said. “They’re listening. I’m wearing a bug.”

  “They can’t kill you,” she said, taking another step. She wanted to yank the ropes free, to run with him to the safety of the ranch house. “They won’t get their ransom money if you’re dead.”

  “Listen to me, Nicole. They have long-range rifles. Night scopes. They could shoot me in the leg or in the arm.”