by Rebecca York
“Getting breakfast,’’ he answered.
“I thought—’’ She cut off the sentence and began again. “I didn’t know where you were!’’
“I left you a note.’’
She cast her glance around the room, seeing nothing.
“Where I thought you’d find it. On the bathroom sink,’’ he clarified.
“Oh.’’ Throwing herself out of bed, she dashed into the bathroom and slammed the door. The note was where Matt said it would be.
It told her not to worry. He was getting something to eat, and he’d be back as soon as he could.
She folded it up and clutched it in her palm. Then she made a hurried attempt at getting herself in some kind of order.
When she emerged once more, Matt had set the food on the small table against the wall. He looked up as she came back, and she felt his eyes on her, burning through the thin fabric of her gown. Crossing to the bed she’d abandoned, she snatched up her robe and thrust her arms through the sleeves. But she didn’t tie the belt, since that would only emphasize the roundness of her tummy.
Matt had brought her orange juice, a container of herb tea and a country breakfast—two eggs over, ham and fluffy white biscuits.
She slid into the seat across the table and began spreading plum preserves on a biscuit, watching him take a sip of coffee, then cut a piece of ham and some egg, forking the two up in one bite.
When he’d chewed the mouthful, he raised his head. “Were you worried about where I’d gone?’’
Lying was beyond her. “Yes.’’
“I’m sorry.’’
“It’s not your fault. I told you—it’s me.’’
His jaw tightened. “I keep thinking about the guys I’ve seen on the street in Crowfoot and wondering which ones I should beat the crap out of for hurting you like that.’’
“Matt, it was a long time ago.’’
“And you’re still dealing with it.’’
“I—’’
“You told me you have trouble relating to men. So I’ll give you a hint about how to deal with me. Just be honest. And never do anything that feels wrong because you think it’s what I want.’’
She swallowed and nodded, then concentrated on the biscuit. It was sinfully buttery.
They ate in silence for several minutes, but it wasn’t really an uncomfortable silence, she decided. Then she saw the folded Denver Post he’d laid on the floor beside his chair.
“Did the murder make the paper?’’ she asked.
“Yeah.’’
“I want to read about it.’’
He gave her a pained look, then handed across the newspaper. The article about private detective Tim Francetti’s murder was on page one. She winced when she saw the headline and the head shot that looked like an old publicity photo. When she got to the part about a male and a female suspect escaping, she forgot to breathe. “We’re right here in the paper!’’
“That’s stretching things a bit. They don’t have any names.’’
Willing her hand not to shake, she went back to the story. “They say I’m blond. Midtwenties.’’
“You look young.’’
“But—’’
“They don’t have anything else. No fingerprints. Just that pretty blond hair of yours. You could dye it brown, and nobody would know.’’
“I’m not going to expose the baby to hair dye!’’
His face contorted. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking about that.’’
She went back to the article and poked at a line of text with her index finger. “They have a description of the Ford.’’
“We’re not driving it anymore,’’ he said patiently.
“Where did you get it?’’
“From a private sale. And I didn’t use my real name.’’
“You carry enough money around to buy a car?’’
“Yeah. I may not be able to get to my bank accounts, but I’m prepared for emergencies.’’
“What if—?’’ She stopped and swallowed. “What if somebody starts going back through the cases Francetti was investigating?’’
“The pertinent files are missing, remember?’’
She nodded.
Matt picked up his biscuit, took a bite and made an appreciative noise.
“How can you sit there calmly eating?’’ she asked.
“I’m hungry. I was engaged in a lot of strenuous activity last night.’’
She felt her heart thump, wondering which activity he was referring to, exactly. Burglary—or what they’d been doing in bed? She wanted to call it making love. At least it was as close as she’d come to making love. When she saw him watching her, she took a gulp of orange juice.
“Eat up,’’ he said. “We’ve got a long day ahead of us.’’
“Do we?’’
“Yeah,’’ he allowed between mouthfuls.
“What are we going to be doing?’’
He sighed, set down his plastic fork and reached across the table for her hand. She braced for the bad news she was certain he’d been holding back.
“There are a couple of factors I’ve been considering,’’ he said. “The first one is that we need money. A lot of money.’’
“You’re telling me you’re going to rob a bank?’’ she asked, only half in jest.
He flashed a grin. “I’m not into stealing money—at least from banks. But you may have noticed, I have a pretty good poker face.’’
“Poker?’’
“Yeah. I’ve got a talent for cards. So I’m going to get into some high-stakes games at various casinos around the west—not Las Vegas, where they’d pay too much attention to me the minute I started winning. Some of the casinos run by Native American tribes in California, Colorado, New Mexico, Montana, maybe Iowa.’’ He shifted in his seat. “I can’t stay in any one place too long because guys who lose to me are going to be angry. Some of them are going to think I’m cheating.’’ He raised his eyes to hers. “And I can’t have a pregnant woman with me, because that will draw more attention than a single guy.’’ His fingers tightened on her hand. “So I need to leave you someplace safe while I spend a couple of weeks getting us enough cash to last through the winter.’’
“A couple of weeks!’’
“I’ve been thinking about where to take you. It has to be someplace that I haven’t been before, someplace that’s not going to show up in my background check from Randolph Security. I remember a friend talking about a fishing camp he liked up on Lake La Platta. Henry’s Camp, I think it’s called.
“We can get you a cabin up there, somewhere you can walk to the grocery store, but where you don’t have to interact with the neighbors. You can tell them you’re a novelist working on a book and you came up there for peace and quiet.’’
“An artist.’’
“Okay, an artist. I’ll register you as Mrs. Matthews, so nobody will think anything about your tummy.’’
He made it sound perfectly reasonable, yet she felt her stomach clench as he added details to the proposal that he’d obviously been thinking about for a while. She wanted to refuse. Then she reminded herself that she’d always been independent and that a couple of weeks away from him might help her sort out her tangled feelings.
So she gave her agreement, then tried to get down some more of her breakfast, because she knew she’d be hungry later if she didn’t.
PARTLY AS A DELAYING TACTIC, she made Matt stop at a store where she could buy art supplies: watercolor paints, acrylics and plenty of paper.
Then they started for Lake La Platta, west into the mountains. They arrived at Henry’s Camp in the middle of the afternoon, and Matt checked out the area, then made arrangements to rent a cabin with a spectacular view of the sparkling blue lake backed by towering mountains. Inside the cabin were a living room and bedroom with rustic furnishings and a small kitchen and bath.
“Are you going to leave right away?’’ Amanda asked Matt as he carried a box of groceries and set it on the coun
ter in the small kitchen.
“I want to get in some travel time before it gets dark.’’
“You’ve already been driving most of the day,’’ she objected. “You must be tired.’’
“I won’t push too hard,’’ he promised, then moved to capture her in his arms. “I’ve got something else to tell you,’’ he said, the tone of his voice alerting her that she wasn’t going to like what she heard any more than she’d liked the news that they were going to be separated for a few weeks. “I won’t be able to contact you while I’m gone.’’
She felt her chest constrict. “Why not?’’
“It’s too dangerous. Logan may have hired someone with sophisticated satellite tracking equipment looking for us.’’
She gasped. “Can they do that?’’
“A few months ago, it happened to a friend of mine,’’ he answered, telling her something about Scott O’Donnell and Mariana Reyes, who had lived on the run while they tried to avoid an assassination squad as they’d desperately looked for their kidnapped daughter.
The story made her shudder.
“I don’t want Logan or the police tracking you down,’’ Matt said, pulling her close and nibbling at her cheek with his lips.
“You said the police don’t know who I am!’’
“They don’t. But I’m not taking any chances.’’
“Don’t leave tonight,’’ she said, covering her fear by moving closer, letting him know that she wanted him in her bed.
He turned his head to capture her lips, and for long moments she thought she’d persuaded him to stay with her—at least for the night.
Then he drew back slightly. “You’re making a real tempting offer,’’ he murmured.
“Am I?’’
“Oh, yeah.’’
She wound her arms around his neck and lifted her face. This time there was more desperation in her kiss.
Raising his head, he outlined the shape of her lips with his finger. “I’d be rushing things again,’’ he said, his voice husky.
“You’re not rushing anything. I’m trying my darnedest to seduce you. But I’m not very good at it.’’
“Oh, you’re good at it, all right. And it’s almost a crime not to give in. But how about giving me something to look forward to when I come back?’’ That said, he kissed her very thoroughly, his hands roving over her until she was trembling.
When he eased away again, she struggled to catch her breath and to adjust to the reality that they weren’t going to finish what they’d started last night—not now.
“I’m going to worry about you,’’ she said. “I mean, somebody who lost to you at poker could come after you.’’
“They won’t. And if they do, I can handle it.’’
She wanted to protest again, but she knew that saying more was only going to make him edgy.
He eased away, separating them by mere inches. But it suddenly felt like miles. Gravely she watched as he took out his wallet and counted a thousand dollars. “This should hold you till I get back in two weeks. Or maybe sooner.’’
Her eyes widened. “I guess you carry a lot of money.’’
“Some of this is from Hewitt.’’
She nodded, then asked the question she didn’t want to ask. “If you don’t come back, what should I do?’’
His answer was immediate. “Call Randolph Security.’’
“But we’re running away from them!’’
“I am. You’re an innocent bystander.’’ He thought for a moment. “Try to speak to Hunter Kelley.’’
“The man who was calling to you from the helicopter?’’
“Yeah. He was just doing his job because nobody at Randolph had time to find out that Logan was lying to them before they arrived at the ranch. But if you tell him what Logan was planning to do to you, he’ll be sympathetic.’’
“Why?’’
“Because he knows what it’s like to be held in captivity by men who have no scruples.’’
She waited for him to go on, but he shook his head.
“You’ll have to ask Hunter about what happened to him. It’s not something we publicize.’’
“Oh,’’ she answered, wondering what secret Hunter Kelley was hiding.
Matt squeezed her arm. “I’d better go. I’ll be back as soon as I get us a stake. I promise.’’ He looked at the watch strapped to his wrist. “On or before July twentieth.’’
She reached to touch his face, then gave him a quick kiss.
Without prolonging the moment of parting, he turned and walked out the door, leaving her feeling alone and scared.
She watched him drive away until he disappeared around a bend in the road. Then, with a hollow feeling in her chest, she walked down to the edge of the lake and stared at the blue water shimmering in the afternoon sunshine.
It was beautiful. Peaceful. But she didn’t feel at peace. Before Matt had whisked her away from the Double B Ranch, she’d been content with the road she’d mapped out for herself. Now she was deviled by longings and uncertainties that were frightening in their intensity.
It’s only two weeks, she told herself. You can get through two weeks on your own. But she knew that something fundamental had changed inside her when that helicopter had swooped down on the ranch house.
She’d been frightened and hurt in the past, but she’d trained herself to deal with it on her own. Then Roy Logan had threatened her child—and she didn’t know how to deal with that by herself. She needed help. Specifically from Matt Forester, and the feeling of dependence was as frightening to her as anything she’d ever encountered in her life.
IN THE FIRST FEW DAYS after Matt’s departure, Amanda was able to keep the gnawing worry under reasonable control—because she knew she was perfectly capable of managing on her own for the short term. She’d always wanted more time for her art, and kept busy with her paints and by searching through the woods and along the shore of the lake, bringing home pretty pebbles, bits of driftwood and other natural materials she arranged into collages.
She was pleased with the results, and eager to show them to Matt. But at the same time she couldn’t help wondering if he was going to think they were a waste of time.
As the deadline for his return came nearer, though, she found herself spending more and more time staring down the road, looking for his car. Or listening for the sound of his footsteps on the gravel path or the wide boards of the porch.
The afternoon of July 20, she splurged on an expensive beef roast at Lingrand’s grocery store a quarter mile down the road.
The roast was in the oven at six, and potatoes went in an hour and a half later. But by nine o’clock, Matt hadn’t arrived, and Amanda ended up putting the food in the refrigerator.
He was delayed a little, she told herself, fighting the vise clamping her chest as she stood on the porch, watching the trail of light cast by the moon on the water.
But he didn’t come the next day, or the next. And when the manager of the camp came to ask if she was intending to stay longer than the two weeks originally agreed on, she forked over another three hundred dollars from her supply of cash.
Lying in bed that night, her stomach in knots, she tried to send out a mental message to Matt, telling him how worried she was and how much she needed to talk to him. But there were no calls for “Mrs. Matthews’’ at the pay phone outside the grocery store.
Give him one more day, she told herself. So she forced herself to simply stay there and wait for him, until her nerves were as ragged as a wool coat full of moth holes.
On the fourth day after Matt’s deadline, she seriously debated whether to call Randolph Security—writing down the pros and cons on a piece of paper, including the voice over the bullhorn booming down from the helicopter above Roy Logan’s cabin. That had been Hunter Kelley urging Matt to turn himself in. Hunter Kelley—the same man Matt had told her to contact. Every time she started down the road to the pay phone, she remembered that threatening voice ringing down l
ike the wrath of heaven—and she turned back.
Lying in bed the next night, unable to sleep, feeling the baby kicking inside her, feeling cut off from everything familiar, everything safe, she couldn’t cope on her own any longer. In the morning she got up early, washed her face and walked down to the phone by the grocery. Needing to hear the voice of someone she trusted, she called the Double B Ranch.
Ed Stanton answered on the first ring, as though he’d been sitting by the phone since she’d left, waiting for her to call.
“Where are you?’’ were the first words out of his mouth.
Although she’d been eager to talk to Ed, something about the way he demanded the information set her nerves on edge.
“I can’t tell you,’’ she answered, her voice suddenly guarded.
He met the flat statement with silence.
“Ed, don’t you want to know how I am?’’ she asked.
“Yeah. Right. I do.’’
“I’m fine,’’ she lied. “How about you?’’
“Your friend Forester gave me a concussion.’’
“Like you gave him,’’ she countered.
“He was the one sneakin’ up on the house. Then he set off that explosion and beat up Al Hewitt.’’
She sighed. “Let’s not get into all that. Ed, I wanted to talk to you about the ranch.’’
“Sure,’’ he answered.
“Can I count on you to keep things running? You can draw on the working account that Dad set up for your signature.’’
“You should come back,’’ Ed answered.
“I can’t. Probably not for a few months. Will you be there for me, Ed?’’
“I’ll do for you just like I’ve always done—but don’t hang up. We have to talk about stuff.’’
“I know you can take care of anything that comes up,’’ she answered, then replaced the receiver in the cradle.
It had been a stiff conversation, nothing like what she had anticipated, and as she went back in her mind over the things they’d said, she fought the gut feeling that she shouldn’t have phoned him.
MATT’S FINGERS CLENCHED around the steering wheel of the used pickup truck he’d acquired in New Mexico. As he approached the rustic wooden sign that marked the turnoff to Henry’s Camp, he could feel his heart rate accelerate. He was six days late, and he knew that Amanda was probably frantic. Probably angry, too. Because that was the way she would react, given her previous experience with men.