Chapter Three
“Well, I’ll be damned!” Deuce Cowan watched the white Chevy pull onto the blacktop. “Double-dog damned. Rainey musta gotten married.”
But what in the hell was she doing passing through his county with a New York driver’s license? He leaned against the black-and-white’s fender, smiled, and thought back to how sweet she used to look when he’d get her all riled up by calling her Brainy Rainey. How those cute dimples deepened and her eyes flashed with annoyance.
If she was headed for Denton, she was off track. And her only company, some type of deformed, puny bush. More importantly, why was she so intent on disguising herself? Even those ridiculous bangs and that metallic red hair did nothing for her flawless complexion. She looked tired and pale. Nothing like the feisty blonde he had shared a lab station with in high school. The girl that made it her mission to see that he kept up his grades, assuring his eligibility to play football, and ultimately get a college scholarship.
She was always there to help him. He was always ready with a barb or something to tease her about. Like the day he tried to get her goat by asking her about her favorite position on a football team. She simply responded: “The tight ends, regardless of the position they play.”
That was Brainy Rainey. He coined the nickname, but he wasn’t the only person to call her that. Sporting enough steel in her mouth to make an ironworker proud, thick tortoise-shell glasses, and braids, the library-card toting, pint-size gal was the persona of brainy. A nerd, except softer.
He cringed, thinking back to the day he got an in-school suspension because he decked another member of the football team for making fun of her. Deuce chuckled. The ISS wasn’t all that bad except he’d missed ball practice and the coach had made him run the next day as punishment until he threw up. As far as he knew, Rainey never knew he’d stood up for her.
And the thanks Deuce had gotten—although he’d hinted that he needed a date to homecoming their senior year, when he called, he was told by her father never to call again because she didn’t want to talk to him. He didn’t even get the chance to talk to her. Her father spoke for her, but then that’s about what he had expected from the pompous ass of a district judge. And the worst part, she’d never mentioned his call to him.
Yeah, Brainy Rainey had grown up and made lots of changes.
But one thing that she hadn’t changed: those adorable little dimples at the corner of her mouth that deepened when she smiled or was nervous. They were still there, and he hadn’t even seen a promise of a smile.
And that smell . . . just as he remembered. Sensual and heady, like a blooming field of wildflowers.
When he got back to the sheriff’s office, he planned to check up on Miss Maressa Clarkson. Rather, Mrs. Rainey Michaels.
Deuce finished his paperwork before he scouted out The Silver Dollar, one of just two local watering holes, to make sure there weren’t any underaged drinkers. He returned to his patrol car in time to catch a call about an alarm at the old, vacant Rock Island Depot. Probably a dog call, maybe a rambunctious teenager who thought he had found a safe haven for his drinking.
“I’m on my way,” Deuce responded to his deputy. “Hey, Jessup, got a job for you. When Danny comes on duty, ask him to see what he can find on a Mrs. Rainey Michaels. . . .” He flipped open his book for her New York address. “At . . .”
After giving the deputy all the pertinent information, Deuce slipped back the brim of his hat with a thumb and shook his head.
Hell, I thought tonight was going to be quiet, but from the minute I laid eyes on that brainiac, I should have known better.
Deuce slid into the county pickup. Hopefully, trouble wasn’t waiting for him at the abandoned railroad station.
Pulling into the lot in front of the Rock Island Depot, Rainey cut the engine and stared into the darkness at the gigantic beige stucco building sprawled out ahead. Luckily, she had received a letter from her landlord confirming the address. She took the note from her pocket and reread it. There was no mistaking she was at the correct place. One hundred Main Street. The classified ad had read “Historic Landmark” and the lessor assured her that the building had adequate living quarters and was perfect for her new business venture.
Oh, yeah, an antiquated railway station was every woman’s dream house! Maybe she should have asked more questions, but she had been too thankful to have found a building so quickly. Next time, she’d make sure of what she would be getting instead of leasing sight unseen.
Rainey sighed, suddenly feeling as though she had been traveling over a long, lonesome highway without a soft shoulder to depend on . . . abandoned and lonely like the deserted building.
Wishing she could go home, realization hit her—that was not an option. Her parents were vacationing in Europe, and when she contacted them, her father seemed more angry that she refused his help than concerned for her safety. She feared her father had brushed off her cryptic message about her parents not talking to the news media. After all, he’d spent most of his life in the public eye. How long had it actually been since she had seen her parents? Three, four years ago? Months before the murder trial began.
She needed to talk with her mother, and figured she could tolerate the man who provided half her DNA. The man with all the answers, plenty of criticism, and an overabundance of ridicule. The man who insisted she call him “Father.”
Her mind wandered back to the bitter frustration and regret of LA. Back to the reason she was forced to return to Texas. Back to the sordid images of the bodies of five women and four children, all products of incest, stacked on top of one another against one wall of the filthy, insect infested house occupied by a madman. Impressions that were so imbedded in her soul that she rarely slept without the invasion of night tremors.
Rubbing her arms, she forced away goose bumps, and instead thought back to Deuce Cowan and their friendship. Friendship? So not true. And their relationship? Like cashmere tangling with steel wool. A pit bull snarling at a bookworm.
It all started in the kindergarten lunch line, where she hunkered close to the girl in front of her to keep Deuce from pulling her charleys, as she called her dog-ears in those days. Then came middle school, and their rapport worsened. By high school, the aggression had reached epidemic proportions along with heightened raging hormones, as they were continually paired as study partners.
From play school to high school, the mismatched duo always seemed to be in one another’s face about something. Be it her accusations that he hadn’t taken a class project seriously or his obvious frustration with her not understanding the difference between a field goal and a touchback. Just let him continue to believe that she thought the football play was when the offense ran backwards for a touchdown.
After all, she had little desire to know much about jocks butting heads, any more than she’d expect Deuce to understand the real meaning behind Shakespeare’s sonnets.
Then there were the teachers who seemed intent on making both their lives miserable. Regardless of whether they made alphabetical assignments for projects or selected students at random, the brain and the brawn seemed to always wind up together.
And they hated every moment of it. Well, she hated it, and Deuce left no doubt that was the only thing they agreed upon.
Years later, after mentoring troubled teens, Rainey realized Deuce’s and her relationship had nothing to do with them disliking one another, but rather both of their needs to challenge and be challenged. The truth be known, she had a crush on him and after a lot of maturity settled in, she believed he probably liked her, but just didn’t want his jock friends to know he cared about a girl . . . particularly a plain Jane girl like her.
A knot formed in her stomach thinking back to the night she had cried herself to sleep after waiting for Deuce’s call inviting her to be his date to the homecoming dance their senior year. A call that never came, although he’d all but asked her when they stood side by side at their lockers.
Rainey knew
one thing for certain—until he proved he could be trusted, she’d trust nobody, not even the handsome sheriff clothed in charm.
Making no move to get out of the car, she tucked the past in the back of the recesses of her mind and focused on the future.
Visions of the captivating sheriff resurfaced: the fully-grown, mature version of the man who obviously needed a dose of reality. He was no longer the captain of the football team or a lineman for the Steelers, but a small-town sheriff. Jeeze, if he wasn’t even better looking in person than on Monday Night Football. Not exactly a pretty boy, but handsome to just the right degree.... But it was the charisma dripping from him that scared the hell out of her.
A warm feeling shot directly to her most vulnerable spot, remembering Deuce’s capricious smile and dazzling white teeth against a sun-bronzed face. The shadow of his beard profiling dark against the setting sun. No man deserved to have such a monopoly on virility and good looks. Particularly one so smug and with such bravado.
But, how in the blue blazes did he end up as the sheriff of Bonita County, Texas? And the badge-toting hunk hadn’t even recognized her. At least her disguise worked.
The last she heard, Deuce had returned to their hometown to serve as a deputy under his father. Until now, she had presumed that he had been named sheriff in Denton after his dad’s death, not here.
Her stomach knotted. Why did she have to run into him of all people? She had followed her plan to a tee. After leaving LA, she zigzagged across the country paying with cash until she reached New York City, where she rented a Cobble Hill brownstone in the northeastern part of Brooklyn for six months, although she only stayed less than eight weeks.
All of the time, she had watched as many national television newscasts she possibly could to make sure there was no word of her disappearance. So far, her plan had worked perfectly . . . until now.
While in NYC, she had even melded amongst the close-knit families living in the area, making sure that the ever-watching elders of the many extended families in the neighborhood were able to verify her existence. Certainly, they would remember her bonsai. She hadn’t stayed there long enough to need to fabricate a story about Rainey Michaels’s life before New York.
Was she divorced? Separated? A widow? Damn, now that she had run into Deuce she had to be careful not to raise more questions than she had answers for.
Annoyance thinned her lips. Settling in a new locale should have been as smooth as shooting marbles on a sheet of ice. But now, she had to deal with the brown-eyed handsome sheriff that turned her legs to mush and made her heart flutter as if it were filled with butterflies and ladybugs, while infuriating her beyond belief.
Just because he ticketed her didn’t mean she’d have any dealings with him.
Stay out of his way! rang in her ears.
“Well, Mr. High and Mighty Sheriffman, I can promise you that you don’t have to worry about me getting in your way, but you might want to steer clear of me.”
Grabbing the gym bag and the bonsai, Rai made her way to the monstrous double doors of the railroad station and inserted her key.
She took a deep breath and pushed the doors open. Hopefully, hobbits and gnomes weren’t waiting inside.
Flipping on the switch, muted lighting flooded the lobby. She glanced at the ceiling. The majority of the fluorescent tubes were unlit, casting a dusky haze on the aged linoleum floors. A musty smell of ghosts of bygone years attacked her nostrils. The room looked big enough to hold all nine hundred plus LA deputy DAs for Thanksgiving dinner.
What had she gotten herself into? A need to cry engulfed her, but she had never been allowed to cry. It showed weakness, lack of control. Or that was what her father had always drilled into her. Crying was a luxury she couldn’t afford.
She set the bonsai and her purse on a counter. Looking around, she shivered. Few options were available to her. This way station must serve as her safe haven. She’d make it work, no matter what.
Maybe this was exactly what she needed. It was the last place a mentally deranged criminal would look for her.
Only one good thing came from running into her old classmate. If she needed the most contemptible, baddest bruiser around for protection, she had his number.
Any peace of mind was only momentary, suddenly interrupted by a shrill earsplitting wail.
She jumped half of her height and clutched her chest. The noise came from a burglar alarm high above her head.
Rainey’s heart raced.
Mr. Wilson, her new landlord, had mentioned an alarm, but said he would clear it with the security company.
The noise scrambled her thought process. Where was the most logical place for a control pad? She darted toward the ticket agent’s cage, searched the walls, and ran her hands beneath the desk. Briskly turning toward the squealing, she located the command center and punched in the code Mr. Wilson had sent her. She tried a second time with no results. After she located the emergency contact sticker on the wall, Rainey punched the toll-free number into her cellular telephone.
Surely, the owner had given her name to the security company and authorized her access to the property. Surely?
She leaned against the rough counter, shifted her weight for the umpteenth time, while she provided information to a faceless service rep that seemed to be having difficulty recognizing the urgency in her call.
“I leased this building from a Mr. Wilson.” Rainey tapped her sandaled toe against the baseboard. “I have a money order right here for the payment and a lease agreement.”
The high-pitched scream of the alarm going off seemed to kick up a notch as the sound bounced off the hallowed walls like a pinball machine.
“Yes, Rainey Michaels . . . M-I-C-H-A-E-L-S.” She leaned forward and cupped her hand over her ear. “If I had the correct code, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, now would we?” She pressed her phone closer and plugged her other ear with her index finger. “Oh, jeez, please don’t put me on hold. . . .”
Suddenly she felt a presence in the room, an eerie feeling of being watched. Biting a trembling lip, Rainey tucked the phone deep into her shoulder, which was no easy task, and searched for something to use as a weapon. Spying a weathered switchman’s lantern, naked without the glass globe, she swallowed hard and choked back panic. Her heart sped up like a runaway train.
A large shadow crossed the floor, drawing her attention away from the canned music coming out of the phone. God, this is supposed to be a security company! If only the idiot had stayed on the line, she could signal for help.
The silhouette neared.
Her heart soared out of control, and the knot in her stomach tightened as fright assaulted every inch of her body. She fought back bile, and her mouth felt grainy, like a sandpaper breath mint.
The deranged mass murderer had kept his promise.... Alonzo Hunter had found her!
She dropped the phone. Hitting the floor, it skidded across the mucky-yellow linoleum.
Whirling, she grasped the lantern and hurled the antique through the air before driving every ounce of her petite body into the intruder.
The man ducked in time to miss the flying object, let out a four-letter word, and grabbed for Rainey with his long reach. He quickly subdued her. Reeling her around in one brisk movement, he locked her hands behind her back and pulled her tight against his chest.
She jerked and kicked at his shins with her heel, not giving a flying frog if she rearranged his cojones in the process, but missed as he leaned back out of her reach.
“You spitfire!” Deuce Cowan’s harsh words sounded a bit playful, but the meaning was crystal clear.
The familiarity of the voice and the security of his arms unnerved her. She allowed relief to sweep over her momentarily, but only long enough to catch a breath.
“Let go of me, you . . . you animal!”
“What are you going to do if I let go?”
“I’m gonna kick you in your—”
“Well, in that case, hang on.” He p
icked her up, tucked her under his arm like an unruly child, and hauled her kicking and cursing toward the security keypad. “Close your eyes.”
“Close my eyes?” She made an unsuccessful lunge at freedom, all four limbs slicing the air.
“Shut them or I’ll let this alarm bellow all night.”
“You dumb buffoon!” Her voice echoed in the empty tomb. She squeezed her eyes shut. “I can’t see a thing. Are you happy?”
“As happy as I can be trying to corral a wildcat.” He punched in the disarm code with the wiggly woman still under his arm. “And I might be a buffoon, but I’m not dumb!”
Silence.
“Now, Miss Michaels—” his voice rang with command.
“Mrs. Michaels,” she shot over her shoulder. “And how do you know my security code?”
“I’m the sheriff, remember? Right—now, Mrs. Michaels, you can either settle down and explain why you are trespassing, or I’ll charge you with assault and haul your sassy butt to jail.”
“Officer Smart-Ass. Oh, excuse me, Sheriff Smart-Ass . . .” She squirmed until she loosened her right arm. “I’ll have your hide for manhandling me—”
“I’d love for you to have my hide any time, any place—”
“Get your mind out of the gutter. I promise, I’ll . . .” Giving little thought to the fact she was assaulting a peace officer, she rammed her forearm against a wall of muscle.
Her offensive launch didn’t faze him.
“You’ll what? Kick and scream your way out of here? I don’t think so.” He took a step forward, dangling the woman at his side. “Sweetheart, if you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.”
“It isn’t the heat that’s bothering me—”
“Couldn’t tell by the way you’re acting.” He stalked toward the ticket counter. “But it’s bothering me.”
With a wild unexpected shot of adrenaline and fury, she jabbed her elbow in his solar plexus, causing him to momentarily gasp for air, lessening his hold.
The Troubled Texan Page 2