Stephen knelt and scraped at the surface of the gully. Soil crumbled in his hand. “The ground is unstable. The jack won’t hold.”
He rose and wiped the dirt from his palms. In the glare of the headlights, the pallor of his face revealed the debilitating effects of his trek down the mountain. Despite the growing chill of the October night, sweat beaded his forehead. Bits of leaves clung to his dark hair, remnants of his hiding place as he’d observed the gunman, and his dark eyes burned with a feverish intensity.
She stood on tiptoe to brush the debris from his hair and laid the inside of her wrist against his forehead to check for fever. His skin felt cool against hers. Too cool.
“You should get off your feet,” she told him. “Doctor’s orders.”
He caught her hand and his gaze captured hers, riveting her with the power of his scrutiny. “One of us has to go for help, Doc. It should be me.”
“You’re in no condition—” In the back seat of the Explorer, Jessica began to cry. “Jess is hungry. While you feed her, I can hike down to the valley. I heard cattle earlier, so there must be a farm down there.”
Reluctantly she tugged her hand from the warmth of his and climbed into the back seat with her daughter. She’d prepared a bottle so many times, even in the dark, the procedure was no challenge. But this time as she did so, she was overwhelmed by the need to get Jessica to safety with the Kidbroughs. Only then could she concentrate on the puzzle of the unidentified gunman.
For now, they had to get off the mountain.
Fast.
She couldn’t think of any way around the problem except hiking down to the valley where a farmer might have a truck to pull them out.
Stephen crawled into the front seat to switch off the headlights, then climbed over into the rear next to her and took Jessica. Before he’d extinguished the lights, the digital temperature gauge above the windshield had registered thirty-four degrees, and he shivered from the cold.
She lifted the blanket and wrapped it around Stephen and Jessica. “You’ll have to bundle to keep warm.”
“You’ll be careful?” He grasped her hand, and his touch activated a flood of memories and a corresponding cascade of desire. Feelings she’d denied too long coursed through her, and she shoved them away, unable to think straight with his closeness so distracting.
“I should be the one starting down the mountain now,” he argued.
She could hear the weariness in his voice. “You’re already exhausted. If you stay with Jessica, I can cover ground faster and bring help sooner.”
“Are you always this calm?” His tone was tinged with awe.
“Me, calm?” She laughed. If he only knew how her thoughts swirled, her pulse thundered with panic and her skin prickled with fear. “I put on a good front. My family was never very demonstrative, so I grew up learning to keep my feelings inside. The poker face came in handy as an FBI investigator.”
“Guess that’s why they called you Scully.”
“You do remember!”
He shrugged. “Only about Scully, and that came out of nowhere.”
“That’s a good sign. Your other memories may start flooding back soon.”
He tightened his grip on her hand, and the pressure reassured and unsettled her at the same time.
“Why did they call me Mulder?”
She smiled, remembering. “Because you have an uncanny ability to put together clues in a way no one else would think of and come up with answers. And you stick by your theories, no matter how off-the-wall they sound.”
“Was I ever right?”
“You were always right.”
He groaned. “That must have made me real popular.”
“Everybody loved you.”
“Everybody?”
“Now that you mention it, there were exceptions.” Her pulse quickened, and she wondered what else he’d remembered. “Like the criminals you brought to justice.”
“And the gunman at the cabin.” He leaned back against the seat and sighed. “Why can’t I remember who he is?”
“He could be a hired hit man you’ve never met.”
Stephen flexed his wounded arm. “We’ll meet soon enough. And on my terms. I have a score to settle.”
She shivered at the deadly determination in his voice. In all the years she’d known him, Stephen had never made empty promises.
“In the meantime,” he continued, “I’ll make a deal with you.”
“What kind of deal?”
“You hike to the farmhouse for help—”
“That’s already a given.”
“—and when we meet the Kidbroughs, you go with Jessica.”
“What? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Makes sense,” he insisted. “The Kidbroughs can find you both a hiding place, so you won’t have to be separated from Jessica.”
“And what about you?”
“I’ll keep looking for whoever’s after us.”
“How? Your amnesia has you flying blind, like a pilot without instruments in a storm.”
“I remembered the Scully bit. I’m counting on my other memories returning.”
She shook her head. “Amnesia’s a crazy thing. It could take years for all your memories to return—if they return at all.”
“I refuse to place you and your child in more danger. I must have been crazy to have dragged you into this in the first place.”
The caring in his voice warmed her. So many times in the past months, she’d longed for someone to share her burdens, someone she could trust, someone she loved—although, she attempted to assure herself, she loved him only as a good friend. Still, his concern comforted her and made her feel not only safe, but special. She hadn’t felt special since Brad abandoned her at the church on her wedding day.
She wrenched herself from the spellbinding comfort of Stephen’s concern. “I can’t hide forever. I have a job, a child to support. The sooner I help you find who’s after us, the sooner I can get back to my life.”
He pulled her closer, and his hand cupped her face in the darkness. “Rachel—”
Suddenly the beams of headlights blinked as if out of nowhere on the road ahead and shot through the car.
Reacting instantly, Stephen shoved Rachel to the floor and placed Jessica in her arms. “Stay down. I’ll handle this.”
Light expanded inside the Explorer as the vehicle approached, and the chugging roar of an engine shattered the stillness of the night. Stephen exited the car and, gun drawn, crouched behind the open door.
“You folks need help?” a drawling voice called above the clatter of the engine.
Rachel struggled to hear the newcomer’s words over the roaring pulse of fear beating in her ears.
“Tire’s in a gully, and we’re stuck,” Stephen answered. “Can you pull us out?”
“Maybe,” the voice said. “I’ll have to take a look.”
Metal ground against metal as gears wrenched and the approaching vehicle’s engine halted. Clutching Jessica close, Rachel peered above the edge of the seat. A dark silhouette appeared before the headlights.
“Is it him?” she whispered to Stephen, “the gunman?”
Stephen held the Maglite out to the side, as he’d been FBI-trained in order not to present a ready target, and flipped on the beam.
A short, barrel-shaped man with a weather-beaten face blinked in the light. His hands dangled loosely at his sides, and his plaid flannel jacket was zipped tight over faded overalls. If he had a weapon, it wasn’t visible. Or accessible. Stephen dipped the light lower. At the man’s side trotted a magnificent German shepherd.
“I’m Clayton Jones,” the newcomer called, “and this here is Rusty. But don’t be scared. He looks mean, but he’s gentle as a bunny rabbit.”
Behind the open door Stephen holstered his gun, then stepped into the open and approached the farmer. Rachel watched, one arm around Jessica, the other hand grasping the butt of her automatic, ready to draw in an instant if trouble aros
e.
The stocky little man ambled to the front of the Explorer, squatted beside the left tire and studied the wheel and the terrain. His dog sat on the edge of the road beside him.
“Good thing I brought Betsy,” Clayton Jones said.
“Betsy?” Stephen asked. “You said the dog’s name is Rusty.”
“It is.” The farmer chuckled. “Betsy’s over there. I’ve had her forty-five years, even longer than Sadie.”
“Sadie?” Stephen said with a frown.
“Sadie’s my wife. Betsy’s my John Deere.”
Stephen broke into a relieved grin and flashed Rachel an encouraging smile through the windshield. “You brought your tractor?”
Clayton stood and pushed back his sweat-stained, billed cap. “Saved me a trip back for her, didn’t it?”
“You knew we were here?” Stephen said.
“I was watching your lights coming down the mountain. Saw ‘em from the barnyard. When they stopped and switched off, I remembered this washed-out section of the old road from this past summer when we came berry picking up this way.” He grinned and smacked his lips. “Sadie makes the best blackberry jam in the valley. Anyways, I reckoned y’all were stuck, so I brung the tractor and a length of chain. Figured I’d pull you out afore you froze to death in the cold.”
“Mr. Jones,” Stephen said, “you are the answer to a prayer. Now, let me help you with that chain.”
Convinced of Clayton Jones’s goodwill, Rachel climbed from the Explorer with Jessica in her arms and watched Stephen and the farmer attach a chain first to the vehicle and then to the ancient tractor. Rusty dogged his owner’s footsteps like a black-andtan shadow.
Clayton scampered onto the tractor seat with surprising alacrity for a man of his age and turned the starter. Clattering to life, Betsy belched foul-smelling smoke and began to move. Within minutes Clayton and Betsy had dragged the Explorer out of the gully onto solid ground.
“This road’s clear straight down to the highway,” he called over his shoulder, “so you folks shouldn’t have any problems from here on out.”
“We’re very grateful for your help,” Stephen said.
“Don’t mention it,” the cheerful little man said. “That’s why the good Lord put us on this earth, to help each other.” He nodded at Rachel, his glance taking in the baby in her arms. “Why don’t you folks join us for supper? Sadie’ll have it ready by the time we get there.”
“Thanks,” Rachel said, “but we have people waiting for us, and we’re late already.”
“There’s something else you can do to help.” Stephen reached into his pocket, pulled out the thin leather folder that held his gold FBI shield and ID card, and showed them to Clayton. “I’m trying to get this woman and her child away from kidnappers who’re after her. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention to anyone that you’ve seen us.”
“FBI, eh?” Clayton rubbed his chin and his blue eyes twinkled. “Be careful where you flash that badge in these hills, young feller. If som’un mistakes you for revenuers, you could be shot.”
“Thanks for the tip,” Stephen shook Clayton’s hand. “And your help.”
The farmer threw the tractor into gear and yelled above the clatter, “Follow me. I’ll have you off the mountain in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
STEPHEN STOOD beneath the pulsing shower in the motel bathroom and let the rush of hot water pound the aches from his muscles. The firm twin bed in the other room beckoned. Even without remembering, he’d be willing to bet he’d never been so tired. And with good reason. Over thirty-six hours without sleep, a bullet wound in the arm and a knock on the head that had canceled his memories. Not to mention climbing down the side of one hell of a mountain.
He turned off the water and grinned to himself. As Jack used to say, at least it beat a sharp stick in the eye.
Where did that recollection come from? And who’s Jack?
Bits and pieces of his memory were returning, as insubstantial—and as useless—as dust motes in sunlight. hy couldn’t he remember the most important information, like who’d shot him? And why?
He grabbed a towel from the rack and rubbed the water from his body with a ferocity that made his skin tingle. He’d had his own score to settle before, but after he’d observed the pain and sorrow on Rachel’s face as she watched the Kidbroughs drive away with Jessica, his determination to demand a payback from the scum who stalked them had doubled. In spades.
The jeans he’d taken from the cabin closet were a perfect fit. Either he and Uncle George were the same size, or Stephen had left clothes of his own in the closet. He ran his palm over his two-day stubble. Tomorrow he’d buy a razor. And a comb. He raked his fingers through his damp hair and grimaced at himself in the mirror when he noted the bullet wound blossoming like a pink rosebud on his bicep. It ached like the devil, but the pain was the least of his worries.
Thinking Rachel had already gone to sleep, he eased open the bathroom door and tiptoed into the main room, but both twin beds were empty. Only the dim light from the embers in the fireplace illuminated the room. Rachel stood in the shadows, gazing out the window at the darkness beyond.
The sight of her took his breath away.
Her thick, blond hair, drying into a mass of luxurious curls, cascaded across her shoulders. After her shower, she had donned one of the flannel shirts he’d filched from Uncle George’s closet. With her arms crossed over her breasts, the shirt molded to the enticing curves of her bottom and exposed her legs, surprisingly long and coltish for a woman so petite. Pink, pearlized polish glistened on the nails of her bare feet.
In spite of his fatigue, hot, powerful desire spiked through him. With it came another memory. Rachel, asleep beside him, her magnificent hair fanned across the navy-blue pillowcases of his bed. Gripped by the intensity of the image, he started toward her, but common sense pulled him up short. That scene was no memory, but a figment of his own desire. Hadn’t Rachel insisted they’d been just good friends? Like brother and sister, she’d said.
But the feelings he had for her didn’t fit the situation she’d described. More than anything, he wanted to hold her—
Stop!
In disgust, he jammed his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He was married or, according to Rachel, at least engaged. In Atlanta, the woman to whom he’d pledged his love waited and worried. He couldn’t allow himself to be caught up in the intimate circumstances of this situation and betray her.
When Rachel turned from the window, and he saw the tears tracking her cheeks, his good intentions vanished. In three quick strides he was beside her, drawing her into his arms, stroking her hair, whispering soft words of consolation, holding her against his heart.
She hadn’t cried when Jessica left, and he had admired her stoicism. She must have known her tears would have frightened her daughter. Neither had Rachel cried on the short drive to Flat Rock, where they’d found the motel made up of tiny cabins and registered under the name of Mr. and Mrs. Clayton Jones. But now sobs racked her body as if her heart was breaking.
“She’s so little,” Rachel wept against his bare chest, “and she’s never been away from me overnight. She won’t understand why I’ve deserted her.”
He tightened his arms around her and buried his face in her hair, fragrant with the scent of orange blossom shampoo. “She’s safe. You have to keep reminding yourself of that. And the Kidbroughs will keep her happy.”
“I know,” she lifted her face to his and shot him a self-deprecating smile through her tears, “but I’m not happy. I miss her.”
He couldn’t help himself. Blaming the blow to his head, he lowered his lips to hers and kissed her as he’d wanted to since he’d first opened his eyes at his uncle’s cabin. She tasted of salty tears and orange blossoms and a unique honeyed sweetness that sent his blood roaring through his veins.
She lifted her arms to his neck and strained on tiptoe against him, and he was only seconds from lifting her in his arms and carrying her to
bed when she dropped her arms and pulled away.
Her green eyes were clouded and dazed as she stared up at him, breathless, with deep color staining her cheeks. “I don’t think that kiss was a good idea.”
He grinned sheepishly. “It seemed so, at the time.”
She shook her head. “You were just feeling sorry for me.”
“Yeah,” he lied.
Sorry was the last thing he’d felt. But she was right. Getting emotionally involved wasn’t a good idea, even if he didn’t have a wife waiting at home. They needed to concentrate on finding the person who stalked them. Distractions, no matter how delicious, could get them both killed.
“We’d better get some sleep,” he said, and silently cursed the huskiness that emotion had left in his voice. “We have work to do tomorrow.”
“Okay.” She avoided his eyes as she stepped around him and headed toward the twin bed farthest from the door.
He exerted all his self-control to keep from reaching for her again as she brushed past him.
“First thing tomorrow,” he said, “we’ll get some cash at an ATM. Credit cards would leave a trail our stalker could follow.”
“Good idea,” she murmured.
“That’s assuming I have an ATM card.” He took his wallet from the desk where he’d placed the contents from his pockets and rummaged through it. “Here it is.”
When he yanked the ATM card from its slot, a folded piece of paper dropped to the floor. He retrieved it and smoothed it open on the desk.
“What is it?” Rachel asked.
“A drawing of a spiderweb. Why would I carry that in my wallet?”
She crossed the room to study the sketch. “It’s a tattoo.”
“A tattoo? Was I thinking of getting one?” The idea seemed foreign, but the drawing was familiar.
She shook her head. “You don’t remember?”
A recollection flitted at the edge of his consciousness, but he couldn’t grab it. “We’ve seen this before?”
Her face paled in the dim light. “In Savannah, on Margaret Maitland’s kidnapper. And I have a feeling we’re going to see it again.”
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