She stretched out along the couch as Mitch bent over the guitar like a father cradling a baby. A peep from the pitch pipe got him started, and then he tuned each string in turn, tightening the pegs as he checked and rechecked the harmony.
Kate’s body responded as if he were stroking her instead of the instrument. Each arpeggio became a massage; with each twist of a peg, his fingers seemed to probe and ease her sore muscles.
The thrum of rain outside and occasional gusts of wind rocking the truck heightened her sense that they had taken refuge together. As long as they huddled close in their cocoon, she had nothing to fear.
Mitch began with an old Don McLean song, one of Kate’s favorites, “And I Love You So.” His fingers rippled across the strings and his unhurried baritone filled the empty spaces of her heart.
The words about a man who has survived loneliness and found love seemed to well from deep within him. He gazed into space, only occasionally noticing the placement of his fingers.
Kate couldn’t move and she didn’t want to. It was impossible to separate the rich timber of his voice from the emotion that wrapped around her. Mitch might be lost in his music, but he was lost in it with Kate.
She had gained the sense, almost from the moment they met, that he was a man forced by fate to be solitary but who was by nature capable of great warmth. Now she couldn’t help picturing him as master of his own hearth, tenderly sharing it with his family, protecting and nurturing them.
Kate had never been the sort of woman who sought a protector, or who believed in head-over-heels passion. She didn’t need to be wooed with bouquets of roses; she could grow her own.
But suddenly she wasn’t sure she wanted the man who shared those roses to be Moose.
The realization startled her. When and why had she begun doubting her plans for the future?
“What are you thinking about?” Mitch murmured as the song ended.
“Roses,” she responded distractedly.
The chords rippled, and he segued into “The Rose.” It was followed by melodies from Celine Dion and Elton John and then a catchy Caribbean number from Harry Belafonte, with the pelting of rain providing a percussion background.
Kate released her disturbing thoughts. She was far away from Grazer’s Comers. Everything would look different when she got home.
The last piece he sang was “The Music of the Night.” The melancholy half-light in the camper fused with the music to form long, shivering shadows in Kate’s soul.
Yet she felt no fear of the darkness, only a sense of longing for something she had never known. Something that might already have passed out of reach.
Mitch’s voice touched and caressed her, and she savored every rich note of it. As he murmured the sensual lyrics, her lips tingled, and heat flowed to her core, and her breasts felt ripe, as if ready for harvest.
Kate didn’t know herself. She ought to be frightened, perhaps even repulsed by the wanton way her eyes feasted on Mitch’s hands, and on the muscles bulging in his forearms as he strummed.
But she wasn’t. For one liquid, silvery space in time, caught in the stream of her own awakening sensuality, she lost all sense of duty and order. It was inconceivable that nature would create such splendid vistas inside her, without good reason.
The last note vibrated away so slowly that she couldn’t tell when it ended. Then there was nothing left except the pelting of rain, not a single whisper of music to ease the tension charging the air.
Mitch lifted his head, and their gazes met. She read an invitation, and knew that if she didn’t answer, her desire would answer for her.
But she must not make such a decision now, seduced by song and accidental intimacy. If she could only force herself to be strong, this weakness would pass, and then she would remember that this was not the place where she belonged, and this was not the man she belonged with.
Her thoughts must have shown in her face, because Mitch moved away to set the instrument in its niche. He kept his face averted until he returned with a deck of cards and a blank expression.
“Sorry, but this is the only other form of entertainment we’ve got,” he said as he shuffled deftly. “Lady’s choice. What shall we play?”
“Anything but Hearts,” she said.
MITCH SPENT AN uneasy night dozing on the unfolded couch, which must have grown new lumps since the last time he’d checked it. Above on the bed overlying the truck cab, Kate should have had a more comfortable rest, but he could hear her tossing and turning.
They’d strayed dangerously close to the fire today. He had watched her slowly ignite as he sang, and it had taken all his strength not to put the guitar aside and take her in his arms.
And he would have taken her, given the slightest encouragement. Thank goodness she had held fast to her standards.
Mitch Connery wasn’t a callous seducer who could steal a bride from her wedding, make love to her and then abandon her. But he was wanted for murder. He could make no promises now.
And even if that weren’t so, he couldn’t give up his ranch and follow Kate back to her hometown, which he suspected would be necessary if he were to keep her.
A ranch wasn’t just a piece of land, or a way to earn an income. It formed a living, breathing entity, an entire world of people and animals. They were born and grew and loved and lost within its boundaries, and then bequeathed their hopes and challenges to the next generation.
He could be happy with that sort of life, hard as it might be. But he doubted Kate ever could.
By midmorning Wednesday, the rain slacked off enough that they dared return to the freeway. It worried Mitch that the Tiny Wheeler Gang had such a big head start en route to Santa Fe, and he didn’t want to waste any time.
The spirits must have been conspiring against him, however, because on the outskirts of Kingman, the troublesome left front tire blew itself to smithereens. Only a firm hand on the wheel and a lot of luck enabled him to jerk the truck onto the shoulder without serious damage.
Kate sat frozen in her seat, where the belt secured her in place. She hadn’t spoken much in the past twenty-four hours.
“You all right?” In case she hadn’t grasped the fact, he added, “We blew a tire.”
Her eyes came into focus, as if she had just landed in the present after a long flight of fancy. “What do we do now?”
He watched the passing stream of traffic for a police car. The last thing they needed was to attract friendly attention that might turn hostile. “Change it as fast as possible.”
“You’ve got a spare?”
He shrugged. “I’ve got a hollow piece of rubber that passes for one.”
Fortunately for them, no one stopped. The town was aswarm with travelers en route to the Grand Canyon, so it was unlikely a casual passerby would notice or remember his out-of-state plates.
For the third time in nearly as many days, Mitch donned a pair of coveralls and set to work. After putting on the spare, it took several hours to locate a new tire of the correct size, which Kate paid for, and get it mounted and balanced.
Mitch had to admit, he didn’t know how he would have survived this latest setback without the lady’s help. He had fled Texas with a few hundred dollars in cash, all he’d been able to take out of his ATM. Gas, food and campground fees had eaten most of it, and he didn’t dare advertise his whereabouts by withdrawing any more money.
He would repay her, of course. A Connery always honored his debts. But had Kate not been along with her handy plastic money, he doubted the tire dealer would have taken a scribbled IOU based on nothing more than the word of a defrocked Texas rancher.
They passed another uneasy night, although at least this time they had the benefit of an RV camp with hookups. The camper’s water tank needed refilling and its battery recharging, and once again Mitch reluctantly let Kate pay the bill.
He was accustomed to silence and to his own thoughts, but her withdrawn air bothered him on Thursday as they drove to Flagstaff. The air was
crisp and pine-scented on this plateau, and they could see snow-covered peaks in the distance, but she seemed oblivious to the spare beauty of the high desert.
“What’s going on?” Mitch said.
“Excuse me?” She’d worn her glasses today, and they gave her an endearingly owlish aspect as she turned toward him.
“You’ve been freezing me out ever since my serenade.” He moved into the slow lane to let an oversize motor home with blue racing stripes rampage past at well over eighty miles per hour. “Is my singing that bad?”
She gave him a rueful grin. “It’s wonderful.”
“Having second thoughts about the rest of our journey?”
She shook her head.
“Help me out here,” Mitch said. “Is this some female thing you don’t want me to know about?”
Kate frowned. “Female thing? Like what?”
He didn’t know exactly what he meant, except that in his limited experience women frequently disappeared into rest rooms while making vague references to “girl stuff.” “I don’t know. PMS. Smeared makeup. A run in your panty hose. Whatever.” He wished with all his heart that he’d never brought the subject up.
“You know what?” Kate said. “You’re blushing.”
That made him even more self-conscious. Mitch couldn’t figure out why he’d tried to pry into her ruminations in the first place. She was probably figuring out new and humiliating ways to punish delinquent students and presumptuous cowboys.
“I guess it’s none of my business.” He exited the freeway and found himself on the old Route 66. “You hungry?”
“Starved.”
“Let’s pick something up.” It was early afternoon and Flagstaff, despite its modest population of around forty-five thousand, had enough fast-food eateries, trendy cafés and foreign restaurants to feed five times that many people.
“First an ATM.”
Mitch stopped near a sign advertising the Pine Country Pro Rodeo, and Kate withdrew money. Then they treated themselves to Chinese food, eaten in the camper by the side of the road.
“Where to next?” she asked when she came up for air.
Mitch had been studying his map. “We’ll swing south on State Route 89 toward Sedona. That’ll take us through Oak Creek Canyon.”
She nodded and went back to eating. But, although he loved Chinese food, Mitch found he wasn’t hungry. It was because of what lay ahead, and what he might, or might not, find at the cabin.
Even though the most serious problem facing him was the murder charge, more than anything he wanted the High C back. And he might not get it. Not now, not ever.
In the back of his mind, the idea had been building for the last year or so that the key must lie with Sarah Rosen, or in the cabin where Doc had died. There must be something he had missed during his previous trip.
Mitch recognized that at some level he’d been afraid to go back. Afraid he would find the cabin sold and remodeled, or maybe even learn that Billy Parkinson really had taken over the loan.
They finished eating and set out south from Flagstaff. Kate no longer appeared so preoccupied; instead, she was paying close attention to their surroundings.
“Some of these senior citizens are a real menace,” she observed as a truck pulling a silver trailer whipped past them. “Did you see the guy at the wheel? A little wizened fellow wearing goggles and grinning like he was driving the Indy 500.”
“He won’t make very good time,” Mitch observed. “In a guzzler like that, he’ll spend half his trip in the gas station.”
“And make up for it afterward by driving like a maniac.” Kate sighed. “Speaking of maniacs, I wonder where those bandits are.”
“Well ahead of us,” he said gloomily.
THE PREOCCUPATION that had descended upon Kate for the past two days had lifted abruptly. She wasn’t sure whether Mitch’s awkward questions or their arrival in Flagstaff deserved the credit, but it was a relief.
She had been replaying her reactions to Mitch over and over in her mind. It was hard to admit, at thirty-one, that she’d never considered herself a sexual person not because she wasn’t but because she’d never been truly aroused.
Kate expected herself to anticipate situations like this. She’d been primed for her wedding night, and then swept into a romantic semiabduction by an alluring man. No wonder she felt like an autumn leaf about to lose its grip on the branch.
She’d been struggling to get the upper hand over her susceptibility. That was proving difficult. Every time she glanced at Mitch, she noticed some new and intriguing detail—the way the sun had bleached the hair on the back of his arms, or how appealingly his amber eyes darkened when he frowned.
But now that they were less than an hour from the cabin, nervous excitement hummed through her. She wondered whether Sarah might be there, and what she would say. Besides, who could waste time worrying when they were passing through some of the most spectacular scenery on earth?
On either side of the narrow canyon loomed cliffs of blazing white, yellow and red. Gorges slashed the bluffs, and atop a rise she spotted a twisted rock formation that might have been sculpted by Martians.
Oak Creek might not compare to the Grand Canyon, which lay some eighty miles to the north. But here the scenery felt close enough to touch and far more pristine.
According to information on the back of the map, this road had begun as a cattle trail. Before that, Native Americans had lived throughout the area, fishing in the creek and raising corn, beans and squash.
Beside the road ran the creek bed, splashing along a boulder-strewn course and occasionally widening into pools. Kate wished she had time to stop and go wading.
She also wished that crazy man pulling the silver trailer had stayed ahead of them. Instead, he must have pulled over or taken a wrong turn, because he was behind them again, riding on their bumper.
With a grimace, Mitch steered as far as he could onto the shoulder, and the old geezer swooped by. Right behind him came a motor home painted with blue racing stripes. Kate glimpsed the driver, a large grizzled man with wisps of white hair sticking out beneath his golf cap.
“Two of a kind,” Mitch muttered. “They’ve both passed us before, and here they are again. With any luck, they’ll keep each other busy playing road tag and stay out of our way.”
“If they keep passing each other, they might hit oncoming traffic,” Kate said.
“What would you suggest we do? Make a citizen’s arrest?”
“Someone ought to.” Ahead, the vehicles vanished around a bend. The road’s downhill slant only added to their speed. “But it won’t be me.”
She remembered that day in Grazer’s Corners—could it be scarcely over a week ago?—when Moose had joked that she should give the van a ticket. She’d been so angry about getting elected sheriff that she’d confronted the occupants just to prove she could handle them.
Who had she thought she was? Kate wondered. She didn’t want to be sheriff; she just wanted to do the best she could for the students at her school.
People told her that, in partnership with her teachers, she had worked wonders in bringing order out of chaos. To Kate the real miracle wasn’t the rising test scores; it was the joy she felt every time she made a difference in a young life.
“Well, look at that.” Mitch pointed ahead. The truck-trailer and the motor home had stopped at the edge of the road. The two white-haired drivers stood shouting and waving fists at each other.
There was no oncoming traffic, and Mitch drove by cautiously. Kate didn’t see any sign that the two RVs had hit each other, but tempers were boiling over and perhaps radiators were, too.
“Those boys need to grow up,” she grumbled. “I’d have them each write an essay on the need to slow down and smell the roses. Then I’d make them take a refresher course in driver’s ed.”
“It might also help if someone pointed out their liability should they cause an accident,” Mitch agreed. “They could lose everything they own.”
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“Spoken like a lawyer.”
“Sorry.”
The altitude was dropping sharply, Kate realized as her ears popped. “Are we getting near the cabin?”
“Just a few more miles.” The words came out tightly. “We’ll have to keep our eyes peeled for the turnoff. It’s easy to miss.”
The road curved again. The canyon was so narrow here, Kate doubted it measured even a mile across.
As they cornered, she spotted a dirt road a quarter of a mile ahead. “Is that—?”
From behind a boulder emerged a rusty brown van. It lumbered across the highway and halted, blocking their path. To their right lay a sheer rock face; to their left, the creek ran close by the road.
They had driven into an ambush.
Chapter Eight
Two of the bandits burst from the van, shotguns in hand. Despite their masks, Kate could see that the tall, lanky one was grinning.
White-hot fury boiled through her. She hated leering Dexter Dinkens and—what had Mitch called the short thin guy with the cold eyes?—oh, yes, Nine Toes Blankenship. And big bulking Tiny Wheeler, sitting behind the wheel.
“Get down on the floor!” Mitch barked as he snatched his gun from beneath the seat.
Kate fumbled with her shoulder belt Before she could get it off, she heard a sound like thunder behind them. In the road, the two bandits looked up, puzzled.
Dropping the gun, Mitch put the truck into gear. He yanked the wheel to the right until they pressed so close to the rock face she could have reached out and touched it.
Ahead of them, the van spun backward, its wheels kicking up loose gravel as it retreated toward the boulder. Gaping in confusion, Dexter performed a dance of indecision. Nine Toes stood his ground.
“Hang on.” Mitch pressed Kate against the door. “Whoever’s coming might clip us.”
Her fingers dug into the armrest. Yet, oddly, she felt no panic. Mitch’s body was like a shield, sheltering and guarding her.
The Cowboy & The Shotgun Bride (The Brides of Grazer's Corners #1) Page 11