She'd vanished into nowhere.
God. Where was she now? Please, let her be all right.
He'd checked every inch of the damn parking lot, gone through the coffee shop from end to end, including both rest rooms. She was nowhere to be found. Then he'd driven up and down the frontage road. Nothing.
He even took the ramp onto the highway and headed for the next exit, at which he'd turned around and gone back the other way, making a loop in both directions for a distance of fifteen miles.
Now, he was reasonably certain she'd managed to hitch a ride during that crucial two minutes when he'd been signing into the room. She hadn't even taken her purse with her, the little fool. What did she think she was going to do with herself without even a quarter for a phone call, wandering around in a freezing rainstorm wearing only a pair of cotton slacks and a big pink shirt with a cat's face on it?
He prayed that whoever had picked her up was a decent human being. And he swore that when he found her, he would wring her pretty white neck.
Because he would find her. There was no question of that. He'd found more than one person who'd tried to disappear. That was what he was best at: hunting down the missing, whether they wanted to be found or not.
Something wasn't the same.
Slowly Olivia opened her eyes. She saw the ceiling, close enough to touch. Where was she?
She remembered. The big truck with the woman's face painted on the side. She'd crawled into the sleeping compartment, and the truck had driven away from the Highway Haven Motel. And from Jack.
But she wasn't going to think about Jack. Not right now.
She had to figure out what wasn't the same.
Then it came to her. The truck had stopped.
Olivia lay very still, listening for sounds that would tell her the driver was still in the cab. She heard nothing but the steady drone of rain on the roof.
Cautiously she pushed the warm cocoon of covers back and dared a peek into the cab. There was no one there.
Shy as a turtle she withdrew her head from between the curtains. She groped for her shoes, found them and slid them on, though they felt as sodden and squishy as water-logged newspaper.
She slid off the edge of the bed onto the floor. The sudden movement caused a mild bout of dizziness. She paused a moment for the dizziness to pass. Once her equilibrium had returned, she patted at her damp, tangled hair and pressed the pads of her fingers against her eyes. She straightened her soggy pink slacks and smoothed her wrinkled shirt.
Then she drew in a deep breath and grasped the latch of the little door. It swung out. She jumped to the ground, right into a huge puddle.
Dejected, she looked down at herself. Now she was not only wrinkled and soggy, she was splattered with mud. The rain, steady and hard as it had been for what must have been hours now, poured down on her head, soaking her damp hair all over again.
Olivia shoved the door of the sleeper shut. It looked as if the truck was parked on the street of some small town or other. She was only a few steps from an old-fashioned covered sidewalk, so she took those steps.
She was out of the rain. And that was good. She was also standing by some sort of quaint store. The window by the door was painted with a rainbow. Over the rainbow, it said, Santino's BB&V. Below the rainbow, in smaller letters there was the explanation: Barber, Beauty And Variety: For All Your Household Needs.
Olivia walked on, shivering, wrapping her arms around herself, to the next door up, which belonged to Lily's Café. The sign said Homemade Eats. Breakfast Served All Day.
Both businesses were closed. She turned, now that the big truck no longer blocked the view, and looked up at the heavens. They were gray and angry and showed no stars or moon. In the distance a rim of hills touched the sky. The hills were covered with the dark, spiked shadows of evergreen trees.
Shivering harder, she turned and began walking the other way, down the street, past the café and the store called Santino's and another store that was named Fletcher Gold Sales. She was looking for a light or some sign that someone in this place was awake. As she walked, though she despised herself for doing it, she longed for Jack. She also wished that she could just crawl into a hole and pull the hole in after her.
The minute she cleared the big rig on the other end, she saw a business that was still open. It was the town tavern, across and a few doors down the street. The lights were on there. Music and laughter came from inside.
Even through the heavy numbness of her misery, she was drawn to the light and the voices like a hungry animal to the smell of food. She slogged out into the rain and trudged across the street.
The name of the place was written in lariat script on the window and over the door: The Hole in the Wall.
Olivia shivered even harder when she saw that. She was feeling so strange and dizzy, and she had wished for a hole to crawl into. And here it was.
Maybe she was dreaming. Maybe none of this was real. Maybe, in a few moments, she would wake beside Jack in his room in Las Vegas. He would wrap his arms around her and kiss her on the tip of her nose, and she would be so grateful because none of the awful things that had happened since this morning would have been true. It would all have been one long, distressingly vivid bad dream.
She could tell her crazy dream to Jack, and Jack would hold her close and rub her back and say she mustn't worry. It was only a nightmare. And now it was over. He would tip her chin up and look deeply into her eyes and she would sigh and offer her mouth eagerly for his kiss.
Olivia closed her eyes. She shook her head. She waited for the nightmare to end.
But when she opened her eyes again, she was still standing on the strange small-town street in front of a bar called the Hole in the Wall.
With a little moan she moved forward onto the sidewalk. Then she took the few steps to the double doors. She reached out both hands and pushed the doors open, slipping between them before they swung shut again. The moment she was inside, she shrank back into the shadows to the side of the doors.
Warmth. And smoke. And music and laughter.
There were a lot of people in this place. And they seemed to be having some kind of a party. Crepe paper streamers hung from the light fixtures, and there were balloons everywhere. There was a banner over the bar that read Happy Seventy-Seventh, Oggie.
In the center of the room an old man with his back to her was sitting in front of a cake. A very pregnant woman with strawberry hair bent near, lighting the candles, a lot of candles.
"Hey, Jared. 'Nother round down here," a voice called from the other end of the long bar to her left.
"Coming right up."
Olivia glanced toward the bartender when she heard his voice. He was a tall, dark man dressed all in black. His body was hard looking and lean, like Jack's, and he—
Olivia gasped as the man turned in her direction and she got a good look at his face. Oh, Lord. He looked like Jack. So much like Jack it was frightening.
The bartender must have heard her gasp. His eyes found her in the shadows. His eyes were gray eyes, not Jack's eyes at all. Olivia's heart slowed down a little.
"Can I help you, miss?" the bartender asked.
"I, uh…"
All at once everyone began to sing "Happy Birthday" to Oggie. There was much stomping and whistling and several catcalls.
"Settle down, you hooligans," the old man groused. "I got a lot of candles here. This is going to be some job." Slowly the old man pushed himself to his feet.
"Miss?" the bartender asked again.
Olivia hardly heard him. Absently she waved away his question. She was noticing more individual faces now. And there were several in the circle closest to the old man that reminded her of Jack. And there was a blond woman. A blond woman who looked just like the painting on the side of the truck that had brought Olivia to this unknown place.
Olivia trembled. Her heart raced. Could she be hallucinating? It was surely possible after all she'd been through.
The old
man drew in a huge breath and blew. He got half the candles. He blew again. "That does it," he declared. "Cut the damn thing, will you, Eden?"
"Miss?" It was the bartender again. Somehow he'd come around the bar and was at her side without her even noticing that he'd moved. "Are you all right?"
She waved him away again and began to move, like a sleepwalker, toward the people and the cake and the old man.
"Get her a stiff one, Jared," a man's voice wryly suggested. "She looks like she needs it."
The tall, pregnant redhead looked up then from cutting the first slice of birthday cake. She drew in a sharp breath.
"Oh, my God." The pregnant woman set down her knife. "Jared, she's drenched. Get a blanket from the back room. Now." The pregnant woman moved then, pushing through the press of people. She had a beautiful, kind face with a wide mouth and big dark eyes.
Olivia watched the pregnant woman coming, until a movement from the old man distracted her. She blinked and shifted her gaze to him as he slowly turned to look her way.
Olivia heard a tiny, mewling cry and didn't even know it was coming from her own mouth.
It wasn't possible. It must be a dream. But the old man's eyes—small, beady eyes—reminded her quite forcefully of Jack. It made no sense. They weren't like Jack's eyes at all. Except for the color.
Obsidian.
Yes, obsidian eyes. And the set of the old man's jaw, the shape of his mouth. So much about him. Like Jack.
It was too much for Olivia. Slowly, and then faster and faster, the room began to spin.
Suddenly all the people were converging on her. Their concerned expressions and exclamations of surprise overwhelmed her.
She sank into unconsciousness, her last awareness that of strong, unseen arms catching her before she hit the floor.
* * *
Chapter 9
« ^ »
"There. She's coming around," a man's voice said.
Cautiously Olivia opened her eyes. A man was bending over her. "Can you hear me?" the man asked.
Olivia managed a nod as she became aware that someone had put a pillow under her head and tucked a warm blanket around her body. "What happened?"
"You fainted." The man smiled. "I'm Will Bacon. I run the local medical clinic. We were just trying to decide whether to call for the ambulance or not."
Olivia struggled to sit up. Gently the man eased her back down. "Relax. Don't push yourself."
Olivia blinked and shifted her glance from the man's kind face. She drew in a sharp breath when she saw that there were people all around, looking down at her.
"Step back everyone," Will Bacon said. "Don't crowd her."
The ring of faces receded a little.
"Find out who she is," another man whispered.
"Let's not worry about that now," a woman said. Olivia sought the voice. It was the pregnant redhead from her strange dream—the dream that seemed not to have ended, after all. "She appears to be thoroughly exhausted more than anything. What do you think, Will?"
"Yes, I'd say that's exactly her problem," Will Bacon agreed. "What she probably needs most right now is a good night's sleep in a warm, dry place."
"Sam and I have plenty of room," a small, voluptuous black-haired woman offered. "She can spend the night with us."
Olivia stared at the black-haired woman. She was one of the people who resembled Jack.
"Well, what do you say?" Will asked. "We can call the ambulance, if you want. Or you can spend the night at Delilah's house."
Olivia looked around at all the curious and concerned faces. She felt an instinctive trust for these people. Even if half of them did look like Jack.
Or perhaps because half of them looked like Jack.
"It's up to you," Will prompted softly. "Would you like to go to the hospital, or stay at Sam and Delilah's?"
"Sam and Delilah's, please," Olivia said.
"Good enough." Will looked up. "Patrick, why don't you carry her out to your four-by-four?"
"Sure."
A man came and bent beside her. His hair was brown and his eyes were blue. But he had Jack's chin. Olivia closed her eyes.
With great care, the man, Patrick, slid his arms beneath her and hoisted her, still wrapped in the warm blanket, against his chest. Then Patrick stood and carried her out into the rain and the darkness and gently slid her into the front seat of a vehicle.
The drive to Sam and Delilah's house was a short one. To Olivia it seemed that they'd barely started and they were there. The man named Patrick carried her in the front door. Inside, the black-haired woman, Delilah, took charge.
"This way, carefully." Delilah led the way up a flight of stairs. "I have the bed turned down."
They took her into a large, blue room and eased her onto a firm double bed.
In the doorway the old man with the obsidian eyes was watching, leaning on a cane. "Hell. She's a cute little thing, ain't she?"
"Forget it, Father," Delilah said. "You're out of sons to match her up with. And you and Patrick may go. We want to get her out of those wet things."
Grumbling, the old man turned and stumped off down the hall. Patrick followed. Olivia was left with four women: Delilah, a fine-boned brunette, the pregnant red-haired woman and the blonde whose likeness had been painted on the side of the truck.
The brunette was at Olivia's feet, sliding off her soggy shoes. "Your feet are like ice." Her warm, soft hands rubbed them in a wonderful massage.
Olivia sighed in pleasure as her poor toes grew warmer at last.
"Can you sit up?" the blonde asked. "We've got to get these wet clothes off."
"Come on," the redhead clucked. "We'll be gentle." They eased Olivia to a sitting position and carefully helped her to remove her mud-stained clothes.
"Here we go." Delilah held out a white cotton nightgown. "Lift up your arms."
Feeling like a child with four tender mothers, Olivia obediently held her hands high. The soft fabric whispered over her head and was smoothed down her tired body by gentle hands.
"Now, her hair." The brunette was ready with a big, fluffy towel. She dried Olivia's hair with the towel, and then the blonde appeared with a brush. Olivia received a hundred strokes.
"Now you can lie down," the redhead said.
Olivia gratefully stretched out once more.
Delilah tucked the covers snugly around her.
"Rest now," the brunette murmured, smoothing Olivia's hair back as if she were a child.
"Thank you."
"You are most welcome."
Olivia watched as the women went to the door. "Good night," she said.
They whispered four good-nights in turn and then they left her, switching off the light and closing the door very softly behind them.
Once she was alone, Olivia stared at the closed door through the darkness for a long while as a lovely feeling of peace stole over her. A smile took form on her lips.
She'd made a terrible mess of things, she knew. And yet, some deep instinct told her that all was not lost.
She'd divested herself of all her worldly possessions save the clothes on her back. She'd wandered, lost and alone in a rainstorm until she reached the end of nowhere.
And the people there had taken her in. She had the peculiar sense that she was exactly where she belonged at last. Simple human kindness surrounded her. It did a lot to heal her wounded heart.
Thinking of her heart, she thought of Jack.
Oddly enough, her thoughts were tender.
She was beginning to forgive him, she realized. Now, safe in a warm bed, due to the kindness of strangers, she could let herself remember the real concern on his face when he picked her up on that deserted road. She could allow herself to recall that she'd heard her father fire him on the phone, which meant that when Jack came after her, he'd most likely done it on his own.
Poor Jack. The more she thought about him, the guiltier she felt. He was probably going out of his mind with worry. And her father. Oh, Lord. Olivia co
uldn't even bear to think about what her father was doing now.
Yes, she'd made a mess of things, all right. She had no idea at all how she was going to go about righting all the wrong she'd done.
But she would work it out. Somehow tomorrow she would deal with it all. But for now she was simply too worn-out.
Olivia turned on her side and rested her cheek on her hand. Her eyelids drooped closed. With a sigh, she surrendered to her tired body's need for sleep.
Jack wasn't so lucky.
He sat on his bed in his room at the Highway Haven and watched the blinking of the motel sign reflected in the windshield of a truck across the parking lot.
He was thinking of forget-me-not eyes. And the dusting of freckles across a certain pert nose.
He was willing Olivia to be all right.
With a low, crude oath, he looked at his watch. Past eleven.
He thought of Lawrence Larrabee, who was probably in Las Vegas by now. And going insane with worry over Olivia, just as Jack was.
It would only be asking for more abuse to call the man and tell him what was going on. It was the last thing Jack should do.
But still, he picked up the phone and got the number of the Vegas hotel where he and Olivia had stayed. He punched up the number, calling himself a fool after each digit.
When the hotel operator answered, he asked for Lawrence Larrabee's room. "I'll connect you," the operator said.
Larrabee picked up before the first ring had stopped. "Hello, this is Lawrence Larrabee."
Jack dragged in a breath. "This is Jack Roper."
A barrage of heated epithets erupted from the phone. Jack waited until they petered out a little, then asked, "Do you want to know what's going on or not?"
"Of course I do, you lowlife. How is she? Where is she? Is she all right?"
"Settle down, Lawrence." Jack waited.
After a moment, in a very controlled voice, Larrabee said, "All right. I'm calm. Tell me everything. From this morning on."
A HOME FOR THE HUNTER Page 10