by C. B. Clark
She moaned again.
The pitiful sound crushed something inside him, and he fought the overriding urge to wrap his arms around her and ease her pain.
Her eyes fluttered open, and she raised a trembling hand. Another groan filled the night.
“Are you all right?” He cursed. Stupid question. Of course she wasn’t all right.
She winced with pain, her eyes bleary and unfocused. “Declan?”
“It’s okay. I’m here.” He choked over the thick lump in his throat.
A look of relief washed over her pale face. “What happened?”
He blinked back tears. “You were in a car accident. Don’t you remember?”
Her eyes were too large for her elfin face. “An accident?”
He crouched before her, wiping the blood from her chin with the pad of his thumb. “Where are you injured?”
“My neck hurts.” She touched the back of her neck and grimaced.
“Don’t move. I’ll call an ambulance.” The second he said the words, he cursed again. Stupid. He couldn’t call for help. There wasn’t any cell phone service here. “I don’t want to move you. Wait here while I go and get help.”
A look of terror crossed her face, and she reached for him. “No, don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.”
He grasped her quavering hand, rubbing the icy skin between his hands. “Don’t worry. I won’t leave you.” I’ll never leave you. The thought rocked him back on his heels. Undoing her seatbelt, he prayed he wasn’t doing more harm than good. With infinite care, he eased her from behind the steering wheel and into his arms.
She rested her head against his chest and clung to him, her arms looped around his neck. “Why are you always rescuing me?” she whispered, her amber eyes fuzzy with pain.
He swallowed, his mouth dry. “Habit, I guess.”
She lifted an arm and caressed his beard-roughened cheek. “Thank you.”
His skin burned where she touched. Her delicate fragrance wafted in the damp air. The soft mounds of her breasts pressed against his chest. He clasped her tighter.
She yelped and grabbed for the back of her neck, her face blanching.
He loosened his embrace. Get a grip, man. She’s injured. Careful not to stumble on the uneven ground, he carried her to his car and eased her onto the passenger seat. Closing the door, he strode around to the driver’s side and slid in beside her.
The glow from the lights on the dash, and the heat spewing from the vents, created an intimate atmosphere, protected from the rain and the wind buffeting the tiny car.
She closed her eyes and rested her head against the headrest. A bump the size of a golf ball swelled on her forehead.
His heart skipped a beat thinking how close he’d come to losing her. “What happened?” he husked.
She opened her eyes. “I was at Rankin’s Farm. A vehicle must have followed me when I left. I tried to outrun it, but the SUV was going too fast.” She hiccupped a sob. “When it passed me, I thought it was over, that I was overreacting, but…”
A chill settled over him. “But what?”
“The SUV stopped right in front of me.” Her lower lip trembled.
He scowled. Was she saying what he thought she was? Had someone deliberately smashed into her? His blood boiled. He opened his mouth to demand she tell him all the details, but her pallid complexion and sunken eyes revealed the heavy toll his questioning was taking on her. He dialed back his anger and softened his voice. “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me now. We should get you to a doctor.”
“No doctor, please. I’m fine.”
“What do you mean? Of course you have to see a doctor. You’ve been in an accident. You might have a concussion.”
She grabbed his arm, her grip surprisingly strong. “I have to tell you what happened.”
One glance at those amber eyes, and he was lost. Despite his certainty she should see a doctor, he found himself nodding. “Okay, no doctor. For now.”
She swiped a shaking hand over her eyes. “The SUV backed into me.” She blinked back tears. “I couldn’t get out of the way.”
“Are you saying this wasn’t an accident?”
“The other car crashed into me on purpose.”
The other car crashed into me on purpose. Her words reverberated between them. He remembered the speeding SUV he’d passed. Fire burned low in his belly, dissolving the icy pall of fear filling him from the first moment he’d seen her mangled car on the side of the road. This was no accident. It was a deliberate act of violence. She could have been killed. The thought left him breathless, fueling the fury roaring through him.
The driver who’d hit her had to be the same person who’d shot out her tire the night she arrived in town, and slashed her tires in the motel parking lot. The bastard had upped the ante. No longer content to simply frighten her; he wanted to hurt her, to stop her from finding out who killed Skye. He tightened his hands into fists. He’d kill the bastard.
“Declan?”
Her soft voice broke through his fury.
“Who would do this to me?” Her voice was barely audible.
The fear on her ashen face shattered his heart. He didn’t want to frighten her any more, but he refused to sugarcoat the truth. The more afraid she was, the more careful she’d be. “The jerk who rammed your car was most likely the same person who killed Skye.”
She flinched as if he’d hit her. “There’s something I haven’t told you.”
“What?” He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what etched the fear deeper into her pale face.
“There’s a cloth.”
“What cloth?”
“The one someone put in my car when I was at the farm.”
“I told you not to go there alone, and now you tell me someone put something in your car?”
“I sensed someone watching me, and when I returned to my car, a piece of Skye’s scarf was lying on the passenger seat on top of my purse.”
The world tilted, and he gripped the steering wheel to hold steady. “Are you sure the cloth you saw was part of her scarf?”
“It looked exactly like the piece you showed me, the one you found in the barn.”
He clenched his jaw. Skye’s killer had been at the farm when Carrie Ann was there alone.
“There’s more.” Her voice was small.
More? What more could there be? Wasn’t it enough the killer had left part of Skye’s scarf in Carrie Ann’s car as a warning, and then rammed into her, trying to kill her?
“Something’s written on the silk.”
“What?” He braced himself, his fingers digging into the seat’s cheap upholstery.
“Guilty is written in large, black letters on one side.”
He jolted upright, banging his head against the roof of the car. What the hell was the killer’s game? Why place a piece of Skye’s scarf in the old barn for him to find, and another in Carrie Ann’s car? “Where’s the cloth now?”
“It was on the passenger seat.” She sat up, but fell back with a groan, rubbing the back of her neck. “I have to get it. The sheriff has to see it.”
“You stay here. I’ll find the cloth.” He opened the door to a blast of freezing rain. Welcoming the cold and wet, he trudged to her car. Using the illumination from his car’s headlights, he examined the front of her car. The fender was dented and part of the hood smashed. He crouched down and peered closer. A long streak of black paint was embedded in the front bumper’s red, heavy-duty plastic.
Fury thundered through him. He’d kill this bastard when he found him, but first he had to find the piece of Skye’s scarf in Carrie Ann’s car. The killer’s fingerprints could be on the fabric.
Leaning in the driver’s open door, he studied the interior of the car. Nothing was on the passenger seat, and the light was too dim to see if anything was on the floor. He tramped around the car, slipping and sliding on the muddy grass at the edge of the ditch. Yanking open the passenger door, he crouched down and peered inside.
Her purse lay on the floor, but no scrap of vibrant silk. He searched under the seat, ran his hands over the upholstery on the back seat of the car, and felt under the rear seats, but all he found was a small wad of gum and an old candy bar wrapper. Where was the cloth?
But then he saw it. The force of the collision had wedged the small piece of silk into the narrow crease between the two front seats. Hands shaking, he struggled to ease the cloth free. By the time he held the scarf in his hands, he’d managed to put his fingers all over it. His DNA was probably imprinted into every fiber of the smooth silk. Too late to worry about that now. Besides, once he showed this to the sheriff, his ass was fried. No way would the sheriff believe Declan wasn’t involved in Skye’s murder. No way in hell.
The cloth was smaller than the piece he’d found in the barn, but the gold and teal design gleaming under the interior light was the same. His gut twisted, and he swallowed back the sour taste of bile. He held the cloth to the light and stared at the word inscribed on the back. Guilty. An icy cold settled in the pit of his stomach. Guilty. What the fuck was the bastard up to?
He shoved the cloth in his coat pocket and hurried through the driving rain to his car and climbed in the driver’s seat.
“Did you find it?”
He nodded.
Her breath rushed out in a loud whoosh. “Where is it?”
His mind in turmoil, he pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Declan? Where’s the piece of scarf?”
Her voice reached him as if from a distance. He patted his coat pocket. “In here.”
“Is it hers?”
“Yep.”
“You’re sure?”
Again, he nodded.
Silence filled the tiny car, broken only by the drumming of rain on the roof.
She grabbed his arms, her fingers clutching the thick wool of his coat. “Why did someone leave that in my car? What was the purpose?” She lurched up. “Oh, my, God. If we turn this in to the sheriff, he’ll think you put it there. What are we going to do?”
Her questions, one after the other, hammered at him. One word stood out—we. He turned to her. “You’re not going to do anything.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. “You’re not going to tell anyone about this.” He pressed his hand against his pocket where the piece of torn scarf burned like it was on fire.
Her eyes widened. “What are you saying? I have to tell the sheriff. What if the killer’s fingerprints are on the material?”
“Don’t you see? There won’t be any fingerprints. Only mine. This guy isn’t stupid.”
“We still have to turn it in. It’s evidence.”
He nodded, knowing with a sick certainty she was right. They did have to give the piece of Skye’s scarf to the sheriff. Anger raged through him. That’s what the killer wanted. He was banking on Declan finding Carrie Ann and the piece of scarf. He knew they’d turn the cloth into the authorities. The bastard also knew if Declan were found in possession of another section of the murder weapon, the sheriff would arrest him on the spot.
Carrie Ann’s grip on his arm tightened. “He’s trying to frighten me, isn’t he?” Her voice rose. “He put the scarf in my car so I’d know he was watching, know he could hurt me whenever he wanted.”
The implications of what she said struck him full force, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe.
“But why?” She waved a hand weakly. “I don’t understand. We’re no closer to finding Skye’s killer than we were when we started.”
“You must have made him nervous when you talked to Marie and found out Sheldon had seen the killer’s car.”
Her face was ghostly white. “His plan’s working.” She reached for him. “I am afraid, very afraid.”
That made two of them. He took her in his arms, holding her, trying to stave off the numbing fear chilling him to the bone.
Chapter 20
A thousand frightening thoughts raced through Carrie Ann’s mind, adding to the pounding in her head. Was Declan right? Had the person who’d murdered Skye been driving the speeding SUV? Had he been trying to kill her? Or was the accident another warning? Why had he placed the scrap of Skye’s scarf in her car? To whom did the word Guilty refer? Carrie Ann shuddered and slid a glance at Declan.
A deep furrow ran between his dark brows. His mouth was a thin, unforgiving line. A pulse in his jaw beat a rapid tattoo. Where she was frozen with mind-numbing fear, he bristled with simmering rage.
The car slowed, and he swung off the main road into the parking lot of the Blue Horizon Motel. He turned off the engine, and a weighty silence settled over the car, broken only by the ticking of the cooling motor and the patter of rain on the car’s roof.
“Why are we here? I thought we were going to the Sheriff’s Office.”
The silence continued.
“Declan?” She placed her hand on his taut thigh. The rigid muscle quivered beneath her gentle touch. “What are we doing at your motel? We have to tell the sheriff what happened and give him the piece of Skye’s scarf.” She shivered at the cold bleakness in his eyes.
Placing his much larger hand over hers, he closed his eyes. His chest expanded as he sucked in a deep breath and slowly released it. When he opened his eyes again, the coldness was gone. The muscle in his leg stopped vibrating. “We need to talk.”
“I’ve told you all I remember of the accident. I couldn’t see the other driver; his windows were tinted.”
He ran his fingers through his hair, rumpling the glossy curls. “We need to talk. About us.”
The air whooshed out of her. “Us?”
“Come on. You’re freezing. Let’s get you someplace warm.” He climbed out of the car, walked around the hood, and opened her door.
Her body was frozen in place. What was he thinking? What about the piece of scarf?
“I’m not going to hurt you, Carrie Ann.” He crouched down, his eyes level with hers. “Do you trust me?”
She opened her mouth to speak but no sound emerged from her tight throat. She did trust him. Even after the hell they’d been through these past years, she trusted him.
He must have read her answer in her eyes because he said, “Good. Let me help you out of the car. We can go to my room and talk. Just talk. It’s warm and quiet. No one will bother us.” He grasped her arm.
Finally freed of her paralysis, she shook her head. “I can walk on my own.”
He studied her for a long moment, and then stood and backed away.
Wincing with even the slightest movement, she climbed out of the car and gripped the open door, waiting for the wave of dizziness to ease. The incessant pounding in her head rose to a new level, and she squeezed her eyes shut, willing the pain away.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake. You’re so damn stubborn.” He scooped her in his arms, ignoring her weak protests, and carried her across the parking lot, up the stairs to the door of his motel room. Cursing under his breath, he fumbled with the key card until it slipped into the lock, and the door opened. He stepped inside, kicked the door closed with his foot, and flicked a switch, flooding the room with what felt to her like a thousand watts of fluorescent light.
From the vantage point of his arms, she surveyed the small room. A queen-sized bed, covered with a hot-pink-and-vivid-orange floral bedspread dominated the room. Four overstuffed pillows leaned against the white-oak-veneer headboard. Matching curtains covered the room’s single window. A combination heater and air conditioner unit sat below the window. The floor was covered with a worn, brown carpet, the walls painted a tired yellow. A faded print of a French street scene was bolted to the wall above the bed. An open door led to what must be the bathroom.
“The room’s not much, but the price is right. And it’s clean.” Declan set her on the bed and removed a beige woolen blanket from the bottom drawer of a battered dresser and covered her legs. He walked over to the heater and turned a dial. The machine clanked and hissed, and with a loud whump, rum
bled to life, and the first faint wisps of warmth belched forth.
He dug in the pocket of his snug jeans and pulled out his cell phone and punched in numbers.
“Who are you calling?” she asked.
“A doctor.”
“I don’t need a doctor.”
He stopped hitting numbers and studied her. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks.” She couldn’t help but smile at his bluntness. “But I’ll be fine.”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you sure? You were in a bad crash, and you were unconscious when I found you. You could have a concussion.”
She nodded and bit back a moan as another swell of pain flared in her neck at the movement. “I’m sure.” The last thing she wanted was for someone to see her and Declan together in his motel room. Even a doctor would be bound to talk, and the town would be abuzz with even more wild speculation. “Do you think you could find some ice or something for my neck? And maybe some painkillers.”
“Were you always this stubborn?”
“Of course. Don’t you remember?”
His dimples deepened as the corners of his mouth twitched. “I’ll see if I can round up some ice, but don’t get your hopes up.” He headed toward the door.
“I’m sure this isn’t the type of place where you’re used to staying.”
“This isn’t Dallas, that’s for damn sure.” He opened the door. “Cooper’s Ridge doesn’t offer a lot of choice of fine accommodation.” He shrugged. “I hoped to keep a low profile by staying here.”
“How’s that working for you?” The second his truck crossed the county line, everyone in town would have known he was back. It wouldn’t have mattered where he stayed.
He flashed a grin and stepped out the door, closing it behind him.
The room felt empty and cold after he left, and she huddled under the blanket. Her head pounded, and her neck ached. She shouldn’t be here, not in his motel room, and certainly not lying on his bed. The room spun when she sat up. The pounding in her head increased, but she fought through the pain and edged to the side of the bed. Her legs wobbled when she stood, and she sank back on the bed with a groan.