by Jodi Thomas
When the door opened, he didn’t move.
“You awake, Matheson?” Trace asked without bothering to whisper.
“Yeah.”
“Don’t move. I’ll check your stitches. I promised the doc I’d make sure you’re not bleeding again.”
“The torture begins even before I get breakfast,” he mumbled as her hand moved over the flesh of his left shoulder.
“That’s not the hurt one,” he added.
“I know.” She moved slowly closer to the bandages. “Just testing to see how warm your skin is.” Her knuckles moved gently along his spine. “I kind of like touching you—or at least the few places on you that aren’t hurt.”
He thought of telling her that he was warming all over if she wanted to do more testing, but then she might stop. He also thought it odd that such a cold woman would admit wanting to touch anyone. She was about as far from one of those touchy-feely women who wanted to give back rubs and hold hands as he’d ever seen.
“You missed breakfast.” Her finger tugged at the tape covering his other shoulder. “Eggs Benedict like I’ve never had, with sage sausage cooked—”
“Save me the details.”
“All right. Just wanted you to know what you missed.”
He let her work without complaining. He was tired of complaining. He was tired of sitting around wondering when the next elf would fly through the window. “How about we get out of here today?” he said as she patted his arm letting him know she was finished. “I could show you around Harmony and then drop by my office.”
Rick was already planning his defense when she said, “All right.”
“Seriously?”
“Sure. I’ve figured that whoever is after you isn’t too bright. Maybe we can flush him out. I think it’s unlikely he’ll try a hit when other people are around; after all, he picked a back staircase after dark and a snowy day when you were the only one he saw in the window. He may have had no idea I was only a few feet away.”
Suddenly Rick’s idea of going out didn’t sound so grand. If the stalker was dumb, somewhere in public might be his next try since catching his prey alone hadn’t worked. “So if we go out, I’m the bait.”
She grinned. “Sounds like a good plan.”
Rick slowly lifted himself out of bed and walked over to the pile of clothes Mrs. Biggs had washed for him. He figured since Trace had already seen him nude she wouldn’t mind seeing his underwear.
Trace smiled as if she’d read his mind. “You do have a great body, Matheson. Tell me, how do you keep from getting fat and flabby with a desk job?”
“Before I took to getting beat up regularly, I swam a few times a week. Ran some on weekends.” He pulled on a clean pair of jeans. “Maybe just good genes. All Mathesons are tall. How about your family?”
“I’ll get my coat.” She was on the move. Walking away from both him and the question.
“Meet me in the kitchen,” he called after her. “I’m starving.”
An hour later, after downing a half dozen scrambled eggs and the leftover sausage, Rick felt like he was strong enough to leave the house.
Trace pulled the Land Rover Gabe Leary had loaned them up to the porch and Rick climbed in slowly. She left the car running as she ran back in for blankets and pillows.
A rolled pillow at the small of his back and a fluffy blanket over the seat made the ride far more comfortable. His injured shoulder barely touched the back of the seat. He could take a little pain. The cool air smelled so good.
As they drove around Harmony, he explained every part of the town, even telling her what used to be in a few spots. She said it wasn’t as pretty as small towns she’d seen in New England or on the shores of California, but Harmony had its charm. The two dried-up creekbeds that cut through the center of town made for curving streets and sidewalks along tree-lined trails.
Most of the snow had disappeared except on lawns. Almost everyone who saw them waved as if they were the world’s shortest parade.
Rick tried to talk her into walking the mall, but she wasn’t interested. He suggested a show, but she didn’t think a dark public place would be a good idea. Finally, because he didn’t want to go home, he talked her into driving out to the old Matheson ranch. Hank owned the place now and ran cattle as well as horses on the land.
To his surprise, Trace knew nothing about ranching. “You act like you’ve never stepped foot out of a city.” He laughed when she stopped at the first cattle guard.
“I haven’t except over highways. For me, the world is cities separated by miles of nothing but gas stations.”
“Your dad never took you camping?”
“Nope. He wasn’t around.”
Rick let the answer settle in. He had a feeling if he asked another question she’d close up again. Finally, he sighed. “My dad died before I was grown, but he used to take me camping. My mom loves to tell the story that I was barely potty trained once when they took all the kids and a pop-up to Yellowstone. I wouldn’t squat in the woods, so he had me go in a big can he hauled coal in for the fire. When we got back home, I spent the rest of the spring running out to the garden to sit on the cans around new tomato plants.”
Trace laughed, really laughed for the first time.
Rick smiled. “You think that’s funny?”
“No,” she said. “I think it’s funny that you think it’s funny. You got any more stories like that?”
“Hundreds, unfortunately.” They pulled up to the Matheson ranch house. “Don’t suggest my two great-aunts tell any or we’ll never get out of here. Hank calls this the women’s house because his mother and her two old aunts live here. His sisters used to live here after they got divorced, but Liz married Gabe, the guy who loaned you this vehicle, and his other sister, Claire, moved to Dallas. Her daughter is going through treatments there and may have to have more operations on her legs.“
He stared at her. “By the way, why did Gabe loan you this? Do you know him?”
Trace shook her head. “Nope, but I know a friend of his.”
Rick grinned. “Then you know Denver Sims. Only friend Gabe claims. He’s a U.S. Marshal.” Rick didn’t say more, but pieces of a puzzle were beginning to fit together. She’d moved too fast in danger not to have been trained, and he guessed she hadn’t been lying about having a gun. If she knew a U.S. Marshal, she might just be in law enforcement.
He decided to wait before jumping into a theory that might send Trace away forever. If her dad had been a cop, like she said, maybe the reason he was never around to take her camping was that he died in the line of duty.
“Why are we stopping here?” she asked as she climbed out of the car stretching her long legs like a cat. The house in front of them looked like it had grown up from the land. It had walls the color of the earth and wildflowers along the walks.
“They’ll have tea and cookies. After being laughed at over my camping story, I’ve worked up an appetite. Plus, my cousin, Claire, is a world-class artist. She stores her latest works up in a studio on the third floor. If you promise to be nice, I’ll give you the tour. You’re not going to believe what she paints.”
Ten minutes later they were settled into the aunts’ sitting room at the back of the huge rambling home. As Aunt Pat handed Trace a cup of tea, Trace asked about family stories as if she could wait no longer to hear more.
Rick groaned and leaned back into the soft overstuffed chair by the window. The afternoon sun warmed him as he drifted off.
It was twilight when Trace touched his arm and told him it was time to go.
He apologized to the aunts, but they didn’t seem the least upset. They both hugged Trace good-bye as if she’d become a part of the family in one afternoon.
“I’ll show you the art collection some other time,” he said as he led her to the front door, doubting there would ever be another time.
When Trace started the car, Rick asked, “Want to stop for some food?”
“You hungry again?”
/> He shrugged. “It’s a habit I got into and am having trouble breaking. Yes, I’m hungry and I know just where to stop. Best barbecue wings in the state.”
Ten minutes later they walked into Buffalo’s.
“The place isn’t usually this crowded on a Thursday night,” Rick said, as if apologizing. “The Partners must be playing.”
“Who?”
Rick lightly touched her back as he guided her to a table. “They’re a local band. Kid named Beau who’s probably not old enough to be in the place and his partner, Border Biggs. He’s Mrs. Biggs’s grandson. Nice boy.” Rick grinned. “Looks just like her.”
Trace didn’t look like she wanted to be in the bar. He raised an eyebrow and leaned close to her. “It’s all right. I’ll protect you.” When she frowned, he added, “I thought biker chicks thrived on bar air.”
“I’m not a biker chick. I just happen to ride a motorcycle, and no one could last long on this air. The smell of beer is so heavy the owner should charge to breathe in here. Maybe we should leave.”
Before he could answer, a couple stopped by the table to ask how Rick was feeling. Then a gang of men about Rick’s age moved over to say hello and ask if he wanted to play pool. When he declined, they hung around waiting to be introduced to Trace.
She had the feel of the place by then and before he could say more than her name, she’d excused herself and said she had to order. The guys wandered off once she left and Rick sat alone watching her stand in line to order. She hadn’t asked what he wanted, but from the limited menu written above the pass-through window to the kitchen, it couldn’t have been hard to figure out.
He noticed the way she studied the crowd and how her gaze kept scanning back to him. The music had started by the time she made it back with two beers and a basket of wings. Before she sat, she pulled her chair beside his. He would have been flattered, but he guessed she wanted her back to the wall.
To his surprise, the music drew her. Trace Adams was a complicated woman. She climbed out on rooftops at night, rode a Harley, said she knew Gabe’s friend, the U.S. Marshal, and carried a weapon. And, he added one more fact, liked country-western music. In some states, people could be declared brain-damaged for that.
When the wings were gone, he asked, “You want to dance?”
“No, but that kid behind the chicken wire cage can play. I could listen to him all night.” She leaned her elbows on the table. “He’s got a voice as rich as Vince Gill’s and plays with Keith Urban skills. Most of his songs are oldies, but I haven’t recognized a few.”
“Those are his songs.”
She didn’t glance at Rick. “They’re straight from the heart. Hope you’re his friend, because he’s going to need a good lawyer when Nashville comes calling.”
“You think I’m a good lawyer?”
She looked at him finally. “I don’t know, but if some outlaw’s trying to kill you, he must think so. If you were bad, he’d just bribe you to leave and save time.” She glanced down at his old T-shirt and jeans. “From the looks of you, I’d say you’ve never taken a bribe.”
Rick leaned back in his chair, trying to decode her message enough to tell if she’d been complimenting him or insulting him.
They listened for a while. Finally, between songs, Rick whispered, “You know, if you don’t start at least acting like you’re with me, half the guys in this place are going to be headed over here soon.”
Trace laughed. “Pathetic line, Matheson.”
“No line. The wolves are circling.”
He watched her scan the room then nod slightly. Without another word, she leaned over and kissed him on the mouth. It was a quick, hard, closed-mouth kiss that was over before it could start any fire, but he liked the feel of her lips.
“That’s not going to fool anyone,” Rick whispered.
She tried again.
The kiss lasted longer and she put her hand on his chest as she leaned close. She was doing all the right things, but there was no passion in her action. When she pulled an inch away, she whispered, “Convincing?”
“Good enough.” He smiled down at her, realizing he’d just learned something no one knew about Trace Adams. She knew nothing about kissing. He touched her hand. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to the band, and then let’s get out of here.”
She nodded. “Good idea. The crowd’s getting louder and drunker.”
They made their way to the stage just as the last song in the first set ended. Rick introduced Beau Yates, but he only nodded when she told him how much she loved his music. Border, on the other hand, couldn’t stop talking.
To Trace’s credit, she didn’t even blink when she said, “You must be Mrs. Biggs’s grandson.”
The tattooed kid nodded and replied, “You must be the woman who owns the bike in Martha Q’s garage.” Border Biggs made a low whistling sound.
A bottle hit the cage before Trace answered.
Border laughed. “Time to get back to playing before the first fight of the night breaks out.”
Rick took her hand and they moved across the now-empty dance floor. Two guys were yelling at each other over by the pool table and several friends of each seemed to want to join in for a fight.
“We’d better hurry,” Rick whispered as she pulled free of his hand.
He turned to yell as all hell broke loose around him. Suddenly, she was shoving him toward the front door as everyone in the place seemed to be rushing for the pool table area. He felt something sharp stab into his arm. Then they were through the rushing river of people and Trace was pulling him outside.
On the porch, Rick planted his feet and stopped. She continued to tug him until he said, “My arm.”
Trace turned back, and in the one light over the door, he saw her face turn white. Holding his elbow close to his side, he looked down to see two darts sticking out of his arm.
“Pull them out.”
Trace just stared at the two darts.
“Pull them out!”
She circled her fingers around the darts and jerked.
They’d been planted deep. Blood rushed out the open holes left in his skin.
“I’ll get you to the hospital.”
“No.” He’d had enough of emergency rooms. “The fire station is just down the street. Whoever is there tonight can bandage me up. It’s nothing.”
They walked through the darkness toward the lights of the fire station. Rick didn’t want to talk about it. The darts were just an accident. Someone in the crowd had simply had them in his hand when he moved toward the pool tables and accidentally stabbed them into his arm. It was a mishap. It crossed Rick’s mind that if he yelled it, his words still wouldn’t sound convincing.
Willie Davis, one of the volunteers at the firehouse, patched him up and offered Rick a cup of coffee. Since he’d already had his tetanus shot, there was no need to go to the hospital unless the bleeding refused to stop. Willie had been studying first aid, so he entertained Rick with stories about what could go wrong with even a small cut if it wasn’t doctored properly.
Trace watched and listened. When two more firemen came in, she mumbled something about going after the car and disappeared about the time the men began teasing Rick about being mistaken for a dartboard.
Rick watched her go, knowing that she could take care of herself and that it would be a while before she returned. For the second time, it struck him as odd that a woman who carried a gun would hate the sight of blood.
Chapter 23
THURSDAY NIGHT
TRACE WALKED SLOWLY BACK TO THE BAR, HER MIND piecing together all the facts. She’d thought she’d had the situation totally under control. All evening no one had stepped within three feet of Rick without her being aware of it, but then, suddenly in a blink, he was hurt. Not bad, not dangerously, but almost as if someone was passing along a warning. Someone was telling the lawyer that he could get to him. Either this someone was dumber than any criminal she’d ever worked with, or he was toying with Rick. But
why?
On a hunch, she pulled her cell and snapped a shot of every license plate in the parking lot. Then she walked back into the bar. Rick had been right about one thing—this wasn’t the kind of place where a woman could have a drink alone without having half the drunks in the place bothering her. Trace had one choice and she knew exactly who to turn to for help.
She walked to the cage Rick had called a stage and asked Border if he’d like to have a drink with her.
He almost dropped his guitar as he hurried out of the cage. Beau continued to play, but Trace didn’t miss the way he winked at his partner.
“I need a bodyguard. I need someone I can trust,” she said as they walked across the dance floor. “Rick was stabbed with two darts, and I’d like you to help me look around for who might have done it.”
“I’ll guard your body all night,” Border whispered. “My grandmother showed me your bike Sunday when you were at the hospital with Rick. Any woman who can handle a hog can ask any favor she likes.”
“I don’t want to be bothered while I look around, so just stay close.” She patted his arm. “And when this is over, I’ll let you take the bike for a ride.”
“I’ll be stuck to you like glue, lady.”
Trace looked at the kid. Something about his over two hundred pounds of tattoos made him downright adorable. “Just keep the drunks away from me as I move around the room. The darts were royal blue, custom-made. I’m just looking for the rest of the set tonight.”
He pushed a few cowboys aside as if they were the swinging doors to the bar and said, “If I hadn’t made it with the band, I was thinking about being a PI or maybe a bounty hunter.”
“I could tell from the first you were very observant. You’d make a great PI.” She fought the urge to pat his head.
They walked the bar, moving from table to table as they talked. No royal blue darts. The two pool players who’d started all the excitement were now sharing a pitcher. Most of the couples were settling into slow dancing. “Foreplay on your feet,” Border called it, and Trace had to laugh.
When they passed the bar for the third time, a drunk fell off one of the stools and almost bumped her. Border’s arm blocked him. He was doing his job, which was more than she’d done with Rick earlier.