Maggie's Man

by Alicia Scott

He opened the truck door, peered around for cops and drew her half out of the vehicle. "We walk, nothing fancy. Let's take the map with us."

  She obediently retrieved the map and handed it to him.

  She was silent for a moment. Then, she expelled in a rush, "You don't have to do this. Running from the law, stealing cars, it's no way to live. If you'd let me call my brother Brandon, he's very smart, you've never talked to anyone as smart as him. He could help you, I just know he could. You seem like you're quite intelligent. I mean … surely you must want more from life than to spend your days running from the police. What kind of future is that?"

  "It's not much of one."

  "My family could help you—"

  "Maggie," he interjected quietly. "Enough." He turned and walked away, and the motion of his arm forced her to follow.

  Chapter 4

  « ^ »

  She cast a surreptitious glance at her captor as he led her across the parking lot.

  His steps were long, forceful and not at all furtive. His green gaze was hard and level and never ducked guiltily to the pavement. In the faded blue shirt, worn T-shirt and work-softened jeans, he looked like anyone, any random man who might work with his hands and know what he was about. Solid shoulders, lean flanks, muscled forearms. A few women gave him a second glance before spotting Maggie.

  He'd been a computer programmer? She never would have guessed that. She thought computer programmers were supposed to be like accountants, nice, bland men with innocuous smiles and rapidly blinking eyes. In jeans and T-shirt, Cain looked more like the dairy farmers she'd spend her summers with in Tillamook. She could see him striding along in the field, shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal tanned forearms, and bright August sun torching his golden hair as he wrapped his gloved hands around baling wire and hefted bales of sweet alfalfa effortlessly onto the flatbed. Heave-ho, heave-ho. From the time of the summer of '78 on Lydia's farm, she'd spent all her summers watching that ritual, driving the tractor that pulled the flatbed through the fields and feeling her heart beat in rhythm to the constant, sweaty motion of heave-ho, heave-ho.

  Her mouth was suddenly dry. Her shoulder was pressed against his rib cage, her hand still firmly tucked in his, and shivers abruptly raced up her spine.

  Oh, God, Maggie, you have finally gone and lost your ever-lovin' mind.

  "ATM machine," Cain exclaimed briskly as they arrived on the other side of the four-lane intersection. "This way."

  He pulled her to the left and she trotted along blankly like a well-heeled puppy dog.

  Do something, you ninny!

  She looked at him again. His face was determined and composed. His intelligent gaze had locked on target, and he led them to the machine with rapid, precise steps, as if he had no care in the world and he would escape from an entire state's police force through sheer force of will.

  That was the problem. She knew that look. She'd seen it on Brandon's face more times than she could count. The oldest of them, he'd had the opportunity to know Max the best, and he'd been the first to watch their father simply walk out the door one day and never come back. He could have hated her and C.J., particularly C.J., for while Maxmillian had married Brandon's mother for her inheritance, he kept returning to C.J.'s mother in L.A. out of love. But Brandon had been the first to realize that C.J.'s fierce exterior hid a scared, angry little boy who'd lost the father he considered an idol. And in those rough beginning weeks, Brandon was the one who would calmly and firmly say, "It's all right, C.J. Everything is going to be all right." Then he would look at both C.J. and Maggie with a gaze just like Cain's, cool, composed and magnetic, as if through sheer force of will, he'd keep them safe. After ten days, C.J. and Maggie would have followed him anywhere, they trusted him that much.

  At the time he was solid and reliable, everything their father hadn't been. And now? Ever since his wife's death, Brandon had been jetting around the globe, unreachable and unpredictable. Even C.J. had edgily growled last week, "What the hell does he think he's proving? That he can disappear like Max?"

  Maggie couldn't answer. She just knew in some deep part of her heart that Brandon would never return, just as Max never returned, just as her mother had always threatened to never return.

  "All right. Proceed, Maggie."

  Cain came to an abrupt halt, turning briskly. She stared at him blankly, her hand tucked into his, her shoulder against his chest. She felt very small, all of a sudden. Lost in her thoughts and the emptiness that sometimes consumed her from the inside out.

  "Woolgathering?"

  She could only nod. He looked big, she thought abruptly. He looked big and strong and capable. Even on the run, he appeared composed and in control, as if he didn't doubt one iota his ability to succeed. She couldn't imagine being that sure. She couldn't imagine not lying in bed at night, wondering if she would ever fall in love, wondering if anyone would ever hold her close and love her enough to stay.

  That had to be love: staying forever.

  "Maggie?" Cain prodded. "Dreaming of being rescued by a dashing young man?"

  She shook her head, keeping her eyes down, fixed on his sternum and the nubby fabric of his T-shirt. "Just take the money," she told him. Her voice was faint, faint and meek. She hated that. Abruptly she swallowed and the emptiness was gone, and instead she was just angry, angry and frustrated and furious with herself because she sounded like such a mouse, acted like such a mouse, and what had it ever gotten her?

  "Take the money," she demanded more harshly now. "Take it and kidnap me and get this show on the road. We have to go to Idaho. You have to kill your brother. I suppose if you let me live I can write up the events and option them for a Sunday night movie. Robert Redford can be you. Do you think Sandra Bullock would mind playing me?"

  Cain was silent, then he frowned. "You say the damnedest things, Maggie."

  "Yes," she agreed curtly and suddenly she was the one pushing ahead to the ATM machine, already digging for her card. "I'm the odd one, the quiet one, the timid one. I'm never any trouble, just ask anyone. Good, sweet little Maggie." She yanked her cash card out of her purse with more vehemence than necessary and jammed it into the machine. "So," she stated aggressively, "how much money does an escaped felon need these days?"

  "Two hundred," he said quietly. His eyes were still on her face. "You know, you're not that passive, Maggie. You've already argued with me several times and I'm carrying a gun."

  "Oh goody, so I am developing. I've gone from passive-aggressive to suicidal. Give me a decade, I'm sure I can hit manic-depressive."

  She fairly snatched the money from the machine's mouth.

  "Self-pity, Maggie?"

  "Yes, it's the next step of the hostage trauma process. First denial, then self-pity." She jammed her ATM card into the pocket of her skirt, then stuffed the wad of twenties into his hand. "Here's your allowance. Don't spend it all in one place."

  He still wasn't moving. "Maggie, I won't hurt you," he said quietly. "Help me get to Idaho and you'll live to see your three-legged cat. I promise."

  "And I'm supposed to trust the word of a convicted murderer?"

  "I'd ask you to trust the word of the pope, Maggie, but he's not currently available." Abruptly, he pulled her against his body. His eyes were no longer so calm or expressionless. They burned, the tension radiating from him like waves. He looked frustrated, too, frustrated and angry and edgy. She could feel his thighs pressed against hers, and was suddenly painfully aware of her small breasts pushing against his chest. Her nipples were hard and sensitive. She wondered if he could feel that, too, and then her cheeks flushed with pure mortification at the thought.

  She blinked several times rapidly, then in a small rush of anger she planted her hands against his concrete chest and pushed away vehemently. His grip on her hand kept her from going too far, but she could at least tilt back her head and stare at him mutinously.

  "Stop it," she demanded. "If you're going to kidnap me, you're going to kidnap me. You're bigger than I
am, stronger and armed, so I suppose I don't have much say in the matter. But don't mess with my mind. Don't tell me what my problems are. You're a murderer, for God's sake. You're trying to kill your brother. What do you know about happy, healthy life-styles?"

  A muscle twitched in his jaw. He flinched as if she might have actually hurt him, but she wasn't so big of a fool that she believed that.

  His eyes remained hooded, dark. His face appeared carved from a mountain. The silence stretched out, grew taut. Behind them, she could hear the random sounds of chattering pedestrians and roaring cars. The simple, everyday sounds of a busy mall. Bright, pinging noises that still couldn't break the tension between them.

  Abruptly, Cain nodded. His shoulders came down, his face grew smooth and expressionless, impenetrable. "You're right," he said. "You're absolutely right."

  Then without another word, he turned and started pulling her toward the parking lot. "Come on, Maggie. We have another car to steal."

  They walked across the huge parking lot of Fred Meyers twice, peering in windows to see which doors were unlocked and how much gas prospective vehicles had. Cain preferred trucks for their powerful engines and off-road capability. Besides, he'd driven trucks all his life and felt less conspicuous in one than in a sedan. He finally narrowed down the selection to two trucks located at the back of the lot, both big and relatively new.

  "They're both probably insured," he declared dryly.

  Maggie lifted her chin. "Good."

  "Is there a color you prefer?"

  "Oh no, I'm not going to have anything to do with this. If you're going to steal another truck, then you steal another truck. For the record, I think we should take the bus."

  He glanced at her. "Oh yes, the special program Trimet started just for escaped murderers. I'd forgotten about that."

  "I hear it's very good." She played right along with him.

  "Let's take the blue truck, Maggie. I've always liked blue."

  "Buses might be blue."

  He granted her a small smile. "You really do try, Maggie. You really do try."

  "It's never too late to change."

  He didn't say anything, but as a silent rebuttal, opened the truck door for her, one hand already reaching out to assist her.

  She batted it away with more force than necessary, holding herself perfectly rigid. "I can get in all by myself, thank you."

  "Yes, but this way is faster." And while she was still opening her mouth for another rebuke, he clasped his hands around her supple waist and tossed her up into the king-size cab. With a startled cry, she grabbed the dash to keep from sliding on the floor, then with another gasp, hastily rearranged her skirt to cover her thighs. She gave him a look of pure indignation, but he simply smiled.

  "I think we're getting the hang of this," he murmured and swung himself into the cab. Quick glance in the rearview mirror revealed no one else around. He got to work.

  Maggie was glancing at her watch as the truck roared to life. "Forty-two seconds," she muttered. "I don't know how you do that."

  "Lots of practice."

  "As a computer programmer?" She raised a skeptical brow.

  "As a minuteman who would someday have to rise up and protect the last frontier from the ever-encroaching, ever-devious ZOG."

  That widened her eyes and shut her up in a hurry. He enjoyed the effect so much he continued talking casually as he swung the vehicle out of the parking lot. "Didn't you know that ZOG is out to stupefy the American people?"

  She shook her head.

  "Public water supplies are contaminated, secret troops are being trained. The World Bank and the United Nations are actually ZOG puppets ready to take over the world once the government crushes the last of the U.S. resistance. It will be like the apocalypse, that's what my father always said. 'We are in a state of war, son. A state of war!'"

  His voice trailed off. Maggie's face was pale now; he could hear the wheels turning in her mind. The patient appears to be suffering from paranoid delusions, perhaps even acute schizophrenia.

  "Can you open up our loyal map?" he said lightly, his gaze on the road. "We need a course for Salem."

  She muttered something under her breath but complied. The woman was obviously scared of him, but the meek act was certainly dropping away in a hurry. In its place she was … he didn't know who she was. But she could certainly flash those blue eyes like nobody's business. And her stubborn streak might be even wider than he'd previously estimated.

  Interesting, in a woman who seemed so humbled at first glance. Who had taught her to look like that, to think so little of herself? She cared so much about others, why hadn't someone thought to give a little more care to her? He had the impression sometimes, from a fleeting, wistful, look in her eyes, that she was a woman who was very lonely. And when he saw that look…

  He shut off the thought with a curt shake of his head. It was none of his business, dammit. She had been absolutely on target back there. It was bad enough he was taking her hostage; he certainly had no right to mess with her mind.

  For his purposes, all that mattered was that she seemed to have a remarkably level head, she held up under pressure, and she could navigate. Yes, she was a serious candidate for the hostage-of-the-year award.

  "Okay," she said after a moment. "I've found us on the map."

  "All right, Sulu, lay in a course for Salem, sticking to back roads."

  "Sulu?"

  "'Star Trek.'"

  "Oh." She glanced over at him narrowly, then shook her head. "Geek."

  He simply smiled.

  Mile turned into miles. They left Portland's suburbs and whizzed through the lush, green fields of places like Molalla and Wilhoit. Mount Hood rose up behind them, old and wise with its snowcapped head. The mountains ringed them in, green and distant as they circled the valley like ancient forefathers keeping a benevolent watch. They passed farmers out working their fields, dogs leaping and racing along the side of the road as if on this bright spring day they could outrun even a metal animal. Red grain silos rose, silver domes winking in the sunlight. Two fields of tulips spread out, offering a dazzling feast of color, then slowly faded away to be replaced by young, earnest ears of corn struggling to break ground and push triumphantly to the sky.

  After a bit, Maggie glanced over at Cain, then decided on her own she was willing to risk the act of rolling down her window. The scent of fresh-mowed grass filled the cab. The wind caught her hair, lifting the red strands to the sun and streaming them back away from her face.

  They drove in silence and the sky remained blue and vast and beautiful.

  They passed through Silverton and came to I-5 just north of Salem. Three miles, that was all they had to spend on the interstate. Three miles, then the welcome exit for 22 would whisk them off the highway and lead them to mountains. Three miles through the thick of Salem, four lanes of traffic and even more spots for state troopers to sit in wait for an escaped felon.

  Cain's knuckles were white on the wheel. The tendons stood out in rigid relief on his exposed forearms. He kept the speedometer at a diligent fifty-five, the appropriate speed for passing through city limits.

  Wordlessly, Maggie rolled up her window and her hair died on her shoulders.

  "It's not that far," she said quietly.

  "It doesn't take much to spot a stolen truck."

  A cop car was pulled over on the right. It had been a long time, but even after six years, Cain recognized the spot. Cops always waited there to catch the anxious speeder who hadn't wanted to slow from the interstate's speed limit of sixty-five miles per hour to fifty-five in Salem. At least habits hadn't changed while Cain was behind bars.

  He kept his gaze straight ahead and his hand on the wheel. Would Maggie try anything? One tap on the window, one frantic wave, and with the news of an escaped murderer posted all over the radio, the cop would pull out and blare his sirens without a second thought.

  Sweat trickled down Cain's hairline. He didn't even risk the motion of w
iping it away.

  Maggie remained silent and still and he swallowed harshly. She didn't realize, of course, the full power that she wielded, that in fact, she held his life in her hands and not the other way around. One earnest attempt on her part and the pawn would checkmate the king. He couldn't even blame her for it. She had the right to fight for her life, to run from a convicted murderer. He, on the other hand, had gotten an innocent involved in a drama that might leave her dead. She had just cause on her side.

  It was more than anyone could say about him.

  The exit for 22 approached. He released a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. He turned onto 22 and the Cascades rose up verdant and promising before them. They picked up speed.

  Beside him, Maggie rolled down the window once more and let the spring-filled wind whip through her long red hair.

  The mountains were beautiful this time of year. Sunlight dappled deep green firs and lighter-colored maple. Ferns and moss formed thick dark carpeting and ran all the way to babbling brooks and, in some cases, cheery waterfalls. The sky here seemed endless and the air tasted as good as it smelled, clean and fresh and the way Mother Nature intended.

  Maggie admired it as they wove along the winding highway, climbing higher and higher until they finally traversed Santiam Pass. They broke through to the other side of the Pacific Crest, and suddenly snowcapped mountains beckoned on all sides. Mount Washington was to their right, Mount Jefferson as well. Three-Fingered Jack waved frosted digits on the left, while way out on the horizon, the Three Sisters flirted with the faded blue sky.

  It was beautiful, stunningly so. Maggie didn't pass this way often and she tried to appreciate it, because she always remembered the stories her grandmother had told her of how all this had looked to straggling pioneers after months and months of plodding across the country. How they'd taken one look at the lush, bursting greenness, and realized they'd found home.

  Of course, right now Maggie was having a hard time appreciating that sentiment. She uncrossed and crossed her legs for the fifth time in twenty minutes, then gave up.