by JoAnn Ross
If she believed in happily-ever-after endings, she told herself, she'd be writing fairy tales.
As she continued maneuvering around the switchbacks, Mariah considered leaving Whiskey River now, before things became too complicated. Too painful.
"That's it." Mariah shook her head in a gesture of self-disgust. "Run away again. After all, that's what you do best."
She'd run away from her father. From Laura. From the family rift that she herself had helped to create.
And although she had never blamed herself for the failure of her marriage, Mariah had, in a very real way, avoided the responsibilities of any further romantic involvements by burying herself in her work.
This time it was going to be different, Mariah vowed. This time she wasn't going to turn tail and run as soon as things got a little tough. This time she was going to stick around long enough to see things through.
Whatever happened.
Feeling upbeat about her decision, Mariah felt her shoulders relaxing. The ache behind her eyes eased and her fingers relaxed on the steering wheel. Although the rain had increased and the road was no less treacherous, for the first time since arriving back in Whiskey River, she felt almost at ease with herself. And her situation.
She was singing along with Reba McIntyre when she heard a sound like a car engine. And although night sounds in the woods were often hard to pinpoint, she could have sworn the sound was coming from behind her. A glance in the rearview mirror, however, revealed nothing.
Shrugging off the imagined sound, she joined in on the chorus, stopping when she heard the sound again. It was definitely the roar of an engine and it was coming closer. She lifted her eyes to the mirror. Still nothing.
Even as she told herself she was being paranoid, Mariah stepped on the accelerator and felt the Jeep surge around the sharp, S-shaped curve.
The Cherokee hit a pothole, jarring her teeth. But with the instinct of the suddenly hunted, Mariah knew that she was in danger.
Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel again; her teeth clenched so tightly her jaw ached. She struggled to keep her mind on her driving and the Jeep on the serpentine curves while at the same time monitoring the road behind her in the rearview mirror.
The roar grew closer, sounding more like a truck than a car. She looked down at the speedometer. She was already going fifty—a stupidly dangerous speed on this road even if it were a clear day—and still she could hear the engine gaining. And gaining.
She maneuvered around another hairpin corner, the Jeep vibrating under the too-fast speed, but as she came out of the turn, a pair of headlights flashed on behind her, piercing the inky blackness, blinding her with their glare in the rearview mirror.
Before her eyes could adjust to the sudden brightness, those same headlights reared to the right, coming around to the side, cutting her off, pushing her closer and closer to the steep edge of the narrow road.
As big as the four-door Jeep Grand Cherokee was, the murderous truck was even larger.
As Reba gave way to Garth Brooks singing about the damned ole rodeo, Mariah twisted the steering wheel, trying to regain lost ground. She heard the unmistakable, screeching sound of metal against metal; she felt the jarring sensation of the other truck pushing against hers.
And then, as the Jeep careened violently over the side of the cliff, Mariah screamed.
Chapter Twenty-One
His heart pounding in his ears, Trace burst through the double doors of Payson's Louis R. Pyle hospital.
He'd thought he'd experienced fear.
But he'd been wrong.
Dead wrong.
Because even in the suspended moment when he'd entered that warehouse and found himself facing the business end of that murderous Street Sweeper, he'd still not been as frightened as he'd been when J.D. had called in with the news that an unconscious Mariah had been airlifted to the hospital after driving her Jeep over the side of a cliff.
As he'd raced to Payson, for the first time in a very long while, Trace had prayed. Disjointed, incoherent prayers, pleas that she would be all right. Rash, wild promises of what he'd do if only she were.
"Where is she?" he demanded of the night receptionist on duty. He flashed his badge. Although Trace was accustomed to his authoritative manner getting results—and if that didn't do it, the .38 on his hip invariably did—the elderly woman behind the counter did not blink an eye.
"Where is who?"
"Mariah Swann. She was brought in by air evac."
"Ah." She nodded. "Ms. Swann is in examining room A."
"Thanks." He tore off in the direction she was pointing.
"Excuse me." When he didn't pause, the woman raised her voice, jumped up, rushed around her counter and followed on his heels. "I said, excuse me. Sir! You can't go in there. It's restricted to hospital personnel."
Ignoring her protests, Trace found the room that consisted of three curtained cubicles. The curtains on two of the cubicles were open, the examining tables empty.
As he crossed the room, the clerk right behind him, Trace decided that the fact that the curtains were closed on the third cubicle was a good sign. If Mariah was critically injured, a trauma team would be bustling all around her.
Unless…
No! He would not allow himself to think that he might have arrived at the hospital too late. This wasn't going to end up like Danny, he told himself. He wouldn't let it!
He reached the white curtain just as the clerk caught up with him. She grabbed his arm at the same time he jerked the curtain open.
When Trace saw Mariah sitting on the edge of the examining table, he let out a rough, relieved breath he'd been unaware of holding. A white-jacketed man stood beside the examining table. When he turned around, Trace recognized him as the doctor who'd been on duty when Alan Fletcher had been brought in.
"It's all right, Gert," the physician assured the receptionist. "You can go back to your desk."
The woman darted anxious eyes from the doctor to Trace, then back again. "If you're sure."
"Positive." The doctor turned toward Trace. "Hello, Sheriff," he greeted him impassively, as if a wild-eyed man bursting into his emergency room was all in a night's work. Which, Trace considered, remembering that the doctor had previously worked in one of Oakland's roughest neighborhoods, it probably was. "What can I do for you tonight?"
He looked past the doctor, addressing his words to Mariah. "I heard you'd been in an accident."
"I'm okay," she assured him.
She was wearing a blue hospital gown. A white paper sheet had been draped across her legs. Her feet were bare, revealing toenails lacquered the hue and sheen of rubies.
He reached out and took hold of her hand. "Are you sure?"
"Ms. Swann's a very lucky woman," the doctor informed Trace before Mariah could respond. "From what your deputy tells me, her truck is totaled. But thanks to her air bag, she walked away without a scratch."
His heart, which had been pounding like a jackhammer on the drive to Payson from Whiskey River, began to settle down to something resembling a normal beat. "Cora Mae said you were unconscious." With unsteady hands he brushed her hair back from her forehead, as if looking for signs of injury.
"That's the embarrassing part. When they cut me out of the Jeep—"
"They had to cut you out?"
"The doors wouldn't open. I guess hurtling over the edge of the Rim is a bit too off-road. Even for a Jeep."
"Christ." He closed his eyes at the terrifying image.
"But the doctor's right. I'm fine. I just was so relieved, that I got a little light-headed and fainted."
He turned toward the doctor in alarm. "Are you sure she doesn't have any head injuries?"
"None that I can detect. But I want to admit Ms. Swann for observation, just in case."
"You never said anything about me staying here." She tried to get down from the table and was restricted by Trace's broad hand holding her where she was. "I want to go home."
&n
bsp; "You're going to follow doctor's orders," Trace said.
"That's ridiculous."
"You'll either stay willingly, or I'll have an orderly take you to a room and handcuff you to the bed."
"You wouldn't!"
"Try me."
Furious turquoise eyes dueled with implacable gray. This time Mariah was the one to back down. "I hate it when you go into your high-handed cop routine, Callahan."
More relieved than he'd ever been in his life, Trace grinned, "I am a cop."
"Yeah. So you keep reminding me." She looked over at the doctor. "This really is a waste of time. And money. Not to mention that I'll be taking up a hospital bed someone else might need."
"Don't worry, Ms. Swann," he said pleasantly. "We're not even at half capacity tonight. Your presence isn't going to cause any other patients to end up sleeping on gurneys in the hallway. If you don't have any complications, Dr. Davis will sign you out of here at noon." He smiled at Trace, his teeth flashing in a broad, man-to-man grin. "I'll leave you two alone to talk. When you're finished, just tell Gert and she'll arrange to have someone escort Ms. Swann to her room."
Mariah swore in frustration as he walked away. "Well, so long as you're here, Sheriff, I need to file a complaint."
"A complaint?"
"Against Alan Fletcher."
"What now?"
"He ran me off the road tonight," Mariah explained with what Trace felt was amazing aplomb, considering the gravity of her accusation.
He wondered if she'd received a head injury the doctor had failed to spot. "Are you saying what happened to you tonight wasn't an accident?"
"Of course it wasn't an accident. I happen to be a very good driver, Trace. And I grew up driving on that road. If it hadn't been for that truck—"
"What truck?"
"That's what I'm trying to tell you."
She went on to explain about the truck that had been following her, about the way the driver had kept his headlights off until he was right behind her, then flashed his blights to blind her.
"Then he pushed me off the road. Which is why I want to press charges against Alan," she finished up.
"It couldn't have been Fletcher."
Trace tamped down the cold fury that coursed through him at the idea of anyone trying to harm Mariah. Although a very strong part of him wanted to rush out and kill the son of a bitch, whoever he was, Trace forced himself to stick to more judicious investigative techniques.
"He was in the lobby of the Lakeside Lodge an hour ago." He refrained from reporting that the senator had been having dinner with Fredericka Palmer.
"Well, of course I don't think he'd have the guts to do it himself. Obviously he hired someone to kill me."
Trace folded his arms and looked down at her in that steady patient way she admired even as it drove her crazy. "Why do you think the senator would want to kill you?"
Mariah was not quite ready to reveal what she'd told Alan just before driving to Payson for her dinner with Jessica. She had a crushing headache and wasn't prepared for the shouting she suspected such a revelation would invite.
"For the ranch, of course."
"A heavily mortgaged ranch."
"Not any more," she reminded him.
"One very strong problem with your hypothesis," Trace said deliberately, "is that while I'll agree about Fletcher's lack of character, he hasn't shown a lick of interest in the ranch. Besides, I still don't think the guy has the guts to commit cold-blooded murder."
"I told you," Mariah insisted, "he undoubtedly paid someone."
"Too risky." Trace shook his head. "The kind of low-lifes who'll take on a murder for hire also have a nasty habit of not keeping their mouths shut. They tend to brag to girlfriends in bed, to drinking buddies in bars, and if they're ever picked up for some other crime, they'll sing like the proverbial canary in order to cop a plea."
"One thing Fletcher isn't is stupid. He'd never take such a potentially destructive career risk."
"Point taken," Mariah agreed reluctantly. "But I would like to know one thing."
"What's that?" He didn't quite trust her seeming acquiescence.
"If you don't believe Alan's guilty, then what are you doing hanging around the lodge, keeping an eye on him?"
"I said it was unlikely. I didn't say it was impossible."
"What about Clint?"
Mariah's sources in Dallas had told her that the single thing Trace had always cared most about was closing a case. His single-minded devotion to his work had cost him his marriage, and on more than one occasion, nearly cost him his career. But as much as she knew how important his closure rate was to Trace, she couldn't believe he'd be willing to put an innocent man behind bars in order to do it.
Trace frowned, his discomfort obvious. "I trust Jessica's judgment. I also understand the pressure she's under." All too well.
"I imagine you do," Mariah murmured.
Her sources had also told her Trace had never been interested in advancement, recognition, or even praise. When working a case, he was inclined to ignore politics and procedure. It was a trait that garnered results even as it often had him skating perilously close to the razor's edge of suspension. Indeed, his refusal to follow orders he believed to be wrong had been one of the things that tended to land him in hot water on a regular basis.
"The problem is, although he hasn't been completely honest with me, Garvey just doesn't feel right," Trace said.
The so-called intruders had resulted in a dead end as well. The entire case was turning into blank walls and blind alleys. The longer it dragged on, the longer he was afraid of losing it.
"I'm relieved to hear you say that. I was afraid you were going to settle on Clint because you're already behind the seventy-two hour rule."
Trace rolled his eyes and looked up at the acoustical ceiling, as if praying for patience. "Spare me from Hollywood crime writers. This is not an episode of 'Murder She Wrote.'"
"You shouldn't insult me. Not after I've been in what could have been a fatal accident."
"Hell. I'm sorry."
"That's all right. I've certainly been called worse." She was still too pale, but Trace thought he viewed a spark of humor in her eyes. "Besides, I kind of insulted you first. Suggesting that you went along with arresting Clint because time was running out."
He folded his arms across his chest. "I wouldn't do that." His voice was low and deadly, reminding Mariah that this was a man who would only allow himself to be pushed so far.
"I know." They fell silent, him looking down at her, her looking up at him. Something had changed. They both felt it.
There was a suspended moment of awkwardness as Mariah considered how strange it was that she, who made a living with words, could not think of a single thing to say.
Although she was far from at her best, clad in the ugly wrinkled gown with her feet dangling down and her hair tangled, and those weary circles beneath her eyes, Trace felt as if she could have been a siren, luring him into the warm turquoise lagoon depths of her eyes.
Needing to touch her, he slipped his hands beneath the paper sheet and ran them up the silky skin of her thighs. "I have to go talk to Loftin."
In his eyes Mariah read both regret and need, recognizing the emotions easily because she was feeling them herself. "Oh." She was breathless. But that was impossible. The doctor had listened to her lungs while she'd breathed in and out on command and proclaimed her fit as a fiddle. "I can think of better things to do on a rainy night."
"You and me both, babe." The paper sheet rustled as his touch roved higher, leaving a weakening trail of warmth.
Suddenly remembering that except for a pair of skimpy panties, she was naked beneath the sheet and gown and worrying that the harridan from reception might be hovering on the other side of the curtain, Mariah caught Trace's wicked hand.
"Callahan." It was part protest, part plea. "Someone could come in."
His stroking touch was creating absolute havoc to the flesh of her inne
r thighs. "I don't suppose they'd buy the excuse that I was searching for clues?"
"I don't think so," she said on a strangled sound as his fingers slipped beneath the elastic leg band of her panties.
"I am a professional investigator."
"Try telling that to Gert." Despite her words of protest, she was practically purring. In another minute she'd be begging him to make love to her right on this narrow examining table. Heaven help her, Mariah thought, she had absolutely no shame.
She tugged his hand from beneath the sheet. But she was not yet ready to let go.
"We really do need to talk," she said, lacing their fingers together atop the wrinkled sheet covering her lap. Unreasonably nervous, she licked her suddenly dry lips.
The absently innocent gesture created a surge of heat in Trace's groin. He lifted their joined hands and felt the increased pulse at the inside of her wrist thrumming against his lips. "Not about the case," he guessed.
"No." Her gaze was inordinately serious. A line of tension circled her lips. "Not the case." She swallowed, feeling horribly as if she were fourteen again, asking Johnny Patterson to the Sadie Hawkins dance in the high school gym.
"We'll talk later." Since she was still hanging on to his right hand, he used his left to brush some tangled hair away from her face. "After you've had some sleep."
"Later," she agreed reluctantly, wishing she could ask him to stay with her, then reminding herself that it was more important he find whoever it was that ran her off the road.
Trace took her uncharacteristic acquiescence as a sign of how emotionally drained she was. Knowing he should leave, but unwilling to go without at least one taste of those silken lips, he lowered his head and kissed her.
His mouth was soft, yet firm. Warm. Tender. As she sank into its gentle heat, Mariah realized on some distant level that this kiss was oddly different from the others they'd shared.
His mouth was as sensual as ever, but careful. Not the slightest bit tentative, but testing. As if his lips were echoing the unreadable question she'd seen in his pewter gray eyes just before their lips had met.
The kiss lingered. Mariah felt herself drifting on slow, easy tides of rising desire. When he finally backed away, she viewed in his eyes again that same serious question she'd felt on his lips.