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Wanted Woman
B.J. Daniels
“You’re risking your life because of me. I have to be able to do the same for you.”
“That’s the last thing I want—”
“Too bad, because that’s the way it is,” Maggie said and stepped to him, standing on tiptoes. Her lips brushed across his cheek like a sweet whisper, sending sparks shooting along his nerve endings.
He flinched and stepped back.
“Sorry,” she said, looking both surprised and confused.
“You shocked me, that’s all. Static electricity, you know.” He could see the lie reflected in her gaze.
No woman had ever affected Jesse like this. He told himself it was because he couldn’t have her. Might never be able to have her. But he knew it was a hell of a lot more than that or his heart wouldn’t ache the way it did at the thought.
Wanted Woman
B.J. Daniels
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A former award-winning journalist, B.J. Daniels had thirty-six short stories published before her first romantic suspense, Odd Man Out, came out in 1995. Her book Premeditated Marriage won the Romantic Times Best Intrigue award for 2002 and she received a Career Achievement Award for Romantic Suspense. B.J. lives in Montana with her husband, Parker, three springer spaniels, Zoey, Scout and Spot, and a temperamental tomcat named Jeff. She is a member of Kiss of Death, the Bozeman Writers’ Group and Romance Writers of America. When she isn’t writing, she snowboards in the winters and camps, water-skis and plays tennis in the summers. All year she plays her favorite sport, tennis. To contact her, write P.O. Box 183, Bozeman, MT 59771 or look for her online at www.bjdaniels.com.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Maggie Randolph—She’d suspected her adoption hadn’t been through normal channels.
Deputy Jesse Tanner—He knows the moment he lays eyes on Maggie Randolph that she is in trouble—and so is he.
Detective Rupert Blackmore—All he wants is to retire, buy an RV and spend winters in Arizona playing shuffleboard. But first he has to tie up a few loose ends.
Norman Drake—The legal assistant gets caught napping on the job—and witnesses a murder.
Clark Iverson—The lawyer wants to make things right, and it costs him his life.
Wade and Daisy Dennison—Both lied about the night their daughter Angela was kidnapped twenty-seven years ago.
Mitch Tanner—The Timber Falls sheriff is recuperating from two gunshot wounds so his older brother Jesse is in charge.
Charity Jenkins—Her snooping could get her killed.
Lydia Abernathy—The antique-shop owner says the new man in town has been casing her joint. Or does she have ulterior motives for putting Charity on the story?
Angus Smythe—The Englishman has been taking care of Lydia for years—ever since the car accident that left her in a wheelchair. But is his interest romantic or financial?
Jerome Bruno Lovelace—The small-time crook is romancing the owner of Betty’s Café.
Ruth Anne Tanner—She left her two sons and husband years ago and didn’t look back.
This book is gratefully dedicated to the Bozeman Writers’ Group for all their wonderful support and encouragement. Thank you, Randle, Wenda, Kitty, Bob, LuAnn and Mark. You’re the best!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
Chapter One
Puget Sound, Seattle
The smell of fish and sea rolled up off the dark water on the late-night air. Restless waves from the earlier storm crashed into pilings under the pier and in the distance a horn groaned through the thick fog.
Maggie shut off the motorcycle and coasted through the shadows and damp fog. She couldn’t see a thing. But she figured that was good since he wouldn’t be able to see her. Nor hear her coming.
She’d dressed in her black leathers and boots. Even the bulging bike saddlebag was black as the night. She told herself she was being paranoid as she hid the bike and walked several blocks through the dark old warehouses and fish plants before she started down the long pier.
He would be waiting for her somewhere on the pier. With the dense fog and the crashing surf, she wouldn’t know where until she was practically on top of him. She assured herself that she had taken every precaution—short of bringing a weapon.
But she was no fool. He had the advantage. He’d picked the meeting place. He was expecting her. And because of the fog, she wouldn’t know what was waiting for her at the end of the deserted pier until she reached it.
Fortunately, she was a woman used to taking chances. Except tonight, the stakes were higher than they’d ever been.
The sound of the sea breaking against the pilings grew louder and louder, the wet fog thicker and blinding white. She knew she had to be nearing the end of the pier.
And suddenly Norman Drake materialized out of the fog.
He looked like hell. Like a man who’d been on the run from the police for three days. He looked scared and dangerous—right down to the gun he had clutched in his right hand.
He waved it at her, his pale blue eyes wide with alarm. And she wondered where he’d gotten the gun and if he knew how to use it. He was young and smart and completely out of his league—a tall, thin, bookworm turned law student turned law assistant. She could smell the nervous sweat coming off him, the fear.
“You alone?” he whispered hoarsely.
She nodded.
“You sure you weren’t followed?”
“Positive.”
He exhaled loudly and wiped his free hand over his mouth. “You bring the money?”
She nodded. The ten thousand dollars he’d demanded weighted down the saddlebag. She reached in slowly and held up one bundle. Unmarked, all old, small denomination bills, dozens of bundles making the bag bulge.
It took him a minute to lower the weapon. His hands shook as he shoved it into the front waistband of his wrinkled, soiled slacks. Not a good idea under any circumstances. As nervous as he was, he’d shoot his nuts off.
“I didn’t know who else to call but you,” he said, his gaze jumping back and forth between her and the fogged-in pier behind her. “They killed Iverson and they’ll kill me, too, if I don’t get out of town.”
Clark Iverson, her father’s long-time attorney, had been murdered three days ago. The police had determined that his temporary student legal assistant was in the building at the time. There was no sign of forced entry. No sign of a struggle. Visitors had to be buzzed in. That’s why the cops were actively looking for Norman.
“You told me on the phone you had important information for me about my father’s plane crash,” she said, keeping her hand clamped on the saddlebag, keeping her tone neutral.
He nodded, a jittery nod that set her teeth on edge. “It wasn’t an accident. The same person who murdered Iverson killed your father.”
She felt shock ricochet through her. Then disbelief. “It was determined an accident. Pilot failure.”
Norman shook his head. “A week before the crash, your father came into the office. He seemed upset. Later, after he left, I overheard Iverson on the phone telling someone he couldn’t talk your dad out of it.”
“That’s not enough evidence—”
“I was there three nights ago, I heard them talking about the plane crash. Iverson had figured out that the plane had gone down to keep your father from talking. He threatened to go to the Feds. I heard them kill him—” Emotion choked off the last of his words.
“You actually heard someone admit to murdering my father?”
He nodded, his Adam’s apple going up and down, up and down. She watched him, shock and pain and anger mixing with the grief of the past two months since the single passenger plane had gone down on a routine business flight. She fought to keep her voice calm. “You said they?”
He seemed surprised by the question. “Did I? I only heard one man talk but—” He frowned and looked away. “I remember thinking I heard two people coming down the hall after the elevator opened.” He was lying and doing a poor job of it. Why lie about how many killers there were? “You believe me, don’t you?”
She didn’t know what to believe now. But her father had liked Norman, thought he was going to make a good lawyer someday. Good lawyer, an oxymoron if there ever was one, her father would have joked. “Norman, how did they get in? The building was locked, right?”
He nodded, looking confused. “I guess Iverson buzzed them up. All I know is that I heard the elevator and—” He looked behind her again as if he’d heard something. “I somehow knew not to let them know I was there.”
A foghorn let out a mournful moan from out beyond the city.
“You’re telling me Clark didn’t know you were still in the office?”
Norman fidgeted. “I’d fallen asleep in the library doing some research for him. The door to his office was closed. Earlier, he’d told me to leave, to do the rest in the morning. I guess he thought I’d left by the door to the hallway. The elevator woke me, then I heard voices arguing.”
Just seconds before he’d said he’d heard two sets of footsteps coming down the hall after the elevator opened. No wonder Norman hadn’t gone to the police. His story had so many holes it wouldn’t even make good Swiss cheese.
“You heard them arguing?” she asked.
He nodded. “Then I heard this like…grunt and glass breaking—” He closed his eyes as if imagining Clark Iverson’s body, the lamp he’d grabbed as he went down shattered on the floor next to him, his eyes open staring blindly upward, a knife sticking out of his chest at heart level, just as he’d looked when his secretary and Maggie had found him the next morning. Just as he must have looked when Norman saw him.
“You didn’t see the killer.”
“No, I told you, I just ran.”
“Why didn’t you call the police?” It was the same question the cops wanted to ask him.
Norman closed his eyes tightly as if in pain. “After they killed him, they rummaged around in his desk drawers, in his file cabinets. I could hear them. I was afraid that at any minute they’d come into the library and find me.” Another look away, another lie. “I just ran. I took the stairs, let myself out the back way and I’ve been running ever since. If they find me, they’ll kill me.”
“Did you recognize the one voice you heard?”
He shook his head.
“But you heard what were they arguing about.”
“Iverson said the secret wasn’t worth killing people over.”
“What secret?”
Norman squirmed, his gaze flicking past her. “An illegal adoption.”
She felt a chill come off the ocean as if she already knew what his next words would be.
“You were the baby,” Norman said, the words tumbling over themselves in their struggle to get out. “Iverson wanted to tell you the truth. That’s why they killed him. He said your father had found out and was going to tell you.”
“Found out what?” So her parents hadn’t gone through the proper channels. So what? “I’m twenty-seven years old. Why would anyone kill over my adoption no matter how it went down?”
“It was the way you were…acquired,” Norman said. “Your father had found out that you were kidnapped.”
Kidnapped? She’d always known she was adopted and that was the reason she looked nothing like her parents. Nor was anything like them.
Mildred and Paul Randolph had always seemed a little surprised by their only child, a little leery. Maggie had come into their life after they’d tried numerous adoption agencies, they’d told her. She’d been a miracle, they’d said. A gift from God.
Maybe not quite.
Although well-off financially, her parents weren’t the ideal adoptive candidates. Her mother had been confined to a wheelchair since childhood polio and her father was considered too old. He’d been fifty when Maggie had come along. But, according to both Mildred and Paul, they’d finally found an agency that understood how desperately they wanted a child and had given Maggie to them to love.
No child could have asked for more loving parents. But they’d been horribly overprotective, so afraid something would happen to her, that Maggie had become fearless in self-defense. By the age of twenty-seven, she’d tried everything from skydiving and bungie jumping to motorcross, heli-skiing and speedboat racing.
Her parents had been terrified. Now she realized they’d been afraid long before their only child had become a thrill-seeker. Now she knew why she’d seen fear in her father’s eyes all of her life. He’d been waiting all these years for the other shoe to drop.
It had finally dropped. He’d found out she was kidnapped and couldn’t live with the knowledge.
She heard a board creak behind her, heavy with a tentative step. “Norman, you have to tell the police what you told me. They’ll protect you.”
“Are you nuts? You can’t trust anyone. These people have already killed twice to keep their secret. Who knows how influential they are or what connections they might have.”
He’d seen the killer and knew something he wasn’t telling her. That’s why he was so afraid. Well, maybe the cops could get the truth out of him. “Norman, I called the detective on the case after I talked to you. Detective Blackmore.”
“What?” He looked around wildly. “Don’t you realize what you’ve done?” He grabbed for the saddlebag. “Give me the money. I have to get out of here. Quick. He’ll kill us both if—” Norman broke off, his gaze riveted on something just over her left shoulder, eyes widening in horror.
She heard the soft pop, didn’t recognize the sound until she saw blood bloom across the shoulder of Norman’s jacket. The second shot—right on the heels of the first—caught him in the chest, dead-on.
His grip on the saddlebag pulled her down with him as he fell to the weathered boards, dropping her to her knees beside him.
“Oh, Norman. Oh, God.” Her mind reeled. The police wouldn’t have shot him. Not without a warning first. But who else had known about their meeting?
The third shot sent a shaft of pain tearing through her left arm as she tried to free herself of the saddlebag strap and Norman’s death grip.
“Timber Falls,” he whispered, blood running from the corner of his mouth as his fingers released the bag of money and her. “That’s where they got you.” Adding on his last breath, “Run.”
But there was no place to run. She was trapped. Behind her, she heard the groan of a board, caught the scent of the killer on the breeze, a nauseating mix of perspiration, cheap cologne and stale cigar smoke.
She had only one choice. She fell over Norman, rolling him with her, using his body as a shield as a fourth shot thudded into his dead body.
As she fell, she looked up, saw the man with the gun come out of the fog. Shock paralyzed her as her eyes met his and she realized she knew him.
She let out a cry as he raised the gun and pulled the trigger. Two more shots thudded into Norman’s riddled body as she rolled off the end of the pier taking Norman and the saddlebag with her, dropping for what seemed an eternity before plunging into the cold, dark roiling water below.
Chapter Two
Outside Timber Falls, Oregon
Jesse Tanner had been restless for days. He stood on his deck, looking down the steep timbered mountain into the darkness, wishing for sleep. It had been raining earlier. Wisps of clouds scooted by on a light breeze.
He sniffed the cedar-scented air as if he could smell trouble, sense danger, find something to explain the restlessness that haunted his nights and gave him no peace.
But whatever was bothering him it remained as illusive as slumber.
A sound drew him from his thoughts. A recognizable throaty rumble. He looked toward the break in the trees below him on the steep mountain to the strip of pavement that was only visible in daylight. Or for those few moments when headlights could be seen at night on the isolated stretch of highway below him.
The single light came out of the trees headed in the direction of Timber Falls. A biker, moving fast, the throb of the big cycle echoing up to him.
Jesse watched the motorcycle glide like warm butter over the wet, dark pavement and wished that he was on it, headed wherever, destination unknown.
But that was the old Jesse Tanner. This Jesse was through wandering. Through with the open road. This Jesse had settled down.
Not that he still couldn’t envy the biker below him on the highway. Or remember that heady feeling of speed and darkness and freedom. There was nothing like it late at night when he had the road to himself. Just an endless ribbon of black pavement stretched in front of him and infinite possibilities just over the next rise.
He started to turn away but a set of headlights flickered in the trees as a car came roaring out of a side road across the highway below him. He watched, frozen in horror as the car tore out of Maple Creek Road and onto to the highway—directly into the path of the motorcycle.
He caught a flash of bright red in the headlamp of the bike and saw the car, a convertible, the top down and the dark hair of the woman behind the wheel blowing back in that instant before the bike collided with the side of the car, clipping it. The bike and rider went down.
Jesse gripped the railing as the bike slid on its side down the pavement, sparks flying as the car sped away into the darkness and trees, headed toward Timber Falls, five miles away.
He was already running for his old pickup he kept for getting firewood. Other than that, all he had was his Harley. Taking off down his jeep trail of a road in the truck, he dropped down the face of the mountain, fearing what he’d find when he reached the pavement.
At the highway, he turned north. It was darker down here with the forest towering on each side of the two-lane. In the slit of sky overhead, clouds scudded past, giving only brief glimpses of stars and a silver sliver of moon.
He hadn’t gone far when he spotted the fallen bike in his headlights. It lay on its side in the ditch, the single headlamp casting a stationary beam of gold across the wet highway. Where was the biker?
Driving slowly up the road, he scanned the path with his headlights looking for the downed rider, bracing himself for what he’d find.
A dozen yards back up the highway from the bike, something gleamed in his headlights. The shiny top of a bike helmet. The biker lay on his side at the edge of the road, unmoving.
Jesse swore and stopped, turning on his emergency flashers to block any traffic that might come along. He didn’t expect any given the time of the night—or the season. Early spring—the rainy season in this part of the country. People with any sense stayed clear of the Pacific side of the Cascades where, at this time of year, two hundred inches of rain fell pretty much steadily for seven months. The ones who lived here just tried not to go crazy during the rainy season. Some didn’t succeed.
Following the beams of his headlights, he jumped out of the pickup and ran across the wet pavement toward the biker, unconsciously calculating the odds that the guy was still alive, already debating whether to get him into the back of the truck and run him to the hospital or not move him and go for help.
As he neared, he heard a soft moan and saw movement as the biker came around. Jesse figured he was witnessing a miracle given how fast the motorcycle had been traveling.
“Take it easy,” he said as the figure in all black leathers coughed as if gasping for breath and tried to sit up. The biker was small, slim and a damned lucky dude.
As Jesse knelt down beside him in the glow of the pickup’s headlights, he saw with shock that he’d been wrong and let out an oath as a hand with recently manicured nails pulled off the helmet. A full head of long dark curly hair tumbled out and a distinctly female voice said, “I’m okay.”
“Holy…” he said rocking back on his heels. This was one damned lucky…chick.
She had her head down as if a little groggy.
He watched her test each leg, then each arm. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?” He couldn’t believe everything was working right. “Nothing’s broken?”
She shook her head, still bent over as if trying to catch her breath.
He waited, amazed as he took in the leather-clad body. Amazed by the bod and the bike. She was wheeling a forty-thousand-dollar ride that most men couldn’t handle. A hell of a bike for a girl. It was too heavy for anyone but an expert rider. No wonder she’d been able to dump the bike and not get hurt.
She tried to get up again.
“Give it another minute. No hurry,” he said, looking from her, back up the highway to her bike. This gal had nine lives, a whole lot of luck and she knew how to ride that fancy bike. He wasn’t sure what impressed him more.
“I’m all right.” Her voice surprised him. It was all female, cultured and educated-sounding and in stark contrast to her getup and her chosen mode of transportation.
But the real shocker was when she lifted her head, flipping back her hair, and he saw her face.
All the air went out of him as if she’d sucker punched him. “Sweet Mother—” he muttered, rearing back again. She was breathtaking. Her skin was the color of warm honey sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar freckles across high cheekbones. And her eyes…They were wide and the color of cedar, warm and rich. She was exquisite. A natural beauty.
And there was something almost familiar about her…
She tried to get to her feet, bringing him out of his dumbfounded inertia.
“Here, let me help you,” he said and reached under her armpits to lift her to her feet. She was amazingly light and small next to him.
She accepted his help with grace and gratitude even though it was clear she liked doing things for herself.
She took a step. “Ouch,” she said under her breath and swayed a little on her feet.
“What is it?”
“My left ankle. It’s just sprained.”
Maybe. Maybe not. “I’ll take you to the hospital emergency room to see a doctor.”
She shook her head. “Just get me to my bike.”
“It’s not rideable.” He’d seen enough twisted metal on it even in passing to know that. “I’ll load it into my pickup. There’s not a bike shop for a hundred miles but I’ve worked on a few of my own. I might be able to fix it.”
She looked up at him then as if seeing him for the first time. Her eyes narrowed as she took in the boots, jeans, bike rally T-shirt and his long dark ponytail. Her gaze settled on the single gold ring in his earlobe. “You live around here?”
“Right up that mountain,” he said, pointing to the light he’d left on. It glowed faintly high up the mountainside.
She studied it. Then him.
It was three in the morning but he had to ask. “Is anyone expecting you up the road, anyone who’ll be worried about you? Because I don’t have a phone yet.”
She didn’t seem to hear him. “You have ice for my ankle at your place?”
He nodded.
“Good. That’s all I need.”
“I have a clean bed you’re welcome to for what’s left of the night,” he offered.
She flashed him an in-your-dreams look.
He smiled and shook his head. “All I’m offering is a bed. Maybe something to eat or drink. Some ice. Nothing more.”
She cocked her head at him, looking more curious than anything else. He wondered what she saw. Whatever it was, he must have looked harmless enough before she started to limp toward her bike. “I need my saddlebag.”
“I’ll get it,” he said catching up to her and offering a hand. “No reason to walk on that ankle any more than you have to.” She quirked an eyebrow at him but said nothing as she slipped one arm around his shoulder and let him take her weight as she hobbled to the pickup.
As he opened the passenger-side door and slid her into his old truck, he felt way too damned chivalrous. Also a little embarrassed by his old truck.
She glanced around the cab, then settled back into the seat and closed her eyes. He slammed the door and went to load her bike.
He’d only seen a couple of these bikes. Too expensive for most riders. It definitely made him wonder about the woman in his pickup. The bike didn’t look like it was hurt bad. He figured he should be able to fix it. He liked the idea of working on it. The bike intrigued him almost as much as the woman who’d been riding it.
He rolled the bike up the plank he kept in the back of his pickup, retrieved her saddlebag and, slamming the tailgate, went around to climb into the cab of the truck beside her. He set the heavy, bulging saddlebag on the seat beside them.
She cracked an eyelid to see that the bag was there, then closed her eyes again.
“The name’s Jesse. Jesse Tanner.”
She didn’t move, didn’t open her eyes. “Maggie,” she said but offered no more.
He started the engine, shifted into first gear and headed back up the mountain to his new place. The road was steep and rough, but he liked being a little inaccessible. He saw her grimace a couple of times as he took the bumps, but she didn’t open her eyes until he parked in front of the cabin.
She looked up at the structure on the hillside, only the living-room light glowing in the darkness.
“This is where you live?” she said and, opening her door, got out, slipping the saddlebag over her shoulder protectively.
Something in her tone made him wonder if she meant the cabin or the isolated location. The only visitors he’d had so far were his younger brother, Mitch, and his dad. He figured if he wanted to be social, he knew the way to town and it was only five miles. Not nearly far enough some days.
He looked at the cabin, trying to see it through her eyes. It was tall and narrow, a crude place, built of logs and recycled cedar but he was proud of it since he’d designed and built it over the winter with the help of his dad and brother. It had gone up fast.
Three stories, the first the living room and kitchen, the second a bedroom and bath with a screened in deck where he planned to sleep come summer, the third his studio, a floor flanked with windows, the view incredible.
Unfortunately, it was pretty much a shell. He hadn’t furnished the inside yet. Hadn’t had time. So all he had was the minimal furniture he’d picked up.
Lately, he’d been busy getting some paintings ready for an exhibit in June, his first, and— He started to tell her all of that, but stopped himself. It wasn’t like she would be here more than a few hours and then she’d be gone. She didn’t want his life history, he could see that from her expression.
He’d been there himself. No roots. No desire to grow any. Especially no desire to be weighed down even with someone’s life story.
She was standing beside the pickup staring up at his cabin as he climbed out of the truck.
“It’s still under construction,” he said irritated with himself for wanting her to like it. But hell, she was the first woman he’d had up here since it was built.
“It’s perfect,” she said. “Neoclassical, right?”
He smiled, surprised at her knowledge of architecture. But then again, she was riding a forty-thousand-dollar bike and had another couple grand in leather on her back, spoke like she’d been to finishing school and carried herself as if she knew her way around the streets. All of that came from either education, money or experience. In her case, he wondered if it wasn’t all three.
She caught him admiring the way her leathers fit her.
“Let’s get you inside,” he said quickly. “You hungry?”
She shook her head and grabbed the railing, limping up the steps to the first floor, making it clear she didn’t need his help.
“You sure you don’t want to see a doctor? I could run you into town—”
“No.” Her tone didn’t leave any doubt.
“Okay.” He’d had to try.
They’d reached the front door. She seemed surprised it wasn’t locked. “I haven’t much to steal and most thieves are too lazy to make the trek up here.” He swung the door open and she stepped inside, her gaze going at once to his paintings he’d done of his years in Mexico.
He had a half dozen leaning against the bare living-room wall waiting to go to the framer for the exhibit. She limped over to them, staring at one and then another.
“How about coffee?” he offered, uncomfortable with the way she continued to study his work as if she were seeing something in the paintings he didn’t want exposed.
He couldn’t decide if she liked them or not. He wasn’t about to ask. He had a feeling she might tell him.
While she’d been studying the paintings he’d been studying her. As she shrugged out of her jacket, he saw that she wore a short-sleeved white T-shirt that molded her breasts and the muscles of her back. She was in good shape and her body was just as exquisite as he’d thought it would be beneath the leather.
But what stole his attention was the hole he’d seen in the jacket just below her left shoulder—and the corresponding fresh wound on her left biceps. He’d seen enough gunshot wounds in his day to recognize one even without the telltale hole in the leather jacket.
The bullet had grazed her flesh and would leave a scar. It wasn’t her first scar though. There was another one on her right forearm, an older one that had required stitches.
Who the hell was this woman and what was it about her?
“These are all yours,” she said, studying the paintings again. It was a statement of fact as if there was no doubt in her mind that he’d painted them.
“I have tea if you don’t like coffee.”
“Do you have anything stronger?” she asked without turning around.
He lifted a brow behind her back and went to the cupboard. “I have some whiskey.” He turned to find her glancing around the cabin. Her gaze had settled on an old rocker he’d picked up at a flea market in Portland.
“That chair is pretty comfortable if you’d like to sit down,” he said, as he watched her run her fingers over the oak arm of the antique rocker.
She looked at him as she turned and lowered herself into the rocker, obviously trying hard not to let him see that her ankle was hurting her if not the rest of her body. Maybe nothing was broken but she’d been beat up. Wait until tomorrow. She was going to be hurtin’ for certain.
He handed her half a glass of whiskey. He poured himself a tall glass of lemonade. The whiskey had been a housewarming gift from a well-meaning friend in town. He’d given up alcohol when he’d decided it was time to settle down. He’d seen what alcohol had done for his old man and he’d never needed the stuff, especially now that he was painting again.
He watched Maggie over the rim of his glass as he took a drink. He’d made the lemonade from real lemons. It wasn’t half-bad. Could use a little more sugar though.
She sniffed the whiskey, then drained the glass and grimaced, nose wrinkling, as if she’d just downed paint thinner. Then she pushed herself to her feet, limped over to him and handed him the glass. “Thank you.”
“Feeling better?” he asked, worried about her and not just because of her bike wreck.
“Fine.”
He nodded, doubting it. He wanted to ask her how she’d gotten the bullet wound, what she’d been doing on the highway below his place at three in the morning, where she was headed and what kind of trouble she was in. But he knew better. He’d been there and he wasn’t that far from that life that he didn’t know how she would react to even well-meaning questions.
“I promised you ice,” he said and finished his lemonade, then put their glasses in the sink and filled a plastic bag with ice cubes for her ankle. “And a place to lie down while I take a look at your bike.” He met her gaze. She still wasn’t sure about him.
He realized just how badly he wanted her to trust him as he gazed into those brown eyes. Like her face, there was something startlingly familiar about them.
She took the bag of ice cubes and he led her up the stairs, stopping at his bedroom door.
“You can have this room. The sheets are clean.” He hadn’t slept on them since he’d changed them.
“No, that one’s yours,” she said and turned toward the open doorway to the screened-in deck. There was an old futon out there and a pine dresser he planned to refinish when he had time. “I’ll sleep in here.”
He started to argue, but without turning on the light, she took the bag of ice and limped over to the screened windows, her back to him as she looked out into the darkness beyond.
Fetching a towel from the bathroom, he returned to find her still standing at the window. She didn’t turn when he put the towel on the futon, just said, “Thank you.”
“De nada.” He was struck with the thought that if he had been able to sleep he would never have seen her accident, would never have met her. For some reason that seemed important as if cosmically it had all been planned. He was starting to think like his future sister-in-law Charity and her crazy aunt Florie, the self-proclaimed psychic.
He really needed to get some decent sleep, he concluded wryly, if he was going to start thinking crap like that. “There are sheets and blankets in the dresser and more towels in the bathroom.” He would have gladly made a bed for her but he knew instinctively that she needed to be alone.
“About my bike—”
“I think I can fix it,” he said. “Otherwise, I can give you and the bike a lift into Eugene.”
She turned then to frown at him. “You’d do that?”
He nodded. “I used to travel a lot on my bike and people helped me. Payback. I need the karma.” He smiled.
Her expression softened with her smile. She really was exquisite. For some reason, he thought of Desiree Dennison, the woman he’d seen driving the red sports car that had hit Maggie. “I can also take you in to see the sheriff in the morning. I know him pretty well.”
“Why would I want to see him?” she asked, frowning and looking leery again.
“You’ll want to press charges against the driver of the car that hit you.”
She said nothing, but he saw the answer in her eyes. No chance in hell was she sticking around to press charges against anyone.
“Just give a holler if you need anything,” he said.
Her gaze softened again and for an instant he thought he glimpsed vulnerability. The instant passed. “Thank you again for everything.”
My pleasure. He left the bathroom door open and a light on so she could find it if she needed it, then went downstairs, smiling as he recalled the face she’d made after chugging the whiskey. Who the hell was she? Ruefully, he realized the chances were good that he would never know.
MAGGIE HURT ALL OVER. She put the ice down on the futon and limped closer to the screened window. The night air was damp and cool, but not cold.
She stared out, still shaken by what had happened on the dock, what she’d learned, what she’d witnessed. She’d gotten Norman killed because she’d called Detective Rupert Blackmore.
Below, a door opened and closed. She watched Jesse Tanner cross the mountainside to a garage, open the door and turn on the light. An older classic Harley was parked inside, the garage neat and clean.
She watched from the darkness as he went to the truck, dropped the tailgate, pulled out the plank, then climbed up and carefully rolled her bike down and over to the garage.
For a long moment he stood back as if admiring the cycle, then slowly he approached it. She caught her breath as he ran his big hands over it, gentle hands, caressing the bike the way a man caressed a woman he cherished.
She moved away from the window, letting the night air slow her throbbing pulse and cool the heat that burned across her bare skin. She told herself it was the effects of the whiskey not the man below her window as she tried to close her mind to the feelings he evoked in her. How could she feel desire when her life was in danger?
She’d been running on adrenalin for almost thirty-six hours now, too keyed up to sleep or eat. Her stomach growled but she knew she needed rest more than food at this point. She could hear the soft clink of tools in the garage, almost feel the warm glow of the light drifting up to her.
She took a couple of blankets from the chest of drawers. Wrapping the towel he’d left her around the bag of ice, she curled up on the futon bed, put the ice on her ankle and pulled the blankets up over her.
The bed smelled of the forest and the night and possibly the man who lived here. She breathed it in finding a strange kind of comfort in the smell of him and the sound of him below her.
She closed her eyes tighter, just planning to rest until he was through with her bike, knowing she would never be able to sleep. Not when she was this close to Timber Falls. This close to learning the truth. Just a few more miles. A few more hours.
Tonight on the highway when the car had pulled out in front of her, she’d thought at first it was Detective Rupert Blackmore trying to kill her again.
But then she’d caught a glimpse of the female driver in that instant before she’d hit the bright red sports car.
She’d seen the young woman’s startled face in the bike’s headlight, seen the long dark hair and wide eyes, and as Maggie had laid the bike on its side, she’d heard the car speed off into the night all the time knowing that the cop would have never left. He would have finished her off.
She’d feared that Norman’s body had washed up by now. And it was only a matter of time before Blackmore realized her body wouldn’t be washing up because she hadn’t drowned.
How soon would he figure out where she’d gone and what she was up to and come here to stop her?
But what was it he didn’t want her finding out? That she was kidnapped? Or was there something more, something he feared even worse that she would uncover?
Right now, all she knew was that people were dying because of her. Because her parents had wanted a baby so desperately that they’d bought one, not knowing that she’d been kidnapped from a family in Timber Falls, Oregon.
Her ankle ached. She tried not to think. Detective Rupert Blackmore was bound to follow her to Timber Falls. Unless he was already in town waiting for her.
Sleep came like a dark black cloak that enveloped her. She didn’t see the fog or Norman lying dead at her feet or the cop on the pier with the gun coming after her. And for a while, she felt safe.
Chapter Three
Maggie woke with a start, her heart pounding. Her eyes flew open but she stayed perfectly still, listening for the thing she feared most.
The creak of a floorboard nearby. The soft rustle of clothing. The sound of a furtive breath taken and held.
She heard nothing but the cry of a blue jay and the soft whisper of the breeze in the swaying dark pines beyond her bed.
She opened her eyes surprised to see that the soft pale hues of dawn had lightened the screened-in room. She’d slept. That surprised her. Obviously she’d been tired, but to sleep in a perfect stranger’s house knowing there was someone out there who wanted her dead? She must have been more exhausted than she’d thought.
She listened for a moment, wondering what sound had awakened her and if it was one she needed to worry about. Silence emanated from within the house and there was no longer the soft clink of tools.
Sitting up, she retrieved the bag and towel, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The ice she’d had on her ankle had melted. Some of the water had leaked onto the futon. The towel was soaked and cold to the touch.
She scooped up both towel and bag and pushed to her feet to test her ankle. Last night she’d been scared that her ankle was hurt badly. Anything that slowed her down would be deadly.
Her ankle was stiff and painful, but she could walk well enough. And ride. She stood on the worn wood-plank flooring and took a few tentative steps toward the screened windows. That is, she could ride if her bike was fixed.
She glanced out. The garage door was shut, the light out. The back of the pickup was empty. Her bike sat in front of the house, resting on its kickstand, her helmet sitting on top, waiting for her. He’d fixed it.
The swell of relief and gratitude that washed over her made her sway a little on her weak ankle. Tears burned her eyes. His kindness felt like too much right now. She turned toward the open doorway. She’d left her door open and so it seemed had he. As she neared the short hallway between the rooms, she could see him sleeping in his double bed, the covers thrown back, only the sheet over him.
He was curled around his pillow on his side facing her, his masculine features soft in sleep. A lock of his long straight black hair fell over one cheek, shiny and dark as a raven’s wing. She caught the glint of his earring beneath the silken strands, the shadow of his strong stubbled jaw, the dark silken fringe of his eyelashes against his skin.
Even asleep the man still held her attention, still exuded a wild sensuality, a rare sexuality. This man would be dangerous to a woman. And she didn’t doubt he’d known his share. Intimately. Or that he was a good lover. She’d seen the way he’d touched her bike. She’d seen his artwork. Both had made her ache. Fear for her life hadn’t stolen her most primitive desires last night. Nor this morning.
But what surprised her wasn’t her attraction to the man, but that she felt safe with him. Too safe.
She moved silently down the hallway. He’d left a small light burning in the bathroom for her. That gesture even more than the others touched her deeply. She closed the door behind her and poured what water was left in the plastic bag down the drain, then hung up the towel.
She washed her face, avoiding looking at the stranger in the mirror. She’d spent too many years questioning who she was. Now she was about to find out and she didn’t want to face it or what her adoptive parents might have done in their desperation for a child.
She knew money had exchanged hands. Most adoptions involved an exchange of money, although she hated to think what her parents had paid for her. What frightened her was how the purchase had been made. And why someone was now trying to kill her to keep her from finding out.
No one committed multiple murders to cover up an illegal adoption or even a kidnapping. Especially after twenty-seven years. There had to be more to it. What was someone afraid would come to light?
According to Norman, the answer was in Timber Falls—just a few miles away now. She had raced here, running for her life, rocketing through the darkness toward the truth. But now that she was so close, she feared what she would find.
When she was younger, she’d often thought about finding her biological parents. Of course, her adoptive parents had discouraged her. Now she knew it wasn’t just because they didn’t want to share her.
Unfortunately, now she had no choice but to find out who she really was. And hopefully the answer would save her life. But what would her life be worth once she knew the truth?
As she turned to leave the bathroom, she froze. A sheriff deputy’s uniform hung on the hook of the closed door.
THE CALL CAME before daylight. Detective Rupert Blackmore was lying on his bed, fully clothed, flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Certainly not asleep. He’d been waiting for the phone to ring, willing it to ring with the news he needed.
Praying for it. Although praying might not have been exactly what he’d been doing. Right now he would have sold his soul to the devil if he hadn’t already traded it to Satan a long time ago.
He let the phone ring three times, then picked up the receiver. “Detective Blackmore.”
“Just fished a body out of the sea near the old pier,” said his subordinate, a young new detective by the name of Williams. “Six gunshot wounds. Dead before the body hit the water. Definitely a homicide.”
Rupert Blackmore held his breath as he got to his feet beside the bed. “Has the body been ID-ed?”
“Affirmative. Norman Drake. Wallet was in his pocket. The guy we’ve been looking for in connection with the murder of his boss, attorney Clark Iverson.”
As if Rupert didn’t know that. He tried not to let Williams hear his disappointment that Norman’s body was the only one found so far. “Close off the entire area. I want it searched thoroughly. Drake didn’t act alone and now it appears there’s been a falling out among murderers.”
He hung up and cursed, then in a fit of rage and frustration, knocked the phone off the nightstand, sending it crashing to the floor.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and lowered his head to his hands. Her body would wash up. Then all of this would be over. He took a deep breath, rose and picked up the phone. Carefully he put it back on the nightstand, thanking God that his wife Teresa was at her mother’s and wouldn’t be back for a few more days. Plenty of time to get this taken care of before she returned.
As he headed for the door, he tried not to worry. Once Margaret Randolph was dead, no one would ever find out the truth. And it would never get back that he hadn’t taken care of this problem twenty-seven years ago as he’d been paid to do.
One moment of kindness… He scoffed at his own worn lie. He’d done it for the money. Plain and simple. He’d sold the baby instead of disposing of it. And he’d never regretted it—until Paul Randolph found out the truth. Now Rupert had to take care of things quickly and efficiently before everything blew up in his face. No more mistakes like the one he’d made the other night at the pier. There was no way he should have missed her. He’d been too close and was too good of a shot.
He tried to put the mistakes behind him. Look to the future. And the future was simple. If Margaret Randolph wasn’t floating in Puget Sound with the fish, she soon would be.
MAGGIE STARED at the sheriff’s deputy uniform and tried to breathe. Jesse Tanner was a cop? Last night he’d said he knew the sheriff. She’d just assumed because it was a small town, everyone knew everyone else.
She stifled a groan. Not only had she stayed in the house of the local deputy, but now he might have the plate number on her bike. If he’d had reason to take it down.
Fear turned her blood to ice. He could find out her last name—if he didn’t already know. Worse, he could tell Blackmore that not only was she alive but that she was in Timber Falls.
But why would Jesse Tanner run the plate number on her bike? She hadn’t given him any reason to. Cops didn’t need a reason though. And everyone knew they stuck together.
Except Jesse was different. He didn’t act like a cop. Didn’t insist she go to the doctor last night or the sheriff this morning. Didn’t ask a lot of questions.
She tried to calm her pounding heart. Her hands were shaking as she wiped down the faucets and anything else she might have touched. Were her fingerprints on a file somewhere? She didn’t know.
She thought she remembered being fingerprinted as a child. She knew her parents had worried about her being kidnapped. How ironic. And she’d always thought it was because of their wealth.
As she opened the bathroom door, she half expected the deputy to be waiting for her just outside. The hallway was empty. She stood listening.
Silence. Tiptoeing down the hall, she passed his open doorway again. He had rolled over, his back to her now. She prayed he would stay asleep as she eased into the screened-in deck where she’d slept.
She picked up her boots, her jacket and the saddlebag stuffed with most of the ten grand from the pier. Then she looked around to make sure she hadn’t left anything behind before she limped quietly down the stairs.
At the bottom, she glanced at his paintings as she pulled on her boots, the left going on painfully because of her ankle. What she now knew about the man upstairs seemed at odds with his art. Jesse Tanner and his chisel-cut features, the deep set of matching dimples, the obsidian black eyes and hair, the ponytail and the gold earring didn’t go with the deputy sheriff’s uniform.
There was a wildness about the man, something he seemed to be trying to keep contained, but couldn’t hide in his artwork. The large, bold strokes, the use of color, the way he portrayed his subjects.
Her favorite of the six paintings propped against the wall was a scene from a Mexican cantina. A series of men were watching a Latin woman dance. The sexual tension was like a coiled spring. In both the work and the painter.
He was talented, too talented not to be painting full-time. So why was he working as a sheriff’s deputy? He didn’t seem like the type who liked busting people for a living. Quite the opposite.
She glanced around the cabin. She liked it. Liked him. Wished he wasn’t a cop. She told herself she shouldn’t feel guilty for just running out on him.
Last night she’d been shaken from her accident, hurt and exhausted. She had needed a refuge and he’d provided it, asking nothing in return. He would never know how much that meant to her.
Under other circumstances, she would never have left without thanking him. But these were far from normal circumstances, she reminded herself and remembered the glass of whiskey she’d drunk last night.
Going to the sink, she turned on the faucet and washed both glasses thoroughly, then dried them. Being careful not to leave her prints anywhere, she set the glasses back on the cabinet shelf with the others and wiped down the faucet and handles just as she had in the bathroom upstairs.
She knew she was being overly cautious. But maybe that was why she was still alive.
Her bike was sitting outside, her helmet on the seat as if he’d put it there to let her know it was ready to go. He’d fixed the kickstand and straightened the twisted metal, as well as the handlebars. The bike was scraped up but didn’t look too bad considering how close a call she’d had. Now if it would just run as well as it had.
She strapped on the saddlebag, then climbed on the bike, rolled it off the kickstand and turned the key.
The powerful motor rumbled to life and she felt a swell of relief—and appreciation for the man who’d fixed it. As she popped it into gear, she couldn’t help herself. She glanced up at the house, then quickly looked away. He was a cop. She had learned the hard way not to trust them. Not to trust anyone. If she hoped to stay alive, she had to keep it that way.
JESSE TANNER stood at the screened window watching her leave. He’d been awakened by the sound of running water downstairs and had half hoped she was making coffee. He should have known better.
But he couldn’t help worrying as he watched her ride off into the dawn. Last night after he’d finished with the bike, he’d looked in on her. He felt guilty for snooping but he’d looked into the heavy saddlebag and seen the bundles of money. Maybe she didn’t believe in traveler’s checks. Maybe she’d withdrawn all of her savings from the bank for a long bike trip. Or maybe she’d robbed a savings and loan.
Either way, she was gone and not his problem.
Nor should he be surprised she would leave like this without a word. Last night he’d gotten the impression she wasn’t one for long goodbyes.
Still, he would have made her pancakes for breakfast if she’d hung around. Hell, he hadn’t had pancakes in months, but he would have made them for her.
He went downstairs, foolishly hoping she’d left him a note. He knew better. Her kind didn’t leave notes. No happy faces on Post-Its on the fridge, no little heart dotting the i in her name. She was not that kind of girl.
He made a pot of coffee and saw that she’d washed their glasses and put them away. He stood for a long time just staring at the clean glasses as the coffee brewed, then he poured himself a cup and took it back upstairs while he showered and dressed in his uniform hanging on the back of the bathroom door, all the time dreading the day ahead.
It wasn’t just the biker chick with the bag of money and worry over what she might be running from that had him bummed. She was miles away by now.
His problem was Desiree Dennison. He’d recognized the little red sports car that had sideswiped the biker last night. He couldn’t turn a blind eye to what he’d seen: Desiree leaving the scene of an accident.
But the last thing he wanted to do was go out to the Dennisons and with good reason.
Chapter Four
Maggie cruised through Timber Falls in the early morning, surprised to find the town even smaller than the map had led her to believe. The main drag was only a few blocks long. Ho Hum Motel, Betty’s Café, the Busy Bee antique shop, the Spit Curl, Harry’s Hardware, a small post office, bank and auto body shop.
Past the Cascade Courier newspaper office she spotted the cop shop. She turned down a side street, avoiding driving by the sheriff’s department even though she knew Jesse Tanner couldn’t have beat her to town. But she had no way of knowing how many officers there were in this little burg, or who might be looking for her.
When she’d rolled off the pier, she’d taken Norman’s body with her into the water. The surf was rough that night. As far as she knew Norman’s body hadn’t turned up yet, but then, she hadn’t had a chance to check a newspaper. Until Norman’s body was found, Blackmore might not be aware that she was still alive.
Last night she hadn’t gone home. Fortunately, she’d been smart enough to hide her motorcycle before going down to the pier to meet Norman. When she’d crawled out of the water after being shot, she’d come up a hundred yards down the beach near a small seafood shack.
Keeping to the shadows, she’d broken in, stripped off her leathers down to the shorts and tank top she wore underneath and bandaged her arm as best she could with the first aid kit she found behind the counter.
Then she’d set off the fire alarm, hiding until the fire trucks arrived. In the commotion, she’d worked her way back to her bike, carrying her leathers in a garbage bag she’d taken from the café’s kitchen.
She’d feared the cop would have found her bike and have it staked out but she didn’t see anyone. Nor had she found any tracking devices on it when she’d checked later.
Running scared, she’d gone the only direction she could. Toward Timber Falls, Oregon, a tiny dot she’d found on a service station map. With luck, she’d bought herself a little time. Once Norman’s body washed up and hers didn’t, they were bound to get suspicious. Whoever they were.
Norman. Oh, Norman. She still felt sick and still blamed herself for his death. If she hadn’t called Blackmore…
She’d called Rupert Blackmore because he was the detective investigating Clark Iverson’s murder and she’d read in the paper that he was actively looking for the attorney’s legal assistant, Norman Drake, for questioning. She knew nothing about the cop, let alone if he had a tie in with Timber Falls. Or her.
But she understood now why Norman was so freaked out. He had seen Detective Blackmore kill Iverson and, like Maggie, he had probably seen the recent photograph of Blackmore in the paper getting some award from the mayor for bravery and years of distinguished service in the Seattle Police Department.
Who would believe that a cop who’d been on the force for thirty years and received so many commendations was a killer? No one. That’s why Norman hadn’t gone to the cops. That’s why Maggie knew she couldn’t until she knew why Blackmore had murdered the others—and tried to kill her, as well.
Now she passed through a small residential area of town, coming out next to the Duck-In bar and Harper’s Grocery. Her stomach growled and she tried to remember the last time she’d eaten and couldn’t.
Parking beside the market in the empty lot, she went in and bought herself a bag of doughnuts and a carton of milk, downing most of the milk as she gathered supplies. She purchased some fruit and lunch-meat for later and a bottle of water. She wouldn’t be back to town for hours.
As she started to check out she saw a rack of newspapers and braced herself. But before she could look for a story in one of the larger West Coast papers about a body floating up on a beach, she spotted a headline in the Cascade Courier that stopped her heart cold.
“HERE, YOU FORGOT THIS,” Sheriff Mitch Tanner said from his recliner as Jesse walked through the door. Jesse’s first stop in town was to see how his brother was doing—and talk to him about the accident last night on the highway.
Mitch had always been the good one. College right after high school, then he’d taken the job as sheriff and bought a house. Mr. Law-Abiding.
Jesse on the other hand had been the wild older brother. Always in trouble. When he’d left Timber Falls it had been in handcuffs. After that little misunderstanding was cleared up, he’d headed for Mexico and had spent years down there, half-afraid to come home and yet missing his brother and dad.
“It’s required that you have it with you at all times—and keep it turned on,” Mitch said, tossing him a cell phone.
Jesse groaned as he caught the damned thing. It was bad enough being a cop let alone having to carry a cell phone. He stuffed it into his pants pocket, telling himself it was only for a couple of months tops. “It’s one of those that vibrates, right?” he asked with a wink. “Maybe it won’t be so bad.”
Mitch rolled his eyes and laid back in the recliner, his left leg in a huge cast and a pair of crutches leaning against the wall next to him. He’d taken two bullets, one had broken the tibia of his left leg. The other had just passed through his side. Both had laid him low though.
Worse, Mitch hadn’t taken it well that his first bullet wound in uniform would be from someone he knew—the most famous man in Timber Falls, Wade Dennison. Wade had shot Mitch while struggling over a .38 with his estranged wife, Daisy. Mitch had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Or at least that was Wade’s story.
Jesse thought being behind bars was the perfect place for Wade. The man owned Dennison Ducks, the wooden decoy carving plant and pretty much the reason for the town’s existence and because of that Wade Dennison had thrown his weight around for years.
Well, after being patched up at the hospital he was now behind bars facing all kinds of charges, including assault with a deadly weapon, resisting arrest and domestic abuse. His wife Daisy was fighting for no bail, saying she feared for her life should Wade be released.
Needless to say, it made great headlines in the Cascade Courier, the weekly local paper run by Mitch’s fiancée Charity Jenkins. In fact, Charity seemed to be doing everything she could to keep the story page one.
And, as always, the news kept the gossips going at Betty’s Café.
Jesse knew a lot of people in town resented Wade because of his money and his overbearing attitude and were hoping when the trial rolled around that Wade got the book thrown at him. Jesse just hoped Wade never went gunning for Mitch again. He would definitely take it personally next time.
Meanwhile, since Mitch was off his feet, he’d asked Jesse to stand in as acting deputy until he was completely recovered. Jesse had helped him out before since his return to Timber Falls. Because the town was in a remote part of Oregon, the sheriff had the authority to deputize whatever help he needed.
Jesse suspected Mitch thought putting him in a uniform would help straighten him up. He smiled at the thought because the job was a mixed blessing. He had only started this morning and already hated it. Still, he figured he was doing Mitch a favor and he could use the money, but he’d never been wild about cops since his wild youth and now he was one. The only one in Timber Falls.
The good news was that Timber Falls seldom had any real crime. Although this rainy season had had more than its share. But Jesse was hoping that with Wade Dennison locked up in jail and no more bigfoot sightings, things would quiet down.
“You look like you’re doing all right,” he said to his brother as Charity came into the room with a tray of coffee, freshly squeezed orange juice, scrambled eggs, bacon and toast. She put it down on Mitch’s lap.
Jesse raised a brow. “Damn, the woman can even cook?”
“Very funny,” Charity quipped. “It’s genetic. All women are born to cook and clean. Men are born to be asses.”
Jesse faked a hurt expression.
“Except for Mitch,” she added with a smile as she touched his shoulder. Charity had been crazy about Jesse’s younger brother since she was a kid and he couldn’t be more excited that the two of them were finally getting married. Mitch, while lying in a pool of his own blood, finally got smart and proposed to her after she’d helped save his life. The man was slow, but not stupid.
“I need to talk to my little brother for a moment,” Jesse said. Mitch was two years younger, but several inches taller than Jesse. “Sheriff’s department business.”
Mitch groaned. “That’s like waving a red flag in front of a bull to talk sheriff’s department business in front of Charity, ace reporter.”
“It’s nothing you’d find interesting for the newspaper,” Jesse assured Charity as he sat down next to Mitch and stole a piece of his bacon. Charity stuck around just in case. She was the owner, editor and reporter of the Cascade Courier and she was a bloodhound when it came to a good story.
“You know those forms you said I have to file every week?” Jesse said chewing the bacon. “Where again do you keep them?”
Charity picked up her purse and headed for the front door. “Jesse, if you’re going to be here for a few minutes, I need to run by the paper.”
“I can be left alone, you know,” Mitch called to her. “I’m not a complete invalid.”
Charity paid him no mind.
“I’ll stay here until you come back,” Jesse proposed so she would finally leave.
“Forms?” Mitch said after she’d gone.
Jesse shrugged. “Couldn’t think of anything else off the top of my head. The real reason I wanted to talk to you is that I witnessed an accident last night. Desiree Dennison ran a biker off the road.”
Mitch swore. “Anyone hurt?”
Jesse shook his head. “It was a hit-and-run though. She didn’t even stop to see if the biker was okay.”
“You’re sure it was Desiree?”
“Saw the car with my own eyes. She had the top down. No one has a head of hair like her.” Desiree took great pride in that wild mane of hers.
He was trying to put his finger on just what color it was when he was reminded of the biker’s hair. It was long and fell in soft curls down her back and was a dark mahogany color that only nature could create. Desiree’s was darker than he remembered and he realized she must have put something on it.
“Any other witnesses?” Mitch asked.
“Not at 3:00 a.m.”
“What about the biker?”
“Wasn’t interested in pressing charges. You know bikers.”
Mitch grunted. He knew Jesse and that was enough.
“There’s going to be damage to the car. The biker hit the passenger door side. I’d say pretty extensive damage and I took a sample of the paint from the bike.”
Mitch was nodding. “You have to write Desiree up. The judge is going to take her license, has to after all her speeding tickets.”
Jesse nodded. “I just wanted to tell you before I go up there. I’m sure there will be repercussions.”
Mitch snorted. “With a Dennison?”
“I heard Wade might make bail.”
“No way. Daisy’s fighting it. So am I. He’s too much of a risk.”
“I hope the judge sees it that way,” Jesse said as he took a piece of Mitch’s toast. He’d never had much faith in the system. And Charity had been writing some pretty inflammatory news articles about Wade and the rest of the Dennisons, dragging up a lot of old dirt.
If Wade got out, who knew what he would do. He’d threatened to kill Charity at least once that Jesse knew of.
“Have you considered cutting your hair?” Mitch asked eyeing him as Jesse wiped his bacon-greasy hands on his brother’s napkin.
“Nope.” That was the good part about being deputized in this part of Oregon. A lot of the rules in the big city just didn’t apply. How else could someone like Jesse become an officer of the law?
He heard Charity’s VW pull up. “Your woman’s back. Better eat your breakfast.”
“What’s left of it,” Mitch grumbled. “Be careful up there at the Dennisons’. I swear they’re all crazy.”
Jesse wouldn’t argue that.
MAGGIE STARED at the newspaper headline. After Twenty-Seven Years In Hiding Following Daughter’s Kidnapping, Daisy Dennison Ready For New Life.
“Is that all?” the grocery clerk asked.
Maggie dragged her gaze away from the newspaper to look at the older woman behind the counter. Twenty-seven years. Kidnapping. “What?”
“Is there anything else?”
“I’ll take a few papers,” Maggie said, feeling light-headed and nauseous as she grabbed the two larger West Coast papers and one of the tiny Cascade Courier. She shoved them into the grocery bag with her other purchases, her hands shaking.
The clerk eyed her for a moment, then rang up the newspapers. Maggie gave her a twenty and accepted the change the woman insisted on counting out into her trembling palm. Stuffing the change into the bag with the groceries, Maggie left, trying not to run.
Outside she gulped the damp morning air as she scanned the streets, not sure if she was looking for the face of a killer, that of a handsome dimpled sheriff’s deputy or maybe a face that resembled her own.
The streets were empty at this early hour. She looked back to find the clerk still watching her.
Climbing onto her bike, Maggie backtracked a few blocks to make sure no one was following her, then rode south out of town to one of the dozens of state campgrounds she’d seen on the map. She picked a closed one, wound her way around the barrier until she found a campsite farthest from the highway, deep in the woods and near the river.
It wasn’t until she was pretty sure she was safe that she dragged out the newspapers, starting with the article in the Cascade Courier.
She read it in its entirety twice. There was little about the original kidnapping. Mostly it was a story about a woman named Daisy Dennison who had been a recluse for twenty-seven years after her baby daughter had been stolen from her crib.
Her husband Wade, the founder of Dennison Ducks, a local decoy carving plant, was behind bars for a variety of things including shooting the sheriff during a recent domestic dispute with Daisy.
Wade Dennison’s attempts to make bail had been thwarted by his wife. Daisy, it was alleged, had filed for divorce and had started a new life.
What a great family, Maggie thought sarcastically.
But what Maggie did get from the story was that the couple’s youngest daughter, Angela, had been kidnapped twenty-seven years ago. No ransom had ever been demanded. Angela was never seen again.
Angela Dennison. Was it possible Maggie was this person? If what Norman had told her was correct, she had to be. How many other babies had been kidnapped from this tiny town twenty-seven years ago?
She quickly set up her two-man tent and finished off the milk and a couple more doughnuts before going through the larger newspapers. Nothing about Norman. She breathed a sigh of relief.
She knew she should try to get some sleep but the river pooled just through the trees near her campsite, clear and welcoming. She left the tent and walked over to the small pool, stripped down and took a bath. The icy cold water did more than clean and refresh her. It assured her she was alive. At least for the time being.
Full and feeling better, she still felt restless, anxious for the cloak of darkness so she could return to town—and worried about the deputy she’d stayed with part of the night. He had no reason to come looking for her. Unless he’d been warned she might be headed to Timber Falls. But then, that would mean Jesse Tanner had been in contact with Detective Rupert Blackmore and Blackmore knew she was alive.
Would the deputy help Blackmore find her? Why wouldn’t he? It would be her word against a respected detective. No contest.
She hid her bike in the trees, then brought the saddlebag full of money and her meager toiletries and clothing into the tent to wait until dark.
Chapter Five
Jesse had made a point of steering clear of the Dennisons since the time he was a boy. The last thing he wanted to do was ruin the morning by confronting Desiree, let alone her mother Daisy.
But he stopped by the sheriff’s department just long enough to leave his Harley and pick up the patrol car Mitch insisted he use along with that damned cell phone.
The Dennisons lived a few miles outside of town not far from Dennison Ducks.
Jesse hadn’t seen Wade and Daisy’s daughter Desiree since the shooting at the Dennison house when his brother had been wounded.
But he’d heard Desiree had been frequenting the Duck-In Bar more than usual and driving like a bat out of hell in that cute little sports car Daddy had bought her before he went to jail.
The last time he was at the house he’d found them all in the pool house, Mitch lying on the floor bleeding and Daisy with the gun trying to kill Wade. Fun family. Charity had saved the day—and Mitch—and all Jesse had needed to do was handcuff Wade and haul him off to the hospital then jail, adding to the scandal that had been a part of that family from as far back as Jesse could remember. Long before their youngest daughter had been kidnapped twenty-seven years before.
Needless to say, neither Daisy nor Desiree was going to be anxious to see him again. The feeling was mutual.
He parked his patrol car near the four-car garage and climbed out, the Dennison mansion looming out of the forest in front of him.
The place had been built with one thing in mind, letting everyone know just how much money Wade had and how much more could be made through duck decoys. It was an overdone plantation house straight out of Gone With the Wind. Antebellum style with huge pillars, a massive veranda complete with white wicker and inside, a Timber Falls’ version of southern belles. Except Daisy, like her daughter Desiree, was no Southerner. Nor was either a belle.
He checked the garage first, peeking in the windows. There was Wade’s SUV. Daisy’s SUV. And Desiree’s little red sports car, the passenger side caved in. He opened the garage door and stepped in, taking the chip of paint he’d scraped from the bike out of his pocket and holding it up against the car door panel. Perfect match. As if there had ever been any doubt. Then he headed for the main house.
“Would you please get Miss Desiree up, ma’am,” he said in his best Rhett Butler imitation when the housekeeper answered the front door of the house a few minutes later. “It’s the law come a calling.” He flashed his credentials.
The German housekeeper didn’t get the accent or the humor, what little there was. Nor did she look the least bit concerned. It wasn’t as if this was the first time a uniformed officer had come to the door looking for Desiree.
“She is indisposed.”
Jesse laughed. “She’s still in bed. If I have to come back it will be with a warrant for her arrest.”
“I’ll take care of this,” said a female voice from the cool darkness of the house. Daisy stepped from the shadows. She was close to fifty and still a very attractive woman. It seemed as if the years she’d spent in seclusion after Angela’s kidnapping had made her more reserved, less haughty. Her dark hair had been recently highlighted with blond streaks and cut to the nape of her neck so that it floated nicely around her pretty face.
But Jesse would always see her as he had at the age of nine, a goddess with long dark hair and a lush body, riding bareback through the tall grass behind his house, smelling of fancy flowers and what he later realized was sex.
“Hello, Jesse. Can I offer you some coffee? Or perhaps a glass of iced tea? Zinnia just made some.”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Dennison.” He supposed it was natural he was disposed not to like the woman even if he had never spoken more than two words to her before. “I need to see Desiree.”
“I’m sure she’s still in bed. Please. Call me Daisy.”
“I’m going to have to insist you get her up, Mrs. Dennison.”
Daisy’s back stiffened. So did her features. “It’s that important?”
“Yes, ma’am, it is.”
She sighed. “Very well. If you’d care to wait in there.” She pointed toward a small sitting room, the walls lined with books. “I’ll go get her.” Her look said Desiree would not be happy about this.
Too bad. He was a hell of a lot less happy about this than the princess of the house.
It was a good forty-five minutes later before Desiree made an appearance. Jesse had reacquainted himself with several classics in the small library by the time she burst into the room.
Her scent preceded her. She smelled of jasmine, her hair still wet from her shower, her face perfectly made-up. She was wearing all white, a blouse that floated over her curves and white Capri pants that set off her sun-bed tanned legs. She gave him her come-hither look, but being seductive came as easily as breathing for Desiree.
“Jesse,” she cooed. “You really should call a girl before you drop by so she can be presentable.”
He was struck by the color of her eyes. But it wasn’t just the eyes, he realized.
She moved past him, darting to plant a kiss on his cheek and brushing one of her full breasts against his arm as she did.
He found his voice. “This is not a social occasion and you know it.”
She turned to smile at him. Desiree Dennison had found that she possessed a power over men and she loved it.
“I’m here on sheriff’s department business,” he said. “I witnessed an accident last night on the highway by my place. I saw you hit a motorcyclist when you pulled out from Maple Creek Road.”
She drew back, gave him a get-real look, then lied right to his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Where were you at three in the morning, after the bars closed?”
A brow shot up. “In bed.”
“Anyone’s bed I know who can give you an alibi?”
She pouted. “In my own bed, alone.”
He shook his head. “Give me your car keys.”
“What?”
“Your car keys. Now.”
“I’ll have to go upstairs and get them.” Her cheeks flamed with obvious anger as if the walk was more than she was up to this morning. Or maybe it was being caught.
“I’ll wait.”
She turned her back on him to buzz the housekeeper on the intercom. “Get me some juice,” she snapped. “Orange juice. A large glass.” Then she left the room.
He half expected to hear the sports car engine roar to life, but Desiree was too used to getting out of scrapes to make a run for it. Daddy always bailed her out. Only Daddy couldn’t even make bail himself right now. And maybe Mommy was over Desiree’s shenanigans.
But it was Daisy who returned with the car keys.
“If you had told me why you were here, I could have saved you the trouble of waking Desiree. I was driving my daughter’s car last night.”
He stared at her, not bothering to take the keys she held out to him. “You were the one up Maple Creek Road? You realize that’s the local make-out spot?”
She smiled. “Is it? I’m afraid I was only turning around. I took Desiree’s car because I felt like having the top down. I pulled into the turnoff at Maple Creek Road. I didn’t see the biker. I know I should have reported it at once.”
“Or maybe stopped to see if the biker wasn’t killed.”
Daisy blanched. “Is he all right?”
Jesse didn’t correct her on the rider’s gender. “Yeah.”
Her expression said she expected charges to be filed, probably a lawsuit by the biker, maybe even her own arrest, but she was ready. Like her daughter, she’d always come away from scrapes unscathed. Except for the loss of her youngest daughter, Angela, when Desiree was two.
“Are you sure you want to take the rap for your daughter?” Jesse asked, holding her gaze. “I know Desiree was driving the car. I saw her.”
“Really? You were making out on Maple Creek Road last night, deputy?” Daisy asked.
He smiled. “No, I was standing on the deck of my cabin. I can see the highway from there.”
“From your house?” Daisy repeated. “From that distance and in the dark you are absolutely sure it was Desiree behind the wheel?”
“Yes.”
“How is that possible when I was the one driving her car?” Daisy asked.
He knew exactly what she was saying. He could call her a liar and press this. It would be his word against hers. He might be wearing a deputy’s uniform but she would be more credible—even after the shoot-out in her pool house. Maybe more so because she had come off as the victim. Plus she would hire the best attorney money could buy.
“Look, the worst that will happen is Desiree will lose her driver’s license,” he said patiently. “And you know that’s probably the best thing that could happen, getting her off the streets for a while. Next time she might kill someone. Or herself. And there will be a next time.”
“I told you I was the one—”
“I know what you told me,” Jesse interrupted. “You also told me that Wade was the one who shot my brother but it was your gun and your hand over Wade’s when the shots were fired.”
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