Stranger in Cold Creek (4 page)

“And getting to me would be a win.”

“Yeah.”

“I'll keep my eyes open,” John answered, his tone flat.

* * *

“Y
OU
SHOULD
BE
in bed.” Gil Duncan's voice rumbled from the doorway behind her, drawing Miranda's attention from the computer screen.

“I'm fine, Dad. Dr. Bennett said the concussion was mild and probably wouldn't give me any more trouble.” She met her father's worried gaze and smiled. “I promise. My head isn't even hurting anymore.”

Not much, anyway. Just a little ache where the doctor had sewn a couple of stitches to close up the head wound.

“What are you working on?” he asked, nodding toward the computer.

“Just some web surfing. Nothing to worry about.”

“Like I'm not going to worry about my daughter rolling her cruiser in a snowstorm.” Gil Duncan sighed, looking as if he'd aged a decade in the past twenty-four hours.

Miranda rose and crossed to where he stood in the doorway, wrapping her arms around his waist. “I really am okay.”

He gave her a swift, fierce hug, a show of affection that he rarely displayed. “Maybe you should get yourself a different career.”

She pulled back to look at him. “Maybe join you at the hardware store?”

“You worked there for years.”

“Which is why I know it's not for me.” She smiled to soften her words. “You know I love being a deputy.”

“Rebel,” he muttered, but not without affection.

“Go watch your basketball game. I'll finish up what I'm doing and I'll join you for the second half.”

She watched her
father walk down the narrow hall before she returned to the laptop on her bed.

She was fairly sure the blue sedan parked outside John Blake's house had been a Ford Taurus. So she'd just run the description through the Texas Department of Motor Vehicles database.

No response yet from the DMV. They'd be looking at a five-county area around Cold Creek, so it was too early to expect an answer yet.

She slumped back against the bed pillows, her gaze wandering around the bedroom that had been hers growing up. The poster of the country band Lonestar taped to the closet door was dog-eared. Softball and junior-rodeo trophies covered the top of her dresser, along with a few blue ribbons from the county fair.

In this room, she felt sixteen again.

Not a good thing.

Sheriff Randall had retrieved her cell phone from the wrecked cruiser and returned it to her at the clinic. It had survived the crash without damage, which was more than she could say for herself. She pulled her cell phone from her pocket now and called the station. The night sergeant, Jack Logan, was manning the desk. “Things still crazy from the storm?” she asked when he answered.

“Duncan, aren't you supposed to be in bed recuperating?”

“I'm in bed,” she said. “Just a little bored.”

“Well, everything here's settled down, so it's not like you'd be any less bored if you were here,” Logan told her in a tone that reminded her of her father. Jack Logan was a thirty-year veteran, winding down his time on the force on the night shift. “Snow's stopped and the temps should be above freezing by early morning.”

“How about the pileup—how many casualties?”

“No deaths. Fifteen hospitalized but none of the injuries are life threatening. Looks like we dodged a bullet.”

“Some of us literally,” Miranda murmured.

“Ah, hell, Mandy. I wasn't even thinking.”

“Has my cruiser been towed to Lubbock for examination?”

“Yeah. We got to it by late afternoon.”

Maybe they'd get something from ballistics, Miranda thought.

“They've also taped off the area and will do a grid search for more evidence after the snow melts tomorrow,” Logan added.

John Blake would love that, she thought. His privacy had been well and truly invaded today. “Is Robertson still there guarding the crime scene?”

“No. The sheriff figured it was okay to just tape it off and pick up in the morning.”

Miranda frowned, but she supposed the sheriff had a point. The evidence, such as they'd find, was probably in the cruiser anyway. “I'll let you go, Jack. Leave the sheriff a note—I'll be in tomorrow for a debriefing.” She said goodbye and hung up before Logan could protest.

So, the crime scene was sitting there, unprotected, about forty yards from the house rented by a stranger in town.

Hmm.

When she'd first seen John Blake at the hardware store, she almost hadn't noticed him. He was that kind of guy—aggressively average, at least at first glance.

Up close and in action, however, he was anything but average.

Her uniform pants were hanging over the chair in front of her battered old work desk. She dug in the front pocket, pulling out the card John had given her.

She checked her watch. Nine o'clock. Was it too late to call?

Before she could talk herself out of it, she dialed the number.

John answered on the second ring. “John Blake.”

“It's Miranda Duncan.”

His tone softened. “Still alive and kicking?”

“So far, so good.”

“The lab guys came and took your cruiser a few hours ago.” She could hear him moving, the faint thud of his footsteps on the hardwood floor.

“So I heard.”

“Any breaks in the case?”

“Not yet.” A draft was seeping into the house through the window over her bed. She pulled up the blanket and snuggled a little deeper into the mattress. “Hopefully we'll know more after the lab finishes up with the cruiser.”

“I thought they'd have a crime scene crew out here this afternoon, but nobody showed.”

She tried not to feel defensive. “We're a small force to begin with, we're temporarily a deputy short and we're dealing with a snowstorm—”

“Enough said.” John's footsteps stopped, and she thought she heard the soft swish of fabric.

Suddenly, he uttered a low profanity.

“What?” she asked, her nerves instantly on edge.

“There's someone wandering around your crime scene,” he said.

Chapter Four

The figure creeping toward the taped-off patch of frosty grass was moving with slow, measured paces. Dressed in what looked like winter camouflage, he blended into the snow-flecked scrub, only his movement giving away his position.

“He's in camo,” John murmured into the phone, wishing he had his binoculars to get a better look. But he was afraid to leave the window, afraid that if he took his eyes off the creeping intruder, he'd lose sight of him altogether.

“Is he inside the tape?” Over the phone, Miranda's Texas twang had a raspy touch, reminding him that she'd already suffered through a long, stressful day. Her head was probably one big ache by now, and she had to be bruised and battered from the rollover.

“Not yet.”

“I can get a cruiser over there to look around, but it will take a little while,” Miranda said.

Over the phone, John heard the creak of bedsprings. Was she in bed?

He wondered whether she was a pajamas or a nightgown girl. Or, God help him, was she a woman who slept in the buff? A delicious shiver jolted through him at the vivid image that thought evoked.

He drove his imaginings firmly to the back of his head. “So far, he's just circling the taped-off area. Maybe he's just a curious hunter?”

“Is he carrying a rifle?” Miranda asked. He heard the sound of fabric rustling over the phone—was she getting dressed?

“You're not thinking of driving out here yourself, are you?” he asked.

“That's my crime scene.” Her tone was full of stubborn determination. “I can get there faster than I can round up a cruiser. I'm closer.”

“That's crazy—you have a concussion—”

“I'll be there in ten minutes.” She hung up before John could try to talk her out of it.

He tried calling her back, but the call went straight to voice mail. Maybe she was already on the line to her office, rounding up backup.

With a sigh, he shoved his phone in his pocket and turned off the lights in the front room, plunging the house into darkness. Maybe his camo-clad visitor had been waiting for him to go to bed before he made his move.

Ball's in your court
, John thought, grabbing a pair of binoculars before returning to the window. He let his eyes adjust to the change in light until he spotted the intruder again. The man was still circling the yellow crime scene tape, staying outside the perimeter.

He lifted the binoculars to his eyes and focused the lenses on the man in camo. His visitor wore a snow camouflage balaclava covering his mouth, nose and most of his forehead, leaving only a narrow strip of brow, eyes and upper cheeks uncovered. A pair of binoculars hid his eyes from view. He appeared to be using the binoculars to search the ground inside the crime scene tape, sparing him from having to trespass beyond the perimeter.

Suddenly, the man turned his face toward the window, his binoculars seeming to focus directly on John.

John took a step back from the window, but it was too late. The man in camo turned and headed into a clump of bushes north of the house.

John shrugged on his jacket, grabbed a flashlight and took a second to check the magazine of his Ruger before he headed out the door in pursuit.

He'd barely reached the taped crime scene when he heard the sound of a car engine roar to life. A moment later, the taillights of a vehicle stained the night red as a car pulled away from the shoulder of the highway about fifty yards away, heading north. John trekked toward the shoulder of the highway, watching the taillights grow smaller and smaller. About a half mile down the road, the car took a left and disappeared from view, hidden by the overgrown shrubs that lined the crossroad.

John trudged back to the crime scene and flicked on his flashlight, moving the beam over the trampled snow just outside the tape. While there were footprints visible, they were shapeless and free of identifying marks. He searched his memory for details about the man he'd seen wandering about and realized he must have been wearing some sort of boot covers with a soft sole. No wonder he hadn't worried about tracking through the snow.

He followed the tracks, using his flashlight to illuminate the snow around the crash site. He wasn't sure what the intruder had been looking for, but he could see nothing of interest. He supposed a crime scene team might be able to glean more, especially once the snow started to melt off the next day.

As he was walking back to the house, he heard the motor of another vehicle. He turned to watch its approach, soon making out the front grill of a large Ford pickup truck. The truck slowed as it neared his house, pulling onto the shoulder in front of him. The headlights dimmed and the interior light came on as the driver cut the engine. John could just make out Miranda Duncan's tousled auburn hair.

She'd made good time. Great time, actually.

She stopped a few yards away from him, squinting as he lifted the flashlight toward her. “What are you doing out here?”

“The intruder left. I was trying to see where he went, but he had a car waiting.” He aimed the flashlight beam toward the ground, leading her through the snow to where he stood.

She pulled up a foot away, tugging her jacket more tightly around her as a gust of frigid wind blew across the plains, ruffling her hair. “Any idea what sort of car?”

“Too far away to be sure. It seemed to be a sedan, though. Not a truck.”

“Did you see which way he went?”

“He turned left about a half mile up the road.”

She nodded toward the taped-off crime scene. “Did he get inside the perimeter?”

“Not that I saw. He stayed outside the tape, but he was looking around with a pair of binoculars.”

Miranda's gaze dropped to the pair of binoculars hanging around his neck.

He smiled. “I thought I'd see what he was trying to see.”

Miranda frowned. “You went to the crime scene? Did you trample over his footprints?”

“He didn't leave prints.” He told her about the boot covers. “He did seem to be looking for something, though.”

“Like what?”

“I have no idea. I looked around after he left, but I didn't see a damn thing. I'm hoping maybe tomorrow the crime scene unit will come across something after the snow starts to melt.”

“Tire prints,” she said suddenly, looking up at him. A spark of excitement glittered in her eyes, lighting up her weary face. “Didn't the crew who came to tow the cruiser make imprints of the tire prints on the road out front? They were supposed to.”

“I think so.” He'd watched them doing something on the road and had assumed they'd been pouring molds of the prints.

“Maybe there are tire prints up the road where you saw that vehicle pull out and head down the highway.”

“The temperature is supposed to be rising overnight. Those tracks—”

“May not be there tomorrow,” she said, already heading for her truck.

He caught her wrist, stopping her forward motion. She looked first at his hand around her wrist, then slowly lifted her gaze to his, her expression bemused.

“You're supposed to be home in bed, getting rest,” he said. “Not traipsing through the snow in search of tire prints. Besides, isn't there a unit coming from the station?”

The look of frustration in her eyes was almost comical. “They might obliterate them coming here.”

“Call and warn them.”

“Another vehicle could drive through—”

She wasn't going to let it go, he saw. “I don't have any way to make a mold for the tracks, Deputy,” he pointed out. “And neither do you.”

“We could take photographs.”

“Of tire prints in the snow. At night.”

Her mouth pressed to a tight line of annoyance. It was a cute look for her. In fact, his first impression that her features were more interesting than beautiful seemed, if not wrong, at least incomplete. There was an unexpected elegance to her strong bone structure, like the rugged beauty of a mountain peak or a winter-bare tree. A stripped-down sort of beauty that was all substance, all nature's bounty.

“Why don't we go inside, warm up until they get here?” he asked to distract himself from a rush of heat rising from deep in his belly. He gave a backward nod of his head, coaxing her toward the fireplace.

She gave him a reluctant look but didn't resist. It wasn't long before she was settling on the sofa and leaning toward the heat.

“How long have you been a deputy?” he asked, taking a seat beside her.

Her forehead crinkled at the question. “Almost ten years. I joined right out of college.”

“Where did you go to college?”

Her slate-colored eyes narrowed slightly. “Texas Tech. You?”

“That information didn't come up in your background search?”

Her gaze narrowed. “I got a call about a missing person's case, so I didn't get to finish stripping your background bare.”

The tart tone of her reply made him smile. “My bachelor's degree was from Wake Forest. My master's was from the University of Alabama.”

“And now you're a carpenter?”

“After all that time and money, I realized I really hated accounting.”

“Unfortunate.” Her lips curved at the corners but didn't quite manage a smile. “Did you feel pressure to go into the family business anyway?”

Her tone suggested she understood that sort of pressure. “Your dad wanted you to go into the nuts-and-bolts biz?”

“I'm it for his branch of the family tree. No other kids, no living siblings. He's not that far from retiring, and I know he'd love it if I quit the sheriff's department and joined him in the sale of hardware.” She laid her head against the back of the sofa, closing her eyes as she relaxed into the comfortable cushions. “Don't get me wrong. I'm so grateful for the life my dad's business gave me growing up. But I love being a cop.”

“Even in a little place like Cold Creek?”

“Especially in a little place like Cold Creek.” Her smile was genuine. “These are my people. I grew up with most of them. They're here in Cold Creek not because there's nowhere else they could go, but because there's nowhere else in this big, wide world they want to be. This place is in their blood, like it's in mine.” She slanted a quick, sheepish look at him. “That was a little hokey, wasn't it?”

“No,” he disagreed, meaning it. He had left his Tennessee roots behind a long time ago, but the pull of the mountains had never gone away. He'd felt it, a tug in the soul, during the months he'd recently spent in the Blue Ridge Mountains of southern Virginia.

He wondered if he could feel the same sort of tug from another place, especially one as flat and desolate as this part of Texas seemed to be.

Then he wondered why he was even thinking about spending more time in Texas than it took to get himself back into fighting shape, in case law enforcement couldn't round up all the stragglers left in the moribund Blue Ridge Infantry.

The sound of a car motor approaching on the highway dragged his attention away from that worrisome thought. He rose quickly and edged to the window to take a quick peek through the curtains.

A Barstow County Sheriff's Department cruiser had pulled up outside, parking next to Miranda's truck. “It's your colleague,” he murmured as a tall young man stepped out of the cruiser and made his way through the crusty snow to the porch. He was the deputy who'd accompanied the sheriff earlier that day. What was his name?

Miranda followed him to the door as he opened it to the deputy's knock. “Robertson,” she said briskly, joining him on the front porch rather than letting him in. She filled him in on what John had told her about the intruder. “He was wearing boot covers, so we don't have any tracks around the wreck, but Mr. Blake believes he drove away from behind that small stand of shrubs down the highway.” She waved in the direction John had indicated. “He doesn't think any other vehicles have come through since then, thanks to the snow, so I thought we could get tire impressions, at least, to compare to the vehicle that took potshots at me earlier today.”

Robertson took in everything she told him quietly, jotting notes. Then he looked up at Miranda, his blue eyes gentle with concern. “I thought the sheriff told you to get some rest.”

John didn't miss the look of not-so-professional interest in the deputy's expression, but if Miranda was aware that the deputy had a bit of a crush on her, she didn't show it as she shrugged and said, “I was on the phone with Mr. Blake when he saw the intruder. I was at my dad's place, so I was several minutes closer than a cruiser could be.”

Robertson flicked his gaze up to meet John's eyes. “I see.”

“Well?” Miranda asked. “Did you bring the casting material?”

“It's out in the cruiser.”

Miranda went inside to grab her jacket, zipped it up and started out the door after Robertson.

John caught up with her on the porch. “Do you think this is a good idea? It's freezing out here, and you took an awfully hard knock to the head earlier today. I'm pretty sure the EMTs told you to take it easy.”

“I feel fine,” she insisted, starting down the steps. But she swayed as she reached the bottom, and John hurried to give her a bracing hand before she ended up facedown in the snow.

“Yeah, I can see how fine you are,” he murmured, tightening his grip around her arm to keep her from following Robertson. “Robertson strikes me as a capable guy.”

“He doesn't know where to look for the tire prints.”

“Neither do you, really. Come on.” He tugged her arm, gently leading her back up the stairs to the house. He stopped before they entered. “Deputy Robertson?”

The deputy turned to look at him. “Yes?”

“Hold up. I'll go with you to show you where I saw the car. Let me get Deputy Duncan settled.” He nudged Miranda into the house.

“You're making me look like a slacker in front of my fellow deputy,” she grumbled, but she didn't fight him as he led her back to the fire and urged her to sit. “Do you know how hard it can be for a female cop to be taken seriously?”