Stranger in Cold Creek (5 page)

“I do,” he assured her. “But working when you've been told you have a concussion and need to rest doesn't exactly shower you with glory. It just makes you look overeager.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You've been waiting to hit me with that all night, haven't you?”

He smiled. “No, but you know I'm right. What would you be thinking right now if the shoe was on the other foot, and it was Robertson out there staggering and reeling against doctor's orders, trying to prove he's a hotshot investigator?”

“I'd think he was an idiot,” she conceded gruffly.

“I'll be right back.” John laid his hand on her shoulder for a brief moment, his thumb brushing over her clavicle. The skin there was unexpectedly silky and delicate, an intriguing contrast to her tough, no-nonsense exterior.

He forced himself to turn and head out into the cold again, where he found Robertson waiting for him impatiently. He waved John to the passenger side and slid his own lanky body behind the steering wheel.

Robertson cranked up the heat to high as he pulled out on the highway. “Stop me short of where you saw the vehicle enter the highway,” the deputy said. “Don't want to mess up the tracks.”

John told him to stop about twenty yards from the stand of shrubs that had hidden the intruder's vehicle. “It should be about thirty yards up the road. I think he must've parked his vehicle behind those shrubs because they'd block my view of the car from the house.”

Robertson parked on the shoulder and pulled a flashlight from the cruiser's glove compartment. “Stay behind me,” he told John.

John could have given the young deputy a few lessons on evidence retrieval, but he wasn't a cop and this wasn't his town. Plus, nobody liked a know-it-all.

The tire treads in the snow weren't hard to spot, and to John's surprise, they were nearly pristine. Apparently no other vehicles had passed on this side of the highway since the intruder drove away.

Robertson handed John the flashlight. “Can you hold this on the tracks while I get the casting material?”

John directed the beam toward the tire impressions, bending for a closer look. The treads had a pretty distinctive pattern. If the tire impressions the deputies had made earlier in the day were clear at all, they should be able to tell whether or not their intruder tonight was driving the same car.

Robertson stopped beside John. “Those are the same treads.”

John looked up. “Are you sure?”

“I'm the one who took the impressions this afternoon after the tow truck hauled the cruiser away. These look like fairly new tires. Firestones, I think. The lab in Lubbock will tell us for sure.”

“So I may have seen the man who shot at us this afternoon.”

“Looks like.”

“And we have no idea who he is or where he's gone.”

“That's right.”

John looked down the highway behind him, barely able to see his house, sitting small and isolated nearly a mile down the road.

And he'd left Miranda in there, alone and vulnerable, with a target on her back.

Chapter Five

She should be the one out there with Robertson. She was a deputy, damn it. A good one. And John Blake was a civilian.

Everybody was treating her as if she was made of glass, something delicate that needed to be wrapped in cotton batting and hidden away for her own protection.

She pushed to her feet, ignoring the aches and twinges in her muscles and bones, and crossed to the side window that looked out across the snowy plain between the house and the stand of shrubs where John had seen the mystery vehicle enter the highway.

The lights of Robertson's cruiser gleamed in the darkness down the road, and she could make out their silhouettes in the beams of the cruiser's headlights.

Tamping down frustration, she moved her gaze to the taped-off crime scene, wondering what the intruder had been looking for. The cruiser was already at the lab in Lubbock by now, set for examination. An attempted murder of a Texas lawman would put the case high on the list of priorities, she knew. At the very least, ballistics should give them some idea of what kind of weapon the assailant had used.

She couldn't remember how many shots had been fired. Two had hit the cruiser for sure. And there'd been at least one other shot, hadn't there?

Could the intruder have been looking for a bullet that hadn't hit the cruiser? But why? It's not like they could keep the lab guys from finding the two slugs embedded in the cruiser.

She rubbed her aching head, wincing as her fingers brushed against the bandage covering the gash in her head. Nothing was making any sense. She wasn't likely to be on anyone's hit list. Most of the cases she investigated were minor-league domestic disturbances, drunk-and-disorderly calls and property theft, usually of animals or farming tools.

Could it have been mistaken identity?

But how could someone make a mistake about a well-marked Barstow County Sheriff's Department cruiser?

The cold night air seeped through the seams of the window, making her shiver and intensifying the ache in her battered body. She headed back to the warmth of the crackling fireplace but made herself stay on her feet. Sitting and wallowing in weariness and aching misery was not something she was going to allow herself to do.

She was young and strong. And, she reminded herself, she was all by herself in the house of a mysterious, intriguing stranger who'd just wandered into her town.

What were the odds, really, that she'd end up rolling her cruiser off the road just yards away from John Blake's house on the very day she ran into him at her father's hardware store?

Was it possible that her accident, and the subsequent assault on the two of them, was actually more about John than it was about her?

All very good questions, she had to admit. And she might never have a better chance to take a look around John Blake's residence than right now.

The living room sprawled across the full width of the house, but there was little in it that gave her any clue about its occupant. No artwork on the walls, no personal photos on the mantel or the side tables. The lamps were simple and inexpensive, the kind she could find in any discount department store. The furniture was equally free of personality.

Average, she thought, squelching a smile. Like the man.

Except she was beginning to understand that John Blake was about as far from average as a man could get.

The bathroom revealed a few details. He liked his toothbrushes medium and his razors single bladed. He used soap, not bath gel. His medicine cabinet was stocked with both acetaminophen and ibuprofen, along with a prescription for a stronger painkiller from a pharmacy in Abingdon, Virginia. The prescription had been filled a month ago, but based on the pill count on the bottle, he hadn't taken any since the prescription had been filled.

He'd told her he'd spent some time in the hospital recently. He'd said it wasn't an accident.

Then what?

As she was heading from the bathroom toward the bedroom, she heard the rattle of keys in the door and detoured quickly toward the living room, making it to the fireplace before the door opened and John walked inside.

“Did you find anything?” she asked, trying not to sound out of breath, even though her pulse was pounding like a drum in her ears.

“Robertson is taking impressions of the tire treads.” John locked the door behind him and crossed to where she stood. “You look flushed. Feeling okay?”

“I'm fine,” she assured him, swallowing her guilt. She was a cop, and John Blake was a stranger in town who had been conveniently nearby when someone tried to kill her. He wasn't at the top of her suspect list, since he'd been in the line of fire himself, but she'd be stupid not to at least take a look around and make sure he wasn't hiding some deep, dark secret.

Wouldn't she?

“Did Robertson say anything about the tire prints?” she asked as he dropped onto the sofa and stretched his hands toward the fire.

“Can't be sure until the lab takes a look, but Robertson thinks the tires are the same as the car we saw parked out front earlier today.”

“But was that the car that took shots at us?”

“I think it almost had to be. Don't you?”

She frowned at the fire, wishing she could remember more about the events that had sent her and the cruiser careening off the highway. “The doctor at the clinic in town said I might never remember exactly what happened today.”

“Or, in a day or two, you might remember everything.” John put his hand on hers, his touch gentle. Undemanding.

But a ripple of animal awareness darted through her from the place his hand touched hers.

She didn't know whether she was relieved or disappointed when he drew his hand away and turned back to the fire. The fact that she didn't know made what she was about to say that much more difficult to utter.

“I think I should stay here tonight.”

John's head snapped toward hers, a quizzical expression in his dark eyes. “I really don't know how to respond to that.”

“I'm not supposed to sleep much tonight anyway,” she said with what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “Because of the concussion. So I thought I could stay up, keep watch on the crime scene until morning.”

“Or you could get someone from the station who hasn't been in a rollover car crash to stand watch outside,” he suggested. “You should be resting, not playing cop.”

“First off, I don't play cop. I am a cop.”

“You know what I meant.”

“Second, maybe things are different where you come from, but here in Cold Creek, we don't have many officers to spare. I'm here. I'm awake and I'm way too wired to go to sleep tonight. I can pull up a chair to that window, bundle up and keep an eye out for anybody else who might wander into the crime scene. You won't even know I'm here.”

He gave a soft huff of laughter. “Believe me, Deputy, I'll know you're here.”

She shot him a challenging look. “Is there some other reason you don't want me here? Do you have something to hide?”

“If I did, it's within my constitutional rights to do so, Deputy.” He spoke with a firmness that tweaked her curiosity.

So he did have something to hide.

But what?

“Stay,” he said after a long pause. “If that's what you want to do. I'll stay up with you. Keep you company.”

“That's not necessary—”

“That's my condition for your staying in my house overnight,” he said firmly. “Take it or leave it.”

She looked at him through narrowed eyes, debating her options. He was right—if he had secrets, keeping them was his right unless she could prove they broke any laws within her jurisdiction. And if she wanted to stay at his house, she would simply have to abide by his rules.

No matter how much inconvenience—or temptation—they might pose.

* * *

T
HERE
WERE
THREE
WOUNDS
, he saw as he assessed the damage quickly from his hiding place behind a rocky outcropping near the top of the ridge. Dallas Cole and Nicki Jamison had gotten away, along with the woman and the boy they'd rescued from the cabin, but the woman's husband and his henchmen were out here in the woods somewhere, looking for him.

It was dark, so there was a chance they wouldn't be able to follow the track of blood he'd left as he ran, but if the good guys didn't show up before morning, John was going to be in a hell of a lot of trouble.

Who was he kidding? He was already in trouble. The wound in his shoulder had, at the very least, cracked his collarbone, the slightest movement of his left arm sending agony racing through his body. There was also a through-and-through wound just above his hip—that one seemed to have missed the bone, though his jeans were now soaked with blood from the wound.

The one he was worried about was the bullet in his side. It was still in there somewhere. John wasn't sure what it might have hit on its way in.

And he was starting to feel very, very woozy. Too woozy to keep his eyes open any longer.

“John?” The voice was low. Female. Faintly familiar. It seemed far away at first, then louder. “John, wake up...”

He snapped his eyes open, bracing for the pain. It was there, in his shoulder most strongly, but still little more than a twinge. He wasn't in the woods, he realized, as early morning sunlight angling through the window in front of him made him squint.

The voice belonged to the bleary-eyed redhead curled up in an armchair next to his, gazing at him with a faint smile on her pale lips. “You told me if you fell asleep to wake you by six.”

Right. The stakeout. The deputy with the head injury had managed to stay awake, but he'd drifted off like an old man.

He stretched, grimacing at the ache in his bones. “I take it nobody wandered into your crime scene?”

She slanted a sheepish look at him. “I might have dozed off an hour or so just before dawn.”

“I don't think he planned to come back. He didn't spot whatever he was looking for, so he left.”

“You don't think it's because he spotted you watching him?”

“
I don't think
he could have seen me.” John stretched carefully, all too cognizant of the limitations of his recovery. The collarbone fracture had mended, but too violent an arm or shoulder movement could still make his nerves jangle. The other injuries to his side and the muscles over his hip were going to be painful for a while, but it was a dull ache that usually went away after the muscles warmed up.

“What kind of injuries did you have?” Miranda had turned in the armchair until she faced him, her long limbs tucked up under her and the blanket wrapped warmly around her. In the rosy light of morning, her sleepy face looked soft and young, giving her a delicate beauty he wouldn't have associated with her if he hadn't seen it for himself.

“Fractured clavicle and some muscle damage in my side,” he answered vaguely.

“You said it wasn't an accident.”

“No.”

Her auburn eyebrows notched upward. “Okay.”

Great. He'd just made her more curious, not less. “Actually, a hunting injury.” And it was true, in a way.

“Deer?”

“No.”

This time, her lips quirked with amused frustration. “I never could manage to enjoy hunting. I mean, I get the point of it from a conservation standpoint, and I like venison stew as much as the next person—”

He had to put her out of her misery. “Actually, I wasn't the one doing the hunting.”

Her brow crinkled, but before she could say anything, her phone rang. She dug it from the pocket of her jeans and grimaced before answering. “Hi, Dad. Yes, I'm still here.” She slanted a quick look at John. “I know, but—”

John walked away to give her a little privacy, but the room wasn't big enough to avoid hearing her end of what was clearly a paternal lecture. With a heavy sigh she sank deeper into the chair where she'd passed the night and settled in to listen.

John headed for the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. While he was waiting for the coffeemaker to finish, he searched his refrigerator for something that might pass for breakfast. He usually made do with coffee alone, but he'd bought a dozen eggs earlier in the week. He could make omelets. Every guy with any self-respect could make an omelet, right?

He had the eggs sizzling nicely in a skillet by the time Miranda wandered into the kitchen. “Hungry?”

She gave him an odd look but admitted she was. “May I help myself to the coffee?”

He waved his hand at the pot, and she poured a cup, stirring in a packet of sweetener from a jar sitting next to the pot. “Want a cup?” she asked as she stirred her own and gave it a sip.

“Black. One sweetener.” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “What do you know? The way you like yours.”

She smiled and made him a matching cup of coffee. “You didn't have to go to the trouble.”

“I was hungry,” he said and decided it wasn't exactly a lie. He
was
hungry, and she didn't need to know that if she wasn't there, he wouldn't have bothered cooking. “Your dad wasn't happy about your disobeying doctor's orders?”

“Not even a little. He wanted to take my keys away last night, but I threatened to arrest him.” She grinned. “He didn't believe me, but at least he stopped grabbing at my keys. And he's even going to go by my house this morning on his way to work to feed my cats.”

“You have cats?”

She slanted a narrow-eyed look his way. “Two. You have a problem with cats?”

“No. I like cats, actually. I just haven't been in a position to have pets in a while. What kind of cats do you have?”

“One's a silver tabby—Rex. And the other is a tortoiseshell named Ruthie.” Over the cup of coffee, her eyes smiled, soft with affection. “They were litter mates I found while I was out on a call a couple of years ago. The mama cat had been hit by a car, and that had led to a drunken brawl over who had done it and—” She waved her hands. “Anyway, there were two little kittens nobody wanted, so I took 'em. And don't worry, they're neutered and spayed so I won't be having any surprise kittens.”