The Drifter

H
E WAS ALIVE
. Twenty years ago, a social worker had told Chase he was a survivor, and apparently the lady had called it right. He started to move and clenched his teeth in pain. He was alive, but something major was wrong with his back.

The air was hot and close. It even smelled hot, like sizzled circuits. He strained to hear any sound of movement from the other two men in the darkness of the crumpled elevator car. Nothing. His stomach felt as if he'd stripped a gear. He'd seen fatalities on the highway, plenty of them, but that hadn't made the prospect of death easier to handle. Still, he was conscious and they didn't seem to be. It was up to him to help.

The groan of stressed metal discouraged him from trying to get up. Then somebody coughed. Thank God. They weren't both dead. “Who's that?” he asked, his throat rusty from fear.

“Name's McGuinnes.” A pause. “T. R. McGuinnes. You?”

“Chase Lavette. Are you the cop?”

“No.”

Chase grimaced. The cop would probably be of more use than some Wall Street paper pusher. “Do you think he's dead?”

“I hope to God he's not. Are you hurt?”

“Yeah. Something's wrong with my back. It hurts like hell. How about you?”

“I hit my head. Listen, you'd better not move. I'll check the cop.”

Chase had no intention of moving if somebody else was volunteering to be the hero. Damn, it would have to be his back. A trucker's nightmare. Of course, the cop might be dead, a thought that put his back problems into perspective real quick. He listened as McGuinnes crawled across the buckled floor of the elevator. As Chase's vision adjusted a little to the darkness, he noticed that the ceiling had partially collapsed and a light fixture dangled near the floor. His heart pounded as if he'd been running and his sweaty T-shirt stuck to his chest. “It's getting damned hot in here,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“They should be coming to get us out pretty soon.” Chase said it more to reassure himself than anything.

“Let's hope so.”

Chase held his breath as McGuinnes moved toward the cop.

“If you try mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, you're a dead man,” mumbled a voice.

Chase relaxed against the wall, feeling giddy with relief. Thank God there wouldn't be any corpses in this elevator.

“Never learned it, anyway,” McGuinnes said, handing the cop a handkerchief out of his pocket. “Here. You're bleeding somewhere.”

The cop sounded weary. “No joke. How's the other guy?”

“I'll survive,” Chase said.

“Says his back hurts,” McGuinnes added. “I told him not to move.”

“Good,” the cop said. “Moving a back-injury case and severing his spinal cord would top this episode off nicely.” The cop pushed himself to a sitting position. “That briefcase cut the hell out of my chin. What's that thing made of, steel?”

“Brass trim,” McGuinnes said.

Chase rolled his eyes.

There was a snort from the cop. “You got a cellular phone in it, at least?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you'd better use it,” the cop said. “This has been great fun, but I'm due back at the station in an hour.”

“I suppose almost getting killed is a big yawner for you, isn't it?” McGuinnes asked.

“Killed in an elevator accident?” the cop said. “You've been seeing too many Keanu Reeves movies. New York elevators are safer than your grandmother's rocking chair.”

“Tell that to my back,” Chase said. “I can't drive with a busted back, and if I can't drive, I can't pay off my rig.” He thought of the black Peterbilt 379—all-aluminum hood, stainless-steel grille, Cummins 500E engine. It held a shine like patent leather and handled like the thoroughbred it was. Silver pinstriping on the cab door announced his CB handle—
The Drifter.
Eight months he'd had it. The rig had been a bare three days old when he'd rescued Amanda Drake from a snowdrift in Upstate New York, and Amanda had helped him christen it, in a way.

“If you can't drive, you'll get an insurance settlement,” McGuinnes told him.

Chase pulled his thoughts away from that long, snowbound night with Amanda and considered the situation. McGuinnes was probably right. He grimaced. He couldn't imagine life without a gray ribbon of road unwinding in front of him. “And sit around doing nothing? No thanks.”

While McGuinnes contacted 911, Chase thought about Amanda, working in some office above him at this very moment. It looked as if he wouldn't be able to see her, after all. He'd ignored her wishes by coming here, but he just wanted to be absolutely sure she wasn't eight months' pregnant with his baby. Or maybe that was the excuse he gave himself because he craved another look at that bonfire of red hair that tumbled past her shoulders. He could still feel it bunched in his fist, still see the light in her blue eyes just before he'd kissed her.

“They're sending a team to get us out,” McGuinnes said, snapping the phone closed.

Chase had just opened his mouth to say that was good, when the elevator rumbled and lurched to the right. “Damn!” he yelled. “Aren't we all the way down yet?”

“We're all the way down,” the cop said. “The blasted thing's still settling, that's all. Move all your fingers and toes, see if you still have your motor coordination.”

Chase felt dizzy at the thought of paralysis. He almost didn't want to put the idea to the test, but he had to know. He wiggled his right hand, his left, and both feet. Then he closed his eyes in gratitude. “I can move everything,” he said.

“Good,” the cop said. “What's your name?”

“Lavette. Chase Lavette.”

“T. R. McGuinnes,” the guy in the suit said.

“Joe Gilardini,” the cop added, completing the introductions. “I wish I could say it was nice to meet you guys, but under the circumstances I wish I'd been denied the pleasure.”

“Same here,” Chase said.

McGuinnes remained silent. “Either one of you ever been out West?” he asked finally.

Chase's eyes snapped open. What an off-the-wall question. “Why do you want to know?”

“I don't, really. I just think talking is better than sitting around waiting for the elevator to shift again.”

Chase understood the logic. “Guess you're right. No, I've never been out West. Eastern Seaboard's my route.” He decided it was up to him to add something to the conversation. “Always wanted to go out there, though.”

The cop sighed. “God, so have I. The wide-open spaces. Peace and quiet.”

“No elevators,” Chase added, trying to lighten things up.

“Yeah,” the cop said. “If I didn't have my kid living in New York, I'd turn in my badge, collect my pension and go.”

All three were silent for a while, and Chase decided that was the end of the chitchat.

“I just heard about this guest ranch in Arizona that's up for sale,” McGuinnes said a few minutes later. “One of those working guest ranches with a small herd of cattle. I'm going out there next week to look it over.”

That got Chase's attention. He'd always wished he knew somebody who owned a ranch. “No kidding? Think you might buy it?”

“If it checks out.”

“Running a guest ranch,” the cop mused out loud. “You know, that wouldn't be half-bad.”

“And after I've had some fun with it, I'll sell it for a nice profit. The city's growing in that direction, and in a couple of years developers will be crying to get their hands on that land, all one hundred and sixty acres of it. I can't lose.”

“A hundred and sixty acres,” Chase said, letting his mind play with it. He loved open spaces.

“I'm looking for partners.”

A ranch, Chase thought. Riding the range, roping cattle, camping under the stars. Chase hadn't called himself
The Drifter
by accident. He was a city boy and had never imagined he could be anything else, but the life of a trucker came about as close to riding the range as anything he could imagine.

The cop laughed. “Now I've heard everything. Only in New York would a guy use an accident as a chance to set up a deal.”

The elevator settled with another metallic groan.

“Would you rather sit here and think about the elevator collapsing on us?” McGuinnes asked.

“I'd rather think about your ranch,” Chase said. “I'd go in on it in a minute if I had the cash.”

“You might get that settlement,” McGuinnes said.

“You know, I might.” He'd hate to sell his rig, but if he had to, then buying into a ranch might take the sting out of it. “Listen, McGuinnes, after we get out of here, let's keep in touch. You never know.”

“I guarantee you wouldn't go wrong with this investment. The Sun Belt's booming.”

“I think you're both nutcases,” the cop said.

“So you're not interested?” McGuinnes asked.

“I didn't say that. Hell, what else is there to be interested in down in this hole? If the ranch looks good, just call the Forty-third Precinct and leave a message for me.”

McGuinnes stirred. “Let me get some business cards out of my briefcase.”

“I'd just as soon not think about your briefcase, McGuinnes,” Gilardini said.

Chase smiled. Gilardini was okay.

“Let's talk some more about the ranch,” Gilardini continued. “What's the name of it, anyway? I always liked those old ranch names—the Bar X, the Rocking J. Remember `Bonanza'?”

“I saw that on reruns,” Chase said. “The guy I liked was Clint Eastwood. I snuck in to see
High Plains Drifter
at least six times when I was a kid. Back then, I would have given anything to be a cowboy.”

“Yeah, me, too,” Gilardini admitted. “So what's the place called?”

McGuinnes didn't answer right away. “Well, this spread is named something a little different,” he said at last.

“Yeah?” Gilardini said. “What could be so different?”

“The True Love Ranch.”

* * *

C
OMING UP WITH
the ad copy for the Russian Tea Room wasn't going well. Amanda had felt queasy since five that morning, and detailing the wonders of blini and borscht didn't help. She'd also had abdominal twinges, but it was too early for labor pains—a good four weeks too early. Dismissing the twinges, she focused on her computer screen.

By noon the pain had become more intense, and she laid a hand on her swollen belly. “Stop it, Bartholomew,” she lectured. “Go back to sleep so I can finish this copy.” She couldn't in good conscience feel sorry for herself. She'd chosen to accept this complication in her life, and most of the time she felt like a kid waiting for Christmas. An ultrasound had provided knowledge of the baby's sex, and she had everything ready, from his name to his non-gender-specific nursery. No son of hers would grow up to be a male chauvinist.

Her desk phone buzzed just as another pain hit. She grimaced and reached for the receiver.

“A call for you from a Mr. Chase Lavette,” said Bonnie, the receptionist. “He won't say what it's in reference to. Do you want to take it?”

Fear closed her throat. So he'd tracked her down, after all. She'd been a fool to tell him where she worked, but that had been before things had become...more personal. Thank God he'd called instead of coming to see her. And she'd better take the call, or he might show up on her doorstep.

“I think he has something to do with the Big Brothers campaign we're putting together,” Amanda said, trying to sound casual so as not to create more interest. “I'll take it.” She didn't want anyone in the office to remember the name of Chase Lavette.

“I'll put him through, then.”

Bracing herself, Amanda listened to the phone line click open.

“Amanda?”

His voice took her by storm. At the sound of it, everything came back—the terror as her Mercedes slid into a snowbank, the relief at being rescued by somebody in a huge black truck and the excitement of being snowbound in the cab all night with a man like Chase, the type of guy she'd never had reason to know before and never expected to see again.

“Hello, Chase,” she said. Another pain ran through her abdomen and she winced. “What a surprise.”

“Listen, I was on my way up to your office this morning and the craziest thing happened.”

Her glance swung to the door, half expecting him to walk in at any moment. She had to keep him away.

“The elevator crashed,” he continued. “I'm in the hospital and something's wrong with my back.”

She sagged against her chair in relief, then immediately bolted upright as she realized that her reaction wasn't appropriate. “That's terrible,” she said. “Are you in a lot of pain?” Another spasm took her breath away.

“It's not so bad. I thought I'd broken something, but it could just be muscle damage. They've given me stuff for the pain. You know, Amanda, I haven't been able to get that night we spent together out of my mind.”

Damn! Just what she'd been afraid of. “Really? I'd practically forgotten until you called just now.”

He was silent.

She'd hurt him, but she couldn't help it. She didn't dare tell him that she'd never had such great sex in her life and that she'd forever compare other men to him when it came to lovemaking. She couldn't give him that information, because he might decide to renew the acquaintance, and she couldn't afford to see him again. A sense of obligation might make him insist on things—marriage, perhaps, or a role in raising Bartholomew. “Well, if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to work.” She gritted her teeth to keep from moaning as another pain twisted within her. “Nice of you to call.”

“Dammit, Amanda, I have to know.” His gentle tone had been replaced with the macho snap she would expect from a trucker. “A condom's never broken on me before. Did you get pregnant that night?”