Winsor, Linda (13 page)

"Now
hold on a minute." Shep straightened in anger. It was just as he
suspected. The car search
had
told them something. "If you want my
help, Voorhees, you'd better tell me everything you know or suspect. I don't
like surprises." What was he saying? He had no intention of getting
involved.

"We
didn't find money when we searched her vehicle, but we did find a tracking
device mounted under the hood of the trunk. Great way to find each other if
plans go awry, don't you think?"

So
that was who had broken into Charlie Long's garage. It also explained why the
alleged vandal hadn't taken any of the car's equipment. The stereo alone would
bring more than pocket change. But did Deanna know she was being tracked? At
first she'd been pale as last night's ashes, but after Charlie's explanation,
she seemed to have gained her color back.

If
this wasn't a quagmire, there was no such thing, Shep fumed, as angry at
himself for being drawn into it as he was at Voorhees for tugging at just the
right strings, in just the right order, to pull him in. Except that Shep wasn't
likely to be the only one herded into this patch of quicksand.

"As
friendly as folks are here in Buffalo Butte, all this Majors has to do is ask
about the car, and he'll find out all he needs to—"

"Now
hold on, boy." Clyde stopped Shep as he sprang from the chair. "Ain't
nobody tellin' anything to any strangers about your houseguest. Cantankerous
Charlie wouldn't if he could, and I spoke to the folks at the diner, the feed
store, and the grocery this morning. Told 'em the gal was in Witness
Protection, it was their civic duty to keep what they knew to themselves, and
to send any strangers who wander in asking questions straight to me."

Great.
Within the span of a few hours, Buffalo Butte had become a town of special
agents for the U.S. government. Shep knew the townsfolk wouldn't talk after the
sheriff's explanation, but that didn't mean they wouldn't try to
help
either.
From Agent Voorhees's groan of realization, he and Shep were at least of the
same mind on that—civilians had no place in agency business unless it was
unavoidable. And it
was
unavoidable now... unless Shep refused to go
along with the plan. It
was
his choice.

"Meanwhile,"
Voorhees said, taking Shep's silence as compliance. "I want to set up a
surveillance of your place. You can tell your pretty guest we're geologists
testing the area for minerals."

Uncle
Dan had sold the mineral rights to Hopewell, not that there was anything left
worth mining, so the charade would seem reasonable to Deanna—or anyone who
might ask—
if
Shep went along with the plan.

"And
since you've obviously won her trust, we want you to try to get her to
talk."

"I'm
not wearing a wire." Shep didn't like it, nor any aspect of the entire
scheme. He'd left his job behind him. He certainly didn't want to work with the
man whose reckless ambition had cost him that job in the first place.

"It
would go a long way toward building the case," Voorhees pointed out.

And
while Shep was accustomed to being put at risk, he didn't like the idea of
Deanna being used... even if she had used him. "Like I care. I'm not
living under your microscope in my own home. You'd just have to take my word on
what she says, if she says anything—"

"I
hear you don't even have a phone," Voorhees interrupted.

"If
I decide to help at all, I won't need a phone. I have a radio."

"We'll
give you a phone. We have to have some way to keep in contact."

"I
didn't say I'd help."

Voorhees
met Shep's glare head on in bold study. "So she's got to you, has
she?"

Shep
clamped his fists to his side to check his impulse to knock the patronizing
smile off of the special agent's face. "Whatever happened to a person
being innocent until proven guilty?"

Granted,
he could see how easily Deanna might play him for a sucker and a place to hide
out, but she wasn't
that
good an actress where her fear was involved. It
had been vividly real. He'd seen it beyond her eyes, where lies could not
abide.

"Maybe
I need to rethink this plan," Voorhees goaded. "I suppose you could
tell her that you've made arrangements for her to stay at that
bed-and-breakfast for propriety's sake."

And
leave Deanna to the mercy of Jay's ambition, not to mention jeopardize Esther
Lawson and the citizens of Buffalo Butte? Shep wavered. At least at Hopewell,
just he and Deanna would be at risk. Tick had already left for roundup at a
neighboring ranch.

"All
we're asking is that you plant a few listening devices." The agent
shrugged. "Hey, it could prove her innocence in this... unless
you
have
something to hide."

This
was a no-win situation. Shep was condemned if he did and convicted if he
didn't.

"If
I were a swearing man, I'd tell you where to go, Voorhees," Shep ground
out slowly.

Jay
lifted his brow. "Then you really have changed since that day I put you in
the ambulance." Reaching into his coat pocket, he withdrew a cell phone
and handed it over to Shep. "Numbers are programmed in. List is in the
directory."

Shep
thought
he had changed. Now he wasn't so certain, because at this
moment, he felt everything he'd felt back then and more. Dropping the unwanted
phone in his pocket, he turned before he was tempted to give in to a repeat
performance. "I'll keep the phone. You keep the bugs." He grabbed his
Stetson off the peg by the door and set it firmly on his head.

It
might be a no-win situation, but Shep wasn't going to let Voorhees know it.
Besides, half a loaf was better than none. At least he wouldn't have strangers
listening in on every word spoken in his own home.

***

The
radio played loudly from the bedroom as Deanna finished off a peanut butter and
jelly sandwich for lunch and surveyed her progress. The windows were washed.
The curtains were in the washer. The cabinets looked brighter. Once she had new
shelf paper, she could tackle the insides. All in all, the whole room looked
and smelled television commercial clean and fresh.

"Martha
Stewart, eat your heart out," she challenged, taking up her plate and
heading to the kitchen sink.

From
the rug in front of the door, her furry companion raised his head.

"You're
not Martha Stewart," she said in a playful tone that set Smoky's tail
wagging. "You're Smoky, aren't you, boy?"

Grateful
for his company, she walked over to the overgrown pup and gave him a good
scratching behind his ears. As if on cue, the dog promptly dropped and rolled
over for a belly rub.

"You
are rotten," she said, laughing as his hind leg started thumping the
floor. "But I don't have time to tickle you. I don't know when Shep will
be home, but I gotta get these curtains hung."

Sheesh,
she even sounded like the happy homemaker. Not that there was anything wrong
with that. Deanna had a great respect for the women who maintained a household
and raised children to boot. It simply hadn't been a role for her.

Inadvertently
her attention shifted to the mantel where a little Shep, clad in full cowboy
regalia—six-guns and all—gave her a snaggletoothed grin.

"Oh,
enough already!"

Deanna
hurried to the washing machine as if the prospect of domestication nipped at
her heels. She loved other people's kids, but how could she even think about
being someone special's honey and having children when she'd made such a mess
of her life? It might sound good, but it just wasn't workable—whether Shepard Jones
was the catch of a lifetime or not. He'd drop her like a hot brick if he got
wind of her trouble with the law. Unlike C. R., this guy was a straight
shooter. He'd even come to a complete stop at a four-way the day before when
the only thing that moved for miles were cows in the fields.

Forcing
the issue out of her mind, she reached inside the machine and began pulling the
curtains out. It was their third washing, and this time the white was finally
white and the red... was pink. With a groan, she shook one out, but her dismay
only grew when it fell apart, as if she'd rent it in two.

Now
what was she going to do? Shep couldn't fix
this
with ketchup or
applesauce, no matter how much of a gentleman he tried to be.

As
Deanna cast an accusing glance at the empty bleach bottle, Smoky erupted into
fierce barking in the kitchen. The dog was growling and pawing to get out when
she reached the screen door and looked down the long narrow main street of the
ghost town; something she'd been avoiding, lest her imagination run wild with
her. At the far end, dust lingered in the air, although what had stirred it was
nowhere in sight.

She
supposed Shep might have come up the back way, but if it was him, why hadn't he
pulled the Jeep up in its usual spot by the house? In the pasture beyond the
livery stable, Patch looked up curiously from grazing but made no move to meet
her master as she had yesterday. And wasn't Ticker's trailer on the other side
of the street? Besides, Shep had said Ticker would be gone for a few days.

Painfully
aware of how alone she was, Deanna was reluctant to let her only companion out,
no matter how much he pawed and barked.

"Sorry,
Smoky, but I need you more in here." She eased the front door shut and
locked it.

If
someone came up and knocked, she simply wouldn't answer it. She'd hide in the
bathroom and let Smoky's barking convince him no one was home. Most likely it
was a friendly neighbor dropping by for a visit, but Deanna was afraid to take
that risk. Besides, a friendly neighbor would come right up to the house, not
hide in his vehicle.

It
seemed like an eternity passed in the four-watt night-lighted confines of the
bathroom. The dog continued barking, his excitement waning as he raced from the
kitchen to the bedroom and back, only to start again. Finally, curiosity got
the best of her. Deanna opened the door and listened. The Beach Boys crooned a
lively tune on the radio, interrupted by an occasional bark from the dog, as if
Smoky, too, questioned whether the need for alarm was over.

Deanna
tiptoed to the bedroom, instinctively hunkering down to her knees when Smoky
resumed barking at the window. Peering around the curtain she spied someone
coming out of the livery stable—a man, tall and lean in faded jeans and a
T-shirt. He took his time, looking all around, as if casing the place. A
beat-up Western-style hat shaded his face, hiding his age, although the rest of
his outfit did little to hide the fact that he was in good physical shape.

Down
on the Jersey shore, she might have admired the tanned bulge of bicep as he put
his hands on his low-slung jeans in seeming contemplation. Today, it evoked a
different response. He was big, strong, and totally capable of anything he had
in his mind to do. She shuddered, recalling the overturned furniture in her
apartment and the broken drawers. What if somehow—

Her
heart stopped as the stranger turned abruptly, staring dead on at the house. He
couldn't possibly see her, but Deanna drew back against the wall and tried to
push Smoky away from the bedroom window before the dog leaped through the
buckled screen.

"Down,
Smoky!" She lunged for the dog's collar, losing her balance and sprawling
on the cool wooden floor empty-handed. Smoky vaulted over her and made for the
porch door. A scramble and peek through the curtain revealed the visitor
walking straight to the house.

With
a strangled cry, she crawled back to the bathroom as fast as her surely bruised
knees and hands would allow. Once inside, she eased the door shut, leaving just
enough of a crack to keep tabs on what was transpiring. By now, Smoky's excited
bark had grown fiercer, even threatening. He sounded as though he could chew up
and spit out the stranger from the boots up.

The
man knocked loudly on the kitchen door, despite the dog's ruckus.

"Yo,
anybody home?" The old metal doorknob rattled over Smoky's low growl.
"Hey, take it easy, boy. I'm not gonna hurt you."

Of
course the stranger could see inside the kitchen, thanks to her housecleaning
binge—not a curtain at either window. That might not have made a difference
before she washed the glass in them, but she'd made it easier to see what might
be worth stealing inside. Deanna strained to listen above Smoky's warning,
picking up what she thought were retreating footsteps on the porch.

Her
breath of relief lodged in her chest as Smoky abandoned the door, racing past
her for the bedroom window. Was the intruder there? Easing out of the bathroom,
she inched along the hallway wall and peeked around the bedroom door to where
Smoky had taken up guard.

"Here
you go, boy."

Deanna
flattened against the cold plaster at her back.
Heavenly Father, he was
hack!
"Smells pretty good, huh?"

Afraid
to look, but more afraid not to, Deanna peered through the hinge crack of the
bedroom door in time to see the now silent Smoky sniffing something at the
screen. Now
there's
a real guard dog. In disbelief, she watched the man
pry the screen open enough to slip a large dog biscuit through. Western
security left a lot to be desired, she thought, wishing for the alarm system
and window locks at her New York condo. She didn't even have a phone to call
for help.

This
guy really knew what he was doing. Smoky took the biscuit and laid down on the
scatter rug, chewing his traitorous little heart out, while the stranger
carefully removed the screen. "Got more where that came from, buddy."
One... two... three more biscuits landed on the rug next to the dog. With
little more than a grunt, the stranger hoisted himself up on the windowsill.

Gee,
eat favorite treats or take out a guy big enough to break a dog in half? It was
a no-brainer. Why she'd ever longed to have a dog eluded her at the moment. She
edged back to the bathroom and closed the door without a sound, thanks to the
healthy dose of cooking spray she'd put on the hinges the other day With luck,
the intruder would never know she was inside.

But
if something did go wrong, what would she do? Deanna glanced at the tub. Hide
behind the shower curtain? Her overactive imagination played the infamous
shower scene from an old Hitchcock movie, nipping that idea in the bud. If a
confrontation were in order, she'd at least see what was coming at her.

A
rattle of doors from the other side of the bathroom wall froze thought and
breath. The gun cabinet. Oh great. Now she had an armed burglar to deal with.

What
am I going to do?
She
stared at the useless bolt on the bathroom door. It had no keeper to lock into.
As long as the burglar had dog biscuits, nothing but a well-buttered door was
between Deanna and the gun thief in the other room. She should have brought a
knife with her from the kitchen. She should have holed up in a room that had an
escape route. She should have—

The
bolt of a rifle clicked and reclicked, cutting off her second thought. Had he
loaded one of Shep's guns?

God,
don't let him shoot the dog—or me, for that matter,
she finished,
awash with a sense of foolishness. She ought to let the dog pray for itself.
She ought—

She
was panicking. She tried forcing breath through her fear-strangled throat.
Glancing about for anything she might use to defend herself, she quickly
assessed her arsenal: a plunger, a toilet bowl brush, a few men's toiletries.
Useless, all useless—unless she was going to pin an armed man to the wall with
the plunger and brush him to death.

Her
frantic gaze came to rest upon a small book lying open on the back of the
commode. It was a devotional like the ones Gram used to read daily.
Oh, God,
I really need Your help.

Deanna
grabbed it, desperate for some instruction. The boldface type at the top of the
page read, "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.
Philippians 4:13."

"But,
Lord, it would be so much easier if I had a gun to even my odds." Without
thinking, she leaned against the lid on the tank. Time stood as still as
Deanna's heart at the scrape of raw iron to raw iron. The words of the verse
echoed in her mind again and again until suddenly, they offered more than comfort.

Brightening,
Deanna lifted the porcelain-coated top from the back of the toilet and raised a
silent prayer beyond the rust-dotted exhaust fan in the ceiling.
Thank You,
Jesus!

The
lid was heavy, but not too heavy to lift. If the stranger did find her, she'd
be able to manage only one swing, so it would have to count. In one step, she
backed against the wall to the side of the door as footsteps sounded in the
hall. If the man just took the guns and left, she'd remain right where she was,
but if he so much as—

The
knob beside her turned and the door flew open against the adjoining wall.
Deanna's thought launched into action. Hard as she could, she swung the heavy
lid upward and into the face of the man who stepped through the doorway. The
dull clang of it striking the intruder in the face sent vibrations up her
trembling arms. It was followed by two successive thumps—that of her victim and
that of her weapon striking the floor in the little hallway.

In
the remote light from the bedroom door and kitchen, Deanna retrieved the lid
lying on the stunned man's chest in case she needed it again, when she saw
blood seeping from his nose. As the downed figure felt for his face with
uncoordinated hands, she lifted the lid once again as a precaution.

He
groaned, his fingers brushing his nose, and then his hands fell limp upon his
chest.

A
sick, sinking feeling threatened to take out Deanna's knees. "I've killed
him."

She
dropped the tank lid with a clang and grabbed towels from the rack on the wall.
Kicking the hunting rifle he'd carried beyond reach in case he regained
consciousness, she knelt and raised his head before he choked on his own blood.
No, she needed to tilt his head back to stop the bleeding. Or should she try to
sit him upright? Why hadn't she paid more attention to the first aid class in
her Scout troop instead of selling more cookies than anyone in the entire
district?

Now
finished with his treats, Smoky trotted up to where Deanna frantically rolled a
towel and stuffed it under the unconscious man's head. Head cocked in seeming
uncertainty, the shepherd mix gave a short, inquisitive bark.

"Oh
hush up, you wuss. If you'd done your job, I wouldn't be—" Before she
could finish, her unhelpful, unpredictable companion bolted back into the
bedroom, overtaken by yet another fierce surge of barking.

Was
there someone else out there? To Deanna's dismay, Smoky's outburst suddenly
grew fainter and fainter. The dog had jumped through the open window. Dare she
hope he'd drive off the intruder?

Half
frozen with fear and half with hope, she heard what sounded like a vehicle door
slamming. The fickle animal must have heard its approach and now, of all
things, ran out to greet the driver. Smoky might be man's best friend, but he
definitely wasn't this woman's.

Dear
Lord, make it a friend.

No
sooner had the prayer formed in her beleaguered mind than a man's voice hailed
her from outside. "Deanna!"

"Shep!"
Thank You, God. Thank You, thank You, thank You!

Springing
to her feet, she nearly tripped over the tank lid to meet her knight in shining
armor as he raced into the house with Smoky at his heels.

"What
the—"

She
threw herself into Shep's arms, babbling in relief. "Burglar... broke
in... dog biscuits... worthless ball of barking fur..." The words poured
out, incoherent against Shep's chest, her tears soaking into the warm cotton of
his shirt. "Your guns..."

"Take
it easy; it's okay." Shep pried Deanna from her death hold around his
neck, his voice soothing sweet to her ears. "Everything is all right, but
I need you to pull yourself together, okay?"

Shep
was right. He was here and he was right. It
was
okay She'd survived and
Shep was here. Deaf to her thoughts, her lungs struggled with large hiccoughing
gasps while her pulse thundered in denial between her temples.

"I...
he... I k-killed a man." Try as she might, she couldn't make her babble
coherent.

Shep
held her back at arm's length, staring in confusion. "What?"

Hapless,
she pointed toward the dimly lit central hall.

Brushing
her aside, Shep hurried to the side of the still, bloody-faced intruder. As he
put his fingers to the man's throat, Deanna's released a squeak of a whisper.
"Is he dead?"

"No,
but he's going to wish he was," he told her grimly "Turn on the hall
light and then get some ice in a bag... and more towels."

It
took a moment for the order to register. Shep's level voice and methodical
actions effected a semblance of calm on the storm-pitched sea of emotion in her
brain. Everything would be fine. Shep could handle the stranger, should he
regain consciousness. Shep could call an ambulance on his radio. Shep could fix
everything.

Still
trembling, she backed away from the men and fumbled for the switch. With a
click the hall filled with light.

"Oh
no!" What little comfort Deanna had begun to feel was shattered by Shep's
explosive outburst. "For the love of—"

It
was probably just as well that she didn't understand the rest of what he said
as he pulled the unconscious stranger upright and dragged him against the wall,
so that it supported his back.

He
shot the frozen Deanna a riveting glare. "Get me that ice!" The
scarcely checked hostility in his voice startled her into action.

Behind
her, she heard the victim moan.

"Easy,
Ty, just sit tight," Shep said, returning to that soothing,
all-is-under-control tone. "We're going to take care of you, buddy."

Ty?
Buddy!
Her
stomach did a slow rollover as Deanna stumbled to the refrigerator and yanked
it open as if she were being sucked into a raging vortex of desolation and it
was her only escape. The cool metal door offered support, but not against the
winds of condemnation lashed at her from within.

Smoky's
barking had been a greeting, not a threat. She'd nearly killed one of Shep's
friends. How could she explain that all she could think about was the people
who'd set off a car bomb in C. R.'s car and ransacked her apartment? That the
best
she could have hoped for was a burglar and not an assassin?

The
burn of ice against her groping fingers hardly registered as she tugged a tray
loose from the frozen grip of the freezer shelf. All she felt was a desire to
crawl into the freezer and close the door behind her until she was too numb to
register anything at all.