Blind Trust (9 page)

He let her go then, and pulled back, his brows knitted with pleading intensity. He slid his fingers down to her wrist, and she knew he could feel her pulse beating wildly. “You can lie to yourself, Sherry, but you can’t lie to me. I’ve always been able to see right through those beautiful eyes. They’ve always given you away.”

“You’re seeing your own illusions,” she whispered. “I can’t help that.”

His fingers laced through hers. “Do you know there were days when I wanted to die if I couldn’t see you again?”

She closed her eyes, and his fingers tightened between hers.

“I kept thinking of how it felt to hold you.” His hand left hers and traced the length of her leg. “The thought of holding you again was the only thing that kept me going. Without it, I would have—”

His eyes hardened as he touched what she had tucked inside her sock. Clint pulled up her pants leg and found the knife.

He held it up, and she snatched at it, fearing his wrath more than she had before. But he held it out of her reach. “What were you going to do with it, Sherry? Cut me? Kill me?”

“I was going to protect myself,” she said, springing off the bed. “You had a weapon! I needed one too!”

His eyes scorched her, and Sherry faced off with him, her mind groping for a way to arm herself against the attack being launched in his eyes.

Behind her back, she reached to the sink for any potential weapon lying there, but Clint didn’t miss the movement. In seconds he had grabbed her. She fought back, wrestling and kicking, but he became more forceful and crushing the more she fought. Holding her arms away from her, he shoved her back on the bed. Fury raged in her eyes, and her face washed crimson. “I’ll fight you until I die,” she declared. “I’ll fight you until
you
die!”

Chapter Eight

S
he expected him to strike her, to shoot her, to throw her out. His face was crimson with rage, and he took a step back. “You’re too late, anyway, Sherry,” he said. “Want me to bleed? Been there, done that.”

As he spoke, his hands worked furiously at the buttons of his denim shirt. She coiled up on the bed, fearing his wrath.

The heat in the camper suddenly seemed stifling.

He opened his shirt, and showed her a gruesome scar from his rib cage down to his waistline. “See, Sherry? Somebody beat you to it!”

She sat up slowly as she saw the long, crooked scar, and she inhaled sharply.

Clint heard the tiny gasp, and turned back to the sink. Self-consciously, he set his hand over the mark.

“It’s a scar,” Sherry said, the statement a question in itself.

Clint nodded.

She slid to the edge of the bed, her eyes suddenly lacking the disdain that had been there earlier. “Let me see.”

Breathing a deep sigh of resignation, he dropped his hand. Sherry muttered a groan as she examined the raw, red marking. “What … what happened?”

“It’s a knife wound,” he whispered wearily.

“Knife?” She choked on the word. “You . . you were stabbed?”

“Do you really care?” he asked with all the misery his soul contained. “You would have done it yourself if I hadn’t found your knife.”

Sherry gazed up at him, suddenly feeling the importance of making him believe she couldn’t have used it. “No … I was just going to use it for self-defense if I had to.”

His deep, unfathomable eyes misted, and he focused on the ceiling of the camper. “You know I’d rather die than hurt you.”

Somewhere, deep within her, she did know that. She touched the scar with unsteady fingertips, and he held his breath and looked down at her. “When were you stabbed?”

“Right before I left.” His eyes said more. They told her that was why he’d disappeared, that there
had
been a valid reason.

“Who?”

He shook his head, denying her that answer. “Not now. Not yet.”

A sob was rising in her heart, waiting at the back of her throat for her to give it voice. “You could have died,” she whispered.

“I didn’t, though.”

“Clint, tell me what happened. Please.”

“I will, Sherry. When I can. But for now, you have to trust me.”

D
on’t you ever get tired of driving?” Madeline’s question cut across the darkness and the road noise. Sam glanced over at her. With a deep sigh, he said, “I get tired of a lot of things, but I still have to do them.”

“But this has been a long day. And it’s dark. And this road is so winding and eerie.”

Sam smiled and patted her hand with bold familiarity. “Thanks for worrying, honey, but I can handle it.”

“I’m not worrying about
you
,” she said. “I’m worried about myself. If you fall asleep and drive off the road we’ll all be killed. Why don’t you let someone else drive for a while?”

A high-pitched laugh tumbled out of Sam’s throat. “Someone like you?”

“No, I know you wouldn’t trust me. But what about Clint? He could pull his own weight.”

She could barely see him in the darkness, but she saw enough to know his face had sobered.

“Clint can’t drive. It would make him an open target.”

It took a moment for the words to penetrate, and suddenly Madeline’s eyes darted to the side mirror that gave a view of what was behind them. “Target for what?”

Sam didn’t answer. His fingers curled more tightly over the steering wheel, and his eyes narrowed.

“Are you a target? Am I?”

Sam’s finger began to tap, slowly at first, then more rhythmically. When he opened his mouth, Madeline braced herself for an admission that she did not want to hear. But all that came out was a quiet, off-key, “Da doo ron ron ron, da doo ron ron.”

Letting out an exaggerated sigh, Madeline leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes. She blocked out the worry she had for Sherry, trapped in the back of the camper with Clint. She blocked out the dread of where they were going and what would happen to her there. It was easy to do, for she had done it all her life, ever since she was a child and her parents had died in a car wreck. She had learned to turn away from pain and worry when she went to live with a distant aunt who saw her as another duty God had thrust on her. Long ago, as a curly-haired little girl, she had learned to concentrate on the present, and to take solace in whatever was at hand. And she had learned that God only put her in places that would make her the person he needed her to be.

Tonight she was in the presence of a man who represented a mixture of danger and security, so she took mental refuge in his presence and the soft, repetitive sound of his voice.

S
herry was beginning to trust him. Clint knew it because she had fallen asleep, something she would never have allowed herself to do before she’d seen the scar and realized he, too, had been a victim. Now he moved to sit on the floor beside the bed, and studied the lines of her face in the dark confines of the camper.

A helpless feeling of loss overwhelmed him at the thought of the eight months that had separated them, when he had honestly believed that nothing ever would. But more than time had come between them, he thought, focusing on the ceiling.

Peace. Lying in this moving camper in the night with the woman he loved just out of his reach was as close to peace as he could hope to be. But it was enough for now.

Sherry’s eyes fluttered open. She looked surprised to see him sitting on the floor beside her bed, watching her. “Hi,” she whispered.

“Hi.”

“I had a dream that we were married. That we were safe.” She looked up at him, her blue eyes washing through him before they closed once more.

“Soon we will be,” he whispered.

A
nd she’s cli-imb-ing the stair-way to heav-en …” The soft, gravelly voice cut into Madeline’s sleep, pulling her out of her restless nightmare of running through the woods away from an unknown pursuer. But it wasn’t the voice that had awakened her, for she suspected there hadn’t been much silence since she’d drifted off. It was the human warmth surrounding and supporting her …

She opened her eyes, and found herself curled up against Sam’s shoulder. Startled, she bolted up.

“Well, if it isn’t Sleeping Cutie,” he rumbled.

“I … I didn’t mean to …”

Sam chuckled under his breath. “Do I look like I have any complaints?”

“But … I don’t usually …”

“Fall into the arms of strange men?”

Her face tightened with sleepy indignation, and Sam laughed again. “How’s your knee?”

Thankful that he had the decency to change the subject, she glanced down at it. “Hurts a little, but it’s better.” She glanced out the window at the blackness. “I hope Sherry is all right.”

Sam laughed. “Well, it’s so quiet back there that they’re bound to have either made up or killed each other.”

“They haven’t made up,” Madeline said on a yawn. “So they must be dead.”

“Must be.” Sam bit his grin as he glanced over at her.

A moment of quiet filled the truck’s cab, and soberly, Madeline studied his unshaven profile, the hard, angular line of his nose, the sleepy flush of his cheeks, the ruffled disarray of his brown hair. But his eyes were awake, bright, comforting. “So,” she said after a moment. “What are you going to sing for me now?”

A slow grin crept across Sam’s face, and he gave her a wink. “Got any requests?” he asked.

T
he sound of gravel cracking under their wheels alerted Clint that they had reached their destination, and he peered out the camper window to the small cabin lit up in wait for them. Several cars lined the gravel drive, and a small crowd formed on the front porch at their approach. The chill hand of apprehension clutched him at the sight of so many more men than had been with him before.

The camper stopped, and he heard Sam’s door slam. Several of the men approached him, exchanged words, and then the back door opened.

“You awake back here?” Sam whispered.

Clint rubbed his eyes and stepped outside so he wouldn’t wake Sherry. “Yeah. What’s going on? Who are all these people?”

Sam bit his lip distastefully. “He wanted us to beef up security since we brought our two guests with us.”

“Security was tight before. It didn’t need beefing up.”

“Tell me about it,” Sam said dryly. “But he’s running this show.”

“Terrific,” Clint said.

“So how’d it go?” Sam’s voice cut quietly across the darkness.

“Fine,” Clint said. “She still thinks I’m some kind of criminal, but she’s more afraid
for
me than
of
me now.”

“She should be, pal,” Sam said. “it’s getting down to the wire now. Looks like we just have to hold out a few more days. Then it’ll all be over.”

The words left a hollow feeling in Clint’s chest. Would it ever be over? Would he really ever be able to sleep at night without keeping one eye open for someone to spring at him out of the dark?

“Give me a minute to wake her up,” Clint told his friend. “I’ll be right there.”

“Okay,” Sam said. “But don’t be too long. They have a lot of questions for us when we get inside. And I have a few for them.”