Revenge (52 page)

Sloan had cursed himself for following the other leads—one to a fishing cabin on the Deshutes River outside of Bend owned by a buddy of Barry's and the other to an old house outside of Boise, which Barry had rented from a distant cousin.

Now, the problem was getting Casey home before the worst of the Arctic storm predicted for the past two days by the weather service hit.

“Come on, get inside,” he said to Casey as he helped her to the ground. Good Lord, she was a tiny thing—couldn't weigh much more than a hundred pounds and barely five-three unless he missed his guess. He opened the passenger door of the old Chevy truck, gave her a boost inside, then climbed behind the steering wheel and started the engine.

While the cab warmed, he took care of the horse, a gelding he'd borrowed from Wes Duncan, a man he'd known for years, an ex-rodeo rider who lived about forty miles from here. Sloan had rented the trailer, as well, leaving a healthy deposit with Wes. So far, his plan had worked. He was certain no one had followed him and he hadn't had to deal with a surprise visit from Barry's accomplice, whoever the hell he was.

He unsaddled the horse, offered him a quick drink of water, then quickly wiped down the gelding's coat, including his legs, dried the big animal, then tethered him in the trailer. After snapping the back gate closed, he climbed into the pickup again.

Heat from the radiator fogged the windows, and Casey, huddled in the corner, gazed at him with eyes the color of a forest at dawn. “Why you?” she asked as he revved the engine and rammed the truck into gear. “Why not deputies from the sheriff's department or Rex Stone or the FBI?”

“Jenner doesn't trust them.”

“He doesn't trust anyone.” Her gaze was thoughtful as she stared at him and he felt something inside of him crumble—an old wall that he'd so valiantly built. “He doesn't have many friends, I mean real friends, so why you?”

Sloan lifted a shoulder as he stared through the frosty windshield. The wipers were having trouble keeping up with the snow falling on the glass, and even with the headlights on, visibility was poor. From the corner of his eye, he noticed that she was still staring at him, her brow furrowed in concentration, her eyebrows pulled into a single line, as if she couldn't quite figure him out. “You okay?” he finally asked.

“Yeah.”

“Let me see your hands.”

“What?”

“They were bleeding.”

“Oh.” She seemed embarrassed. “I, um, cut them on the lantern. I'd decided that I had to escape, that if I didn't, Barry or one of his accomplices would probably kill me.”

“One of?” he repeated, digesting this new piece of news. Not just one other criminal. “How many people
were
involved?”

“I—I don't know,” she admitted, her lips pursing into a scowl. “I wish I did.”

“But you think more than just one partner?”

She shook her head. “He never said, but he was always calling someone, and I got the feeling that he was talking about more than one man.”

“But you don't know who?”

“I haven't got a clue.”

“He didn't say a name or—”

“Look, I said he didn't,” Casey snapped as if tired of a conversation she'd had with herself over and over again for the past week. “I don't know who he was working with, okay? I tried to pry it out of him, but he wouldn't slip up. It was a game with him, I think, and he felt smug about it. Like he had one more thing over me.” Shuddering, she added, “It was like he hated me just because I was named McKee.”

“Why does he hate the McKees?”

Again she shook her head and stared out at the white forest, and he wondered if she even noticed the trees, so deceptively peaceful and serene, their branches laden with snow, as the truck sped down the hill. “I asked him why about twenty times, and like I said, he seemed proud of himself and his secret. He
liked
me to ask him, at least at first he did. Acted as if it was some big joke on me and my brothers.” She worried her lower lip as she thought about it. “You know, it seemed as if he thought this was all a game, one that he could finally win.”

“You ever have any run-in with him before?”

“No.” Her eyes shadowed as she shook her head once more. “He's older than I am, went to school with Max, but that was years ago. He's always been around Rimrock, even worked for Dad for a while.”

“Did Jonah fire him?”

Casey shrugged. “I didn't keep up with Dad's business.”

“But there has to be some reason he hates you, right?”

“Beats me,” she said, then turned to the window again, her breath fogging the glass. “I spent the past week trying to figure out who he was working with, trying to trip him up, but I didn't get a clue. All I know is that whoever it is controls Barry.”

Sloan's jaw tightened. “This won't be over until we find out who's in charge.”

The tone of his voice made Casey shiver. She'd never been a shrinking violet, or a fearful woman who jumped at shadows. But she'd never had a reason to be. As Jonah McKee's daughter, she'd been treated as a princess in Rimrock, and when she'd gone off to college she'd taken with her enough confidence to win people's respect and make friends easily.

“So let's take a look at your fingers.”

“What?”

“Your hands.” A look of annoyance flashed in his eyes when she didn't immediately respond, as if he was a man who was used to his orders being obeyed. “They were bleeding. I want to make sure they're not infected.”

“I just cut them a little while ago,” she argued, but yanked off the gloves carefully since her blood had dried to the lining.

He flipped on the overhead light and took one hand in his. Though big and callused, the fingers that probed hers were gentle. His scowl deepened when he noticed the dark stains below her nails and the blood that had coagulated over her scratches.

“Hurt?” he asked, touching her fingertips and examining them as he kept one eye on the road.

She winced a little when he touched the tender skin of her fingertips. “I'll live,” she predicted, then thought of the irony of that statement. Without Sloan Redhawk, she wondered about her chances of seeing tomorrow. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, he'd probably saved her life.

“We'll clean 'em up as soon as we stop.” His gaze slid down her body and he sighed with dismay. “Your jeans are soaking wet.”

“If you remember, I've been trudging through snow.”

“Here.” He reached behind the seat of the truck and pulled out a nylon bag she recognized. “There's a change of clothes in there. You'd better put on something dry.”

“Now?” she said, staring at him as if he'd lost his mind.

“Now.”

“I can't—”

“If your fingers are too sore, I'll pull over and do it, but—”

“No way!” She couldn't imagine him tugging down her wet jeans, baring her cold legs and trying to yank on a dry pair of pants. Cold as she was, she still had some pride left.

“Then do it.” He snapped off the overhead light and turned his attention back to the road.

“I'm not going to change here. Not now.”

He sent her a look that was all business. His features were set and grim, and impatience etched the corners of his mouth.

“You can't bully me into this.”

“It's for your own good.”

“Is it?”

“Look, lady, I just risked my neck to save you. The least you could do is put on a dry pair of pants and make sure you don't catch pneumonia until after we get back to the ranch.”

“I'll wait till we stop.”

“Could be hours.”

She considered this. She didn't like him ordering her around, but the truth of the matter was that her jeans were wet and dirty and cold. If she had any brains at all, she'd do what he suggested and forget the fact that he was treating her as if he was a drill sergeant and she an underling. “I just don't like to be told what to do, okay?” she said, opening the bag and wincing at the pain in her fingers. “I've been ordered to do this, do that, go here, stay there, all week long, and I'm sick of it.”

A muscle knotted in his jaw and he stared straight ahead. “Okay. Have it your own way,” he said calmly. “Would you
please
change your clothes so that you live to see tomorrow and I'm not dragging a corpse back to Oregon with me?”

“Very funny,” she muttered under her breath, but started unzipping her jeans. She cast a wary glance in his direction, but if he wanted to sneak a peek at her, he didn't, and she felt foolish even to think that he was trying to see her without her clothes. For God's sake, she looked like a street urchin or worse. Using the Indian blanket as a screen, she worked off her boots and peeled off her wet pants.

“There's a towel in the bag, too,” he said, and she glanced up quickly, expecting to find his dark eyes assessing her, but his gaze never left the road. Heat rose on the back of her neck and she felt a childish urge to fling the wet jeans at him. Instead she left them crumpled on the floor of the truck as she wiggled into her favorite pair of faded Levi's. Zipping the fly was no problem; she'd probably lost over five pounds in her week of captivity. “Better?” he asked, and she sent him a glare.

“Yeah.” She even managed a smile.

“Thought so. You should find some underthings in there and a couple of sweaters, I think. Other stuff, too. Makeup, soap and shampoo, that kind of thing.”

“You went to the ranch and got my clothes?” she said when the realization finally struck her. He'd been prepared, she'd give him that much.

“I asked your mother to pack what you needed.”

“So you were pretty sure you'd find me, weren't you?”

He turned, his eyes meeting hers in the darkness. Her stomach did a slow roll. “If the money's good enough,” he said, “I always find what I'm looking for.”

S
he let out her breath slowly. “So this is about money.”

“Everything's always about money.”

“You sound like Jenner.”

He lifted a shoulder and the truck rumbled through the dark hills while snow collected on the ever-moving windshield wipers.

“How much are they paying you to bring me home?” she asked, wondering why it hurt a little to know that her rescue had been bought. She wasn't stupid; she knew he wouldn't work for free. Yet a part of her wanted to think of this dark, dangerous-looking man as her hero, a man who would lay down his life for her, a cowboy who lived by his own strict moral code. God, she was a fool. Or delirious. Or maybe a little of both. When he didn't answer, she prodded, “How much?”

“Does it matter?”

“Just curious. I'll find out later, anyway, so you may as well tell me now.”

“A hundred grand.”

She sucked in her breath. “A hundred thousand dollars?”

He sent her a cynical smile. “Cheaper than a million, isn't it?”

“My family would've paid the ransom,” she snapped, suddenly defensive.

“No doubt.” He said it as if the thought was distasteful.

“You don't approve.”

“I don't like giving in to extortion.”

“Nobody does, but wouldn't you if it were your child?”

His hands tightened over the wheel and a muscle came alive in the corner of his jaw. He shifted down for a bend in the road.

“Well?”

“No.”

“Oh, come on—”

“It only encourages more criminals to commit a similar crime and most of the time the victim doesn't survive, anyway. That way no one can identify them later.”

“Well, if it was my kid, I'd beg, borrow or steal the money just to get him back. I wouldn't take any chances.”

“Do you have a kid?” he asked, but she guessed he already knew the answer. Just as she knew about him from Jenner, no doubt he'd learned a few things about her, as well.

“No, but—”

“Then you don't know how you'd react.”

“Oh, yes, I do. Because I'm an aunt and I know that I'd walk through hell and back for Hillary and Cody. I think those feelings would only be stronger with a child of my own.”

Amen
, he thought, his throat tightening at the thought of Tony. Casey was glowering at him, her anger radiating like heat waves. Good. Anger was a good sign. And he'd rather have her angry with him than thinking he was some kind of damned hero. Or a pervert. He'd seen the changes of emotion on her face, one of grateful adoration when he'd rescued her and one of confusion and fear when he'd insisted she change into a dry pair of pants. Truth to tell, he had watched her from the corner of his eye, and though she was more trouble than she was worth—a spoiled rich girl used to getting anything she damned well pleased—he couldn't help his natural urge to try to glimpse a little of her bare legs.

Stupid. That's what he was. The girl was trouble, no doubt about it, and it was his responsibility to get her back safely, so he'd better make sure his gaze was glued to the road and keep reminding himself that she was Casey McKee, Jenner's little sister, and she'd just gone through the worst trauma of her life. She was probably vulnerable, if that word could be applied to anyone so damned hotheaded and self-confident, so he'd better keep their relationship strictly professional.

Relationship?
As if they had one! Inside his gloves, his hands began to sweat. What the devil was wrong with him? She was his charge, he was her guardian, her bodyguard until he dropped her off on her rich little behind on the front porch of the Rocking M.

He glanced at his watch, frowned, but decided enough time had passed and he'd managed to scare the hell out of Barry White. He reached into his coat pocket, took out a cellular phone and punched out the number of the local sheriff's department.

“You have a phone?” she asked, amazed. She stared at the black instrument as if it were heaven-sent.

“Looks that way,” he drawled as the call connected.

“Then let me call my mother. She's got to be worried sick—”

“Shh!” he responded harshly as an operator for the department answered. “I'd like to talk to the sheriff or the deputy in charge. I have a crime to report.” He waited until a deputy—a young guy by the name of Eddington—answered.

“What's this I hear about a crime?”

“There's been a shooting up above Blue Hollow, in a cabin owned by Steve Jansen, I think. You'll find a man there, Barry White. He's Jansen's half brother and he's cuffed to a chair and gettin' colder by the minute. He—”

“Has he been shot?”

Sloan paused. “Well, grazed a little, I think, but not really shot. Not seriously. He'll survive, but he's wanted by the FBI.”

“Is this some kind of joke?”

“Of course not.” He shot a glance at Casey who was listening to his conversation with the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “You go on up there on your snowmobiles and you find him and call Agent Sam Revere of the FBI. Revere's at the Rocking M Ranch near Rimrock, Oregon. The number is—”

“The FBI? Hey, who is this?”

Sloan hesitated. “That doesn't matter,” he finally said, deciding that he didn't want the authorities breathing down his neck, not just yet. It was bad enough that he had to call at all; he didn't want someone picking him up because, when it came right down to it, he, like Jenner, had a problem with the law. At least in this case. “I just rescued a woman—Casey McKee—from the cabin.”

“Right.” The deputy's voice dripped sarcasm.

“Who'd make up a story like this in the middle of a blizzard?”

“You'd be surprised.”

“Well, check it out. Call Revere. And send someone up to the Jansen cabin. If that man escapes it'll be on your record. He's wanted for questioning about the murder of Jonah McKee, arson at the McKee ranch and this damned kidnapping. I'm telling you, either you call Revere, or I do.”

“We'll check it out,” the deputy said after a moment's hesitation, “but we don't have any time for wild-goose chases, mister. This storm's a son of a bitch. We got highway crews stuck in the mountains, stranded vehicles all over the roads and some spots in the county have lost electricity. If this turns out to be a prank, you'll be in a helluva lot of hot water.”

“It won't. Just call Revere.” Disgusted, he clicked off. “Damned fool.”

“I need to call my mother.” He hesitated. “Please...just to ease her mind.”

A muscle worked in the side of his jaw, but he handed her the telephone, and though her fingers burned from the scratches, Casey punched out the number.

It rang twice. “Rocking M.”

“Max?” The sound of her brother's voice brought tears to her eyes. “Oh, Max...”

“My God, Casey, is that you?” His voice was suddenly muffled as he said, “It's Casey!” Other voices chimed in, but Max shushed them. Casey pictured her family, concerned for her safety, seated in the den. Her mother and grandmother, who lived at the Rocking M and probably Beth Crandall, Jenner's fiancée who helped them manage Skye's apartment building, Skye if not on duty at the clinic or hospital, would be there, too. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.”

“You're sure?” he asked, and the voices in the background stilled as his voice became deadly serious.

“Yes, Max, really, I'm fine. I—I'm with Sloan.”

“Thank God.” Relief echoed in his voice.

“We're in the truck. I don't know where—”

“Who kidnapped you?”

“Barry White—”

Sloan snatched the phone from her fingers. “I don't think it would be wise to talk too much over the telephone,” he said gruffly. “The kidnapper should be in custody within the hour, but he has at least one accomplice, maybe more, we're not sure. We just wanted to let everyone know she's fine and—” he glowered through the windshield at the dark heavens “—weather permitting, we'll be home by tomorrow.”

She didn't get the chance to hear her brother's response as Sloan cut the call short. “Hey, I wanted to talk to my mother.”

“You will.”

She couldn't help the anger that seeped into her words. “I don't understand why you're being so damned rude. All I wanted to do—”

“Has it ever occurred to you that there might be a leak?”

“A leak? What're you talking about?”

“At the Rocking M, or in the sheriff's department, or through McKee Enterprises.”

“That's ridiculous,” she said, but a shred of apprehension shot through her and she leaned her head against the window of the passenger door.

“Is it? Why is the law always one step behind the culprit? Why wasn't Jonah's death investigated as a murder in the first place? Why was Beth Crandall's car carrying Jenner's son nearly run off the road? How did someone know where she'd be? And what about the arson? Who could get to the stables, set the fire and slip away without being noticed?” His face had turned grim, almost menacing, in the shadowy cab of the truck. “And how did Barry know where to find you? Coincidence?”

“I don't know.”

“Of course not. One time, maybe. But not every time. Unless I miss my guess, someone's talking too much, maybe not on purpose, but just shooting the breeze with the wrong crowd.”

“I don't think that—”

“Come on, Casey. Use your head. Someone's letting the cat out of the bag. Whether intentionally or not, I don't know. But this time, we're gonna have the jump on him, and I'm sure as hell not going to make it easy by announcing where we are. Once Barry's arrest hits the news, or he gets in touch with his accomplice, you're in more danger than ever before.”

“Why?”

“Because whoever the other person is, he can't be certain you don't know his identity. White didn't impress me as a genius, so unless his partner is as stupid as he is, he'll be pretty concerned that good ol' Barry let something slip. Next time, you won't be kidnapped, Casey, you'll be killed.”

She shivered. “If you're trying to scare me—”

“Damned straight. I hope I scared the living hell right out of you!”

He scowled through the windshield and saw from the corner of his eye that Casey wanted to argue with him. Her chin was set at a stubborn angle and her eyes were narrowed in anger. Fine. Let her be angry. He wasn't going to let her get herself into trouble again—not until he had her safely back at the McKee ranch and had pocketed the money. A hundred thousand dollars. Enough money to change the course of his life.

If he could just hang on to her. Right now, things weren't going well. The snow was coming down hard. Millions of tiny flakes swirled with the wind and piled in heavy drifts. Several times the truck and trailer had skidded on the narrow, winding road, and Casey's hands looked like hell. The cuts needed to be cleaned and smeared with an antibiotic ointment and he hadn't ruled out her seeing a doctor. Worse yet, she was staring at him as if trying to figure out what made him tick.

“Why don't you try to get some sleep?”

“I can't. Too keyed up.”

He slid a glance at her and tried not to notice the sweep of her lashes or her eyes, a mix of green, brown and gray. She reached into the nylon bag, found a small zippered pouch and pulled out a comb. Turning the rearview mirror in her direction, she gritted her teeth as she tried to untangle the knots from her hair. “Where are we going?”

“North first.”

“Oregon's southwest—ouch! I mean, I think it is. Weren't we in Montana?” Tugging, she dragged the comb through her tangled strands and made a face. “God, what a mess.”

“Yeah, we're in Montana, but we've got to make sure that we don't run into Barry's accomplice, and most likely he'd come up from the south.” He didn't add that there was a major flaw in his plan; he'd heard over the crackle of static on the radio that he was driving toward the blizzard instead of trying to outrun it. The weather service had been reporting all day that a storm, straight out of Canada, was moving toward the northern United States. This part of Montana was smack-dab in its path, and he felt as if he were driving into the maw of a great Arctic beast. But there was no other option if he wanted to keep Casey alive. He supposed he should be completely honest with her, but right now she didn't need any more worries. She'd been through enough in one week to last a lifetime.

Sliding a glance in her direction and watching as she finally slid the comb freely through her dark hair, he fiddled with the radio, but they were still too deep in the mountains, too far away from any signal towers to receive anything more than static. He used the phone again to dial the weather service, but the line was busy.

Nearly an hour later, he pulled onto the main road. Five inches of snow greeted him; the road hadn't been plowed or sanded. Swearing under his breath, he continued heading north to return the horse and trailer rig.

“Why did you do it?” she asked as she tucked the small pouch back into the bag. Apparently finished with grooming, she twisted the mirror back in his direction and he adjusted it.

“Do what?”

“Come and get me. Was it just the money?”

“What else?”

“That's what I'd like to know.”

He shrugged idly, as if it didn't really matter, then hated himself when he saw her face crumple a little. She tossed her hair over her shoulders, turned to look out the window instead of at him and her shoulders stiffened.