Revenge (54 page)

One side of his mouth lifted in a humorless grin. “Well, you don't, do you? I guess you'll just have to find out the hard way.”

“Which is?”

“Just have enough patience to wait until I prove it to you. However, my guess is, Miss McKee, you're not a woman long on patience.”

The understatement of the year
, Casey thought as he drove through the blinding blizzard.

How did she come to this—being caught in the middle of a snowstorm in the middle of the night with a stranger, a man who had saved her life?

Just hang in there, Casey. Things are bound to get better.
But as she cast a furtive glance in Sloan Redhawk's direction, she wasn't so sure.

T
he pickup jolted and Casey's eyes flew open. She must've dozed off, mesmerized by the steady rumble of the truck's engine and the hypnotic effect of watching the snow fall. Sloan was pulling into some kind of restaurant. Neon lights in red and blue winked through the ever-falling flakes and a sorry strand of Christmas lights with only a few winking bulbs outlined the doorway.

Christmas!
She'd nearly forgotten the season.

“What're we doing here?” she asked, stretching and feeling her cramped muscles come to life.

“Can't go any farther. Signs say the road's closed at Stillwater.”

Rubbing her eyes, she tried and failed to stifle a yawn. “Stillwater?”

“The next town.”

She studied the rustic building. Long and low, it ran parallel to the road. A pitched roof was covered in snow, and icicles clung to the eaves. A fluorescent sign advertised a steak-and-shrimp special as well as the fact that there was at least one vacancy in the adjacent motel. Trucks and cars, parked haphazardly, littered the snow-encrusted parking lot.

“So this is home?”

“At least for a couple of hours.”

She sent him a smile. “It sure beats the last place I stayed.”

“I'll bet.” Sloan cut the engine while she grabbed the nylon bag.

Pushing open the door, she braced herself as the frigid wind blew inside, instantly draining the cab of any warmth. She hopped to the ground and dashed through calf-deep snow to the restaurant entrance. From the corner of her eye, she saw Sloan settle his hat on his head, lock the truck and half run to catch up with her.

Inside, the restaurant was warm and the smells of cigarette smoke and oil from a deep-fat fryer mingled with the scents of after-shave, coffee and warm bodies. Through an archway leading to the bar came the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses, as if the patrons didn't have a care in the world and were glad of any excuse to hole up with a frosty glass of beer and cable television. In concession to the season, silver letters spelling out Merry Christmas & Happy New Year had been strung from the ceiling.

Casey sighed. It sure didn't seem like Christmas, at least not the Christmases she remembered.

On the restaurant side of the building, a cooler behind the counter displayed home-baked pies and cakes. Casey was suddenly starved; her stomach growled and she realized that she'd lived for a week on a diet of canned stew and white bread with peanut butter.

A slim waitress with frizzy hair and a world-weary smile set aside her cigarette and showed them to a booth. Her name tag read Therese, and she waved to a couple of regulars as she plopped plastic-coated menus on the chipped Formica. “Anything to drink?”

“Coffee,” Sloan said.

“For you?” Therese asked, her glance moving to Casey.

“The same. With cream.”

“You got it.”

Spying the rest rooms, Casey said, “I'm going to clean up, but you can order for me. I'll have a hamburger and french fries and some of that apple pie.”

“Is that all?” he said, and for the first time she saw a glint of humor in his black eyes.

She was already on her way down a short hallway but called back, “Just add a little ice cream. Apple pie à la mode.”

In the rest room, she surveyed her reflection and groaned. Her hair, though combed, was oily and lank, her face smudged with dirt. Her sweater, which she'd worn for nearly a week, was wrinkled and smelling of smoke from the wood stove.

Using the towel Sloan had brought, she scrubbed her hands gently, cleaning her wounds as best as she could, then worked on her face with the wetted towel and dispenser soap. The results weren't that great, even after she finger combed her hair and applied a little bit of makeup. Lipstick, blush and mascara couldn't hide the pale color of her skin or the lack of spark in her usually clear eyes.

“Just hang in there,” she told her reflection because she knew she'd be home soon—a day or two at the most. Then she'd sink into a hot bubble bath and wash her hair with lilac-scented shampoo and sleep in her own bed for a week. But until then, she still had to get through the next few hours which, if the storm didn't let up, could stretch into a couple of days. With Sloan. At the thought of the brooding cowboy, she glanced again in the mirror and frowned. She was beyond unappealing, which usually didn't bother her.

She'd grown up on the ranch, was used to dust, dirt, flies, manure and sweat. She'd mucked out the stables, groomed horses and even branded calves. She'd been plenty dirty in her life and more often than not had supported a bruise or two from trying to ride a half-broken colt. Jonah McKee's only daughter, though spoiled, was no porcelain princess.

During her growing-up years, lots of ranch hands had seen her grimy, tired and cross, and it hadn't disturbed her a bit. But the idea of Sloan finding her bound and helpless and filthy bothered her. It bothered her a lot.

“You'll get over it,” she said to her image as she shook her hands dry, glad that her scratches hadn't started bleeding again. Fortunately none of the cuts looked deep, and if she was lucky and took care of herself, they wouldn't get infected. The raw spots on her wrists where the rope had cut into her skin looked worse, but there wasn't much she could do but keep them clean for now.

By the time she made her way back to the booth, Therese was setting two paper-lined baskets filled with steaming French fries and thick hamburgers on the table. “I'll bring that pie when you're finished with these,” she promised as she snagged a bottle of catsup from another table and plopped it in front of Sloan. “You need anything else, just holler.”

“Will do.” As she turned away, he said, “Wait a minute,” and offered her a smile of white teeth guaranteed to melt a woman's heart. “Is everyone else here stranded?” Sloan asked.

“Whatddya mean?” Therese grinned back.

His gaze swept the interior where a few men and women sat in booths. “Travelers caught by the storm.”

She frowned. “Nah. Most everybody but you is a regular.” She scratched her chin thoughtfully, then nodded at a small family—a man, woman and child of about three. “‘Cept them, I s'ppose.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“What was that all about?” Casey asked.

“Just making sure we weren't followed.”

“Of course we weren't followed. We were the only truck on the road for miles.”

The smile he'd donned for Therese's benefit faded and his eyes glinted with determination. “It doesn't hurt to make sure,” he said. “We're not out of the woods yet, y'know. Now—eat.” Again his gaze swept the interior.

“What about the bar?”

“Checked it out when you were in the rest room.”

“No murderers holed up, waiting for a chance to jump me?” She couldn't help bantering. Though she'd been frightened for her life at the cabin, she couldn't believe this rustic roadside café and bar was anything but safe. Barry was tied up or more likely in custody, and his partner—or partners—probably hundreds of miles away. “You're paranoid, Redhawk.”

“I get paid to be paranoid.” He picked up half of his burger. “And I don't want to spend any more time than I have to here, so dig in.”

Casey had never been so hungry in her life. She wasn't going to let his case of nerves get to her because the farther they were from the cabin, the safer she felt. Ignoring the fact that he continued to watch the door, she dipped the hot fries in a glob of catsup and savored each and every calorie. The burger was hot and juicy and undoubtedly loaded with cholesterol, but she hardly gave that a second thought.

They ate in silence and Casey tried not to stare at the man who had rescued her. Taller than most of the men in the dining room, Sloan sat high in the booth. His hat rested on a post at the end of his seat, and under the bright lights, she finally got her first good look at him. His hair was straight, black and slightly longer than the current fashion, his eyebrows dark and fierce-looking. She saw now that his skin was bronze-toned, even in the winter, and his face was sculpted with sharp angles and planes that clearly hinted at his Native American heritage. Good-looking in a rough-and-tumble way, he would stand out in almost any crowd, but there was an air of menace about him that he seemed to encourage by speaking seldom and smiling even less. Unless he wanted to pour on the charm to get something, as he had with Therese only minutes before, then the danger faded with the appearance of his heart-stopping smile.

Therese brought two thick wedges of hot apple pie with vanilla ice cream melting on the crust and set them on the table. “Anything else?” she asked, pouring them each a fresh cup of coffee.

“This should do it,” Sloan said, then glanced at Casey, “unless there's something more for you.”

Eyeing the huge slice of pastry, Casey shook her head. “I think this is enough.”

“Just holler if you change your mind,” Therese said as a roar of approval came from the bar. “Big ball game on cable,” she explained as she tore off the bill and set it facedown on the table.

Casey had barely started on her pie when she topped out. Her stomach was stretched to the bursting point by the time she'd taken three bites of the spicy apples and flaky crust. With a groan, she shoved the plate aside.

“Too much?” Sloan asked, one side of his mouth lifting into a semblance of a smile.

“Way too much.”

“Just don't make yourself sick.”

“I'm not.”

“Good.” He finished his pie. “So you're feeling better?”

“Than yesterday?” she asked, her gaze meeting the dark questions in his. “Are you kidding? Yesterday I was convinced that I'd never see anything but that cabin's walls.” She sighed and shook her head, refusing to dwell on the fear and uncertainty that had been her constant companions during the past week. She shuddered inwardly to think that she'd been so weak, so totally dependent, on a piece of scum like Barry White. She'd always prided herself on her ability to take care of herself, to handle any situation, to stand on her own. Barry White had undermined her self-confidence in a big way. She was determined to get it back. “This—” she gestured expansively at the interior of the restaurant and bar “—is heaven.”

He snorted and wadded his napkin. “You could've fooled me.”

“Heaven, I tell you,” she insisted. “You want the rest of this?” She offered him the remains of her pie, but he shook his head and settled back in the booth with his cup of coffee.

“How about you? Want anything else?”

She groaned. “I couldn't eat another thing if you paid me.”

“Then I guess we'd better find ourselves a room.”

“A room?” The thought stopped her cold. She'd suspected that they'd have to spend the night on the road, of course, but when actually faced with a night alone in a strange hotel room with Sloan Redhawk, her insides quivered slightly and she balked. She'd seen how strong he was, how he could take charge of any situation and she knew she could depend on him, but there was another side to him, one that was disturbing. Not only was he a dangerous man, a man who probably lived by his own rules, he was incredibly sexy, and though the last thing she wanted was male attention, she couldn't ignore the fact that he was just the kind of man who attracted her—the kind of man she'd told herself to avoid at all costs.

Now she'd be stuck with him. Alone.

But it had to be safer than the past week she'd been with Barry White.

She licked her lips nervously, then patted them with the corner of her napkin.

“If we're lucky, it'll just be for one night,” he was saying, obviously unhappy with the set of circumstances that had forced them into immobility. “Until the road crews get a handle on the situation.”

“And if we're not lucky?”

His mouth flattened into a straight line. “Then we'll decide what to do when the time comes.”

She didn't like that possibility, wanted to argue about the arrangements, but knew she was being ridiculous. There was no choice.

“Believe me,” he said, and his voice was suddenly kind, his dark eyes sincere, “I know you've been through a lot, maybe more than you're willing to admit, and want to get home. I'll do everything I can to get you there safely, as quickly as I can. Trust me.”

Her throat closed and unwanted tears threatened her eyes. “Thank you,” she said, her voice a little raspy with emotion.

“Don't thank me yet. We aren't there yet.”

From speakers mounted over the cigarette machine, the strains of an old Tammy Wynette song began to warble over the dining area.

“Wait here,” Sloan said, glancing quickly at the other tables. “I'll be right back.”

He walked swiftly to the door, said something to Therese and then disappeared into the night. Casey remained in the booth, sipping coffee and telling herself there was no reason to be nervous. She could see his pickup through the window, but Sloan passed it by and hurried across the snow-covered parking lot to the motel office.

Her stomach twisted and she turned her attention to her coffee. So what if she was spending the night alone with him—it certainly couldn't be any worse than a week with Barry White. She shuddered inwardly at the thought. Barry hadn't physically abused her, but she'd caught him staring at her often enough when he'd had too much to drink and she'd seen a flicker of lust in his pale eyes. She'd thought she might have to fight him off, but he'd never made any attempt to take advantage of the situation. For that, she supposed, she should be thankful.