Revenge (57 page)

“Know that guy?” Sloan asked.

“Never seen him before in my life.”

“Let's go.” Sloan grabbed his jacket, which he'd slung over the back of the booth.

“You're jumping at shadows.”

“Maybe.”

She shivered inside, but followed his lead and slid her arms through the sleeves of her coat. Sloan left a tip on the corner of the table, then paused at the register to pay the bill. Though he didn't stare, Casey sensed that he watched every move of the stranger, from the way he let his cigarette burn unnoticed in the little tin ashtray to the way he flirted with the slim red-haired waitress who took his order.

The man didn't look evil or malevolent or the least bit interested in Sloan or Casey. In fact, he paid them little attention and, after ordering his meal, headed into the rest room.

Once they were outside and in the truck, Sloan glanced in the rearview mirror. “You're sure you didn't know him?”

“No.”

“Positive?”

“Look,” she said angrily, “I've already told you. Sure, he looks and dresses like most of the men in Rimrock, but I swear to you, Sloan, I've never seen him or anyone else in that restaurant in my life before.”

“He looked familiar to me.”

“To you? Where'd you see him? In L.A.? Riding rodeo?”

The corners of his mouth tightened a fraction. “In the Black Anvil,” he said, slowly as if he finally remembered. “Something about his boots—did you notice them?—the silver chains on the heels.”

Casey's heart seemed to turn to stone. “In Rimrock? You're sure?”

“That's right. Now I remember. He was shooting pool with Jimmy Rickert.”

“Jimmy?” she repeated, and her stomach turned over. Jimmy, the town snitch, had been in more than his share of scrapes with the law. “But why? How?”

“I wish I knew,” Sloan said, his hands gripping the wheel until his knuckles showed white. “I wish to bloody hell that I knew. Let's go.”

 

Sloan didn't like leaving anything to chance. If Casey hadn't been with him, he would have accosted the man in the diner, forced him to show his hand, but he couldn't risk it—the man could be armed or have an accomplice lurking about.

All Sloan had to do was keep Casey safe until he got her back to the McKee ranch, which wouldn't have been that big of a deal, if he didn't have to fight the worst storm in the history of eastern Washington.

He drove as fast as he could, considering the conditions, and tried to remember the name of the guy with the boots. Mike? Michael? Miles? The name eluded him, but he was certain he'd seen the face, as well as the boots, before.

“What the devil?” He eased on the brakes as he saw a line of traffic forming, taillights glowing scarlet.

“Looks like an accident,” Casey said, craning her neck to look past a minivan filled with skiers.

Sloan's back teeth ground together. They were south of Spokane, eighty miles away from the diner where he'd spied the cowboy. During the drive, Sloan had checked his rearview mirror every ten seconds, expecting the man from the diner to have followed and caught up with them. He'd been just about to relax when this accident—a jackknifed semi from what he could see—had blocked the road. Cars piled up behind their pickup while a tow truck, fire fighters and police tried to get the disabled rig off the road. It seemed to take forever. “Nothin' to do but wait,” he said.

She looked through the windshield to the sky. “And it looks like more snow.”

“Great.” He climbed out of the truck, eyeing the crowd gathering as other motorists stretched their legs, smoked and talked among themselves while climbing on bumpers or hoods to get a better view of the accident. He didn't see a face he recognized, and the man he'd spotted back in the diner, if he was tailing them, was lost in the serpentine of cars that stretched around the curves of the mountain pass or was hidden by the veil of snow now starting to fall.

Casey joined him and they sipped coffee and joked with a couple in a red car. The woman was eight months pregnant and her husband wanted nothing but to get her home safely. Sloan knew the feeling as there was talk among the stranded drivers that the road might be closed again.

The wind picked up as the police finally cleared one lane and everyone climbed back into their vehicles. The snow was thick and the fierce wind seemed to bring the temperature down below zero.

Maybe Casey was right, Sloan thought as he started the engine. Maybe he was just paranoid, but he didn't want to take any unnecessary risks. Not when her life was at stake.

Night was falling by the time the state trooper waved them on with his flashlight. Sloan eased his truck around the crippled semi and followed the steady stream of taillights that wound along the road through the mountains. They drove for several miles and the traffic thinned, but still the snow fell, silent and dangerous, gorgeous to watch, deadly if someone became stranded.

“Looks like we might have to put up for the night again,” he said, frowning to himself.

“Why?”

“The storm.”

“There are always storms.”

“Not like this one.” Sloan squinted into the darkness. “One of the guys I talked to—a trucker—has a CB radio. He's been talkin' to rigs all over this part of the state. A couple of them said this road's shut down for the night. Trees have fallen across it, power lines are down and the road crews can't keep up with the weather.”

He saw her shoulders slump and knew she wanted desperately to get back to her family. He didn't blame her. He, too, needed to see that she was safely home, and the prospect of spending another night alone with her set his nerves on edge. It had been all he could do to keep his hands off her last night. Damn it, he'd nearly kissed her, and the thought of another eight hours listening to her soft breathing, hearing her murmur in her sleep, watching her turn her head against the fan of dark hair on her pillow would be pure hell.

“Something's wrong.” Casey's voice snapped him out of his reverie. She was staring at him, her hazel eyes wide and curious. “Something more than the storm.”

If you only knew. He felt guilty about his thoughts; she was frightened, running for her life, and he was fantasizing about her.

“What is it?”

He didn't bother responding, and she smiled, one side of her mouth lifting to show her dimple. “More bad guys chasing us?”

“Don't know.” He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw headlights trailing at a distance. The muscles at the base of his skull knotted, but he told himself it wasn't unusual to be followed, especially since the traffic had been backed up so far. But it still bothered him and his gut tightened in warning, the way it always did when he sensed danger. They'd just have to wait and see what the night brought.

 

“It looks like our friends with the CBs were right,” Sloan said as he put down the cellular phone and cursed under his breath.

“The road's out.”

“For the next few hours. Until the crews can clear up the fallen trees and downed wires.”

“And snow.”

“Amen.”

“Where's the problem?” she asked, straining to see.

“Twenty miles ahead.” He cranked the wheel for a curve in the road and the pickup's tires locked on the ice. They spun, Casey gasped, and he eased up on the gas before the truck finally straightened. “Damn,” he growled. Four-wheel drive, so reliable in deep snow, wasn't much good on ice, and now that the roads were busy and the temperature had plunged with the descent of darkness, the snow-covered road was deceptive. Patches of ice had formed when the snow had melted from the heat of exhaust and friction of tires, then refrozen as the traffic had thinned and the temperature plummeted. “So, we have two choices—turn back and hope that we can find another way to Rimrock, or find a place to stay.”

Her stomach nose-dived, but she didn't argue. There really wasn't much choice. Turning back would mean hours wasted and who knew how far they would get. Sloan had tried to listen to the radio, but the reception in the mountains had been spotty, the static so harsh it was hard to hear. However, there were storm warnings posted, travel in the mountains was restricted, roads blocked and closed.

He stopped at the next town and Casey smiled as she saw Christmas lights strung along the porch of the general store. With a pang, she thought of her family and wondered what they were doing. Were Skye and Max busy planning their wedding? Was Jenner shopping for the perfect gift for the son he'd only recently met? Was her mother coping with the fact that this was her first holiday season as a widow? Was Kiki, the cook, elbow-deep in Christmas-cookie dough? Or were they all just sitting around the phone, waiting for news, sick with worry over her?

She tried not to think of what was happening on the Rocking M. This was usually a time of merrymaking when the hands would hitch up the old sleigh to some of the horses, and even dour-faced Kiki indulged in a little cup of Christmas cheer. Since he was twelve, Jenner had always kept a sprig of mistletoe in his back pocket. This year he'd reserve it for Beth. She sighed. This Christmas was certainly different, and soon, if things went well, she'd be home in time to share it with the rest of the McKees.

Rather than dwell on her family, she concentrated on the tiny little town that looked as if it had been built during the heyday of gold and silver mining. A smattering of false-fronted buildings lined the street; many were empty, their siding bleached gray, the doors bolted and windows boarded over as if they'd been abandoned for years. There was one hotel in town, which looked as if it had been built around the turn of the century. With a western facade and even a hitching post still in evidence near the front porch, the building was lit by kerosene lanterns placed on tables near the windows.

Inside, the main floor was divided into a registration area for the hotel and a dining room. A huge fir tree, strung with tiny white lights and tinsel, stood guard near the staircase, and clusters of mistletoe had been hung from the brass chandeliers with red bows. The clerk was wearing a Santa hat that jingled as she registered Mr. and Mrs. Sloan Redhawk. Casey slid him a glance when she saw the registration card, but knew that he was just being careful.

Mrs. Sloan Redhawk,
she thought, turning the name over in her mind. She couldn't imagine being married to this rugged man, and yet a part of her found the idea appealing. She wondered how many other women had posed as his wife in the lobby of some out-of-the-way motel, then decided it wasn't worth considering. He was her bodyguard for all practical purposes, just doing a job the best way he knew how. There was nothing more between them.

In a few days, well, maybe even after tomorrow, she wouldn't see him again, except perhaps at Jenner's wedding. For some reason she couldn't name, that prospect was sobering and she considered her future, stretching out before her in a haze of uncertainty. She'd forget him, she told herself, as she'd managed to get over Peter.

After registering, they walked into the dining area and seated themselves at a table near the back, which offered Sloan a view of the front door as well as the main desk.

“You still think we're being followed,” Casey said when Sloan's gaze moved restlessly around the room.

“I'm just careful.”

“Always?” she asked as she smoothed her napkin. His gaze centered on her face and she felt her heart begin to pound, pulsing hot against her throat. The reflection from the flame of the lantern glinted in his dark eyes.

“Always.”

Her stomach tightened and she could barely breathe. The air was suddenly charged with an urgency she didn't understand and didn't want to consider. “I don't think so.” She knew she was goading him, but couldn't stop herself. “Anyone who does what you do for a living—what you did—likes danger.”

“What I did?”

“Riding rodeo broncs and Brahman bulls.” She paused while the waitress set glasses of water on the table and took their drink orders. “Besides, didn't I hear Jenner say you were a policeman or something?”

“Or something.”

“What?”

He hesitated, then shrugged. “Detective. In L.A.”

She wasn't surprised. “And from that you became a cowboy?”

“That's right,” he said, avoiding her eyes. The blond waitress set a long-necked bottle of beer in front of him and a glass of white wine near Casey.

“Figured out what you want yet?” the girl, barely twenty-one from the looks of her, asked as she clicked her pen and held her notepad ready.

“I'll have the trout special,” Casey replied.

“And you?” The waitress rained a smile on Sloan.

“Grilled steak. Rare. Baked potato with the works and coleslaw.”

“And another beer?”

Sloan lifted his bottle. “In a minute.”

“Coming right up.” The blonde disappeared behind the swinging saloon-style doors to the kitchen.

Casey sipped her wine. “You were telling me about being a policeman.”

“No,” he said. “You were asking.”

“So why'd you quit the force?”

A shadow passed behind his eyes. “It was time.”

“After what—five years?”

“Almost seven.” He drained his bottle and picked at the label. All the while, his black gaze moved from Casey's face to the front door and back to the surrounding tables. Obviously he didn't want to discuss his past, but Casey wondered what made a man quit his job to become a drifter of sorts, a man who gave up his life in the city to follow the rodeo circuit, riding wild horses and roping calves.