The Lawman Meets His Bride (15 page)

“I can assure you of one thing, Miss Adams. This is
not
‘door-to-door’ stuff—you have police canvassing in mind when you say that. I’m not canvassing—yours is the only door I’ve come to.”

“You’ll excuse me, I’m sure, if I don’t pretend to be flattered, Mr. Ulrick.”

For the first time, his inspection lingered on her body, too.

“Perhaps,” he suggested, his tone thick with innuendo, “you find Quinn Loudon desirable? But let me tell you, he’s a liar and a user. You’d do well to reassess your trust…and put it in someone who won’t abuse it…or you.”

She stepped around him and returned to the door, opening it wide. “Get out,” she told him in a tone of controlled anger.

He laughed, forcing it a little. But something in her manner did evidently intimidate him because he headed for the door.

“I don’t think you’re harboring Loudon here—right now,” he qualified, giving the dishes another glance. “I talked to Ray Lofton, and I’m satisfied he searched well.”

Good for you, Ray, she thought.

“But I do think you’re actively aiding and abetting him somehow,” he added.

He opened the door, and cold air licked at her like an icy tongue—the temperature was finally lowering to Montana norms.

He turned and said, “I’ll warn you one last time, Miss Adams. In the eyes of the law, those who hold a candle for the devil are doing the devil’s work.”

“If that were true,” she flung after him, “the law would have to arrest itself.”

Despite her belief that Quinn was telling her the truth, Constance couldn’t completely discount everything Ulrick had said about the fugitive’s supposed talent at “manipulating women.” After all, she knew little about Quinn or his past.

Doubts lingered, like an unsettling odor in the house, even after the prosecutor had left.

She took care to avoid any potential for the physical intimacy they had begun to share before Ulrick’s arrival. More than ever she began to feel the urgency of her plight. She was hiding a man, in her home, who could not possibly escape from Mystery any time
soon. And he was here by her choice, her own reckless actions, not his.

Such thoughts, however, invariably recalled the sizzle each time his skin touched hers. And she knew
that
was the real danger she feared: the way the fire in his dark eyes struck answering flames within her.

So she kept the kitchen table between them while she reported her conversation with Ulrick. She didn’t gloss over his remarks about “enthralling” and “manipulating” women.

Quinn’s face seemed more resigned than angry, as if he expected nothing less from Ulrick.

“Technically,” he told her, “Ulrick has the legal right to investigate, since he’s a sworn officer of the court holding jurisdiction. But you caught him dead to rights about the recorder—this was no official visit. I just hope you’ll remember the danger of pushing these guys too far. Ulrick has access to some thugs to do his dirt work. His kind always do.”

Again, Quinn gave her nothing about his past, and nothing about the way Ulrick kept bringing it up. Indecision plagued her. She couldn’t help thinking about her reckless choice to bring Quinn here. Never mind how odious she found Ulrick—he just
might
be onto something regarding Quinn’s…hold over women, his ability to somehow make his purpose their own. Clearly he wanted to get away, and just as clearly he needed someone—her?—to help him do it.

She decided she had to say something.

“Quinn? Before Ulrick came, you mentioned a woman you knew from childhood.”

“Still know, actually.”

“Do you mean an adopted mother?”

His face seemed to close in against her. “No, a foster mother,” he replied matter-of-factly.

“Ulrick and Merriday, they both dwell so much on your childhood and your parents—your real parents, I mean. Why?”

He looked at her with eyes as defiant as his tone. “Kind of obvious, isn’t it? Because being the son of criminals and addicts is a quick and easy way to establish my criminal pedigree, to make me stand out as dangerous by birth. You know the line, ‘Happy families are all alike.’”

“But ‘every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way,’” she finished for him.

He nodded. “Automatically marks me out as a weirdo, antisocial. That’s important because they don’t want any attention on the real focus of this mess—bribes and kickbacks in the road-construction business. Not to mention Anders’ strange disappearance. They also don’t mention the fact that I was only charged with attempted bribery. They don’t even want those words whispered—they’re so benign. So instead, they make me into a monster. They harp away at my bad character and my notorious background.”

She hoped he would volunteer more. Instead, he withdrew inside of himself, partly, she suspected, from lingering exhaustion. Even though his fever was under control now, he was still weak and tired.

“C’mon back in the spare room and get some rest,” she told him, rising from the table.

He nodded, following her down the hallway. She had converted the front section of the spare bedroom into her home office: A station for her computer and printer, a shelf of reference works, business software, and county plat-books showing the official boundaries
of all properties in Colfax County. Along the back wall was a twin bed with an old chenille spread.

“The bed’s nothing fancy,” she apologized, “but you’ll be more comfortable in here—a floor vent near the bed controls the heat.”

Despite his evident exhaustion, Quinn’s gaze was immediately drawn to an enchanting oil painting over the bed. It depicted golden moonbeams reflecting like liquid jewels from ocean waves.

“That’s fine work,” he complimented. “Yours?”

“Don’t I wish. I don’t paint, but I love the art form. I bought that in Paris at a modern-art auction The Louvre sponsors every summer. After paying for it, I practically had to hock my jewels to pay my hotel bill, but I had to have it. The artist told me it was inspired by the First Movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.”

“Sounds like you’re quite the devotee.”

“I am, and I dreamed of being a great painter when I was little. But I must confess I also make money investing in art.”

“Collecting it, you mean?” He nodded toward the oil painting.

“Mm-hm. But that one’s not on the market and never will be. It’s just personal gratification.”

His eyes seized hers, and she felt her breath snag in her throat.

“Nothing wrong with personal gratification,” he assured her.

She pretended she hadn’t heard him, waiting a moment until she could trust her voice. “Art is always a smart investment because the real stuff can only gain in value over time.”

Beneath the surface of her commonplace remark,
she felt a simmering tension—as if her mouth sent one message but the rest of her body another. The way he stared at her didn’t help her composure any.

“I—I do it more for fun than to get rich,” she added to end the awkward silence, barely managing to tear herself from the powerful hold of his eyes. “It gives me an excuse to splurge on trips to the famous galleries.”

She paused, noticing his assessment of her. “You look surprised? Did you expect everyone in Mystery to collect porcelain knick-knacks?”

He shrugged, bemused eyes measuring the careful distance she was keeping between them. “It’s a side of you that doesn’t show immediately—I mean, rural real-estate hustler and all.”

A shadow crossed his face, and she busied herself in clearing some boxes of office supplies off the bed.

Quinn studied the painting, but only with his eyes. In his heart he battled the same secret fear he’d felt every time he tried to get close to a woman he admired: they were silk purses, and he was a sow’s ear trying to fake it.

His inner turmoil had actually begun earlier with her offhand comment about his “knack for eluding the law.” And obviously Ulrick’s visit had planted seeds of doubt within her.

She’d be an idiot
not
to have doubts about me, he realized. Her obviously solid, small-town roots, her secure and interesting, full life…this very painting, even, all served to throw a spotlight on his own criminal behavior these past few days. He was far worse than simply one of the hoi polloi…not just common, but a common
criminal.
At least in her eyes, and maybe even in his own.

“There, all ready,” she said, turning away from the bed to look at him. Again their eyes met, held, and suddenly she seemed very aware of the bed’s proximity to them. She sent him a nervous little smile.

“A dimple on the chin means a devil within,” he told her, tone light, but eyes caressing her like hands against her bare flesh.

“So I’ve heard. You have one, too.”

“Well, there you go—we have a common ancestor in Satan. We should get married and protect the bloodline. Raise little hellions all over the place.”

They both laughed, momentarily relieving the tension. But joke or not, the reference to “bloodline” briefly brought the shadow back into his face.

“Sleep well,” she told him, heading for the door. For a moment, as she stepped past him, she was sure he started to raise his arms—as if to stop her.

Her heart raced. If he did, she wondered what she would do about it—stay or resist.

But she never had to make that choice. His arms returned to his side. He let her pass by, and turned away from her with a simple, automatic, “Thank you, Connie, I will.”

“Connie, when I called your office and Ginny told me you took a personal day? I had to sit right down, it unsettled me so much.”

Her mother’s voice seemed to yammer in her ear. Constance had caught the phone during its first ring, hoping it hadn’t awakened Quinn. It was late on Monday afternoon, a wedge of brittle winter sunshine slanting through the wide front window. It turned the hardwood floor the color of luminous honey.

“With Quinn Loudon still loose and in this area,”
Dorothy pressed on, “why, I nearly panicked. You
never
take a personal day like this. Vacations, sure, but those are always planned. Never a day off like this. And I just saw you yesterday. You never mentioned—”

“Mom, please, at least pause to breathe! You know how you can get all wound up over nothing. Look, what’s the big deal if I take a day off? At my job, I’m the boss, remember?”

“Of course you can take time off. Don’t be silly. But it’s just—with Quinn Loudon still—”

“I know,
I know,
you’ve said it several times now.” She paused, letting the first wave of irritation pass. “Mom, the whole town is acting like Quinn Loudon is Godzilla or something. Anyway, he’s probably up in the mountains. He’s not after anyone around here. He’s just running from the law. He’s not some mad slasher chanting my name.”

“All I know is what I’m told. And Ray Lofton told me he’s searching house to house.”

“Uh-huh, he searched mine already, and you know he did. You also know how Ray loves playing things up a little, too. Mom, Quinn Loudon can’t be here in town. He’s not invisible. So just calm down.”

“You’ve got good locks there?”

“You know they’re better than yours. Dead bolts.”

“Well…but why
did
you take a day off?”

Sudden exasperation, and the underlying entanglements of the web she was weaving, make Constance snap back, “That’s why they’re called personal days.”

“You don’t have to use that tone,” her mother censured her.

“Tone? What about yours? I’m not in high school
anymore. Speaking of which—Beth Ann uses a ‘tone’ with you all the time, and she gets away with it.”

“Not in front of your dad, she doesn’t.”

“Oh, great, you stand up to her only when Dad’s there to back you?
That’ll
teach Beth to respect women, all right.”

“What in the world got you on this subject?”

Her mother sounded confused by the sudden shift in topic.

Constance berated herself for picking on her. In a more patient voice, she went on, “Never mind. Dad’s not the issue, anyway, I’m talking about me and you. I’m twenty-eight years old and in charge of my own life.”

“Did I ever say—”

“Mom, look, I’m sorry, I’m just not in the mood right now for a big production over the phone. I’m fine, okay? Really. I’ll talk to you later. Love you.”

She hung up before she really let loose on her mother. Constance knew she was just naturally worried about her oldest child. But maternal “hovering” was especially irksome when she already had enough stress to handle.

When the phone on the bookcase rang again only a few seconds after she’d hung up, she angrily speared the handset from its cradle, expecting her mother again.

“Mom, please, I just don’t—”

“If
I
was your mother,” Hazel’s throaty voice cut her off, “you’d be standing tall in the wood shed right about now, missy.”

“Hazel! I’m sorry, I thought…why in heaven would I be standing tall?”

“Why? You tell me. You can begin by telling me
why federal agents just paid me a visit about the Hupenbecker cabin?”

“They—they did?”

“Honey, didn’t I just say they did? A corn-fed young FBI fellow who looks like Elliot Ness constipated, and some mealymouthed D.A. who needs to eat his Wheaties. Now we’ve got that point established, you tell me
why?”

“Well…see, you own the cabin.”

“Well, cut off my legs and call me Shorty! I didn’t know that. Listen, girl, you stop bamboozling me because you’re no good at it like I am. This weak-sister D.A., Ulrick, he bawled like a bay steer. Asked did I know Quinn Loudon, asked did I know you and what was my opinion of your character?”

Constance swallowed the hard lump in her throat. “What did you tell him?”

“Tell him? Why, that you’re a hell-raising whore nicknamed Mattress Mary.”

“Oh, that ought to clear me,” she winced.

“Shame on you for thinking Hazel McCallum lets
any
body push her around in Mystery Valley. Or any of her neighbors. I told him to stick his questions where the sun doesn’t shine. This Ulrick is a toad, and I’ll squash him yet. But I can’t help you until you tell me everything, Connie. The whole thing, from soup to nuts.”