The Lawman Meets His Bride (23 page)

“Sure as we’re talking. I don’t know the whole scheme, no. But let me tell you some things I’m sure your aide doesn’t know.”

Quickly and efficiently she brought the governor up to speed concerning the unreported nature of the manhunt for Loudon. She did not register any complaints about accepted legal tactics, such as the routine questioning by Roger Ulrick and Todd Mumford.

Rather, she emphasized those points that did not qualify as legitimate police work in her view. Things like the sacking of the Hupenbecker cabin, causing damage, and all the spying and tailing and trespassing by men who looked like wanted posters, not cops.

Nor was she bashful about fingering Ulrick as a crooked prosecutor. She had promised Connie to squash Ulrick like the roach that he was, and she meant it. To Hazel, plenty of things the law called “crimes” didn’t bother her much. But those who betrayed their oath of public office were even lower than horsebeaters, and that was going mighty damn low in rural Montana.

Governor Collins listened carefully, growing more and more engrossed in the story. He asked several pertinent questions, and quickly agreed with Hazel that the matter was top priority. Instead of doing her
a favor, he made it clear she had done the favor by calling.

“I’m having a telecon with the state attorney general about this as soon as I hang up,” he promised. “This goldang highway-construction mess has been a black eye for this state, and my administration, for too long now. This might be the best opportunity yet to nail the key players and finally clean up this mess.”

“A new broom sweeps clean,” Hazel encouraged him. “Lock ’em up and hire some straight-shooters.”

Hazel did not hang up, however, until conveying her heartfelt belief that hired killers were even now stalking Quinn and Connie. Governor Collins promised to alert state troopers about the situation. Since they had no license tag number for the SUV, they’d look for the Jeep instead.

While Hazel was on the telephone, her housekeeper built up a fire in the big fieldstone fireplace. After Hazel hung up, she gazed for a long time at the cheery, crackling flames, feeling ambivalent about what she’d just done.

She decided, again, that she’d had no choice but to call in the governor—her plan to get Connie and Quinn safely to Billings had apparently failed from the get-go. Now Hazel felt responsible for protecting them, even if it meant letting the law pick them up.

She knew she had an obligation to protect them—especially Connie. Hazel’s dream of saving Mystery through behind-the-scenes matchmaking had not diminished. Not one blessed whit. Nor had the plain old
fun
of it. But she did not want her machinations to endanger anyone.

Her line of thought naturally prompted her to lift her gaze to the oval, sepia-tone photograph of Jake
McCallum hanging over the fireplace. Her square-bearded, iron-eyed ancestor looked back down at her, just as he might be watching right now from the afterlife.

Jake had always believed that money was like manure—it worked best when you spread it around. By spreading theirs around, successive generations of McCallums helped create the community of Mystery.

But money alone, she told herself, could not ensure the ongoing identity of a place. Only love and commitment could do that. Hazel was convinced that, with certain impediments removed, Connie and Quinn could share a love as deep and abiding as Hazel still felt for her own long-dead husband. And they would raise a wonderful family to help keep Mystery a place where hope prevailed.

Still—those “impediments” had lately gotten very dangerous. Hazel loved Connie like the daughter she never had.

“Lord,” she said softly, “I hope I haven’t been too clever for Connie’s own good. I could have driven Quinn myself, but I had to be sly. Please don’t let my fool-headed tricks put those two in harm’s way.”

As she always did for comfort, she drew aside her lace curtains and stared at the mountains. Her strength. Her sustenance.

Constance could not get a handle on her turbulent emotions as she and Quinn put Overland Station in the rearview mirror at sunup, sipping extra-large cups of mediocre but strong coffee.

Anger made a tight mask of her features, but she wasn’t sure at whom it was directed, Quinn or herself. After all, she had predicted this very outcome—that
he would pull back from her once he no longer needed her help. And just look. Not until this final stretch to Billings did he hand her that malarkey about how “some things just aren’t in the cards.”

She had let him drive, and the weather that morning was blue-lip cold but clear and sunny. Several times Quinn tried to engage her in conversation. But each time she either ignored him or responded in short cool clips.

Finally, frustrated by her attitude, Quinn said pointedly, “No need to get your nose out of joint. You act like I deflowered you and then deserted you at the altar.”

His barb thrust deep, drawing blood from old wounds. For a few moments she was convinced she positively hated this backsliding creep.

“Know what? You need some serious couch time,” she informed him archly. “You could explore some basic issues such as your contempt for women.”

The moment she said it, however, she regretted the remark. It was inspired by pique, not her real belief. Despite his behavior last Friday at the cabin, and a little while ago in the motel room, she was convinced—his personal problem was not with women or anyone else.

The handsome swordsman was locked in a deadly struggle with another version of his self. A darker, more cynical and defeatist version that wanted to become his nature versus the strong, hopeful, idealistic self that
was
his real nature. One or the other was on the verge of winning, but she couldn’t tell which.

Unfortunately, she was too angry and upset to tell him all that.

Even when she saw how her insult made his knuckles turn white on the steering wheel.

“You know how it is,” he replied, his tone flat with suppressed anger, “with those of us who have inherited the criminal gene. That’s why I attacked you repeatedly.”

“Quinn, I’m sor—”

“Save it for your memoirs,” he snapped, obviously still smarting. But his anger shaded over into resentment, and he added, “You know what? I’d kiss the devil’s ass in hell if I could change my past. But I can’t.”

“Quinn, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, okay? I’m confused and frustrated, and I spoke carelessly.”

A moment later, he too relented a bit. “I guess I didn’t mean to be so thin-skinned, either. Maybe you scraped a raw nerve.”

“Well, yes, you
are
thin-skinned about your past. It means far less to me than you apparently think it does.”

His response confirmed her insight from moments ago.

“It’s not just you,” he told her, his words halting and uneasy. “Actually, it’s all me. That’s what’s so damned frustrating. This thing is self-inflicted. It wouldn’t matter what you said, even if I believed you. Not so deep down, Connie, I just can’t convince myself I’m good enough for you. For
any
decent woman. I know it sounds stupid, but things are the way they are. And this whole episode from the courthouse to here has cut all my scars wide open.”

“Is that what you were trying to say back in the motel?”

He nodded.

“It’s completely logical you’d feel that way. But you’re just plain
wrong,
Quinn Loudon. You couldn’t be more wrong.”

Her words, ringing with heartfelt sincerity, moved him so deeply he was forced to silence, afraid he couldn’t command his voice. What she just said was typical of the enormous faith she’d shown in him almost from the beginning of this reckless, dangerous adventure.

But none of that mattered.

The best way to help this well-intended woman, he decided, was to make sure she dropped him like a bad habit. He only hoped now that he could finish the damnable drive without getting her into more danger.

He swallowed and said in a tone heavy with unbending finality, “Connie, even if I am wrong, it doesn’t matter. You need to find someone who’s more like you, who’s compatible and supportive and all that stuff. And who’s definitely law-abiding.”

His tone, and the hard set of his features, lacerated her heart even more than the trite, cruel words. It was definitely the tone of that darker, defeatist self vying to dominate him. But she lacked the courage to say that, to even respond.

This was all so wrong, she despaired, so unfair and even frustratingly tragic, like a crucial tryst that never takes place because a doorbell was broken.

After she caught Doug red-handed, she had sworn no man would get close to her again until he had practically been certified by the Nuclear Regulatory Commission.

Then fate crossed her path with Quinn’s. She could fool herself no longer—despite precautions, she had
fallen hopelessly in love with him. And she knew that she would gladly forgive him everything, if only he could forgive himself. Somehow she’d have to find the courage to say that, not just think it.

He said something she missed. “What?”

“Not such a good time to be so distracted, Connie. Those goons we stranded could be cruising the highways by now. And now that it’s daylight, this dinged-up Jeep will attract police attention.”

“You’re right,” she said, keeping her own tone carefully businesslike.

She did become more vigilant, especially watching carefully in the right side mirror. Obviously, however, Quinn too was still having trouble focusing his thoughts, judging from his next comment.

“There’s this other possibility neither one of us has mentioned. We’re both assuming I can clear myself. But some very powerful and connected attorneys are trying to ensure otherwise. Guys who make up their own rules. So even if…things could be different between us, it still might not matter. A conviction could lock me away for twenty years.”

She could hardly look at him across the car seat. She knew what she would find on his face. The tight expression. The darkness in his eyes. He was right, of course. He could be taken from her for twenty years. Fate could be so cruel. Fate had already been cruel to both of them.

But Constance knew that she would gladly cross that bridge with him when they got to it, if only he’d let her into his life. She’d never let a false conviction stand. Somehow, some way, she’d fight to clear him.

But still none of that mattered.

Because he
wouldn’t
let her in. Unless he somehow
squared things with himself, she’d have better luck trying to sell those castles in the air.

So all she said was, “You’ll clear yourself. Don’t forget Hazel. I could tell she likes you. She’ll fight for you.”

“I like her, too. She’s a real character without trying to work at it. I hope she can help me—with the rap sheet I’ve accumulated by now, I’ll need all the help I can get.”

Yes, she thought silently, eyes burning as she willed back tears. We both will.

Chapter 15

P
erhaps the wheel of fortune had finally swung their way.

By deliberately staying boxed in between the many big tractor-trailer rigs that used State Route 23, Quinn kept a low highway profile. Constance spotted two police cruisers in the westbound lanes, and each time she braced for trouble. But neither one came charging across the median to arrest them.

They finally reached Billings just before noon. The city looked pretty and pristine under its new powdering of snow. The Mountain States National Bank occupied a pompous red-granite building on Third Street downtown. Quinn circled the block once to check things out.

“Looks like just one rent-a-cop outside the door,” he told Connie as he parked across the street half a block away. “Here’s hoping he’s as dumb as he looks. When I get out you slip behind the wheel,
okay? Move on down a little closer in case I come out running. You’ll drive from here. What?” he added when she suddenly surprised him by laughing.

“Us,” she said bluntly as he got out. “Everything you just said—sounds like we’re robbing the bank.”

“Well, that’s a good sign, you laughing about it.”

“Why?”

“Means you’ve gone a little nuts. Best way to survive.”

She watched his breath forming white wraiths in the chill air.

“Be careful,” she said before he shut the door.

“You, too.”

Their eyes locked for a long moment, recalling sweeter things than their disagreements.

He reached out and ran his cold hand down her cold cheek. “Whatever comes down from here,” he said grimly, “I just want you to know I’ve never fallen for any woman the way I have for you. Know what you are? Moonlight on the waves—just as beautiful and perfect as that painting at your house. Don’t forget that, okay?”

With that he was gone, crisp snow crunching under his feet.

She watched his back retreat, still fighting off tears that stung to be released. She couldn’t lose it now, she admonished herself. Quinn’s fate depended on her keeping it together.

She swung her door open and stepped outside, instantly refreshed by the bracing slap of the cold winter air. She held her breath as Quinn got a cursory once-over from the security guard. Then Quinn disappeared into the bank, and she released a long sigh of relief.

She went around to the driver’s side and got in,
forced to smile when she saw how far back the seat was to accommodate his long legs. Sliding the seat forward, she slowly drove ahead.

She parked three cars back from the doors of the bank and waited, praying no trap lay within to snare Quinn.

However, he emerged perhaps five minutes later, his face jubilant, and she expelled a huge sigh of relief. He slid into the passenger’s seat, and she saw the red plastic computer-disk case in his hand.

“So far, so good. Here’s the original and a copy,” he told her, opening the case to check. “Now comes the hard part—turning myself over to Todd Mumford.”

“Shouldn’t you call him first?”

“I just did from a pay phone in the bank. He’s in his office and knows we’re coming.”

Alarm widened her eyes. “Will it just be him?”