Stranger in Cold Creek (17 page)

The Taurus had pulled even with her, a hulking, mysterious presence in the driving snow. She'd tried to pull him over, she remembered, but he'd responded by falling back to perform a PIT maneuver that had driven her off the road.

He could have killed her. It had probably been his intention. He just hadn't planned for John Blake to come to her rescue, had he?

Oh, John.
She longed to talk to him now, the urge so powerful it felt like an ache in the center of her chest. Just to hear his voice, to somehow find words to tell him—

What? What did she want to tell him? That in the past few days, he'd made her feel more vibrant, more whole, than she'd ever felt before? That her life would feel empty without him?

That was crazy thinking. She barely knew him.

But crazy or not, it was true.

The cruiser gave a hard lurch and she forced herself to pay attention to the road ahead. She was coming up on another crossroad, but again, there was little hope for help down the road in either direction, so she stayed on the highway, pressing her foot on the accelerator when she saw that her speed had begun to drop.

She had to stay alive.

She had to see John again.

In the rearview mirror, the Taurus had almost caught up with her. And the odds were good that he'd make the same move here he'd made the day of the snowstorm, weren't they?

People were, after all, creatures of habit.

Come on, Taylor. Make your move.

I'll be ready.

* * *

“I
S
THAT
A
cruiser ahead?” John peered down the dusty road, certain he was seeing a flicker of red and blue lights somewhere in the hazy distance.

“I think it is.” Sheriff Randall gestured toward the cruiser's glove box. “There's a set of binoculars in there. See what you can make out.”

He found the binoculars and lifted them to his eyes, adjusting the dials until he got a clear look at the vehicle moving toward them. It was probably four miles down the road, which meant they'd intercept it in a couple of minutes at their current speed.

Was it Miranda? Or one of the other units the sheriff's department had called to action?

“Could that be one of the other responding units?” he asked the sheriff.

“If so, he's going the wrong direction. The Westlake Refinery is about five miles farther down this road.”

“If it's Miranda, why isn't she answering your radio calls?” John tried to get a better look at the cruiser's driver, but the sun glinted off the windshield, obscuring any view of the driver. He shifted the binoculars down to see the license plate, reading off the numbers and letters. “Is that the cruiser Miranda was driving?”

“I don't have it memorized,” Randall growled, but he radioed the number to his dispatcher, who came back a few seconds later with confirmation.

“It's the cruiser Duncan signed out.”

“Something's wrong with the tires,” John said, trying to get a better look through the binoculars. “They look flat.”

Randall muttered a profanity.

John dropped the binoculars to his lap and looked up. A dark-colored sedan pulled up next to the cruiser, edging closer in an apparent attempt to drive her off the road.

Suddenly the cruiser slowed, letting the other car move ahead. Then the cruiser made a sharp inward turn, hitting the other car on the rear panel.

The darker car went into a 360-degree spin, ending up off the road.

Unfortunately, so did the cruiser, sliding sideways into a shallow arroyo on the other side of the road.

The sheriff's cruiser was closing in on the scene fast, close enough that John spotted the driver's door of the blue sedan opening. A dark-clad figure emerged from the car, one arm outstretched. Sunlight glinted on something he held in his hand.

“No!” John shouted, but it was already too late.

The man fired on the wrecked cruiser.

Chapter Seventeen

The cruiser hadn't rolled. But the crack of gunfire and the crunch of the cruiser's back driver's side window shattering were stark reminders that Miranda was still in grave danger.

At least this time, help was on its way. She'd seen another cruiser heading her way at a fast clip, less than a mile down the road now, before she pulled the PIT maneuver to drive Coy Taylor's car off the road. But she hadn't managed to wreck him.

And she was still unarmed.

She slid into the passenger seat and opened the door, swearing when the bottom of the door caught on the edge of the arroyo the cruiser had slid into. The opening was far too small for her to escape through.

Damn it!

Another shot fired, this one zinging through the driver's side window. If she hadn't moved, she'd have taken the bullet in the head. A hard shudder raced through her as she squeezed herself into a tight crouch in the passenger floorboard. It wouldn't be enough, she knew. Not if he kept firing.

Where the hell was that other cruiser?

There was the sudden boom of a shotgun, and she heard a cry of pain from somewhere outside the cruiser. Seconds later, she heard the cruiser's door creak open.

“Miranda?”

She lifted her head and met the frightened hazel eyes of John Blake. He crouched in the doorway, his gaze shifting to look her over, as if searching for signs of injury.

“I'm fine,” she told him quickly, pushing herself up into the passenger seat. She stayed there a few seconds, catching her breath as her pulse galloped like a thoroughbred in her chest. “Taylor?”

“He took some buckshot. The sheriff's got him cuffed and disarmed.” John held his hand out to her. “You sure you're not hurt?”

“I'm sure.” She took his hand. A spark of heat and energy seemed to flow from his fingers into hers, bolstering her strength. She slid up the slight incline of the cruiser's bench seat and let John help her out onto the shoulder of the road.

A few yards down the highway, the sheriff was shoving Taylor into the back of his cruiser, ignoring the injured man's groans. Randall turned and gave Miranda a nod. “You okay?” he called.

“Fine,” she answered, no longer certain she was telling the truth. Now that the danger had passed, her limbs had started trembling wildly and she felt as if the world beneath her feet had begun to shift like quicksand.

She caught John's arm, and he turned to look at her in alarm. “Miranda?”

“I'm okay,” she said through chattering teeth.

“No, you're not.” He put his arm around her and led her over to the sheriff's cruiser. She bumped gazes with Miles Randall, who stood in the cruiser's open door, talking on the dashboard radio. “Suspect in custody. All units to—” Here he stopped and looked around him before continuing. “West Highway, north of mile marker 210.”

John had his arms wrapped tightly around her waist, holding her as the tremors dashing through her slowly started to dissipate. “You're okay,” he murmured in her ear.

Finally, she started to feel it.

* * *

“P
LAINVIEW
IS
GOING
to look into a series of unsolved prostitute murders, but we're not even sure we can tie Taylor to the one Delta mentioned in her journal.” Miles Randall leaned back in his desk chair and looked briefly at John before his gaze settled on Miranda, who sat straight backed in the armchair next to John's. Over an hour had passed since they'd arrived at the sheriff's department in Tim Robertson's car and went their separate ways for a formal debriefing.

During their time apart, Miranda's condition had improved considerably, John noted. She had stopped shaking altogether and her color had returned. She'd also been reunited with her utility belt, extra weapon and cell phone, retrieved by one of the deputies processing the crime scene at the old refinery. She'd already strapped on the belt and her service weapon again, as if donning armor. “It's possible Delta had more evidence hidden somewhere. Or maybe when we track down the dead prostitute's friends, they can help us figure out what Delta knew and how she knew it,” Miranda suggested. “Is Plainview going to allow us to aid in the investigation?”

“I've talked to the Plainview chief of police. He's agreed to combine our resources in the investigation,” Randall said. “But you're not going to be on the case, Duncan.”

“What?”

“Taylor tried to make you his victim. Twice. Like it or not, that makes you entirely too close to the case to be objective.”

The muscle in Miranda's jaw worked violently, but she managed to keep her mouth shut, John saw. He couldn't blame her for her frustration, however. He hated like hell being left out of the final roundup of the Blue Ridge Infantry's straggling holdouts.

He needed to call Quinn, he reminded himself as he listened to Randall tell Miranda what her new assignment would be.

“Even decrypted, some of Delta's notes are a little hard to figure out,” the sheriff told her. “She seems to have chronicled a few serious crimes and we need to determine if any of her allegations are actionable. I'm putting you and Tim Robertson on working those leads.”

Miranda's tension seemed to ease a bit, though John's own level of annoyance rose considerably at the thought of Miranda working closely with tall, good-looking and clearly smitten Deputy Robertson.

What right do you have to care? You're out of town as soon as Quinn gives you the all clear, aren't you?

“Take the rest of the day off,” Randall told Miranda, slanting a look at John. “Get some rest and be ready to start fresh in the morning.”

John half expected Miranda to protest, but she merely stood and gave the sheriff a businesslike nod of agreement. She headed out of the sheriff's office with a glance at John.

He rose and started to follow, but the sheriff called his name. “A moment, please?”

John glanced back at Miranda, who was standing in the doorway, looking at him. “I'll catch up,” he told her. “Meet you at your place?”

“See you there.” She inclined her head briefly and closed the door behind her.

John sat again in the chair across from the sheriff. “Is something wrong?”

“I'm not sure,” Randall admitted. “First, I guess I need to tell you that I've done a little bit of investigation myself. Of you.”

John managed not to bristle. He couldn't fault the sheriff for wanting to know whether the stranger in town playing bodyguard to one of his deputies was on the up-and-up. “And what did you learn?”

“I know you were working for a man in Tennessee named Alexander Quinn.” At the slight narrowing of John's eyes, Randall smiled. “I may look like a small-town hick sheriff, Mr. Blake, but I assure you I'm not.”

“Don't suppose you tried calling Quinn?” John asked, faintly amused at the thought.

Randall laughed softly. “I did. Not exactly a success.”

“I don't imagine so.”

“But there were other ways to find out some of the things I wanted to know. Tennessee law enforcement, for example. And I had an interesting discussion with the Dudley County sheriff.”

John sat up a little straighter. Dudley County included River's End, Virginia, the tiny mountain town where he'd nearly met his maker at the end of Del McClintock's Remington 700.

“It seems you were known by a different name when you were in that area. John Bartholomew, I believe?”

“I was undercover.”

“Indeed.” Randall leaned forward. “I'll just get to the point. I know there's a dangerous man looking for you. A man named Delbert McClintock. And that McClintock is believed to be somewhere near Altus, Oklahoma, at the moment.”

“So I hear.”

Randall's expression darkened. “Then you need to know what we found on Coy Taylor's cell phone.”

* * *

M
IRANDA
UNLOCKED
THE
front door of her house and entered, realizing for the first time in days she didn't feel as if she had to go in low, weapon drawn, looking for trouble in every corner.

It was nice to feel as if she finally had her house back. Her haven.

And John would be here soon.

The thought should have warmed her, but something she'd seen in John's eyes earlier had left her feeling unsettled. A reminder that as close as they'd become over the past few days, he was still little more than a stranger in Cold Creek. Like so many, he was just passing through.

Unless she could give him a reason to stay.

She slumped on her sofa and leaned forward, pressing her hands to her face. How, exactly, did she plan to give him a reason to stay? Seduction? Sex might hold him in place a day or two longer, but it wasn't enough to keep a man around indefinitely.

She'd tried a couple of times before to hold on to a man who already had one foot out of town, and both relationships had fallen apart sooner rather than later.

Maybe she had to face the idea of leaving Cold Creek and following John wherever he wanted to go.

Could she do that?

Her head said no. But her heart whispered yes.

If John wanted her to go with him, she could do it. Couldn't she?

“If he even wants you,” she muttered.

Frustrated and anxious, she pushed to her feet and stripped off her utility belt, removing all the tools and storing them in the locked drawer in the corner, where she kept them when she was off duty. She left the service pistol in the drawer of the side table next to the sofa and headed into her bedroom to change clothes.

She looked at her undressed body in the mirror on her closet door. Not too bad, she had to admit. She might be a little on the big-boned side, and she'd never have a tiny waist or delicate arms and legs, but she was lean and toned, with curves in the right places. And, okay, there were a few fresh new bruises here and there on top of the fading bruises from her earlier crash, but those would fade.

Besides, John had scars from his own brush with death. She'd felt them beneath her fingertips while they were kissing—

She finished dressing, slipping on her most flattering sweater and her favorite pair of jeans, grinning a little sheepishly at her unaccustomed spurt of vanity. She checked her reflection and noticed with dismay that she'd lost her ponytail holder at some point during her escape from Taylor. As a result, her hair was tangled and wild.

Definitely not seduction material.

She gave her hair a brisk, ruthless brushing, saw it wasn't going to be tamed without washing it and starting over, so she settled for pulling it back into a neat ponytail. She even grabbed a tube of lipstick from the back of her sorely neglected makeup drawer and dabbed a bit of the warm peach tint on her lips. Fortunately, she'd inherited her father's dark eyelashes and could skip mascara.

Taking a deep breath, she looked at her reflection. “You can convince a man to stick around a little Texas town, Miranda Duncan,” she murmured to the woman in the mirror. “Oh, yes, you can.”

Then, laughing at the absurdity of her self-directed pep talk, she walked out of her bedroom and straight into a bearded stranger.

With a gasp, she tried to run down the hall to where she'd left her pistol, but the intruder's hands curled around her arms with cruel strength, jerking her back against his hard body.

A voice rumbled in her ear, deep and thick with a mountain drawl. “Uh-uh, darlin'. You ain't goin' anywhere. You're going to help me find somebody I've spent months lookin' for.”

As cold fear washed over her, she realized her captor's identity.

“You're Del McClintock,” she said, barely keeping her voice steady.

“That I am,” he said with a low laugh. “And you're the woman who's going to bring John Blake to me without a fight.”

* * *

“H
E
'
S
NOT
HERE
.” John and the sheriff had walked a thorough circuit of his rental house twice now, finding no sign that Del McClintock had ever been there. He was on the phone with Alexander Quinn now, relaying the news that Randall had shared with him back at the sheriff's department.

“Maybe he just hasn't arrived yet,” Quinn suggested.

“No way. Taylor's phone call to Altus was hours ago,” John disagreed. “It's a two-hour drive. He'd be here by now.”

“What if Taylor didn't send McClintock to you?” Quinn asked quietly.

The question struck John like a thunderbolt. “Miranda—”

Across the living room, Randall looked up from his phone, his expression instantly worried.

“Is she with you?” Quinn asked.

“No.” John passed a shaking hand over his mouth and chin. “I haven't even told her yet—”

“On it,” Randall murmured, dialing his phone.

“She went home,” John told Quinn. “I was supposed to meet her there, but what the sheriff told me about Taylor's call—”

“Understandable,” Quinn said quickly. “But you need to make sure she's okay. You know the BRI will use people as pawns to get what they want.”

“At least she's armed,” John said.

Except she was at home, finally free of the fear that had come with Coy Taylor's first attack on her. With no reason to think she wasn't alone.

Or that she needed to be armed.

“I've got to go, Quinn. I'll be in touch.” He hung up and looked at Randall, who met his gaze darkly and shook his head.

Damn it.

“I can have backup at Miranda's place in minutes.”

“No,” John said, unlocking the chest where he kept his Ruger. He checked the magazine, chambered a round and grabbed a second magazine in case he needed it. He clipped the holster to his waistband and secured the pistol in place. “We don't want an armed standoff. Get them there, but make them stay back. No lights, no sirens. And we'll take my truck.”