Stranger in Cold Creek (2 page)

She grabbed her radio and hit the bullhorn button. “Pull over,” she commanded, easing off the gas.

The other car slowed with her but didn't pull over.

She pushed the call button and gave Chambers a description of the vehicle. “Don't know what this fellow's up to, but if there's a unit in the area, I could use backup.”

“On its way,” Chambers promised.

Snow was starting to dance across the road surface, collecting on the edges. If the precipitation didn't slow soon, the road would become hazardous.

“Pull over,” she ordered again, but the driver of the Taurus didn't change speed at all.

What the hell was going on? Was this an ambush?

Why would someone ambush a Barstow County deputy?

With shocking suddenness, the Taurus fell back, catching Miranda off guard. She glanced in her side mirror, trying to figure out what he was doing.

The right front of the Taurus was even with the left rear panel of the cruiser. In the split second Miranda had to think, she realized the Taurus was in the perfect position for the classic police chase tactic known as the PIT maneuver.

Just as the thought flashed through her mind, the Taurus bumped the left rear panel of her car, sending the cruiser into a textbook spin.

If the road had been dry, she might have been able to recover from the PIT maneuver. But as the cruiser turned in a wild circle, the wheels hit a patch of accumulating snow and spun off the road, hitting a shallow arroyo that sent her into a roll.

Amid the shriek of crumpling metal and the blaze of fear rising in her chest, her head slammed into the side window and the whirlwind of sound and color faded into dark silence.

* * *

T
HE
SQUEAL
OF
tires and the crunch of ripping metal broke through the whisper of snow falling outside the rental house, rousing John from a light doze.

His nerves rattling, he froze for a moment, his pulse hammering inside his head as he listened for a repeat of the noise.

Had he dreamed it? His house was close to Route 7, the busiest highway in Cold Creek, though so far, he hadn't seen all that much traffic on the road, certainly nothing like the busy street in front of his apartment building back in Abingdon, Virginia.

Still, it was snowing outside, and cars and snow didn't mix that well, especially in an area where there wasn't a lot of snow over the course of an average winter. Maybe he'd heard a car's tires squealing outside and in his half-dream state, imagined the rest?

His shoulder ached as he donned hiking boots and shrugged on his heavy jacket, but he ignored the pain. Pain was good. It was a reminder he'd taken three bullets and lived to tell about it.

He headed out to the porch and peered into the fog of falling snow. About fifty yards down the road, a flash of color caught his eye. Strobing color, like the light bar on the top of a police vehicle.

Except the light wasn't coming from the road. It was coming from several yards off the highway.

Patting the back pocket of his jeans to make sure he still had his phone, he left the porch and headed into the snow shower, keeping his eye on the flashing light. Within a few yards, he could see the light was coming from the light bar on the roof of a Barstow County Sheriff's Department cruiser lying on its side in a patch of scrub grass. The roof was damaged, the front windshield shattered, but the light bar continued to flash.

As he neared the cruiser, movement on the highway caught his attention. A dark-colored sedan crept along the shoulder, as if rubbernecking the accident.

John waved at the slowly passing vehicle. “I need help here!”

The sedan kept going until it disappeared into the fog of snow.

Grimacing, John headed for the cruiser. A loud creak sent John backpedaling quickly. The cruiser started to shift positions until it landed on all four wheels. Two wheels were flat, John saw, and there was significant damage to the chassis. Clearly a rollover.

Once the cruiser settled, he hurried to the driver's door and looked through the open window. The first thing he noticed was blood on the steering wheel. Then hair the color of Georgia clay.

Damn it. Could it be the deputy from the hardware store?

“Deputy Duncan?”

She didn't answer. Looking closer, he realized the window wasn't actually open. Instead, the crash had wiped out the window, showering pebbled bits of glass all over the floorboard, the seats and the injured deputy.

It was definitely Miranda Duncan, though half of her face was obscured by a sticky sheen of blood that seemed to be coming from the vicinity of her hairline. Gusts of wind carried snow flurries into the cruiser's cab to settle on the deputy's bloody face and melt into the crimson flow.

John tried the door. It resisted his attempt to open it, so he let it go and leaned into the cruiser through the window. Swallowing a lump of dread, he touched his fingers to her throat, feeling for a pulse. It was there, fast but even. He started to draw back his hand, reaching for his phone.

With shocking speed, Miranda's left hand whipped up and clamped around his wrist, while her right hand snapped up, wrapped around a Smith & Wesson M&P 40, the barrel pointed between his eyes.

“Don't move an inch,” she growled.

As John sucked in a deep breath, he heard the crack of gunfire. His pulse misfired, and he grabbed the side of the window frame, pebbled glass crunching against his palm.

“Get down!” Miranda shouted as a second shot thumped against the cruiser's back door.

Chapter Two

John Blake disappeared suddenly, leaving Miranda with an unobstructed view out the cruiser window. But she could still see nothing but falling snow—the storm had reached white-out proportions.

Pain throbbed in her head as she squinted in hopes of seeing her hidden assailant, but she couldn't even see the road now. She could hear an engine, however, growling somewhere out there in the white void.

Behind her, the car door opened, and she swung around to find John Blake gazing back at her, his expression urgent. “You're a sitting duck,” he warned, stretching his hand toward her.

Gunfire rang outside, the bullet hitting the front panel of the cruiser with a loud
thwack
, ending her brief hesitation. She unlatched her seat belt and scrambled toward John, taking his outstretched hand.

He pulled her out of the cruiser and pushed her gently toward the front wheel, giving her an extra layer of protection against the shooter. The movement made her feel light-headed and nauseated, and she ended up on her backside, leaning her back against the wheel as she sucked in deep draughts of icy air.

“I can try returning fire,” John suggested. “I'll need your weapon—”

“Wait,” she said, forcing herself to focus. Was it her imagination or was the sound of the car motor moving away?

“I think whoever's out there is leaving.” John had edged closer, near enough that she could feel the heat of his body blocking the icy wind. She leaned toward him, unable to stop herself.

“I think you're right.” Her chattering teeth made it difficult to speak. “I called for backup but I think the radio got smashed in the wreck.”

“You could be hurt worse than you think,” he warned, crouching until his gaze leveled with hers. Up close, his hazel eyes were soft with concern.

“I d-don't think I have any broken limbs,” she stuttered. “B-but I'm freezing.”

“My house is about forty yards in that direction.” He nodded toward his right. “Want to chance a run for it?”

She nodded, realizing she was too warmly dressed to be as cold as she felt, which meant she was probably going into some level of shock. She needed to get warm and dry. “Let's do it.”

He stood first. Trying to draw fire, she realized, so they'd know if the shooter was still out there. She grabbed his hand, trying to draw him back down behind the cruiser, but he shook his head. “I think the shooter's gone.”

He pulled her up, wrapping one arm around her waist to help her wobbling legs hold her upright.

She drew deep on her inner resources. Forty yards. She could run forty yards on a sprained ankle if she had to, and as far as she could tell, her only injury was the pain in her head. “Let's do it.”

The first few steps felt as if she was running through mud, but with John's help, she picked up speed and strength. By the time the small farmhouse loomed up out of the white fog of snow, she was feeling steadier.

John half dragged her up to the porch and inside the door. Instantly, blessed heat washed over her, and she felt her legs wobble dangerously beneath her.

“Whoa, deputy. No face-planting on my nice clean floor.” John wrapped his arms around her and eased her over to the sofa that was positioned in front of a crackling fire. He sat beside her, sliding her gloves from her half-numb fingers. “Sit right here. I'll get my first-aid kit.”

She held her trembling hands out in front of the fire, soaking up the warmth. She heard a cabinet opening and closing, then footsteps as John returned to the front room holding a soft-sided first-aid kit.

“You holding up?” He sat beside her and unzipped the kit.

“No face-planting yet,” she answered with a lopsided grin that made her face hurt. “I need to call the station. I guess my phone's probably somewhere on the cruiser's floorboard.”

“Of course.” He pulled a cell phone from his pocket. “What's the number?”

She gave it to him, and he dialed the number while she looked through the first-aid kit for antiseptic wipes. She found a sealed packet and ripped it open.

“Who should I talk to?” John asked.

“Just talk to the desk sergeant,” she replied, touching the antiseptic pad to the sore spot just above her hairline. It stung, making her wince. “I'm not sure who's on the desk.”

While John gave his address to whoever answered the phone, Miranda went through a handful of antiseptic wipes trying to mop up the blood from her head. It seemed to be bleeding still, though not as heavily as before. Blood stained the front of her jacket and the uniform pants she wore, enough that she no longer wondered why she felt so light-headed.

“The sergeant said backup is already headed this way, but the snow's making it slow going.” John leaned forward, examining her first-aid work. “How's your head feeling?”

“Like it just rammed into a brick wall.”

John's lips curved slightly. “Noted.”

“I don't remember exactly what happened,” she admitted, trying not to let the blank spaces in her memory freak her out. She'd probably sustained a concussion in the accident. The memories might never return. Or, conversely, they'd come seeping back bits at a time.

She wasn't sure it mattered. It clearly hadn't been a simple accident.

Not if someone had started taking potshots at her immediately afterward.

“Do you know why you were out there in a snowstorm?” John asked.

That much she could remember. “We'd gotten a call from someone who said he'd seen a woman on our missing person's list out here on Route 7, hitchhiking. I came out to check on the report, but it didn't pan out. I stopped by to talk to another constituent about a possible theft, then I headed back toward town. That's the last thing I remember before I came to in the car just before you showed up.”

“The sergeant said you'd called for backup a few minutes ago. You reported a vehicle following you too closely for comfort. You seemed to think the other driver was up to something.”

“Did I give a description of the vehicle?” Surely she had.

“He didn't say.”

She could remember nothing about another vehicle, but something had sent her rolling off the highway and she didn't think it was the snowstorm. The visibility wasn't great, but Route 7 was about as straight as a ruler all the way into town.

“You don't remember anything about it, do you?” John asked.

“I don't,” she admitted, reaching for another antiseptic wipe packet.

John covered his hand with hers, stilling her movement.

Heat rolled up her arm from where his fingers touched hers. It settled in her chest like a hot coal, warming her insides.

“Let me grab a washcloth and see if we can get that bleeding stopped for good.” He was back a minute later with a wet washcloth and pulled a chair up in front of her, gazing up at her hairline with a frown between his eyes. “This may hurt.”

Bracing herself, she smelled a hint of soap as the cloth passed her face, then felt the sting as John pressed the hot cloth to her head wound. She sucked in a quick breath.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “At least you've stopped shivering.”

So she had, she realized. She felt steadier also, her vision less off-kilter. The mental fog was starting to lift, as well.

“I don't know if I'd have survived out there without you,” she admitted, the words strangely reluctant to pass her lips. She'd been self-sufficient since she was quite young, the result of losing her mother in childhood. Her father had worked long hours, keeping the hardware business running through good times and bad. She'd learned early how to take care of herself. Accepting help from others wasn't something she'd ever done easily.

But she owed John Blake her life, even if she still had questions about what he might be doing in town. He certainly hadn't been the person firing shots at her from the highway. He'd come perilously close to getting shot himself. She'd been looking right at him when the bullet hit the back door right beside him.

A few minutes later, he withdrew the bloody washcloth from her head.

She tried not to cringe at the thought of help arriving soon. Her practical side told her she needed medical attention, especially given her memory loss. She'd have told any other accident victim to let the paramedics do their job, wouldn't she?

But she sure as hell wasn't going to enjoy her colleagues poking and prodding her as if she was an ordinary civilian involved in an MVA. She was one of them, damn it.

And she wanted to be the one who investigated what had happened.

“They're not going to let you investigate your own case, you know.” The knowing look in his eyes made her feel as if she'd been laid bare, all her secret thoughts on display.

How the hell could he do that? He didn't know her.

She grimaced. “I know that.”

“And while I'm sharing unwanted news with you, you should do whatever the paramedics say you should do.”

“I'm fine.”

“You're not.” He leaned closer. She couldn't stop herself from meeting his gaze. “I spent time in the hospital not long ago. I felt like a specimen under glass. People wandering into my room all hours, poking this and drawing that. Hated every minute of it. So I know how you're feeling.”

She nodded, then regretted the movement as her head spun for a couple of seconds. “They're going to want to bus me to Plainview for observation.”

“Maybe you should let them do that.”

“No.”

“That's a pretty good knock on your head.”

“I probably have a slight concussion. But I'm clearheaded now.”

“Closed head injuries can be unpredictable,” he warned. “You have someone who can watch you? A husband?”

“My dad,” she answered. “He's probably already closed up shop and headed home. I'll get one of the guys to take me there.”

“So, no husband?”

She looked up at him, surprised by the interest in his voice. “No husband.”

His gaze held hers. “I'm not exactly known for my good timing.”

She couldn't stop a smile, though it made her head ache. “Clearly.”

“So we should probably just forget I asked that question.” He looked toward the front door. “Do you hear any sirens?”

“Not yet.”

“Should we?”

Good question. “How long ago did you talk to the station?”

He looked at his watch. “Twenty minutes. He said backup was already on the way, so it might be a little longer than that.”

It took about ten minutes to reach this part of Route 7 under good weather conditions. “The snow's probably slowed them up.”

He gave a quick nod and fell silent, his expression hard to read. She wouldn't say he looked worried, exactly. Watchful, maybe.

Silence unspooled between them as they waited, the silence of forced proximity between strangers. Normally, Miranda preferred silence to pointless chatter, but the events of the afternoon had left her nerves raw.

So when John Blake's cell phone rang, it sent a shock wave rippling up her spine. He gave a slight start and pulled the phone from his pocket. “It's the station,” he murmured. He lifted the phone to his ear. “John Blake.”

He listened a second, then looked at Miranda. “She's right here.” He handed the phone to her.

It was Bill Chambers on the other end. “How're you holding up, Duncan?”

“I'm okay. Head's a little sore, but I'll live.”

“Good to hear, because we have a problem.”

* * *

J
OHN
LEANED
AGAINST
the back of his chair and tried not to eavesdrop, though there was no way to avoid hearing Miranda's end of the call without leaving the room.

She picked up the washcloth he'd laid on the coffee table beside her and pressed it to her head wound while she listened to the caller. “How many injuries?”

Whatever answer she received made her frown.

John stopped trying to pretend he wasn't listening and met her troubled gaze. She was still pale, but her hands had stopped shaking finally and her gray-eyed gaze was clear and sharp as it rose to meet John's.

“I'm fine. The cruiser's not going anywhere, and I'm not alone. Just stay in touch, okay?” She ended the call and handed John the phone. “There's been a pileup on Highway 287. Over a dozen vehicles. Every EMS service in three counties is responding. All the deputies are out on calls, too. I guess you're stuck with me a little longer.”

He nodded, but something in his gut twisted a little at the realization they were alone and more or less stranded out in here in the middle of snowy nowhere for the next while.

He had a pistol packed away in the closet. His Virginia concealed-carry license was honored in Texas—he'd made sure before he headed west to finish his recuperation in relative anonymity. But if he retrieved it now, what would Deputy Duncan think?

“What are you thinking?” she asked, apparently reading his expression.

“That we're sort of isolated out here,” he answered, not seeing the point of hiding his concern. Someone had run the deputy off the road and then taken shots at her.

Would they take a chance and try again?

“You think the person who was shooting at us may come back?” She laid down the washcloth and sat up straighter, her gaze moving toward the front door.

He hurried to the door and turned the dead bolt to the locked position before moving the curtain aside to check the road. The snow had slowed finally, visibility restored to a hundred yards or more, though the highway in front of the house was covered with at least a couple of inches of the white stuff. He could probably drive to town without incident, he thought. Get her to her dad's house, at least.

He looked over his shoulder at her. “The snow has slowed. I think I could drive you back to town.”