The Rivals (6 page)

But from a practical standpoint, it would be easier to get information from the sheriff's office if he was with Libby. And she might know places to look in Jackson that he didn't know.

“All right,” he said. “I'll pick you up after breakfast.”

“I could make breakfast for you here,” Libby said.

Clay pictured Libby with her shoulder-length blond curls in tangles, her eyes sleepily seductive, her rosy nipples barely hidden beneath a thin cotton shift, then said curtly, “I'll meet you at Bubba's at seven.”

Libby nodded.

Clay figured breakfast at the popular restaurant in town was a safe compromise. He wouldn't be tempted because they wouldn't be alone, and they could start their search that much earlier.

He let himself out, closing the door firmly behind him. It was snowing, the flakes big and fluffy and coming straight down, rather than being blown sideways, for a change.

Clay wondered if his daughter had been in an accident. Maybe she was lying injured on the side of the road, and the snow was covering up her body. Or maybe she was tucked up under a blanket in front of a fire with the love of her life, so caught up in passion that she wasn't aware of the worry—and terror—she was stirring in her parents' hearts.

Clay raised his face to the sky and let snowflakes land on his eyelashes, opening his mouth to feel the coldness on his tongue. The snow would make a wonderland of the landscape. But right now, it was more menace than miracle. If it kept up, it was going to make the search for Kate much more difficult.

He got into the SUV he'd rented at the airport and tried not to speed during the twenty-minute drive to Forgotten Valley. He wondered if Drew would still be awake. He needed someone to talk to, someone to make him feel less afraid for his daughter. Someone to tell him he was a fool for having the carnal thoughts he was having about Elsbeth Grayhawk.

Hell, if Drew was asleep, he'd wake him up. Someone with a concussion wasn't supposed to sleep anyway.

Clay had his own key, but the kitchen door wasn't locked. He flipped on the light switch and was surprised to see a man's shirt in the middle of the floor. He left his overcoat on the stand by the door and followed the trail of clothes down the hall to Drew's bedroom, realizing that someone of the female persuasion had obviously come to make sure Drew wasn't suffering alone.

Clay made a face. There was no way he was going to drag his cousin out of bed to talk to him when he was with some woman. What he had to say would have to wait until morning.

But as he passed Drew's door, it opened, and he found himself facing the barrel of a shotgun.

“Whoa, there,” Clay said, instinctively putting his hands up in the classic Western pose.

Drew's blond hair was standing up in spikes, his forehead was bruised and he was stark naked. He squinted at Clay and said, “What the hell are you doing here?”

Clay reached out and moved the barrel of the shotgun away. “You look like something somebody rode hard and put away wet.”

Drew let the barrel of the shotgun fall, opened the door wider and said, “Sexual frustration will do that to you.”

Clay could see through the open door that the bed-covers were mussed, but the bed was otherwise empty. “From the trail of clothes leading in here, I figured some woman was in there easing your pain.”

Drew hung the shotgun back up over the fireplace in his bedroom, then headed straight for the bed and crawled into it. “She had to leave. Duty called.”

“Duty? What kind of female are you bedding these days?”

Drew grinned. “This one's a deputy sheriff.”

Clay put two and two together and said, “Her name wouldn't be Sarah Barndollar by any chance?”

Drew's grin disappeared. He started to frown, then winced and put a hand to his bruised forehead. “How did you know?”

Clay took a breath and said, “Kate's missing. The detective came by to ask some questions and pick up Kate's picture.”

“Missing?” Drew sat up abruptly, then gingerly touched his head.

“How's your head?” Clay said. “You seeing double or anything?”

“It's just a bump,” Drew said irritably. “Tell me about Kate.”

Clay crossed to sit in a cowhide and burled-wood chair near the crackling fire. “Don't know much. She called Libby to say she was coming home, then left the Mangy Moose this afternoon with some stranger, and we haven't heard from her since.”

“Let me get my hands on the sonofabitch, and he'll be sorry he touched a hair on her head,” Drew said.

Clay had been forced to tell Drew that Kate was his daughter because they both vacationed at Forgotten Valley, and he wanted Kate to be able to visit him there. Kate had taken an instant liking to Drew—most females did—and the two of them had become fast friends.

“Why aren't you out looking for her?” Drew said, sliding to the edge of the bed and reaching for his shorts.

“You're not going anywhere until I'm sure you don't have a concussion,” Clay said.

“To hell with that. She could be lying hurt by the side of the road.”

Clay's hands tightened on the arms of the chair. “There's nothing we can do until it gets light. I'm meeting Libby for breakfast at Bubba's. You're welcome to join us.”

“You're damn straight I'm going to join you!” Drew staggered, then sat down. “As soon as this damned headache is gone.”

“Have you taken anything for it?”

“I'm not supposed to take anything,” Drew mumbled as he got back into bed and pulled the covers up over himself.

“Get some sleep,” Clay said.

“I'm not supposed to sleep,” Drew muttered.

Clay slid his tuxedo jacket off, then slumped down into the chair. He didn't think he could sleep himself. But he needed to get some rest if he was going to spend tomorrow hunting for his daughter.

He was almost asleep when he remembered he hadn't called Jocelyn to tell her what he'd found out about Kate's abrupt departure from boarding school. His wife's sister had been a great comfort over the past year since Giselle had died. He and Jocelyn had been dancing at a British Embassy ball when Clay had gotten the call on his cell phone from Libby that Kate was missing. He'd taken Jocelyn's hand and sought out his father to tell him he had to leave.

“There you are, Clay,” his father had said when he saw him. “I've been looking all over for you.”

“It looks to me like you and your partner have been enjoying the music,” Clay said, glancing at the attractive woman dancing with his father.

Clay still had trouble making himself say his stepmother's name. He'd hated her for too many years when she was the wife of his father's mortal enemy, Jesse Creed, to feel comfortable being cordial to her. She shamed him by smiling up at him with genuine affection.

“I'm having a wonderful time, Clay,” Ren replied.

Though she was well into her sixties, Lauren Creed—for the past twelve years Lauren Blackthorne—was still a beautiful woman. His father had loved Ren his whole life, even while he'd been married to Clay's mother Eve. The doomed love triangle had finally destroyed Clay's mother, who'd committed suicide rather than lose her husband in a divorce to
that woman.

Clay had to admit his father was happier living with Ren than he'd ever been during the years he'd been married to Clay's mother. But his father's remarriage hadn't dampened his political ambitions for Clay one iota.

President of the United States.

Clay had lived all his life with the knowledge that his family expected him to reach the highest office in the land. He'd been groomed for it since he was a boy and had always been conscious of needing to lead a blameless life.

With one—notable—exception, he had.

Clay swore under his breath. Just thinking about Libby Grayhawk, her seductive body and her betrayal, made his heart pound. He told himself it was anger that sent the adrenaline rushing through his bloodstream every time she came to mind. Anger was part of it. But there was a great deal more.

“There are some folks here tonight from Texas that I want you to meet,” his father said.

“Can't that wait, Jackson?” Ren said, laying her hand on her husband's heart. “You can see Clay and Jocelyn want to dance.”

“You just want me to finish this dance with you,” his father grumbled.

Ren smiled up at him, and Clay watched his father, a man who crushed his enemies with a mighty hand and without a second thought, melt like butter in the hot Texas sun.

“All right, Ren,” his father replied, his eyes soft as they looked down at his wife. “We'll finish this dance.” He turned flinty gray eyes on Clay and said, “No lollygagging, son. When this dance is done, I expect you to join me.”

Clay answered evenly, “I have to leave, Dad.”

“You can stay long enough to meet a few of the gentlemen here from Texas,” his father replied.

“No, I can't.”

His father had looked at him with sharp gray eyes and said, “Business?”

Clay's reasons were his own, and he didn't choose to share them. “I have to leave,” he repeated. “Can you take Jocelyn home for me?”

“Of course,” Ren said. “We'll be glad to.”

He'd walked Jocelyn a few steps away to say his good-byes to her. Jocelyn was a politician's daughter, used to interruptions at social engagements due to more important business, but he apologized anyway. “I'm sorry,” he'd said. “This is important. I want to be there if Kate needs me.”

“No need to apologize,
mon cher
.”

Despite the fact her father's family were Connecticut blue bloods, Jocelyn had spent enough time in Paris while her father was ambassador to France that her voice had a charming French lilt and her speech was unselfconsciously peppered with French expressions.

“I was looking forward to holding you in my arms tonight while we danced,” he said with a regretful smile.

Her cheeks pinkened, and he was reminded how young she was, only twenty-four. She looked up at him from beneath lowered lashes and he could see the desire in her lavender eyes. Clay's eyes locked on her slightly parted lips, imagining what it might be like to kiss her, wondering what she would taste like. He'd actually lowered his head toward hers when he was shoved from behind by a dancing couple.

Whatever spell she'd cast was broken.

Clay realized suddenly where he was. And how many photographers there were in the room. The future president of the United States couldn't afford to have his picture splashed across the tabloids kissing his late wife's sister. At least, not before she was his wife.

“I have to go,” he said in a voice guttural with sudden desire. It was surprisingly hard to walk away from her.

Clay was nearly to the door when someone stepped in front of him. “Damn it all to hell,” he muttered.

“Your jet is being fueled at Dulles,” Clay's chief of staff said. Dressed in a tux, Morgan DeWitt looked as influential as he was in real life. As Clay's right-hand man, he vetted anyone who wanted to see Clay in his office, and made sure Clay only had to deal with those issues that deserved his personal attention. “Are you sure you don't want me to go with you?” Morgan asked.

“This is a trip I have to make on my own,” Clay replied. “I trust you to take care of things for me while I'm gone.”

“Where are you going to be?” Morgan asked.

“Wherever the hunt for my daughter takes me.”

Within minutes he'd been in the air on his way to Jackson. He'd expected Kate to be home, but he'd wanted to be there to help solve whatever problem had sent her running from school. But she hadn't been home. And it seemed the situation was far more dire than he'd imagined.

Clay sighed and shoved a hand through his hair. He ought to call Jocelyn. She would be anxious to know what he'd found out. He knew she was in love with him, though neither of them had ever discussed it. But he wasn't sure yet what he wanted to do about it. He'd never even kissed her, except on the cheek.

He'd told himself he wasn't ready yet to make another commitment to any woman. And since it would be a couple of years before he made his bid for governor of Texas, let alone the presidency, he could afford to stay single a while longer.

He saw Jocelyn's perfect, heart-shaped face in his mind's eye, her stunning violet eyes teary, her lower lip bitten raw with worry. He glanced at his watch. Hell. It was two hours later on the East Coast, too late to call and apologize for not phoning sooner. Likely she was sound asleep. He'd have to remember to call her in the morning.

Kate reached for a blanket to cover herself because she was cold—and realized the thermal covering wouldn't pull up any higher over her shoulder. Oh. It was a sleeping bag. Where was she?

She saw what looked like a domed tent above her. White canvas walls framed by some sort of wooden lattice surrounded her, and she was lying on a wooden floor. She'd never seen a structure like this. It was a sort of tent, but not like any tent she'd ever been in.

Her mouth felt full of cotton and she was painfully thirsty. “Dear Lord,” she groaned. “How much did I have to drink last night?”

She sat up slowly and reached for her head to keep the room from spinning. She stared in shock at her hands, which had both come up together. She was handcuffed!

“Are you okay?” a voice asked in Spanish.

Kate started and stared at the girl sitting on the foot of the sleeping bag she was wrapped in. She'd taken Spanish all through school, so she understood the question. But she had no idea why someone who spoke Spanish was here with her. Or why she was here, for that matter.

And speaking of
here,
where the hell was she?

She squinted up into long-lashed, wide-spaced dark eyes, in a very young, very beautiful face and asked the girl in Spanish, “Where are we?”

“I don't know,” came the response.

Kate winced at the streams of sunlight coming in through the slatted boards that covered the single window. Was it morning or evening? The last thing she could remember was being laid in the backseat of that stranger's pickup.

She'd been kidnapped. And brought to this…place.

Kate looked around. The circular white canvas tent was maybe twelve feet in diameter. The bottom four feet of the walls were framed by a wooden, diamond-shaped lattice, while the domed ceiling was held up by what looked like teepee poles attached at the top of the lattice. A hole in the ceiling vented smoke from an old-fashioned woodstove. There was one plastic-covered window, but it was boarded up with wooden slats.

It was only a tent. But it was a prison, all the same.

She curled her legs closer and wrapped her arms around them when she noticed the raised wooden floor had spaces between the lumber and missing knotholes where crawly things could come inside. She shuddered at the sight of the spiderwebs in the lattice.

Kate considered herself a dauntless, courageous person, but she hated bugs. Wouldn't squash one for all the money in the World Bank. Screamed like a banshee and jumped like a frog whenever she felt something crawling on her. She knew it was silly to be scared of something she could kill with a swat of her hand. But she'd been bitten by a black widow when she was nine and gotten deathly ill. And been terrified of bugs ever since.

She wanted out of here. Now.

Kate staggered upright to look between the slats of wood covering the window, then dropped back down and scooted back under the thermal covering. It kept her surprisingly warm, even though the air was cold enough for her to see her breath.

“It must have snowed,” she murmured. The olive-colored pines—which seemed to lose their forest green color in the winter, Kate thought—were shot with a layer of snow. Snow didn't stay on the trees long before the wind blew it off or the sun melted it. “How long have I been here?” she asked the girl in Spanish.

“Since last night,” the girl answered.

“How long have you been here?” Kate asked.

The girl held up three fingers and said something that Kate couldn't quite believe.

“Three days?” Kate asked.

“Three months,” the girl repeated.

“Three months!”
Kate exclaimed. She looked around the empty structure. No table or chairs, no bed, no bathroom that she could see, just a metal pail in the corner. Nothing but these canvas-covered wooden lattice walls and the old-fashioned woodstove in the center of the room, which wasn't burning at the moment.

No wonder it was so damned cold.

Which was when Kate realized her coat was missing. And her snow boots. She was dressed only in a sweatshirt and jeans and white socks. A look at the other girl showed she was dressed no more warmly, with black corduroy trousers and a red pullover sweater with a sequined Christmas design and black socks.

Both of them were handcuffed.

Kate shivered as she left the warm sleeping bag, but made her way to the wooden door and tried to open it. She wasn't really surprised when it wouldn't budge. “Probably barred from the outside.”

“Que?”
the other girl asked.

Kate repeated what she'd said in Spanish.

The girl nodded and said, “A man comes once a week to bring food and water and wood for the fire. He left food and water when he brought you.” She pointed to an old trunk near the woodstove. “But he forgot to bring more wood.”

“You mean we're going to be here for a week without heat?” Kate said. “We'll freeze to death!”

The girl shook her head. “He said he will be back tonight for me—and bring some wood for the stove.”

“Where is he taking you? Why are you here? How did you get here?” Kate asked without waiting for the girl to answer. “Why is he taking you somewhere and not me?”

The girl put up her hands to slow Kate down. “I was kidnapped from the hotel where I work,” she said. “I don't know why. The man who comes here wouldn't tell me. And he hasn't told me where he's taking me.”

The girl looked at Kate and said, “I'm scared. I don't think my mother and father went to the police when I disappeared. It is likely no one even knows I'm gone.”

“Why not?” Kate asked.

“I'm…” The girl searched for a word and finally said, “Illegal. No green card. My father came here from Mexico in the spring to work in the kitchen of a grand hotel. In the fall he sent for my mother and me and my three younger brothers to work in the hotel cleaning rooms. He had found a small place for us in Driggs, just over the Teton Pass in Idaho. We were happy to be together again.”

“I see,” Kate said. If they were all illegal aliens, the girl's parents wouldn't want to say anything to the police for fear of discovery and deportation. “Well, that certainly isn't the case with me. My mother will roust every cop from one coast to the other to look for me. She'll probably even call my father.”

Kate wondered for a moment if her father would come. And whether he would risk his relationship to her becoming public. Probably not. But he could still pull a lot of strings from the background.

“We're going to be found,” Kate said. “Don't you worry about that.” Kate realized she still didn't know the girl's name. “I'm Kate Grayhawk,” she said. “What's your name?”

“Lourdes Ramirez,” the girl replied.

“Pleased to meet you, Lourdes,” Kate said, reaching out her cuffed hands to the other girl. “Like I said, my mother will have the cops searching high and low for me by now.” But as she stared out through the slits in the window at the thick pine forest that surrounded the white tent, which sat atop the even whiter snow, she realized a helicopter might not be able to see them from the air. And if Lourdes had been here three months and no one had found her, this place was far from ski or snowshoe or snowmobile trails.

“Considering how long you've been here without being found,” Kate said, “and the fact someone's coming back later to take you away somewhere, I think we'd better figure out a way to get ourselves out of here.”

It was a long day for Kate.

It rapidly became apparent that the lattice framework inside the tent and the wooden floor were there to stay. They had nothing to dig out with, even if the ground under the wooden floor hadn't been frozen solid.

Wyoming was still a savage land, with predators that included gray wolves, mountain lions and the odd irritable moose. Even if they managed to avoid getting eaten, they would very likely freeze to death without shoes and coats long before they found any signs of civilization.

Kate greedily drank the water Lourdes offered her, until the girl stopped her, telling her she would need to conserve, that the water had to last them a week. Kate looked at the packaged food and realized there was barely enough to keep them from starving. Moreover, there was only one large sleeping bag for the two girls to share.

Which they did. Huddling together under the thermal covering, Kate found out everything there was to know about Lourdes and her family—and about the behavior of the handsome man who'd apparently kidnapped them both in essentially the same way. Which was when she realized that both she and Lourdes had seen his face. Kate didn't allow herself to consider what that might mean.

“So he's never touched you…physically?” Kate asked.

Lourdes shook her head. “He has always been very polite.”

It was almost more frightening that whoever had kidnapped them hadn't made any sexual overtures. He'd kept Lourdes fed, kept her warm, kept her healthy. What did he want with her? Where was he taking her tonight?

Kate had the awful feeling that something bad was going to happen to Lourdes. That she was here as a replacement for the other girl. And that, eventually, whatever bad thing that was going to happen to Lourdes would happen to her, too.

“Was there anyone here when you got here?” Kate asked.

Lourdes shook her head. “But there were girls here before me.”

“How do you know?” Kate asked.

Lourdes rose from her perch at the foot of the sleeping bag, reached for Kate's hand, and led her across the width of the circular space. She pushed aside the trunk that held wood for the stove and pointed at the wooden floor. “See here? Two names have been carved here, where they wouldn't be seen.”

Kate saw the names etched in the wood beneath the trunk and felt a chill run down her spine. “Oh, no. No. No. No.”

“What is it?” Lourdes asked, looking as frightened as Kate felt.

“One of those girls was found dead,” Kate said. “And another one is missing.”

“Dios mio,”
Lourdes whispered.

Kate's mother had given her a subscription to the
Jackson Hole News and Guide
to keep her in touch with what was happening at home. Kate had seen the coverage of the two missing girls.

She felt a chill as she realized that one of the girls who'd carved her name on the wooden floor beneath the trunk had been found shot in the head and buried in a shallow grave. Now it seemed the other missing girl had been brought here. As had Lourdes. And herself.

Kate simply hadn't connected the disappearance of the other girls to her own situation. Until now.

“We have to get away from here,” Kate said. “We have a better chance of surviving barefoot and—”

Lourdes started to cry. Kate slid her cuffed hands over Lourdes's head, so her arms surrounded the other girl, and pulled her close, fighting the knot in her own throat. “Crying isn't going to get us out of here,” she said, staring at the beams of redeeming sunlight streaming through the slatted window. “We have to think!”