Читать книгу Wanted Woman - B.J. Daniels, B.J. Daniels - Страница 10

Outside Timber Falls, Oregon

Jesse Tanner had been restless for days. He stood on his deck, looking down the steep timbered mountain into the darkness, wishing for sleep. It had been raining earlier. Wisps of clouds scooted by on a light breeze.

He sniffed the cedar-scented air as if he could smell trouble, sense danger, find something to explain the restlessness that haunted his nights and gave him no peace.

But whatever was bothering him it remained as illusive as slumber.

A sound drew him from his thoughts. A recognizable throaty rumble. He looked toward the break in the trees below him on the steep mountain to the strip of pavement that was only visible in daylight. Or for those few moments when headlights could be seen at night on the isolated stretch of highway below him.

The single light came out of the trees headed in the direction of Timber Falls. A biker, moving fast, the throb of the big cycle echoing up to him.

Jesse watched the motorcycle glide like warm butter over the wet, dark pavement and wished that he was on it, headed wherever, destination unknown.

But that was the old Jesse Tanner. This Jesse was through wandering. Through with the open road. This Jesse had settled down.

Not that he still couldn’t envy the biker below him on the highway. Or remember that heady feeling of speed and darkness and freedom. There was nothing like it late at night when he had the road to himself. Just an endless ribbon of black pavement stretched in front of him and infinite possibilities just over the next rise.

He started to turn away but a set of headlights flickered in the trees as a car came roaring out of a side road across the highway below him. He watched, frozen in horror as the car tore out of Maple Creek Road and onto to the highway—directly into the path of the motorcycle.

He caught a flash of bright red in the headlamp of the bike and saw the car, a convertible, the top down and the dark hair of the woman behind the wheel blowing back in that instant before the bike collided with the side of the car, clipping it. The bike and rider went down.

Jesse gripped the railing as the bike slid on its side down the pavement, sparks flying as the car sped away into the darkness and trees, headed toward Timber Falls, five miles away.

He was already running for his old pickup he kept for getting firewood. Other than that, all he had was his Harley. Taking off down his jeep trail of a road in the truck, he dropped down the face of the mountain, fearing what he’d find when he reached the pavement.

At the highway, he turned north. It was darker down here with the forest towering on each side of the two-lane. In the slit of sky overhead, clouds scudded past, giving only brief glimpses of stars and a silver sliver of moon.

He hadn’t gone far when he spotted the fallen bike in his headlights. It lay on its side in the ditch, the single headlamp casting a stationary beam of gold across the wet highway. Where was the biker?

Driving slowly up the road, he scanned the path with his headlights looking for the downed rider, bracing himself for what he’d find.

A dozen yards back up the highway from the bike, something gleamed in his headlights. The shiny top of a bike helmet. The biker lay on his side at the edge of the road, unmoving.

Jesse swore and stopped, turning on his emergency flashers to block any traffic that might come along. He didn’t expect any given the time of the night—or the season. Early spring—the rainy season in this part of the country. People with any sense stayed clear of the Pacific side of the Cascades where, at this time of year, two hundred inches of rain fell pretty much steadily for seven months. The ones who lived here just tried not to go crazy during the rainy season. Some didn’t succeed.

Following the beams of his headlights, he jumped out of the pickup and ran across the wet pavement toward the biker, unconsciously calculating the odds that the guy was still alive, already debating whether to get him into the back of the truck and run him to the hospital or not move him and go for help.

As he neared, he heard a soft moan and saw movement as the biker came around. Jesse figured he was witnessing a miracle given how fast the motorcycle had been traveling.

“Take it easy,” he said as the figure in all black leathers coughed as if gasping for breath and tried to sit up. The biker was small, slim and a damned lucky dude.

As Jesse knelt down beside him in the glow of the pickup’s headlights, he saw with shock that he’d been wrong and let out an oath as a hand with recently manicured nails pulled off the helmet. A full head of long dark curly hair tumbled out and a distinctly female voice said, “I’m okay.”

“Holy…” he said rocking back on his heels. This was one damned lucky…chick.

She had her head down as if a little groggy.

He watched her test each leg, then each arm. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?” He couldn’t believe everything was working right. “Nothing’s broken?”

She shook her head, still bent over as if trying to catch her breath.

He waited, amazed as he took in the leather-clad body. Amazed by the bod and the bike. She was wheeling a forty-thousand-dollar ride that most men couldn’t handle. A hell of a bike for a girl. It was too heavy for anyone but an expert rider. No wonder she’d been able to dump the bike and not get hurt.

She tried to get up again.

“Give it another minute. No hurry,” he said, looking from her, back up the highway to her bike. This gal had nine lives, a whole lot of luck and she knew how to ride that fancy bike. He wasn’t sure what impressed him more.

“I’m all right.” Her voice surprised him. It was all female, cultured and educated-sounding and in stark contrast to her getup and her chosen mode of transportation.

But the real shocker was when she lifted her head, flipping back her hair, and he saw her face.

All the air went out of him as if she’d sucker punched him. “Sweet Mother—” he muttered, rearing back again. She was breathtaking. Her skin was the color of warm honey sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar freckles across high cheekbones. And her eyes…They were wide and the color of cedar, warm and rich. She was exquisite. A natural beauty.

And there was something almost familiar about her…

She tried to get to her feet, bringing him out of his dumbfounded inertia.

“Here, let me help you,” he said and reached under her armpits to lift her to her feet. She was amazingly light and small next to him.

She accepted his help with grace and gratitude even though it was clear she liked doing things for herself.

She took a step. “Ouch,” she said under her breath and swayed a little on her feet.

“What is it?”

“My left ankle. It’s just sprained.”

Maybe. Maybe not. “I’ll take you to the hospital emergency room to see a doctor.”

She shook her head. “Just get me to my bike.”

“It’s not rideable.” He’d seen enough twisted metal on it even in passing to know that. “I’ll load it into my pickup. There’s not a bike shop for a hundred miles but I’ve worked on a few of my own. I might be able to fix it.”

She looked up at him then as if seeing him for the first time. Her eyes narrowed as she took in the boots, jeans, bike rally T-shirt and his long dark ponytail. Her gaze settled on the single gold ring in his earlobe. “You live around here?”

“Right up that mountain,” he said, pointing to the light he’d left on. It glowed faintly high up the mountainside.

She studied it. Then him.

It was three in the morning but he had to ask. “Is anyone expecting you up the road, anyone who’ll be worried about you? Because I don’t have a phone yet.”

She didn’t seem to hear him. “You have ice for my ankle at your place?”

He nodded.

“Good. That’s all I need.”

“I have a clean bed you’re welcome to for what’s left of the night,” he offered.

She flashed him an in-your-dreams look.

He smiled and shook his head. “All I’m offering is a bed. Maybe something to eat or drink. Some ice. Nothing more.”

She cocked her head at him, looking more curious than anything else. He wondered what she saw. Whatever it was, he must have looked harmless enough before she started to limp toward her bike. “I need my saddlebag.”

“I’ll get it,” he said catching up to her and offering a hand. “No reason to walk on that ankle any more than you have to.” She quirked an eyebrow at him but said nothing as she slipped one arm around his shoulder and let him take her weight as she hobbled to the pickup.

As he opened the passenger-side door and slid her into his old truck, he felt way too damned chivalrous. Also a little embarrassed by his old truck.

She glanced around the cab, then settled back into the seat and closed her eyes. He slammed the door and went to load her bike.

He’d only seen a couple of these bikes. Too expensive for most riders. It definitely made him wonder about the woman in his pickup. The bike didn’t look like it was hurt bad. He figured he should be able to fix it. He liked the idea of working on it. The bike intrigued him almost as much as the woman who’d been riding it.

He rolled the bike up the plank he kept in the back of his pickup, retrieved her saddlebag and, slamming the tailgate, went around to climb into the cab of the truck beside her. He set the heavy, bulging saddlebag on the seat beside them.

She cracked an eyelid to see that the bag was there, then closed her eyes again.

“The name’s Jesse. Jesse Tanner.”

She didn’t move, didn’t open her eyes. “Maggie,” she said but offered no more.

He started the engine, shifted into first gear and headed back up the mountain to his new place. The road was steep and rough, but he liked being a little inaccessible. He saw her grimace a couple of times as he took the bumps, but she didn’t open her eyes until he parked in front of the cabin.

She looked up at the structure on the hillside, only the living-room light glowing in the darkness.

“This is where you live?” she said and, opening her door, got out, slipping the saddlebag over her shoulder protectively.

Something in her tone made him wonder if she meant the cabin or the isolated location. The only visitors he’d had so far were his younger brother, Mitch, and his dad. He figured if he wanted to be social, he knew the way to town and it was only five miles. Not nearly far enough some days.

He looked at the cabin, trying to see it through her eyes. It was tall and narrow, a crude place, built of logs and recycled cedar but he was proud of it since he’d designed and built it over the winter with the help of his dad and brother. It had gone up fast.

Three stories, the first the living room and kitchen, the second a bedroom and bath with a screened in deck where he planned to sleep come summer, the third his studio, a floor flanked with windows, the view incredible.

Unfortunately, it was pretty much a shell. He hadn’t furnished the inside yet. Hadn’t had time. So all he had was the minimal furniture he’d picked up.

Lately, he’d been busy getting some paintings ready for an exhibit in June, his first, and— He started to tell her all of that, but stopped himself. It wasn’t like she would be here more than a few hours and then she’d be gone. She didn’t want his life history, he could see that from her expression.

He’d been there himself. No roots. No desire to grow any. Especially no desire to be weighed down even with someone’s life story.

She was standing beside the pickup staring up at his cabin as he climbed out of the truck.

“It’s still under construction,” he said irritated with himself for wanting her to like it. But hell, she was the first woman he’d had up here since it was built.

“It’s perfect,” she said. “Neoclassical, right?”

He smiled, surprised at her knowledge of architecture. But then again, she was riding a forty-thousand-dollar bike and had another couple grand in leather on her back, spoke like she’d been to finishing school and carried herself as if she knew her way around the streets. All of that came from either education, money or experience. In her case, he wondered if it wasn’t all three.

She caught him admiring the way her leathers fit her.

“Let’s get you inside,” he said quickly. “You hungry?”

She shook her head and grabbed the railing, limping up the steps to the first floor, making it clear she didn’t need his help.

“You sure you don’t want to see a doctor? I could run you into town—”

“No.” Her tone didn’t leave any doubt.

“Okay.” He’d had to try.

They’d reached the front door. She seemed surprised it wasn’t locked. “I haven’t much to steal and most thieves are too lazy to make the trek up here.” He swung the door open and she stepped inside, her gaze going at once to his paintings he’d done of his years in Mexico.

He had a half dozen leaning against the bare living-room wall waiting to go to the framer for the exhibit. She limped over to them, staring at one and then another.

“How about coffee?” he offered, uncomfortable with the way she continued to study his work as if she were seeing something in the paintings he didn’t want exposed.

He couldn’t decide if she liked them or not. He wasn’t about to ask. He had a feeling she might tell him.

While she’d been studying the paintings he’d been studying her. As she shrugged out of her jacket, he saw that she wore a short-sleeved white T-shirt that molded her breasts and the muscles of her back. She was in good shape and her body was just as exquisite as he’d thought it would be beneath the leather.

But what stole his attention was the hole he’d seen in the jacket just below her left shoulder—and the corresponding fresh wound on her left biceps. He’d seen enough gunshot wounds in his day to recognize one even without the telltale hole in the leather jacket.

The bullet had grazed her flesh and would leave a scar. It wasn’t her first scar though. There was another one on her right forearm, an older one that had required stitches.

Who the hell was this woman and what was it about her?

“These are all yours,” she said, studying the paintings again. It was a statement of fact as if there was no doubt in her mind that he’d painted them.

“I have tea if you don’t like coffee.”

“Do you have anything stronger?” she asked without turning around.

He lifted a brow behind her back and went to the cupboard. “I have some whiskey.” He turned to find her glancing around the cabin. Her gaze had settled on an old rocker he’d picked up at a flea market in Portland.

“That chair is pretty comfortable if you’d like to sit down,” he said, as he watched her run her fingers over the oak arm of the antique rocker.

She looked at him as she turned and lowered herself into the rocker, obviously trying hard not to let him see that her ankle was hurting her if not the rest of her body. Maybe nothing was broken but she’d been beat up. Wait until tomorrow. She was going to be hurtin’ for certain.

He handed her half a glass of whiskey. He poured himself a tall glass of lemonade. The whiskey had been a housewarming gift from a well-meaning friend in town. He’d given up alcohol when he’d decided it was time to settle down. He’d seen what alcohol had done for his old man and he’d never needed the stuff, especially now that he was painting again.

He watched Maggie over the rim of his glass as he took a drink. He’d made the lemonade from real lemons. It wasn’t half-bad. Could use a little more sugar though.

She sniffed the whiskey, then drained the glass and grimaced, nose wrinkling, as if she’d just downed paint thinner. Then she pushed herself to her feet, limped over to him and handed him the glass. “Thank you.”

“Feeling better?” he asked, worried about her and not just because of her bike wreck.

“Fine.”

He nodded, doubting it. He wanted to ask her how she’d gotten the bullet wound, what she’d been doing on the highway below his place at three in the morning, where she was headed and what kind of trouble she was in. But he knew better. He’d been there and he wasn’t that far from that life that he didn’t know how she would react to even well-meaning questions.

“I promised you ice,” he said and finished his lemonade, then put their glasses in the sink and filled a plastic bag with ice cubes for her ankle. “And a place to lie down while I take a look at your bike.” He met her gaze. She still wasn’t sure about him.

He realized just how badly he wanted her to trust him as he gazed into those brown eyes. Like her face, there was something startlingly familiar about them.

She took the bag of ice cubes and he led her up the stairs, stopping at his bedroom door.

“You can have this room. The sheets are clean.” He hadn’t slept on them since he’d changed them.

“No, that one’s yours,” she said and turned toward the open doorway to the screened-in deck. There was an old futon out there and a pine dresser he planned to refinish when he had time. “I’ll sleep in here.”

He started to argue, but without turning on the light, she took the bag of ice and limped over to the screened windows, her back to him as she looked out into the darkness beyond.

Fetching a towel from the bathroom, he returned to find her still standing at the window. She didn’t turn when he put the towel on the futon, just said, “Thank you.”

“De nada.” He was struck with the thought that if he had been able to sleep he would never have seen her accident, would never have met her. For some reason that seemed important as if cosmically it had all been planned. He was starting to think like his future sister-in-law Charity and her crazy aunt Florie, the self-proclaimed psychic.

He really needed to get some decent sleep, he concluded wryly, if he was going to start thinking crap like that. “There are sheets and blankets in the dresser and more towels in the bathroom.” He would have gladly made a bed for her but he knew instinctively that she needed to be alone.

“About my bike—”

“I think I can fix it,” he said. “Otherwise, I can give you and the bike a lift into Eugene.”

She turned then to frown at him. “You’d do that?”

He nodded. “I used to travel a lot on my bike and people helped me. Payback. I need the karma.” He smiled.

Her expression softened with her smile. She really was exquisite. For some reason, he thought of Desiree Dennison, the woman he’d seen driving the red sports car that had hit Maggie. “I can also take you in to see the sheriff in the morning. I know him pretty well.”

“Why would I want to see him?” she asked, frowning and looking leery again.

“You’ll want to press charges against the driver of the car that hit you.”

She said nothing, but he saw the answer in her eyes. No chance in hell was she sticking around to press charges against anyone.

“Just give a holler if you need anything,” he said.

Her gaze softened again and for an instant he thought he glimpsed vulnerability. The instant passed. “Thank you again for everything.”

My pleasure. He left the bathroom door open and a light on so she could find it if she needed it, then went downstairs, smiling as he recalled the face she’d made after chugging the whiskey. Who the hell was she? Ruefully, he realized the chances were good that he would never know.

MAGGIE HURT ALL OVER. She put the ice down on the futon and limped closer to the screened window. The night air was damp and cool, but not cold.

She stared out, still shaken by what had happened on the dock, what she’d learned, what she’d witnessed. She’d gotten Norman killed because she’d called Detective Rupert Blackmore.

Below, a door opened and closed. She watched Jesse Tanner cross the mountainside to a garage, open the door and turn on the light. An older classic Harley was parked inside, the garage neat and clean.

She watched from the darkness as he went to the truck, dropped the tailgate, pulled out the plank, then climbed up and carefully rolled her bike down and over to the garage.

For a long moment he stood back as if admiring the cycle, then slowly he approached it. She caught her breath as he ran his big hands over it, gentle hands, caressing the bike the way a man caressed a woman he cherished.

She moved away from the window, letting the night air slow her throbbing pulse and cool the heat that burned across her bare skin. She told herself it was the effects of the whiskey not the man below her window as she tried to close her mind to the feelings he evoked in her. How could she feel desire when her life was in danger?

She’d been running on adrenalin for almost thirty-six hours now, too keyed up to sleep or eat. Her stomach growled but she knew she needed rest more than food at this point. She could hear the soft clink of tools in the garage, almost feel the warm glow of the light drifting up to her.

She took a couple of blankets from the chest of drawers. Wrapping the towel he’d left her around the bag of ice, she curled up on the futon bed, put the ice on her ankle and pulled the blankets up over her.

The bed smelled of the forest and the night and possibly the man who lived here. She breathed it in finding a strange kind of comfort in the smell of him and the sound of him below her.

She closed her eyes tighter, just planning to rest until he was through with her bike, knowing she would never be able to sleep. Not when she was this close to Timber Falls. This close to learning the truth. Just a few more miles. A few more hours.

Tonight on the highway when the car had pulled out in front of her, she’d thought at first it was Detective Rupert Blackmore trying to kill her again.

But then she’d caught a glimpse of the female driver in that instant before she’d hit the bright red sports car.

She’d seen the young woman’s startled face in the bike’s headlight, seen the long dark hair and wide eyes, and as Maggie had laid the bike on its side, she’d heard the car speed off into the night all the time knowing that the cop would have never left. He would have finished her off.

She’d feared that Norman’s body had washed up by now. And it was only a matter of time before Blackmore realized her body wouldn’t be washing up because she hadn’t drowned.

How soon would he figure out where she’d gone and what she was up to and come here to stop her?

But what was it he didn’t want her finding out? That she was kidnapped? Or was there something more, something he feared even worse that she would uncover?

Right now, all she knew was that people were dying because of her. Because her parents had wanted a baby so desperately that they’d bought one, not knowing that she’d been kidnapped from a family in Timber Falls, Oregon.

Her ankle ached. She tried not to think. Detective Rupert Blackmore was bound to follow her to Timber Falls. Unless he was already in town waiting for her.

Sleep came like a dark black cloak that enveloped her. She didn’t see the fog or Norman lying dead at her feet or the cop on the pier with the gun coming after her. And for a while, she felt safe.