Читать книгу Deep In The Heart Of Texas - Linda Warren, Linda Warren - Страница 11

SILENCE SURROUNDED THEM as they waited for darkness to fall. He knew she wanted to talk. He could feel it, but she was holding everything inside. Her tortured expression told its own story, and he wanted to help her. That shook him. Most of his life he’d helped people, put his life on the line more times than he could remember, but all that had died one fatal day five years ago. Or so he’d thought. Another inborn trait he probably wasn’t going to outrun. Or maybe it was just her. Something about her was getting to him.

Bandit lay between them. He made a mournful sound, more like a moan than a whine.

The hermit rubbed his head. “I know, boy,” he muttered.

“Go ahead,” he finally said.

She turned her head, a quizzical expression on her face. “What?”

“Talk. If you don’t, you’re going to explode.”

What a difference a day made, she thought. Yesterday he didn’t want to hear anything she had to say. Today he wanted to listen, and she wanted to tell him—everything. Every hurt, pain and bizarre event of her life.

She shrugged. “I’m in shock. I don’t know what to think. Someone in my family hired Spikes to do this to me. Who? I keep asking myself. And why?”

“Tell me about your family,” he invited, and he felt as if he was back at his old job, gathering information, clues, anything to find an answer.

She drew her knees up to her chin. “I have one brother, Tom. There’s fourteen years between us, so naturally we didn’t grow up very close, but we’ve always liked each other and gotten along well. I like his wife, Doreen, and I’m not aware of any hostility between us. I can’t say that about Doreen and Helen—that’s Tom’s mom and my dad’s first wife. Helen’s a very domineering mother, and she tries to control their lives. Doreen even went so far as to send their two children to boarding school to get them out of Helen’s clutches. But that has nothing to do with me.”

“How does Helen feel about you?” he asked.

She shrugged again. “She says Dad spoils me and lets me have my way, but then, everyone in my family says that. It doesn’t mean anything, does it?”

“I don’t know. Is she in need of money?”

“I don’t think so. My dad left her very well off, and she runs a profitable antique shop, but she’s always been extremely jealous of my dad’s wives. Five is the latest count. He went to Vegas last summer with some cronies of his and came back with number five, Brandi. She was a Las Vegas showgirl, blond, sexy—and just two years older than me. It was a shock to everyone, especially my mother, Alicia. She almost had a nervous breakdown and had to be hospitalized for two weeks to adjust to the news. You see, since my mom, there hadn’t been any new wives, and she’s had this on-and-off-again relationship with my dad since their divorce. So Brandi was a big shock.”

“Do you get along with Brandi?”

“Brandi only gets along with men, and no, we are not fond of each other. But that’s typical, don’t you think?”

“Maybe.”

“I wish I could talk to Jane. She’d know what’s going on.”

“Jane?”

“She’s the housekeeper’s daughter. She’s six months older than me and we grew up together. We’ve always been very good friends, even after my mom took me away.” Miranda rested her chin on her knees, her eyes distant. “My mom is Alicia Adams, former model. You’ve probably heard of her.”

She turned her head to look at him, wanting to see if he had the same reaction all men had when she mentioned her mother, sort of a leering smirk, but she saw only vague recognition.

Alicia Adams. He recalled the name and remembered seeing her on TV or somewhere. She was very beautiful, of that he was certain. He now knew where Miranda got her stunning looks.

When he didn’t say anything, she continued, “My dad met her when she was nineteen, married her when she was twenty, and I was born that same year. Two months after my birth, she went back to modeling. She and my dad fought about it all the time, but her career was important to her, and she wasn’t going to give it up. After five years Dad gave her an ultimatum—marriage or modeling. She chose modeling, leaving me at the ranch with a nanny. Dad wouldn’t have it any other way. So I grew up with an occasional mother, but I was happy. Then one weekend Ali came home and found Jane and me playing baseball and getting dirty. She had a fit, saying her daughter wasn’t going to be a tomboy. She whisked me off to boarding school. I hated it. I missed Jane, my dad and the ranch, but my mother wouldn’t listen. She said I’d get used to it, and then she had this idea that I could be a model, too. I did several ads and commercials, but the agent told my mother I didn’t have the drive or determination to be successful. It’s a cutthroat business.”

She paused for a moment, then added, “All my life I’ve felt like a piece of taffy, pulled between my parents, back and forth. I never knew which one to please. My mother wanted me to be a model. My dad wanted me to work at Maddox Oil, like Tom. Finally I came back to Texas, enrolled at the University of Texas, got a degree in business and went to work with my dad. At least he was happy.”

“What did you want to do?”

Her head swiveled toward him. “What?”

“You. What did you want to do with your life?”

She frowned. No one had ever asked her that question before, and she didn’t know how to answer it.

As the frown deepened, he said, “There must have been something you were good at, something you enjoyed.”

She shook her head. “I’ve always been Clyde Maddox’s little princess and Alicia Adams’s baby girl. Somewhere along the way, I guess I lost the person inside me.”

“No, you haven’t,” he assured her. “You just haven’t found her yet. Stop trying to please your parents and please yourself.”

Her mouth curved in that soft way he was beginning to recognize. “With Spikes out there, do you think I’ll ever get the chance?”

“We’re going to give it our best shot,” he said, and glanced toward the entrance as the light began to fade. He reached for his rifle. “Dusk has fallen. It’s time to go.”

She buttoned her coat and stuffed the cap into a pocket. Her hand touched the small pistol in the other pocket. She was ready.

It felt good to stretch her legs once they got outside. They’d spent all day in the cave. Of course, they’d slept much of that time, and they’d eaten again. She was as prepared as she could be, under the circumstances, for the trek ahead.

The hermit nodded to the left, and she followed his gaze. Her breath caught in her throat. Several deer were eating acorns beneath an oak tree. Sensing that they were being watched, they raised their heads, then ran into the thicket with sure graceful movements. They were such beautiful creatures, and she’d never been this close to one before.

She wanted to observe them, but there wasn’t time. The air no longer seemed as cold, but the ground was wet, which made walking even harder. They kept pushing on. Miranda felt stronger and managed to keep up. Her legs were tight, but no cramps.

Suddenly the hermit stopped, pointing to a flickering glow in the distance.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“Campfire,” he whispered back. “We’ve caught up with Spikes.”

“Oh, no!” she cried, chills running up her spine.

“It’s okay,” he told her. “We’ll just go around them, but we have to be quiet and quick.”

“Okay,” she answered without much enthusiasm. “But how did we catch up with them so fast?”

“Spikes probably stopped to wait for Blackhawk.”

“That’s the Indian who works on the ranch, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, and he really does have eyes and ears like a hawk. So make sure you stay close to me.”

“You can count on that.”

“Let’s go,” he said, looking down at Bandit. “Hush, boy.”

The fire became brighter as they moved closer. The orange flames crackled and hissed toward the sky. Three men sat around the blaze, drinking and talking. Two horses were tethered nearby. The saddles lay on the ground by the fire. As they crept past, giving the campsite a wide berth, they could hear voices, which carried clearly through the night.

“What do you want with the hermit?” Blackhawk asked, sitting cross-legged, a bandanna tied around his forehead. He took another swig of whiskey.

“None of your damn business,” Spikes said, taking the bottle from him. “If you want whiskey, you’ll forget all about this. Especially if you know what’s good for you.”

“I am like a sigh on the wind.”

“Whatever the hell that means,” Spikes answered, taking a swig of whiskey as he rested on his saddle.

The other man seemed asleep or passed out on a blanket by the fire.

They’d almost gone around the group when Miranda stepped on a stick. It popped, and the noise sounded like thunder in the darkness. In an instant, the hermit swung around and clamped a hand over her mouth. Her scream died against his palm.

“Shh,” he whispered into her ear.

Spikes jumped up. “What the hell was that?”

“The night has its own music,” Blackhawk replied, reaching for the bottle.

Spikes kicked the bottle away. “Check it out, you stupid Indian.”

Blackhawk stretched and got to his feet.

Miranda’s heart lodged in her throat. She couldn’t move or speak. She couldn’t do anything but rest against the security of the hermit’s chest. She felt his heart beat with a frantic rhythm. Or was that hers? She couldn’t tell. Their bodies were so close she couldn’t distinguish her heartbeat from his.

He slowly removed his hand and shook his head. She knew what that meant—be quiet, keep still. She wanted to run, get away as fast as she could, and had to restrain the impulse.

The woods seemed to become electrified as Blackhawk made his way directly toward them. Every footstep, every breath, every movement was charged with static energy.

The hermit stepped in front of her, the rifle butt resting on his hip, his finger on the trigger. For a split second, the fear left her as she realized what he was doing. He was protecting her, using his body as a shield. He was a total stranger, and yet he’d put his life in jeopardy for her. She felt closer to him than anyone in her family. In what—twenty-four hours?—this man, whose name she didn’t know, was willing to risk his life to save hers.

She shivered at his bravery and shoved her hand into her pocket, her fingers touching the cold steel. She wouldn’t let him down. If anything happened, she had the gun.

Her heart raced, and her body began to tremble as Blackhawk slipped closer. About fifteen feet from them, he stopped. The only sound Miranda heard was the beating of her heart as the Indian gazed at them through the darkness. The moonlight was bright enough so they could see each other. Blackhawk’s hair was long, black and dirty, and his eyes were trained on the hermit. He didn’t carry a gun, only a big hunting knife around his waist.

Spine-tingling silence followed.

Miranda held her breath.

“What’s out there?” Spikes called.

The two men continued to stare at each other. Miranda waited for the hermit to lower his rifle or for Blackhawk to go for his knife, or something—anything—before her nerves burst through the top of her head.

Then suddenly Blackhawk nodded once. The hermit reciprocated.

“A hungry coyote,” Blackhawk answered as he turned and headed back to the fire.

Relief flooded Miranda. She didn’t understand what had just happened, all she knew was that she could breathe again. The hermit took her hand and led her farther and farther away.

They walked steadily without a word. Sometimes they went in circles; at others they went over areas they had already covered. She didn’t ask questions. She knew it had to be a trick to throw Spikes off their trail.

Her legs grew heavier and heavier. When she thought she couldn’t stand the pain a moment longer, the hermit stopped, removed his backpack and slid to the ground, resting against a tree, Bandit by his side.

She heaved a grateful sigh and plopped down on the ground, leaning back against a fallen log. It took a while for her heart rate to still and her pain to ease. Then she closed her eyes and let the night sounds engulf her, alien yet soothing sounds that were growing familiar. As her body relaxed, she finally had to ask or she was going to burst with curiosity. “Why didn’t Blackhawk say something?”

“Guess he was repaying a debt,” he replied, pulling his hat low. “I hauled him out of Beaver Creek a few times. He always cursed me and mumbled in a drunken haze about a wife and kids and how he should be dead, too.”

“What happened to his wife and kids?”

“Don’t know. Never asked.”

“Were you sure he wasn’t going to give us away?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Hell no, you never know what a drunk’s going to do.”

“But you didn’t aim your rifle at him or anything.”

He pushed the hat back impatiently, and she thought he was going to say something about her questions, but instead, he shook his head. “Pointing a gun at him would only have angered him. Besides, I could see he didn’t have a gun and a bullet is much faster than a knife. If he’d done anything, I could have dropped him in an instant, and Spikes and his friend would’ve been dead before they knew what happened.”

Then why hadn’t he killed them? she thought to her horror. What was she thinking? Mass murder. God, no. She didn’t want anyone—not even Spikes—to die because of her. She just wanted to be home and safe with her family.

Family? Someone in her family had paid Spikes to kidnap her. She couldn’t escape that grim truth. She had a feeling that before she reached the safety of her home, someone was going to die. Would it be her? The hermit? Or Spikes?

Something rustled in the leaves and she hardly noticed. She wasn’t afraid of the woods anymore. She was only afraid of Spikes.

The night air chilled her and she slid her hands into her pockets. Her fingers touched the cold steel and she thought of the initials on the handle.

She sat up straighter, gathering courage. “Could I ask a favor?”

There was a long strained pause after her question. Then, without mercy, he answered, “I’ve already granted you one favor. That’s all you’re going to get.”

His voice didn’t deter her. She had to know. “It’s just a small favor.”

He said nothing, just sat as if turned to stone.

“You see,” she persisted, “if we’re going to face death together, I figure I should at least know your name. I refuse to call you Hermit.”

After a moment, he asked, “Why is my name so important?”

“Because you were willing to die for me back there with Blackhawk. A stranger. I don’t want you to be a stranger anymore. I need to know your name for my own peace of mind.”

His name. How long had it been since he’d heard his own name? Years. He didn’t want to tell her his name, but he could feel the words surging to his throat against his will. She was making him feel things he shouldn’t feel, and he could no longer deny it. He didn’t know what the morning was going to bring and, God help him, he wanted to hear his name on her lips.

Before he could say anything, she said, “It starts with a J, doesn’t it?”

The gun, he thought. She’d seen the initials on the gun.

“John, Joshua, Jeremy,” she said, guessing. “Jeffery, Joseph, Judd—no, none of those are right. Let’s see…”

“Jacob.”

Her eyes swung to his. He’d said his name. Jacob. Yes. Strong. Leader. It fit him perfectly.

“Jacob,” she said in a breathless sort of wonder. “Jacob.”

The word was like a haunting melody to his ears. All he could think about was catching the sound falling from her lips, catching them with his own. The feeling threw him. He hadn’t experienced anything like this in so long that for a moment he felt helpless and vulnerable. He immediately put the skids on emotions that were threatening to overtake him.

Miranda watched his face and saw his troubled thoughts reflected there, but she felt elated that he trusted her enough to share his name. She had to know more.

She rose to her knees and crawled to his side, sitting back on her heels. “Jacob what?”

He didn’t say a word.

“Okay,” she said. “It begins with a C, so…”

She felt the heat of his dark eyes. “Didn’t you hear anything I said when we started this journey? No questions. Remember?” He had that impatient note in his voice again, but it didn’t stop her.

“Yes,” she answered. “But we’ve gone way beyond that. We’re partners and friends now, aren’t we, Jacob?”

God, the way she said his name was beginning to get to him. So many emotions broke through inside him. He could actually feel a sense of release, an opening around his heart. He wanted to talk, to be her partner, her friend, just as she’d said.

“Yes,” he murmured.

“And friends share things, secrets. Whatever you tell me, I would never tell anyone else.”

Somehow he knew that she wouldn’t.

She waited for him to speak. He didn’t, so she prompted, “Jacob…?”

His eyes caught hers in the darkness. “Culver,” he answered. “It’s Jacob Culver.”

“What did Jacob Culver do for a living?”

“Detective,” he answered without hesitation. “I worked homicide for a Houston division.”

“I knew it had to be something like that,” she said, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “The holster and all, plus you’re very good with guns.”

“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

She frowned. “What?”

“Touch me.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s been…years since a woman has done that.”

There was a warning in his voice and she didn’t miss it. She just didn’t understand it. “Are you trying to frighten me?”

“Just telling you the truth.”

“No,” she said. “For some reason you’re trying to scare me. You’ve been doing that ever since you carried me out of that place.”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “This isn’t a fairy tale. It’s life and it’s not pretty. The sooner you realize that, the better off you’ll be.”

Was he right? At the moment life had dealt her a dreadful hand, but she refused to allow that to overwhelm her. At least she’d met Jacob, and that was a good thing.

“No,” she told him. “Life’s not all bad, and neither are you.”

“Really?” he snorted. “You don’t know me, lady. I’m hiding in these hills for a reason.” He paused, then said, “I’m wanted for the murders of my wife and son.”

The words should have shocked her, but somehow they didn’t. Instinctively she knew he’d never hurt anyone.

She answered immediately. “I told you earlier that I know the person you are inside, and you could never kill anyone intentionally.”

He blinked, astonished by her words. No one believed in him that much, not his family, his friends, not even his own brother. Everyone assumed he was guilty because he and Sheila had been having problems. Now this woman, whom he barely knew, was professing his innocence. It took him a moment to collect himself.

Miranda saw that he was coming to grips with his emotions, and she gave him time.

Finally she said, “Tell me about your wife.”

He didn’t even hesitate. It seemed natural to talk to someone who had such faith in him. “Sheila was a lot like you,” he said, then stopped abruptly.

Those were not the words she wanted to hear, but she couldn’t help wondering what it was about her that reminded him of his wife. She didn’t have to wait for the answer.

“She was a rich man’s daughter—his only daughter—and she was used to getting anything she wanted. I was working two jobs when I met her because I was putting my brother, Lucas, through law school. Our parents died when I was twenty and he was fifteen, so I’d been taking care of him for a few years. I had a security job at nights. I worked for anyone who needed protection. Sheila’s dad hired me and several other guards for one of his big parties. I must have caught Sheila’s eye, because she kept pestering me all evening, bringing me drinks and flirting. I told her I couldn’t drink, that I was working, but Sheila never learned the meaning of the word no.”