Читать книгу Deception Lake - Пола Грейвс - Страница 9

Chapter Two

Jack kept several car lengths back as he followed Mara Jennings out of town onto a winding rural road leading eastward, toward the mountains. They were still mostly in the foothills here in Purgatory, and for a man who’d grown up with the Grand Teton Mountains practically in his backyard, the softly rounded peaks of the Smoky Mountains might have seemed a letdown if it weren’t for the fact that the whole area was hilly and lush green, even in March before the spring growth had had a chance to bud completely.

Up in the higher elevations, evergreens like spruce, firs and pines maintained their verdant splendor all winter, lending the mountains a soft blue-green hue filtered by the ever-present haze of mist. Even down here in the lower elevations, the hardwoods were starting to sprout the first leaves of spring, and within a few short weeks, the place would be alive again after the long winter.

But there wasn’t enough greenery to hide him from the woman in the Mazda car a hundred yards ahead of him, so he stayed as far from her as he could until she turned off the highway and seemed to drive straight into the woods.

Slowing the truck as he neared the point where the Mazda car had disappeared, he saw there was a narrow two-lane road leading through the woods to points unknown. Probably the lake, he deduced, having caught a glimpse of sunlight sparkling off the water’s surface just before the woods grew denser, blocking the view.

Even as he turned onto the two-lane road and followed it, he wondered if Hannah and Riley had been right to worry about him. What the hell did he think he was going to accomplish by following her from work? Was she going to be more receptive of his need for restitution if she thought he was nuts?

He started looking for the first place he could turn the truck around and head back out of the woods, but as he drew close to what looked like a gravel driveway, he spotted the little blue Mazda car parked in front of a small cabin nestled in the center of a tiny clearing in the woods. The woods in front of the cabin thinned out until they reached the sandy shore of the lake about fifty yards from the cabin.

He pulled the truck to a stop at the edge of the driveway and let the engine idle a moment as he considered his options. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted movement on the cabin’s front porch.

It took a second to process what he was seeing. A second more to let his sluggish brain catch up with the adrenaline rushing through his body like water pouring through a breach in a dam.

Then his cowboy instincts kicked in and he was out of the truck and running toward the violent struggle playing out on the cabin porch.

Jack wasn’t currently armed, his Colt M1911 stashed in the locker in the bed of his truck. But the man struggling with Mara didn’t appear to be armed, either.

And Jack didn’t plan to give him time to go for a weapon if he was.

The sound of his boots crunching across the gravel didn’t seem to have any effect on the wrestling match going on between Mara and her captor, but when Jack hit the first porch step, the man in camouflage froze for a moment.

That was when Mara struck, first with an elbow straight to the man’s solar plexus, then followed up with a hard stomp on the man’s instep and a simultaneous fist to the groin.

Slipping free of the man’s suddenly floundering grasp, Mara flung herself away, giving Jack a clear shot. He hit the larger man at a full run, slamming him back into the cabin wall.

But a second later, the man in camo fought back, knocking Jack away with one brutal punch in the center of his chest. Jack fell backward, tumbling hard down the porch steps. His head hit the gravel with a jarring thud, and what air was left in his lungs after the man’s first punch exploded from his chest on impact against the hard-packed soil.

For a second, Jack could see nothing but stars on a deep black field. But slowly, the sparkling darkness faded into waning daylight filtering through the thick canopy of trees surrounding the cabin.

And in the center of his vision, the barrel of a big, lethal-looking Smith & Wesson M&P40.

What small amount of air had managed to reintroduce itself to his lungs froze in place. He let his gaze move up the barrel to the small hand closed around the grip, then farther upward until he was staring into a pair of angry blue eyes.

“Are you with him?” Mara asked, her voice shaking but her hand steady.

“What?” he croaked, barely finding enough breath to answer.

“Are you with him?” she repeated, keeping the pistol trained on him as she nodded toward the woods. Her hair was a mess from the pillowcase the man had tried to use as a hood, and her eyes looked bloodshot and wild. He had a feeling she’d put a bullet into him first and ask questions later if he so much as blinked his eyes the wrong way.

“No. You didn’t see me trying to stop him?”

Her lips pressed to a thin line. “Maybe you’re trying to trick me.”

“I’m not trying to trick you.”

She didn’t look appeased. “Get up.”

He eased himself to a sitting position, wincing at the ache in his head. He felt something warm slithering down his scalp. “I think I’m bleeding.”

She didn’t look interested in his self-diagnosis. “Why did you come here? Are you stalking me?”

“No.” At her look of skepticism, he added, “Not intentionally.”

“Why did you approach me at the diner?”

He grimaced as she leaned toward him, bringing the barrel of the M&P40 even closer to his face. “Could you please put that thing away before you shoot me?”

“Not a chance,” she answered in a flat tone. “Get up. All the way up.”

He eased to his feet, aching tension knotting the muscles of his back and abdomen. “I’m definitely not with that guy. And I’m not a stalker, appearances to the contrary notwithstanding.”

For a second the corner of her lips twitched. But he chalked it up to a nervous tic, because the last thing he saw in those sharp, watchful blue eyes was anything approaching humor.

“You followed me here.” It wasn’t a question.

“I did,” he admitted.

“Why?”

“To see where you were going.” As an explanation, his answer was pathetic. That it was also true was of little importance.

“You’ve accomplished that,” she said in a flat tone. “Now leave.”

There was a curious note to her husky voice, a hint of vulnerability peeking through the tiny crack in her mask of contemptuous calm.

“Do you know who that guy was?”

She didn’t answer, which he supposed was answer enough.

“What are you involved in, Mara?”

He waited for an angry glare. But it never came.

“You need to leave. Now,” she said, her tone unyielding. But she lowered the pistol to her side.

“Are you in trouble? Is there someone out there just waiting for me to leave to take another crack at you?”

Her only answer was to turn toward the cabin door.

Despite the throbbing pain in his head, he forced himself up the steps, reaching the door just before it snapped closed behind her. He stuck his boot into the narrowing breach, stopping the door from shutting.

She glared at him through the narrow opening, but at least she left the pistol down by her side. “I said leave.”

“I heard you.”

“And yet you’re still here.”

Guilt fluttered in the center of his chest as her expression grew hard and cold. Mara Jennings had never been hard or cold, even when she should have been. Her kind, forgiving nature had made her an easy mark for his pathetic neediness, and he’d come to depend on her being there, being willing to overlook his copious flaws, whenever he needed her.

He supposed it was good she’d finally drawn a line he couldn’t cross. He just hated that he’d been the one to add that hardness and coldness to her sweet nature.

“There’s still the matter of seven thousand dollars,” he said.

Taking a step back, she let go of the door. Pressed by his boot, it swung open, and he took a step inside, his gaze taking in the small front room. What he saw nearly stole his breath again.

The place had been completely wrecked.

* * *

THE TROUBLED LOOK on Jack Drummond’s face was the only warning she got. Following his dark gaze, she saw what she’d missed in her earlier agitation.

Whatever else the intruder might have wanted, he’d made a shambles of her cabin. Ripped-up sofa cushions lay scattered about the room, fluffy clumps of foam and fiberfill stuffing littering the floor. Books had been pulled from the built-in shelves and discarded. A floor lamp lay on its side, the glass shade shattered.

Every ounce of adrenaline seemed to drain from her body in a flood, leaving her boneless and despairing.

“Who did this?” Jack’s deep voice rumbled up her spine.

“Who do you think?”

“But why?”

She turned to meet his troubled gaze. “I have no idea.”

Which was a lie, of course. She had a couple of pretty good ideas, actually. She just wasn’t sure which one was the right one.

“Should we call the police?”

Her nerves reawakened in a rattling jangle. “No.”

“Your boss?”

She thought about it briefly. Quinn would know what to do. But could she really trust him? She knew the man’s interest in her was anything but altruistic. He might be her boss, he might even have been her savior at a particularly dangerous time of her life, but he wasn’t her friend.

She didn’t have any friends. Not anymore.

“You need to go,” she said in lieu of an answer.

“And what if that guy comes back?”

“He won’t,” she said, even though she knew someone would come back eventually. The only thing of value in this cabin was her computer system, and it was locked behind about five levels of physical security. And even if someone had stolen the computers themselves, they’d have had one hell of a time trying to get past her digital security.

She might look like an ordinary woman these days, but she wasn’t.

She wasn’t ordinary at all.

“Okay, if that’s what you want, I’ll go.” Jack’s voice was outwardly calm, but she heard a thread of discord vibrating just beneath the surface. “But I need just one more question answered.”

She sighed. “What’s that?”

“Why on earth do you think you owe me seven thousand dollars when you know as well as I do that I stole that money from you?”

Her stomach knotted painfully. Well, hell.

“Has something happened to you, Mara? You didn’t remember me right away today at the diner. You didn’t remember anything about the money. And right now you’re looking at me as if you’ve never seen me before.” He took a step closer to her, his movement slow and careful, as if he expected her to bolt.

He wasn’t entirely wrong. Even now she could feel the muscles bunching in her legs, as if her body was instinctively preparing for flight.

“A lot has happened,” she answered in a carefully neutral tone. “I lost my sister. I left everything I knew to make a new start. And I didn’t expect to see you here in Tennessee.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s all you’re going to get.”

“Okay.” He reached inside his jacket.

Adrenaline stormed her system again, and she brought up the pistol to bear on him. “Don’t.”

He stared at her, his dark eyes wide. “My God, Mara. What’s happened to you?”

“Take your hand out of your jacket.” To her dismay, her voice trembled. But her hand, at least, remained steady.

“I have a cashier’s check for the seven thousand plus interest. That’s all I was reaching for.”

“I don’t need the money. I don’t want it.”

“I need to give it to you.” His voice sharpened. “I owe it to you, Mara, and if I don’t do this—”

“Give it to a charity.”

His eyes narrowed. “Your place just got trashed and you’re telling me you couldn’t use seven thousand dollars to fix the damage and buy you a new sofa?”

Of course she could use it. She just couldn’t take it. Not from him. Not this way.

“Just give it to a charity. Wounded Warrior Project or Goodwill or St. Jude’s—anything you want. If you want your sins off your conscience, do it that way. I’m not in the business of absolution.”

His dark eyes snapped with a flare of anger, but it was gone almost as soon as it arose. “Fine.” He removed his hand from his jacket and reached up to touch the back of his head, wincing as he did so. When he brought his hand in front of him, his fingers were sticky with blood.

For a second, she flashed back to that night, four years ago, when she’d come home to a house on fire and her sister lying dead on the living room floor. She’d known, in the brief seconds she’d had to make her decision, that there was nothing she could do anymore for her twin. The blood pooling around her sister’s head painted a gruesome picture of what had happened while she was away picking up takeout for their dinner.

Her sister had been murdered, the fire set to cover up evidence.

And, for better or worse, she’d let it burn.

“I don’t suppose you have a first-aid kit handy in all this mess?” he asked quietly, his gaze still focused on his bloody fingers.

The urge to push him and his bleeding head out of her cabin was nearly overwhelming. But he might be more injured than she thought, and the last thing she needed on her own conscience was another death.

“Find somewhere to sit down,” she said, blowing out some of her frustration on a gusty sigh. “I’ll see if my kit’s still in one piece.”

The rest of the cabin had been tossed as ruthlessly as the front room, but whatever the burly man in the camouflage had been looking for, he seemed to have left empty-handed. The first-aid kit was on the bathroom floor, its contents scattered over the gray tile. Most of the kit’s components remained in sealed sterile packaging, however, so she scooped up the pieces and put them back inside the soft canvas kit, then took a minute to wash her hands before returning with the kit to the front room.

Jack had picked up an overturned ladder-back chair from the tiny dining area and sat at the table, wiping his bloody fingers on a paper towel salvaged from a roll that had been ripped from the wall-mounted holder. He looked up when she reentered the room. “I think there may be bloodstains on your rug in there,” he said, nodding toward the area closer to the front door as he pressed the paper towel to the back of his head.

“How’s your balance?” she asked, trying to remember the symptoms of a concussion. He’d never lost consciousness, that she could tell, and he didn’t seem dizzy or wobbly on his feet—all good signs.

“Fine,” he answered. “I don’t have a concussion, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“You can’t know that.” She set the first-aid kit on the table next to him and unzipped the canvas bag.

“I rode bulls for a living for a decade,” he said in a dust-dry tone. “I know the symptoms of a concussion better than I know my own name.”

Mention of his occupation sent a dart of irritation shooting through her. “Rode?” she asked quietly.

“I’ve retired.”

She slanted a quick look at him, taking in the lean angles and chisel-sharp planes of his ruggedly attractive face. “Your decision or the bull’s?”

His lips quirked slightly, cutting deep dimples into both cheeks. “Definitely the bull’s. He landed on me and broke my pelvis in several places. Doctors managed to knit me back together, but there are injuries even an insane cowboy like me can’t gut his way back from.”

His tone was neutral enough, but just as before, she sensed a darker emotion roiling under the surface.

“Bummer,” she murmured, not meaning to sound as flippant as she did.

His gaze clashed with hers. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said quickly, looking away.

“Let me take a look at your head,” she suggested, feeling both a flutter of guilt and answering anger for letting herself give enough of a damn about this confounding man to feel guilt in the first place.

Jack turned his head away from her so she could take a look at his injury. She bit back a gasp.

There was a split in the skin at least two inches long, the ragged edges of the wound raw and bloody. His thick, dark hair had absorbed a lot of the blood, but enough was still flowing to feed her alarm.

“Jack, you need stitches. And probably a CAT scan.”

And she needed, more than anything, to get this man out of her house before he figured out the truth.