Best-Kept Lies (12 page)

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Randi assured her.

“Should I tell Joe?”

“What?”

“Paterno’s back in town and he’s been asking about you.”

Randi and Joe had never been lovers, their relationship hadn’t blossomed in a romantic way. She was surprised that he’d be looking for her. “Well, tell him I’ll get back to him when I’m in town,” she said, and saw Striker stiffen slightly. He couldn’t help but overhear her conversation and she didn’t like the fact that she had so lit
tle privacy. “Look, Sarah, I’ve got to run.” She hung up, hoping to save as much battery as possible before Sarah could argue. Exchanging the phone for a cup of coffee, she said, “So I didn’t lie, did I? This will end soon.”

“I think so, but I did some checking this morning before you woke and so far no one’s been able to locate Sam Donahue.”

“You think he’s hiding?”

“Maybe.”

“Or…?” She didn’t like the feeling she was getting. “Or you think he’s followed us?”

“I don’t know. Did he come looking for you at the office? I heard you tell your friend that you’d get back with him.”

“That wasn’t Sam.” She hesitated, then decided to come clean. “It was Joe Paterno. We were…are…friends. That’s all. That’s all there ever was between us.”

He looked as if he didn’t believe her.

“Really.” She lifted a shoulder. “Sorry to disappoint you. I get the feeling that you think I had this incredible love life, that I slept with every man I dated, but that just wasn’t the case. I let everyone wonder about my baby’s paternity to protect him. The fewer people who knew that Sam was the baby’s father, the better it was for me and Joshua. At least that’s what I thought, so I let people draw their own conclusions about my love life.” She arched an eyebrow at him. “I might not have the best taste in men, but I am somewhat picky.”

“I guess I should feel flattered.”

“Damn straight,” she said, sending a look guaranteed to kill, then took a long swallow of coffee before turning her attention to her baby. After all, he was the reason that everything was happening and Randi wouldn’t
have changed a thing. Not if it meant she never would have had her son. Joshua made it all worthwhile.

Even the accident, she thought as the baby giggled and cooed.

Late last fall she’d left Seattle intending to return to the ranch she’d inherited from her father. She’d just wanted some peace of mind and time alone in Montana where she intended to write her book and do some serious soul-searching. Once on the ranch, she’d made some stupid mistakes including firing Larry Todd, the foreman, and even letting Juanita Ramirez, the housekeeper, go. Those decisions had been stupid, as Larry had known the livestock backward and forward and Juanita had not only helped raise Randi and her half brothers but had put up with their father until the grumpy old man had died. But Randi had been on a mission and had believed that before she could take care of a baby, she had to prove to herself that she could be completely self-reliant.

She’d thought that living on the Flying M, returning to her roots and running the ranch while writing her book might be the right kind of therapy she needed. After the baby came, she’d figured she could look after her child and raise him where she’d grown up, away from the hustle and bustle of the city. Plus, she still had her job at the
Clarion,
using e-mail and a fax machine, until she could return to Seattle every other week or so if need be.

The prospect of becoming a mother—a single mother—had been daunting. How would she deal with her son’s inevitable questions about his father? When she finished the book and the scam was exposed, many people in the rodeo world, including Sam Donahue,
would be investigated and possibly indicted. How would she feel knowing that she’d sent her son’s father to prison?

Nevertheless, because she’d been born a McCafferty, the kind of person who never shied away from the truth or tough decisions, she’d come to the conclusion that she had to let the truth be known and let the chips fall where they may.

But she hadn’t gotten the chance. On her way back to Grand Hope, she’d had the accident that had nearly taken her life and sent her into premature labor. She’d been laid up in a coma, woken up to find out that she couldn’t remember anything and that she had this wonderful infant son. As she’d recovered and her memory had returned in bits and snatches, she was horrified to realize that she’d been played for a fool, that Sam Donahue was Joshua’s father and that he was a heartless criminal.

And now…
And now what?
She leaned closer to the baby and her locket swung free of her shirt. Joshua giggled and smiled, kicking and reaching for the glittering gold heart. “Silly boy,” she said, leaning over to buss him in the tummy. He chortled and she did it again, making a game of it, closing out her doubts and worries as she played with her child.

Striker’s cell phone rang, disturbing the quiet.

He flipped it open and answered, “Kurt Striker…yeah, she’s right here… I don’t know if that’s such a great idea…. Fine. Just a sec.”

Randi turned her head and saw Striker glowering through the window, his cell phone pressed against his ear. He glanced her way and her heart nearly stopped. Something had happened. Something bad. “What?”

“Okay, put him on, but I don’t have much battery left,
so he’d better keep it short.” He held the phone toward Randi. “That was Brown. He found Sam Donahue.”

The floor seemed to wobble. “And?”

“It’s for you, darlin’.” Kurt’s smile was cold as ice. “Seems as if good ol’ Sam wants to talk to you.”

“W
hat the hell’s going on, Randi?” Sam Donahue shouted through the phone wires.

Randi braced herself for the onslaught. And it came.

“I’ve got some crazy son of a bitch telling me that I’m gonna be arrested because I tried to kill you or some damn thing and that’s all a pile of crap. You
know
it’s crap. Why would I want to hurt you? Because of the kid? Oh, give me a break! That story you’re writing? Who would believe it? I’ve got an ironclad alibi, so call off your dogs!”

“My dogs?” she repeated as static crackled in her ear. The signal was fading and fast. Thankfully.

“Yeah, this guy. Brown.”

“I can’t hear you, Sam.”

“…nuts! Crazy! He’s talkin’ about the police… Oh,
God, they’re here… Look, Randi, I don’t know what this is all about, maybe some personal vendetta or something… This is all wrong,” he said, swearing a blue streak that broke up as the battery in the phone began to give out. “…damn it…sue you and anyone…false arrest…no way… Leave me the hell alone! Wait… Randi…” His voice faded completely and the connection stopped just as the cell phone beeped a final warning about its battery running low.

Numbly, she handed the phone back to Striker.

“What did he want?”

“To protest his innocence,” she said. “He told me to call off my dogs.”

“They aren’t yours.”

“I didn’t have time to explain. He didn’t give me much of a chance and the connection was miserable.” She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “Not that I wanted to straighten him out.” She glanced at her baby, sleeping again, so angelic, so unaware.

“You okay?” Kurt asked, rubbing the back of her neck in that comforting spot between her shoulder blades.

“Yeah. It wasn’t all that emotional for me. I was surprised.” She managed a sad smile. “You know, I thought I’d feel something. Anger, maybe, or even wistfulness,
any
kind of emotion because he
is
the father of my child, but I just felt…empty. And maybe a little sad. Not for me, but for Joshua.” She shrugged. “Hard to explain.” She glanced around the cabin, her gaze landing on her baby, who despite the tense conversation had fallen asleep. “But the odd thing about the phone call was that I believed him.”

“Donahue?” Striker snorted as he walked to the fire and warmed his hands.

“Yes. I mean, he was so vehement, so outraged that he was being arrested. It didn’t seem like an act.”

Striker barked out a laugh. “You thought he’d go quietly?”

“No, of course not, but—”

“You’re still protecting him,” Kurt said with a frown. “You know, just because he’s the father of your child doesn’t mean you owe him any allegiance or anything.”

That stung. “Are you kidding? The last thing I feel for Sam Donahue is allegiance. He was married when he and I met.
Married.
Not just going with someone, or even engaged. When I asked him about it, he’d said he was divorced, that they’d been separated for some time and the divorce had been final for months. He flat-out lied. Silly me. I believed him,” she admitted, but that old pain, the embarrassment of falling for Donahue’s line and lies wasn’t as deep. She’d fantasized about meeting or talking with him again, of either telling him to go to hell or advising him that he had a son who was the most precious thing on earth. And she’d hoped to feel some satisfaction in the conversation, but instead, all she’d felt was relief that she wasn’t involved with him, that she was here, with Kurt Striker, that in fact, she’d moved on.

To what? A man who has been up front about his need to be independent; a sexy, single man who had no intention of settling down; a man who was so hurt after losing his child that he’s formed a wall around his heart that no sane woman would try to scale. He’s your bodyguard, Randi. Bought and paid for by your brothers. Don’t be stupid enough to throw love into the mix. You’ll only get hurt if you do.

Kurt added a chunk of wood to the fire. The mossy
fir sizzled and popped. “And still you believe him. Defend him.”

“That’s not what I was doing. I was just…I mean, if he’s guilty, okay. But…I still believe in innocent until proven guilty. That’s the law, isn’t it?”

“Right. That’s the law. I’ll just have to prove that he’s the culprit.”

“If you can.”

A muscle jumped in Striker’s jaw as he glanced over his shoulder. “Watch me.” He swung the door of the woodstove shut so hard it banged, and Joshua, startled, let up a little cry.

Randi shot across the room and scooped up her baby. “It’s all right,” she whispered, holding him close and kissing a downy-soft cheek. But Joshua was already revving up—his cries, originally whimpers, grew louder, and his nose was beginning to run.

Striker looked at the baby and an expression of regret darkened his gaze. “I’ll go see if I can recharge the cell’s battery in the truck. I’ve got a second phone, but it doesn’t hold a charge worth crap.” With that he was out the door, letting in a gust of damp, cool air before the door slammed shut behind him.

“Battery, my eye,” Randi confided to her tousle-haired son. “He just wants to put a little space between us.” Which was fine. She needed time to think about the complications that had become her life and to hold her child. What was it about Striker that got to her? It seemed that they were always making either love or war. With Kurt, her passions ran white hot and ice cold. There was nothing in between. And her emotions were always raw, her nerves strung taut whenever she was around him.

Because you’re falling in love with him, you idiot. Don’t you see? Even now you’re sneaking peeks out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. You’ve got it bad, Randi. Real bad. If you don’t watch out, Kurt Striker is going to break your heart.

From a van near Eric Brown’s apartment, the would-be killer hung up the phone and didn’t bother smothering a smile. High tech was just so damn great. All one needed to know was how to tap into a cellular call, and that was pretty basic stuff these days. Easy as pie.

A fine mist had collected on the windshield and traffic, wheels humming against the wet pavement, spun by the parking lot of the convenience store where the van was parked. No one looked twice at the dark vehicle with its tinted windows. No one cared. Which made things so much easier.

Taking out a map, the stalker studied the roads and terrain of central Washington. So the bitch and her lover were in the mountains. With the kid. Hiding out like scared puppies. Which was fine and dandy. It wouldn’t take long to flush her out and watch her run. The only question was, which way would Randi McCafferty flee?

To her condo on the lake?

Or back to Daddy’s ranch and that herd of tough-as-nails brothers?

West?

Or east?

It didn’t matter. What was the old saying? Patience was a virtue. Yeah, well, probably overrated, but there was another adage… Revenge is best served up cold.

Hmmph. Cold or hot, it didn’t matter. Just as long as vengeance was served.

And it would be. No doubt about it.

The baby was fussy as if he, too, could feel the charged atmosphere between Randi and Kurt.

Randi changed Joshua’s diaper and gave up on the column she’d been composing on Striker’s computer. The article would have to wait. Until her son was calmer. Quieter.

Joshua had been out of sorts for two days now and Randi didn’t blame him. Being here, trapped with Kurt Striker, was driving her crazy. It was little wonder her baby had picked up on the emotional pressure. But Randi was afraid there was more to the baby’s cries than his just being out of sorts.

Joshua was usually a happy infant but now he cried almost constantly. Nothing would calm him until he fell asleep. His face seemed rosier than usual and his nose ran a bit. Randi checked his temperature and it was up a degree, so she was watching her child with an eagle eye and trying like crazy not to panic. She could deal with this. She was his mother. Okay, so she was a
new
mother, but some things are instinctive, right? She should know what to do. Women raised babies all the time, married women, single women, rich women, poor women. Surely there wasn’t a secret that had somehow, through the ages, been cosmically and genetically denied to her and her alone. No way. She could deal with a little runny nose, a slight fever, the hint of a cough. She was Joshua’s mother, for God’s sake.

While trying to convince herself of her maternal infallibility, she wrapped Joshua in blankets, held him
whenever she could, prayed that he’d snap out of it and generally worried that she was doing everything wrong.

“If he doesn’t get better, I want to take him to a pediatrician,” she told Kurt on the third day.

“You think something’s wrong?” Striker had just finished stoking the fire and was obviously frustrated that he’d not heard back from the police or Eric Brown.

“I just want to make certain that he’s okay.”

“I don’t think we can leave just yet.” Striker walked over to the baby. With amazing gentleness, he plucked Joshua out of Randi’s arms and, squatting, cradled Randi’s son as if he’d done it all his life. “How’re ya doin’, sport?” he asked, and the baby blinked, then blew bubbles with his tiny lips. With a smile so tender it touched Randi’s heart, Striker glanced up at her. “Seems fine to me.”

“But he’s been fussy.”

“Must take after his mother.”

“His temperature is running a little hot.”

He crooked an eyebrow and his gaze raked her from her feet to her chest, where he stopped, pointedly, then finally looked into her eyes.

“Say it and die,” she warned.

“Wouldn’t dare, lady. You’ve got me runnin’ scared.” He handed Joshua back to her.

“Very funny.” She pretended to be angry, though she couldn’t help but smile. “Okay, okay, so maybe I’m overreacting.”

“Give the kid a chance. He might have a little cold, but we’ll keep an eye on it.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not a parent…” She let her voice fade as she saw Striker flinch. “Oh, God, I’m sorry,” she whispered, wishing she could take back the thoughtless comment. But it was too late. The damage
had been done. No doubt Kurt was reminded of the day he’d lost his own precious daughter.

“Just watch him,” Striker advised, then walked outside.

Randi mentally kicked herself from one side of the cabin to the other. She thought about running after him, but decided against it. No…they all needed a little space. She thought of her condo in Seattle. If she were there…then what would she do? She’d be alone and have to leave Joshua with a babysitter.

Yeah, a professional. Someone who probably understands crying, fussy babies with runny noses a helluva lot better than you.

But the thought wasn’t calming

And there still was the issue of someone having been inside her place. Someone having a key. The more she considered it, the more convinced she was that someone had broken in—or just walked in—and made himself at home. A shiver ran across the nape of Randi’s neck. The thought of someone being so bold, so arrogant, so damn intrusive bothered her. Of course, she could change the locks, but she couldn’t change the fact that she and the baby were alone in a city of strangers. Yes, she had a few friends, but who could she really depend upon?

She glanced at the window and saw Kurt striding to his truck. Tall. Rangy. Tough as nails, but with a kinder, more human side as well. Sunlight caught against his bare head, glinting the lighter brown strands gold and the dusting of beard shadowing his chin. He was a handsome, complicated man but one she felt she could trust, one she could easily love. She thought of their nights together, sometimes tempestuously hot, other times incredibly tender. Biting on her lower lip, she told
herself he wasn’t the man for her. Theirs was destined to be one of those star-crossed affairs that could never develop into a lasting relationship.

She twisted the locket in her fingers as she watched Kurt climb into the truck. She tried not to notice the way his jeans fit tight around his long, muscular legs, or the angle of his jaw—rock hard and incredibly masculine. She refused to dwell on the fact that his jacket stretched over the shoulders she’d traced with her fingers as she’d made love to him. Oh, Lord, what was she doing?

It didn’t feel right.

Something about the way the case was coming down felt disjointed, out of sync.

Two days had passed since Eric Brown had called and the police had taken Donahue into custody, and yet Striker had the niggling sensation that wouldn’t let go of him that something was off. That he was missing something vital.

He stood on the porch of the cabin and stared into old-growth timber that reached to the sky. The air was fresh from a shower earlier. Residual raindrops slid earthward from the fronds of thick ferns and long needles. Earlier, as he’d sat in the broken-down porch swing, he’d spotted a doe and her fawns, two jackrabbits and a raccoon scuttling into the thickets of fir and spruce. The sun had been out earlier, but now was sinking fast and the gloom of night was closing in. Striker was restless, felt that same itch that warned him trouble was brewing. Big trouble.

He hankered for a cigarette though he’d given up the habit ten years earlier. Only in times of stress or after two beers did he ever experience the yen for a swift hit
of nicotine. Since he hadn’t had a drop of liquor in days, it had to be the stress of the situation. Maybe it was because both he and Randi were experiencing a bad case of cabin fever.

Even the baby was cranky. No doubt the little guy had picked up on the vibes within the cabin. During the days the tension between him and Randi had been so thick a machete would have had trouble hacking through it. And the nights had been worse. Excruciating. Sheer damn torture as he’d tried, and failed, to keep his hands off her. Though neither one of them admitted the wanting, it was there, between them, enticing and erotic, and each night they’d given in to the temptation, making love as intensely as if they both thought it would be the last time.

Which it should be, all things considered.