Lost and Found (12 page)

"Dancin' music. That's dancin' music." Sam knew what was coming even before George continued. George reached for Babs's hand. "Let's dance, darlin'."

Babs couldn't have looked more appalled if he'd been an armadillo. Sam couldn't blame her. She jerked her hand away, her expression of contempt getting through even George's alcohol-soaked senses.

"Keep your hands off of me." Even in the midst of what was rapidly becoming a crisis, Sam had to admire the aristocratic sneer in her tone. It took years of practice to be able to sneer that perfectly.

"What'sa matter? You think you're too good for us?" George's slurred voice was taking on belligerent overtones.

Babs looked him up and down and then arched her brows, her upper lip quivering ever so slightly.

"Precisely."

It was perfect. Sam could see Katharine Hepburn looking at a scruffy Humphrey Bogart, Norma Shearer sneering at Clark Gable, Maureen O'Hara and John Wayne. He could also see himself in the midst of a fight.

"Why, you little bitch. You're not such hot stuff." George reached for her arm again and Babs jerked away from him, unconsciously leaning toward Sam. Sam stood up, reaching around Babs, his hand closing over George's wrist.

"Look, my lady and I don't want any trouble. Why don't you just go find a booth and have something to eat?"

But George was not to be placated. He might be drunk but he knew when he'd been insulted and he wasn't going to take that lying down.

"Why don't you go—" Just what he thought Sam ought to do was left unspoken. He swung clumsily, missing Sam by a mile. With a muttered curse, Sam grabbed Babs around the waist, swinging her off the stool and out of the line of fire.

"Stay out of the way." He threw the order at her before turning back just in time to catch George's second punch on the edge of his jaw. The force of the blow sent him back a step but he blocked the next punch with his left arm, stepping into it and burying his fist in George's soft belly. His opponent's breath gusted out. Sam didn't give him time to recover before landing a hard right to the chin that brought George up on his toes. He rocked there for a moment, his eyes glazing over before he fell like a poleaxed ox, collapsing onto the worn linoleum.

Sam didn't have much of a chance to celebrate the quick victory. Luke had apparently come out of his stupor and decided that it was his duty as a friend to help George. Sam blocked his first punch, caught the second one on his cheek. Luke was apparently made of sterner stuff than his friend.

Babs backed out of the way of the struggling men, lifting one hand to press her fingers to her mouth. She'd seen a fight once before. Two cowhands on her uncle's ranch had gotten into a fight over a poker game. She remembered being sickened by the violence they'd displayed as they rolled in the dirt.

The violence of this sickened her, too, but added to that was a small, primitive thrill that she didn't want to admit to. Sam was fighting to protect her. He'd called her his "lady." Not that he had any business using such a possessive term toward her, of course, but there was no denying that he was involved in this fight because of her.

She winced as the two men crashed onto the counter, rolling over it and hitting the floor on the other side. None of the other patrons made a move to stop them. The waitress continued to chew her gum, not missing a pop. The only person who seemed disturbed by what was happening was the cook and no one was paying any attention to his shouted demands that they stop at once.

Someone should do something, Babs thought. Sam might get hurt. She skirted George's prone body and circled the counter, grabbing a pitcher of water on the way. Sam and Luke were still grappling, first one and then the other on top. Babs shut her eyes and threw the water in their general direction, hoping the chill would be enough to break them apart.

There was a startled curse and then dead silence. She cautiously opened one eye and then the other. Sam was glaring at her, his thick hair plastered to his head, his eyes shooting blue sparks. Beneath him, Luke lay prone, his eyes shut, unmoving.

"Did I drown him?" She whispered the question, afraid of the answer.

"No. But you damned near drowned me." He stood up, bracing himself against the counter, still glaring at her. "What the hell was that in aid of?"

Babs looked at him. Water dripped from his hair, soaking the shoulders of his shirt. Luke seemed to be completely dry. She shrugged and set down the water pitcher. "I was afraid you were going to get hurt."

"So you decided to see if I could breathe underwater?" He ran his fingers through his hair, grimacing at the water that dripped from it.

"I'm calling the police." The cook's words made Sam forget his irritation over his damp state. For people who didn't want to draw attention to themselves, they were doing a first-rate job. Looking around the restaurant, he knew there wasn't a man in the place who wouldn't be able to describe both himself and Babs in minute detail. That couldn't be helped but maybe he could prevent an even greater debacle.

"Look, I don't think the police are necessary."

"You may not but it wasn't your place that was torn up. Look at all the broken dishes. Who's going to pay for those?"

Sam looked at the shattered plates. They'd cleared the counter when they went over it. He reached into his pocket.

"I'll pay for the damages. Would fifty do it, do you think?" Greed lit the man's thin face.

"Dishes are expensive these days."

"Okay, let's make it a hundred and call it even. Like I told them, my lady and I don't want any trouble."

"You in trouble with the law?" The man backed off a step, clearly wondering if he was in over his head.

Sam forced a friendly man-to-man smile. "The only person we're in trouble with is the lady's husband. He doesn't like my cologne."

The man's eyes shifted to Babs and she tried to look like a woman with a husband and a lover. She wasn't sure just what she should have looked like but she must have done all right because the man looked at Sam again.

"Make it a hundred and fifty and I could see my way clear to forgetting I ever saw you."

Sam kept his smile in place, gritting his teeth together. "I can give you one-twenty and that's it." And that would leave them with exactly ten dollars to their names.

The cook studied him for a moment and then nodded. "You've got a deal."

"Get our stuff together." Sam threw the order over his shoulder as he counted out the money, begrudging every bill. Still, it was worth it if it helped them avoid any more of a scene than they'd already created.

Babs gathered up his pack and her sack of clothes and was waiting for him when he came around the counter. Every eye in the place followed them as they walked out the door.

Sam shrugged into his pack, wincing as his battered muscles protested. He was really getting too old for this kind of thing. Grown-ups did not get in brawls in truck-stop cafes. They had gone only a few yards when a voice called out behind them.

"Hey, mister." Sam tensed, turning slowly, wondering what could possibly go wrong now. It was the waitress and she was holding up a paper bag. Warily, Sam walked back to where she stood. Babs trailed behind him.

The woman popped her gum. "Cal really stuck it to you for the dishes. They ain't worth more'n five bucks. I figured the least you ought to get for your hundred and twenty was something to eat. It's just coffee and a few donuts but it's better than nothing."

"Thanks." Sam took the bag from her. His smile caused her to blink and forget to chew her gum for a moment. "I appreciate this."

"Sure. No problem." She dragged her gaze from him and looked at Babs. "You been through here before?"

Babs shook her head, unconsciously edging a little behind Sam. The woman shook her head. "Funny. I could've sworn I'd seen you before. I got a real good eye for faces."

Sam's smile tightened. Great. Just what they needed. A gum-chewing waitress with a heart of gold and a photographic memory. A perfect touch for a perfect day.

"Well, we've got to be going. Thanks again for the donuts."

"Sure. No problem."

Sam turned, keeping Babs in front of him, not giving the woman a chance to see her face again, though it was a little late for that. He kept the pace brisk as they left the truck stop and started down the road.

"Do you think she recognized me?" Babs's voice was breathless with the effort of keeping up with his long strides.

"I don't know. The way our luck has been running, she's probably related to one of the guys who kidnapped you. All I wanted was to go in, have a quiet meal and then leave. A simple enough thing to do. Why is it that nothing is ever simple around you?"

"Wait a minute." Babs grabbed his arm, pulling him to a halt. "You're not blaming me for that mess in there?"

"Well, it wasn't me they wanted to dance with."

"That wasn't my fault!" She glared up at him, shaking her hair back from her face.

"It sure as hell wasn't mine." He matched her glare for glare.

"That's a typical male attitude. Just because a couple of drunks can't control their libidos, I get blamed for it." She might have continued but a sneezing fit took hold of her and, by the time it was over, the argument seemed pointless.

"Here." Sam handed her a handkerchief and she took it from him with a mutter of thanks. Babs blew her nose and stuffed the handkerchief in her pocket before looking at him again.

"Have a cup of coffee and a donut."

"Thanks." Babs took the Styrofoam cup and sipped the scalding hot liquid. "Can we stop for breakfast later?"

"I've only got ten bucks left. We'll have to make do with the donuts. My dad always kept the old place stocked, though. Maybe the new owners have done the same."

Sam watched her bite into a donut. Powdered sugar clung to her mouth and he had the urge to bend down and taste the sweetness on her skin. Babs glanced up, catching his eye and then looking away. If she could read his thoughts, her own were clearly quite different.

"I suppose you think it's my fault that we're broke. You're the one who paid a hundred and twenty dollars for those tacky plates."

Sam drew back, only then aware that he'd been leaning toward her. He stared at her, exasperated. She was like dealing with a hedgehog.

"We'd better get going. We've got a long walk ahead of us."

He pried the top off his coffee and took a hefty swallow of the steaming liquid. It burned all the way down but it didn't do much to chase away the knot in his stomach.

Damn the woman. The thought held more exasperation than anger. Last night she'd been soft and warm, a fantasy come to life. This morning, for no reason at all, she was back to the haughty brat who'd tried to push him off the balcony.

He stalked along the edge of the road, aware of her walking just a few feet behind him. In the intervals between cars, he could hear the crisp brush of her new jeans. She'd been so pleased with herself over those. He softened. Maybe her attitude wasn't so hard to understand after all. The last few days must have been a lot harder for her than they were for him. She'd been kidnapped, rescued, shot at, fought over and then found out that her own family wanted her out of the way— maybe permanently.

She'd been dependent on him for survival and he didn't think she was a woman who took kindly to being dependent on anyone. Guilt washed over him. She was vulnerable and alone and he'd taken advantage of that last night. He should never have touched her, never have made love to her.

But it hadn't felt like he was taking advantage. It had felt wonderfully right. They'd given and taken in equal measure. There'd been nothing one-sided about it. So why was it that he felt like a snake right now?

There was no answer to the question and Sam eventually stopped asking it. They turned off the highway less than a mile from the truck stop, turning onto a narrow, two-lane road that wound slightly upward toward the mountains that loomed in the distance. The weather, which had started out slightly gray and chilly, worsened rapidly. Within an hour of leaving the truck stop, rain started to fall in cold drizzly sheets. Sam cursed, casting a malevolent look at the clouds. He dropped back to where Babs trudged along, loosening his pack as he came level with her. She glanced at him and then looked away.

"Here, put this on." He held his jacket out to her.

She shrugged and kept walking. "I'm okay."

"I don't want you to take a chill."

"I told you, I'm okay."

He caught her arm, jerking her to a halt, his irritation climbing in direct proportion to the miserable weather. Babs turned, shaking back her damp hair to glare at him.

"Put on the damn coat." He bit off the words.

"I don't want the damn coat." She mimicked his clipped tone, her eyes snapping with annoyance.

Sam leaned down until his eyes were on a level with hers. The rain increased, soaking through his shirt, plastering his hair to his head. He ignored it. There was nothing in the world beyond this one incredibly stubborn, exasperatingly attractive woman.

"If you don't put it on willingly, I'll put it on you. It's cold and wet and getting colder and wetter by the minute. For once in your life, why don't you do what you're told without arguing about it."