Run Wild (12 page)

Quite possibly she was chasing a ghost. But she had to know. The least she could do was find out where he was going. Then she’d regroup, get her thoughts organized, and come up with a foolproof game plan. At the moment, nothing came to her, other than pushing the speed limit to remain within view of the Buick some distance ahead of her. At least they weren’t in L.A. with traffic closing in all around both of them. There wasn’t another car in view from either direction.

Natasha hit the brakes too hard and jerked forward against her seat belt when the Buick’s brake lights came on. It slowed drastically and for a moment she thought he was going to come to a complete stop on the road. Just when she was certain she would be forced into a confrontation with a man who wasn’t her father and just happened to be almost a foot taller than she was, the Buick turned off the highway.

She wasn’t going slow enough, which was just as well. If she turned off, it would be obvious she was following him. If this was her father, he’d panic that someone had discovered him. Natasha didn’t have a clue where the narrow road went that was now lined with a cloud of smoke as the Buick disappeared into the rocky hills.

“Seven, K, five, eight, seven, nine, eight,” Natasha said out loud, putting the license plate number to memory. She reached in her purse for her phone to enter the tag number so she wouldn’t forget it. “Where’s my phone?” She groaned when she realized where it was. “Crap, crap, crap!” she wailed, slapping the steering wheel. She’d left it on the bed in her motel room. “Hell of a lot of good it will do me there.” If her uncle could see her now, witness firsthand her hunting skills under pressure and duress, he’d bench her until further notice.

She repeated the plate number, saying it over and over again as she spotted a county road intersecting the highway just ahead. Slowing and checking her mirrors, as she continued with her new mantra, chanting the tag number, Natasha pulled a U-turn in the road and headed back to where the Buick had turned off.

The cloud of dust the Buick left behind was dissipating in the cold breeze when Natasha turned onto the narrow road. It wound around the hills and, it appeared, led into the mountains. Natasha slowed, keeping it under thirty miles an hour as she glanced back, searching the highway in both directions. She’d rather no one see that she left the highway. If she was following her father, she didn’t want to give up his hiding place, at least not until she knew what had happened.

Would she turn him in if he told her he’d committed murder?

Natasha shook her head, immediately seeing how preposterous her thoughts were. Her father wouldn’t kill anyone. It would take up too much of his time and he simply didn’t dedicate that much of himself to anyone. And he sure as hell wouldn’t commit a murder as heinous and disturbing as Carl Williams’.

She heard several loud pops at the same time her steering wheel yanked to the right. “What the—!” she cried out, holding the wheel with all her strength to keep the truck on the road.

There wasn’t anyone around her. She checked her mirrors, strained to see as far as she could in all directions. The hills were more intense out this way than in Weaverville, and closer to the mountains.

Had someone seriously just shot out her tires?

“God.” It was a hell of a lot of work just to navigate the Avalanche to the side of the road. It was obvious she was driving on rims when she brought the truck to a stop, then glanced around again.

A dark Suburban turned off the highway and started toward her.

“What the hell?” Her fear leaped over to irritation as she glared at the approaching SUV. “Why did you shoot out my tires?” she yelled, jumping out of the truck and ready to take on the sheriff in or out of his vehicle. He was seriously out of line for disabling her like this.

Natasha had barely taken a few steps when she came to a halt and looked at the ground. Among the gravel on the narrow road was a spew of spikes, like screwdrivers, stuck in the ground and facing upward, their small pointed edges just enough to take out a tire, or two, or four.

And she’d almost stepped on one of them. Edging back toward her car, she took a better look at the road. It had been booby-trapped. Then how did the Buick get past this? One look off the road and she understood. There were tire indentations cut deep in a wide curve, giving berth around the sabotaged section of the road. Whoever had driven down this road ahead of her knew the spikes were in the road and knew exactly where to turn off the road to prevent sabotaging their vehicle. Had the driver of the Buick put this trap here to prevent anyone from following them?

Was that something her father was capable of doing?

“Whoa!” she yelled as the Suburban grew closer, creating a cloud of dust behind it as it moved along the road toward her.

Natasha started waving her hands over her head and leapt to the side of the road, running along the embedded tire tracks and continuing to wave her arms.

“Stop!” she cried out, grabbing Trent’s attention. “There are spikes in the road!” she yelled, running toward him.

Trent rolled down his window, then came to a quick stop when she yelled her warning a couple more times. She ran to his car and came to a stop, fighting to catch her breath as she realized she wasn’t used to this elevation.

“There are spikes in the road,” she said breathlessly. “They blew out my tires.”

Trent opened his truck door, forcing her back a step, and got out of the truck, taking his time to zip up his jacket against the cold wind as he squinted toward her truck.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked.

“What are
you
doing out here?” It should have been her question first.

Trent gave her his attention for only a moment but didn’t answer. Instead, he left her standing there and started toward the booby-trapped section of the road. When he reached the first spike he kicked it with his boot, then squatted down and slipped on black leather gloves before pulling it out of the ground.

“Interesting,” he mumbled, standing and tossing the metal spike in his hand as he looked around at the rugged, undeveloped land. “Someone laid a trap for you.”

“I don’t know that it was for me,” she began, staring at the Avalanche. She couldn’t see the front passenger tire, but the driver’s side front and back were torn to bits, the rims of the wheels on the ground with the black tires hanging off of them. It was bad and her uncle would be pissed when she told him about it.

“Who do you think it was for?”

She shook her head, not really having a clue until she could confirm who she’d been following. “I have no idea. My guess is someone doesn’t want anyone else going down this road.”

He gave her a look. “Good detective work.”

Natasha stared up at him. His comment might have been light, but his expression was dark and foreboding. If she had to guess, she’d say he was rather pissed.

“Why are you all bent out of shape?” she demanded. “You aren’t the one who is going to have to buy all new tires.”

“Not to mention the tow bill.”

“Right.” She swore his features hardened further, and if she were the type of woman who got nervous that a man might hurt her now would be the moment. Trent was livid. “Why are you so pissed?”

“Why am I pissed?” Trent took a step toward her but then stopped and blew out a breath as he turned away. “You’re out here in the middle of nowhere ignoring my calls.”

“I wasn’t ignoring your calls,” she snapped.

“Then why didn’t you answer?”

She didn’t want him realizing she had rushed out of her motel room and forgotten to grab her phone. Then she would have to explain what would have distracted her so much that she would have left it behind.

“Because I was turned around,” she said, exasperated, and threw her hands up in the air to ensure she pulled off the level of frustration she should be feeling after being lost. “Because I hate getting lost. And because the only thing worse than getting lost is having it rubbed in my face that I’m lost. And why the hell are you following me?” She was shouting by the time she’d finished.

If the man in that car was her father and if he had grown creative enough to sabotage the road so no one could find him, then possibly he was watching this little interaction between her and the sheriff. If he was far away, he might not be able to tell what they were saying, but at the least she hoped he’d recognize her voice if she yelled. And if he was watching, her yelling at the sheriff would assure her father that the sheriff wasn’t with Natasha.

Trent stared at her, his lips together, searching her face. Natasha wasn’t sure he bought her story. But it really didn’t matter. With her truck down, she couldn’t exactly search more for her dad. Instead, turning this on Trent, making sure he knew she would not tolerate being followed or watched, no matter what his reasons, would keep the conversation away from more sensitive areas, primarily her father.

“I wasn’t following you,” Trent said, his voice calm, relaxed, as he once again glanced around them.

Not that there was anything to see. Natasha had lived her entire life around law-enforcement men. She knew that look when she saw it. Trent was focused, believing he was narrowing in on something.

“Is that so?” She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling the chill in the air for the first time since hopping out of the truck, dosed high on anger and adrenaline. “You just happened to be driving along this backwoods highway at exactly the same time I just happened to be out here?”

“What looks like a back-hills highway to some is actually a commuting road to those who live out here. Which happens to be land under my jurisdiction, which makes the people out this way my responsibility. So yes, darling, I did just happen to be making my rounds at the exact time you decided to take a turn down a road you probably have no business being on and ended up falling victim to a malicious booby trap.” He gave her a curt nod. “And you’re quite welcome. No need to thank me.”

Natasha blew out an exasperated sigh, deciding to take her time surveying their surroundings as well. The ground looked rough, with large rocks protruding from the ground surrounded by tall, wild grass. There were hills in the direction her truck was pointed and high, stretched-out meadows on the opposite side of the highway. Another time, she might have better appreciated the incredible beauty from this raw, undisturbed land surrounding her. At the moment, though, she worked to put her emotions back in order. It would be smarter to remind herself of the many reasons why she didn’t pursue dominating, cocky, aggressive men. Maybe if she did, it would stop the sudden throbbing between her legs from standing so close to Trent.

“Thank you,” she said, although she wasn’t sure she believed his story. It was one hell of a coincidence that he showed up the moment she was stranded, for a second time. Although if he hadn’t, she’d be walking back to that seedy motel or sitting out here for God only knew how long until help showed up. “Would you mind calling a tow truck for me?” she asked.

“Hm,” Trent grunted, and pulled out his phone. But instead of heading back to his Suburban, he started along the tracks embedded in a half circle along the road, around the sabotaged section.

Natasha hugged herself against the biting cold and hurried after him, watching her footing over the uneven ground and deep ruts created from a vehicle continually driving around this part of the road. If only she had noticed the deep grooves in the ground when she had first headed this way. Possibly she would have made it into the hills ahead of them where the road headed before the sheriff had spotted her. She shook her head and tucked her hair inside her thin jacket to keep it from blowing in her face. That is, if he hadn’t already been following her. When she realized she was staring at Trent’s hard ass as she followed him, she made herself look away. If only repeatedly telling herself the real reason he would be following her was because he thought her father a murderer would make the heat swelling between her legs go away. What was it about this man?

Trent started talking on the phone before he reached the road again. Remaining behind him, she listened as he described her truck, then gave its location. She caught herself staring at his ass again when he told the dispatcher that it was a charge to his account.

“Hey,” she complained when he instructed they should tow the truck into Weaverville.

Trent kept walking until he reached the end of the Avalanche. He hung up his phone, slapped it to his belt, then squatted next to the rear tire.

“Damn shame,” he grunted. “Looks like these were new tires. And now you’ll need a new spare, too,” he added, straightening and kicking the destroyed tire she’d put on the truck the night before last.

She remembered when Uncle Greg had new tires put on this particular truck. “They were new,” she admitted. He would be mad and demanding answers when he learned all four tires, and the spare, were completely destroyed.

Natasha glanced up the road, which disappeared into steep rocky hills that stretched along the horizon ahead of them. She wondered where it went and how soon she’d be able to find out. With how much it would cost to replace all the tires on this truck, Natasha decided she’d definitely earned the right to find out.

When Trent walked to the front of her truck, bent over and ran his gloved finger over the sliced tire, then moved around to the other side, Natasha hugged herself, burying her hands inside her sleeves as her hair once again blew around her face.