Run Wild (23 page)

“Are you suggesting your father might have killed Carl Williams?” Natasha asked.

“No,” Sandra said without hesitating.

“Who knows?” Rebecca announced at the same time. “And Mother,” she added, “you know she’s here scraping for proof to get her father out of those murder charges. No one will counter Daddy in Weaverville. You know that. He’d let some ranch hand fry to cover his own ass.”

*   *   *

Natasha should have enjoyed the nice hotel that her uncle had insisted KFA pick up the tab for instead of moping and pacing all evening, then tossing and turning throughout the night until she’d successfully torn off the blankets and sheets on a king-sized bed. If she wasn’t going over in her head every word exchanged with Sandra and Rebecca, she was thinking of Trent. “Thinking” about Trent wasn’t very accurate. It was more like fantasizing.

She accepted Trent was able to find her because of the bug planted in her purse. With the bug no longer on her Trent didn’t have a clue where she was. Nonetheless, she tried to justify reasons why he might suddenly knock on her hotel room door. Natasha imagined someone in Weaverville might have been in Redding that evening. They would have driven back, seen Trent out patrolling the town, and pulled up alongside him.
I saw that lady with the long black hair you were with the other day,
they would say.

Or possibly someone would run into Trent at one of the few stores in Weaverville open late on a weekday:
Is that lady with the long black hair, you know, the one with the funny-colored eyes, part of this murder investigation? I was just wondering since I saw her up in Redding.

Natasha decided the most likely scenario would be Trent casually chatting with folks at the Nugget Diner while eating meat loaf and mashed potatoes. The waitress working would desperately be dropping hints that Trent should ask for her phone number. It would be the couple at the next table talking about a shopping spree in Redding. Trent probably wouldn’t be paying full attention until they said something to the effect of,
Wasn’t that lady you were with the daughter of George King?
And when they mentioned her father’s name they would drop their voices to a hushed whisper.

It would grab Trent’s attention anyway. She imagined he’d been sitting there, letting everyone around him indulge in casual conversation while wondering about her. Just the mention of her father’s name would snap Trent out of whatever he might have been thinking.

Once he confirmed she was, in fact, George King’s daughter, they would add,
I wonder if he’s hiding out in Redding, since we saw her up that way earlier today.
They would assure Trent there was no mistaking his daughter. No one had that eye color. Did he know if she wore contact lenses?

Trent would try to appear unimpressed. He wouldn’t ask too many questions. Then he’d finish his meal, pay his bill, tip the flirtatious waitress nicely but not give her another thought as he walked out the door to his Suburban. He would head out of town without a word to anyone.

Natasha wasn’t sure how he would narrow down where she was in a town the size of Redding. Maybe he would drive by every hotel until he spotted the Avalanche. She imagined he could charm any lady working at the front desk of any hotel into telling him where she was. Or maybe he’d just flash his badge.

She grew so distracted by her thoughts that throughout the night she’d wake up, anticipating the knock on the door, only to slowly work her way out of sleep until she was wide awake. Then, frustrated, she’d punch pillows, kick blankets, and once again try falling asleep.

When she finally accepted the fact Trent wouldn’t knock on the hotel room door, demand she let him in, then start an argument with her that would inevitably lead to hot, passionate, crazed sex, Natasha lay on top of tangled sheets, naked and staring at the crack of light from the sun slowly rising and peeking in where the curtains didn’t quite meet.

“You’ve wasted an entire night fantasizing about a man you swore you’d get out of your system.” She began wondering about Aunt Haley’s comment before she left town.

But how did she know what was right in her heart? It was one thing accepting this investigation to clear her father would get messy. Yesterday at Sandra Burrows’ home had been an emotional ordeal. Talking face to face, worrying with each emotional comment that they would slam, insult, and berate her father had been nerve-wracking enough.

Natasha had too many preconceptions about what would happen if she called Trent. First they would argue. Somehow, he would turn her on the defensive. He would learn where she was. Then they would be working this case together all over again.

That’s what you want, isn’t it?
She didn’t want the fighting, or the accusations. Natasha wanted his respect. Hiding from him until he did eventually find her wouldn’t gain it for her any faster.

“I’m not hiding,” she grumbled.

It was almost five in the morning when she sat at the edge of the bed, running her fingers through her tangled hair. For maybe the hundredth time since replaying what her aunt had whispered in her ear, Natasha wondered if she hadn’t tried calling Trent yet because she didn’t want her mind messed up again. If that was the reason, it shouldn’t matter. She hadn’t called him and her head was still messed up.

Giving up on sleep, Natasha showered and made coffee. Although the coffee in the room wasn’t as good as what Sandra Burrows had offered, it did the trick. By the time Natasha was dressed, she’d started brainstorming. Suddenly it was quite clear why she hadn’t called Trent with the information she’d learned yesterday. There were still too many unanswered questions.

The first thing Trent would say was that everything she’d learned from the Burrowses was speculation. He needed hard, cold facts. Fingerprints on a dead man were hard to argue with. But maybe they could be explained. She really wished she could talk to her dad. Uncle Greg hadn’t been able to track him down after he’d called. All he was able to learn was the call came from a pay phone an hour or so south of Weaverville. Natasha had found the phone on her way to Redding. It was a pay phone at a roadside stop. There weren’t any employees or highway crew there. Anyone who might have seen her father place that call was long since gone.

Rather clever on her father’s part.

Somehow she needed to find him.

She’d worked with bounty hunters most of her adult life. Could she play the bounty hunter now and track down her father?

There was only one place she knew to look.

Chapter Ten

Natasha hadn’t expected so much snow on the ground. The truck was covered and she didn’t have a snow brush. She damn near froze to death just walking across the street to the gas station where she bought a long-handled plastic brush to get the snow off her windows and a spray can that was supposed to instantly melt any ice stuck to the windows. She also snagged a decent pair of fake leather gloves. The price was right and they fit well. She was pleased with her purchases when she jaunted back to the hotel parking lot and the snow-covered Avalanche.

By the time she had cleared the windows and used the spray to remove the ice from parts she couldn’t reach without lying across the wet hood, Natasha swore she was colder than she’d ever been in her life. Her teeth chattered noisily and she was miserable when she finally sat behind the wheel, relishing the heat pouring out of the vents.

“How does anyone adjust to this?” she stammered, clenching her teeth so they wouldn’t chatter.

People moved from warm parts of the world to cold parts of the world all the time. If they could do it, she needed to figure out how not to freeze to death as well.

“They probably buy much warmer clothing.” She stared across the street at the gas station and watched a woman pump her gas. The lady was bundled from head to toe. “I’m definitely going shopping,” she decided.

She also considered calling her uncle, getting some pointers on what to do next. As soon as she pulled out of the parking lot, she knew she wouldn’t be making any phone calls while driving today. Thank God for new tires! The roads were slick, and snow was still falling.

It should have been an hour’s drive, but it was almost noon when she rounded the corner and passed the sign announcing the unincorporated community of Acorn. She had lost almost an hour shopping for winter clothing. It had been time well spent, though. Hopefully now she wouldn’t freeze every time she stepped outside.

When she parked off the side of the road, at a small roadside stop that announced a scenic view, it dawned on her how stiff she was. The moment she’d entered Trent’s territory, her entire body had begun sizzling with anticipation. She hated how much she wanted to see him, and at the same time couldn’t wait for him to find her.

Natasha turned off the truck, glanced around, and was satisfied when she couldn’t easily see the road. Nonetheless, she bundled up with all the winter apparel she now owned, pulled her gun out of the glove box, and tucked it inside her coat. She locked everything up, walked to the road, then turned and looked toward the truck. It was visible if someone knew where to look.

Trent thought she was in L.A. Logically that meant he wouldn’t be looking for it.

“Quit thinking about him,” she ordered her brain, then wrapped her scarf around her face up to her nose, zipped up her coat, and began the walk across the highway and along the narrow booby-trapped road toward the cabin where she had thought the man who had shot at her was her father.

Her father had said he wasn’t at the cabin. But if he wasn’t there, how did he know she’d been there? It certainly hadn’t been public knowledge. Besides, she didn’t have a clue where else to look for him.

Natasha couldn’t feel her feet by the time she’d reached the hills. She’d hoped the hills would have blocked the increasing wind, but as she started the long trek, walking at the edge of the road as it curved around the rock-gutted hilly terrain, the wind seemed to pick up and create icy blasts that froze her cheeks straight through her scarf.

What kind of idiot had she been to think she could walk the distance from the road to the cabin in weather like this? An idiot from L.A. That’s what kind. Not only was she out of her element, but she also was so damn cold even in her new winter clothes she could barely remember the game plan she’d thought up while driving here from Redding. While she was in the warm truck, her plan had seemed solid. Now she wasn’t sure she had a plan at all.

The last time she’d been out here, she’d been wrapped up in Trent’s coat. It had been so warm and had smelled of him no matter where she’d turned her head and breathed. She’d felt as if he’d been wrapped around her the entire time she wore it. No matter where she’d looked, she hadn’t been able to find a coat like the one Trent had. Not that she could have bought a coat that smelled like him.

Her thoughts shifted as she walked. Natasha pulled up the memory of him kissing her at his house. Lord, did the man know how to kiss!

“Stop thinking about him,” she commanded.

She would think about Sheriff Oakley once she had enough information to challenge his pursuit of her father as a murderer and not a moment before.

Natasha realized she’d been hunched over against the wind when the sound of a car approaching behind her had her snapping to attention. She looked over her shoulder, ignoring how stiff she’d become walking in an almost doubled-over position against the wind and snow. Then, swallowing panic, she hurried away from the road, sliding on the wet ground now covered with snow, and almost fell behind the nearest rock. There were bushes but they were predominantly dry sticks sprouting up from the earth. It was a piss-poor hiding place.

Staring at the edge of the road where she’d been walking, Natasha looked in horror at her footprints, easily spotted in the snow on the ground. Holy crap! Had she left a clear trail of her footprints along the road ever since she’d started walking? How fucking discreet was that? She’d be busted in a New York second the moment anyone came driving down that road.

An old pickup truck rumbled closer. Natasha squatted lower behind the rock, unable to do anything about the footprints now. As painful as her current position was, she didn’t move or even breathe. The realization that if spotted she had nowhere to run made it hard to breathe. When she did suck in a breath, she inhaled half of her scarf and almost gagged.

A sheen of perspiration covered her skin under all of her layers of clothing, making her feel damp and itchy. Her eyes watered, but she didn’t blink. She stared at the person driving the truck. They wore a heavy coat, and gloved hands gripped the large steering wheel. Their window was partially rolled down, allowing her a glimpse of gray hair sticking out from under a ball cap. That was all she saw before the truck passed her, squeaking and rumbling, making all kinds of noises as it disappeared around the next bend.

“Five, K, three, eight, nine, three,” Natasha said out loud, focusing on the license plate until it was out of view. “California tags.” She looked down at herself, then began rummaging through her pockets. “Five, K, three, eight, nine, three. This is important. I need to remember this tag.”

She’d shoved the keys to the Avalanche in her pocket and her gun inside her coat in the inner pocket. The cold metal soaked through her gloves and she hoped she wouldn’t have to hold it for any length of time. Although if she were out here much longer it wouldn’t matter, because she’d have no feeling left in her hands anyway.