Run Wild (24 page)

“I’ve got to have some way to write this down.” No matter how many times she searched her pockets, she didn’t find paper or pen.

“Damn it!” she swore, then continued repeating the tag number, forcing it to memory as she came out of her hiding place.

A few more hills went by with her now distracted. She continued mumbling the tag number out loud, positive if anyone were to spot her they would think her a lunatic lost on some back road. Which, she thought morbidly to herself, wasn’t far from the truth.

“Five, K, three, eight, nine, three,” she murmured softly, watching the end of the hill as the road curved around it. “God. Finally.”

The cabin appeared before her, this time with smoke curling out of its chimney. It didn’t look any more homey with a fire going inside, although the thought of warming in front of it had Natasha wanting to run across the uneven and overgrown terrain between her and the front door.

The truck was parked in front of the cabin. She immediately recited the tag number as she stared at the tag. And, at the same time, despised whoever had driven it out here because they were inside and warm and she was outside, frozen.

Now wasn’t the time for pity parties. Natasha hesitated at the curve in the road, studying the cabin, as well as the dense trees that grew up along the steep hills surrounding the old structure. She’d come this far. If she stood there complaining about the weather and how her fingers and toes burned, she would distract herself from her reasoning for doing this.

If her father was here, she needed to talk to him. There was no way to tell who was inside the cabin. But at least Natasha had the saving grace of knowing anyone inside couldn’t see outside any better than she could see in. The two windows on either side of the door were impossible to see through. Since none of the panes were broken, she almost wondered if they hadn’t intentionally been darkened to increase privacy inside.

It was time to brainstorm, figure out a definite plan of action. Ignore the fierce wind, she instructed herself.
Don’t worry about what parts of your body burn. You’ll be fine once you thaw out later.
And she hoped she’d also have more information. Enough to take it to Trent.

Focus.
For years she’d navigated bounty hunters around L.A. She’d sat in on brainstorming sessions, listened as the rest of her family plotted how to approach a house or abandoned building and flush out a criminal on the run. This was her area of expertise and she wouldn’t blotch it up by sudden panic attacks or letting the weather get to her.

She would never live it down if she couldn’t pull off finding out if the person who drove the pickup truck, which was parked in front of her, was her father. And, if so, if he was inside the small cabin, which was also in front of her, it wouldn’t take much to find out. It didn’t get much simpler than this.

Heavy, low-hanging gray clouds prevented the sun from even peeking down on her, which at least meant no shadows. She would ride with the good and not let anything bad get to her. No shadows prevented her from seeing things that weren’t really there through the trees. A clear head helped assure her there wasn’t much to be frightened of; the worst that could happen was Trent discovering she came back out here alone. And she could handle his dominating, aggressive nature. In fact, she looked forward to it.

Or the worst that could happen was the man wasn’t her father, and he might shoot at her again. What if he didn’t miss this time?

She shoved that thought out of her head. She was armed, too, and a damn good shot. Something had compelled her to come back to this cabin and she had to learn what it was.

There had only been one person in the truck. If there were more than a couple people inside the cabin she would hear them talking. They didn’t know she was out here. All she had to do was get closer and figure out a way to see inside.

Natasha wouldn’t dwell on walking back to her truck. She wouldn’t think about the weather. She tugged on her coat, reached underneath it, and adjusted her gun so it was easy access. Then, sprinting across the open area to the side of the cabin, she stopped between tall pines and the cabin wall and inched as close to the splinter-filled logs as she dared.

She had to adjust her scarf in order to hear really well. There weren’t any sounds inside, but the cold didn’t seem to be bothering her anymore. After waiting a moment, listening to her surroundings, Natasha stepped gingerly around to the front of the cabin and the door. The doorknob turned easily. Natasha pulled her gun. Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside and aimed—at a dark, empty room.

“Where did he go?” She turned in a full circle, her arm extended and the safety off, aiming at the empty room. There wasn’t anywhere to hide.

Minutes ago she would have done anything to stand in front of that fire. Now she gave it one look, then dashed through the back escape hatch they’d found the other day.

Natasha ran up the hill, her gun still drawn and giving her strength as she sprinted, dodging dangerous-looking rocks and small bushes that looked as if they could instigate a nasty fall. By the time she reached the top of the hill, all she could hear was her breathing.

She stripped off her scarf, letting it dangle down her front, and searched her surroundings. Someone was hurrying back toward the cabin not too far from her. Natasha half-ran, half-slid back down the hill. It was the gray hair under the ball cap, the size of the incredibly tall, broad-shouldered man as he moved at twice her speed with his long, thick legs, that assured her this time, more so than before, she’d found her father.

The man reached his truck and jumped inside. The engine was roaring to life when Natasha came to a halt at the edge of the cabin.

“Dad, please!” she cried out, so out of breath she could barely get her voice to carry.

Headlights turned on and beamed right at her. She was blinded. Forcing herself to remain calm, she moved away from the cabin, taking one steady step at a time, heading toward the truck. She held up her arm, shielding herself from the headlights.

“Dad!” She yelled louder this time. “Just talk to me, damn it. Then I’ll go away.”

She hesitated when the engine revved loudly as whoever sat behind the wheel floored the accelerator. Natasha wasn’t scared. She didn’t have any doubts this time. But she was confused. Her sharp-dressing, smooth-talking, always-smiling father was definitely out of character.

“Get in the truck.”

Natasha jumped at the sound of her father’s voice but then hustled to obey. She made it around the side of the truck, pulled on the frozen metal, and felt her hand burn through her glove. The door opened with a loud squeak. Natasha didn’t care what he was driving. She looked into her father’s light brown eyes, the original color hers had evolved from, and felt that same warm happiness she’d always experienced when her dad came around.

“You shouldn’t have come out here.” George King’s smile faded, although he didn’t look upset. “And how did you come out here?” Suddenly the happiness over seeing her faded and her father looked at her, alarmed. “Tell me the sheriff isn’t hiding close watching you.”

Natasha slid into the seat and pulled the truck door closed, giving it a good slam to make it latch. “No, Dad. No one knows where I am. No one at all.”

“Probably for the best,” he said. “But for crying out loud, Natasha. Why are you chasing your old man around? You do know I’m wanted for murder. I’ll be goddamned if they take you down with me.”

“Calm down, Dad.” Natasha had managed to stuff her gun inside her coat and now reached for her father’s large hands. As always, they were strong, warm, and comforting when she slid her hands against his palms. “That is why I’m here, why I’ve been going nuts trying to find you. I know you didn’t kill anyone. But Dad, I can help you. I promise. I’ll get this all straightened out.”

Her father squeezed her hands in his. The ornery, happy glow that was always there in eyes wasn’t there this time. Natasha imagined he was under more stress living out this nightmare than he’d ever experienced before. She wanted to scoot across the seat, wrap her arms around his neck, and feel his thick, strong arms pull her into one of his incredible bear hugs. He kept a firm hold on her hands, though, so she did her best to squeeze back.

“You always were my perfect child,” he said, and sounded sad. “I told your uncle to tell you I wasn’t here. I guess he didn’t give you the message.”

Natasha shoved her scarf away from her neck. For an old truck, the heater cranked out heat pretty well. Suddenly her coat was too heavy and her scarf itched against her skin.

“He gave it to me, Dad. I figured you were sending me a coded message, or something. Otherwise, how would you have known I had been here?”

Something crossed over his face, concern? Fear? It vanished as she stared at him, but his relaxed expression was gone. Her father looked at her with pinched features. Natasha frowned, unable to remember when he’d last looked so strained.

“I’ll get this all straightened out, Dad,” she promised, and managed to free one of her hands from his. She reached for his face in an effort to stroke his cheek, brush the worry lines away. “Let’s start from the beginning. Or better yet, tell me who really killed Carl Williams.”

“I killed him, Natasha. There’s nothing to straighten out.”

*   *   *

Trent headed around the curve, slowing as he did. The snow was starting to stick to the road, and even the meadow grass alongside the road had patches of snow around it. According to the forecast, they were going to have more snow into next week. It seemed to start earlier and earlier each year lately. Trent kept his speed limit down, realizing he’d have to go out to Trinity Ranch again, possibly today, just to take another real good look around the place. Once the snow kicked in full force any evidence they might have possibly overlooked would be buried and gone.

Another car approached going a bit too fast for Trent’s taste. Maybe he should snap his light bar on top of his Suburban for the winter, especially if jerks like this were going to go flying around sharp curves when the roads were slick.

Ethel Burrows looked at him wide-eyed and slowed fast enough that her cream-colored Lexus fishtailed. She gave him a big toothy smile and waved as she passed. Trent scowled but raised one of his hands off the steering wheel. It was his father’s wave. Trent realized that. A simple lift of the hand, palm facing out, fingers together with the wrist firm. Oakley men didn’t do floppy waves while driving.

He glanced in his rearview mirror as Ethel disappeared around the curve. The woman was pregnant and out joyriding in that Lexus of hers. Although she was in her early forties, there was quite a wild side to the new Mrs. Burrows. Trent didn’t need anyone to tell him that was probably what Jim liked best out of her. Even with her starting to show, Ethel could turn heads. Trent would predict she went out of her way to make sure she did turn heads, and probably had every ranch hand employed by her husband privately drooling over her. It was a damn shame her husband didn’t keep a closer eye on her. Ethel’s driving would get her in trouble, if not worse.

Slowing until he was well under the speed limit, Trent argued with himself about turning around, pulling over the new Mrs. Burrows, and giving her a warning. If she got snappy with him, he wouldn’t have a problem writing her a ticket. She was a grown woman and shouldn’t need to be taught lessons. Apparently, being married to someone who was a good twenty years older than she was made her feel as if she were a child again and needed to act like one.

Trent wasn’t in the mood for spoiled rich bitches, married for money or not. He didn’t care; the attitude was still there. Ethel didn’t come from blood any better than his. Then a thought hit him.

Trent had just come from a visit with MaryAnn Piney, who was at least eighty years old and barely remembered having leased that safe-deposit box. Trent had spent the first thirty minutes he’d been at her house just explaining why he’d come for a visit.

Trent looked at his rearview mirror again. Ethel wouldn’t have been hauling ass out here in the middle of nowhere because she was racing to check on her aunt. Wait a minute—make that her great-aunt. Ethel was headed in the direction toward MaryAnn’s small ranch house. Trent dismissed the idea before giving it much more thought. Ethel hadn’t ever struck him as the concerned, motherly type. If somehow word had reached her that the sheriff was out interrogating her great-aunt, Trent couldn’t imagine Ethel hurrying out to make sure the old woman was okay.

He could, though, imagine Ethel helping herself to property or unused safe-deposit boxes that belonged to her great-aunt. Now that was definitely something to give more thought to. Ethel might race to her great-aunt to do damage control. She would want to make sure her aunt told her everything said to the sheriff, if she had done something without her great-aunt knowing about it. Maybe he should turn around and find out where Ethel was headed.

“What the fuck?” This time Trent fishtailed when he slammed on the brakes and stared at the back end of a black Avalanche, pulled off the road where he’d planned on turning around. A flood of emotions hit Trent as hard as if he’d just slammed into a brick wall.

The tracking device in Natasha’s purse showed she was in L.A. She’d washed her hands of her father and this case the last time Trent had seen her. He had her license plate number committed to memory. Or, he corrected himself, her uncle’s tag number memorized. Maybe she hadn’t been the one to drive back up here.