Stranger in Cold Creek (18 page)

Randall nodded and made the call on the way out of John's house.

As John locked up behind him, his cell phone rang. A shudder of relief ran through him as he saw Miranda's name on the display. “Miranda,” he answered. “I'm so glad—”

“I know,” she interrupted quickly, her voice cheerful. “I know we agreed to meet at your place, but I've gotten sidetracked here at the house.”

John froze on the top step of the porch. They certainly had not agreed to meet at his place.

But before he could respond, she continued in the same overly bright tone. “Could you come here instead?”

“Of course.” He tamped down the flood of dread washing over him and tried to keep his voice normal, in case someone else was listening on her end of the line. “I can be there in five minutes or so.”

“I'll be waiting.” She hung up without saying goodbye.

John forced his shaky legs down the steps and across the yard to where Randall was waiting by the truck. The sheriff took one look at John's face and asked, “What's happened?”

“Miranda just called,” John said bleakly. “And I'm pretty sure she's not home alone.”

* * *

“G
OOD
JOB
,
SUGAR
.”
Del McClintock's deceptively friendly drawl sent ripples of revulsion down Miranda's spine, but she made sure it didn't show. “He's on his way?”

“Should be here soon.” She was sitting beside him on the sofa, trying to look anywhere but at the side table just a foot away from her, where her M&P 40 was currently hidden from view.

McClintock had traded out his rifle, which now lay propped against the wall by the fireplace within easy reach, for a large deer-hunting knife that looked lethally sharp. Could she get to the pistol before he could sink the knife into her back and give it a fatal twist?

She wasn't ready to risk finding out. Not yet, anyway.

She'd given John a clue that everything wasn't normal, but had he understood her? His voice had sounded a little tight at the end, but not so strange that she could be certain he'd gotten the message.

“Why is this so important to you?” Miranda asked as the silence in the room stretched painfully tight. “From what John told me, you did a real number on him, not the other way around.”

“He told you about Nicki Jamison, didn't he?”

“No,” she lied.

“Sure he did. How else would your buddy Coy have known to give me a ring when he figured out who your boyfriend really was?”

“He's not my boyfriend. And Coy's not my buddy. And I don't know how he figured out who John really was.”

“Not really of that much interest to me, to tell you the truth,” Del said with a shrug. “All I care about is finding him. So I owe ol' Coy a big thank-you.”

“I can take you to him and you can thank him in person.”

“No, that's all right.” He flashed a mean smile at her. “He sure ain't real fond of you, though, sugar. What did you do to get on his bad side?”

“Well, today I arrested him for murder,” she answered flatly.

The sound of a vehicle slowing on the highway outside broke through the tension, and Del rose to his feet, grabbing Miranda's arm. He tugged her with him, and she went without a struggle, dropping her hand to the side-table drawer pull as she trailed behind him. The drawer opened just wide enough to reach her hand inside if she got the chance.

But Del didn't allow her the chance, giving her a sharp tug as her feet tangled in the throw rug. “Watch it,” he warned, shoving the tip of his knife blade under her nose.

She got her feet under control and stayed close as he flicked the front window curtains open just far enough to see the dark blue Ford pickup truck pulling into the driveway to park next to Miranda's truck.

Beside her, Del McClintock laughed softly, excitement bright in his eyes.

“Showtime, sugar,” he said.

Chapter Eighteen

“He's in there,” John said quietly. “He's at the front window and I'd bet he has Miranda with him.”

Randall looked up at him from the floorboard of the truck cab, grimacing. “I'm too old to stay in this position long.”

“I know. Just let me get inside and I can distract him.” John opened the truck door, leaving his keys in the ignition. The truck's rhythmic warning bell grated on his nerves and he closed the door quickly behind him to stop the noise.

There was a chance Del McClintock would take a shot at him as soon as he opened the door. That's why he'd agreed to don the lightweight Kevlar vest the sheriff had offered him before they left John's house. It might not save him, but it could keep him on his feet long enough to save Miranda.

At least, he hoped so.

He took the porch steps two at a time and knocked on the door, trying to anticipate what would happen.

McClintock would send Miranda to the door. Could he pull her out and shield her with his body until Randall could get out of the truck?

No. Too big a risk. Miranda could be caught in the cross fire too easily.

The door opened. As he expected, Miranda stood in the doorway. “Hey, there,” she said with a weak smile. “I thought you'd never get here.”

“You know me. Can't keep me away.”

Her smile faded, and she took a step backward, her eyes shifting hard to her left, where the open door must be shielding McClintock from sight. “Come in.”

She stepped back as he entered, and he grabbed her, giving her a hard shove away from the door with his left hand as he grabbed his Ruger from the holster at his waist, slamming the door with his elbow to reveal McClintock hiding behind the door.

The other man was caught off guard, but only for a second. As John brought up his pistol, Del swept his hand up toward John's hand. John caught a glint of metal just before the blade sliced into his arm above his wrist, sending pain shrieking up to his shoulder. His grip on the Ruger went slack and the pistol fell to the floor with a clatter.

A second wave of agony raced through his rattled nervous system when McClintock pulled out the knife and dove for the Ruger. John forced his sluggish reflexes into action and he drove his knee into McClintock's chin, sending his head snapping back before he could reach the errant pistol.

He kicked the pistol out of reach and dodged McClintock's furious swipe of the knife toward his leg.

“Back away, John!” Miranda's voice broke through the cacophony of pain and adrenaline raging in his brain, and he stumbled backward, looking for her.

She stood a few feet away, holding her M&P 40 aimed at McClintock's heart. “Drop the knife,” she said in a low, deadly voice.

McClintock looked up at her, his shaggy hair in his eyes. A slow smile spread across his face, half hidden by his beard. “I do like a lady who knows how to handle a gun,” he said, letting the knife fall to the floor in front of him with a clatter.

“Kick it over here,” she ordered.

“Do it,” John growled as McClintock hesitated. He didn't know if he could be much good to her if McClintock made a move. His right arm was nearly useless. Blood had already soaked most of the bottom half of his sweater sleeve and was dripping into a puddle at his feet.

McClintock had risen to a crouch and gave the knife a sideways kick. Then, suddenly, he grabbed John by the bad arm and dug his fingers into the wound, driving John to his knees.

John took a swing at him with his good hand, but McClintock had already moved, diving for the Ruger.

He came up with it before John could tackle him, swinging the barrel toward Miranda.

Instinct made John want to grapple with him, but he ignored it and fell back, out of the cross fire.

A gun barked. He wasn't sure, at first, which of them had fired, until McClintock hit the floor face-first. The Ruger fell to the floor again and skittered away.

John turned to look at Miranda, terror squeezing the breath from his lungs. Only when he saw her standing tall, her pistol still aimed at McClintock's prone body, could he breathe again.

He heard footsteps on the porch outside. At the same moment, Miranda swung her pistol toward the door.

“Don't!” John held up his hands. “It's the sheriff.”

He pushed to his feet and opened the door with the only hand that still worked. “Situation under control,” he said quickly as the sheriff looked ready to enter with his gun drawn.

Randall looked around quickly, assessing the situation with one sweep of his sharp eyes. He holstered his pistol and nodded at John's bloody arm. “Gunshot?”

“Stab wound.” His legs were starting to feel rubbery, he realized.

Randall radioed in the situation and called for paramedics as Miranda hurried to John's side and led him over to the closest armchair.

“I'm bleeding on your rug,” he said. His tongue felt thick and his head was starting to swim.

“I can get a new rug,” she said and started to cry.

* * *

“I
T
LOOKS
WORSE
than it really is,” the doctor told Miranda a couple of hours later in the waiting room of the Plainview Memorial ER. “It missed any major veins or arteries, and the nerve damage appears minimal. He might have minor numbness in his fingers for a month or two, but everything should return to normal after that.”

She took a deep breath. “Good. Thank you.”

“It didn't require surgery. We just stitched him up and bandaged the wound. I told him he should keep it in a sling for at least a week. Two would be better. He doesn't need to use it much for eight to ten days, and frankly, he's not going to want to.”

“Is he in a lot of pain?” she asked, afraid to hear the answer.

“More than he needs to be. He's refusing anything but ibuprofen.”

Of course he was. “Can I see him?”

“We tried to talk him into staying overnight, just because he lost a decent amount of blood and his blood pressure is a little low, but he declined, so we're letting him go. He's being checked out right now, and an orderly will bring him out in a wheelchair in just a moment.”

“Thank you.” She smiled at the doctor as he walked away.

Her father had been waiting with her. He held out his hand to her as she returned to the seat beside him. “Good news?”

She nodded. “He's going to be okay. They're about to release him.”

“He's going home with you?”

“My place is a crime scene. I'll take him to his place and stay with him there instead.” She smiled at the look in her father's eyes. “If I can convince him to let me.”

Gil smiled. “Piece of cake.”

“I need to check in with the sheriff.” Eyeing the no–cell phones sign on the wall, she headed for the nearby exit and made her call from outside.

Randall answered on the first ring. “What's the news?”

She told him what the ER doctor had said. “I'm going to try to talk him in to letting me stay with him, at least until we can give our formal statements.”

“I've been getting calls from his boss since I got back into the office, wanting an update. Apparently Blake's not answering his phone.”

That was because it was out in her truck, locked in the glove compartment. “Tell him what I told you. I'm sure John will call him back as soon as he gets settled at home.”

“You've had a hell of a day today, Duncan. I think you ought to take another couple of days off, let all the dust settle. We're going to be dealing with the fallout from Coy's mess anyway. Better for you to stay clear of that until it's sorted out.”

“I'm not going to argue this time,” she said. Movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she turned to see a female orderly pushing John into the waiting room in a wheelchair. “John's coming out now. I'll be in touch.”

John pushed himself up as soon as the wheelchair rolled to a stop, swaying a little but regaining his balance before Miranda reached his side. His right arm was in a sling, and he looked a little pale and glassy-eyed with pain, but he managed a slight smile as she wrapped her arm around his waist and draped his left arm over her shoulder. “Hey, there.”

She smiled back at him. “‘Hey, there' to you, too.”

“Mr. Duncan.” He nodded at Miranda's father.

“Gil,” her father said firmly. “Seeing as how you've saved my girl's life three times now.”

“She saved me,” John said firmly, giving Miranda a look that turned her insides to fire.

“She's got a way of doin' that,” her father agreed, giving her a different sort of look but one that left her feeling nearly as warm. “She wants to stay with you at your place, and I reckon you ought to let her, because if you don't, she'll just park outside your house and sleep in her truck.”

“Daddy.”

He grinned at her. “Reckon he ought to know who he's dealing with.”

He stayed with John while she went to the parking lot for her truck. After helping John into the passenger seat and closing the door, he gave a wave and a smile, patting the side of the truck to tell her it was safe to go.

“He's a good man,” John murmured.

“I know.”

“I'm not going to argue if you want to stay at my place for a few days.” His voice softened. “Or weeks.”

She glanced at him, but his eyes were closed and his head lolled against the headrest as if he had already fallen asleep.

“I thought they didn't give you the good drugs,” she murmured.

He didn't answer.

He woke quickly enough when she got him back to his place, however, and managed to unbuckle his seat belt on his own by the time she opened the passenger door. He stumbled a little getting out but made it into the house without having to lean on her.

“Oh, I forgot.” She got him safely seated on his sofa and went back outside, returning a few minutes later with his phone. “Sheriff Randall said your boss has been trying to call you.”

John groaned and took the phone, checking the missed calls. “Guess I should call him.”

While he was talking to Alexander Quinn, Miranda went into the kitchen in search of some fluids. Even without hitting any major veins or arteries, he'd bled enough to deplete some of the fluids in his body. Rehydration would make him feel better quickly.

She returned to the living room with a large glass of apple juice from his refrigerator. She gave it to him after he laid his phone on the coffee table in front of him. “Did you get everything settled with Quinn?”

“Not everything,” he said, taking a couple of big gulps of the apple juice. “Thanks. I needed that.”

“What do you mean, not everything?” She sat next to him.

“Well, he was very happy about McClintock, but the sheriff had already caught him up on all of that.” John winced as he shifted his injured arm so that he could turn to face her. “But he was a little surprised when I told him I might not be heading back east, even though it should be safe for me to do so now.”

“Oh? You're not going back there?” She tried to not read anything into his words, but her heart had started pounding like a jackhammer.

“I'm not.”

“Why's that?”

He tipped up her chin, forcing her to look at him. What she saw in his warm hazel eyes did nothing to slow her racing heart. “I guess maybe I'm in a Texas state of mind these days.”

“The ol' Lone Star worked its magic?” she asked with a smile.

“
You
worked your magic.” He bent until his forehead touched hers. “If you want to tell me I'm crazy, I wouldn't blame you. I know you're a practical kind of woman, and I swear, I usually am a practical kind of guy, too.” His eyes closed and his voice softened to a murmur. “But I don't think I can leave you.”

Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them away. “Good. Because I'm not against using force to keep you here.”

His eyes snapped open and he laughed. “So you don't think I'm crazy?”

“Oh, no, I never said that.” She grinned at him, feeling about a thousand pounds lighter. Her heart was still beating wildly, but it was joy, not fear, that drove its cadence. “I think we're both crazy. Because if you hadn't wanted to stay here, I was going to do my damnedest to talk you in to taking me with you.”

He kissed her, lightly at first, then with a fierce hunger that made her head swim. When he pulled away, she had to hold on to his good arm to keep from sliding to the floor.

“You wouldn't have had to work very hard,” he said with a laugh.

“I should warn you, despite my considerable skills as a law enforcement officer, I'm not exactly known for my feminine wiles.”

“I think your feminine wiles are outstanding,” he murmured as he slid his hand over the curve of her hip and bent to kiss the side of her neck. She tugged him closer but made the mistake of clutching his injured arm. He made a hissing sound against her throat and she drew back, horrified.

“I'm so sorry! See what I mean?”

He touched her face. “I'm not exactly known for my way with women, either, so clearly, we're made for each other.”

She smiled. “Clearly.”

“Of course, you're going to have to teach me a few things about living in Texas,” he warned, threading his fingers through her hair and drawing her close again.

“Such as what?”

“Such as how to deal with all this flat land as far as the eye can see.”

“It grows on you.”

“And where I'm going to find a job to support us and our eight children.”

She drew back in horror. “Eight?”

“Not enough?” he asked with a laugh.

“We'll negotiate that point later. And as for a job—there's always the hardware store. Dad's been wanting to hire someone to take over for him when he retires, you know.”