The Lawman Meets His Bride (17 page)

“Are you hiding?” His tone, muffled by the closed door, was meant to be ironic, she guessed.

Nonetheless, it also revealed confusion.

“It’s open,” she called out. She pivoted on her chair to smile at him—albeit a bit awkwardly—as he entered her room.

He wore the trousers she had given him but no shirt. For a moment, seeing the buff, sculpted torso, she felt a thrill of excitement, a tickling flutter of desire.

He met her gaze. His lips coaxed into a smile.

“You looked like a Greek goddess last night, naked in that moonlight,” he said, still standing just inside the door.

The sincerity and longing in his tone made her flush with pleasure at the compliment. But the reckless, remote glint was back in his eyes, reminding her she still had news to break to him.

It wasn’t easy to find a natural opening. He, too, had plenty to think about besides the pleasures of the bed.

She watched him cross to the west window, staying off to one side, and peek out past the curtains. He studied the yard carefully, patiently.

“Going to work?” he asked her, still watching outdoors.

“What would you suggest? I mean, until we—”

She caught herself, momentarily nonplused at how
readily she was melding their lives, as if they were a couple.

“Until you have a plan,” she corrected herself, “I thought it might be a good idea to go in to the office.”

He nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. They’re watching you, at least sometimes, and you’ve already missed a day. Best not to disrupt your normal schedule. Connie?”

“Yes?”

He turned from the window to look at her. Even in that grainy light, she thought, he’s strikingly handsome.

“Speaking of disruptions,” he said, “I really am sorry for tossing a monkey wrench into your life. I didn’t think last night would play out the way it did.”

“Yes.” She didn’t know what else to do but agree.

“Are you…sorry about last night?”

“Are you?” she returned his question in a soft voice.

He shook his head, not one sign of hesitation. “Nope, not even if you are.”

His voice seemed sincere to her, but some troublesome qualifier glinted through the smoky tint of his eyes. Either he was staring at inner demons, she thought, or he’s a superb actor. Despite plenty of experience to suggest the latter, she chose to believe it was demons.

“Quinn?” She turned to the mirror again and began brushing her hair behind her ears.

“Hmm?”

She secured her hair with silver barrettes, hands trembling slightly. “I have something to tell you.”

Something in her tone must have alerted him. She saw his face in the mirror, wary now.

“Don’t tell me you’re late?”

She laughed, but did some quick math in her head just for future reference. They sure as hell didn’t go to the drugstore the night before. She might have taken on more trouble than she knew even now.

“Look,” she blurted out awkwardly, “you need to get to Billings, right?”

“Like a shark needs the ocean, lady.”

“I—well, that is, a very good friend of mine is working on a plan for us—I mean you—”

Even in the mirror she saw the expression in his eyes turn dark and angry like a sudden squall. He took two steps toward her, and for a moment fear lanced through her.

“You told someone about me?”

“You don’t understand,” she insisted. “It’s my friend Hazel McCallum, she—”

“McCallum? The cattle rancher?”

“Yes.”

“Why not alert the media while you’re at it? Governor Collins considers that old woman to be a Western icon. He actually killed the big federal project to dam Mystery Valley as a reservoir, all on her say-so.”

“All right, and I’m telling you she’s my best friend. Quinn, she supports you. She even encouraged me to help you when I—when I expressed some doubts. She says she thinks you’re innocent.”

His eyes sought hers, then held them. “How ’bout those doubts of yours?”

“They don’t concern your innocence,” she assured him, truthful yet evasive.

He mulled everything, his face troubled. “I can use
some competent help,” he finally conceded. “When did you tell her?”

“Yesterday afternoon while you were asleep.”

“If she wanted me arrested, it would be done by now.”

“Exactly. If you have faith in me, then believe me, you can have faith in Hazel. Her word is her bond.”

“Oh, I have faith in you, all right.”

She believed him. But that troubled glint was back in his eyes. Despite the need in his soul, he seemed unable to accept what she offered. Something stood between him and happiness, some secret that plagued him like a family curse.

“We’d better have some breakfast,” she suggested. “Then I’ll call Hazel and tell her I’ll be at work if she wants to call me.”

He nodded.

She stood up, and only inches separated them.

His hands reached for her. They embraced. For a few moments, while she moved her hands in slow circles on his muscle-corded back, the exquisite memory of making love to him consumed her.

“You
would
have to be all dressed,” he complained in her ear as he kissed it until her heart was racing.

“Five more seconds of that,” she protested, gently pushing him away, “and I won’t be dressed.”

“Would that be so awful?”

His eyes and tone challenged her to deny her hunger for more pleasure. That spreading warmth was back in her loins, giving the lie to any verbal denial she might make.

“Awful?” she repeated, flashing him a demure smile. “No, and that’s precisely why I’d better not.
So tell me, are you in the mood…for apple pancakes?” she teased him.

“Wrong appetite,” he assured her. “Let’s try another.”

But she deftly ducked around him. “One thing about you men—you’re simple and direct when it comes to your loins.”

A true fencer, he parried immediately, “Would you prefer a dash of treachery and deceit?”

Resentment flared up within her instantly. She moved to the doorway, stopping to turn and glower back at him. He saw the hurt in her angry amber eyes.

“Men already provide plenty of that,” she informed him with cold precision. “I’ll fix us something to eat before I go to work.”

Willing herself to concentrate on business, not on Quinn Loudon, Constance opened the real-estate office promptly at nine o’clock.

Ginny took every Tuesday morning off to volunteer as a teacher’s aide at her daughter’s elementary school in nearby Whiteford Township. Constance was grateful she was gone—she was in no mood to explain a still-unfolding situation she couldn’t even grasp herself, let alone make clear to someone else.

For about forty-five minutes she actually succeeded in proofreading copy for some local listings she had sent to a real-estate magazine that served Colfax County. Her calendar included a ten o’clock appointment to show a place out on Indian School Road—a beautiful five-bedroom log home with a wraparound porch.

She locked up the office at 9:45, grateful she had worn her long wool coat—it was cold outside and
getting colder. She watched each breath form airborne ghosts as she walked out to the car.

If Ulrick or anyone else was following her, she couldn’t spot them as she left the outskirts of Mystery Township. She bore south on the winding two-lane asphalt road that led to a vocational-skills school for the Flathead Indian tribe.

A car already waited in the cul-de-sac out front when Constance arrived at the house. Stuart Beals and his wife stood on the porch, looking cold and miserable despite their ridiculously heavy winter coats, scarves, and gloves.

Beals, a Southerner, had evidently done well for himself in the restaurant-equipment business. Now he desired a second home out West. She had picked up bad vibes from him over the phone, especially his tendency toward one-upmanship.

Constance escorted them through the place, pointing out such features as the gorgeous custom mill-work throughout, custom built-in bookcases, the large breakfast area with built-in buffet.

Despite her sleep deprivation, momentary memories of last night, in bed with Quinn, abruptly energized her body and mind. But recalling his searing kisses and touch also lent an absurd feel to her professional patter.

“As you can see,” she told them, escorting them into the huge den, “this room has lots of windows and bookcases.”

“Awfully tall ceiling,” Stuart Beals pointed out. He was middle-aged, florid-faced from the cold outside, a prissy, nondescript little man who wielded his success like a bludgeon. Pamela Beals, in stark contrast, was gracious and self-effacing, quick to smile.

“Ceilings this high,” Beals added, “cost a small fortune to heat in winter.”

Constance tried to stay focused on the here and now. Again, however, she saw torrid images from last night, felt Quinn’s hands under her chemise, firing her body like a kiln.

“You…you might be pleasantly surprised about that,” Constance managed to assure him. She pointed at twin skylights. “Those are solar-assist panels. Notice how we can’t see our breath in this room even though the heat is off? The master bedroom has them, too.”

During all this, Pamela Beals had been gazing through the windows at the terraced garden out back, complete with a three-tier marble fountain.

“I just love that gazebo, Stuart,” she interjected. “It’s two stories. Isn’t that cute?”

Constance watched him send his wife a warning glance. It was a look she’d noticed often in the real-estate game. Prospective buyers like Beals felt compelled to engage in certain rituals of bargaining. One was the maxim:
Never show too much enthusiasm; they’ll jack up the price.

“A gazebo,” Beals announced primly, “means much less to me than proximity to a good golf course.”

It was hard to be focused and professional when her calves were going weak at the memory. In her mind’s eye Constance felt Quinn’s fingers coaxing her open.
I can feel how much you want me….

All at once she realized both of them were watching her with expectant faces, waiting for her to say something…. oh, right, golf.

“Valley Greens is only fifteen minutes from here,”
Constance somehow managed to point out. “Eighteen holes with a full-service restaurant and clubhouse.”

“What about tennis courts?” he demanded.

“There’s several at the park downtown.”

“Clay or asphalt?” he forged on.

“I’m really not sure,” she confessed, not giving a tinker’s damn.

Beals sent his wife a smug glance.
See there? Caught her, didn’t I?

“The schools in this township, elementary and secondary, rate among the highest in the nation,” she informed them. “I have the exact ranking at my office along with official crime statistics and a climatology report.”

“Best way to tell the weather,” he lectured her, “is to step outside.”

Go fly a kite, she thought, taking furtive pleasure at her urge to actually say those words to him.

Afterward, as Constance locked the house back up, Stuart Beals cleared his throat officiously.

“Well, the place seems…adequate, although I feel that it’s a bit overvalued. Anyway, we have another listing to check out. It’s with Arthur Keegan’s agency. We’ll be in touch.”

She said nothing, fighting to keep a straight face. Keegan’s so-called real-estate company, located in Antelope Wells clear across the valley, was a hold-over from the frontier land-swindle days. Arthur Keegan often appeared in gaudy and loud local TV commercials, wearing a Stetson and a sequined ranch suit, awkwardly twirling a lariat. “Podnahs, lasso your dream home at Artie Keegan’s real-estate corral!”

It was easy, this morning, to quickly push all that from her thoughts. She was halfway back to town, the
screen of her mind again filling with images from last night, when her cell phone chirred.

Her heart jumped, for any call right now could mean trouble. Or Hazel with a plan of action. Even though her own chief contribution to the day had been to immerse herself in erotic fantasies.

“Hello?”

“It’s me, Connie.”

“Hazel, hi. Have you run your traps?”

“Did my best. I think I can help you get Quinn to Billings. But I have to admit, this manhunt is heap big doings. Eluding all of it will not be a trip to Santa’s lap.”

Constance felt her mouth go dry as cotton. So even Hazel could not control the unfolding drama. I could be in some serious legal trouble, she realized. Maybe I
will
lose my Realtor’s license….

“Connie? Still there?”

“Yes,” she managed to say.

“I think I know how you can get around the main roadblock where Highway 17 leaves Mystery Valley. After that, though, you two will be on your own.”

Now that the time had arrived for action, Constance felt fear tighten her scalp. “Maybe this isn’t such a brilliant idea, Hazel. Maybe—”

“They always talk who never think,” Hazel cut her off impatiently. “What, would you rather just throw Quinn to the wolves?”

“Of course not, it’s just…I’m scared, Hazel. It’s so risky.”

“Honey,
life
is a risk. If you believe all the nervous Nellies out there, we’d all live forever if we could just avoid this risk or that. But most of their whining
is fraidy-cat hogwash. Ultimately, the death rate is always one per person, risks or no risks.”

Constance laughed. “You’re a cracker-barrel philosopher, Hazel, and a good one. You’re right.”

“I usually am,” Hazel reminded her without a trace of modesty. “Connie, I don’t want you to be stupid. But don’t be afraid to take a worthwhile risk. You do believe Quinn, right?”

She hesitated before answering, unable to shake her memory of that trouble glint in his eyes. Nonetheless, she still had faith in his innocence.

“Yes,” she finally replied.

“Nuff said. I’ll meet with both of you at your place later. Is your house being watched?”

“I’m not sure.”

“We’ll assume it is,” Hazel decided. “It’s just a chance we’ll have to take.”

“I don’t want you to take any of the chances, Hazel. This isn’t your problem—”

The old woman cut her off in her gruff fashion. “This involves Mystery, Connie Adams, so it sure as hell is my problem. So I’ll explain my plan when I see you. Meantime, you be careful.”