Disclosure: The McCaffertys

  “Right. Rustic. And quaint.” She shook her head.

  “This used to be the gatekeeper’s house when this area was actively being logged,” he explained.

  “And now?” She stepped out of the Jeep and her boots sank in the soggy loam of the forest floor.

  “It’s been a while since the cabin’s been inhabited.”

  “A long while, I’d guess. Come on, baby, it’s time to check out our new digs.” She hauled Joshua in his carrier up creaky porch steps as Kurt, with the aid of a flashlight and another key, opened a door that creaked as it swung inward.

  Kurt tried a light switch. Nothing. Just a loud click. “Juice isn’t turned on, I guess.”

  “Fabulous.”

  He found a lantern and struck a match. Immediately the room was flooded with a soft golden glow that couldn’t hide the dust, cobwebs and general malaise of the place. The floor was scarred fir, the ceiling pine was stained where rainwater had seeped inside and it smelled of must and years of neglect.

  “Home sweet home,” she cracked.

  “For the time being.” But Kurt was already stalking through the small rooms, running his flashlight along the floor and ceiling. “We won’t have electricity, but we’ll manage.”

  “So no hot water, light or heat.”

  “But a woodstove and lanterns. We’ll be okay.”

  “What about a bathroom?”

  He shook his head. “There’s an old pump on the porch and, if you’ll give me a minute—” he looked in a few cupboards and closets before coming up with a bucket “—voila! An old fashioned Porta Potti.”

  “Give me a break,” she muttered.

  “Come on, you’re a McCafferty. Rustic living should be a piece of cake.”

  “Let me give you a clue, Striker. This is waaaay beyond rustic.”

  “I heard you were a tomboy growing up.”

  “Slade talks too much.”

  “Probably. But you used to camp all the time.”

  “In the summers. I was twelve or thirteen.”

  “It’s like riding a bike. You never forget how.”

  “We’ll see.” But she didn’t complain as they hauled in equipment that had been loaded into the Jeep. Sleeping bags, canned goods, a cooler for fresh food, cooking equipment, paper plates, propane stove, towels and toilet paper. “You thought this through.”

  “I just told Eric to pack the essentials.”

  “What about a phone?”

  “Our cells should work.”

  Scrounging in her purse, she found her phone, yanked it out and turned it on. The backlit message wasn’t encouraging. “Looking for service,” she read aloud, and watched as the cell failed to find a signal. “Hopefully yours is stronger.”

  He flashed her a grin that seemed to sizzle in the dim light. “I already checked. It works.”

  “So what about a phone jack to link up my laptop?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Looks like you’re out of luck unless you’ve got one of those wireless hookups.”

  “Not a prayer.”

  “Then you’ll have to be out of touch for a while.”

  “Great,” she muttered. “I don’t suppose it matters that I could lose my job over this.”

  “Better than your life.”

  She was about to reply, when the baby began to cry. Quickly, Randi mixed formula with some of the bottled water she’d brought, then pulled off dust cloths from furniture that looked as if it was in style around the end of World War II. Joshua was really cranking it up by the time Randi plopped herself into a rocking chair and braced herself for the sound of scurrying feet as mice skittered out from the old cushions. Fortunately, as she settled into the chair, no protesting squeaks erupted, nor did any little scurrying rodent make a mad dash to the darker corners. With the baby’s blanket wrapped around him, she fed her son and felt a few seconds’ relaxation as his wails subsided and he ate hungrily from the bottle. There was a peace to holding her baby, a calm that kept her fears and worries at bay. He looked up at her as he ate, and in those precious, bonding moments, she never once doubted that her affair with Sam Donahue was worth every second of her later regrets.

  Kurt was busy checking the flue, starting a fire in an antique-looking woodstove. Once the fire was crackling, he rocked back on his heels and dusted his hands. She tried not to notice how his jacket stretched at the shoulders or the way his jeans fit snug around his hips and buttocks. Nor did she want to observe that his hair fell in an unruly lock over his forehead, or that his cheekbones were strong enough to hint at some long-forgotten Native American heritage.

  He was too damn sexy for his own good.

  As if sensing her watching him, he straightened slowly and she was given a bird’s-eye view of his long back as he stretched, then walked to a black beat-up leather case and unzipped it. Out came a laptop computer complete with wireless connection device.

  He glanced over his shoulder, his green eyes glinting in amusement.

  “You could have said something,” she charged.

  “And miss seeing you get ticked off? No way. But this isn’t the be-all and end-all. I have one extra battery. No more. Since there’s no electricity here, the juice won’t last forever.”

  “Wonderful,” she said, lifting her baby to her shoulder and gently rubbing his back.

  “It’s better than nothing.”

  “Can I use it?”

  “For a small fee,” he said as the corners of his mouth twitched.

  “You are so full of it.”

  “Wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

  “You never do, Striker.”

  “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

  Joshua gave a loud burp. “There we go, big guy,” she whispered as she spread his blanket on a pad and changed his diaper. The baby kicked and gurgled, his eyes bright in the firelight. “Oh, you’re full of the devil, aren’t you?” She played with him a few more minutes until he yawned and sighed. Randi held him and swayed a little as he nodded off. She couldn’t imagine what life would have been like without this precious little boy. She kissed his soft crown, and as his breathing became regular and his head heavy, she placed him upon the makeshift crib of blankets and pillows, then glanced around the stark, near-empty cabin. “We really are in the middle of no-darned-where.”

  “That was the general idea.”

  She ran a finger through the dust on an old scarred table. “No electricity, no indoor plumbing, no television, radio or even any good books lying around.”

  “I guess we’ll just have to make do and find some way to amuse ourselves.” His expression was positively wicked, his eyes glittering with amusement. That he could find even the tiniest bit of humor in this vile situation was something, she thought, though she didn’t like the way her throat caught when he stared at her, nor the way blood went rushing through her veins as he cocked an arrogant eyebrow.

  “I think we’ll do just fine,” she said, hoping to sound frosty when, in fact, her voice was more than a tad breathless. Damn it all, she didn’t like the idea of being trapped here with him in the middle of God-only-knew-where, didn’t like feeling vulnerable not only to whoever was stalking her, but also to the warring emotions she felt whenever she was around Striker. Don’t even go there, she told herself. All you have to do is get through the next few days. By then, if he does his job the way he’s supposed to, he’ll catch the bad guy and you can reclaim your life. Then, you’ll be safe. You and your baby can start over.

  Unless something goes wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.

  She glanced again at Striker.

  Whether she liked it or not, she was stuck with him.

  Things could be worse.

  * * *

  Less than two hours later, Striker’s phone jangled.

  He jumped and snapped it open. “Striker.”

  “It’s Kelly. I’ve got information.”

  Finally! He leaned a hip against an old windowsill and watched as Randi, glasses perched on the en
d of her nose, looked up from his laptop. “News?”

  He nodded. “Go on,” he said into the phone and listened as Matt McCafferty’s wife began to explain.

  “I think I’ve located the vehicle that forced Randi off the road in Glacier Park. A maroon Ford truck, a few years old, had some dents banged out of it in a chop shop in Idaho. All under-the-table stuff. Got the lead from a disgruntled employee who swears the chop shop owner owes him back wages.”

  Striker’s jaw hardened. “Let me guess. The truck was registered to Sam Donahue.”

  “Close. Actually was once owned by Marv Bates, or, precisely, a girlfriend of his.”

  “Have you located Bates?”

  Randi visibly stiffened. She set aside the laptop and crossed the few feet separating them. “We’re working on it. I’ve got the police involved. My old boss, Espinoza, is doing what he can.” Roberto Espinoza was a senior detective who was working on Randi’s case. Kelly Dillinger had once worked for him, but turned in her badge about the time she married Matt McCafferty. “But so far, we haven’t been able to locate Mr. Bates.”

  “He had an alibi.”

  “Yeah,” Kelly said. “Airtight. Good ol’ boys Sam Donahue and Charlie Caldwell swore they were all over at Marv’s house when Randi was forced off the road. Charlie’s girlfriend at the time, Trina Spencer, verified the story, but now Charlie and Trina have split, so we’re looking for her. Maybe she’ll change her tune now that Charlie’s no longer the love of her life and the truck she owned has been linked to the crime. We’re talking to the employees of the chop shop. I figure it’s just a matter of time before one of ’em cracks.”

  “Good. It’s a start.”

  “Finally,” Kelly agreed. “I’ll keep working on it.”

  “Want to talk to Randi?”

  “Absolutely.” Striker handed the phone to Randi and listened to her end of the conversation as she asked about what Kelly had discovered, then turned the conversation to her family. A few minutes later, she hung up.

  “This is the break you’ve been waiting for,” she said, and he heard the hope in her voice.

  God, he hated to burst her bubble. “It’s a start, Randi. Time will tell if it pans out, but yeah, it’s something.”

  He only hoped it was enough.

  “Why don’t you turn in.” He unrolled a sleeping bag, placing it between the baby’s makeshift crib and the fire.

  “Where will you be?”

  “Here.” He shoved a chair close to the door.

  She eyed the old wingback. “Aren’t you going to sleep?”

  “Maybe doze.”

  “You’re still afraid,” she charged.

  “Not afraid. Just vigilant.”

  She shook her head, unaware that the fire’s glow brought out the red streaks in her hair. Sighing, she started working off one boot with the toe of another. “I really can’t believe this is my life.” The first boot came off, followed quickly by the second. Plopping down on the sleeping bag, she sat cross-legged and stared at the fire. “I just wanted to write a book, you know. Show my dad, my boss, even my brothers that I was capable of doing something really newsworthy. My family thought I was nuts when I went into journalism in college—my dad in particular. He couldn’t see any use in it. Not for his daughter, anyway. And then I landed the job with the paper in Seattle and it became a joke. Advice to single people. My brothers thought it was just a lot of fluff, even when the column took off and was syndicated.” She glanced at Striker. “You know my brothers. They’re pretty much straight-shooter, feet-on-the-ground types. I don’t think Matt or Slade or Thorne would ever be ones to write in for advice on their love lives.”

  Kurt laughed.

  “Nor you, I suppose?”

  He arched an eyebrow in her direction. “Not likely.”

  “And the articles I did for magazines under R. J. McKay, it was all woman stuff, too. So the book—” she looked up at the ceiling as if she could find an answer in the cobwebby beams and rafters “—it was an attempt to legitimatize my career. Unfortunately Dad died before it was finished and then all the trouble started.” She rubbed her knees and cocked her head. Her locket slipped over the collar of her shirt and he noticed it winking in the firelight. His mouth turned dry at the sight of her slim throat and the curve of her neck where it met her shoulder. A tightening in his groin forced him to look away.

  “Maybe the trouble’s about to end.”

  “That would be heaven,” she said. “You know, I always liked living on the edge, being a part of the action, whatever it was, never set my roots down too deep.”

  “A true McCafferty.”

  She chuckled. “I suppose. But now, with the baby and after everything that happened, I just want some peace of mind. I want my life in the city back.”

  “And the book?”

  Her smile grew slowly. “Oh, I’m still going to write it,” she vowed, and he noticed a determined edge to her voice, a steely resolve hidden in her grin. “Bedtime?”

  The question sounded innocent, but it still created an image of their lovemaking. “Whenever you want.”

  “And you’re just going to play security guard by the door.”

  “Yep.” He nodded. “Get some sleep.”

  “Not until you tell me what it is that makes you tick,” she said. “Come on, I told you all about my dreams of being a journalist and how my family practically laughed in my face. You know all about the men I’ve dated in recent history and I’ve also told you about my book and how I got involved with a man who was still married and might be trying to kill me. Whatever you’re hiding can’t be that bad.”

  “Why do you think I’m hiding something?”

  “We all have secrets, Striker. What’s yours?”

  That I’m falling for you, he thought, then clamped his mind shut. No way. No how. His involvement with Randi McCafferty had to remain professional. No matter what. “I was married,” he said, and felt that old raw pain cutting through him.

  “What happened?”

  He hesitated. This was a subject he rarely bridged, never brought up on his own. “She divorced me.”

  “Because of your work?”

  “No.” He glanced at her baby sleeping so soundly in his blankets, remembered the rush of seeing his own child for the first time, remembered the smell of her, the wonder of caring too much for one little beguiling person.

  “Another woman?” she asked, and he saw the wariness in the set of her jaw.

  “No. That would have been easier,” he admitted. “Cleaner.”

  “Then, what happened? Don’t give me any of that ‘we grew away from each other’ or ‘we drifted apart.’ I have readers who write me by the dozens and they all say the same thing.”

  “What happened between me and my ex-wife can’t be cured by advice in your column,” he said more bitterly than he’d planned.

  “I didn’t mean to imply that it could.” She was a little angry. He could feel it.

  “Good.”

  “So what happened, Striker?”

  His jaw worked.

  “Can’t talk about it?” She rolled her eyes. “After I explained about Sam Donahue? That I was sleeping with him and he was still married. How do you think I feel, not seeing the signs, not reading the clues. Jeez, whatever it is can’t be that humiliating!”

  “We had a daughter,” he said, his voice seeming to come from outside his body. “Her name was Heather.” His throat tightened with the memories. “I used to take her with me on the boat and she loved it. My wife didn’t like it, was afraid of the water. But I insisted it would be safe. And it was. Until...” His chest felt as if the weight of the sea was upon it. Randi didn’t say a word but she’d blanched, her skin suddenly pale, as if she knew what was to come. Striker closed his eyes, but still he could see that day, the storm coming in on the horizon, remember the way the engine had stalled. “Until the last time. Heather and I went boating. The engine had cut out and I was busy fiddling with it when she
fell overboard. Somehow her life jacket slipped off. It was a fluke, but still... I dived in after her but she’d struck her head. Took in too much water.” He blinked hard. “It was too late. I couldn’t save her.” Pain racked through his soul.

  Randi didn’t move. Just stared at him.

  “My wife blamed me,” he said, leaning against the door. “The divorce was just a formality.”

  Chapter 10

  Dear God, how she’d misjudged him! “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, wondering how anyone survived losing a child.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “And it wasn’t yours. It was an accident,” she said then saw recrimination darken his gaze.

  “So I told myself. But if I hadn’t insisted upon taking her...” He scowled. “Look, it happened. Over five years ago. No reason to bring it up now.”

  Randi’s heart split. For all of his denials, the pain was fresh in him. “Do you have a picture?”

  “What?”

  “Of your daughter?”

  When he hesitated, she crawled out of the sleeping bag. “I’d like to see.”

  “This isn’t a good idea.”

  “Not the first,” she said as she crossed the room. Reluctantly he reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet and flipped it open. Randi’s throat closed as she took the battered leather and gazed at the plastic-encased photograph of a darling little girl. Blond pigtails framed a cherubic face that seemed primed for the camera’s eye. Under apple cheeks, her tiny grin showed off perfect little baby teeth. “She’s beautiful.”

  “Yes.” He nodded, his lips thin and tight. “She was.”

  “I apologize if I said anything insensitive before. I didn’t know.”

  “I don’t talk about it much.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “Don’t think so.” He took the wallet from her fingers and snapped it shut.

  “If I’d known...”

  “What? What would you have done differently?” he asked, a trace of bitterness to his words. “There’s nothing you can say, nothing you can do, nothing that will change what happened.”

  She reached forward to stroke his cheek and he grabbed her wrist. “Don’t,” he warned. “I don’t want your pity or your sympathy.”