Chapter Nine
Patrick had faced down his share of desperate men and women with guns, but the sight of Stacy holding a weapon on him made his blood run cold. Her hands shook so badly she could scarcely keep the weapon still. He wasn’t so worried that she’d deliberately shoot him, but that the gun would accidentally go off. At this close range she’d be unlikely to miss. “Stacy, put the gun down,” he said, his words soft, each one carefully enunciated.
“No. Not until we’re in Crested Butte. Drive.”
“We’re still hours away. Are you going to hold the gun on me the whole way?”
“If I have to.” Her gaze met his, defiant—but he glimpsed the fear behind her bravado.
“Stacy, I don’t believe you really want to kill me. I’m on your side, remember?”
“You say that, but why won’t you take me to where you know Carlo is?” Her lip trembled. “Why are you keeping me from my son?”
“We don’t know where he is. We still have to find the ranch and then we need to determine he’s there. We can’t just go barging in. He might be hurt. I know you don’t want that.”
“I just want my boy!” The words ended on a wail and the barrel of the gun dipped lower. Great. Now if she fired she’d blast him right in the crotch.
He shifted in his seat. “I want to find your son,” he said. “I want to see the two of you safely together. But I won’t do anything to jeopardize his life. Or yours.”
“At least in Crested Butte we’d be closer. We could find him. I might see him on the street.”
“Crested Butte is still two hours away, at least. We’re both exhausted. We’re dirty and cold and you’re hurt.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve got cuts and scratches and bruises all over your face and hands. Your clothes are filthy and neither of us has had six hours of sleep in the past forty-eight. If we’re going to help Carlo, we need to be strong and rested and sharp.”
She looked away, the gun dipping farther. He kept his eyes on her, waiting. “When will I see him again?” she asked.
“Maybe as soon as tomorrow. It depends on what we learn.”
“Then why can’t we go to Crested Butte and look for him now?”
“That’s what the people we’re dealing with seem to want us to do. I think we’d be safer if we stopped somewhere more out of the way. We can rest and come up with a plan—one that will keep Carlo safe and alive.”
She brought the gun up once more. “I just want this to be over,” she said softly.
“So do I. But shooting me won’t bring back your son. I really do want to help, if you’ll trust me.”
She wet her lips. “I haven’t had a lot of people in my life I could trust. You’re a lawman. Why should you be any different?”
From what she’d told him, every man she’d ever known, from her father to her husband, had betrayed her. He wouldn’t add his name to the list. “You can trust me because I haven’t let you down so far. Have I lied to you or done anything to hurt you?”
She bit her lip, then shook her head.
He held out his hand. “Will you give me the gun?”
She hesitated, then nodded and let him take the weapon from her hand. Only when he held the gun did the tension drain from his shoulders. Exhaustion buffeted him and he had to fight to tuck the gun safely under the seat and put the car in gear. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes.” She closed her eyes and swayed a little in her seat. She was so pale, the scratches and bruises on her face standing out against her ivory skin. “As all right as I can be.”
Twenty minutes later, he turned in at a blue neon sign that advertised Motel. The old-fashioned tourist court was a low-slung row of rooms with doors painted bright turquoise, opening onto a gravel lot. Patrick paid cash for a room to an older man who wore suspenders and a checked shirt. No more flashing his credentials unless it was absolutely necessary. He and Stacy needed to fly under the radar now.
“You want ice, it’s a quarter,” the man said.
Patrick fished a quarter from his pocket and slid it across the counter. The old man shuffled off to a back room and returned shortly with a plastic bucket of ice. He handed it over while frowning at Stacy, who’d insisted on coming inside. “You sure you’re okay, miss?” he asked.
She gave him a wan smile. “I’m just tired.”
“You look like somebody beat you up.” The clerk scowled at Patrick.
“I was in a car wreck,” Stacy said. She took Patrick’s arm and leaned against him. “I’ll be fine. My husband is taking good care of me.”
He was aware of her warm body pressed against his all the way back to the car. He parked in front of the room and carried both suitcases and the weapons inside, wrapping the guns in the blankets to hide them from anyone who might be watching. “Why did you tell the clerk I was your husband?” he asked.
“I thought he’d be less suspicious if he thought we were married. He was looking at you like he wanted to call the police. I had to do something.”
“A car wreck was quick thinking.”
“I’m sorry about before,” she said. “When I pulled the gun on you. I wasn’t thinking. I—”
“It’s all right. You’ve been through a lot. Come here and sit down.” He motioned toward the bed.
She looked wary. “Why?”
“I want to take a look at those cuts. I found a first aid kit in the trunk.”
She sat on the edge of the bed and he angled the lamp shade to give him a better view of her uptilted face. The gash on her forehead where Carlo’s kidnapper had hit her had scabbed over, and the bruising around it was an ugly purple and yellow, the skin slightly puffy and raised. He cleaned it with a cotton ball dipped in antiseptic, then dabbed antibiotic ointment along it, before covering it with a gauze pad held in place with strips of surgical tape. “I should have done this before now,” he said.
“We haven’t exactly had a lot of free time,” she said.
He began cleaning the dozens of other scratches on her cheeks and along her jaw. “You look like you ran through a rosebush,” he said, pausing to pluck a thorn from alongside her ear.
“I didn’t stop to identify the local flora. Maybe they were wild roses.”
He dabbed ointment on the deepest of the scratches, then cradled her jaw in his hand and turned her head to study the bruise along the side of her face. “Which one of those thugs did this?” he asked.
She closed her eyes and swallowed. “The one with the pale eyes. He threatened to cut out my tongue.”
He forced himself to relax his hold on her jaw, to continue tending to her wounds without comment. He was getting good at holding back his anger, but he couldn’t hold back his memories of another hotel room and another woman whose cuts and bruises he’d nursed like this. His sister was safe and well now, long free of her abuser, but the years when she’d suffered and he’d been unable to help her had left their scars.
“Do they make you take first aid when you train to be a marshal?” she asked.
“I was a Boy Scout.” He leaned back to study his handiwork. She was still a mess, but with luck none of her injuries would become infected, and she’d heal without any major scars.
“Let me guess—you were an Eagle Scout.”
“Yes.”
She looked triumphant. “I knew it. Eagle Scout to U.S. Marshal. I guess it makes sense.”
“There was a stint in Iraq in between. College before that.”
“Did you think when you were doing all that you’d end up babysitting a mafia wife?”
“It’s a little more than that, don’t you think?” Her eyes met his and he felt the jolt of connection, and the weight of emotions he didn’t dare examine too closely.
He stepped back, and began packing up the first aid kit. “Why don’t you take a shower? I’ll see what I can find for dinner. I think we passed a café right before I turned in here.”
He felt her gaze on him for a long moment before she stood and went into the bathroom. Only when he heard the door close behind her did he raise his head to stare after her. He was treading on shaky ground here. In his career with the U.S. Marshal’s office, he’d shepherded half a dozen women through the Witness Security program, many of them single, beautiful and vulnerable. He’d never crossed the line that separated professional from personal. But Stacy had him tiptoeing across that line, contemplating how close he could get before he reached a point where he could never go back.
* * *
A SHOWER REVIVED Stacy somewhat. Afterward, she stood wrapped in a towel, contemplating her ruined clothing. Between the mud, brambles, blood and other bodily fluids to which the garments had been subjected, they were little better than rags, but, since she had nothing else to wear, she had no choice but to wash them. She dumped the rest of the bottle of hotel shampoo in the tub and added several inches of hot water, then dumped the clothing in to soak.
Patrick was gone—she assumed to get dinner—when she emerged from the bathroom. She spied the suitcases by the door and hefted one onto the bed. The two thugs were unlikely to have anything that would fit her, but even a T-shirt and boxers would do for sleeping. Fortunately, Pale Eyes or his buddy hadn’t bothered to lock the bag. She unzipped it and breathed a sigh of relief when she spotted clean boxers and socks. No T-shirts, but she found a man’s dress shirt, neatly folded and still in a bag from the cleaners.
By the time Patrick returned with two plastic bags, she’d changed into the borrowed clothing and sat cross-legged on the bed, rifling through the rest of the contents of the suitcase. The marshal paused in the doorway. “Feeling better?” he asked.
“Much. I’m washing my clothes, so I borrowed some from our two late friends. There’s probably stuff in here that will fit you.”
“Good idea.” He set the bags on the table by the window. “Anything else interesting?”
“One of them liked science-fiction novels.” She tossed a paperback onto the bed. “And one of them wore a night guard.” She pointed to a case for the dental appliance. “Who knew?”
“What about the other case?” he asked.
“I haven’t checked it yet.”
“We’ll take a look after we eat. I got a couple burgers. There wasn’t much choice.”
“I’m so hungry, I could eat almost anything.”
She followed him to the table, where he unpacked the food from one of the plastic bags. “What’s in the other bag?” she asked.
“Since we had to leave everything back at the other car, I picked up a few things—toothbrush, toothpaste, a razor, things like that.”
She peered into the bag, then reached in and pulled out a tube of lipstick and a powder compact. The lipstick was pink. “I’m guessing these aren’t for you.”
The tips of his ears turned almost as pink as the lipstick, though his face remained impassive. She suppressed the urge to giggle. There was something about an otherwise tough guy who got embarrassed about buying a girl makeup that was sweet—as was the purchase in the first place. “I notice you went to a lot of trouble to fix yourself up before,” he said. “I thought it might help you feel better.”
“You thought right. Thank you.” She resisted the urge to kiss his cheek—just as a gesture of thanks. That might be taking things too far.
They sat across from each other at the little table, eating burgers and fries and drinking from bottles of water. The food tasted good, but as her hunger abated, the familiar anxiety about the future returned. “What do we do next?” she asked.
“In the morning I’ll call my office again—see if they’ve come up with an address for Uncle Abel.” He wiped mustard from the corner of his mouth with a paper napkin. “I also want to know if they’ve found out any more about Sam and Sammy’s wills.”
“So you still believe Carlo’s kidnapping is related to the will?”
“People commit crimes for many different reasons, but a lot of times they’re motivated by what they stand to gain, such as money, power or revenge. A three-year-old doesn’t have any power. Kidnapping him hurts you the most. Have you thought of anyone who would use Carlo to get back at you?”
She shook her head. “The only person who hated me that much is dead.”
“Are you talking about Sammy?”
Yes, Sammy. Her not-so-dear departed spouse. “Don’t tell me a husband can’t hate his wife, because he can.”
“Did you feel the same way about him?”
“Sometimes I thought I did....” She studied the remains of her hamburger, her appetite fading. “Other times... In the beginning, things between us were pretty good. Sammy was sweet on our honeymoon. He seemed to really like me, and we had fun. But later, after Carlo was born...” She shook her head. Nothing she’d done had pleased her husband, and he’d lost the desire to please her. After a while it felt safer to stop trying.
“Did he hit you?” Patrick’s voice was low, his gaze boring into her, as if the answer to this question made a difference to him.
“No. He was proud of that. ‘You can’t say I’m cruel,’ he used to tell me. ‘I never hit you.’ But there are worse things than being hit. Bruises and even broken bones can heal, but the things people say to you... Those wounds can go a lot deeper.” She felt the pain from those injuries still—maybe some of them would never heal.
She waited for him to ask what Sammy had said to her, but he didn’t. Maybe he respected her privacy too much—or maybe he didn’t really care. Why should he? Though he’d seemed concerned about her welfare, maybe that was just part of doing his job. Mr. Eagle Scout would never shirk his duty.
She set aside the remains of her burger. “Why don’t we see what’s in the other suitcase?” she said. “Maybe there’s some clothes you can wear.”
He looked down at his mud-stained shirt and jeans. “You think I need new clothes?”
“I think it’s a miracle the motel clerk didn’t call the police. You look like a derelict.”
He rubbed his hand over his chin, and the scrape of bristles against his palm sent a hot shiver up her spine. “I could probably do with a little sprucing up.” He leaned over and grasped the handle of the second suitcase. “Let’s see what my options are.”
He tugged, but the case didn’t budge. “I remember this one was heavy,” he said. He stood and used both hands to heave the suitcase onto the bed.
Stacy stood beside him as he unzipped the top and folded it back. She let out a squeak, and covered her mouth with her closed fist. “Is that real?” she asked, her voice scarcely above a whisper.
Patrick nodded, and reached into the case and took out a stack of bills from the rows and rows of similar stacks filling the case. “It looks real to me,” he said. “There must be thousands of dollars in here. But what were our two late friends doing with it?”