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Her shirt and jeans were worn. Maybe she’d been doing chores when she decided to take his truck on a joyride, or maybe she couldn’t afford new things.
The groceries looked like lunch for someone. Herself? Did women buy chili for themselves? Potato chips, sure, as an indulgence or, as a few of his girlfriends had taught him, greasy burnt offerings for the PMS monster. But why shop at a convenience store, where prices were guaranteed to be high? Simple: because she didn’t have a car, and the store was closest to where she lived. She’d driven before, though—you couldn’t just steal a manual transmission vehicle without knowing how to drive a stick. She’d never have made it out of the parking lot, much less to a campground in the middle of nowhere an hour from town.
Her husband was dead. That lined up with the bare left hand, and perhaps the worn clothing, but not that nagging hum in the back of his head that told him this woman was terrified of more than just his anger at her theft of his property.
This woman was running away from something. When she looked up at him as he loomed over her, he saw the flicker of alarm in her gray eyes. Her straight, level light brown eyebrows were drawn together over her nose in a worried expression. She feared him, feared his reaction to her crime. As well she should—but Cade knew this woman was no hardened criminal, just a woman on the run. Now, to get her to give up her secrets, because he was sure there was a doozy lurking just beneath the surface, like a catfish in a murky lake.
“Why stop here?” Cade questioned, leaning too close. Intimidation often worked to jolt confessions out of honest people. Habitual liars were a different matter. They’d learned to sidle along the truth for maximum believability, but he didn’t think this woman was a liar. A little judicious pressure would get him what he sought. “Middle of nowhere. How does a chick like you drive my beater truck to a campground? How’d you even know this place was here, much less drive straight to it?”
“I’ve...I’ve been here before. Fishing. Years ago.”
“You’re on a fishing trip, are you? Saw my truck, thought it would be just the thing for a little jaunt? Who are you meeting here? When do they arrive?”
“No, I— That’s not how it is. I’m not meeting—” She flushed darkly and stopped. “You’re trying to make me talk. Just call the police and be done with it. You have all the proof you need. My fingerprints are all over the cab of your truck. I won’t even try to deny it.”
“That’s right, I’m trying to make you talk. I don’t think it’s unreasonable of me to want to understand this, do you? If the police get involved, I may never learn the whole story.”
She narrowed her eyes at him speculatively, her soft mouth tightening. “Are you...are you saying that if I tell you everything, you might not...might not call the police?”
Was that hope in her voice? Cade felt only mild guilt at using law enforcement interrogation techniques on this woman, who every passing minute seemed less and less a criminal and more and more a runaway girlfriend.
“Whadd’ya know, I think maybe I am. Why don’t you see if you can convince me not to truss you up, toss you in the back of my truck and haul you to the nearest sheriff’s department? I’m not an unreasonable man. Maybe I won’t bother with the cops. Maybe you’ll get a pass. But your story’s got to be good, and I’ve got to believe it.”
Abigail sat there, considering, for nearly a minute. Then she looked up at him. “I stole your truck because I needed to get away from some bad things in my personal life. I know it was wrong. I would rather not go into them, but I can at least promise you they’re not illegal things. I’m really not a criminal. I’m just...stupid, I guess.”
Cade folded his arms. “Not good enough, Abigail. I don’t buy the stupid part.” He looked up at the sun. “But we’ve got all afternoon. You say this is a good fishing spot? Maybe I’ll just see about that. What’s biting, do you think? Some bream?”
She nodded, her winged brows drawing together above her nose, revealing her confusion. “Maybe bream. That’s a tributary of the Styx River, and there’ll be bluegill or sunfish. Catfish, too, if you like those. Lake fish, mostly, here where the current is slow.”
Cade put a foot up on the bench and leaned his elbow on his knee. His hand dangled, not carelessly, but not aggressively. Her eyes went to it briefly, checking it as he suspected she would. Then her eyes returned to wander to the side of his face, where the acid had ravaged his skin, marking him as a monster, a beast, a savage. “Styx, huh? I just can’t get over how many backwoods Florida places have these scholarly names. I’m not much for catfish, unless they’re farm-raised. Taste too much like mud, otherwise.”
“They say you are what you eat—I suppose that goes for fish, too.” She lifted her chin to gesture at the unscarred side of his face. “You’re still bleeding a little.”
“Go on about stealing the truck, Abigail.”
“Someone should look at the injury. It’s swollen like a goose egg. You’re not feeling dizzy, are you?”
“You’re avoiding answering my questions. While you think about what you want to tell me, I’m just gonna do a little fishing. Don’t try to leave the table. Mort will stop you.” He strode to the truck, conscious that she turned her head and body to watch him. It wasn’t exactly kind to leave her sitting in the hot sun while he sat in the relative cool of the shaded riverbank, but it might be the thing that pried her story out of her.
Cade didn’t really plan to fish, but he’d make a good show of it. And if a bream or perch or bluegill turned up, so much the better. He just might be in a mood for some fresh fish. There was charcoal in the back of the truck, and a handy metal grill rested on a concrete fire circle not far from the picnic table. He checked the pistol’s safety and returned the Beretta to his waistband. Opening the truck’s hatch, he reached inside for a camp stool and his fishing tackle.
As he walked past the table with his gear, Abigail spoke. “Since your dog will watch me and there’s nowhere for me to go, could you please take these off?” She lifted her wrists away from her back to remind him of the cable ties he’d cuffed her with. “They’re really uncomfortable.” Her movements strained the front of her worn chambray shirt and hinted at the womanly shape of her beneath. Her throat was flushed with heat and dewy with perspiration, the cords of her neck trim and taut.
Cade looked at her thoughtfully and said, “No.” He turned his back and found a spot on the riverbank where Abigail was in easy view and he could cast into the slow-flowing stream. He set up the stool and sat at an angle. Mort looked at him alertly, but Cade gave the hand signal to continue on guard, and the shepherd turned his brown eyes back to Abigail.
Abigail shifted, trying to make herself comfortable on the hard bench seat of the picnic table. The movement made Cade wonder what she looked like in motion, walking, bending, busy at whatever it was she did for a living. He forced his gaze toward the river for a few minutes, working at clearing his head. Normally his emotions didn’t get this involved with the people he was investigating, or worse yet, taking into custody. He had to get his priorities back in order. Her problems weren’t his. Intellectually he knew that, but he continued to feel a strong need to dig out the truth. It wasn’t a rational need. He told himself he was off duty, on vacation, but it didn’t make even a dent in his stubborn will.
She was just a woman with a problem. He’d seen hundreds of them, helped some, condemned others. He didn’t have to fix the world. Hell, she probably didn’t even want him in her business in the first place, but by stealing his truck she’d dragged him right into her mess.
What would she look like if she smiled? Would the smile reach her eyes, transform her from sadly pretty to beautiful? Or would she get a goofy grin on her face that made her more charming than pretty? What would it be like to be the man Abigail McMurray smiled at? He missed being the sort of man women looked at with interest, even pleasure. The scar on his face saw to that.
Cade shook his head again, continuing to gaze at the river so Abigail would not see him scowling. When he scowled, he was truly a monster. He was unaccountably unwilling for her to view him that way. He might be ugly—he couldn’t help that—but he didn’t have to be frightening.
She stole your truck, Latimer. Keep that in mind. He tried to summon his cop brain uppermost, but it was having trouble, fighting with the white knight living deep within. The two sides of himself weren’t always incompatible, but in this case he wasn’t merely a disinterested party. He was personally involved, and growing more so by the minute. The cop brain had made him one of the best at the undercover game. It was the knight that made him keep believing in the basic goodness and worth of most people. Some people were worth saving, and his instincts told him Abigail might be one of them.
He fought down the urge to whack his own forehead with his open palm. He was acting like an idiot, thinking with his hormones instead of his brain. Abigail was pretty, sure. She was ragged and worn with care and fright. Likely he’d never have a chance with her, and he shouldn’t want one. She probably wasn’t the sort of woman who’d date a deputy for any reason, even if he weren’t ugly as sin these days. He hadn’t had the best of luck in the past with women, at least the sort of women who might want a long-term relationship. It took only one or two late nights on duty, a missed date at a swanky restaurant or a story about a dangerous takedown and a gunshot blessedly gone wide, for a woman to decide she was better off without the worry and fear her man might not come home some night. There were moments when he himself had wondered if scratching the adrenaline itch was worth it, if he might not find similar satisfaction in some other job where his life wasn’t on the line half the time. Maybe then a woman would find him a worthy recipient of her time and affection. Those kinds of women weren’t out stealing trucks, however. They were making vastly different life choices.
He knew all that.
It didn’t make a difference.
Cade reeled in the lure and tossed it again. If only getting crooks to take bait was as easy as getting a fish to bite. Some of them were too smart, like this one. He stole a glance over his shoulder.
Abigail was still seated like a good girl, her head drooping, staring at the picnic table’s wood grain. The sun blazed down on her head, turning the paler streaks in her brown hair to blazing gold. Even confined in a ponytail, it was the sort of hair that would look gorgeous loose around her shoulders, alive with gleaming highlights as it fell forward along her cheeks.
Chapter 3
Abby sat at the table, hands behind her back, sweating in the sauna heat of the humid sky. The table was out in the sun, and the sweet black shade of the nearby moss-hung oaks taunted her.
What had just happened here? She would have sworn the man had started off in a murderous fury, having every intention of packing her off to the police. Somewhere in his interrogation of her the tone had subtly shifted from one of anger to one of curiosity.
She eyed him where he perched on the incongruously small stool and leaned his back against one of the tall cypress knees that jutted from the river’s edge. His fishing line trailed lazily in the slow-flowing water, and every few minutes he reeled it in and flicked it back upstream to float past again.
He sat with the scarred side of his face toward her. Now she had the leisure to study it, and reflect on some of her limited nursing training, the few years she’d had before taking a professional course designed to focus on adult day care in support of the business. It looked like a chemical burn of some sort, raised and raw-looking, ropy and rough in places, shiny and slick in others. The outer end of his left eyebrow was missing, giving him a somewhat quizzical appearance. He was fortunate that the worst of the chemicals had missed his eye. Even from a distance she could see his thick sandy lashes, which gave his startling blue eyes a deceptively sleepy look.
His T-shirt fit him closely, limning muscles in his arms and chest and showcasing his flat belly between the open lapels of his fishing vest. With the single exception of the scar, he was a man she would have turned to watch on a street. Lean and strong, hair that was more gold than brown, tall. He had a way of moving that spoke of ease and friendliness, until his eyes caught those of an observer and the wariness surfaced. His voice, once the anger had drained away, was quiet and firm with only a slight trace of a Southern accent in the vowels.
She had liked his laugh.
Abby frowned at this thought. Overthinking this man’s general attractiveness was beyond pointless. Shortly he would tire of waiting for her to talk. He would shut her in the back of his truck and haul her off to the county sheriff. He had every right to do it.
She wondered if the lawmen would give her a break if she showed them her bruises and filed charges against Marsh. It wasn’t the first time she’d fantasized about reporting Marsh’s various crimes. She was pretty sure she could make an assault charge stick, and maybe even domestic abuse. But it would mean facing him down in public, and he was so far inside her guard that he knew every last secret, every weakness. He had pried up the edges of all her insecurities and peered beneath to where her doubts and fears lurked, and he had magnified them.
The telephone rang at all hours. It was a comfort knowing he thought about her, even at six in the morning or eleven at night.
“How was the day? Got any good stories for me, Abigail?”
“Oh...nothing fun. Just the usual grind. And messes. Sam had a bad seizure, so I had to call the ambulance, which upset everyone else. Rosemary cried and broke her soup bowl. Tomato soup everywhere. The new girl from the agency is still getting the hang of things, so most of the work is on me.”
“Ah, Abigail, honey. I’m so sorry. Tomorrow will be better, I’m sure. In fact, I’ll guarantee it for you.”
“Thanks, Marsh. I know you can’t do anything from there, but it’s just so good to hear a friendly voice. Someone who understands.”
“Have you got any of that merlot I bought you left?”
“A little.” Smiling to herself now, picturing his charming grin and the way the cork had resisted him when he opened that first bottle and they’d toasted Gary’s picture on the mantelpiece the night of the funeral. Two shared bottles and a crying jag later, she’d fallen asleep on his shoulder with his arm around her and the light cotton throw from the back of the sofa drawn across them both.
Or a wake-up call, when she was drowsy and unguarded, warm with sleep and alone in a bed meant for two people.
“Hey, there...how’s my gray-eyed sister-in-law this fine morning?”
“It’s raining here.”
“I didn’t catch you last night—I called a couple times but you didn’t answer. Were you out?”
“Yeah...what time is it?”
“Still early. You’ve got time to get a little more shut-eye, but I wanted to say hello before I have to start my commute. Were you out with Judy?”
“Yeah. She made me go dancing with her and her hubby. Said I needed a little smoky air and loud music.”
“Abigail...it’s too soon for that.”
“I know. I came home early.”
“I wish I was there with you.”
“Me, too.”
As the weeks after the funeral dragged on, she began changing her schedule to be home when she thought Marsh might call. She told friends she was fine, just tired.
Abby wrenched her mind back again. She had to focus, and try to relax. Her left shoulder was cramping, and she rotated it slowly as far as she was able with her wrists behind her. She kept one eye on the dog, hoping that none of her movements would be interpreted as aggression and trigger a reaction. Dogs had never frightened her, but she had a healthy respect for this one’s teeth and intelligence and exceptional training.
Even more than respecting the dog, she respected his owner. That brought a question to mind. What did a man like him need with this sort of dog? What line of work was he in? Abby traced along this path like a bloodhound on a scent. He carried a gun, he knew how to secure a criminal—for criminal she was, like it or not—and he had a well-trained police dog at his command.
The question popped out before she could stop it. “Are you a cop?”
She thought he stiffened, but he did not turn and she couldn’t be certain. “Why do you ask?”
“It would explain a few things.”
“As I keep telling you, you’re the one who needs to do the explaining. Have you thought about that a little more?” Lazily he reeled in the line, flicked it back out into the river, the reel whirring and the lure landing with a faint plop. Abby watched the rings ripple out and dwindle, erased by the flow of the tea-brown water.
“There’s just...really, nothing to explain. I’ve told you the truth. I’m running from some personal things and lost my head.”
“You keep saying that, but I’m like those TV junkies who sit home staring at the Hollywood gossip shows. I want the dirt.”
Despite herself a rueful laugh forced its way past her lips. “What I wouldn’t give to be back at home staring at the TV.” Even reminding Rosemary to share the television remote would be better than the stomach-roiling anxiety she was feeling now. It was hard to decide which was worse: the fear she’d be arrested and jailed for what she’d done, or the certain nightmare when Marsh caught up with her.
“I guess it would be better if you hadn’t started down this road, huh, Abigail?”
“No kidding.” She fell silent. Sweat trickled down her spine, making her itch as it went. She wondered if she was flexible enough to wriggle backward through the circle of her arms and bring her wrists in front of her. The man would probably stop her if she became too active. A droning sweat bee began to show interest in the moist skin of her neck, and there was nothing she could do about it except toss her head and hope her ponytail knocked the insect away.
“Something wrong?” Was that humor in his voice?
“Nothing a good toxic cloud of pesticide wouldn’t fix.”
Now it was a definite chuckle. “You’re doing it to yourself, you know. Dish a little dirt, Abigail.”
“I don’t even know your name.”
“What, you didn’t go through my glove compartment and steal my registration?”
Abby scrubbed her face against her shoulder. The sweat was getting into her eyes, stinging with salt. “No,” she mumbled. “I think your dog needs a drink of water.”
At this comment, the man did turn. He looked with concern at the shepherd, and then nodded. “Wouldn’t hurt. I was getting him a drink when you so rudely interrupted us in that parking lot by stealing my truck.” He propped his fishing pole against a nearby scrub oak and returned to the truck, where he took a bottle of water from the back, and a blue plastic bowl, and proceeded to pour the bottled water in the bowl for the dog. Abby found herself swallowing reflexively, and with a gleam in his bright blue eyes the man spoke.
“Cade Latimer. And this is Mort.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Latimer.” She was afraid that the words would come out sarcastically, but instead she was speaking the truth, to her own astonishment. Under any other circumstances she’d have enjoyed talking to this man. “He’s a beautiful dog.” She watched as Latimer cued the dog off guard and permitted him to drink his fill.
“Thanks. You look thirsty, too.” He tipped his head back, bottle to his lips, and drank down what little he hadn’t poured into the bowl. His muscular throat gleamed with a light film of sweat. “But maybe your stomach’s still unsettled from the rough ride. Or the poor company. Your skin is pasty-looking.”
Now that he was closer to her again, Abby could see that the cut was still seeping, though slowly. He had smeared blood over the side of his face each time he wiped at the cut. It looked sore, and the little bit of nursing training she had made her fingers itch to tend the wound. “I’m not thirsty just now. Mr. Latimer, that cut really does need attention. I can see to that for you. It needs cleaning and some antibiotic cream. It might even need stitches.”
He slanted a bright blue glance at her. “How do I know you won’t take advantage of the situation and incapacitate me?”
Now Abby did laugh, the corner of her mouth curling up in a rueful smile. “I’m a thief, not a murderer. I did the damage, I’ll clean up after it. I may not want to tell you all the gory details of my life, but I’m an honorable woman.”
His smile, when it came, transformed him. “Damned if I don’t believe you, Abigail. All right. Sit tight while I dig out the first aid kit, then I’ll clip the cable ties so you can use your hands.”
Abby watched Cade Latimer stretch over the tailgate and emerge with a small blue canvas kit with a red cross silk-screened on it. He brought it to the table and opened it.
“Some more of that bottled water would be good,” Abby suggested.
“I thought you weren’t thirsty.”
“For cleaning the cut.”
Cade nodded and returned with two more bottles of water. He twisted open both and set them near her. He stood very close to her and reached out to cup her chin and turn her face toward him. Abby met his gaze, startled anew by how very blue his eyes were. The work-roughened skin of his palm rasped her jawline and she swallowed, trying not to gulp.
“Understand me, Abigail McMurray. I’m going to let you loose so you can clean up this cut, but make one false move and I won’t hesitate to stop you. It may be as simple as twisting an arm behind your back, or it might be Mort’s teeth in your leg.”
Or a bullet from your gun. She couldn’t look away. The blue of his eyes was intense. A rim of darker blue edged the iris as if to keep the liquid color contained, and different shades of blue rayed from the pupil like spokes in a wheel. His eyes were so arresting she began to lose track of the conversation.
“Show me you understand.”
“I don’t understand what you want, Marsh.”
“What’s to understand? Didn’t you do as much for Gary? C’mon. I know he was a boob man. He always was, from the time we were kids.” Marsh’s hands trembled as he grasped her shoulders, and Abby could tell his hands wanted to slide down, over the breasts he’d just complimented.
“I just want to see your breasts,” he said. “Maybe touch them a little. Gary always said you had beautiful breasts. A little more than a handful, and sweet.”
“Gary never talked to you about my breasts!” She didn’t know what shocked her more—that Marsh wanted her to show him her naked breasts, or the idea that Gary had talked to Marsh about something so personal. “Our sex life is—was—private.”
“He was my brother. He told me a lot of things that would surprise you.”
“What else did he tell you?” Abby gasped, clutching at the front of her shirt as if the buttons might fly off by the force of Marsh’s hungry gaze alone.
“He told me you’re the sweetest bit of tail a man could wish for. He told me you’re generous, and a little shy, and kind of prudish until you’ve had a little wine.”
Prudish? Abby stared at Marsh, her mouth dropping open. Tail?
When he reached out and tucked her tumbled hair behind her ears, she didn’t stop him. He leaned his forehead against hers and spoke sweetly, reminding her how much help he was around the place. He told her how much he missed Gary. When his fingertip touched the hollow of her throat and traced her collarbone, she didn’t stop him. He told her grief had made her slimmer and more beautiful than ever. He talked about the projects he had in mind, how simple it would be to build a ramp out the back door to the patio for their wheelchair clients.
When he unbuttoned her shirt and smoothed the lapels back against the fabric, she didn’t stop him.