Sinclair Connection - Hot On His Trail Part 2

Shea turned her head away again, to glance out at the deserted field. "Here?" Her head snapped around, and she stared at him wide-eyed. "You're just going to dump me in the middle of nowhere, in the dark, in the rain?"

"That's the plan," he mumbled.

Instead of jumping from the car and making her escape, Shea Sinclair stared him down. "No," she whispered.

Surely he misunderstood. "What did you say?"

"I said no."

Nick cursed beneath his breath as he reached out and snagged Shea's wrist and dragged her toward him, easing himself from the car and hauling the uncooperative weathergirl with him, over the console, across the driver's seat. A soft, cool drizzle struck his face, and droplets soaked through the white dress s.h.i.+rt he wore. The cool water cleared his head slightly, as he pulled on Shea Sinclair's arm. He was making progress until she grabbed the steering wheel and refused to let go. It hit him, as surely as the gentle rain, that right now he didn't have the strength to forcibly remove her from the car.

"Are you nuts?" he yelled, poking his head into the car and placing his face close to hers. They were practically nose-to-nose, and in the semidarkness he locked his eyes to hers. She didn't flinch, didn't show any sign of backing down. "I'm trying to let you go!" Yelling was not such a good idea. His head swam and his knees went weak. d.a.m.n.

"You can't let me go," she argued. "You need me, Taggert."

"I'm not a..." He swayed slightly. "I'm not a kidnapper."

Shea smiled, and Nick's knees wobbled uncertainly. The smile was all wrong; wrong time, wrong place. There had been a time when a smile like this one would've given him hope, would've made him list easily forward to kiss her ... but not now. She should be running scared right now, and he should be well down the road, running to G.o.d knows where.

"Actually," she said softly, "you are. And since I don't think there's a different charge for long-term versus short-term kidnappings, you might as well make the best of what you've got."

He clamped his hand more snugly around her warm, slender wrist. If she knew how long it had been since a pretty girl had smiled at him, she wouldn't do this. The smile made his insides tighten and his mind spin. The gentle upturn at the corners of her mouth, the sparkle in her eyes promised so many things. Shea Sinclair had no idea what she was doing to him.

Then again, maybe she did. She let go of the steering wheel and slowly reached out for him, that delicate hand uncertain and enticing, those long, pale fingers as promising as her smile and her eyes. She was going to touch him. For a second Nick was frozen at the very idea. More than anything he wanted this woman to lay her hands on him. He craved the warmth of a woman's delicate fingers, a tender caress.

It had been a very long time since anyone had touched him; a fat deputy clapping on handcuffs didn't count.

Without warning, her motion changed from slow to lightning fast, and she grabbed the pistol from his waistband and pointed it at his midsection.

His head spun dangerously and still he laughed. It was the perfect ending to the worst day of his life. He'd been found guilty of a murder he didn't commit, had been shot in the leg, and now he stood in the rain with a pistol pointed at his gut. "Caught by a weathergirl," he said unsteadily. "Won't this make a fine story on the ten o'clock news?"

"You're hysterical," Shea said as she scooted into the pa.s.senger seat, taking the pistol with her. "Sit down before you fall down."

He dropped into the driver's seat, clearheaded long enough to notice that she held the weapon like a woman who was used to handling one. At least if she shot him it wouldn't be an accident. He let his head fall back and closed his eyes. Maybe it would be better if she did shoot him here and now. All he wanted was for this to be over, and it would make a h.e.l.luva story for the weathergirl.

All he had to do was lunge for her and this would be over and done with. He couldn't move.

"Now what?" he whispered.

"You tell me." He turned his head to see Shea slowly lower the pistol. "Do you have a plan?"

"No."

"Well, you need one, but first you need to rest." She placed the pistol on the floor at her feet. "Until the wound in your leg heals I'm afraid you won't be able to do much of anything. You really should let me drive."

He had to be dreaming. "Yeah, that would be real smart," he muttered.

"You're in no condition to drive," she said sensibly. "And you're going to have to heal before we can begin the investigation. We need to dump this car pretty quick," she added as a mumbled afterthought. "Everyone will be looking for it by now."

"I know."

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Do you know how to hot-wire a car?"

He stared at her, hard. "No."

She wasn't leaving, and he didn't have the strength to force her from the car. The rain picked up and the light sprinkle turned into a downpour, obscuring everything outside the windows.

Shea Sinclair had said he needed her, and maybe she was right. But could he trust her? It had been such a long time since he'd trusted anyone.

"I know where I can get a truck," he said softly, "not too far from here."

"That's a start."

He wished she had touched him, just once, something easy-a hand on his face, maybe. Her hands were soft; he could tell just by looking at them. Soft and warm. Her wrist had been temptingly warm and wonderful in his grip, but what he wanted, what he needed was for her to touch him.

"Why are you doing this?"

In the distance a flash of lightning arced across the sky, lighting the interior of the car for a split second. A rumble of thunder followed.

"If I can help you find the real killer it'll make one h.e.l.l of a story." She grinned. "And they can find someone else to do the weekend weather."

Nick didn't want to look at her anymore. He stared instead at a winds.h.i.+eld so washed in heavy rain he could see nothing beyond it. "So I'm a good story."

"The best."

It was better than nothing, he supposed. He sure wasn't going to get far on his own in this condition. "Okay," he whispered. "You can stay."

Rain pounded against the car. "I have just one question," Shea said softly, and something about the tone of her voice forced Nick to turn his head to look at her again. This was the first time he'd heard trepidation. She wasn't smiling now.

"Ask it," he prodded when she didn't continue.

She pursed her lips and hesitated, and then she took a deep breath. "Back there, on the mountain, would you really have shot me in the leg if I hadn't stopped?"

The weathergirl had to know what she was getting into. He had to make sure she knew, so that she had a chance to back out while she still could. As the car rolled across the b.u.mpy, muddy road, he turned his head to stare at her.

"Yes."

Chapter 3.

T aggert wouldn't make it much longer, but he absolutely refused to pull over and let her drive. He braced himself over the steering wheel, his eyes trained straight ahead. They hadn't spoken for the past fifteen minutes; Shea suspected he didn't have the energy to talk.

He stuck to back roads that took them into Marshall County, and except for the occasional car or truck they pa.s.sed, blurred by the rain, they had the wet roads to themselves.

Dean would have her hide for this, but her oldest brother was the least of her problems right now. Boone would understand, and so would Clint, though Boone would likely lay the blame for her decision to stay with Taggert on her early influences of Nancy Drew and Agatha Christie.

Shea strengthened her resolve with the selfless notion that if she didn't help Taggert he didn't have a chance. He'd die, either alone from his wound or when the cops caught up with him. And they would catch up with him, soon. He wasn't thinking clearly, and he didn't have the strength to run and hide for long. Not without her help.

If he died the truth died with him. A murderer would go free, and the courts would be satisfied that Nick Taggert was, indeed, a killer. That wasn't right; it wasn't justice. Together she and Taggert would search for the truth. And wow, this was going to be a great story.

Taggert turned her battered Saturn onto a long, gravel driveway. Sitting at the end, visible through the rain, sat a small house that looked very much like a log cabin. It waited for them, simple and square and solid. Welcoming lights burned, harsh on the front porch and muted through the windows.

"Who lives here?" she asked, keeping her voice low as they neared the house. Taggert didn't answer, and her heart skipped a beat. She believed he was innocent; he'd declared it so indignantly, so righteously, and she had seen the truth in his eyes. But he had kidnapped her. What did he have planned now?

The drive circled around the house; the crunching noise the tires made on the gravel was sure to be heard by whoever waited inside. At a window near the back door a pale blue curtain fluttered. They'd been seen.

"You're not thinking of doing anything drastic, are you?" she asked as Taggert stopped the car and put it in park. Finally, he turned his eyes to her.

He listed forward slightly with his arms resting on the steering wheel, shoulders slumped and those normally piercing eyes half-closed. "Drastic?" he repeated.

It was a rather ridiculous question, she supposed, considering what had transpired so far today. He'd escaped from the courthouse, been shot and kidnapped her. Everything had been drastic. But still... "There's no reason to involve anyone else in this," she said sensibly. "We can steal a car. Well, we can borrow one without asking, and leave a note or something. My purse is in the trunk, and I have a little cash, so there's no reason-"

"You think I'm going to rob the man who lives here?" Taggert interrupted.

You heard about it on the news all the time. A convict escapes from prison and storms into someone's home-preferably an isolated house, like this one-for hostages and money and food.

"Aren't you?"

He managed to shake his head once, and the expression on his face changed subtly to one of disgust and maybe even disappointment. "Why don't you take off right here, weathergirl?" he whispered. "Start walking."

"No," she answered just as softly.

The back door opened and bright light spilled onto the yard and the long gravel drive. An older, heavyset man stood there, squinting out into the night and waiting patiently.

Taggert threw open his door and stepped into the rain. Shea scooted across the seat, making the awkward move over the console and placing herself quickly right behind him, knowing, even if he didn't, that he wouldn't make it to the house under his own power. She was there to catch him when he practically fell back into the driver's seat. Slipping an arm around his waist, she allowed him to lean on her as she stood beside him. He hesitated, and then his arm circled her lightly. Taggert was tall and hard and muscled, and in normal circ.u.mstances he would have overpowered her. But at the moment he needed her help to stay on his feet.

"He's a friend?" she asked, and Taggert nodded once. Relief washed through her. She should've known that he wouldn't break into someone's home like a common thief. Even in his weakened condition, Nicholas Taggert was anything but common.

He leaned on her heavily as they approached the open back door, moving slowly in spite of the rain. Her arm around his waist, and his around hers, provided unsteady but effective support. Taggert was too big; if he fell she'd never be able to get him up. After they'd taken several tottering steps the old man made his way to them and added his strength at Taggert's other side. Shea supposed she could let go and allow Taggert's friend to lead him inside, but she didn't. Nick seemed to lean into her, still, so she kept her arm around his waist and canted in his direction, bracing his heavy body as best she could.

The back door opened onto a brightly lit kitchen. An oak table and four chairs sat there, and Taggert's faltering path took him and those who were a.s.sisting him directly toward those chairs.

"Boy, can you make it to the den?" the old man asked.

"Sure," Taggert answered weakly, and they bypa.s.sed the oak chairs and went through a wide doorway into a square, rustic room. The old man steered them toward a long, mustard-colored couch, where they deposited Taggert in a slightly awkward maneuver.

When his arm slipped from her back, the palm of his hand skimmed down her spine and across her hip, as if he needed support, still. As if he didn't want to let her go.

Once Taggert was deposited on the couch, the old man started cussing-long, inventive, loudly delivered profanity as he removed thick, rain-splattered gla.s.ses and cleaned them on his s.h.i.+rttail. Taggert leaned his head back and closed his eyes until the tirade ended.

The old man took a deep breath and visibly calmed himself as he placed the gla.s.ses on his nose. "What the blue blazes were you thinking, boy? You could've gotten yourself killed. And kidnapping this poor lady." He turned his head her way and squinted at her through thick lenses, even though they stood close. "Now, that was stupid."

"I know," Taggert said weakly, without so much as opening one eye.

"We'll talk about it in the morning," the old man said softly. "Right now we'll see to that leg and get you to bed. In the morning-"

"No." This time Taggert's eyes did open. "We can't stay here, Lenny. I just ... I need your truck."

"It's yours," Lenny said without hesitation. "And I tell you what, you leave the little lady here and I'll see that she doesn't call anyone or go anywhere until you've had a chance to get on down the road a ways."

"Sounds good to me," Taggert muttered.

"No." Shea directed her denial to the man Taggert called Lenny. "I'm going with him."

The man drew his bushy eyebrows together. "What for?"

"I'm a h.e.l.luva story," Taggert said caustically before Shea could answer. He locked his eyes on her, and in spite of his weakened condition they were cold and strong. Piercing, as if he had never known weakness. "But this is one part of the story no one ever hears, you understand me? As far as the cops are concerned we're stealing Lenny's truck. He didn't see anything, we didn't talk to him, he is not involved in this. Is that clear?"

Shea nodded, and Taggert closed his eyes once again.

Lenny looked Shea up and down once, squinting as he brought his gaze to her face. He even leaned forward slightly. "Name's Leonard Caudel," he said.

"Shea Sinclair," she answered, offering her hand.

Caudel took her hand and shook it gently. "I know." A smile bloomed on his face. "You've been all over the news today, young lady. I can't see real good, but if I get close to the television I can see well enough. You've been on the television before. You're the weathergirl, right?"

Before Shea could correct Caudel, Taggert laughed. It was a weak, nearly silent chuckle, and he didn't even bother to open his eyes. "You've done it now, Lenny," he whispered, and then he fell silent once again.

Shea was annoyed, but decided it wasn't worth the effort of an argument. "Do you have a place where I can clean up? I've been out in the rain, and the man bled on me, and..." She felt dizzy for just a moment, light-headed. "It has been the longest day," she finished.

"Come this way," Caudel said, taking her arm and leading her into a long hallway. "You could use a change of clothes, I reckon."

She looked him up and down. He was as tall as Taggert and twice as big around. No way was there anything in this house that would fit her, even in a pinch. "Well..."

"My late wife, Judith, she was about your size. I guess I shoulda gotten rid of her things years ago, but I never could bring myself to do it." He grinned. "But I wouldn't mind at all if you could find something in her closet that would suit this occasion."

In a small, spa.r.s.ely furnished bedroom at the end of the hallway, he threw open a closet. "You'll have to do the choosing. Like I said, I can't see so well no more, so there's no telling what I'd pick out. You just take what you want. There's a bathroom down the hall if you want to clean up a bit. I'll see to Nick's leg."

The contents of the very full closet were brightly colored and years out of fas.h.i.+on. Orange, bright pink, a shade of green so garish it hurt her eyes. A glimpse of tie-dye and a pair of orange bell-bottom pants said "sixties" as surely as if a neon sign hung there. "I'm sure I'll find something that will do," she said optimistically.

Caudel was leaving the room when she stopped him with a question. "You know him well?"

He turned in the doorway, a smile on his face. "I gave Nick his first job out of the military, taught him everything I know about the construction business before my eyesight started to fail." The smile disappeared. "He's a good man, and he didn't kill n.o.body."

She didn't believe he had, either, but still... "He shot at me."

The smile came back. "Ma'am, if he didn't hit you, he didn't shoot at you. Nick could shoot the flies off a pile of, uhhh..." He cleared his throat. "Off a pile of sugar," he said, "and never disturb a single grain."

For some reason that was a comforting rea.s.surance. Shea turned to the closetful of old clothes and listened to Caudel's retreating footsteps. * * * "I shoulda been there."

Nick opened his eyes at Lenny's mumbled self-censure. "I told you a thousand times I didn't want you in the courtroom," he said. It was the truth. Lenny was more like a father to him than the man he'd called Daddy for the first eleven years of his life. Nick didn't want Lenny to sit in that courthouse and watch the trial; it would have been an unnecessarily harsh ordeal for the old man. "Besides," he added, "you can't drive anymore."

"I can, too," Lenny mumbled.