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  “They’ll call,” she said, sure now of the information she was providing.

  “When?”

  “In a couple of days.”

  “Who will they call?”

  “Bill’s wife. And Mary, my sister. Her son’s with them, too. And they’ll try to call me.”

  She waited, letting him digest what she’d told him, but when the silence lengthened, she knew she had to ask.

  “You think those men will try to find Josh?”

  “If they don’t already know where Josh is.”

  “You’re still implying that my brothers took him for that purpose? That they’re part of whatever is going on? That they set me up for what happened last night?”

  “You didn’t think it was odd that your brother left Josh with me that afternoon?”

  Because she had been surprised at that, she hesitated, not willing to condemn Mike and yet bothered by that reminder of his uncharacteristic behavior.

  “What was odd about it? He had an emergency, a hurt kid he was responsible for. You were at the house, and he knew I’d be home soon.”

  “Or maybe he just wanted to check me out. To take a good look. To verify the identification he’d made.” The cold bitterness in his voice matched the transformation she had watched before.

  “Mike has nothing to do with what’s going on. Whoever your enemies are, Mr. Summers, you had them before you met me and Josh.”

  “You don’t understand how—”

  “I understand that you’re accusing my brother of kidnapping his own nephew,” she interrupted angrily. “Of putting Josh and me into danger. I understand that pretty well. Only I don’t buy it. This is all a coincidence. The trip and what happened last night. If you’ll wait a few days, I can find out where they are. As soon as they call. My family is not part of some kind of giant conspiracy to capture you. My brothers have got better things to do than to play cowboys and Indians or G.I. Joe or whatever the hell y’all are playing with your guns and your midnight raids. You just keep us away from whoever is chasing you until I can find out where Josh and my brothers are. And then, if you’ll take me there, you can be on your way, footloose and fancy free again.”

  Her voice had risen as she’d talked. She was a little embarrassed by her outburst, but the fact that he wanted to blame Mike for what had happened the previous night infuriated her. They had nothing to do with what was happening to Deke Summers. He had gotten drunk and pulled her into the center of whatever was going on in his life, and he had no right to blame anyone but himself for the result.

  “Then until we find out exactly where they are, we drive. West, I think you said.”

  “That’s what I said,” she agreed, the hostility still in her voice.

  He turned his complete attention back to the road and she did the same, resolutely not looking at him. Deke Summers could think whatever the hell he wanted to, she decided, just as long as he carried her to Josh and her brothers.

  THEY DROVE MOST OF the day, stopping only to fill up the gas tank. She didn’t go inside the store part of the service station where they stopped, only to the outside rest room. Deke took time to fish a pair of sunglasses out of the canvas bag in the truck bed before he filled the tank. He didn’t remove them when he went in to pay for the gas, snack crackers and canned sodas he bought for lunch. He continued to wear them as he drove west, heading now into the afternoon sun, carefully observing the speed limit, nursing the old truck. The heat built in the cab, although they had the windows down. The humid Mississippi air disturbed by their passage wasn’t the least bit cooling.

  In the late afternoon, he turned off the interstate again somewhere deep in Louisiana. Becki assumed he was planning another quick stop, but instead he continued down the two-lane he’d exited onto, moving past a couple of conveniently placed service stations and out among the rural communities that lined the county road.

  He gassed the truck in one town, and then turned north, driving on about twenty miles to the next community before pulling into a fast-food restaurant’s drive-through, stopping before the menu board. He studied the offerings a moment and then, having apparently made his own choices, turned questioningly to her.

  “This is going to be supper,” he warned. “We won’t go out again after we find a place for the night.”

  She thought about the implications of that. She wondered how much sleep he’d had in the past thirty-six hours. Not much, she knew, which meant, of course, that he was probably ready to find a bed and do some catching up. Except…

  “I can drive,” she offered, thinking about accommodations for spending the night. She didn’t think he would opt for two rooms, and the possibility of sharing quarters with Deke Summers was more than a little disturbing.

  “Drive where?” he asked. “We don’t even know if we’re heading in the right direction. We may have to backtrack when you find out their location. We don’t want to get too far ahead of them.”

  “Then you plan to stay here?”

  “If we find something that looks promising. We’ve come far enough that we should have lost any pursuit. We just need to crawl into a hole and stay put until we can find out where Josh is. Or at least find out the direction they’re heading.”

  The distorted question from the metal box saved her from having to reply. Deke placed his order and then turned back to her. She couldn’t see his eyes behind the dark glasses, which he hadn’t removed, despite the fact that it was almost sundown.

  “Just a couple of burgers,” she said, thinking again about the coming night. About spending it with him. And suddenly, despite all that had happened, despite worrying about Josh, she felt the same sensation deep in her stomach that she had felt when his mouth had lowered to hers that Sunday morning. Anticipating.

  SHE COULDN’T BELIEVE the motel he eventually chose, wondering now about his use of the word promising. The place was several more miles down the narrow northbound county road he’d detoured onto. Most of its business was probably done by the hour, she had thought when he’d cruised slowly by, taking a good look. The tiny units were designed like log cabins, and each was carefully isolated from its neighbors.

  Deke made her get down on the floorboard when he stopped at the office, and she waited, cramped, folded into the narrow space, even as he climbed back in and cranked the truck. He stopped the vehicle, engine left idling and stepped out. When he finally opened the passenger door, she could see the dark lenses scanning the area around the most isolated of the units, whose door now stood slightly ajar.

  “Okay,” he said.

  She darted from the truck into the room and was surprised when he didn’t come in behind her. She turned around in time to watch the door close, and then she followed by sound the truck’s passage to the back of the cabin, its engine distinct in the silence of the gathering twilight. Deke entered after a few minutes, putting the canvas bag on the floor and the food on the bedside table before turning back to lock the door and prop the room’s single chair under the knob, a primitive but effective deterrent to anyone attempting to force entry.

  He examined the window not occupied by the chugging air conditioner, checking the ease with which it functioned by raising, then closing and locking it again. He also devoted careful attention to the bathroom window over the toilet, seeming to be assessing whether or not the width of his shoulders would go through. When he came back into the bedroom, Becki was still standing, watching the practiced routine.

  He didn’t look at her, instead opening the sack containing the food and beginning to set out the items they’d ordered. For the first time, she wondered about money, how much he had and how long it would last. He had paid cash, untraceable, for everything he’d bought, of course. Just have enough money to get me to Josh, she found herself thinking. That’s all I ask.

  “You might as well eat,” he advised. “Going without food isn’t going to get back at me for what I suggested.”

  He sat down on the edge of the lumpy bed, unwrapping an una
ppetizing-looking cheeseburger and then, one-handed, pouring a container of fries onto the wrapping paper, which he had spread out on the bedspread.

  “I’m not trying to get back at you,” she said, walking to the nightstand and picking up one of the burgers. “I just think you’re paranoid. I suppose it’s understandable, living the way you do, but—”

  “Paranoid?” he repeated, speaking around the bite he’d just taken. “Hell, lady, if you think I’m…” he began, and then apparently decided it wasn’t worth the effort to deny the accusation. “Paranoid,” he said again, almost to himself, his tone clearly derisive, and he shook his head in disbelief.

  “I meant about Mike. About my brothers.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I know what you meant.”

  She watched his steady consumption of the food. There appeared to be no pleasure, no satisfaction taken in eating, although she knew he must be hungrier than she was—and smelling the rich, salt-encrusted fattiness of his french fries, she was beginning to realize just how empty her stomach was. Deke Summers ate like a stoker fueling an engine, out of necessity, eating because he needed the food’s nourishment to keep running. As she thought that, she was sorry for what she’d said. You certainly weren’t suffering from paranoia if men carrying automatic weapons were trying to kill you.

  “I’m sorry,” she offered.

  He glanced up, but made no comment.

  “Do we have to be enemies?” she asked when the silence grew again between them. Why did she say that? she wondered. Because he hadn’t treated her this way the previous night. Or even this morning. Like she was the enemy.

  “We’re not enemies,” he acknowledged.

  “All of a sudden it feels like we are.”

  “What we are…” he began, and then he paused, his eyes still on hers. “What we are,” he said again, “are two people put together in a bad situation by mistake.”

  “Mistake?” she questioned.

  “My mistake,” he acknowledged. “And I take full responsibility.”

  “Because you kissed me that morning?”

  “Because I got drunk,” he said flatly.

  “Why?”

  “For a lot of good reasons,” he said, but his expression indicated he didn’t intend to share any of them.

  “Because I look like your wife?” she asked, wanting to see his reaction. Something happened in his eyes, all the life disappearing suddenly.

  “What the hell do you know about my wife?”

  She hesitated, but she had gone too far to back away from what she’d said, especially as suspicious as he already was.

  “They said I looked like her. Those men. And that you wouldn’t make the same mistake again.”

  His face didn’t change. There was no further shift in the hard alignment of his features. Nothing moved behind the cold, dead eyes.

  “At least they were right about something,” he said finally.

  He gathered up the remains of the meal he’d eaten, and she realized only then that she was still holding, unwrapped, the sandwich she’d picked up from the night table. She knew that she couldn’t manage to get any of it down now.

  She had done something she didn’t think she’d ever intentionally done before in her life. At least, not in her adult life. She had deliberately caused another person pain. She might want to know what had happened to forge the man Deke Summers was now, but that gave her no right to probe the scars his past had inflicted.

  “I’m going to take a shower,” he said, throwing the trash he’d collected into the battered metal wastebasket and heading for the bathroom, slamming its door behind him.

  Conversation definitely over, Becki thought, dropping the burger she held on top of the other garbage. She still felt like the enemy.

  AFTER SHE’D TAKEN HER own shower, she washed out the white nylon panties, hanging them over the towel rack to dry, a little embarrassed by that intimacy in the small room they were forced to share. She dreaded reentering the adjoining room, which contained the bed. Maybe he’d offer to sleep on the floor. She wasn’t afraid of him, just embarrassed at the situation—sharing space with a stranger.

  She finally pulled the chain that cut off the bulb above the rust-stained lavatory. She stood in the darkness a moment, delaying the inevitable. When she opened the bathroom door, she was surprised to find the outer room dark as well. She allowed her eyes to adjust and gradually the furnishings began to take shape out of the dimness.

  Deke Summers was stretched out on the side of the bed nearest the door. His hands were crossed behind his head. He was wearing jeans, but no shirt, his tanned chest a contrast to the dingy whiteness of the sheets.

  She hesitated a minute, wondering what she should do. Somehow, she couldn’t imagine calmly crawling into bed beside him. Someone else, perhaps, but not her. Despite how he made her feel, despite her reactions to his masculinity, she had never reached the point of envisioning herself sharing a bed with him.

  “We both need sleep.” His voice was low pitched, and it contained none of its earlier coldness.

  Still she waited, unsure.

  “I’m not going to touch you,” he said. “You have my word.”

  Most people nowadays jumped in and out of bed at the drop of a hat. And here she was wondering whether to sleep beside a man who was only interested in saving her life. And his. Nothing else. He had made that abundantly clear. She was only embarrassing them both by her hesitation.

  Her bare feet made no sound as she crossed the coolness of the vinyl tile. There was far more light filtering around and through the thin shades that covered the double windows than she would have thought possible. She could see his face clearly, eyes directed toward the water stains on the Celotex ceiling above the bed.

  She lifted the top sheet and slipped under it, the bed sagging, the springs groaning with her weight. She lay perfectly still, and in the silence she could hear the occasional truck rumbling past on the highway. And from the woods that surrounded the cabin’s isolation, the normal rural night noises. And the quiet breathing of the man who lay, unsleeping, beside her. The cold hard-eyed stranger on whom her life—and the life of her son—now depended.

  Chapter Six

  When Becki drifted out of the shadowed images of sleep, she wasn’t sure what had awakened her. She wasn’t frightened, but aware that something was wrong. Something was different. She opened her eyes. The moonlight was stronger now, silvering into the small room around the torn edges of the shades that covered the windows.

  She turned her face toward its light, as remembrance of the man who slept beside her swam into her consciousness. She wasn’t awake enough yet to feel uneasy about his presence in the narrow bed as she had been the previous night. And even then, his breathing had gradually become comforting, lulling her into a relaxation that was eventually deep enough to become sleep.

  The sound that had pulled her from that sleep was protest. Anguish. Creeping out of the darkness. Horror. It had no words, but its message had been unmistakable. As harsh and painful as the sounds he had made once before, when, standing behind the sanctuary of her kitchen door, she had listened to Deke Summers’s agony, unaware and undefended.

  Nightmare, she realized. Even his legs were moving, the brush of denim audible as they strained convulsively against the sheets. Running. A man who spent his days fleeing the vengeance of relentless pursuers. And his nights.

  She wondered if what she had said to him had precipitated this. Because she had reminded him of the woman who haunted his eyes?

  The violence of the dream was increasing, its intensity obvious in his movements, in the volume of the wordless sounds he was making. Unable to bear it any longer, motivated by her guilt and by a natural aversion to intruding on anyone’s suffering, she sat up slowly. She could see him now, panting, his hands clutching the sheet that was tangling under his twisting body, their gripping fingers like talons.

  She whispered his name. Too softly. The single syllable lost in whatever
he was reliving, hidden by the gasping efforts he was making to get air into his lungs. So she said it again, louder, and tentatively she put her hand on his chest, comforting, as she would have tried to protect her son against night’s demons.

  Only, the man beside her was not a child. And he was unaccustomed to the caress of fingers against his naked skin. Suddenly she was flat on her back, his forearm across her throat as she looked up into his eyes. Their pupils were too wide, attempting to react to the lack of light and still lost in the throes of the nightmare. Even as she watched, they began to clear, to come back from the web of horror that had entangled him.

  “Lila,” Deke whispered, as he took his arm away from the slender pulsing column of her throat. His mouth lowered to hers. His tongue eased inside, caressing, savoring the reality of her response against the remembered terror. He lifted his lips a fraction away from hers to explain. He had probably frightened her to death.

  “I thought…” he said, remembering the dream. He had dreamed he’d lost her. The explosion had been too real, flames shooting into the night sky, even the sounds embedded like splinters of broken glass into his consciousness. But he knew now it had been only a dream, because she was here with him. Safe. “I had a terrible dream,” he whispered, lowering his mouth again to hers, nuzzling gently against the softness of her lips.

  He could feel her body beneath his, familiar and reassuring. Cool as always under the hot need of his skin. Her breasts pushing upward into his chest. Wanting him. Letting him know that she wanted him. That she never tired of making love, of touching him as she was touching him now, her palm flattened against his shoulder, her mouth opened under his, tongue sweet and somehow hesitant.