Hot On His Trail

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 passenger 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 helluva 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 hell 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 windshield 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 bumpy, muddy road, he turned his head to stare at her.

“Yes.”

Chapter 3

Taggert 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 passed, 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 circumstances 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.