Bodyguard Father. Alice Sharpe
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he retrieved the camera she’d thrown at him. Then he went into the barn to reassure the horse and reclaim his rifle. As he made his way down the hill, snowflakes gathering on his bare head and shoulders, he reviewed the last several pictures she’d taken—the driveway, the barn and house, Ben’s junk mail, several of him in front of Naughton’s Stop and Shop.
She was after him, all right.
When he dug for the car key he’d confiscated, he came across the photo of his truck, the one he’d found in her pocket when he searched for her gun. It took him a moment to figure out where the picture had been taken. The broken antenna placed it within the last month. He was sitting alone in the cab, staring out the driver’s-side window. He wore an old green hat he’d found in the barn.
He’d worn that hat only once and that had been during a quick trip to Reno to catch a glimpse of Megan. Back around her birthday in early December. His daughter’s smile had warmed his heart for the past several days, but if it meant he’d put her in danger, the cost had been too high and he swore at himself.
He knew why his intruder hadn’t trailed him back from Reno that day. There’d been a terrible road accident right behind him, one involving a semi and two cars. Though he’d sailed away from it, the traffic behind had come to a dead halt.
He wadded up the picture and stuffed it back in his pocket. Life had gotten so damn complicated. In the past, he would have kept running right out of the country if need be. The problem would have gone away because he would have reinvented himself somewhere else. No ties meant mobility.
But now there was Megan to consider.
He finally reached the road. No sign of the car. She must have driven past and parked it up around the bend. His leg was killing him and he swore softly. Why hadn’t she just driven up the damn hill?
A quarter of a mile later, he rounded a turn to find an older white sedan with Nevada license plates. Using her keys, he unlocked the car and slid behind the wheel. The car was registered to someone named Jack Ryder. A hasty search of the glove box revealed a few folded maps. He felt under the seat and came out with a woman’s woven handbag. It held little more than a small zipped wallet. The driver’s license showed his visitor’s face. Her name was Anastasia Ryder. So, was she Jack Ryder’s wife? She had a credit card, a library card and grocery store discount card. No private-eye license. A few receipts fell out of a side pocket. She had purchased new shoes and two different wigs three days before in Reno.
He also found a plastic bag half full of what looked like homemade oatmeal cookies and a key attached to a green oval labeled Shut Eye Inn, rm. 7, the sole motel in town.
Remembering the cell phone he confiscated, he dug it from a pocket, turned it on and scrolled through the outgoing calls. None to a local number. The last one she made was to an area code he didn’t recognize, but that wasn’t surprising. There were hundreds of new area codes now thanks to the proliferation of cell phones. The call had been made an hour before he caught Anastasia Ryder behind Scio’s barn. He pushed the call button. The phone was answered by a recording.
A woman’s voice. Name of Shelby Parker. He didn’t recognize her voice but her name rang a distant bell. No, he couldn’t remember where he’d heard it before. Was she connected to Rocko Klugg?
He flipped the phone closed and rubbed his jaw with cold fingers, trying to figure things out. At least Anastasia hadn’t called the police. And if her appearance was connected to Klugg, it would take hours for his henchmen to get here.
In the end, did it matter who Anastasia Ryder worked for? She carried a gun and a picture of him taken outside his ex-wife’s house. She’d taken photos of everything connected to him. Obviously, someone had employed Ms. Ryder to track him down and she had.
Driving her car, he made a U-turn on the empty road and drove back up his driveway, his leg screaming in protest as he hit every rut in the dirt road. The weather had grown even colder, the road icier. As he neared the top, his tires fell into well-worn grooves. If not for them, he’d skid all over the place. He flipped on the windshield wipers as snow started to fly.
And then he saw it. His truck, aimed right at him, barreling down the hillside, his prisoner at the wheel. He’d left the damn keys on a hook by the door!
For an instant, he met Anastasia Ryder’s green-eyed gaze as he slammed on the brakes, sending pain shooting up his right leg. He yanked the wheel to the left but she kept coming, the truck’s momentum overriding its aging brakes, sending it into a death skid aimed right at him.
The truck hit the car starting at the front right fender and grinding its way down the body, crushing the doors with a horrible metal on metal sound until it imbedded itself into what had once been the trunk. The car stopped abruptly thanks to a tree and that jarring conclusion saved him an uncomfortable trip down the hillside. It also released the air bag and he sank into it instead of slamming against the steering wheel.
Shaking inside, Garrett took inventory. Besides his leg, remarkably, everything else seemed to be in working order. He fought off the air bag, took the keys from the ignition and dumped them in Annie’s purse. After wrenching open his door, he slipped and slid his way around the car.
Ben’s truck was history. Radiator pushed inward, hood buckled, steam hissing, windshield shattered…it wasn’t going anywhere again. Damn, neither was the car. The two locked vehicles made a dandy roadblock.
How did Anastasia Ryder get untied? Stupid question, he knew how. He hadn’t tied her tight enough, he hadn’t wanted to break her soft skin. He hadn’t wanted to yank her arms behind her, he hadn’t wanted to hurt her.
And in payment of this gentle treatment, she crashed his getaway truck.
He pulled open the truck door, dreading what he would find. Anastasia had been thrown or had thrown herself flat onto the bench seat and she sat up slowly, her lovely face splattered with her own blood, hair tumbling across her forehead and down her shoulders. Tiny cubes of safety glass sparkled in her hair like ice crystals.
Her hands were still tied together, a cut rope dangled from the knot around one ankle. She’d apparently used his biggest kitchen knife to cut her feet free and brought it along as a possible weapon. It now stuck straight out from the dashboard, the tip imbedded in vinyl, the plastic handle still vibrating from the impact.
She bit her lip when her gaze followed his and she saw the knife.
“You’re lucky it didn’t imbed itself in something softer. Like your throat,” he said.
She nodded in a dazed kind of fashion.
“Can you move?”
She nodded again and sat perfectly still, blinking.
“I’ll help you,” he said.
More nodding. He brushed some of the glass away then reached inside and pulled on her jacket sleeve and her jeans. She slid closer to the edge of the seat until she slipped into his arms as though she belonged there. She looped her arms over his head and around his neck and for a second, he wondered if she knew how to choke a man with a rope. But instead of trying to strangle him, she looked into his eyes. The cold, miserable day receded, the pain ebbed, the clock stopped ticking.
“Thanks,” she said, lowering her gaze.
“If you’d stayed tied up this wouldn’t have happened,” he grumbled as he carried her away from the hissing, steaming mass of mangled metal. He set her on her feet, anxious to see just how injured she was. She swayed a little but caught herself.
“Can you walk?” he barked.
“Of course,” she said, shaking glass off her clothes, out of her hair. “I’m just a little…rattled,” she added, and proved it by trembling from the feet up.
“Stand here for a second,” he said as he handed her her handbag. “Don’t run away.”
He limped back to the truck and grabbed the rifle before pulling his duffel bag from behind the seat. He didn’t know how he was going to get out