for them.
What ultimately resulted was something that, to the casual observer, looked as if the horse was sliding down the hillside in slow motion, his front hooves going first, sending bits and pieces of dirt and a little grass raining down ahead of him. The same, a little less forcefully, was happening with the back hooves.
Progress was slow and careful, but after what felt like an eternity later to Garrett, he and Wicked were on flat ground at the bottom of the hill several feet away from the parked car.
The feeling of relief was almost dizzying. He couldn’t help wondering if Wicked felt the same way.
“Extra lumps of sugar for you today when we get back,” Garrett promised, leaning over slightly in the saddle in order to pat the horse’s neck. Both of them, he noticed, were sweating. He felt more connected to the palomino than ever.
“Hell, extra lumps of sugar for you for a week,” Garrett amended. “You could have sent me flying right over your head and breaking my fool neck with just one misstep,” he acknowledged with more than a little feeling. “Thanks for not doing that.” He took a breath, steadying what he realized was a ragged case of nerves. “Now let’s see what’s wrong with this tenderfoot,” he proposed to his four-footed companion.
Still not knowing what to expect, he guided Wicked closer to the car, then dismounted. With the reins held tightly in one hand, he approached the vehicle slowly, then peered into its interior.
Garrett was still about three feet away from the tan car when the driver’s door swung open and a petite woman in tight jeans and what looked like a suede, fringed jacket jumped out like a jack-in-the-box on a delayed timer.
Looking at her, he couldn’t decide whether she looked terrified and was attempting to hide it, or if she was braced for a fight but undecided as to how to defend herself.
Pressing her back against the opened driver’s side door, the woman shouted at him. “I don’t have any money on me!”
“That’s okay,” he told her, staying put for the moment even as he raised his free hand in a gesture to reassure her. “I wasn’t going to ask you for any—and why are you yelling?”
Maybe it was his imagination, but the woman—he had no idea that they made writers so sexy—looked a little chagrined, as well as leery. “So you can hear me.”
“I can hear you just fine even if you lowered your voice. As a matter of fact, maybe even better,” he amended, trying to get her to smile.
So far, it wasn’t working.
Because Kim had absolutely no idea how to defend herself in this sort of a situation, she was forced to make it up as she went along. Why hadn’t she thought to pack her can of mace? Did mace even work on a horse if he used the horse to attack her?
Even as she started to talk, it sounded lame to her ear. Despite the fact that she had lived her entire life in San Francisco, she had never been in a situation where she felt threatened. She’d had to come out here for that, she thought grudgingly. She was going to find a way to get even with Saunders if it was the last thing she ever did.
“I’m not alone. I’ve got people coming,” she announced, raising her voice again as if the increased volume would bring these “people” faster—either that or scare him away.
“Are you Kimberly?” he asked, even as he searched his brain for the last name that the editor had told him. The last name that was temporarily eluding him.
And then he remembered.
“Kimberly Lee?” he asked.
The woman’s eyes widened even more. He would have found it hypnotic under any other circumstances.
“How do you know my name?” she demanded nervously.
He couldn’t get over how adorable she looked. Spooked, most likely feisty if her stance was any indication, but definitely adorable. He began to relax. He could work with adorable. Adorable women were his specialty.
“Well, I could try to dazzle you with a few mysterious answers, tell you my ancestors were into reading minds—” and then he cracked a grin “—but the truth of it is, your editor told me.”
The woman eyed him suspiciously. “Miles?” she asked.
“No, that’s not the name he gave me. I think he said it was Stan—” Garrett searched his memory again—names were not his long suit. And, just like with her last name, he remembered. Belatedly. “Stan Saunders, that’s it.”
How could he have forgotten that last name? he upbraided himself. It was the same as one of the boys Jackson had been personally working with. A dark-eyed, defiant kid who had taken more time to get through to than most of the rest.
He caught himself wondering if there was some sort of a connection between the kid and the editor, then decided probably not. Saunders wasn’t that unusual a name. Most likely it was just a coincidence. Unlike his brother, he believed that there was such a thing as coincidences and moreover, he believed that they happened more than just once in a while.
“You talked to Stan Saunders?” Kim asked, surprised.
Looking at the tall, dark-haired man for the first time—really looking at him, she realized that he might be the main man she was supposed to interview. And then again, she wouldn’t have been able to actually swear to it. It hadn’t been a very good picture, just something she’d managed to find in a local newspaper article.
“What about?” she asked, still suspicious.
“He got worried when he couldn’t reach you on your cell phone.” Garrett remained where he was. He had a feeling that if he tried to get closer, she just might run. Not that there was anywhere to run to, but he’d still have to catch her and it was too hot for that kind of exertion. “He asked me to find you.”
“You’re Jackson?” she asked, still a little on her guard but she had to admit that she was feeling less defensive than she’d been a minute ago.
“Garrett,” he corrected. “The other White Eagle,” he added with a touch of humor.
He had a nice smile, she thought. But then, she’d read somewhere that Ted Bundy had a nice smile. Still, she began to relax.
“Well, Garrett-the-other-White-Eagle, you have no cell reception out here,” she complained. And then to prove her point, she held up the phone that still wasn’t registering a signal.
Garrett nodded. “It’s been known to happen on occasion,” he acknowledged.
She was right. This was a hellhole. “How long an occasion?” she asked.
The shrug was quick and generally indifferent, as if there were far more important matters to tend to. “It varies.” He nodded at her compact. “What’s wrong with your car?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Nothing, I just didn’t want to drive it if I didn’t know where I was going.” A small pout accompanied the next accusation. “I lost the GPS signal.”
Garrett took that in stride. Nothing unusual about that either, he supposed, even though neither
