waited until she’d disappeared before letting himself out of the house again and turning to the stables. Clancy was there, mucking out the stalls. Inhaling the pleasantly familiar scents of hay, fresh straw and horses, Morgan stood in the doorway and watched.
Without shifting his attention from the task at hand, Clancy spoke, his voice as rusted as an old tin can left out too long in the rain. “’Bout time you got here, Morgan. Expected you yesterday.”
“I know,” Morgan said, a picture of Jessica Simms’ narrow, elegant figure rising clear in his mind. “I ran into a bit of trouble.”
“Oh?” Clancy planted his pitchfork in a fresh pile of straw, rested one hand on the side of the stall and massaged the small of his back with the other. “How so?”
“Wound up spending the night in the avalanche shed just west of Sentinel Pass—with a woman. Her car’s out of commission and she needs a place to stay until it’s fixed, so I brought her here.”
The smirk that had begun to steal over Clancy’s weathered features at the start of Morgan’s revelation disappeared into a scowl of alarm. “Lordy, Morgan, you got to get rid of her. This ain’t a safe place for a woman right now.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Reckon you ain’t been listening to the radio today, or you wouldn’t be askin’. Reckon you ain’t seen the mail I left in the main house, either. You got another Christmas card, Morgan. From Clarkville Penitentiary.”
“The card I’ve come to expect,” Morgan said, refusing to acknowledge the unpleasant current of tension that sparked the length of his spine at the mention of Clarkville, “but what do you mean about the news?”
“Gabriel Parrish broke out of jail late yesterday afternoon. Heard it on the seven o’clock broadcast this morning.”
The tension increased perceptibly, although Morgan didn’t let it show. “I’m surprised he’s considered interesting enough to make the headlines.”
“Heck, Morgan, there ain’t a soul alive in British Columbia that don’t remember his trial or the man who put him away. Reckon we’d see your face plastered right next to his on the TV, if we had one.” Clancy cast him a speculative glance from beneath bushy brows. “How much you want to bet that he’ll come lookin’ for you, Mr. Prosecutor?”
“He’d be crazy to do that.”
“There weren’t never no question about his bein’ crazy, Morgan. Real question is, is he crazy enough to come lookin’ for revenge, and in my mind there ain’t much doubt about it.”
“Clarkville’s hundreds of miles from here. The police will catch up with him soon enough, if they haven’t already done so. He’s no threat to me, Clancy.”
“Get rid of the woman anyway, Morgan, unless you want to risk having her used for target practice.”
“You spend too much time alone reading bad westerns,” Morgan said. “Parrish isn’t fool enough to come to the one place people might be expecting him. He’s served nine of a twenty-five-year sentence. With time off for good behavior—and he’s been a model prisoner by all accounts—he’d be eligible for parole in another six. He wouldn’t blow everything now just to come after me.” Morgan shook his head, as much to convince himself as Clancy. “No, he’s looking for freedom, not a longer stretch behind bars.”
“And what if he’s got a different agenda, one that involves settling an old score? What then?”
“If it’ll ease your mind any, I’ll put in a call to the local police and let them know I’m spending Christmas here, just in case he shows up in the area.” Morgan passed a weary hand across his eyes. “Beyond that, all I’m looking for is a hot shower, something rib-sticking to eat, and a nap. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Do tell,” Clancy squawked. “And wouldn’t that just curdle your ex’s cream if she knew you’d found someone else to keep your feet warm in bed?”
“Don’t let your imagination get the better of you,” Morgan advised him sourly. “There’s nothing going on between me and Jessica Simms, I assure you. She’s too much an uptight copy of Daphne and I like to think I’m smart enough not to fall for the same type twice.”
“Praise the Lord! Because, escaped con on the loose or not as the case may be, this ain’t no place for a woman like that, Morgan, any more than you’re the marryin’ kind. Too wrapped up in your work, too short on patience and too damned opinionated is what you are. Women don’t like that in a man.”
“You ought to know,” Morgan said, laughing despite the anxiety and irritation fraying the edges of his pleasure at being back at the ranch for the holidays. “Agnes took on all three when she married you, and spent half her life trying to cure you of them.”
Clancy pulled his worn old stetson down over his brow and came to stand next to Morgan in the doorway. “Had a little chat with her this mornin’,” he murmured, nodding to the enclosure atop a small rise beyond the near meadow, where the ashes of his wife of forty-eight years lay scattered. “Told her I’d put up a Christmas tree in the main house, just like always. Remember all the bakin’ she used to do, Morgan, and the knittin’ she tried to hide, and all that business of hanging up a row of socks, as if we was still kids believin’ in Santa Claus?”
“Of course I remember.” Morgan slung an arm over his shoulder, a gesture of affection which the hired hand suffered reluctantly. “On Christmas Eve we’ll light the fire in the living room, raise a glass to her, and you’ll play the organ. She’d like to know we’re keeping to the traditions that meant so much to her.”
“Always assumin’ we ain’t been murdered in our beds by then,” Clancy said gloomily. “I’m tellin’ you, Morgan, Gabriel Parrish is gonna come lookin’ for you. I feel it in my bones. And he ain’t gonna knock at the front door and announce himself all nice and polite.”
Jessica heard the phone ring as she was toweling dry her hair. Heard, too, the muffled sound of Morgan Kincaid answering, although his exact words weren’t clear.
When she came down the stairs a few moments later, she found him seated behind a heavy oak desk in a room which clearly served as some sort of office-cum-library, judging by the bookshelves lining the walls.
“The mechanic from the garage in Sentinel Pass just called,” he said, bathing her in a glower. “Not only is your car radiator frozen solid, you’ve also got a cracked block.”
There was no need to ask if he considered that to be bad news; his face said it all. “I gather it won’t be fixed today, then.”
“Not a chance,” he said. “The earliest you’ll be on your way is tomorrow—if you’re lucky.”
In Jessica’s view, it was about time her luck changed for the better, but it didn’t sound as if it was going to happen soon enough to please either of them. “And if I’m not? How long then?”
“It depends when they can get around to working on your car and how difficult it is to access the trouble If they have to take out the engine....” His shrug sent a not unpleasant whiff of mountain air and stables wafting toward her. “You
