have to be more creative. And so instead of turning south on the highway, she turned north, pulling her car into an abandoned junkyard, camouflaging the pink in a sea of rust and primer gray. Thick, conifer-scented woods circled the cars, and in midday, she was sure the place had a quaint feel, but at the moment, she had a major case of the creeps.
She waited an hour in muggy dusk, the whole time swatting at whiny bugs until her entire body felt coated with grit and mosquito bites. Until dust and dirt ground between her teeth and she tasted it on her tongue. Only then, in rapidly fading daylight, did she figure it was safe to return to the motel for her stuff. Certainly Marshal Beau was long gone.
Everything that meant anything to her was in that room. Photos and diaries and recipes. Pricey pans and accoutrements. A few pieces of jewelry she hoped to pawn for the cash she’d need to get her the rest of the way to San Francisco. From there, her hotel room was prepaid, and with luck, she’d have the prize money to get her home.
She parked around back, trudged up to the front desk for another key, explaining to the clerk that she’d locked the first one in the room.
By the time she slipped the key into the lock, Gracie was beyond tired. Her feet were swollen, her lower back aching, and she could really have gone for a Caesar chicken salad and French onion soup. As for her cream sauce experiments, all she could do at this point was toss it all and start fresh wherever she stopped tomorrow.
In the room, she headed straight for the bathroom sink. It would take ten days to scrub all the junkyard grime from her face. She brushed her teeth, too. She needed a shower, but the mere thought seemed too energetic.
After securing her long mess of naturally curly hair in a scrunchie, she slipped off her shoes and headed for bed. Surely she’d feel better after a nice, long snooze?
Only after turning around and getting her first good look at the bed, she found that not only was her fuzzy faux-mink spread missing, but also the scarves she’d put over the lamps and her pillows and—she stormed to the bathroom. He’d even taken her ultra-fluffy pink towels and no, even he wouldn’t have sunk that low…
Running for the suitcase she’d stashed in a small closet, she yanked open the door and couldn’t have felt lower if the man had socked her in the stomach.
Shoulders sagging, the tears she’d been too stubborn to shed since the start of this whole ordeal finally spilled.
Her recipes.
The creep had taken her recipes—not only that, but also all of her cooking gear.
The CAI contest was unique in that you couldn’t fully prepare before arrival. There were one hundred and ninety-three chefs, each representing the globe’s countries—unlike the U.S., the CAI recognized Taiwan. In each of five rounds, the ethnic theme of her meals was determined by luck of the draw. She could draw Ethiopia. India. Greenland. In her recipe journal was years of research. Without it, she might as well not even go to San Francisco. What was the point when she didn’t have a prayer of winning?
Jeez, her back hurt. And now, her head and heart.
Why had Marshal Beau done this?
How could he be so cruel?
She sat hard on the foot of the bed, cradling her forehead in her hands.
Who was she trying to kid? Vicente’s capture had been big news. His spectacular prison break even bigger. As his ex-wife, the woman carrying his baby, Gracie had been in the news right along with him. For all she knew, the world-renowned Culinary Arts Institute might have rescinded her invitation without even letting her know. Hers was a type of publicity they didn’t want.
On the flip side, she owed it to this tiny life growing inside to at least try.
Freeing her hands to rub her bulging tummy, she looked up toward the dresser and TV. Sitting beneath her favorite bottle of perfume—the only non-essential item left in the room—was a note written on a yellow legal pad.
Want your stuff? Let’s make a deal.
Meet me at the Fish Tale Motel
in Orick, California. Noon tomorrow.
—Your Fave Marshal.
Instead of the customary signature at the bottom of his note, he’d drawn a smiling stick guy bearing a star-shaped badge on his chest. Of all the nerve…
He’d stolen everything she owned and thought she’d be happy about it? Oh—she’d meet him all right, but if he thought for one second she’d peaceably return to Portland with him, he had about as much brain power as his stupid, smiling stick man!
“’BOUT TIME y’all got here,” Marshal Beau said with a slow grin and that infuriating imitation of her accent. Granted, she’d poured it on thick the morning she’d locked him in that storage closet, but it hadn’t been that thick.
“Where’s my property?” she asked from behind the wheel, shading her eyes against blinding noon sun. Their appointed meeting spot was an even more tired establishment than the last one she’d stayed at.
The Fish Tale Motel was on the outskirts of the bustling tourist town of Ulmstead—located in the heart of redwood country. The towering redwood setting was spectacular, sweet-scented and warm; it was almost enough to make the giant log cabin, with its tattered green roof, charming. An abandoned mini-waterslide had been filled with pungent yellow marigolds.
“Get out,” Marshal Beau said, “then I’ll show you.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon you put it in my trunk.”
“And then you drive off into the sunset?”
She laughed. “It’s high noon. There’s a ways to go before nightfall.”
“You know what I mean.” He braced his hands on the side of her door. Strong hands, with long elegant fingers. His muscular forearms were tan, a few light hairs mixed among the dark, glinting in the sun.
Yes, she thought, licking her lips. A few seconds earlier she’d known exactly what he’d meant, but somewhere between his biceps and broad shoulders, she’d totally lost track of her thoughts.
“Get out,” he said. “Please.”
She sighed. “You, please, cut me some slack. I feel eighteen months pregnant, according to you, my husband’s trying to kill me and I haven’t had a decent meal in two days.”
“Wait just a sec,” Beau said, jogging the fifteen feet to his black SUV.
He soon headed back her way bearing a large grocery sack. “This is for you,” he said, “but only if you’ll at least get out long enough to talk to me.”
“I’m not stupid,” she said, thumping her forehead against the steering wheel. “I get out, you’ll slap cuffs on me. That’ll be it. My whole life instantly ruined.”
“Look—” he knelt, resting his forearms on her door “—I’ll level with you. You’re not going to like it, but for your own good, it has to be said.”
“What?” She made the mistake of raising her head to meet his eyes. They were amazing eyes. Deep
