there.”
“So, no husband?”
She looked up at him, surprised by the interest in his voice. “No husband.”
His gaze held hers. “I’m not exactly known for my good timing.”
She couldn’t stop a smile, though it made her head ache. “Clearly.”
“So we should probably just forget I asked that question.” He looked toward the front door. “Do you hear any sirens?”
“Not yet.”
“Should we?”
Good question. “How long ago did you talk to the station?”
He looked at his watch. “Twenty minutes. He said backup was already on the way, so it might be a little longer than that.”
It took about ten minutes to reach this part of Route 7 under good weather conditions. “The snow’s probably slowed them up.”
He gave a quick nod and fell silent, his expression hard to read. She wouldn’t say he looked worried, exactly. Watchful, maybe.
Silence unspooled between them as they waited, the silence of forced proximity between strangers. Normally, Miranda preferred silence to pointless chatter, but the events of the afternoon had left her nerves raw.
So when John Blake’s cell phone rang, it sent a shock wave rippling up her spine. He gave a slight start and pulled the phone from his pocket. “It’s the station,” he murmured. He lifted the phone to his ear. “John Blake.”
He listened a second, then looked at Miranda. “She’s right here.” He handed the phone to her.
It was Bill Chambers on the other end. “How’re you holding up, Duncan?”
“I’m okay. Head’s a little sore, but I’ll live.”
“Good to hear, because we have a problem.”
* * *
JOHN LEANED AGAINST the back of his chair and tried not to eavesdrop, though there was no way to avoid hearing Miranda’s end of the call without leaving the room.
She picked up the washcloth he’d laid on the coffee table beside her and pressed it to her head wound while she listened to the caller. “How many injuries?”
Whatever answer she received made her frown.
John stopped trying to pretend he wasn’t listening and met her troubled gaze. She was still pale, but her hands had stopped shaking finally and her gray-eyed gaze was clear and sharp as it rose to meet John’s.
“I’m fine. The cruiser’s not going anywhere, and I’m not alone. Just stay in touch, okay?” She ended the call and handed John the phone. “There’s been a pileup on Highway 287. Over a dozen vehicles. Every EMS service in three counties is responding. All the deputies are out on calls, too. I guess you’re stuck with me a little longer.”
He nodded, but something in his gut twisted a little at the realization they were alone and more or less stranded out in here in the middle of snowy nowhere for the next while.
He had a pistol packed away in the closet. His Virginia concealed-carry license was honored in Texas—he’d made sure before he headed west to finish his recuperation in relative anonymity. But if he retrieved it now, what would Deputy Duncan think?
“What are you thinking?” she asked, apparently reading his expression.
“That we’re sort of isolated out here,” he answered, not seeing the point of hiding his concern. Someone had run the deputy off the road and then taken shots at her.
Would they take a chance and try again?
“You think the person who was shooting at us may come back?” She laid down the washcloth and sat up straighter, her gaze moving toward the front door.
He hurried to the door and turned the dead bolt to the locked position before moving the curtain aside to check the road. The snow had slowed finally, visibility restored to a hundred yards or more, though the highway in front of the house was covered with at least a couple of inches of the white stuff. He could probably drive to town without incident, he thought. Get her to her dad’s house, at least.
He looked over his shoulder at her. “The snow has slowed. I think I could drive you back to town.”
“I don’t want to leave the cruiser,” she answered. “If you don’t mind my staying here a while longer.”
Did he mind? On one level, he didn’t mind a bit. She was an interesting woman, and not bad to look at, even with her hair plastered to her head with sticky blood.
But she was also a cop, and while he technically had nothing to hide from the law, he didn’t want anyone looking too closely at his life. In a way, Cold Creek, Texas, was a hideout. There were people back in Virginia who’d like to get their hands on him, and he was currently in no condition to hold his own.
Soon, though, he promised himself. He’d be back in fighting form soon. And then it wouldn’t matter who knew where he was.
“I don’t mind,” he answered.
Her eyes narrowed a notch. “Took your time answering that question.”
He smiled. “I’m a bit of a loner.”
“Is that why you moved out here? To be alone?”
“I guess.”
“You said you were in the hospital not long ago. Car accident?”
He shook his head but didn’t elaborate.
“Assault?”
He should have known silence would only pique her curiosity. But he was tired of lying. It seemed as if he’d been lying for years, first as a CIA agent pretending to be an international finance manager, then the decade he’d pretended that he found life as an accountant satisfying.
And then, there was the past year, working undercover for Alexander Quinn. Using an alias, pretending a career that didn’t exist, acting as a go-between for Quinn and another undercover operative trying to infiltrate a dangerous militia group called the Blue Ridge Infantry—
What would Miranda Duncan think if he laid out his whole deception-riddled history for her examination?
She’d probably think he was crazy. Or lying.
Or both.
“I guess you could say I was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he said finally.
“That’s...cryptic.”
He smiled. “Yes.”
To his surprise, her lips quirked in response, a faint half smile that dimpled her cheeks. He felt a drawing sensation low in his belly that caught him by surprise.
She
