waited around the corner.
She pointed out her car, then went to climb into it. Trace needed a couple of extra steps, putting the coffee on top of his car while he opened the door, then reaching in to settle the tray on the passenger seat. He’d had some practice at the juggling act, she thought as she wished her car would hurry and warm up.
She pulled out of the parking space and waited for him. Soon he was behind her, and she led him down the main street to the edge of town, where a truck stop brightened one side of the road and the La-Z-Rest Motel sagged on the other side. She tapped her brake lights a couple of times and saw him flash his headlights once in response before he turned into the motel.
She continued her way along an unnecessarily circuitous route to her apartment. It had been out of her way to lead him to the motel, but she was glad to do it. He struck her as an interesting man.
Too bad he wasn’t staying. She could use a little adventure.
* * *
At the motel, Trace checked in under the ID of Tom LaCrosse and soon had a room, paid for in cash. Once he’d dragged his duffel inside, he popped two of the pain pills the doctor had prescribed. He took them only when he didn’t need to drive and felt it was safe to doze a bit. Tonight was safe. Tomorrow, who knew?
Regardless, the three coffees he’d just bought would keep him from getting too drowsy to wake up.
He ditched the winter jacket, thinking that he had to find a coat easier for a man with only one working hand. He was adept enough at buttons now and could zip up his pants, but that damn jacket was a pain. Getting the zipper to work with only one hand after he’d opened it all the way defied him, but pulling it off over his head didn’t work, either. That procedure left him sweating and too close to passing out.
The pain of the gunshot wound would ease with time, he’d been told, although he’d never get the function back in his hand. Not all of it. He’d reached the point where he didn’t care if it ever worked right again if it would just shower him with the mercy of not hurting as if it were caught in a meat grinder.
Shed of his clothes, he climbed into the sweat suit he preferred for sleeping and turned on the TV at low volume. He guzzled coffee and waited for the meds to start their work. A few hours of milder pain would be welcome, but nothing completely erased it.
Ryker hadn’t exactly surprised him, now that he thought about it. The man was out of the business, he had a wife and child to worry about, and he could hardly want someone like Trace showing up.
But the thing was—and this bugged the devil out of Trace—nobody at the agency was sure that he might be in trouble. All the intelligence networks, all the people gathering every little tidbit, could come up with only one thing: someone had tried to find him under his real name. Something only a few people should know. The secrecy around him had somehow been pierced.
So who and why? It might be nothing. But it left him, as Ryker had so succinctly put it, blowing in the wind. The agency wanted him to keep moving until they learned more, so he’d been doing exactly that, until he was utterly tired of it.
He shouldn’t have come here. Ryker was right about that. Whether someone was after him didn’t matter. If there was even the slightest chance, he should never have risked exposing Ryker’s family. Maybe the pain was affecting his decision-making, because this was a dumb one.
But as the buzz from the meds began to hit him and he stretched out on the bed, another part of him was glad he’d come. He’d enjoyed his eyeful of Teacher Julie. He wondered if she had any idea how that claret sweater brought out the red in her hair and the green in her eyes. Or if she even guessed how it had revealed her breasts as she’d leaned forward against the table.
Maybe not, but he’d appreciated every single minute of the view. Still, she was not for him. How much sweeter could you get than a kindergarten teacher who lived in a world of smiley faces and foil stars? She deserved the kind of man who would stay for the long haul, and he was no stayer.
Even if they found out no one was after him, he still wouldn’t be right for that woman. He didn’t want to cast his shadows over her bright little faces and shiny stars. Everywhere he went, he cast shadows. He knew that.
He just hoped he hadn’t cast one over Ryker.
As the pills set him free enough to doze, they also set his imagination free. Images of Julie Ardlow swam in his mind’s eye, images of undressing her, sensations of touching her, exploring her. The unparalleled moments of entering her hot, wet depths and claiming her.
Just dreams. Sometimes dreams were all a man had left. Sometimes they were the last safe place he could go.
Ryker yanked him out of sleep in the morning with a phone call. Groaning as he awoke to searing pain yet again, Trace reached for the phone beside the bed and answered it.
“Yeah.”
“It’s me,” Ryker said. “Meet me in thirty at the sheriff’s office. It’s just up the street from the diner.”
“I need coffee.” He needed more than coffee, but these days caffeine was the only thing that kicked his brain into something resembling a normal gear.
“Okay, then, I’ll bring it to you. How much and how do you like it?”
“Three or four, black, strong.”
“In ten, then. What’s your room?”
Trace struggled for a moment to recall. “Four.”
“Ten minutes.”
Then Ryker was gone. Slowly Trace pushed himself upright, biting back groans and facing the nearly impossible task of getting dressed. Well, Ryker was bringing more coffee. So he popped another pill and started the laborious job. Shorts. Jeans. Shirt. He simply stared at the god-awful jacket. Not even enough time to shower. That was Ryker. That was the job.
Socks. Boots with Velcro closures. Damn, sometimes he felt old.
Ten minutes later he heard the knock. Rising, he opened the door, wide-awake and hating it. Ryker stepped in, carrying a cardboard tray with four tall coffees.
“Trying to hurry me out of town?” Trace asked bluntly as he plopped on the bed and reached for one of the cups.
Ryker spoke very quietly. “Cell phone?”
Without question, Trace rose and got the phone from the pocket of his jacket. He didn’t say a word as Ryker pulled the back off of it and removed the battery and SIM card.
“Later,” Ryker said, “get a new phone. A burner. That one is about to head out of town on the next truck that leaves the lot across the street.”
Trace understood, and he didn’t like what he understood. If the right person had that number, they could have been listening to what was going on in this room at that very moment, at least until Ryker pulled the phone apart. “I’ve been getting fresh burners all along.” Because he wasn’t a total idiot, although he had to admit every time he’d gotten one, he’d had to use his debit card, even if only at an ATM. Hell, if the worst
