Roxanne Rustand - Duty To Protect

She watched people come and go. A mom heading for the door to the café, gripping the hands of two toddlers bundled into heavy blue snowsuits. A gray-haired couple hanging on to each other for support as they came out and bent into the bitter wind, heading for the hotel with scarves wrapped around their faces.

A tall cowboy sauntered toward the gas station from his truck and horse trailer at the last gas pump, the brim of his Western hat pulled down low over his forehead.

One of the toddlers broke free as his mother opened the door, and made a beeline for the gas pumps just as a rattletrap of a pickup pulled off the highway into the lot, swung wide and started skidding sideways. The mother screamed and threw herself toward her child. Pedestrians swung around. The scene played out in slow motion.

The crushing weight of the truck sluiced sideways, the side of its front wheel aimed straight for the child and coming too, too fast.

And suddenly the cowboy was there—diving for the child. Rolling in the snow, protecting him with his body. Even through the thick, well-insulated walls of the bus Emma heard an uproar of excited shouts as the young mother fell to her knees at the cowboy’s side and opened her arms when he handed over her unharmed child.

The crowd grew around them, slapping the cowboy on the back, then some broke away and loudly confronted the driver of the pickup who staggered out of his truck and leaned against the front fender, pale and shaken and quite possibly drunk.

Emma leaned back, her own fear subsiding as she watched the mother wrap her arms around the cowboy in heartfelt thanks, then hold his hand for a moment. He touched the brim of his hat, then headed into the gas station, while she shepherded her children into the café.

A true hero, Emma thought, the one person among the many who had thought fast and acted in time. Why had she never run into someone like that when she’d needed him most?

She settled back in her seat and read a page of the book in her lap, then idly drew a circle in the frost that had already formed on her window. Rubbing out a bigger porthole, she drew in a sharp breath.

Impossible. She’d been so incredibly careful.

The chill from touching the icy glass rushed through her. Outside the door of the gas station, she could see the bus driver and the cowboy both holding foam to-go cups, listening to a tall man in a dark overcoat and gray dress slacks who was facing away from the bus. All three were hunched against the wind, their collars turned up.

From his rigid stance and forceful gestures it was apparent that the newcomer was agitated and demanding some sort of action. He pivoted and stood in front of the big plate glass window to stare at the people inside. Then he turned back to the bus driver and the cowboy and pointed toward the bus.

She stared at him, too horrified to move.

It was too far away to see his face, but he was tall, with the same kind of coat and gray slacks as the man she’d seen in her kitchen. It had to be a coincidence. How was it even possible that he could find her this far from Chicago? Unless…

The truth hit her like a punch to her stomach.

Had Todd planted a tracking device on her? Who would have ordered it—the good guys or bad? Either way, she was in trouble.

The man in the overcoat was already striding toward the bus, clearly planning to search inside.

There was no time to hunt for her luggage stowed in the belly of the bus, and even grabbing her duffel could spell danger if it held the tracking device. Grabbing only her purse, she crouched low and hurried to the exit, shoved the door open and bolted for the nearby row of semis along the edge of the parking lot, thankful that the bus had been parked with its exit door facing away from the café.

The semi tractors were idling to keep their diesel fuel warm and all were dark, so the drivers were either asleep inside with their doors locked or were over at the café. There was no time to search out someone in a sleeper cab and beg for shelter.

The wind sent sleet and cold down the collar of her coat as she hurried behind the trucks for cover, then hesitated. The hotel parking lot ahead was packed with cars and pickups, but few people left their vehicles open these days and only a fool left keys in an ignition. There’d be a slim chance of finding refuge there. The hotel itself was too far away—with a swath of open lawn between its front doors and the parking area. She would be spotted in an instant. Please, God, help me find someone, someplace…

Her frantic gaze landed on the rig at the farthest gas pump.

The pickup lights were off, but inside the back of the trailer, a horse whinnied. That cowboy would surely be back soon. Would he help her? Would he give her a ride? Or would he first demand answers that would take far too long?

Already, she could hear a male voice over by the bus. If the bus driver had told that guy about her being a passenger, she was in deep trouble.

Bending low, she crept to the horse trailer and nearly cried out in relief when she read its Montana plates. “Please, please be heading back home,” she whispered to herself.

But the cab of the truck was still empty, save for a big dog that surged toward the window from the shadows of the interior, its teeth bared.

The voice approached the other side of the horse trailer, apparently talking into a cell phone. So close that she could hear him breathing.

“I told you, I couldn’t—not when I took out her old man. Too many witnesses. But when I get my hands on her, she ain’t gonna die easy.”

A wave of dizziness rushed through her and her heart threatened to batter its way out of her rib cage as she glanced wildly at her surroundings.

There was no other place to hide but here—unless she dared step out into the lights illuminating the truck stop parking area.

Her hands shaking, she tried the dressing room door at the front of the trailer. The handle turned easily and the door swung open, revealing a dark, cavernous space redolent of good leather and saddle soap and horse. Thank you, God.

Footsteps crunched in the snow, rounding the back of the trailer. A man cursed.

Her knees threatened to buckle as she slipped up into the dressing room compartment of the trailer and eased the door shut behind her. She took a quiet step back and tried to calm her rapid breathing. The jackhammer rate of her heartbeat echoed in her head—surely loud enough to be heard from outside.

In the dim light coming through the window in the door, she could make out a three-tier saddle rack. Bridles and other leather equipment hanging from hooks. A gun rack cradling a rifle, bolted high on the wall. On the floor were a tire rim and jack, a bag of Purina dog food and several bags of horse feed rich with the warm, sweet smell of molasses.

In the corner—thank you, Lord—was a big pile of winter horse blankets and a crumpled tarp.

She crawled under the blankets, thankful for the wind outside and praying that it masked the sounds of her movements, and wiggled as far back into the corner as she could. The smell of the horse blankets enveloped her…strong and pungent, but somehow the heavy weight of them felt comforting, secure.

A second later, the door hinges squealed as the compartment door was jerked open. The horse in the back whinnied, the noise reverberating through the trailer.

“Hey, what are you doing?” The new voice was deeper. Angry. “Get away from my trailer.”

So this was the cowboy, then—the one who had saved the little boy.

“I already told you—I’m looking for a woman on the run. Cold-blooded killer.”

“Well, as you can see, there’s no one here.” The dressing room door slammed. A key turned in the lock.

“I need to check the back of your trailer.”