Linda Jones - Hot On His Trail

The drive circled around the house; the crunching noise the tires made on the gravel was sure to be heard by whoever waited inside. At a window near the back door a pale blue curtain fluttered. They’d been seen.

“You’re not thinking of doing anything drastic, are you?” she asked as Taggert stopped the car and put it in park. Finally, he turned his eyes to her.

He listed forward slightly with his arms resting on the steering wheel, shoulders slumped and those normally piercing eyes half-closed. “Drastic?” he repeated.

It was a rather ridiculous question, she supposed, considering what had transpired so far today. He’d escaped from the courthouse, been shot and kidnapped her. Everything had been drastic. But still… “There’s no reason to involve anyone else in this,” she said sensibly. “We can steal a car. Well, we can borrow one without asking, and leave a note or something. My purse is in the trunk, and I have a little cash, so there’s no reason—”

“You think I’m going to rob the man who lives here?” Taggert interrupted.

You heard about it on the news all the time. A convict escapes from prison and storms into someone’s home—preferably an isolated house, like this one—for hostages and money and food.

“Aren’t you?”

He managed to shake his head once, and the expression on his face changed subtly to one of disgust and maybe even disappointment. “Why don’t you take off right here, weathergirl?” he whispered. “Start walking.”

“No,” she answered just as softly.

The back door opened and bright light spilled onto the yard and the long gravel drive. An older, heavyset man stood there, squinting out into the night and waiting patiently.

Taggert threw open his door and stepped into the rain. Shea scooted across the seat, making the awkward move over the console and placing herself quickly right behind him, knowing, even if he didn’t, that he wouldn’t make it to the house under his own power. She was there to catch him when he practically fell back into the driver’s seat. Slipping an arm around his waist, she allowed him to lean on her as she stood beside him. He hesitated, and then his arm circled her lightly. Taggert was tall and hard and muscled, and in normal circumstances he would have overpowered her. But at the moment he needed her help to stay on his feet.

“He’s a friend?” she asked, and Taggert nodded once.

Relief washed through her. She should’ve known that he wouldn’t break into someone’s home like a common thief. Even in his weakened condition, Nicholas Taggert was anything but common.

He leaned on her heavily as they approached the open back door, moving slowly in spite of the rain. Her arm around his waist, and his around hers, provided unsteady but effective support. Taggert was too big; if he fell she’d never be able to get him up. After they’d taken several tottering steps the old man made his way to them and added his strength at Taggert’s other side. Shea supposed she could let go and allow Taggert’s friend to lead him inside, but she didn’t. Nick seemed to lean into her, still, so she kept her arm around his waist and canted in his direction, bracing his heavy body as best she could.

The back door opened onto a brightly lit kitchen. An oak table and four chairs sat there, and Taggert’s faltering path took him and those who were assisting him directly toward those chairs.

“Boy, can you make it to the den?” the old man asked.

“Sure,” Taggert answered weakly, and they bypassed the oak chairs and went through a wide doorway into a square, rustic room. The old man steered them toward a long, mustard-colored couch, where they deposited Taggert in a slightly awkward maneuver.

When his arm slipped from her back, the palm of his hand skimmed down her spine and across her hip, as if he needed support, still. As if he didn’t want to let her go.

Once Taggert was deposited on the couch, the old man started cussing—long, inventive, loudly delivered profanity as he removed thick, rain-splattered glasses and cleaned them on his shirttail. Taggert leaned his head back and closed his eyes until the tirade ended.

The old man took a deep breath and visibly calmed himself as he placed the glasses on his nose. “What the blue blazes were you thinking, boy? You could’ve gotten yourself killed. And kidnapping this poor lady.” He turned his head her way and squinted at her through thick lenses, even though they stood close. “Now, that was stupid.”

“I know,” Taggert said weakly, without so much as opening one eye.

“We’ll talk about it in the morning,” the old man said softly. “Right now we’ll see to that leg and get you to bed. In the morning—”

“No.” This time Taggert’s eyes did open. “We can’t stay here, Lenny. I just…I need your truck.”

“It’s yours,” Lenny said without hesitation. “And I tell you what, you leave the little lady here and I’ll see that she doesn’t call anyone or go anywhere until you’ve had a chance to get on down the road a ways.”

“Sounds good to me,” Taggert muttered.

“No.” Shea directed her denial to the man Taggert called Lenny. “I’m going with him.”

The man drew his bushy eyebrows together. “What for?”

“I’m a helluva story,” Taggert said caustically before Shea could answer. He locked his eyes on her, and in spite of his weakened condition they were cold and strong. Piercing, as if he had never known weakness. “But this is one part of the story no one ever hears, you understand me? As far as the cops are concerned we’re stealing Lenny’s truck. He didn’t see anything, we didn’t talk to him, he is not involved in this. Is that clear?”

Shea nodded, and Taggert closed his eyes once again.

Lenny looked Shea up and down once, squinting as he brought his gaze to her face. He even leaned forward slightly. “Name’s Leonard Caudel,” he said.

“Shea Sinclair,” she answered, offering her hand.

Caudel took her hand and shook it gently. “I know.” A smile bloomed on his face. “You’ve been all over the news today, young lady. I can’t see real good, but if I get close to the television I can see well enough. You’ve been on the television before. You’re the weathergirl, right?”

Before Shea could correct Caudel, Taggert laughed. It was a weak, nearly silent chuckle, and he didn’t even bother to open his eyes. “You’ve done it now, Lenny,” he whispered, and then he fell silent once again.

Shea was annoyed, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort of an argument. “Do you have a place where I can clean up? I’ve been out in the rain, and the man bled on me, and…” She felt dizzy for just a moment, light-headed. “It has been the longest day,” she finished.

“Come this way,” Caudel said, taking her arm and leading her into a long hallway. “You could use a change of clothes, I reckon.”

She looked him up and down. He was as tall as Taggert and twice as big around. No way was there anything in this house that would fit her, even in a pinch. “Well…”

“My late wife, Judith, she was about your size. I guess I shoulda gotten rid of her things years ago, but I never could bring myself to do it.” He grinned. “But I wouldn’t mind at all if you could find something in her closet that would suit this occasion.”

In a small, sparsely furnished bedroom at the end of the hallway, he threw open a closet. “You’ll have to do the choosing. Like I said, I can’t see so well no more, so there’s no telling what I’d pick out. You just take what you want. There’s a bathroom down the hall if you want to clean up a bit. I’ll see to Nick’s leg.”

The contents of the very full closet were brightly colored and years out of fashion. Orange, bright pink, a shade of green so garish it hurt her eyes. A glimpse of tie-dye and a pair of orange bell-bottom pants said “sixties” as surely as if a neon sign hung there. “I’m sure I’ll find something that will do,” she said optimistically.