Whiskey River Runaway (Whiskey River Series Book 2) Read online

  She blinked. She’d been so focused on him she’d almost forgotten. But now that he’d said it, the ache slammed into her consciousness again. Instinctively she flexed her ankle, and couldn’t keep herself from wincing.

  “I noticed,” she muttered.

  That quickly he went from intimidating to concerned. He crouched before her, setting aside, she noticed, the menacing looking board with the nails.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “I noticed that, too,” she said dryly. Hard not to when the hem of her jeans was nearly saturated.

  He reached toward her. She recoiled, as instinctively as she’d flexed that ankle. He froze. His gaze shot back to her face.

  “I won’t hurt you.”

  “Funny, that’s what the guy who caused that said.”

  Something else sparked in his eyes then—something darker, hotter. It almost looked like anger.

  “Some guy did this to you?”

  “Indirectly,” she said, back to full wariness after that look in his eyes. “It happened when I was getting away from him.”

  “Who?”

  She shrugged. “No idea,” she said. Which would have been her answer anyway, but in this case it happened to be the truth.

  “Someone here? In Whiskey River?”

  She heard anger and disbelief in equal measure in his voice. She wondered if he suspected someone, or if he was just angry at the thought it might be someone he knew, someone from his town. She had the sudden thought that if it was, they’d have him to deal with. It gave her a very strange feeling inside.

  But it didn’t matter, she needed to get away from this guy. And obviously she couldn’t stay here any longer, so she might as well get back on the road. Too bad; this had been a nice little hideout, while it lasted. With the fire going, she’d been more comfortable than she had been since that lady in Tucson had taken pity on her and let her sleep in the room over her garage for a couple of nights.

  “Who—”

  “Look,” she said before he could push harder, “I accepted a ride from the wrong guy, that’s all. It’s over.”

  “Except for the bleeding.”

  His tone was as dry as hers had been. And for some reason that sparked a trace of amusement in her. “Well, yes. That.”

  “You should see a doctor.”

  “No!”

  It came out sharply, edged with panic, and she tried to control the instant leap her heart made. He leaned back on his heels—cowboy boots, she noticed; did everybody around here wear those things?—and studied her for a moment.

  “Is it doctors you’re afraid of, or just anybody?”

  Everybody.

  She made herself not say it. For some reason it was too much to admit to this man. She’d noticed that before; the more together, the more strong a person she met was, the more she hated admitting she needed help. And this guy looked well put together in more ways than one.

  He was looking at her as if she’d said it. Or as if he’d read the answer in her expression. She supposed he thought it pitiful, to be afraid of everyone. And that rankled almost as much as the fear itself.

  “Listen, cowboy,” she began.

  “I’m not a cowboy.”

  She blinked. He’d almost sounded defensive. “Sorry. The boots threw me.”

  “I wear them because they’re comfortable, and practical on a job site.”

  “Job site?”

  “Speaking of which, since I oversee a lot of construction projects, I’m semi-competent at first aid. Which you could use, if you won’t see a doctor.”

  That didn’t surprise her, that he was a boss of sorts. He had the air. And she was guessing first aid wasn’t the only thing he was competent at. “You going to work on this place?”

  “Maybe. The owner asked me to take a look.”

  “Owner must not care much,” she said, with a glance around. “Too bad. It’s a good house.”

  Something else sparked in those blue eyes of his. Curiosity? She hoped not. The last thing she needed was a curious non-cowboy, or anyone else, poking into her business.

  And it was the last thing he needed, even if he didn’t know it. Because the trouble she’d left behind could catch up with her at any moment.

  Chapter Three

  True studied the kid for a silent moment. She appeared exhausted, her eyes much older than she looked. Worn, and not just her clothes. Although interestingly she was clean enough, even if her jeans could use a wash. So she made an effort. He wondered how; the power to everything was off here, including the well pump. But there might have been water left in the pressure tank. That would have given her enough for very basic needs for a few days, if she was careful. If she had any idea about wells, that is.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  Again he saw fear flash in her eyes. Warm, cinnamon-brown eyes that matched the color of her hair.

  “What should I call you?” he amended.

  “Just not the cops,” she muttered, so low he wasn’t sure he was supposed to have heard it.

  His mouth twisted at one corner as he wondered what he was about to get into. But somehow she reminded him of Zee back in the days after their parents had been killed; scared, worried, and with only him to trust.

  “I’ll make a deal with you,” he said. “Come with me and get that leg seen to, get it bandaged up, and I won’t call the cops.” Yet.

  She pulled back even further into that corner.

  “I’ll even throw in a hot shower,” he said.

  That registered. He saw the longing flicker in her eyes. And realized then those eyes had tiny specks of topaz gold, about the color of the birthstone ring Zee wore.

  “And maybe a swing through somewhere for some takeout?”

  He heard her stomach growl, so loudly she blushed. She looked pretty thin, and he wondered how long it had been since she’d eaten more than she could scrounge on the run. Because she was on the run, he had no doubts about that. As for what would put a kid like this in that position, he could think of several things, most of which he didn’t much like.

  “And then you call the cops?” she asked, her tone sour.

  He looked at her for a long moment. “Did you do it?”

  She blinked. Frowned. Glanced around as if looking for some damage in the room that he was referring to. And that that was what she thought he meant told him volumes. She’d answered him without saying a word.

  “Come on, squatter,” he said. “I can’t leave you here.”

  Still she resisted. “You going to force me to go to a doctor?”

  An old, familiar chill rolled over him. He fought it down with the ease of long practice. “I only facilitate. I don’t force anyone to do anything.”

  Because I did force someone to a doctor once, and it didn’t make any difference.

  “Except trespassers to leave.”

  Well, she had him there. “Yes. I do draw the line at violations of the law that happen right in front of me.”

  She was already fair-skinned—he supposed it went with the reddish highlights in her hair—but he would swear she went even paler.

  “Good for you,” she muttered.

  If her mood was as sour as her tone, as it appeared to be, he was likely letting himself in for an unpleasant time. But there had been more to it this time; there had been an undertone of something else. Fear? Sorrow? Anger? Something strong, anyway.

  When she didn’t move, he pulled his phone out of his pocket. She eyed it warily, then looked at his face. And suddenly he wondered just how old she really was, because no kid should have eyes like that: tired, world-weary, and scared.

  “Don’t make me call them,” he said quietly. “Just come with me, get that injury seen to, have some food, a shower. Then you can decide what you’re going to do.”

  She met his gaze then, almost challengingly. “And what’s all that going to cost me?”

  His brow furrowed, then cleared as he realized what she meant. The thought made hi
m recoil inwardly. “I’ll let that slide since you don’t know me. And I’m glad to see you’re suspicious.”

  “If I was suspicious enough, I wouldn’t be bleeding.”

  He almost smiled at the self-directed sarcasm. But then it hit him he could be dealing with the victim of a much worse crime than trespassing. He tried to keep his voice steady when he asked, “What did he do to you?”

  “He didn’t get the chance, actually. When I realized what he had in mind, I bailed out of the car.” He drew back slightly, looked her up and down for further injuries. She read the look. “I was lucky. He’d slowed down for a turn, and I managed to hit mostly grass. Except,” she added with a grimace, “for the barbed wire fence.”

  “Ouch.” Then, curiously, “He didn’t come after you?”

  She shrugged. “I guess he decided I wasn’t worth it.”

  Something in the way she said it made him wonder if that was an assessment she’d heard more than once in her life.

  He didn’t ask why she hadn’t gone to the police after she’d escaped that particular predator, because he thought he knew the answer; whoever had made her run in the first place was a bigger, badder predator.

  It did occur to him to wonder if perhaps she wasn’t a predator in her own right, using that innocent face to con unsuspecting, protective types into helping her. Maybe with an eye to what she could get, or steal later. But he discarded the idea, not because he didn’t believe it but because it didn’t make any difference in what he would do. His sister always said facilitator was just another name for fixer, and he had ever and always tried to fix things. And most times, did a creditable job.

  Except when it mattered most.

  He shook off the old refrain and stood up. “Your choice.”

  “I either come with you, or you call the cops?”

  “That’s the deal right now, yes,” he said, thinking he might end up calling the police anyway, eventually. He just hoped it wasn’t after she’d lifted anything of value she could stuff in that battered backpack of hers. Not that what he valued would be worth anything to anyone else. The most expensive things he owned were his tools, and could be replaced. But somehow he couldn’t quite see her trying to fence a reciprocating saw.

  “Why? Why are you doing this?”

  She seemed genuinely puzzled. He wasn’t sure he wasn’t just as puzzled. And finally gave her the only answer he could. “Because the one who usually would have done it isn’t here.”

  It made no sense to her, he could see that, but he hadn’t expected it to. He wasn’t sure it made any sense to him. But when he turned to leave the room, she followed him. He wasn’t sure what he would have done if she hadn’t.

  He stepped outside, heard her footsteps falter behind him. He stopped, but didn’t turn to look at her.

  “If you run now, I won’t chase you. But you’ll miss out on that hot shower and food. And getting that leg seen to.”

  “No doctor?”

  “I told you, I don’t force anyone to do anything. I only help them do what they’ve already decided on.”

  “Unless it’s illegal.”

  “Or harmful, yes.”

  He thought of Declan. He supposed helping Whiskey River’s famous recluse stay a recluse might have been harmful. And eventually he might have tried to do something about that. But then Kelsey had come along and solved that problem neatly and thoroughly. Whiskey River’s world-famous resident was a recluse no longer.

  They made it to his truck. He opened the passenger door, standing by in case she needed help in with that leg; it was a four-wheel drive, and pretty high. And she was a good ten or more inches shorter than his own six-one. She led with the uninjured leg and almost managed it, he only had to grab her elbow when she wobbled. But she jerked it away, whipping around to look at him, and nearly slipped. He twisted so that his shoulder braced her.

  “I was helping, not groping,” he said.

  She muttered something that might have been “sorry” if he could have heard it.

  He walked around to the driver’s side and reached behind the seat for the first aid kit fastened to the back. Saw that she was looking at his baseball cap on the console.

  “Guess you really aren’t a cowboy,” she said.

  “As much as anybody bred and raised in Whiskey River can not be.”

  He thought he saw the corners of her mouth twitch. He almost wished she would smile; he bet it would really change her face.

  “Which means?” she asked.

  “I know a bit about horses, a little less about cows. Enough to build them shelter or order feed if necessary, and I could saddle up in a pinch, but it’s not my be all and end all.”

  He came back around with the box bearing the red cross symbol in his hands.

  “Haven’t been in here in a while,” he said without looking at her, “but it should be pretty well stocked.” He took out a packet that held a sterile antiseptic wipe, and a small tube of antibiotic cream. He’d wait on a bandage decision until he saw what was needed.

  “Won’t a shower waste all this?” she asked.

  He gave a half shrug. “We’ll redo it after. I think getting the antibiotic on it now is more important. You want to roll up your jeans?”

  “No,” she said, but her tone was so wry he wasn’t surprised when she did it anyway. The wound was just above her right ankle, where her leg began to curve from that delicate slenderness into a shapely calf.

  True froze, shocked into momentary immobility by his own thoughts. What is wrong with you, she’s a scared kid!

  He didn’t dare look at her face, and schooled his own to neutrality as he opened the wipe and began to clean away the blood that had already dried, then the cut itself. It was a couple of inches long, but thankfully not particularly deep except for the start point, where the barb had first dug in. A little fresh bleeding began in that spot as he cleaned it, but it stopped quickly with a little pressure.

  “Two wide adhesive bandages, I think,” he said, almost to himself. “Better than gauze that might rip the clot when you take it off.”

  “Thanks for the visual.”

  He glanced at her, saw she was joking by the quirk of her mouth. A very nice mouth, now that she wasn’t glaring at him.

  Whoa. Just. . .whoa.

  It wasn’t only that she was a kid, which made his thoughts beyond sordid, it was that he never reacted like this even to a grown woman. He felt nothing more than a vague flicker of interest, a hazy sort of reaction that seemed mostly to consist of “She’d be attractive, if I was looking.” But he wasn’t looking. Hadn’t been, not for five years, three months and—he was calculating before he could stop himself—twenty-two days. He counted it progress that he no longer had it down to hours and minutes and seconds.

  He finished as quickly as he could. “That should hold it for now. Just need to keep it clean and watch that one spot where the barb really dug in.”

  He closed the kit back up and latched it.

  “Thank you.”

  She said it rather stiffly, and when he glanced at her face his brow furrowed at the visible tension. And again had the thought that maybe she wasn’t quite as young as she looked. Telling himself that was wishful thinking since he was having this strange reaction to her, he asked, “Was I too rough with it? I didn’t mean to make it hurt more.”

  “Too gentle, maybe,” she said, very quietly, then looked as if she regretted it. “Thank you,” she repeated, this time with a tone of finality.

  He walked back around the truck, put the first aid kit back in its spot behind the driver’s seat, and got in. He started the engine. Saw her gaze snap to his face when music poured out of the speakers. In this case, Mozart.

  He raised one eyebrow at her. “Another preconception shattered?”

  She shrugged. “You start playing opera, I’m out of here.”

  “Not before lunch.” She just looked at him. “Kidding,” he muttered.

  “Thankful,” she countered.
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  He smiled at that, glad she at least was able to joke now. Saw her eyes widen in the instant before she jerked her head back around to stare out the windshield.

  “It helps me think,” he said, not sure why he felt compelled to explain. “I save the contemporary stuff for the end of the day.”

  As they pulled out of the driveway she looked back toward the house. “I thought maybe you were one of those house flippers or something.”

  “I’ve done it,” he said, “but I found I didn’t like trying to predict what people will want. I’m more of a fulfilling a vision guy.”

  She repeated his own words back to him. “You facilitate.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Sounds like you work for a mob boss or something.”

  His mouth quirked. “Not that I know of. Not yet anyway.”

  “What do you have to know to do this. . .facilitating?”

  “Jack of all trades, as they say. Enough to oversee a lot of different things.” Including planning and building a pavilion overlooking the river for a wedding that would likely host most of Whiskey River and be news around the world. That was a new addition to his repertoire.

  “And people pay you for it?”

  He shrugged. “Lots of people have ideas but don’t know how to make them real.”

  “And you do?”

  “In many cases, yes. In others, I know where to send them.”

  “You go to college for that?”

  He couldn’t tell if there was sarcasm in her tone or not. “Not something they teach.”

  “Maybe they should.”

  Okay, he was going for no sarcasm. “Might be too practical.”

  She made a noise that almost sounded like a laugh. She was asking all the questions when it should have been him, but she was talking, so for the moment he’d take it.

  “You have enough. . .clients to make a living?”

  “Believe it or not, I’ve got a bit of a knack with people. We’re doing okay.” Sometimes one really big client is all you need to get started. Like world-famous Declan Bolt. He smiled inwardly at the thought of the pen name of the man who had indirectly started Mahan Services by being one who needed a lot of stuff done and only trusted one person to do them.