Baby’s Watch Page 7

  Because Joe Colton’s smile, that look that charmed millions, was a dead ringer for his own.

  Talk about genetics.

  “Get over yourself!” Ryder snapped aloud now.

  He’d had about enough of this unaccustomed pondering of the mysteries of life that he’d never bothered himself about before.

  “Leave the philosophizing to Boots,” he ordered, then nearly groaned as he realized he’d added talking aloud to himself to his list of new and annoying habits.

  He turned off the television, starting to wish he’d never turned it on. Knowing he was connected, however tenuously, to the family that seemed to head every newscast and headline every newspaper was too unsettlingly strange for his taste.

  Clay, now, he could see that. He’d fit right into that family, with his straight-arrow attitude and oversized sense of responsibility.

  “More power to you, bro,” he said, meaning it. For his part, he knew the best thing he could do was what he’d done—sever all ties and leave Clay in peace. He was no doubt relieved not to have the burden of worrying about his troublesome little brother.

  He glanced at his watch. It was nearly twilight when he could head out for his nightly surveillance. Anticipation kicked through him at the thought of seeing her again, even at a distance. Over the past several nights he’d given up trying to fight the feeling; now he just settled for hoping it would eventually wear off.

  In the meantime, he kept an eye on Hopechest Ranch and its environs for his job, and an eye on a young mother and her baby for himself.

  His cell phone rang. Not the silly, chirping ring he’d programmed in for his calls from his handlers, but the sharp jangle he’d set for one caller only.

  Alcazar.

  He went still. This call could possibly be the beginning of the end; if he was really in, it would be a job. And if so, he was on the verge of blowing this ring wide open.

  And then he’d be done here, and he didn’t know whether to wish for that or not.

  On the third ring, he flipped open the phone, making certain his voice was casual, unconcerned as he answered with the name he’d given them, borrowed from his mother and his legendary grandfather. He’d never known “Rattlesnake” Grady, which he’d always regretted; he’d sounded, in the stories his mother had told, like the one relative he would really have liked to have known. How could you not admire a man who could stick eight seconds on the back of a rattler-spooked bull, then kill the snake, and who wore its skin like a talisman in every rodeo he went to until the day he died?

  “I have a job for you,” the voice on the other end of the phone said without preamble.

  Ryder’s pulse jumped, but he kept his voice even. “Yeah?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Short notice.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Not for me,” he said, as if it meant less than nothing to him. “Not if it’s worth my while.”

  Alcazar quoted a figure then, a dollar amount that took Ryder aback for a moment. He’d guessed this business was profitable, but that much, just for a night’s work?

  “In that case,” Ryder said, “you get the platinum service.”

  To his satisfaction, Alcazar laughed. He wanted to stay on the right side of this man. He didn’t think he was the ringleader—he wasn’t smart enough—but he was the best lead Ryder had. He had his suspicions about who was really running things, a man who had access and opportunity, but Ryder hadn’t pointed him out to his handlers yet. His new bosses had a nasty habit of making moves they didn’t tell him about until after the fact. He supposed it was one of the downsides of being a coerced agent rather than a volunteer good guy. Which made no sense to him. He himself would trust somebody who had everything to lose more than the innate desire for law and order some people had.

  Maybe because he’d never seemed to develop that desire himself, he thought wryly as he listened to Alcazar’s detailed instructions on where to be in three hours.

  When the call had ended, he wondered whether he should let his handlers know it was a go. If he did, they might move into the area and screw up everything. If he didn’t, they might just yank him out and toss him back in that prison cell—not a prospect he wanted to deal with. If he had to go back and serve the rest of his interrupted sentence, that would be bad enough. But he had the suspicion that if he blew this, the powers that be would conveniently forget where the key was, and he’d be lost forever in the prison system.

  He compromised and, while driving to the rendezvous point set up in the earlier call, made the official report and told them most of it.

  “I don’t know what the job is. Not for sure.” That was true. “I have to meet with them again, then maybe I’ll find out.”

  “Report in as soon as you know,” Furnell ordered.

  “Yeah.”

  Feeling like a puppet on too short a string, he snapped the phone shut sharply. And once again pondered the possibility of just running, leaving all this behind and taking off. He always felt like this after talking to Furnell.

  But he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder, slipping down into a pit of paranoia until he saw the feds behind every tree.

  Running wasn’t really an option; he was just flailing around looking for an escape that wasn’t there. As Boots told him, he should be glad for this chance to make things right, a chance few got. If he pulled this off he’d be free and clear, his record clean and no need to check that damn little box on any form asking if he’d ever been convicted of a felony.

  He made the turn as instructed and continued to drive, now on a rough, dirt, two-rut track, the truck’s headlights pushing back the utter darkness out here in the remote, unlit ranch country. With the windows rolled down in the night heat of August, the scent of warmed mesquite blew through the truck’s cab.

  It was a familiar scent to him, although he denied feeling any kind of nostalgia for it; it was just nice to be out, and not locked up where this kind of isolation and peace and quiet was impossible. He’d never thought of himself as a loner, not really, but he’d found that the simple privilege of privacy was one of the things he’d missed most in prison.

  This was a different location than the last meeting, in the opposite direction and many miles farther off the main road. It was also very close to the western border of the Bar None, near Hopechest. He hoped the world he’d left behind and the world he’d landed in now weren’t going to collide before this was all over.

  What he would do then, when it was over, he didn’t know.

  The first thing that popped into his head was an image of a beautiful, olive-skinned woman and a tiny baby. She—well, both she’s—had gotten under his skin like no one ever had, and he didn’t like the feeling.

  Once he got out of this, got away from here, he was sure he could regain his usual nonchalance about such things. It was the forced proximity as much as anything else that had kept them in the forefront of his mind—he was sure of that. Once he took off, it would all fade away. He’d be glad to be gone, he told himself. There were too many memories here anyway.

  Somehow seeing the Bar None every day, seeing life going on, knowing his little sister had gotten married, seeing his brother apparently cozying up once more with his ex-wife, just pounded home how little he belonged here. His absence obviously hadn’t even left a ripple, so there was no point in sticking around.

  This kind of life wasn’t for him, anyway. He wasn’t the kind to settle down to life in a little burg like Esperanza, getting married and raising a bunch of rug rats…

  Even as the thought flitted through his mind, the images played back in his head again—of the tiny little girl, who moments before had been merely an abstract concept, but had suddenly become the most real thing he’d ever seen. And his had been the first human touch she’d known….

  He shook his head, angry at himself now. He needed to be focusing on what was about to happen, not some silly, rose-colored memory probably half-
imagined by now anyway.

  Boots would laugh if he could see him now.

  As soon as the words ran through his mind, he knew they weren’t true. If Boots could see him now, and know what he was thinking, how he was thinking, Ryder knew exactly what the old man would do.

  He’d sit there as he always did, smiling that annoying smile that said he saw more than you’d ever wanted him to, and nodding wisely as if he’d expected this all along.

  “You set me up for this, damn it,” he muttered in the darkness of the truck’s cab.

  And then he nearly groaned anew at the ridiculousness of trying to blame an old man locked up miles away for his own screwed-up thoughts. He’d thought he’d gotten past that old dodge, blaming others for the results of his own poor decisions. Lord knew, Boots had spent enough time hammering the lesson into his head.

  Telling himself he’d do better to remember the lessons pounded into him at that secret training facility, he reached down with his left hand and pulled the Glock out of the hidden compartment. He shifted in the truck seat and shoved the weapon into his belt at the small of his back.

  Then he settled in and drove on through the night.

  Chapter 9

  Ana thought the evening would never end. She had only reluctantly agreed to accompany Jewel and the younger children on this trip into town. Only Jewel’s firm and caring insistence made Ana acquiesce.

  She had been nervous about being seen out in public, with her uncertain status until the long, laborious process of obtaining her legal papers was completed. But Jewel was nothing if not determined and kept at her to leave the ranch. And Ana suspected she had put more than a little of her vast knowledge of human psychology to work in the process as well.

  Most of all, of course, Ana had been nervous about leaving Maria. Jewel guessed this easily. Things had been very, very quiet lately, she had said, with a knowing look that told Ana exactly what she meant; there had been no further smuggling activity. Ana supposed Deputy Rawlings had told Jewel this, so it must be true.

  And while she knew Nicole, the older girl who had volunteered to watch the baby, was reliable, no one could look out for her child the way she herself could.

  In the end, Jewel had been persuasive. She owed so much to this generous woman with such tragedy in her past, it was impossible to say no to her.

  And it was nice to get out. A little, at least. Despite her nervousness, she enjoyed meeting Becky French, the short, plump woman who ran Miss Sue’s. She was a lifelong resident of Esperanza, and knew everyone and everything that happened in the little town.

  “We’re like that Bogart movie,” the woman said, smiling widely, her blue eyes sparkling, “sooner or later, everyone comes to Sue’s.”

  When a little—very little—bit of coaxing from Jewel got the woman to bring out the latest photographs of her grandchildren, Ana found herself looking on with interest. None of them were as beautiful as Maria. Ana laughed at herself; she had become a thoroughly blind, doting mother already.

  Cautious, she did not mention Maria despite the urge to share in the joy of new babies. And she was grateful when Jewel didn’t mention her either.

  I know what Ana is afraid of. I know what it means to lose a baby….

  Jewel’s tragedy stabbed through to Ana’s tender heart. It was nothing short of a miracle that this generous, loving woman could even bear to look at photographs of other women’s babies, let alone take one into her home.

  Ana felt a sudden, fierce need to go, to be with her baby. She was sure if she made a fuss, Jewel would cut short the outing and take her back to the ranch. But the children were so happy, these youngsters who had had so little happiness in their lives until now, and Ana couldn’t bring herself to do it.

  I simply should not have come, she told herself. And I will not again. I will never allow myself to be separated from my baby again. It’s far too hard.

  She stirred her melting ice cream into a thick chocolate soup, and waited.

  This time the meeting place was a deep gully that would be a ripe pathway for flash floods after a storm. Ryder could see the advantage. You could hide a set of double trailers in there and no one would be able to see them except from an aircraft.

  They’d told him to look for a half boulder marked with paint and park there. He soon spotted the bright red slash that gleamed like blood in his headlights. The sides of the gully were less steep here, but steep enough so that his four-wheel-drive truck started to slide a bit. He stopped it on the left side of the boulder as instructed, and then spotted a dark-colored open Jeep down in the bottom of the gully. The motor was still running, the headlights on and aimed his way, as if they wanted to hide in the darkness behind the lights.

  Or ruin your night vision, Ryder thought.

  On that thought he flicked on his high beams; two could play that game. The added, brighter light showed him two figures standing near the Jeep, and a third one sitting in the driver’s seat—planning a quick getaway, perhaps?

  He heard one of them swear, then yell at him to kill the lights. He smothered a grin as he hit the control.

  “Sorry,” he called out. “Didn’t want to hit anything. It’s dark out here in the boonies.”

  Just like the rats prefer, he added silently as one of the men called him a name in Spanish that Ryder was sure would have offended his mother, if she were still alive. Ryder smothered a grin as he scrambled down the side of the gully with as much grace as he could manage. The other section of the paint-marked boulder, an even bigger chunk, lay at the bottom.

  “Stop right there. Just because the boss trusts you doesn’t mean I do,” the voice said, confirming Ryder’s guess about his identity.

  Mr. Energetic. Great.

  “Let’s get this done, we’re wasting time,” Ryder said. He wondered if they were going to send him somewhere to pick up a baby. Wondered how the hell they arranged it. Wondered where they found people to help.

  Wondered how they slept at night.

  Idiot. If they were the kind who’d let that bother them, they wouldn’t be doing it in the first place, he told himself.

  “Let’s go,” Mr. Energetic said, swinging a large duffel bag out of the back seat of the Jeep.

  “Let’s go?” Rider asked.

  Mr. Energetic laughed, that same harsh sound. “You think the boss is stupid? I’ll be coming with you.”

  “I work alone.”

  “Then you don’t work with us. Which is fine with me, pretty boy.”

  Ryder had to make a quick decision and he could only see one possibility. He shrugged. “Your funeral,” he said, earning a sharp look from Mr. E.

  At the man’s order he climbed back up the way he’d come down into the gully, not caring for having to turn his back on Mr. E, but hoping clambering up the slope would keep him occupied.

  Once they were next to his truck, the man spoke again. “Drive back the way you came. We’ll be called with directions on where to take the package,” he finished, indicating the bag.

  The first thing Ryder thought was that even Mr. E didn’t know where they were going yet. The second was that he’d been completely wrong.

  Ryder’s hopes collapsed as he stared at the zippered bag. He’d obviously misjudged. And despite Mr. E’s claim that the boss trusted him, obviously he didn’t trust him enough to let him in on the baby smuggling. So what were they having him carry? Was the thing stuffed with coke? Meth? Worse?

  He hesitated; this could be a hornet’s nest for him. His handlers had let a lot of petty stuff go in the interest of furthering the investigation, but a duffel full of drugs? But he didn’t see any way out, and took the handles. The way Mr. E was holding it made the bag seem light to him, as he pictured kilos of white powder or some such jammed into every corner. And he could see now that it wasn’t packed as full as he would have expected.

  “It’s drugged. Should be quiet.”

  It took a moment, given his thoughts about the contents of the bag, for the odd st
atement to register.

  “What?”

  “They give it some kind of cold meds, to keep it asleep.” Mr. Energetic gave a harsh laugh. “Don’t want the thing crying at the wrong time, now do we?”

  Ryder went cold. He wasn’t sure what made him queasier, the thought that he’d been wrong, that this really was the break he’d been waiting for, or that they’d apparently stuffed a baby into this bag like so much dirty laundry.

  It. The thing.

  The words, his own words, echoed in his head, and made him feel slightly ill. He’d talked the same way, with the same lack of concern.

  He reached for the zipper on the top of the bag.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I went to prison for not making sure what I was transporting,” Ryder answered. “Not stupid enough to do it again.”

  The reminder of his prison time seemed to mollify even Mr. E, who let his protest subside as Ryder tugged the zipper halfway open. He peered inside as best he could in the faint light this far from the Jeep’s headlights.

  His heart slammed in his chest, and his breath stopped in his throat when he saw a wad of cloth wrapped around a tiny bundle.

  A blanket.

  A familiar blanket.

  Pink. With darker pink flowers.

  In disbelief he tilted the bag, looked at the tiny face, at the gorgeous skin, the dark hair just like her mother’s.

  It wasn’t just a baby. It was the baby. The baby he had brought into the world.

  Ryder silently swore the same heartfelt curse the smuggler had. An image of this child’s mother flashed through his mind. Of her walking the floor in the middle of the night, nestling this tiny girl to her breast. He remembered, for an instant, the moments when he’d wondered if she was here to simply have this baby and hand it over to the smugglers for a price.

  Call him a fool, naive, or any of the other things he was half-sure he was right now, but he didn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe it.

  She wouldn’t.

  She would not do that.

  Which left only one option. Kidnapping.