Rogue's Revenge - By Gail MacMillan Page 0,31

The doctor looked puzzled. Then her expression cleared, and she chuckled. “Oh, Mom’s been airing her wishful thinking again, has she?”

“Now, Jesse, he’s a fine man, and you’re not getting any younger, and I would like to be a grandmother before I die…”

The receptionist arose and went to put a placating hand on the doctor’s arm.

“Mom?” Allison was surprised.

“Meet Nell Henderson, my mother, receptionist, and shameless matchmaker.” Jessica Henderson put an arm about the older woman’s shoulders and hugged her. “It’s fortunate I love her and understand she wants only what she thinks is best for me. You have a mother, Miss Armstrong. I saw you with her at Jack’s funeral. You understand.”

“Definitely.” Allison pocketed the pills and forced a smile. “Thanks. I’ll let you know if Heath needs further medical attention.” Good lord, why did I put emphasis on “medical”?

Out in the street she saw her cab and hailed it again.

“Chance Lodge, please.” She started to put her suitcase into the rear seat, but the driver stopped her.

“Sorry, lady, but I won’t take this car up there…not even for a double fare. Only four-wheel-drives on that road.”

“Well, then, how am I supposed to get there?”

“You might try renting Jordon Jones’ Tracker.” He pointed to a service station/convenience store across the street. “He lets it out sometimes.”

“Thanks.” Allison shut the cab door, hefted her luggage, adjusted her hold on Jack’s leash, and headed across the street.

“Good afternoon,” she said to the blond teenage clerk behind the counter as she entered the service station’s store section. Over in one corner, four local men whose mackinaws, work pants, and steel-toed boots branded them woods workers were gathered around a coffee machine. They stared at her and Jack. One of them pointed at the poodle and snickered.

“What’s that? A cotton ball on legs?”

“I’d like to rent a four-wheel-drive.” She ignored them and spoke when the girl behind the cash register looked up from the magazine she’d been scanning. “The cabbie said I might be able to get one here.”

“We only have one.” The teenager snapped her gum and looked Allison critically up and down. “And it’s out right now. Where’d you want to go?”

“Chance Lodge. How long before it gets back?”

“Tomorrow, probably.” She shrugged and returned to her reading. “Ben Jenkins never is real exact about when he’s coming down out of the woods. Likes to keep his wife guessing.”

“I’ll drive you up to the Chance.”

One of the men moved out of the coffee group and ambled over to her, Styrofoam cup in hand. He was huge and bearded with black whiskers. Equally dark, untidy hair stuck out from beneath a stained baseball cap. Over six feet tall and weighing, Allison estimated, well in excess of two hundred pounds, he was a formidable brute.

“How much?” She looked up into his small, bear-like eyes.

“Forty bucks, take it or leave it. Ten more if you’re taking that white thing along. Marty Mason don’t dicker.”

“Fine. Let’s go, Mr. Mason.” What a rip-off, but I have to get there.

“Hold your horses. I have to gas up first. Darrell, you wanta give me a hand? Wait here, lady. I’ll give you the high sign when I’m ready. No need for you to wait out in the cold and damp.”

****

“Come on, come on!” He waved impatiently at her through the service station window five minutes later. “I want to get back to town before dark.”

Grabbing her suitcase and Jack’s leash, she went to join him beside a dented, mud-splattered Jeep.

“That thing…” He jerked a finger at Jack. “And your suitcase in the back.”

What happened to the guy who didn’t want me waiting in the cold and damp? Allison lowered the tailgate, hefted her suitcase into the rear, and urged Jack into the grungy space beside it. The poodle circled twice before finding a place he deemed decent to plant his bottom. He turned reproachful eyes on Allison.

“I know, I know,” she hissed below the hearing of the driver, who was revving the engine. “It’s filthy, but it’s the best I…we can do.” She slammed the dented tailgate back into place and went to the passenger side, glad she’d chosen to dress in jeans, turtleneck, barn coat, and running shoes.

The interior was no better than the exterior. Dirty and reeking of stale smoke, the vehicle had torn upholstery and a dash so smeared and streaked Allison wondered how the man could read the gauges. Dead bugs coating the windshield lowered road visibility. Don’t get picky. It’s only a little over