One Night Standoff - By Delores Fossen Page 0,17
away. She figured with six marshals living there the place was safe enough, but she hadn’t wanted to bring the danger to Clayton’s doorstep.
Soon, very soon, she’d need to make arrangements to leave Maverick County. The state. Heck, maybe even the country.
“Dead end,” Clayton mumbled when he finished his latest call to his brother.
Lenora had lost count of how many phone conversations there had been, all with his marshal brothers, but so far none of the calls had given Clayton and her any good news. This one didn’t sound any better.
From one of the calls, they’d learned that by the time the cops from Sadler’s Falls had made it to the farm road, the gunmen in the SUV had been nowhere in sight, and even a makeshift roadblock had failed to rein them in. Worse, recovering their spent shell casings from the woods and cemetery would probably turn out to be a needle-in-a-haystack search.
“The license plates on the SUV didn’t pan out,” Clayton relayed to her. “They were fake.”
Of course they were. Every indication was that these guys were pros, and they wouldn’t have made the mistake of using a vehicle that could be traced back to them or the person who’d hired them. Still, she’d hoped Clayton and she would get lucky.
“Dallas thinks he’s figured out how these guys found you,” Clayton added. “Apparently, the Sadler’s Falls newspaper ran a front-page article about the restoration of the stained-glass windows at the church. In addition to being printed and circulated, the story was posted on the newspaper’s online site.”
“But I used a fake name.” However, Lenora immediately realized that didn’t matter. “These guys had probably scoured the web, looking for anything to do with stained-glass restoration.” And the article had led them to her.
Yet another mistake on her part.
She shouldn’t have taken work doing any restoration, especially not in such a small town, where she couldn’t just blend in.
“These gunmen obviously used the same approach I did to find you,” Clayton reminded her. “That’s why you need to be someplace where I can keep you safe.”
In his mind, that someplace safe was the ranch.
“I really don’t like the idea of coming here,” she said again.
Again, he just seemed to ignore her, and he glanced at her stomach. “Are you okay?”
It wasn’t the first time he’d asked that, and Lenora nodded as she’d done before. To say she was okay would be a lie, but that was only because her nerves were frazzled and she was exhausted. She hadn’t been hurt, and she knew the baby was fine because he or she was kicking like crazy.
She considered plopping Clayton’s hands on her belly so he could feel those kicks as proof that the baby was truly okay, but that seemed almost intimate. Strange, considering they’d had sex, but he didn’t remember that one-night stand, and reminding him of it probably wasn’t a good idea. Not when she was trying to keep some emotional and physical distance between them.
“I guess it’s occurred to you that both attacks have come when we’ve been together,” she tossed out there. “And that’s a good reason for me not to be at the ranch. I don’t want anyone in your family hurt because of me.”
He turned off the main highway and onto a two-lane road. “That baby is part of my family.”
Oh, mercy. That sounded territorial, and while it was true that the baby was his, Clayton was in no shape for fatherhood. He’d been sharp and efficient when making the wrap-up calls about this latest shooting, but his bunched-up forehead let her know that he was in pain. Probably a heck of a lot more pain than he’d ever be willing to admit.
“Are you okay?” she asked, repeating his question.
That caused him to scowl, but then he winced at making the simple facial gesture. The pain was obviously getting worse.
He reached over, threw open the glove compartment and took out a prescription bottle. He shoved two pills into his mouth, gulped some water from the bottle on the console between them and threw the meds back in the glove compartment.
“I can drive,” she offered.
When he didn’t answer her, she grabbed some tissues from beneath his meds, wet them with water and pressed it to the back of his neck. At first he flinched as if he might push her hand away, but then he mumbled a thanks.
“My mother had migraines,” she explained. “She said a cool cloth helped sometimes.”
“It does,” he agreed a moment later.